Orson Card - THE CRYSTAL CITY

But he did not brood on what he could not do. Instead he simply did it, told each tiny part of the lung what to do, helped it do it, and then the next part, and the next, each time a little easier because the tissues could more easily change when they were adjacent to tissue that had already matured enough to transform the air into what the blood needed it to be.

It was almost as if the baby's very heart slowed down- indeed, for a moment Alvin thought that the heart had stopped. But no, it was beating very, very slowly, and he worked with feverish intensity, wishing he could slather on the mature tissue the way a painter slaps whitewash on a wall instead of doing it the way he had to do it, like a tatter making knot, knot, knot, and only gradually turning it into lace.

"I've got to tie this cord," said the midwife. "You know your business, I'm sure, but I know mine, and you don't wait for the afterbirth to come out of itself!"

"Look how he breathes in the air," said Margaret. "Look, almost as if he had a hope of life."

And then, as she watched his quick breathing, as she felt his rapid heartbeat, she began to see paths emerging out of darkness. He would not die. He would live. Mentally damaged from the lack of air at the time of his birth, but alive. She was not afraid of such damage-maybe Alvin could fix the problem, yes, if Alvin was watching he could...

More paths opened, and more and more, and now there were a few where the baby was not damaged, where it would learn to walk like any other child, and talk, and...

And now all paths were open, like a normal life, except that there was something that she needed to do.

"Cut the cord," she said. "He can breathe on his own now."

"About time," said the midwife. She strung a thread around the cord and tied it tight, then another about two inches away, and then passed a sharp knife under the cord between the knots and pulled upward.

The afterbirth slid out onto the clean rags covering the bed.

The baby cried, a whimpering sound, not the lusty cry of a full-term baby, and the poor lad was still as scrawny as could be, but he could breathe, and now almost every path in the child's life showed him in his father's arms, as the three of them, father, mother, and son, stood on the bluff overlooking the river.

The sound of an axe chopping against wood rang out and Alvin came out of his deep concentration. It had been hours and hours, working on the baby's lungs, but somehow the child had stayed alive through all of it, and now it was done. The child was breathing on his own. The cord was cut. And Alvin was surprised that it was still light. Surely it had taken him all day.

He got up from the stone, his body stiff from resting in one position for so long. He walked to the edge of the bluff, expecting to see many trees fallen.

Instead, there was Verily making his way down the hill. What had he been doing, coming up and checking on Alvin all day? Couldn't he do this by himself? And instead of teams of axemen toppling trees, only the one axe was being wielded, and by a man who seemed to be no part of an organized plan.

What had Verily been doing all day, while Alvin wrestled to keep his baby alive?

Only as he was about to cry out to Verily impatiently did Alvin take note of the fact that Verily's shadow still fell long beyond him, down the hill, toward the west.

It was still morning. Early morning. Only minutes after Verily had left Alvin. Somehow, all those hours of work- and as sore as his body was, it had to have been hours-had been compressed into only a few minutes.

"Verily!" he called. "Wait!"

Verily turned and watched as Alvin leapt and slipped and slid down the hill to join him.

"What is it?" said Verily.

"How long ago did we talk?"

Verily looked at him as if he were crazy. "Three minutes."

"I did it," said Alvin. "Somehow in just those minutes, I did it."

"Did what?"

"The baby's born. He can breathe, He's alive."

Only then did Verily understand. "Thank God, Alvin."

"I do," said Alvin. "I do thank God."

Then he burst into tears and wept in the arms of his friend.

Foundation

Alvin leaned on the fireplace, watching Margaret nurse little Vigor. "Got a mighty good suction in him," said Alvin.

"Like a tick," said Margaret. "Can't pry him loose till he's full."

"He's getting strong, don't you think?

"Getting some muscle on him," said Margaret. "But I don't think he'll ever be one of those fat little babies."

"That's fine," said Alvin. "Don't want to raise a spoiled child."

"You'll raise him whatever he is," said Margaret. "And if anyone's likely to spoil him, it's you."

"That's my plan, more or less," said Alvin.

"Don't want him to be spoiled, but you plan to spoil him."

"Can't help it. Only way to save this boy is to have another child to divide up my doting."

"I'll do my best," said Margaret.

"Do you mind, not traveling now, not being in the world of affairs?"

"I don't look beyond this town now," said Margaret. "I try to forget that the world outside is maneuvering itself toward war. I pretend that somehow it will stay beyond the borders of our little county."

"Not so little. Very and Abe got us good boundaries. Lots of room to grow."

"I'm more concerned about how much our people grow inside them."

"Can't make them," said Alvin.

"I know."

Vigor was done with breakfast, and now Alvin cracked the boiled eggs and sliced them onto a plate for his and Margaret's breakfast.

"Mayor of the fastest-growing city in Noisy River, and you have to fix your own breakfast."

"I'm fixing your breakfast, and that's all the difference."

"My but we're in love," said Margaret.

Old pain and ancient loneliness hung in the air between them.

"Alvin," said Margaret. "I always tried to do what was best."

"I know," said Alvin.

"And sometimes what was best was not to tell you all that I knew."

Alvin said nothing.

"You never would have gone to Barcy," she said. "We never would have had all these people, the core of this City of Makers."

"Might have gone to Barcy all the same," said Alvin.

"But you would never have gone near Rien."

"You sure that saving her was what spread the fever?"

"In all the paths where you never met her, she died without a single other soul catching the disease."

Alvin smiled a wan smile and stuffed an entire egg into his mouth. "At least I've got good manners," he said, spraying bits of yolk onto the table.

"Yes, I can see that all those lessons I gave you have paid off. I can't take you out in company."

"Guess we'll just have to stay in."

"You'll never listen to me again, will you?" she said.

"I'm listening right now."

"But you'll never do something just because I tell you that you ought to."

"Have you changed?" asked Alvin. "Or do you still think you're the one best able to decide whether I should know the consequences of my deeds?"

"I've already promised a dozen times over."

"But I don't believe you," said Alvin. "I believe you mean it now, but in the moment, when you're deciding what to tell me and what not to tell, I think you'll hold back the things I most want to know, if you're afraid that knowing will cause me harm."

"You're not the most important thing in the world to me now, you know," said Margaret.

"Am so," said Alvin.

"The baby is."

"The baby's just little and he can't get into much trouble yet."

"You did."

"You got the habit of looking out for me too deep set. I can't trust you to let me decide for myself."

"Yes you can," said Margaret. "Besides, you don't need me to tell you everything now."

"I can't control what the crystal ball shows me. It's not like your knack."