"... eight ... seven ... six ..."

The circle of the barrel was cold and reassuring against his jaw. His finger tensed on the trigger. On impulse, he reached out with his right hand and tipped over the black king on the chessboard.

"... three ... two ..."

The curtains drawn across the east-facing window of the study flashed translucent with a white light that immediately deepened to hellish orange. The picture in the holotank vanished, and the sound from the speakers deteriorated into an empty and deafening shriek before cutting out. The room went dark. Momentarily confused -- Had he pulled the trigger already? Was this what a bullet to the brain felt like? -- Fairbairn let him arm drop. Strong Medicine slipped from his nerveless fingers and clattered to the floor with a sound like stones rattling in a crypt.

It took a moment for Fairbairn to realize he was not dead. When he did, he stood numbly and pushed the curtains away from the window.

His study was on the second floor of the house. This gave him a lovely vantage on the patio and garden, but the reddish column of light rising into the overcast night to the northeast would have been visible from anywhere in the yard.

A preternatural quiet ruled the neighborhood. The lighted backs of houses stared up as if in hushed anticipation. A party with hats and noisemakers had frozen in awkward poses around their birdbath.

As they all watched, the column of smoky light bumped up against some invisible ceiling high in the sky and roiled over into the shape of a blooming mushroom.

"Jesus," said Fairbairn in awe.

His view was abruptly obscured by the black clouds of dust and debris that bore down upon Arlington like an army of thunderous tanks. He threw himself to the floor just as the shock wave hit. His window shattered into a million sparkling projectiles that tinkled and sang as they exploded against the opposite wall. He covered his head with his arms, but not before a freight train roared through the room.

Blackness enveloped him, buffeted him like a toy, and dragged him coughing and sputtering back to the surface of consciousness.

He pushed himself to his hands and knees. Moist warmth trickled from his right ear and down his jaw. His study lay in shambles around him, a warm wind stirring the remains of his professional life.

He pounded his precious hands on the floor.

But then, as if from deep underground, through miles of packed soil, he heard the screams. Dozens of them.

In his mind's eye, Fairbairn saw windows splintering to shrapnel up and down the street, debris raining down on the land, buildings slumping to ground in disordered heaps of brick and stone.

Fairbairn grabbed hold of the desk and pulled himself shakily to his feet, searching the dust-choked gloom for his other medical bag, the hard-sided case, the one that wasn't just for sentimentality and show. He found it under a pile of tumbled books. He tugged it out and shook off the worst of the dust.

He was on his way out the door of the study when he spied Strong Medicine lying in the middle of the floor. He paused, picked up the gun, and considered it a moment. He extended his arm, aimed at a corner of the ceiling, and curled his finger around the trigger.

But he lowered his arm without firing.

Dr. Fairbairn tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers and descended to the living room. His home lay all in disarray, but as he exited into the gritty, swirling wind that prowled his ravaged neighborhood, as he entered that eerily muffled landscape of suffering, he felt power in his hands and healing in his wings, and he smiled.

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