Arthur Clarke - Richter 10

He turned in surprise. Khadijah was staring at him.

“Wiahlaykum issalam,” he said, crossing the distance between them to kiss her on both cheeks. “What brings you down here to Africktown? You’re a long way from the city, girl.”

“My brother has sent me. He wants me to ‘get used to the alluvial plain.’ Is it always this hot?”

“Most of the time,” he said and laughed. “I hate to say it, but it’s good to see you.”

“Thank you. I’m actually glad to be here.”

“Well, if you intend to stay for a while,” he said, “remember to wear a veil when you go outside. This is an Islamic state.”

She smiled. “I found out the hard way. Someone threw a rock at me when I was coming in.”

“What did you do?”

“Threw it back.”

He chuckled. “You’ll have to be put to work, too,” he said. “That’s the rule here. You gotta work.”

“In the fields?” she asked, horrified.

“Or construction, or plumbing, or shield maintenance—”

“Enough. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.” She pointed into the liquefier. “What’s that do?”

“When I’m finished inputting data,” he said, “I’m going to duplicate last year’s EQ. This is an exact geologic map of this area. I’ve filled it with tiny sensors to read changes. With luck, the river will alter its course and ultimately end up where it is today. If it does, it means I’ve calculated correctly. If it doesn’t, it’s back to the basics.”

“How many times have you tried this?”

He raised his eyebrows. “A dozen or so. There’s no instant gratification in science. But I’m getting closer.”

She put her hand over his mouth. “I hear the white woman is going to marry the earthquake man.”

He shook his head, freeing his mouth from her hand. “I like your subtle approach, Khadijah. Yes, it’s quite true that Lanie and Crane will marry,” he said, adding sardonically, “next week as a matter of fact and at a lodge in the Himalayas with a superb view of Mt. Everest. I’m sure Crane chose the location. He’s nothing if not dramatic.”

“The tone of your voice makes me believe you are free of her.”

Talib merely shrugged.

“She will not be yours?” Khadijah persisted.

“No.”

“Then I have a proposition for you.”

What now, Talib wondered, smiling wryly. “Does a proper Muslim woman proposition a man?”

She made an exasperated sound. “Look, you have no woman. I have no man. I am of the right blood. It’s a perfect political alliance.”

“What is?”

“Our marriage! What do you think I’m talking about?”

He laughed loudly. “Our marriage? Are you joking with me?”

“Oh, do shut up and listen to me,” she said angrily. “This is hard enough for me to do without you making fun. I know you are a … good man. You would be kind to me.”

“And keep you near the top of the power curve, huh?”

“What’s wrong with that? If you haven’t noticed, it’s kind of genetic … anyway, traditional with me and my brothers. I like excitement as much as the next person. I’d also make you a good wife and keep an Islamic home. I could give you children; I’m strong.” Her voice lost its power and she stared down at the floor. Speaking in almost a whisper, she added, “You would have my heart and my dedication forever.”

“Stop,” he said, quietly but sternly, taking her shoulders.

“Don’t … do this. We can’t marry. We won’t. I’m flattered and you’re wonderful. Soon, some man will—”

“I’m too headstrong for Islamic men.”

“Well, yeah … there’s that.”

“You will need to wed and father children. We’ll make future leaders together. Don’t you understand how right this is, how destined?”

“Khadijah, I don’t love you.”

“We’re not talking about love,” she said. “I could never love an egotist like you. Marry me. Your woman belongs to someone else.”

“That doesn’t mean I can just stop loving her!”

“Love again. What is this? Life goes on, Abu Talib, with or without you.”

His hands were trembling on her arms. “Leave me alone,” he said. He turned from her and walked through the French doors. He leaned on the veranda rail and looked at the bustle below, a neverending river of people snaking into history. He had accomplished so much. God, why did he feel such pain?

Khadijah was at his arm, touching lightly. “I’m still a virgin,” she said. “I will give that to you right now, if you’d like. I know I can please you.”

“It would please me,” he said, “if you would forget this discussion ever took place. Don’t sacrifice yourself on the altar of Dan Newcombe.”

“Abu Talib,” she corrected, stepping very close and pressing her body to his, “that is your name. And I am your future.”

Slowly, she pushed away, turned and, head erect, strode from the veranda. He watched her go through the room and out into the hall, then looked back over his domain, a blue sea of shields stretching in all directions as far as he could see. And he thought about Lanie.

It was bad enough that she was marrying Crane so fast, and when he’d heard the rumor she was pregnant, it had been a true punch in the gut. Marrying and having a family had been a major issue between him and Lanie for so many years—but with Crane, she’d been instantly ready for full commitment.

He cursed and slammed his fisted right hand into his left palm. This was stupid, stupid of him. He was internationally famous—revered, even—and he couldn’t get past the fact that Elena King had thrown him over for Crane. He smiled self-derisively. He’d sent them the finest, most exotic and most appropriate wedding present he could find: a Chang Heng earthquake weathercock from the second century A.D. It was a large vase, the outside affixed with eight golden dragons, their bodies pointing downward. Below each dragon sat an openmouthed frog. A bronze ball rested in the mouth of each dragon, and should a tremor occur, the affected dragon would drop his ball into the mouth of his frog, setting off an alarm. The positioning of the dragon would determine the direction of the quake. In 138 A.D. that very urn had measured a quake four hundred miles away. Messengers, riding pell-mell to the capital city of Loyang to deliver the news, had discovered that their information already had been announced by the vase.

It was a delicate instrument, a beautiful gift. And it was all he could give them. He certainly could not give the gift of his presence at their wedding which, he suspected, both Lanie and Crane wanted for the closure, the reconciliation, the continuity of the relationship between all three that it would signify. But, Talib knew, watching them marry would tear him to emotional shreds, unman him. No, the ceremony would have to proceed without him. Talib shivered with emotion. Was it love, race, ego, or competitiveness that drove his engine of jealousy and self-pity? He didn’t know. He did know, however, that he did not want to spend his life alone and childless. There was Khadijah…

Alone, wearing a full-length cream-colored satin slip, Lanie stood at the teak-framed window of the old British lodge and gazed out in wonder at the twin peaks of Everest and Kanchenjunga. She hugged herself. In less than an hour she would become Lewis Crane’s wife, in less than seven months she would bear their child. Her cup runneth over.

Crane had brought her to the roof of the world for their wedding, a place as high as the happiness they shared in each other, in their work, in their life together. The setting perfectly mirrored the way she felt, as Crane had promised it would. She was dazzled and amazed. The peaks she was staring at were nearly thirty thousand feet high, almost six miles up, and the range from which they soared, the Himalayan range, was nearly two hundred miles wide at certain points and stretched over fifteen hundred miles in length. All, of course, had originated in earthquakes. And today, this very afternoon, there would be the first quake since 1255 in this region.