"Richter 10" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clarke Arthur, McQuay Mike)

Chapter 3 THE GREAT RIFT, THE PACIFIC OCEAN

A huge submarine, its bubbled-out glass foresection like a giant, staring eye, sat starboard of the Diatribe, dwarfing the yacht. Deckhands were slipping out of the conning tower to throw lashing ropes to their counterparts on the yacht as the guests reassembled on its deck. VEMA II was emblazoned on the hull of the sub.

“Prepare to spend the rest of tonight beneath the ocean,” Crane announced. “I promise you an experience you’ll never forget.”

“Rift runner,” Newcombe said beneath his breath.

“Rift runner?” Lanie asked.

“Yeah. We’re going to see a mother giving birth.”

“Mother … what mother?”

“Mother Earth,” he replied.

Within minutes they’d all been herded into VEMA II’s observation hall. Crane stood at the head of a long table and smiled at the aggregate of crooks and bastards sitting before him. In all the world, he had determined, these were the people who could best give him what he had to have, and a more intensely self-serving lot of rogues he’d never seen. Camus had said that politics and the fate of mankind are shaped by men without ideals and without greatness. So be it. If he couldn’t talk sense, he’d put on a show. It was, after all, how he’d survived the thirty years since the death of his parents.

“I must ask that each of you stretch out your hands and touch the person next to you,” he said. “We need to be sure that this is the real thing.” Everyone reached out to perform the ritual, checking to see that the bodies on either side were real. Legal, binding negotiations could not be undertaken by holo projections.

The observation windows were locked down, shuttered tight as Sumi moved fluidly through the crowd, replenishing drinks doctored with dorph. Newcombe sat beside Ishmael, their heads together, talking low as everyone else stared at them.

“Civilization exists,” Crane said, “by geological consent, subject to change without notice. With all the wonders we’ve created for ourselves, we’re still terrorized by the world we live in. The question is why?”

The room was large, perhaps fifty feet long and thirty wide, by far the largest enclosed space ever put on a sub. It was bare, utilitarian, but met the needs of the scientists and sailors who worked this ship on the edge of the rift. Diffuse lighting glowed instead of brightening the room. The ship occasionally shuddered slightly to the sound of a tiny thump, which the audience assumed to be engine noises. Crane knew better; so did Newcombe.

Crane walked slowly around the table. “Our planet is nearly five billion years old and still seems to be primordially forming itself, tearing itself to pieces minute by minute.”

“The nature of life is struggle, doctor,” Brother Ishmael said.

Crane stopped walking and addressed the man. “And the nature of Man is to try and rise above the struggle.”

“To deny God!” Ishmael persisted.

“To make a better world.” Crane returned to his place, his good hand clasping his bad behind his back. His left arm was throbbing. He faced the group again. “There are over a million earthquakes a year, on the average of one every thirty seconds. Most are not felt, but about three thousand a year do make their way to the surface, of which thirty engender appalling devastation. The tendency is to say it has always been so and always will be.” He looked at Mohammed Ishmael. “I disagree. How many of you really know what forces drive these quakes?”

“Please, just continue with the briefing,” Mui, Li’s associate, said.

“This is much more than a briefing,” Crane replied. “The Earth we live on is made up of huge tectonic plates, twenty-six in all, six majors. The plates move fluidly on a cushion of hot, nearly liquid mantle. Ninety-five percent of all earthquakes occur in what are called subduction zones where the moving plates crash into each other, the plates that hold the oceans of the world literally crawling beneath the continental plates.”

The sub shook again, this time more noticeably. “Is there some problem with the boat?” asked Rita Gabler, a hand to her throat.

“No, none at all. Let me return to the subject. The oceanic plates are feeding themselves back into the core once they subduct beneath the continents,” he said, his voice louder now to get over the nearly continual banging and shivering of the VEMA. He could feel the tension thick in the air, smiled at the sweat that had broken out on the faces of those in his audience. “Once the plate subducts, it begins a long process of transformation that results in … this.”

He hit a console button on the table, the metal curtains sliding open immediately. Before them, the ocean glowed red-orange, brilliant. Belches of lava rose between the peaks of undersea mountains in an unbroken line as far as they could see in either direction, and they could see fire for many miles. The participants were hushed to silence in the face of magnificent turmoil on a planetary scale. This was how Crane wanted his audience—humbled.

“Rebirth!” Crane said loudly, moving right up to the window and pointing out with his good hand. “What you are looking at is the Earth repairing itself. Basaltic magma is rising from the asthenosphere and forcing itself between those incredible peaks and valleys beneath you only to cool in the ocean waters, form more peaks, then push the plate thousands of miles into more subduction.”

VEMA shook hard, for the rebirth of the planet was accompanied by continual earthquakes.

“Is it … dangerous for us here?” Mr. Li asked, his even tone betraying no emotion.

“Only if we walk outside,” Crane said, laughing. He turned to watch the beating heart of the Earth Mother that had indirectly killed his own mother. They were five hundred yards from the plasmic rift, the Pacific Rift. The sight of the orange-red liquid fire filled him with awe and anger, and he let his emotions spill over before turning back to the people he needed if ever he was to tame that fire.

“Come to the window,” he urged them. “Come look at the open wound that gives much, but causes humanity such pain and heartache.”

They rose tentatively. He wanted them to trust the sub, to trust Man’s ability to control his own environment. It was sucking them in, he could feel it, the temperature rising in the room, bright red light from the eruptions dancing over their faces. It was the primal power of an entire planet unleashed.

“Incredible,” Lanie said, her voice hushed. She moved around to face Crane, her eyes reflecting the fire from without and from within. He smiled, knowing what she was feeling, knowing that she would be the perfect tool to help forge his vision. She was a dynamo, a natural.

So, too, was Kate Masters, who’d moved close and was eyeing him. Finally, she spoke.

“What has any of this to do with me?”

“You’re my hammer, ma’am,” he said. “To make these fine people do the right thing.” He turned and pointed to Brother Ishmael, then to the gray-haired Aaron Bloom of ARP. “So are you … my hammers.”

“I’m not sure,” Gabler said, “but I think we’ve just been insulted.”

“Let me handle the business discussion, Mr. Vice President,” Li said, making no effort to hide his contempt for his front man.

Crane continued around the table, stopping behind Newcombe and King. “With the help of these two able people, plus your assistance, I guarantee you that I can produce within a few years a computer program that will predict to the hour every earthquake that will happen on Earth. The program will tell not only where the quake will occur, but its magnitude, the strength of its P and S waves, the areas of primary, secondary, and tertiary damages. We will be able to tell you where it’s safe to stand and when to get out of the way.”

“Show me the profit,” Li said, Mui nodding his Tweedledum agreement.

There was laughter farther down the table. “Excuse me,” said a bald man with a red beard, a representative from the insurance industry who sat next to a brunette from the Krupp empire. “Such a program would render insurance companies able to write policies on earthquake damage that makes sense. We’ve been studying the figures since we left Guam. With knowledge of the kind you could supply, we could deny insurance in major damage areas, perhaps even pass laws to keep people from building there. In the secondary areas we could legislate building regulation. In existing businesses, foreknowledge enables breakable items to be stored beforehand. It would save billions a year—billions, I might add, that are then available to be loaned to you industrial producers to expand your own businesses which will earn further billions. A perfect circle.”

“Impressive,” Li said.

“You’d know where not to build factories, dams, and power plants,” Crane said. “Armed with my program, you’d lose nothing in a time of disaster, not man-hours lost to casualties, not downtime for rebuilding and repairs.”

“That hurts the building industry, then,” the Wang International spokesman said, and Crane thought of the namazu.

“Wait a minute,” Newcombe said, standing. “You’re stacking the building industry up against the loss of ten to fifteen thousand lives every year. How can you—”

“That’s all right, Dan,” Crane said, nodding the man back to his seat. “We all inherently care about the value in human lives saved, am I right?”

There was a low mumble of semi-agreement around the table. “There … see?” Crane said. “Everyone’s heart is in the right place.” He looked at Li and Mui. “Have you considered the value of exclusive rights to my program?”

“An exclusive.” Li smiled. “An interesting thought.”

“This would be meant for the world,” Newcombe said, a hint of anger in his voice.

“Certainly it is,” Li replied, “but at what price? If we held the cards, we could sell the information to competing countries on major disasters. Or not.”

Mui laughed and took a drink. “We could make the Earth pay for itself.”

“On the yacht you mentioned re-election,” Gabler said, shifting uneasily in his chair.

“Think about it, Mr. Vice President,” Crane said. “It would seem the ultimate humanitarian gesture. The people of the United States see that their government, the government they thought didn’t care about them in this pay-as-you-go world, is willing to go all out to gather the knowledge to protect its citizens. It’d be worth a sweep in California alone.”

“And what would you get out of the deal?” Masters asked.

“I get what it takes to do the job right,” he said. “This sub we’re riding in belongs to the Geological Survey. I want it. I need every bit of knowledge I can get my hands on. I want control of the thousands of seismographs we’ve planted over this globe, and absolute access to everyone else’s. I want the Geological Survey’s Colorado headquarters and their database. I won’t fire anyone. They’ll simply work for me. I want the entire Global Positioning System, satellites doing nothing but working for me for the next five years. And I want an open checkbook to fund my operations. No overseers.”

“You’ve got guts, all right,” Ishmael said. “What makes you think these power boys are going to share anything with you?”

“That’s where you come in, Brother,” Crane said. “You and Ms. Masters and Mr. Bloom. You three control millions of votes in the major metropolitan areas. With your backing, we could—”

“You don’t have my backing,” Ishmael said simply, standing. “We don’t take handouts from white men. We don’t vote for white men. We are self-sufficient.”

“I’m not talking about handouts,” Crane said, incredulous. “I’m talking about disaster planning. Can you imagine what would happen to the War Zone in LA if the San Andreas Fault—”

“You don’t understand me,” Ishmael said, his voice low. “We take nothing from the white animal and we give nothing. Your silly talk about earthquakes makes me laugh.” He pointed to the window with its view of roiling lava. “This is the will of Allah.”

“That’s not sensible, Brother Ishmael,” Crane said. “If it helps you to save lives, why not take advantage of it?”

“There are worse things than death, doctor. Submission is one. Submission brings slavery and degradation, life worse than any animal knows.”

Crane looked sadly at the floor. “Death is pretty bad,” he said. “It ends everything.”

“We all live forever in the kingdom of Allah,” Ishmael said. “But you wouldn’t understand that.”

“I try, sir.” Pain choked Crane’s voice. “I really do.”

“Why are you here?” Gabler asked Ishmael.

“I came here because—” began Ishmael.

Alarms beeped loudly on the Secret Servicemen. “Sirs,” one of them said, ripping a small scanner from his belt, “we’re picking up some form of surveillance … microwave transmission.”

“Isolate,” Li said, everyone talking now, confusion filling the room as the jumpsuited men moved about, trying to read the signal.

“We scanned,” Crane said. “There was nothing.”

A whistle sounded, followed by the voice of Captain Long over the intercom. “Dr. Crane, we’re picking up microwave generation from somewhere in the foresection … in your area.”

“Must have been turned on in the last few seconds,” Crane said, punching up the intercom on the table. “Thank you, Captain. We’re isolating down here.”

“As I was saying,” Ishmael interrupted, “I came here so I could move through your government’s webs of baffles and bullshit and present you, face to face, with our list of demands. Though your government does not recognize our government, we do exist. And we intend to be heard.”

“What are you talking about?” Gabler said, his hands shaking as his men hurried their scan.

“Autonomy,” Ishmael said. “Self-rule … an Islamic State in North America covering the areas now occupied by the states of Florida, South Carolina, North Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, and Mississippi.”

“We’re close!” one of the scanners called as he and his counterpart converged near the hatchway.

Ishmael, calm in a growing tempest, took a palm-size disc from his dashiki and slid it down the length of the polished table to Gabler. Li grabbed it.

“Our plan for self-rule is outlined on this disc,” Ishmael said, “which is just now being shown to billions of viewers all over the globe. We demand secession, Mr. Vice President. We demand it now!”

“This isn’t the proper setting,” Gabler said. “I do not accept your words or your disc.”

“Here!” one of the techs yelled, pulling something off the wall with a long pair of tweezers and running back to the table. He dropped the miniature camera, no bigger than a pinhead, on the table in front of Gabler, who promptly picked it up and swallowed it. “This … this scene was transmitted.”

“It certainly was,” Ishmael said. “The world now has heard me and our demands—and seen you in action, Mr. Vice President.”

“I doubt very much if the citizens in the states you mentioned would find your claims very legitimate,” Gabler said.

“Perhaps your forefathers should have thought of that before they kidnapped my people from their homeland in slave boats and brought them here.” Ishmael smiled, then walked to a silent Crane. “I don’t care about you or your earthquakes, but I thank you for giving me the opportunity of meeting with Mr. Gabler and his, ah … handlers. Now, I believe I’ll get some rest in my cabin.”

“You are a cruel man,” Crane said.

“No,” Ishmael said, shaking his head. “I’m a dreamer like you. But I have different dreams.”

“No dream, sir. A nightmare of bloodshed, anguish and uncertainty. Just remember one thing: Your issue is important for a time, mine for all time.”

“This package you’re trying to sell these fools isn’t your game at all. You want more, much more.”

Crane stared coldly at him. “Good night, Brother Ishmael.”

The man strode from the deck, Sumi Chan hurrying to catch him.

“Well, this is wonderful, isn’t it?” Gabler said, petulant. He took the disc from Li and stared at it as if it were a dead rat. “We could have had this meeting in Washington, under my security.”

“At this juncture,” Crane said, “you must take my suggestions if you want to survive. Ishmael just made a fool out of you, Mr. Vice President, before the entire world. You can either leave it at that or rethink the situation. All the latest polls I’ve seen show a large and growing segment of the United States population wanting some sort of closure with its own citizens in the War Zone. Caucasians now form only thirty percent of the total electorate. You can use my plan to make it look as if you have extended the hand of friendship to the Nation of Islam only to have it slapped away. If you follow through with my plan, it shows you have the best interests of all citizens at heart no matter how they treat you. If you don’t, I take the issue to your opposition. They won’t mind looking like humanitarians.”

Gabler had cocked his head like a dog and was, apparently, thinking, or, Crane mused, trying to. “I’ll just bet you Mr. Li understands,” Crane added, the Chinese man smiling in return.

“We have reached a decision, Dr. Crane,” he said.

Crane took a deep breath to calm himself, to not let the facade down. “Yes,” he said.

“I would ask everyone to leave the room.”

Crane nodded and looked at Newcombe, the man’s expression revealing both irritability—he’d get over it—and excitement.

Within thirty seconds, Li and Crane were alone across the table.

“You are an interesting man, Dr. Crane.”

“As are you, sir.”

“You know, of course, that we could never give you carte blanche with the government checkbook.”

“But, I—”

Li raised his hand for silence. “I’ve played with you this far. Now it’s my turn. If, and I emphasize the word if, we’re able to work together, you will need someone to oversee the project. I’m not adverse to someone we’re both comfortable with, say, Sumi Chan, for instance.”

“Sumi?”

“We’re not difficult men to deal with.” His drink sat before him. “We like Americans. You’re all so clever with your hands. You people make the most amazing gadgets. Quite extraordinary.”

“You said if we work together?”

“Well, yes. Certainly.” The man picked up the glass and drank, then poured the rest of Mui’s drink in his and finished that also. “Everyone is very excited about your idea, but you are asking private industry and the government to turn a great deal of responsibility over to you, all on the strength of one demonstration.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Simple, Dr. Crane.” Li smiled, his eyes cunning. “You may have everything you asked for. But we must know, for sure, that you are what you say you are.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Once again—simple. Predict another major quake, something big, high profile. Do it before the election. This is May. It gives you six months. If, indeed, thirty major quakes occur a year, that should be plenty of time.”

“Is that all?”

“No,” Li replied. “Give us something close to home. Something the voters will really understand. And then, Dr. Crane, the world is yours.”

“Of course we’re under surveillance,” Brother Ishmael told Crane.

Newcombe sat between them, listening intently. They were in the yacht’s twenty-foot dining room, paneled and brass-trimmed. Ishmael had stayed on after everyone, including his own bodyguards, had left. Newcombe wondered why.

“Everyone’s under some sort of surveillance all the time. It’s the nature and the chief employment of your white man’s world. People watch, and other people watch them. Machines watch machines. Why?”

“We’re insufferably curious, I suppose,” Crane replied amiably. “Plus, what gets invented gets perfected, then used. It’s human nature. And not everybody gets watched. Those who can afford it hire people who can … outwit the technology.”

Ishmael smiled and pointed a long finger. “Then that person watches you. And don’t forget the person who watches him.”

“You don’t have survie units in the War Zone?” Newcombe asked Ishmael, who treated Newcombe with warmth and respect.

“Yes, we do,” he said. “We use them on the whites, just as the whites attempt to use them on us. Like Dr. Crane, we spend a lot of time outwitting the technology. My people tell me that this conversation is being recorded right now by a device called Listening Post #528, whose low space orbit carried it within our range until…”—he looked at his watch—“two forty-five P.M.”

Lanie sat directly across from Newcombe, her eyes bright. “If we’re being listened to, why are you talking?”

“It’s part of our political agenda. We’re prepared to present to the white population the reasons why we cannot share the same society. You, and the world, are listening to my reasoning. If I have anything private to say, I will say it privately.”

“You are using me shamelessly,” Crane said. He slugged heavily on a glass full of straight bourbon. “Look, Brother Ishmael. I have a great deal of respect for you. I don’t even mind being used by you and your cause right now, but dammit, man, give something in return, a little support. I just want what’s best for everyone.”

“No,” Ishmael said. “You don’t want to help people; you want to slay the beast. I can see it in your eyes when you talk about earthquakes. You hate the earthquakes. God wrought their majesty, but you have the gall to hate His creation. I feel sorry for you and your windmills, and I pray to Allah you never get the power to vent your hatred.”

“You’re a hard kind of fellow,” Crane said. “Sure, I hate the beast. I hate it the way the Cretans hated the Minotaur. Is it wrong to hate a monster? Wasn’t it Malcolm X who said, ‘When our people are being bitten by dogs, they are within their rights to kill those dogs’? I hate it because of the lives and dreams it destroys and I will find a way to blunt its sword with or without your help. There, I’m talking to the world, too.” He snorted. “Do you really think you’ll have your Islamic State?”

Ishmael nodded slowly. “We will have an Islamic nation,” he replied. “In a fractured world, we are the dominant force.”

“It didn’t work that way in the Middle East,” Lanie said.

“The Jewish entity chose to destroy itself rather than face the reality of Islam,” Ishmael said. “The Masada Cloud is the reminder of Allah’s power over the Infidel. There are no more Jews in Palestine.”

“There’s nobody in Palestine,” Crane snapped. “And there won’t be. How can you presume to know who should live and who should die?” He stood. “I want everyone to live.”

“Jungles don’t work that way,” Ishmael returned, “and neither do earthquakes. You can’t bring your parents back, doctor.”

“Please, don’t try to analyze me.” Crane picked up his drink, finished it with a scowl. “I’m going up to observation. Is it safe for you to be on board, Brother Ishmael?”

“I don’t know, is it?”

“I’m not powerful enough to protect you. Anyone want to join me?”

“Sure,” Lanie said, picking up her coffee and adding another spoonful of dorph to it.

As Newcombe started to rise, Ishmael put a hand out. “Stay with me. Brother Daniel. I want to speak with you.”

Newcombe nodded. “Watch the sun up there,” he said to Lanie. “I’ll join you shortly.”

Newcombe watched Lanie and Crane walk to the dining room hatchway where they donned coats, gloves, goggles, and hats, Crane pulling a tube of sunblock from his pocket to smear on their exposed faces. He opened the hatch, bright sunlight pouring in. Lanie waved at him and left.

Newcombe and Lanie spent a good deal of time with each other, and he was cautiously letting himself dream again of home and family, something—anything—besides Crane’s relentless pursuit of his monsters. He’d even talked Lanie into moving in with him when they got back to the Foundation.

“Why are you with the white woman, Brother?”

“I love her.”

“She is your oppressor. Not just a white woman, but a Jewess.”

Newcombe’s jaw muscles tightened. “She’s a Cosmie.”

“Judaism is a race, not a religion.”

“I do not accept the philosophies of the Nation of Islam. I’m an Africk in America and I’m doing very well, thank you. I’m not oppressed; I’m the master of my own fate. Well educated, intelligent, I have risen to the top of my field—and I have chosen the woman I wish to spend my life with.”

“Then why are you working for someone like Crane? Why don’t you have your own labs, your own grants?”

Anger rose like mercury through Newcombe’s body. “Who have you been talking to?”

Ishmael leaned close and spoke in a whisper so low Newcombe had almost to touch heads with him to hear. “I’ve stayed aboard to speak with you. The NOI needs you. Your brothers call out to you.”

“I don’t think so,” Newcombe replied, uncomfortable now.

“Nation of Islam will need men of learning, intelligence and insight into the white society in order to build our new world. Our communities are fragmented, distanced from each other, surrounded in thirty different cities. We need room and we need physical unity desperately. We’re engaged in a literal state of war. We will take what we must have—God’s sharia and a wise caliphate will become a reality. Everyone will have to choose up sides.”

“I’ve nearly destroyed my career once because of my public support for an Islamic state. Since our televised encounter on VEMA, I’ve taken a long step toward destroying it again. The cause of a homeland is just, but you’ve already drained my blood.”

“You have no place in the white man’s world except as his lackey,” Ishmael whispered. “You want a better world. So do I. I’m telling you I can help you accomplish that goal far better than the evil man you work for.”

“Evil? Crane?”

“He is of the Darkness, Daniel. I am of the Light.”

“You’re wrong. Crane’s like me.”

“You don’t believe that for a minute. You know how crazy he is.”

Shaken, Newcombe said nothing.

“Crane is a marked man with no real power base,” Ishmael continued. “Our Jihad has begun. Political affiliation with NOI will bring you power, recognition, respect. You can accomplish. You can call the tune. I will make of you an Islamic hero.”

“Sounds like a jail sentence to me.”

“Hear me out, Brother.” Ishmael, majestic in his midnight-slick dashiki, got to his feet. “Our world will come. It holds a place for you with people who love you. Believe me when I tell you there is no place in the white devil’s world for an Africk with too much education. They’ll make you a glorified shoeshine man. Crane is already doing it.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Not about Crane, not about the woman. Brother, I’m the only one you can trust. The righteous anger of the Honorable Elijah Muhammad, Malcolm X, Louis Farrakhan, and Saladin the Prophet runs through my veins. Your ‘friends’ hate you and will always hate you. You will reach your full potential only within the Nation of Islam.” He bent low and wrote on a pad of paper on the table: Commit this number to memory. It’s a safe line to me.

Newcombe memorized the number, never expecting to use it, then tore up the paper on which it was written.

Ishmael walked over and stared out of a tinted porthole. The ocean was calm today, reflecting the sun in blinding sabers. He turned to Newcombe. “You think I do not know you,” he whispered. “But you are wrong. I knew you in the jungle, and in the slave boats, and wearing the ox-yoke in the fields. I knew you when they wrenched you from your home and hung you from a tree or buried you in their jails to keep you off their streets. I knew you when they promised you freedom and gave you only the freedom to starve. I knew you, Brother, when they fed you their poisons of alcohol and drugs, and gave you guns to kill yourself. I knew you when they finally got tired of you and turned their backs completely, hoping you’d die in the jungle of concrete that they had built. Don’t ever say I don’t know you. I know you as you’d know yourself, if you’d open your eyes.”

“They’re going to arrest you, you know,” Newcombe said, his voice choked with emotion. “Can’t you get out of here?”

Brother Ishmael merely smiled.

Sumi Chan’s face blipped onto Li Cheun’s screen. “I have called,” he said, “to report, as you have asked, about Dr. Crane. He will be docking this afternoon and returning to the Foundation.”

“Excellent. Have you seen to the planting of the surveillance equipment in his residence and laboratories?”

“Yes, Mr. Li.”

Li watched Sumi’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “Are you having a problem with this assignment?”

“No, sir,” Sumi said quickly. “It’s simply that I have been a major supporter of Dr. Crane for many years and know him personally—”

“Let me be clear on this point, Sumi,” Li said, gratified to see an element of fear creep onto the face floating a foot from him. “I can elevate or destroy you. If you work for the Geological Society, you work for me. If you issue grants it is I who is doing the issuing. If you do not want this job—”

“Sir, I condemn my thoughts. I am totally committed to you and to Liang International.”

“Crane is your job, not your brother.”

“Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir.”

“Not at all. You’re doing fine work. Please hold.”

Li looked at Mui, who froze Sumi Chan’s face in mid-grimace. “Tell me about Ishmael,” Li said.

“General fear and negative reaction to demand for Islamic state,” Mui said, reading directly from his screen. “Very negative reaction from the southern states he mentioned as location for a new Nation of Islam. Early analysis points to Yo-Yu candidates playing up the fear factor and using it to their advantage in the next elections.”

“I see,” Li said, an idea forming. “Put Mr. Chan back on.”

Sumi’s face re-formed, looking more relaxed. He’d hit the dorph hard while on hold.

“Sir,” Li said, “I have great faith in you. Is Brother Ishmael still on board the Diatribe?”

“He was when I spoke with Crane a few minutes ago.”

Li muted his wrist pad and looked at Mui.

“Put the Federal Police Force on this. See if they can arrest him while he’s still on the boat. Charge him with sedition. We want him alive … tell them that.”

Mui banged on the keypad, then pointed out of the darkness at Li. “Los Angeles elements of the FPF have been notified. The G is en route.”

Li nodded curtly, then rewired Chan. “What I want you to do now is take a helo and pick up Dr. Crane, transporting him to the Foundation with our compliments. We will release enough money to you to keep the Foundation running on-line toward its goal. We’ll give Crane everything he wants … for now. Spend a great deal of time at the Foundation. It is now your main obligation, and we will find someone else to handle your day-to-day activities with the Geological Survey. Understand?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir.”

“Stay in the shade, Mr. Chan.”

“Same to you, Mr. Li.”

Mui blanked Chan’s head as Li stared at California. Crane had bullied his way into the arena and made himself a player, Li thought. Fine. Now Crane would have to live with it.

Standing next to Lanie on the observation deck, Crane fidgeted, but not from the heat of his clothing and the brilliant sunlight doubling its force through reflection off the water. He was going stir-crazy, confined to the boat. And his arm throbbed dully. Action somewhere. Not close or the arm would have hurt. Still, there was a rising feeling of pain. He rubbed his arm.

Lanie’s eyes widened. “What is it?”

“Something … just happened,” he said, insides tight. “And I’m stuck here in the middle of the goddamned ocean.”

“Is it close,” Lanie asked, “a deep subduction trench quake, beneath us perhaps?”

Crane shook his head, his full attention on a flock of birds a hundred meters off the port bow. They were too big and were closing fast. “This part of the ocean isn’t subducting. California lies on a transform fault, the Pacific Plate and the North American Plate rubbing against each other as they move in different directions. We’d know if something was going on there. But thanks.”

“For what?”

“Not questioning my intuition.”

The birds had attracted Lanie’s attention, too. She watched them with a frown. “Dan says that you feel it in your arm.”

“What else?”

She turned and smiled at him. “He knows it must work because he can feel your feelings as a sharp pain.”

“In the ass?”

“Yeah. Those birds over there … aren’t they awfully large for gulls?”

“Too big and too noisy. Hear the hum?”

“No.”

He watched as they glided close, their little focus motors whirring—radio-controlled cameras disguised as gulls searching for them. “I think the press corps has ferreted us out.”

The cams swooped low over the deck, news broadcast logos on their sides, then swung gracefully out to sea, making a wide circle around the Diatribe, then tightening the circle.

“We must be getting close,” Lanie said. “Did you see the unmarked birds?”

Crane nodded. “FPF, the G. They’re keeping tabs on Brother Ishmael. My bet is that they’ll try and take him before we dock.”

“There’s nothing you can do?”

“He should have left when his bodyguards did, right after the meeting. I can’t believe he stayed.”

One of the unmarked birds buzzed the deck, Crane swatting at it as it passed within a foot of him. “Thank you for welcoming us back to America!” he called through cupped hands to the rest of the hovering cams. “We’ll be looking forward to meeting with many of you upon our return.” Then he whispered, “Bastards.”

He waved with his good hand, urging Lame to smile and wave also.

“Look at the clouds,” Lanie said. Crane looked up to see his smiling, waving face projected onto cumulus clouds fifty thousand feet high.

“Those bulges make me look fat,” he said, then raised a finger. “Let’s have some fun with them. Stay here.”

He hurried down the ladder, laughing, and to the lifeboat tethered on the main deck, grabbing the survival kit before hurrying back to observation.

“What are you doing?” she asked as he opened the aluminum box and sorted through it.

“Must be here somewhere,” he said low, then, “Ha!” He pulled a flare gun out of the box and held it triumphantly in the air. “If the world is watching us, then let’s give them a show they’ll remember.”

“You’re not serious,” she said, backing several paces away from him.

“I’m always serious,” he returned and shoved a fat shell into the single chamber. He snapped it closed, and raised the gun with his good hand. He fired right into the midst of the fifteen gulls. A whump, then a pale red tracer tracked upward into the flock, the flare bursting bright red on impact.

“Bulls-eye!” Lanie said, clapping as two gulls, in pieces, went into the ocean, a third moving off, losing altitude by the second. The wounded bird was unmarked, FPF obviously. The bird disappeared behind a swell five hundred meters from the Diatribe, all the other cams turning in that direction to watch.

He reloaded and handed the gun to Lanie. “Want to try one?”

“Can I get into trouble for this?”

“Who cares?”

She pulled the trigger, bringing down a newscam in a white hot rain of shimmering magnesium. The remaining gulls scattered and put more distance between themselves and their hunters.

Crane could see boats dotting the ocean, converging, the curious or the professional turning out to see the earthquake man. Beyond the boats, the distant outline of land filled the horizon. They were home.

“Good shooting!” Crane yelled, the sky now covered with clouds, all of them showing television pictures, people tuning in through their aurals.

“I think you may be right about the FPF coming for Mohammed Ishmael.” Lanie pointed to several innocuous-looking speedboats.

“I’m going to get down there and try and stop them.” Crane dropped the box and hoisted a leg over the ladder.

Boats drew alongside, their decks filled with men in white jumpsuits with white hoods and standard issue face saver masks with built-in goggles. They were armed.

Lanie caught up with Crane as he was about to enter the dining room. “Do you know what you’re doing?” she asked, grabbing his bad arm.

“No,” he said. She had beautiful, inquisitive eyes. They told the truth. “I’ve been making it up since Ishmael dropped his bombshell back on VEMA. I took a shot, needed all the cards to fall right. Ishmael screwed it up enough to queer things.”

“But you’ve got the deal.”

“I’ve got nothing.”

Loudspeakers squawked from all around them. “This is the Federal Police Force,” a pleasant female voice whispered like thunder. “We have been authorized to detain Leonard Dantine, a.k.a. Mohammad Ishmael, in accordance with the Safe Streets Control Act of 2005.”

“I think this will play badly in the polls,” Crane said, watching white faced ghosts climb onto Diatribe’s main deck.

The galley door banged open, Newcombe sticking his head out. “Can’t we do anything to stop them?”

“Is stopping them the right thing to do?” Crane replied, then waved off Newcombe’s angry scowl. “I’ll try.”

The gangway was filled with men in white, coming at them fore and aft and from above. Lanie was right on Crane’s heels.

“What do you mean you don’t have a deal?” she asked. “I thought Li—”

“Li told me I’d have to do it again.” He stepped up to address the uniformed person before him. The G was anonymous—the source of their strength and their power to produce fear.

“This ship is outside the territorial waters of the United States,” Crane said. “You are, consequently, outside your jurisdiction and have no right being on board. Kindly leave now.”

The G spoke into his pad, then nodded. “Two point nine miles,” he said pleasantly, then gestured toward the door. “Is this the only way in or out of that room?”

“No,” Lanie said, as Newcombe, angry, made to block entry. “There’s a starboard door also.”

“He won’t run from you,” Newcombe said stepping aside. “He told me.”

The G moved into the room in force. Brother Mohammad Ishmael sat calmly at the dining table, smiling beatifically. “Do you gentlemen have a reservation?” he asked.

“On your feet,” the lead G said. “You’re under arrest.”

Ishmael stood. “I’m not of your country. Even so, I have broken none of your laws. You cannot place me under arrest.”

“You may make an official statement to the booking robot,” said the G, punctiliously polite. “These gentlemen are going to escort you. You may choose the degree of difficulty.”

Six men moved forward. Seemingly unarmed, their sleeves bristled with electronic and microwave bands, deadly defensive weapons. They formed a loose cordon around Ishmael, then moved in quickly, grabbing.

They got empty ah*. Ishmael was transparent as they tried to take him, their arms moving through his body, flailing uselessly.

“A projection.” Newcombe laughed. “It’s not really him.”

“Only since this morning,” Ishmael called, walking right through the table and up to Newcombe. He whispered in the man’s ear, “Contact me.”

The G filed out without a word, the last one handing Crane a bill for the downed gull.

Ishmael’s laughing projection turned a circle for the remaining gull cams that were perched on the rails looking in through the portholes. “People of the world,” he called, “this is how the white animal behaves. In savagery. In hatred. I wanted you to see why we must have our own homeland. Nothing will deter us. It is the will of Allah.”

The specter vanished. Crane walked back outside, knowing the government types were going to try and set him up for something with Ishmael to take the heat off themselves. He had to get past it. He moved onto the deck, the gulls flying off, and leaned against the rail, staring out at the G climbing back into their boats. The professional news showed up with the amateur camheads. He sensed Lame at his arm and turned. Newcombe wasn’t with her.

“Li and the others, they made a deal with you,” she said. “They have to keep it.”

“If I can make another earthquake happen,” he whispered, then winked at her.

Scores of boats of all sizes and shapes, a flotilla, surrounded them as they steamed closer to LA. People were waving and calling out to them.

Lanie and he drank in the celebrity, laughing and waving back.

He leaned over the rail and yelled to the closest ship. “Ahoy! What news of earthquakes? I sense something just happened.”

A loudspeaker crackled from one of the news boats. “We received word a little while ago. Martinique has been leveled by an eruption of Mount Pelee.”

“Don’t unpack your bags,” he said to Lanie, then put a foot over the rail and climbed down to the main deck, everything forgotten except the chase, the godalmighty, neverending chase.