Arthur Clarke - Richter 10

“No.”

“What about the boy?”

“Leave him. Nothing mars a triumphal rescue like an untimely death. PR, Lanie. We live and die by it.”

Dan Newcombe sat staring at the screen, fists clenched, keeping his mind clear and controlled as he watched the SAR team digging gingerly in the gray-green mud that had once been a two-story house. The image of Ishmael floated just beside him, quiet, contemplative. He could see the icon, but it could not see him. “Are you watching the dig?” he asked, his voice choked.

“Yes,” Ishmael said. “I have a very positive feeling about it.”

“How so?”

“Crane is a madman. He will walk unscathed through tragedy. It is his blessing, Brother, and his curse also.”

“The first time I’ve ever heard you speak well of him.”

“I am not speaking well of him. He is not a man in the normal sense. He is a force moving through my life as I am a force moving through his. We’re glaciers, Crane and I, slowly creeping, rolling over everything in our paths. Crane is beyond definition. Do you see the man in the bright blue coat by the truck?”

Newcombe looked. It was the tech working the monitor for the opticals. He appeared to be excited as he turned the dials.

“I think he’s got them,” Newcombe said, watching the man dance an impromptu jig in the mud. “Look at him jumping! They’re alive!”

The lecture hall door banged open. Burt Hill and several programmers charged in, whooping. A similar scene was being monitored on the huge screen by the crew in Martinique.

“Go,” Newcombe whispered, Ishmael disappearing on Hill’s entry. Newcombe made a mental note to call and thank the man for his friendship during a bad time.

“I ain’t never letting him get away without me again!” Hill shouted. He charged happily down the aisle to watch the excavation with Newcombe; the others scattered through the theater. “They must have lost all the surveillance gear. That thing they used is jerryrigged outta spare parts.”

Newcombe nodded. “Believe me, next time Crane goes into the field, I’ll personally chain him to you.”

“Gawd,” Hill said, shaking his head as the workers shoved a bottle of rum through an air facilitation tube. “He’s getting a drink before he gets out. That’s Crane.”

Newcombe continued to stare as they dug, the workers handing bucketsful of mud along a human chain, shoring up the wreckage as they went. There was life. Now to see if there were injuries.

The team broke through within minutes. The crew in the theater and in Martinique cheered as Crane stumbled out of the debris under his own power, smiling wide for the cameras. He was carrying Lanie in his arms, his good arm taking most of the weight, the nearly empty bottle of rum dangling from his bad hand.

Newcombe’s stomach lurched. Lanie’s head was bandaged, blood covering her entire left side, matting her hair. She appeared to be only semiconscious. Crane didn’t look any the worse for wear.

“She’s hurt,” Hill said.

Newcombe grunted. “They’d better have someone more experienced than interns down there.” He banged on the wrist pad, reopening the contact between him and the team. A muddy figure, barely recognizable as human, blipped onto his screen. “Get Crane over here,” he told the man.

Just then, on the main screen, he saw Lanie throw her arms around Crane and give him a long kiss as she was lowered onto a stretcher. His insides knotted and he clenched his teeth to keep from cursing out loud. Crane seemed more startled than surprised at the kiss. What was happening?

Crane waved heartily at the cameras, holding up his bottle of rum and laughing, one more sumptuous meal at the buffet table of his exciting life. Damn the man. Brother Ishmael was right—he wasn’t human.

Swallowed up by his rescue team, Crane slithered off the screen and disappeared for half a minute, only to blip up on the insert box, finishing the rum.

“Crane,” Newcombe said low.

“Danny boy!” Crane dropped the bottle to wipe his face with a towel. “Did you miss us?”

“Where is she?” Newcombe said. “I’m hoping you haven’t killed her.”

“This is an open line, Danny boy.”

“Where is she?”

Crane had put on his public face and it wasn’t going to budge. He smiled. “We’re getting set to vac her over to Dominica for some doctoring. I think it’s only a concussion. She’ll be fine. Keeps asking for you, by the way.”

“Put her on.”

“Can’t do that, Dan.” He looked off camera for a second. “They’re getting her ready to go. Besides … you don’t need to be having any reunions over an open line. Save it for later.”

“For the love of God, Crane, put her on. I have to know if she’s all right.”

Crane shook his head, the smile still on his face. “Not on an unsecured line,” he said. “We don’t want to give away any trade secrets.”

“Crane—”

“Got to go, Danny boy. My public awaits.” Crane walked away from the screen leaving dead air behind.

Newcombe fell back heavily in his chair, staring at the screen and the workers preparing to leave the site.

“I got to set up for them to come back,” Burt said, standing, quickly putting distance between himself and Newcombe. He got everyone else out with him.

Newcombe sat alone, feeling stupid, feeling used. He hated Crane at this moment, would hurt him if he could. Ishmael had been so right about so many things. He saw with a clarity that defied rationalization.

The Q line was the secure fiber. He tapped it up on his wrist pad and pegged in the number he had memorized in the Diatribe’s dining room.

Sumi Chan sat before her surveillance terminal, juicing right into the wall screen in her Foundation chalet. “Are you receiving the transmission, Mr. Li?” she asked, the wall screen rerunning a scene of Newcombe speaking with a small projection of Mohammad Ishmael.

“Yes, quite clearly, Sumi. Thank you.”

“I felt the subject matter might be of interest to you.”

“More than in passing. Pursue whatever connection between Dr. Newcombe and the outlaw that happens your way. We will do the same. Mohammad Ishmael’s provocative behavior and poor public ratings have forced us to condemn his actions and the existence of the Nation of Islam as an entity.”

“I see,” Sumi said, but she didn’t see at all. “Is there anything else for now?”

“Keep up the good work. We have big plans for you. Zaijian, Sumi Chan. Stay in the shade.”

“Zaijian, Mr. Li.”

Contact broke from Li’s end, though his computers had dumped the entire conversation between Ishmael and Newcombe into its memory. Sumi shut down and pulled the green dorph bottle from the desk beneath the full 3-D wall screen.

She moved to the front door. The chalet was huge and roomy, basically one open room with a loft bedroom beneath an A-frame roof. The entire front was open to the outside and a magnificent vista. Under different circumstances she could have known complete peace here.

She stepped out onto her balcony, the wind warm and playful this high up. A lone condor flew beneath her. She felt Mr. Li was making a mistake in condemning the Nation of Islam whose members were consumers, at least to some degree, and in their own way a part of mainstream life in America. Condemnation set them apart and drew attention. That attention could lead to derision, certainly. It could also lead to support. Americans were used to diverse, individual thought patterns. Unchallenged, they would absorb NOI. Forced to choose, however, Americans were likely to opt for freedom, a concept unknown to Mr. Li.

Feeling suddenly melancholy, she uncorked the green bottle and drank directly from it. Her breasts hurt beneath their bindings, a monthly problem. Her special dorph, containing high concentrations of both oxytocin and euphoric PEA, seemed to help, even if it did burden her with a certain sexual yearning that could never be satisfied. No sexual partner could be trusted. Sex itself could not be trusted.