The parade somehow seemed to be slowing down. The father yawned and let his son down from his shoulders. He looked across the street at the president and the other dignitaries on the reviewing stand. All were slowly raising their hands in salute as another color guard drowsily made its way by.
Soon the last group in the parade was passing the reviewing stand. Another brass band. They were moving with the speed of a glacier. A full five seconds elapsed between each note of music. Everything was happening in slow motion. On the reviewing stand the dignified hands went up, agonizingly slow, to a final salute and they stayed there. The greatest minds in the world stood motionless, unalterably still. Just as each wave of pandemonium had unfurled itself up Fifth Avenue during the parade, so now did silence take command.
The little boy tugged at his father's coat. "Daddy! Daddy," he pleaded, "why has the parade stopped? I wan-na-go-home—" His words came more slowly with each passing second, like a high speed phonograph playing at thirty-three and a third r.p.m. "Dad-dy—why—don't—you—an—swer—me—Da—ddy—why—don't—" His father never heard him.
Fifty miles above the Atlantic the fleet of spaceships hung suspended like lanterns. In the lead ship the ant in charge of communications reported to the commander.
"We've just received the first communique from the advance guard, sir."
"Read it to me."
The communications chief read from a large perforated paper. "Time—0600—mission accomplished. Manhattan island cut down the middle—immediate result of super-isonic rays; four million dead—rays spreading east and west—estimated time of rays' full effect; 0800—island will then be neutralized—awaiting further orders." The ant folded the paper and looked up at the commander. "Shall I relay further orders, sir?"
"No." The commander of the ants paused and stroked his chin. "We're moving in."