Arthur Clarke - Richter 10

Housing block leaders were moving in and out of the tent, bringing requests and questions. Crane was frowning heavily, shaking his head as he talked to Sumi and white-haired Stoney Whetstone, dressed in the same uniform his men wore. Teevs filled the sides of the thirty-foot-square room, showing the same things the clouds were showing.

“You’re a boob, Parkhurst,” Crane said as they approached. He shook his head and tapped the man off.

“Got a busload of tech kids outside who are going to need special handling,” Lame told him. Crane looked at Sumi.

“Would you take care of it?”

“Of course,” Sumi said, immediately moving off.

“What about the E-Bs?” Newcombe asked Crane, who was staring vacantly at the floor.

“No activity,” Stoney said.

Stoney was impressive, Lanie thought. Tall, commanding, and down-to-earth, he had a weathered, still-handsome face. He was enough of a man at sixty-seven to make her wonder what he’d been like at forty.

“Something very strange is going on around here, I think,” Stoney added.

This wasn’t new. Stoney had been frowning more as each day passed, voicing suspicions and questioning everything that was going on with the government and Liang Int. “What do you mean this time?” Lanie asked, somewhat wearily.

“The government is dragging its heels on what aid it’s providing—which is damn little. And wasn’t the whole point of them buying into Crane’s prediction how much hay they could make for the electorate—the publicity they’d get for being good guys? I assumed this place would be a madhouse of pols and newsies, with Li and his buddies trotting every one of their candidates through here, giving each of those clowns a chance to sound off for the electorate. Do you see any of that? In fact, have you seen a single candidate or elected official or Liang Int big shot around here?”

Lanie slowly shook her head.

“No, of course not, because something’s fishy, that’s why.”

“Let’s not add paranoia to our list of problems,” Newcombe said. “We’ve still got a couple of days until Q-day. Maybe something will—”

“My arm isn’t hurting,” Crane said. “This close to a quake my arm should be throbbing.”

The teevs flickered, casting eerie images over all their faces. The pictures died, then the Presidential seal blossomed on every screen. Lanie tapped her pad to the K channel, though it wouldn’t have mattered which fiber she chose. They’d all been pre-empted.

“—ident of the United States,” came the voice through her aural. President Gideon sat at his desk, Mr. Li by his side.

“My fellow Americans, I address you today to right a terrible wrong. With great effort and at enormous cost, your government has undertaken a massive investigation and uncovered an egregious fraud. Lewis Crane is a charlatan. Unprincipled, publicity hungry, he is misleading the country into believing the entire middle and southern area of the United States is on the verge of catastrophe. Thankfully, we have discovered this is not the case, and denounce his prediction of a quake on the 30th of October as fantasy. Further, we are immediately cutting off all federal grant money to the Crane Foundation.”

Crane was standing now in front of the largest screen, shaking his head. “What are they doing?” he whispered. “Why?”

“Couldn’t you smell the screw job in the air?” Stoney asked. “I knew something was up.”

The President continued, “We have proof that the Crane Foundation has continuing contact with Nation of Islam leader, Mohammad Ishmael, since Ishmael proclaimed an Islamic State while in Crane’s company. We, the people, are victims of some kind of conspiracy.”

A viddy came up of a man walking along a city sidewalk, arms swinging, everything from the viewpoint of his coat sleeve. The man stopped at a dorph vendor and bought a bottle. When he swung his arm around to pay the man, the face of Dan Newcombe filled the screen.

“What is this?” Crane whirled on Newcombe. “What the hell are we about to see?” he shrieked.

“Me and Ishmael,” Newcombe said, his face blank as he stared Crane down.

“What else?”

Newcombe nodded at the screen, the tape blipping pictures in rapid succession of him being led down a hallway in what seemed to be a chip parlor. Lanie watched in amazement, her pulse speeding up and a sense of dread making her stomach queasy. Dan had gone to the Zone the Masada night that he’d disappeared … that was perfectly clear now. Betrayal. Personal and professional too, she suspected. She began to tremble. Tense, Dan avoided her gaze, steadfastly looking at the teev. He was being taken into a cubicle, a bed moved to reveal a manhole, Ishmael coming out of the hole to embrace Newcombe like long-lost, beloved kin. Lanie glanced around.

Everyone was rapt—and horrified.

Newcombe and Ishmael were staring intently, malevolently out at the audience through the lens of a camera that must have been in Ishmael’s palm.

“Stoney,” Crane said, a shocked expression on his face, “would you get a couple of your biggest men to guard the tent flap? I don’t want any reporters around until we’re ready for them. And get Sumi back in here.”

Whetstone nodded, then grasped Crane’s shoulder consolingly before leaving the tent.

“Look, Crane,” Newcombe said, “that trip to the Zone had nothing to do with you or the Foundation. It’s personal. It’s about me.”

“And me?” Lanie asked. “It sure as hell has something to do with me. I know how the NOI feels about race … about what they call the ‘purity’ of the races.”

Wristpads were bleeping on every arm as media tried to communicate with the members of the Crane team. They’d have only a few minutes, tops, before they were overwhelmed by outsiders.

“Lanie,” Dan said. “I didn’t tell you for the same reason you didn’t tell me about the Vogelman—”

“Please,” Crane said, trying to calm himself with long, slow breaths. “Let’s worry about the immediate problem first.” He pointed at Newcombe. “Do you promise me your contact with Ishmael is not related to your activities with the Foundation?”

“My word,” Newcombe said.

“Your word,” Lanie snapped, feeling her whole world slipping away.

“How did they wire you?” Crane asked, nodding to Sumi who’d returned with Stoney.

Newcombe showed empty palms. “I have no idea. It may have been random.”

“Freelanced to Liang,” Sumi said. “It happens all the time.”

“Does that really matter now?” Stoney asked.

“No,” Crane answered, his gaze going to the burly guards stationing themselves at the tent flaps. “As long as there are no other surprises.”

“I had a visit and a personal chat with Brother Ishmael,” Newcombe said. “We talk sometimes, ask each other for advice.”

“Did he give you ‘advice’ about illegally going public with your paper?” Lanie asked, unable to check herself.

“Not now,” Crane said, walking closer. “Do you swear to me that you don’t know anything about Gideon canceling the program?”

“Of course not!” Newcombe said, indignant. “I’ve got as much to lose in this as you do.”

That’s not what you said earlier, Lanie thought.

“You saved your program,” Stoney said.

Newcombe turned to face him. “What is that sup—”

“No,” Crane said. “Low blow, Stoney. I don’t … I won’t question Dan’s integrity. What we’ve got to do now is figure out what’s going on and how to counter it.”

Newcombe laughed ruefully. “What’s going on is that we’ve just been shot down. They lasered us from stem to stern, Captain.” He saluted, then turned to Sumi. “What about you? Why didn’t you see this coming?”