Richter 10

by Arthur C. Clarke

  Gabler had cocked his head like a dog and was, apparently, thinking, or, Crane mused, trying to. “I’ll just bet you Mr. Li understands,” Crane added, the Chinese man smiling in return.

  “We have reached a decision, Dr. Crane,” he said.

  Crane took a deep breath to calm himself, to not let the facade down. “Yes,” he said.

  “I would ask everyone to leave the room.”

  Crane nodded and looked at Newcombe, the man’s expression revealing both irritability—he’d get over it—and excitement.

  Within thirty seconds, Li and Crane were alone across the table.

  “You are an interesting man, Dr. Crane.”

  “As are you, sir.”

  “You know, of course, that we could never give you carte blanche with the government checkbook.”

  “But, I—”

  Li raised his hand for silence. “I’ve played with you this far. Now it’s my turn. If, and I emphasize the word if, we’re able to work together, you will need someone to oversee the project. I’m not averse to someone we’re both comfortable with, say, Sumi Chan, for instance.”

  “Sumi?”

  “We’re not difficult men to deal with.” His drink sat before him. “We like Americans. You’re all so clever with your hands. You people make the most amazing gadgets. Quite extraordinary.”

  “You said if we work together?”

  “Well, yes. Certainly.” The man picked up the glass and drank, then poured the rest of Mui’s drink in his and finished that also. “Everyone is very excited about your idea, but you are asking private industry and the government to turn a great deal of responsibility over to you, all on the strength of one demonstration.”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Simple, Dr. Crane.” Li smiled, his eyes cunning. “You may have everything you asked for. But we must know, for sure, that you are what you say you are.”

  “And how do I do that?”

  “Once again—simple. Predict another major quake, something big, high profile. Do it before the election. This is May. It gives you six months. If, indeed, thirty major quakes occur a year, that should be plenty of time.”

  “Is that all?”

  “No,” Li replied. “Give us something close to home. Something the voters will really understand. And then, Dr. Crane, the world is yours.”

  THE DIATRIBE—OFF THE CALIFORNIA COAST

  19 JUNE 2024 10:12 A.M.

  “Of course we’re under surveillance,” Brother Ishmael told Crane.

  Newcombe sat between them, listening intently. They were in the yacht’s twenty-foot dining room, paneled and brass-trimmed. Ishmael had stayed on after everyone, including his own bodyguards, had left. Newcombe wondered why.

  “Everyone’s under some sort of surveillance all the time. It’s the nature and the chief employment of your white man’s world. People watch, and other people watch them. Machines watch machines. Why?”

  “We’re insufferably curious, I suppose,” Crane replied amiably. “Plus, what gets invented gets perfected, then used. It’s human nature. And not everybody gets watched. Those who can afford it hire people who can… outwit the technology.”

  Ishmael smiled and pointed a long finger. “Then that person watches you. And don’t forget the person who watches him.”

  “You don’t have survie units in the War Zone?” Newcombe asked Ishmael, who treated Newcombe with warmth and respect.

  “Yes, we do,” he said. “We use them on the whites, just as the whites attempt to use them on us. Like Dr. Crane, we spend a lot of time outwitting the technology. My people tell me that this conversation is being recorded right now by a device called Listening Post #528, whose low space orbit carried it within our range until…”—he looked at his watch—“two forty-five P.M.”

  Lanie sat directly across from Newcombe, her eyes bright. “If we’re being listened to, why are you talking?”

  “It’s part of our political agenda. We’re prepared to present to the white population the reasons why we cannot share the same society. You, and the world, are listening to my reasoning. If I have anything private to say, I will say it privately.”

  “You are using me shamelessly,” Crane said. He slugged heavily on a glass full of straight bourbon. “Look, Brother Ishmael. I have a great deal of respect for you. I don’t even mind being used by you and your cause right now, but dammit, man, give something in return, a little support. I just want what’s best for everyone.”

  “No,” Ishmael said. “You don’t want to help people; you want to slay the beast. I can see it in your eyes when you talk about earthquakes. You hate the earthquakes. God wrought their majesty, but you have the gall to hate His creation. I feel sorry for you and your windmills, and I pray to Allah you never get the power to vent your hatred.”

  “You’re a hard kind of fellow,” Crane said. “Sure, I hate the beast. I hate it the way the Cretans hated the Minotaur. Is it wrong to hate a monster? Wasn’t it Malcolm X who said, ‘When our people are being bitten by dogs, they are within their rights to kill those dogs’? I hate it because of the lives and dreams it destroys and I will find a way to blunt its sword with or without your help. There, I’m talking to the world, too.” He snorted. “Do you really think you’ll have your Islamic State?”

  Ishmael nodded slowly. “We will have an Islamic nation,” he replied. “In a fractured world, we are the dominant force.”

  “It didn’t work that way in the Middle East,” Lanie said.

  “The Jewish entity chose to destroy itself rather than face the reality of Islam,” Ishmael said. “The Masada Cloud is the reminder of Allah’s power over the Infidel. There are no more Jews in Palestine.”

  “There’s nobody in Palestine,” Crane snapped. “And there won’t be. How can you presume to know who should live and who should die?” He stood. “I want everyone to live.”

  “Jungles don’t work that way,” Ishmael returned, “and neither do earthquakes. You can’t bring your parents back, doctor.”

  “Please, don’t try to analyze me.” Crane picked up his drink, finished it with a scowl. “I’m going up to observation. Is it safe for you to be on board, Brother Ishmael?”

  “I don’t know, is it?”

  “I’m not powerful enough to protect you. Anyone want to join me?”

  “Sure,” Lanie said, picking up her coffee and adding another spoonful of dorph to it.

  As Newcombe started to rise, Ishmael put a hand out. “Stay with me, Brother Daniel. I want to speak with you.”

  Newcombe nodded. “Watch the sun up there,” he said to Lanie. “I’ll join you shortly.”

  Newcombe watched Lanie and Crane walk to the dining room hatchway where they donned coats, gloves, goggles, and hats, Crane pulling a tube of sunblock from his pocket to smear on their exposed faces. He opened the hatch, bright sunlight pouring in. Lanie waved at him and left.

  Newcombe and Lanie spent a good deal of time with each other, and he was cautiously letting himself dream again of home and family, something—anything—besides Crane’s relentless pursuit of his monsters. He’d even talked Lanie into moving in with him when they got back to the Foundation.

  “Why are you with the white woman, Brother?”

  “I love her.”

  “She is your oppressor. Not just a white woman, but a Jewess.”

  Newcombe’s jaw muscles tightened. “She’s a Cosmie.”

  “Judaism is a race, not a religion.”

  “I do not accept the philosophies of the Nation of Islam. I’m an Africk in America and I’m doing very well, thank you. I’m not oppressed; I’m the master of my own fate. Well educated, intelligent, I have risen to the top of my field—and I have chosen the woman I wish to spend my life with.”

  “Then why are you working for someone like Crane? Why don’t you have your own labs, your own grants?”

  Anger rose like mercury through Newcombe’s body. “Who have you been talking to?”

  Is
hmael leaned close and spoke in a whisper so low Newcombe had almost to touch heads with him to hear. “I’ve stayed aboard to speak with you. The NOI needs you. Your brothers call out to you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Newcombe replied, uncomfortable now.

  “Nation of Islam will need men of learning, intelligence and insight into the white society in order to build our new world. Our communities are fragmented, distanced from each other, surrounded in thirty different cities. We need room and we need physical unity desperately. We’re engaged in a literal state of war. We will take what we must have—God’s sharia and a wise caliphate will become a reality. Everyone will have to choose up sides.”

  “I’ve nearly destroyed my career once because of my public support for an Islamic state. Since our televised encounter on VEMA, I’ve taken a long step toward destroying it again. The cause of a homeland is just, but you’ve already drained my blood.”

  “You have no place in the white man’s world except as his lackey,” Ishmael whispered. “You want a better world. So do I. I’m telling you I can help you accomplish that goal far better than the evil man you work for.”

  “Evil? Crane?”

  “He is of the Darkness, Daniel. I am of the Light.”

  “You’re wrong. Crane’s like me.”

  “You don’t believe that for a minute. You know how crazy he is.”

  Shaken, Newcombe said nothing.

  “Crane is a marked man with no real power base,” Ishmael continued. “Our Jihad has begun. Political affiliation with NOI will bring you power, recognition, respect. You can accomplish. You can call the tune. I will make of you an Islamic hero.”

  “Sounds like a jail sentence to me.”

  “Hear me out, Brother.” Ishmael, majestic in his midnight-slick dashiki, got to his feet. “Our world will come. It holds a place for you with people who love you. Believe me when I tell you there is no place in the white devil’s world for an Africk with too much education. They’ll make you a glorified shoeshine man. Crane is already doing it.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Not about Crane, not about the woman. Brother, I’m the only one you can trust. The righteous anger of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad, Malcolm X, Louis Farrakhan, and Saladin the Prophet runs through my veins. Your ‘friends’ hate you and will always hate you. You will reach your full potential only within the Nation of Islam.” He bent low and wrote on a pad of paper on the table: Commit this number to memory. It’s a safe line to me.

  Newcombe memorized the number, never expecting to use it, then tore up the paper on which it was written.

  Ishmael walked over and stared out of a tinted porthole. The ocean was calm today, reflecting the sun in blinding sabers. He turned to Newcombe. “You think I do not know you,” he whispered. “But you are wrong. I knew you in the jungle, and in the slave boats, and wearing the ox-yoke in the fields. I knew you when they wrenched you from your home and hung you from a tree or buried you in their jails to keep you off their streets. I knew you when they promised you freedom and gave you only the freedom to starve. I knew you, Brother, when they fed you their poisons of alcohol and drugs, and gave you guns to kill yourself. I knew you when they finally got tired of you and turned their backs completely, hoping you’d die in the jungle of concrete that they had built. Don’t ever say I don’t know you. I know you as you’d know yourself, if you’d open your eyes.”

  “They’re going to arrest you, you know,” Newcombe said, his voice choked with emotion. “Can’t you get out of here?”

  Brother Ishmael merely smiled.

  Sumi Chan’s face blipped onto Li Cheun’s screen. “I have called,” he said, “to report, as you have asked, about Dr. Crane. He will be docking this afternoon and returning to the Foundation.”

  “Excellent. Have you seen to the planting of the surveillance equipment in his residence and laboratories?”

  “Yes, Mr. Li.”

  Li watched Sumi’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Are you having a problem with this assignment?”

  “No, sir,” Sumi said quickly. “It’s simply that I have been a major supporter of Dr. Crane for many years and know him personally—”

  “Let me be clear on this point, Sumi,” Li said, gratified to see an element of fear creep onto the face floating a foot from him. “I can elevate or destroy you. If you work for the Geological Society, you work for me. If you issue grants it is I who is doing the issuing. If you do not want this job—”

  “Sir, I condemn my thoughts. I am totally committed to you and to Liang International.”

  “Crane is your job, not your brother.”

  “Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir.”

  “Not at all. You’re doing fine work. Please hold.”

  Li looked at Mui, who froze Sumi Chan’s face in mid-grimace. “Tell me about Ishmael,” Li said.

  “General fear and negative reaction to demand for Islamic state,” Mui said, reading directly from his screen. “Very negative reaction from the southern states he mentioned as location for a new Nation of Islam. Early analysis points to Yo-Yu candidates playing up the fear factor and using it to their advantage in the next elections.”

  “I see,” Li said, an idea forming. “Put Mr. Chan back on.”

  Sumi’s face re-formed, looking more relaxed. He’d hit the dorph hard while on hold.

  “Sir,” Li said, “I have great faith in you. Is Brother Ishmael still on board the Diatribe?”

  “He was when I spoke with Crane a few minutes ago.”

  Li muted his wristpad and looked at Mui. “Put the Federal Police Force on this. See if they can arrest him while he’s still on the boat. Charge him with sedition. We want him alive… tell them that.”

  Mui banged on the keypad, then pointed out of the darkness at Li. “Los Angeles elements of the FPF have been notified. The G is en route.”

  Li nodded curtly, then rewired Chan. “What I want you to do now is take a helo and pick up Dr. Crane, transporting him to the Foundation with our compliments. We will release enough money to you to keep the Foundation running on-line toward its goal. We’ll give Crane everything he wants… for now. Spend a great deal of time at the Foundation. It is now your main obligation, and we will find someone else to handle your day-to-day activities with the Geological Survey. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”

  “Stay in the shade, Mr. Chan.”

  “Same to you, Mr. Li.”

  Mui blanked Chan’s head as Li stared at California. Crane had bullied his way into the arena and made himself a player, Li thought. Fine. Now Crane would have to live with it.

  Standing next to Lanie on the observation deck, Crane fidgeted, but not from the heat of his clothing and the brilliant sunlight doubling its force through reflection off the water. He was going stir-crazy, confined to the boat. And his arm throbbed dully. Action somewhere. Not close or the arm would have hurt. Still, there was a rising feeling of pain. He rubbed his arm.

  Lanie’s eyes widened. “What is it?”

  “Something… just happened,” he said, insides tight. “And I’m stuck here in the middle of the goddamned ocean.”

  “Is it close,” Lanie asked, “a deep subduction trench quake, beneath us perhaps?”

  Crane shook his head, his full attention on a flock of birds a hundred meters off the port bow. They were too big and were closing fast. “This part of the ocean isn’t subducting. California lies on a transform fault, the Pacific Plate and the North American Plate rubbing against each other as they move in different directions. We’d know if something was going on there. But thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “Not questioning my intuition.”

  The birds had attracted Lanie’s attention, too. She watched them with a frown. “Dan says that you feel it in your arm.”

  “What else?”

  She turned and smiled at him. “He knows it must work because he can feel your feelings as a sharp pain.”

 
“In the ass?”

  “Yeah. Those birds over there… aren’t they awfully large for gulls?”

  “Too big and too noisy. Hear the hum?”

  “No.”

  He watched as they glided close, their little focus motors whirring—radio-controlled cameras disguised as gulls searching for them. “I think the press corps has ferreted us out.”

  The cams swooped low over the deck, news broadcast logos on their sides, then swung gracefully out to sea, making a wide circle around the Diatribe, then tightening the circle.

  “We must be getting close,” Lanie said. “Did you see the unmarked birds?”

  Crane nodded. “FPF, the G. They’re keeping tabs on Brother Ishmael. My bet is that they’ll try and take him before we dock.”

  “There’s nothing you can do?”

  “He should have left when his bodyguards did, right after the meeting. I can’t believe he stayed.”

  One of the unmarked birds buzzed the deck, Crane swatting at it as it passed within a foot of him. “Thank you for welcoming us back to America!” he called through cupped hands to the rest of the hovering cams. “We’ll be looking forward to meeting with many of you upon our return.” Then he whispered, “Bastards.”

  He waved with his good hand, urging Lanie to smile and wave also.

  “Look at the clouds,” Lanie said. Crane looked up to see his smiling, waving face projected onto cumulus clouds fifty thousand feet high.

  “Those bulges make me look fat,” he said, then raised a finger. “Let’s have some fun with them. Stay here.”

  He hurried down the ladder, laughing, and to the life-boat tethered on the main deck, grabbing the survival kit before hurrying back to observation.