Things were quieter after that, but interest in my situation intensified by the hour.

Some of the more enterprising media people began to edge closer to the house, and the police tried to keep them back. Since the cops did not know what I had done (or anything at all about the bubble, for that matter, except the odd circular region it had maintained in the tornado's path), they focused on keeping the media people at a reasonable distance from the house. It would not have taken a rocket scientist out there to suspect that there might be something funny about the boundary of that mysterious circle, but no one put two and two together until the first officer backed into the bubble as he retreated before an advancing wave of reporters.

The officer stopped backing up rather suddenly, then looked quickly over his shoulder and then yelled at the top of his lungs when he saw nothing behind him that would have stopped him. He waved his arms, still yelling, and fell against the bubble's surface two or three times as he tried to regain his balance. The waving and yelling got all the other officers excited, and when they got excited the crowd went wild. Most of them turned and fled, tripping over each other as they ran from the house.

After a few minutes, a handful of reporters edged closer to the bubble, now aware that there was some sort of invisible barrier in place. They touched the bubble, pounded on it with their fists, and one of them grabbed a handful of gravel and tossed it at the bubble. I grinned as the pebbles stopped at the bubble's surface and then slid slowly down along the bubble to the ground; as I looked at the dumbfounded expression on the reporter's face, I knew exactly what he was thinking. I suppose my jaw dropped the same way the first time I threw pebbles at my prototype bubble.

What drew these people onward? As I watched the whole drama unfold on television, I was struck by the fact that every one of them was compelled, drawn to the enigma like moths to a flame. I knew from my research that the bubble was harmless, but they didn't; for all they knew, touching the bubble might bring instant death. Even if they had known that in advance, I'm not sure it would have stopped them. They were so obsessed with the puzzle and "the people's right to know" that they would have covered that story at the cost of their own lives, I think. Taken as individuals, I might have been able to get through to them -- maybe I could have explained what was going on and we could have reached some kind of understanding. Once they formed into an anonymous mass of reporters, though, all hope was lost. They banded together like white blood cells fighting off an infection, and all hope of meaningful dialogue was lost. They would not rest until I was categorized, compartmentalized, and neatly packaged for the nightly news, either as a criminal, a casualty, or both.

The problem was not just with the media, either. The whole society was beginning to treat me as an invading bacteria, surrounding me with scrutiny and layers of defensive measures. The media corps was the first line of defense, but the 'man in the street' interviews showed that my neighbors and others in the city now saw me as some sort of obscure threat as well. As I watched, I saw any hope I might have had about surviving this experience with any semblance of a normal life disappear.

When I heard the reporters speak of a 'special military unit' on its way, I had to laugh. I could only imagine what sort of team was being formed, and I had a sneaking suspicion that the team would be carrying weapons instead of physics textbooks and laboratory gear. I decided to go upstairs and watch the show 'live' instead of cowering in the basement and watching it on television. Besides, I figured some bright soul would get the idea to cut my electricity sooner or later; the underground power lines had survived the storm and the device was battery powered, but turning off my lights and TV would no doubt seem like a logical course of action to some SWAT team or another.

On the way out of the house, I poured the contents of the coffee pot into a Thermos bottle and switched off the pot. Grabbing a chair, I headed out into the front yard.

The roar of the crowd hit me like a wave, and within seconds I was the focus of half a dozen spotlight beams. I ambled out into the yard, dropped the chair, and sat in it. Reporters piled up against police officers at the part of the bubble closest to me, and I soon gave up trying to understand the babble of voices. Whirring video cameras and strobing flash guns turned the scene into a surreal nightmare; I just poured a cup of coffee, took a sip, and waited. I watched the media frenzy over the rim of my mug, hoping that they would all calm down in a few minutes so that we could talk a little, but the hysteria continued unabated. I could see the support crews for competing news teams sneaking around in the background, unplugging each other's equipment so as to disable coverage from enemy stations. People were elbowing each other aside, screaming in each other's faces, and the situation turned ugly pretty quickly. Soon, the police were wading through the crowd, shoving combatants apart and trying to restore order. As if on cue, the whole crowd turned on the police, screaming about "freedom of the press" and the "right to know." The officers, frustrated by their inability to get to me inside the bubble, got rougher with the crowd. Pepper spray and handcuffs came out, and more officers poured into the area to establish control. I never did get the chance to speak rationally with a single member of the media.

When the riot broke out, the police sent Sharpe in to start 'negotiating' with me. Faced with a completely novel situation, the law enforcement community dealt with it the best they could; they searched their playbooks for a scenario that closely resembled mine, and responded accordingly. Apparently, the closest match they could find was "lunatic holed up with possible hostages," so they called for their hostage negotiator, Captain Sharpe.

Sharpe is a good guy; don't get me wrong. He was just a bit out of his depth, that's all. We spent twenty minutes talking about whether or not I had any family members or other people inside the house, but I finally convinced him (I think) that there was no one home but Gagarin and I. Then, he asked me what I was doing, and he seemed a little taken aback when I admitted that I had no idea. He asked me if there was anything I wanted, and I asked him if he could get all these media people out of here. He promised to look into it. We chatted for quite a while about various things; I'm sure this is what negotiators do in order to build a relationship with the people they face in crisis situations. I was pleasant enough; I was pretty well resigned to my fate and was only sitting out there to watch the military team arrive, but I knew he was just trying to do his job and I saw no reason to be rude.

The helicopters showed up within an hour; huge, ugly machines that shattered the night with the blast of their rotors and skewered everyone in sight with laser-like searchlight beams. Squads of soldiers poured out and began barking orders at everyone as they established a perimeter. One fresh-faced twenty-something soldier dashed up to Sharpe.

"Sorry, sir, but you'll have to leave the area."

Sharpe's jaw dropped, and he stood to face the young man with the automatic weapon. Before he could speak, I did.

"AT EASE, SOLDIER! This man is talking to me, and our conversation is no business of yours! Unless you want to undertake the consequences of pissing me off, I suggest you keep your distance!"

The soldier was brave, but not stupid. Since the Crazy Man In The Bubble (moi) had just threatened him and given him an excellent excuse to withdraw (or at least trot off and get additional instructions from Headquarters), he saw nothing wrong with simply nodding briskly and striding away.

Sharpe turned to me with a stunned look on his face, and I winked at him. We both took our seats, and I poured more coffee. I watched the soldiers set up all manner of complicated machinery, which seemed to require (it seemed to me) an inordinate amount of running back and forth, shouted orders, and salutes. The media ate it up; they found all that activity much more interesting than continual coverage of two guys sitting in chairs in a yard.

Our conversation drifted along for a while, and then I must have drifted off. Sharpe's comment woke me:

"You have to come out sometime, you know."

It's near dawn now, and I suspect more surprises are on their way. I'm writing this narrative in hopes that it may shed some light on the events of the past few days, because I really don't expect to survive the next few days or weeks. Our society is simply too good at searching out, encircling, and eliminating everything unknown, unusual, or inexplicable to let me live. I can see that, and at this point I don't particularly care any more. I'm not going to tell you how the bubble works, no matter how this sorry drama plays out. Call me petty, mean-spirited, or whatever you like; I call it revenge. You can kill me if you want to, or if your society is pathologically averse to the kind of enigma I represent, but I can damn well carry the secret to my grave just for the sheer satisfaction of spiting you all.

Just in case you're wondering; I'm not crazy. You people are crazy. For the moment, I have you safely institutionalized outside the bubble.

One last thing -- if you have any shred of decency left in you, take care of Gagarin.