They reached Chicago, perhaps directly over their heads, but Hoshawk felt no bombs. A moment later the planes were still going westward.
Jeffrey called the Starter. "Does Forgacs concede?" he asked.
There was a moment's delay, then, "Forgacs does not answer."
The President let out an undignified whoop. He tore off the straps that held him in the chair, threw his helmet across the Chamber. "We won!"
The Hemispheric diplomats were gathering excitedly in the corridor. Jeffrey unsealed the Chamber.
Hoshawk shook hands with him. "You did it," he said gruffly. "I apologize for ever thinking—"
The Chamber shuddered, and Hoshawk paled, but Jeffrey held up his hand. He glanced at the chronometer. "That was Marseilles blowing up," he said.
His feet moved and he was gone. In a moment he was back. "Excuse me, gentlemen," he begged. "I've got to see the squad. Just figured out a way to beat the Blues. If you—"
He stopped, frowned.
He had felt it before they did—a distant blast. Then they heard it—a dull explosion through three hundred feet of solid rock above them. The floor shuddered under their feet.