Arthur Clarke - Richter 10

“Why trust me?”

“Somehow I’ve always felt you were trustworthy. I don’t know if I completely trust you, but I do not trust the White House physicians.”

“Do you have to use them?”

Sumi shook her head. “I could demand my own doctor.”

“Okay,” Masters said. “We’ll start there.”

“You’ll help me?”

“Hey, I represent the Women’s Political Association, remember. Welcome to the club, sister.” She hugged Sumi.

“Thank you,” Sumi said, tears welling.

Kate Masters’ eyes twinkled. “Thank me when you’re President,” she replied.

“The proposal has some merit, and I’ll certainly consider it,” Mohammed Ishmael said.

Abu Talib sank farther down in his chair. “Brother Ishmael,” he said. “I gave Mr. Tang my word on this.”

“Tang,” he said scornfully. “A flunky. Mui Tsao’s harpy who is nothing but a double-ported chippy. And who were you speaking for, Talib?” Ishmael’s expression was serious as he stared across the table at Talib.

They were in a bunker that was small, claustrophobic, the long, glowing table taking up most of it. Somewhere under the Zone, it was a redoubt that Talib hadn’t seen before. The walls were lead, the door heavy and airtight like ones found in submarines.

Metal bunks folded out from the walls. Storage lockers and shelving covered every available space and were crammed with bottled water, canned food, and staples in sealed jars. A classically designed and supplied bomb shelter and bunker.

Ishmael walked around the table and leaned low, his face only inches from Talib’s. “I asked you who you were speaking for,” he said loudly. “Because it sure wasn’t for me—and it sure wasn’t for my people!”

Talib bristled and jumped up, his chair overturning and clattering to the floor. Martin Aziz darted around the table and placed himself between the two men.

“My brother,” Aziz said to Ishmael, “Talib’s agreement with Tang gets us almost everything we want, and in return all we have to do is to agree to stop the violence. Do you understand?”

“What I understand,” Ishmael said, pushing his brother aside to face Abu Talib, the two men eye to eye, “is that my methods have brought us this far—a foothold in our Homeland, the whites sucking up to us, asking for favors. If these methods have brought us this far, why should we abandon them now?”

“Have you forgotten the focus buildings?” Talib asked. “Liang Int knows, and threatens to shut them all down.”

Ishmael raised his hands in exasperation. “The focus buildings,” he said. “Always the focus buildings.” He arched an eyebrow. “You weren’t around then, Brother, but we survived just fine before we had focus buildings to give us power. Damn!”

He walked away from Talib, squeezing past Martin Aziz to stand at the head of the table, fifteen feet distant. He slammed his hands, palm down, on the tabletop and stared fire at Talib. “And has it ever occurred to your rock head that if they were to shut down the focus buildings we’d probably respond with a massive exodus to New Cairo? Imagine that, if you will. Imagine the Memphis exodus multiplied by fifty with no earthquake to cover it. Imagine the fights. Imagine the bloodshed. Imagine the public relations.”

Talib felt suddenly stupid. “I never thought of that.”

“Well, your white friend Mr. Tang certainly did! And, so, for an end to the violence that’s got us this far, what do we really get in return? Only a promise that they would keep doing what they’re doing now—nothing. If they’d figured an advantage to be gained by shutting down the focus buildings, believe me, they wouldn’t have consulted us about doing it.

“The reason they haven’t fought it out with us is simple: We are a part of this … this landscape, part of the fabric of this country. If everybody else sees them going after us, it’ll get them thinking about themselves. Case in point. The G was called off the Zone fighting in Memphis almost immediately for PR reasons and Liang made sure the teev was full of pictures of the quake, not the exodus.”

“Leonard,” Aziz said softly. “Can’t we use this as an opening, though? Can’t we try and follow through? If they’re willing to let us coexist now, why fight them? Already over a thousand of us, mostly children, have died in clashes with the G.”

“Martyrs,” Ishmael said. “And I know how many have died.”

Talib drew himself up to his full height. He’d resigned from the Foundation and now he was about to resign from NOI. What was he to become: A man without a job, without even a place to call home? “Brother Ishmael,” he said officiously, “given the nature of your lack of trust in me and the worthlessness which will attach to my work from now on, I respectfully submit my resignation as spokesman for Nation of Islam.”

“Would you sit down, Abu?” Ishmael sighed. “I respect your opinion and the job you do. You’re irreplaceable. We’ll work something out with this Tang thing, all right?

I told—asked—you to sit down.”

Talib sat. “I’ve been working in New Cairo,” he said. “A mass exodus isn’t feasible. There’s not enough housing. The people we displace will destroy much in order to keep it from us. People, especially city people, have to be taught how to farm, to work with their hands. Drop twenty million people into that situation and you’ll have food and water and sewage problems you never even dreamed of.”

“I know,” Ishmael said. “We’re not ready yet. That’s why I’m considering the deal you’re negotiating with Tang.” Ishmael looked over at Aziz. “Would you sit down, too? You make me nervous.”

“I simply ask,” Ishmael said, “that no one presume on my authority. May I have general agreement on that?”

Nods around the table.

“Good. I agree that movement to New Cairo will be slow. Let us get the first settlement entirely on its feet and we’ll expand from there. Meanwhile, Brother Talib has done us the greatest service in bringing the news of Crane’s ultimate goal: to use nuclear weapons to fuse the Continental Plates. Crane will be our focus.”

“Why?” Talib asked. “He will not be able to get the nuclear material or the authority to do such a thing.”

Ishmael looked at Talib as if he were a child. He smiled beatifically, sitting back in his chair, fingers steepled. “I continually wonder how it is possible,” he asked softly, “for you to have worked so closely with this man and not recognized his power?”

“His power is in his madness,” Talib said.

“His power resides in the clarity of his vision,” Ishmael returned. “The same place my power resides.”

“He’s dead in the water,” Talib said.

“He will find a way,” Ishmael said. “And it will be up to us to stop him. Crane is my Satan, Abu. I want no misunderstanding. He is the greatest battle I will ever fight. Like Mohammed with the Meccans, ‘Though they gave me the sun in my right hand and the moon in my left to bring me back from my undertaking, yet will I not pause till the Lord carry this cause to victory, or till I die for it.’ Promise me that if I do not live to see this through, the rest of you will continue after me.”

“I swear,” Talib said, “that I will not stop dogging Crane if there is breath in my body.”

“And I,” Martin Aziz said.

“Good. It is Crane who will ultimately provide the key to our Homeland. I don’t know how yet, but I can see it just as surely as I can see my own death calling out to me. Is there any other business from the outside world?”