"Theodore K. Kinnison!" a crisp, clear voice snapped from the speaker of an apparently cold, ordinary-enough-looking radio-television set.
A burly young man caught his breath sharply as he leaped to the instrument and pressed an inconspicuous button.
"Theodore K. Kinnison acknowledging!" The plate remained dark, but he knew that he was being scanned.
"Operation Bullfinch!" the speaker blatted.
Kinnison gulped. "Operation Bullfinch—Off!" he managed to say.
"Off!"
He pushed the button again and turned to face the tall, trim honey-blonde who stood tensely poised in the archway. Her eyes were wide and protesting; both hands clutched at her throat.
"Uh-huh, sweets, they're coming—over the Pole," he gritted. "Two hours, more or less."
"Oh, Ted!" She threw herself into his arms. They kissed, then broke away.
The man picked up two large suitcases, already packed—everything else, including food and water, had been in the car for weeks—and made strides. The girl rushed after him, not bothering even to close the door of the apartment, scooping up en passant a leggy boy of four and a chubby, curly-haired girl of two or thereabouts. They ran across the lawn toward a big, low-slung sedan.