Arthur Clarke - Richter 10

He knew.

The Ellsworth-Beroza nucleation zone was now constant, showing ever-building seismic activity. They had measured hundreds of temblors, undetectable on the surface, but growing to the Big Slip. Cracking rock had released large amounts of trapped gases while dilation occurred throughout the Reelfoot, cutting off the S waves that were unable to move through the water seeping into the cracks. It was classic, all the physical signs coming into line. The horses were kicking nervously against their stalls, neighing and whinnying in fear. Dogs bayed in the distance.

“Dan!” Lanie called. “Dan? Are you in here?”

He slipped the cam into his shirt pocket and moved out of his hiding place. “You caught me,” he said, smiling sheepishly.

“What are you doing in here?” she asked, moving through the barn doors. She was wrapped head-to-toe, hatted, and block gleamed on her face.

“I had to get away from the madhouse for a few minutes.” he said. “I needed some time alone.”

“If you’d take a couple of dorph—”

“Why are you looking for me?”

She moved close. “They’ve come for Crane,” she said, her voice quavering. “They’re arresting him.”

“Calm down,” he said, hands reaching out to take her arms. “We knew this would happen. Everything’s being done that can be done.”

“I’m scared, Dan. The crowd’s ugly, and the—”

“We’ve got escape routes. Don’t worry. Come on, let’s go give Crane some moral support.”

They went out into the madness of the soybean farm. A man named Jimmy Earl had donated this ten-thousand-acre farm, south of Memphis in Capleville, to Crane for use as a refugee center. His motivation wasn’t altruistic; he was making a viddy about Crane and his prediction from the inside. But none of them had anticipated the reaction of the public. Above, hundreds of helos swarmed like mosquitoes through clouds that ran continuous loops of a speech by President Gideon condemning Crane.

Angry over the debacle of the October folly and whipped into near frenzy by the government and the teev schmoozers, people were descending on Jimmy Earl’s farm like a locust plague. Thousands of people had shown up in the last two days to jeer and demand Crane’s head. Electrified fences had been hurriedly erected around the tent city, and Whetstone’s people, instead of being able to help the refugees, were forced to form security details around the perimeter.

Newcombe pulled his goggles over his eyes. They moved through the barnyard and into the tent city just as the front gates opened and the police cruiser slid in, display lights strobing.

“The command post?” Dan asked. Several members of the crowd rushed in before the gates closed, security massing to beat them back.

“Yeah … giving interviews up to the end.”

“They taking Whetstone, too?”

“Both ‘perpetrators,’ ” she said sarcastically. “By the way, other seismic stations around the world are beginning to pick up our foreshocks. I think some minds are changing.”

“Too late,” he said. “Nobody’s going anywhere, not with the President on the teev calling us everything but child molesters.”

“You’re tense.”

“Yeah, I’m tense. I’ve been going over the Memphis EQ-ecogram and I’m still afraid I haven’t paid enough attention to the river. It’s possible to get in a range with a river that changes course, but my calcs were never designed to deal with a situation like the Mississippi. It needs more refinement.”

“Does Crane know you’re still worried?”

“Yeah. He says he trusts me. I’ve got to work more on this type of situation.”

The rows of tents were empty except for volunteer workers. Not one person had accepted the offer of help, not yet. As they reached the centrally located command tent, the cruiser, lights still flashing, turned into the row, churning dust behind.

Newcombe jerked his goggles up as he entered the tent. Other teevs filled the tent sides, some showing EQ-ecograms of metropolitan centers that would be affected by the quake. Still others showed emergency EQ supply lists, another a list of safe evac locations.

Crane and Whetstone stood together at the front of the room, before an alarming seismogram display showing an almost constantly increasing amplitude on all crests. A crowd of ten camheads was around them, private broadcasters working around the government’s jam of the airwaves. Jimmy Earl, of course, stood in the center of it all, making his viddy.

Crane was speaking. “…in Memphis, because Memphis is going to take the brunt of the quake. We have an observation scale that’s been used for nearly a hundred years called the Mercalli Intensity Scale. I’m predicting Memphis to fall within the range of a Mercalli XII, Damage Total. Practically all buildings damaged greatly or destroyed. Waves seen on ground surface. Lines of sight and level distorted. Objects will be thrown into the air. Please, anyone in Memphis who’s listening right now: Get out of the city. Come south to Capleville. We can help you here.”

“Crane,” Newcombe called. “They’re here.”

Crane frowned and looked at Whetstone. The two shook hands and walked toward the flap just as the police entered.

“You’re in charge now,” Crane told Newcombe. “I’ll get back here as soon as I can.”

“I don’t trust the river,” Newcombe replied. “Can’t they—”

“No,” Crane interrupted. “It’s too late. We’ll have to take our chances.”

“I’m Chief Hoskins of the Memphis PD,” the man cuffing Whetstone said, then nodded to his partner. “This here is Mr. Lyle Withington, the mayor of our fair city. I have a warrant for the arrest of Lewis Crane and Harry Whetstone.”

“It will give me great pleasure, sir,” the mayor said to Crane, “to watch you being put away where you can do no more harm.”

“Do you live outside of the city, Mr. Mayor?” Crane asked as they put the cuffs on him.

“Why, no … I have a house right in—”

“Then get your family out before they’re hurt.”

“Now, really … sir.”

“Is there a Jimmy Earl here?” Chief Hoskins called.

“Right here!” Jimmy, a big country boy with rosy cheeks and a fatback smile that never left his face, elbowed his way to them. Inherited money, Newcombe thought.

“You can come along, too.” the Chief said. “The mayor’s given you permission to videotape in the cell.”

“Thanks, Uncle Lyle,” Earl said, pumping the man’s hand.

Crane turned to the other camheads. “People of Memphis,” he said as Hoskins led him to the door, “go to your main power boxes and shut down the focus. If you have anything that runs on natural gas, cut the valve at the source. Do it now.”

They moved through the tent, Newcombe following, pulling his goggles back on with the rest of them as they got out in the sun, the crowds jeering loudly when Crane was spotted.

“Chief Hoskins,” Newcombe said, pointing to the crowds, “can’t you disperse those people? They’re trespassing on private property.”

“No!” Crane said as they shoved him into the car. “They’re safe here and they’ll be able to help after the quake.”

Lanie leaned through the window to give Crane a long kiss as the cams pulled in tight, Newcombe feeling a flush of rage that he fought down.

She stepped back, Crane sticking his head out the door and talking into the lenses of the cameras held by the camheads. “Take heavy objects off your shelves,” he called. “Take down glass and chandeliers. Get flammable materials out of your home. Now! Right away!”

Hoskins slid behind the wheel as Whetstone and an excited Jimmy Earl climbed in back with Crane.