The police had brought in generators to power huge banks of lights to eerily light up the Stock Exchange building, all 500 feet of it. Emergency vehicles filled the wide street, every- thing from ambulances, fire engines, riot vehicles and New York Power. Then there were the DA's office, lawyers for the Ex- change, insurance representatives and a ton of computer people. "What the hell happened here?" Scott asked looking at the pande- monium on the cordoned off Cortland Street. "Where are all the lights?" He turned and gazed at the darkened streets and tall buildings. "Did you know a bunch of the street lights are out, too?" Scott meandered in seeming awe of the chaos. "This is one strange one," Ben said as they approached the build- ing entrance. "Let me ask you a question, you're the techno- freak." Scott scowled at him for the reference but didn't comment. "What kind of bomb stops electricity?" "Electricity? You mean power?" Scott pointed at the blackened buildings and streets and Ben nodded. "Did they blow the block transformers?" "No, just a small Cemex, plastic, bomb in one computer room. Did some damage, but left an awful lot standing. But the death toll was high. Eleven dead and two probably not going to make it. Plus the perp." Scott gazed around the scene. The dark sky was pierced by the top floors of the World Trade Center, and there were lights in the next blocks. So it's not a blackout. And it wasn't the power grid that was hit. A growing grin preceded Scott shaking his head side to side. "What is it?" Ben asked. "A nuke." "A nuke?" "Yeah, that's it, a nuke," Scott said excitedly. "A nuke knocks out power. Of course." "Right," Ben said mockingly. "I can hear it now: Portion of 17th. Floor of Exchange Devastated by Nuclear Bomb. News at Eleven." "Never mind," Scott brushed it off. "Can we get up there?" He pointed at the ceiling. "See the place?" Ben pulled a few strings and spent a couple of hundred of Scott's dollars but succeeded in getting to the corpse-less site of the explosion. Scott visually poked around the debris and noticed a curved porcelain remnant near his feet. He wasn't supposed to touch, but, what was it? And the ruby colored chunks of glass? In the few seconds they were left alone, they snapped a quick roll of film and made a polite but hasty departure. At $200 a minute Scott hoped he would find what he was looking for. "Ben, I need these photos blown up, to say, 11 X 17? ASAP." The press conference at 4:15 in the morning was necessary. The Stock Exchange was not going to open Thursday. The lobby of the Stock Exchange was aflood with TV camera lights, police and the media hoards. Voices echoed loudly, between the marble walls and floor and made hearing difficult.