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harpsichord another block and set it down at the Madison Avenue intersection, from which vantage we could see both Grand Central Station and the library. The Phobosian army had indeed spent the night bivouacked between the stone lions. Inevitably I thought of Gettysburg—James Longstreet’s suicidal sweep across the Pennsylvania farmlands, hurtling his divisions against George Meade’s Army of the Potomac, which had numerical superiority, a nobler cause, and the high ground.
    Rupert took the score from my sack, laid the twelve pages against the rack, and made ready to turn them. Melvin removed his dish antenna and got down on all fours before the instrument. Annie seated herself on his massive back. She laid her hands on the keyboard. A stiff breeze arose. If the score blew away, all would be lost.
    Annie depressed a constellation of keys. Martian language came forth, filling the canyon between the skyscrapers.
    A high bugling wail emerged from deep within the throats of the Deimosian officers, and the soldiers began their march. Annie played furiously. “Materialist Prelude and Fugue,” page one… page two… page three… page four. The soldiers kept on coming. Page five… page six… page seven… page eight. The Deimosians continued their advance, parting around the harpsichord like an ocean current yielding to the prow of a ship. Page nine… page ten… page eleven… page twelve. Among the irreplaceable volumes in the New York Public Library, I recalled, were first editions of Nicolaus Copernicus’s De Revolutionibus, William Gilbert’s De Magnete, and Isaac Newton’s Principia Mathematica.
    Once again the Deimosian officers let loose a high bugling wail.
    The soldiers abruptly halted their advance.
    They threw down their weapons and broke into a run.
    â€œGood God, is it working?” asked Rupert.
    â€œI think so,” I replied.
    â€œIt worked!” insisted Annie.
    â€œReally?” said Melvin, whose perspective on the scene was compromised by his function as a piano stool.
    â€œWe’ve done it!” I cried. “We’ve really done it!”
    Within a matter of seconds the Deimosians accomplished a reciprocal disarmament. They rushed toward their former enemies. The two forces met on Fifth Avenue, Phobosians and Deimosians embracing passionately, so that the intersection seemed suddenly transformed into an immense railroad platform on which countless wayward lovers were meeting sweethearts from whom they’d been involuntarily separated for years.
    Now the ovation came, two hundred thousand extraterrestrials cheering and applauding Annie as she climbed off Melvin’s back and stood up straight. She took a bow, and then another.
    A singularly appreciative chirp emerged from a Phobosian general, whereupon a dozen of his fellows produced the identical sound.
    Annie got the message. She seated herself on Melvin’s back, turned to page one, and played “Materialist Prelude and Fugue in C-Sharp Minor” all over again.
    AUGUST 18
    The Martians have been gone for only five days, but already Manhattan is healing. The lights are back on. Relief arrives from every state in the Union, plus Canada.
    Valerie, Bobby, and I are now honorary members of the Asaph Hall Society. We all gathered this afternoon at Gracie Mansion in Carl Schurz Park, not far from Annie’s houseboat. Mayor Margolis will let us use his parlor whenever we want. In fact, there’s probably no favor he won’t grant us. After all, we saved his city.
    Annie called the meeting to order. Everything went smoothly. We discussed old business (our ongoing efforts to contact the Galilean satellites), new business (improving patient services at the Frye Institute and the Krauss Clinic), and criteria for admitting new participants. As long as they remember to take their medicine, my lunatics remain the soul of reason. Melvin and Annie plan to marry in