Julia took Walt's hand. "It's all right. You don't need to be afraid."
"I'm not afraid," he said.
The same olive drab car was waiting for them outside the hotel. They got in—the colonel in front with the driver, Walt and Julia in back.
The car moved into Washington traffic.
Bleak, harsh winter lay over the town; the very air seemed weary and exhausted. Julia stared out the window at the passing buildings.
The invasion, she thought. Flying saucers settling down upon such a commonplace, solid scene as this. Terrified faces in the streets. Crys. The whine of a police car. An air raid warning, wailing like a lost night express. Brick and cement buckling and exploding. Walls crashing. Smoke billowing up. The helpless, ironic chuckle of a machine gun seeking a target. The drone of a plane....
Suppose the government won't believe our story after all! she thought.
"You're going to help us all you can, aren't you, Walt?" she whispered. Her fingers plucked nervously at her dress.
"This morning, I had a long talk with the man at my door. I'll help you all I can. He'd never even heard of Lyria; he—"
The colonel swiveled his head. "We consulted with the President this morning."