"The lines of Demarcation shall be Meridian 30 degrees West and Meridian 169 degrees West, including all oceans and territories north of the Panama Canal. Within these boundaries no merchant or military craft of foreign origin, neither land, sea, nor air, shall be permitted, except those member nations of the Pan-American Pact."
--Thirty-First Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America

In the dying fire of afternoon Flight 104 returned home.

For most of the journey from the People's Republic of England to Neil Armstrong International, the HST Lockheed Pegasus was scanned by the picket line of missile patrol airships extending from Greenland to Patagonia. An escort of four navy F-60s joined her at the invisible frontier of Fortress America, then she dipped into the low cloud cover to make her long gliding approach.

Five minutes out her running lights were visible from the deck of the nuclear USS Oakland, where surface-to-air missiles were targeted to fire if the aircraft deviated from her recorded flight plan.

She popped out of the fog. The setting sun broke into view, as if to welcome home the envoy of the president-elect, the first American to visit Europe since the last marines were evacuated from the United States embassy in London twenty-five years earlier. On Armstrong field, a man-made island resting on pylons fifteen miles from New England, Flight 104's flaming engines created a false dawn.

Ear-wrenching vibration climbed the acoustical ladder from basso profundo to piccolo. The plane's wheels sang as she touched down and taxied the length of the runway to a glass-steel tower, which impaled the island where the waves pounded patiently against its massive stilts.

This flight was extraordinary. It had required an executive order of the lame-duck president to allow Dorian Nye, Nobel Prize-winning physicist, to return from his mission. Airport security had been called out to restrain the newsmen while Nye's entourage disembarked.

Naturally all these precautions translated into delays and red tape for the average airline passenger. Despite over a hundred and fifty years of civil aviation, some things never changed.

Mel Hardrim, inspector of the Greater Washington Metropolitan Police, had joined Nye in London. As they emerged from the tunnel onto a platform overlooking the main floor of the terminal, his eyes moved over the crowd, which squirmed like a giant millipede recoiling on itself. Overhead, an immense holocube displayed a three-dimensional advertisement for a household detergent with bioengineered microscopic biobots called "stain eaters."

As they followed a ramp down into the crowd, Hardrim was uneasy. He disliked crowded lobbies, even when they were cordoned off. Nye coughed at his side.

Dr. Nye's tweed overcoat was draped over his left arm while he hefted an attaché/computer with his right hand. It was cold but sweat beaded on his shiny dome. He was small, flabby, and wore a look of eternal chagrin. His otherwise entirely nondescript face was distinguished by beetling brows and a firm mouth.

Hardrim smelled fear. Perhaps Nye was just nervous about the hearing, but Hardrim's warning intuition was blazing red.

He saw several people in the crowd with computer interface implants sprouting from the backs of their necks. 'Faces, they were called by the prejudiced and fearful. Hardrim counted himself in that group. Any of them could have been a potential assassin, as far as he was concerned.

Nye shielded dazzled eyes against the holovision lights. Hardrim squinted and guided him with a hand on his elbow. Tonight Nye would meet with the president-elect. Tomorrow he would testify before Senator Macadew's Special Committee on the World Famine. Until then, Hardrim was nursemaid to a sixty-year old man.

A man burst between two security men. Swiveling, Hardrim saw a glint of metal and moved to shield Nye. The scientist instinctively stepped back, covering his face with his hand. It was the last gesture he ever made.

Hardrim saw and felt a white flash and searing wind near his temple. Dorian Nye's head exploded, splattering him with brains and blood and bone. Another shot! Hardrim reeled to his knees. Through a red haze he saw the assassin on his face in a pool of blood. His own hand gripped a revolver. He had instinctively shot the killer.

A guard cautiously rolled the assassin's body over.

"Clean through the heart."