Introduction

Up near the very top of the world (Earth, in this case), there are a bunch of gigantic structures. Small cities of 3 foot thick reinforced concrete are strung at alarmingly regular intervals along a necklace around the earth at about 15 degrees lattitude.

Each of these small cities used to hold a nuclear aresenal. Back in the second half of the 20th century, all the nations of this planet (again, Earth. we're not considering other planets in this story) had their weapons aimed across the north pole at somebody or other. I wonder what might have happened if they had all fired them at once. I picture a freak juggling accident where all the balls collide at once each at the top of it's own arc.

There were also giant radar stations strung along this nuclear necklace. In the little towns that crouched nearby, the TV reception would go out for 4 seconds every 29 seconds.

Living on the tundra in those days was very strange. It's cold up there. You served the missles in some way, threatening a distant enemy. Or you served the radar in some way, listening for a sign of anything, of something that never came.

And every 29 seconds, in the grocery store, the local diner, even in church, everything stopped for 4 seconds. You stopped talking, you stopped whatever you were doing. And you just listened.

The radar dishes spun slowly, looking like a man with a hand to his ear. The missles crouched like sprinters at the starting line. But in the arms race, nobody ever fired the starting gun.

Eventually, even the guys in uniform figured that one out. One day, hands behind their backs, whistling tunelessly, they waited for our backs to be turned and then they vamoosed.

All that remained of them were the bunkers, the airstrips, the barracks and the missle silos. No missles, though. Officers' quarters, enlisted men's clubs. All empty.

That plus a bunch of waitresses, bartenders, cops and schoolteachers who watched the only industry leave town.