Over the intercom, the pilot said, "Your orders, sir?"

"Go to the center of the main street," Stone said, "and drop the rope ladder. You are to remain twenty feet above ground. Do not put down. Is that clear?"

"Yes sir."

"When we have climbed down, you are to lift off to an alt.i.tude of five hundred feet."

"Yes sir."

"Return when we signal you."

"Yes sir."

"And should anything happen to us--"

"I proceed directly to Wildfire," the pilot said, his voice dry.

"Correct."

The pilot knew what that meant. He was being paid according to the highest Air Force pay scales: he was drawing regular pay plus hazardous-duty pay, plus non-wartime special-services pay, plus mission-over-hostile-territory pay, plus bonus air-time pay. He would receive more than a thousand dollars for this day's work, and his family would receive an additional ten thousand dollars from the short-term life insurance should he not return.

There was a reason for the money: if anything happened to Burton and Stone on the ground, the pilot was ordered to fly directly to the Wildfire installation and hover thirty feet above ground until such time as the Wildfire group had determined the correct way to incinerate him, and his airplane, in midair.

He was being paid to take a risk. He had volunteered for the job. And he knew that high above, circling at twenty thousand feet, was an Air Force jet with air-to-air missiles. It was the job of the jet to shoot down the helicopter should the pilot suffer a last-minute loss of nerve and fail to go directly to Wildfire.

"Don't slip up," the pilot said. "Sir."

The helicopter maneuvered over the main street of the town and hung in midair. There was a rattling sound: the rope ladder being released. Stone stood and pulled on his helmet. He snapped shut the sealer and inflated his clear suit, puffing it up around him. A small bottle of oxygen on his back would provide enough air for two hours of exploration.

He waited until Burton had sealed his suit, and then Stone opened the hatch and stared down at the ground. The helicopter was raising a heavy cloud of dust.

Stone clicked on his radio. "All set?"

"All set."

Stone began to climb down the ladder. Burton waited a moment, then followed. He could see nothing in the swirling dust, but finally felt his shoes touch the ground. He released the ladder and looked over. He could barely make out Stone's suit, a dim outline in a gloomy, dusky world.

The ladder pulled away as the helicopter lifted into the sky. The dust cleared. They could see.

"Let's go," Stone said.

Moving clumsily in their suits, they walked down the main street of Piedmont.

7. "An Unusual Process"

SCARCELY TWELVE HOURS AFTER THE FIRST KNOWN human contact with the Andromeda Strain was made at Piedmont, Burton and Stone arrived in the town. Weeks later, in their debriefing sessions, both men recalled the scene vividly, and described it in detail.

The morning sun was still low in the sky; it was cold and cheerless, casting long shadows over the thinly snow-crusted ground. From where they stood, they could look up and down the street at the gray, weathered wooden buildings; but what they noticed first was the silence. Except for a gentle wind that whined softly through the empty houses, it was deathly silent. Bodies lay everywhere, heaped and flung across the ground in att.i.tudes of frozen surprise.

But there was no sound-- no rea.s.suring rumble of an automobile engine, no barking dog, no shouting children.

Silence.

The two men looked at each other. They were painfully aware of how much there was to learn, to do. Some catastrophe had struck this town, and they must discover all they could about it. But they had practically no clues, no points of departure.

They knew, in fact, only two things. First, that the trouble apparently began with the landing of Scoop VII. And second, that death had overtaken the people of the town with astonishing rapidity. If it was a disease from the satellite, then it was like no other in the history of medicine.

For a long time the men said nothing, but stood in the street, looking about them, feeling the wind tug at their over63 sized suits. Finally, Stone said, "Why are they all outside, in the street? If this was a disease that arrived at night, most of the people would be indoors."

"Not only that," Burton said, "they're mostly wearing pajamas. It was a cold night last night. You'd think they would have stopped to put on a jacket, or a raincoat. Something to keep warm."

"Maybe they were in a hurry."

"To do what?" Burton said.

"To see something," Stone said, with a helpless shrug.

Burton bent over the first body they came to. "Odd," he said. "Look at the way this fellow is clutching his chest. Quite a few of them are doing that."

Looking at the bodies, Stone saw that the hands of many were pressed to their chests, some flat, some clawing.

"They didn't seem to be in pain," Stone said. "'Their faces are quite peaceful."

"Almost astonished, in fact," Burton nodded. "These people look cut down, caught in midstride. But clutching their chests."

"Coronary?" Stone said.

"Doubt it. They should grimace-- it's painful. The same with a pulmonary embolus."

"If it was fast enough, they wouldn't have time."

"Perhaps. But somehow I think these people died a painless death. Which means they are clutching their chests because--"

"They couldn't breathe," Stone said.

Burton nodded. "It's possible we're seeing asphyxiation. Rapid, painless, almost instantaneous asphyxiation. But I doubt it. If a person can't breathe, the first thing he does is loosen his clothing, particularly around the neck and chest. Look at that man there-- he's wearing a tie, and he hasn't touched it. And that woman with the tightly b.u.t.toned collar."

Burton was beginning to regain his composure now, after the initial shock of the town. He was beginning to think clearly. They walked up to the van, standing in the middle of the street, its lights still shining weakly. Stone reached in to turn off the lights. He pushed the stiff body of the driver back from the wheel and read the name on the breast pocket of the parka.

"Shawn."

The man sitting rigidly in the back of the van was a private named Crane. Both men were locked in rigor mortis. Stone nodded to the equipment in the back.

"Will that still work?"

"I think so," Burton said.

"Then let's find the satellite. That's our first job. We can worry later about--"

He stopped. He was looking at the face of Shawn, who had obviously pitched forward hard onto the steering wheel at the moment of death. There was a large, arc-shaped cut across his face, shattering the bridge of his nose and tearing the skin.

"I don't get it," Stone said.

"Get what?" Burton said.

"This injury. Look at it."

"Very clean," Burton said. "Remarkably clean, in fact.Practically no bleeding..."

Then Burton realized. He started to scratch his head in astonishment, but his hand was stopped by the plastic helmet.

"A cut like that," he said, "on the face. Broken capillaries, shattered bone, torn scalp veins-- it should bleed like h.e.l.l."

"Yes," Stone said. "It should. And look at the other bodies. Even where the vultures have chewed at the flesh: no bleeding."

Burton stared with increasing astonishment. None of the bodies had lost even a drop of blood. He wondered why they had not noticed it before.

"Maybe the mechanism of action of this disease--"

"Yes," Stone said. "I think you may be right." He grunted and dragged Shawn out of the van, working to pull the stiff body from behind the wheel. "Let's get that d.a.m.ned satellite," he said. "This is really beginning to worry me."

Burton went to the back and pulled Crane out through the rear doors, then climbed in as Stone turned the ignition. The starter turned over sluggishly, and the engine did not catch.

Stone tried to start the van for several seconds, then said, "I don't understand. The battery is low, but it should still be enough--"

"How's your gas?" Burton said.

There was a pause, and Stone swore loudly. Burton smiled, and crawled out of the back. Together they walked up the street to the gas station, found a bucket, and filled it with gas from the pump after spending several moments trying to decide how it worked. When they had the gas, they returned to the van, filled the tank, and Stone tried again.

The engine caught and held. Stone grinned. "Let's go."

Burton scrambled into the back, turned on the electronic equipment, and started the antenna rotating. He heard the faint beeping of the satellite.

"The signal's weak, but still there. Sounds over to the left somewhere."

Stone put the van in gear. They rumbled off, swerving around the bodies in the street. The beeping grew louder. They continued down the main street, past the gas station and the general store. The beeping suddenly grew faint.

"We've gone too far. Turn around."

It took a while for Stone to find reverse on the gearshift, and then they doubled back, tracing the intensity of the sound. It was another fifteen minutes before they were able to locate the origin of the beeps to the north, on the outskirts of the town.

Finally, they pulled up before a plain single-story woodframe house. A sign creaked in the wind: Dr. Alan Benedict.

"Might have known," Stone said. "They'd take it to the doctor."

The two men climbed out of the van and went up to the house. The front door was open, banging in the breeze. They entered the living room and found it empty. Riming right, they came to the doctor's office.

Benedict was there, a pudgy, white-haired man. He was seated before his desk, with several textbooks laid open. Along one wall were bottles, syringes, pictures of his family and several others showing men in combat uniforms. One showed a group of grinning soldiers; the scrawled words: "For Benny, from the boys of 87, Anzio."

Benedict himself was staring blankly toward a corner of the room, his eyes wide, his face peaceful.

"Well," Burton said, "Benedict certainly didn't make it outside--"

And then they saw the satellite.

It was upright, a sleek polished cone three feet high, and its edges had been cracked and seared from the heat of reentry. It had been opened crudely, apparently with the help of a pair of pliers and chisel that lay on the floor next to the capsule.

"The b.a.s.t.a.r.d opened it," Stone said. "Stupid son of a b.i.t.c.h."

"How was he to know?"

"He might have asked somebody," Stone said. He sighed. "Anyway, he knows now. And so do forty-nine other people. " He bent over the satellite and closed the gaping, triangular hatch. "You have the container?"

Burton produced the folded plastic bag and opened it out. Together they slipped it over the satellite, then sealed it shut.

"I hope to h.e.l.l there's something left," Burton said.

"In a way," Stone said softly, "I hope there isn't."

They turned their attention to Benedict. Stone went over to him and shook him. The man fell rigidly from his chair onto the floor.

Burton noticed the elbows, and suddenly became excited. He leaned over the body. "Come on," he said to Stone. "Help me."

"Do what?"

"Strip him down."

"Why?"

"I want to check the lividity.

"But why?"

"Just wait," Burton said. He began unb.u.t.toning Benedict's shirt and loosening his trousers. The two men worked silently for some moments, until the doctor's body was naked on the floor.

"There," Burton said, standing back.

"I'll be d.a.m.ned," Stone said.

There was no dependent lividity. Normally, after a person died, blood seeped to the lowest points, drawn down by gravity. A person who died in bed had a purple back from acc.u.mulated blood. But Benedict, who had died sitting up, had no blood in the tissue of his b.u.t.tocks or thighs.