several people on the steps of the smithsonian have turned to look. there is cold, frozen fear in their eyes. the awful sound keeps increasing in volume.
a woman is holding a two-year-old child by the hand as she watches the ship, awe-struck. several people run past them. suddenly the woman grabs up the child with a little sob, turns and runs away.
of one of the tank commanders in the turret of his tank. he is watching klaatu advancing toward the platoon leader and he has drawn his pistol. convinced that the lieutenant is in jeopardy, the tank commander aims at klaatu and fires.
shooting over the shoulders of two cops at one of the desks, toward the line of people they are screening. a nondescript, middle-aged vagrant stands before the desk as one of the cops flips through a card file.
the two sentries standing in front of the building.
as klaatu approaches the window. aiming his flashlight at gort, he flashes the light intermittently, as though signaling.
as klaatu moves to the communications panel, flipping switches and turning dials. indicators light up. there are crackling, whirring and buzzing sounds. klaatu starts speaking into a built-in microphone in his own strange language. he speaks in rapid-fire explanation, continuing to talk, as we--
as klaatu slowly lifts himself to a sitting position. helen watches breathlessly as he glances around the room, as though to orient himself. then he lowers his feet to the floor and stands up. he blinks uncertainly, then smiles at them.