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copy?”
    Roger , we copy , Weatherman , an equally monotone voice said in their earphones. The Ear is in place. Send activation code and stand by for program transmission.
    John picked up an envelope that had been magnetically tacked to his console and tore it open, drawing out a red slip of paper. “Bob, the activation code is one, seven, seven, nine, foxtrot gamma tango,” he read from the paper. Bob entered the code on his communications console keyboard.
    An instant later: Roger , Weatherman , code received and authenticated. Now transmitting program.
    All three men moved their fingers over their terminals’ keyboards, touching controls which cleared their systems. The LCD’s, which had displayed meteorological commands, went dark, leaving empty black glass surfaces. A few moments later a completely different set of command keys, controlling the new program just transmitted from Virginia, appeared on the consoles.
    “Big Dog, we’ve received program,” Bob said. “Awaiting commencement of test.”
    We copy , Weatherman. Test begins in thirty seconds.
    Dave touched silver keys on his console, watched them turn gold. “Recorder activated,” he said. “Source locator on standby.”
    “Locator slaved to Big Dog feed,” John said.
    “Signal locked with Meade and Big Ear,” Bob said. “Comlink status green.”
    “Big Dog, Weatherman is green,” John said.
    Roger , Weatherman. Test begins now.
    Instantly, small green lamps appeared on each display, lighting the words SYSTEM TEST. Dave glanced at the cassette loaded in the recorder by his elbow, affirmed that the machine was working, the reels moving. Okay, now to see how long it would take for the Ear to hear something.
    At that second, a digital numeral 2 appeared on their displays. “Holy Mother,” he murmured to himself, “that was quick.”
    “Big Dog, this is Weatherman,” Bob said. “We have two possibles, over.”
    We copy , Weatherman. Please monitor.
    John touched buttons on his console and immediately all three men heard new voices in their earphones—a conversation between two men, as clear as if they had picked up an extension phone in one of their houses:
    … I’m telling you , he’s no damn good. We should have never elected him , never believed a word he said. It was all campaign bullshit , all the time. Now the bastard ’ s sending troops to Central America and you can bet Stevie ’ s one of them.
    Yeah , A-right. I told Stevie she shoulda split to Canada ….
    Canada ’ s just catching ’ em and shippin ’ ’ em back to the States. Doesn ’ t do any damn good to run from the draft now. I’m telling ya , Jeff , the only way to stop that crazy fucker is to kill him before he gets us further into this mess ….
    A thread of print appeared on their screens: SAN DIEGO, CA. MAX A. HILLMAN 2206 OCEANSIDE 6198750646; SAN DIEGO, CA. ROBERT P. ROSE 1117 PALMETTO 6190324201.
    “Big Dog, Weatherman,” Bob said into his mike. “Intercepted telephone conversation in San Diego. Possible discussion of Presidential assassination. Location and identities verified.” He glanced over his shoulder at Dave; Dave nodded back. “Conversation recorded.”
    Roger , Weatherman. Data received. Monitor second possible , please.
    John cut off the first conversation, touched buttons that brought the second phone call Big Ear had netted into their earphones.
    A child’s squeaky voice; it could have belonged to either a boy or a girl, no more than six or seven years old: So my daddy says there could be a nukey bom ’ put in , put in a big city , y ’ know, an ’ if someone wanted to call the Pres ’ dent and say you gimme a hunnert zillion dollars or I ’ ll blow it up and kill everybody and the Pres ’ dent would have to say okay ’ cause if he din ’ t all those people would get kilt and he wouldn ’ t get re ’ lected ….
    Another child’s voice: Yeah , yeah! But y ’ know , y ’ know , y ’ know whatta work better , huh?
    If , if ,