"Richter 10" - читать интересную книгу автора (Clarke Arthur, McQuay Mike)Chapter 6 PANGAEANewcombe sat before the thirty-by-forty-foot wall screen in the dark lecture hall where Foundation briefings were held on missions. Pictures streamed in from helos hovering above Le Precheur. He saw an ocean of mud, a desert of slime with skeletal signs of civilization poking from its innards. Somewhere, buried beneath the ooze over the crumpled city, were the two most important people in the world to him. He refused to accept their deaths. Refused. There were lots of people working the site—the Foundation’s people were there out of obligation, the townspeople out of gratitude to the demon saint who’d saved their loved ones. He could see mud-covered workers picking at the wreckage in thirty different places. Damn, it was too loose, too widespread an effort to be truly effective. Those rescuers would never get to Lanie and Crane in time if they kept to that strategy. “H-hello?” “Yes, who is this?” Newcombe returned, noting the tension in the man’s voice. “M-My name is Dr. Ben Crowell and I’d really like to get back to the digging, I—” “Doctor,” Newcombe said. “We don’t have much time, sir. Were you the last one to see Dr. Crane and Dr. King before the eruption?” “Yes … I—” “Have someone put a camera on you, Ben. I want to see … ah, good.” The grim face of a haggard, filthy man blipped as an insert onto the huge screen. “You know where they are, Ben?” “I know where they “Calm down,” Newcombe said, his own resolve solid. “Crane’s alive. We’re in contact with him. They still have a little air. We just need to pinpoint them. Are you in the town square?” “I think so.” “Did this happen close to the town square?” “Yes!” the man said, brightening. Newcombe inserted a detailed satellite photo map in the lower right hand corner of the excavation shot, showing Le Precheur as it was mere days ago. “Have someone give you a monitor … we’re transmitting from this end.” “Just a moment … I … yes, I see the map.” “Look at it carefully and draw conclusions.” He zoomed in on the street leading up to the square, focusing on the masonry houses with the red thatch roofs, French colonial influence. “This one, this one,” Crowell shouted. “The fifth house from the square on the west side of the street.” “How can you be so sure?” “There were stairs going up, but no second floor. Your map only shows one two-story house on the block on that side of the street. It’s got to be the place.” Newcombe overlaid a ruler on the map. “The square had a flagpole in the center.” “It’s still there.” “Due east from the flagpole, 113 feet four inches, is the front door of that house. Measure accurately—okay?—and have everyone dig there … but slowly, carefully, very carefully.” Crowell darted away and was off-camera for a minute or more, though in audio contact the whole time. “You’ve got enough diggers there,” Newcombe said brusquely. “I need your attention, Crowell, got to get some more information from you.” Crowell’s tired face popped up again. “Good. Now, tell me, what exactly happened? How was it that the two senior members of the expedition were left behind during an eruption?” “We were evacuating the city quickly because of the St. Elmo’s Fire. I was giving a patient with crush syndrome an IV, when Crane came rushing in with Dr. King and ordered me and the men on the lever to get down to the docks. Crane took the IV from me and we ran. It was a nightmare, trying to run through the deep mud, getting bogged down in it…” “Take a deep breath, Ben. Better now?” Crowell wearily shook his head. “Go on,” Newcombe said encouragingly. Crowell’s expression darkened as he relived his time in hell. “We … we somehow got down to the docks, lightning, pink lightning, was everywhere. There were fires… rocks were pelting us.” He rubbed his eyes. “Confusion at the ferries, mass chaos with trucks and people shoving. We somehow all got on board, but we couldn’t have been a mile or two from shore when the top blew off the mountain and the damned cloud formed. It came right for us, reaching for us, full of lightning. It roared and flung rocks. I knew we were all dead. Then, it started slowing down. The cloud got kind of pale, then just sailed over us, raining ash. But it started to sort of, well expand … until it filled the sky … except for a sliver of horizon. I’ve never seen anything even remotely like that.” “Hold it, Ben,” Newcombe said, seeing the diggers making some progress. “Tell them to get optical sensors in there,” he said, Crowell disappearing from the screen for several seconds. He came back frowning. “They sent me back. Everyone’s afraid to talk to you. Most of the surveillance gear was lost in the … did you call it, eruption? It didn’t seem like—” “Please, Ben.” Crowell nodded apologetically. “They’re trying to rig something now.” “If they can hear me, then they know, they’d better hurry! Come back with my people alive or don’t come back. Now tell me, how much time passed between you leaving Crane and King and the eruption?” The man opened his eyes wide. “Maybe ten minutes, barely enough time to finish the IV.” “And what time of day was this?” The man reached into his pocket, pulled out a watch, and held it close for Newcombe to see. Its face was cracked, the time frozen at 7:26. “I smashed it on a truck getting onto the ferry. Can I go now?” Four hours. Oxygen was the problem—if they’d survived the mud and fire. “One more thing, Ben. You say there was a staircase in the house?” “Yes.” “Okay. Thanks. We’re finished.” He blanked Crowell’s insert from the screen, replacing it with a revolving tour of the news feeds on the scene. He let his head fall back on the seat and closed his eyes. They’d find them now, hopefully before the air ran out. Crane stayed with the house, the area under the stairs a decent place to trap oxygen and as good a place as any to be. They were there. He refused to let himself think about anything except the prospect of finding them safe, sound. “Would you rather be alone?” Newcombe opened his eyes to see a hologram of Brother Ishmael, ten inches high, floating in the air before him, an angelic glow around the image. “I’m not even going to ask how you did this,” he said. The image looked sheepish. “I planted a homer on your hand back at the boat. It’s that thing that looks like a pimple on your left thumb. Pull it off and I’m gone.” Newcombe looked at the thumb, noted the device, left it alone. “Have you seen what’s happening?” he asked. The image nodded. “I thought maybe you could use some support, Brother. Crane’s foolishness has put your woman in danger.” “Foolishness,” Newcombe repeated. “They dug forty-two living people out of that mud. I’d call that courageous, Brother Ishmael.” “It takes courage just to live,” Ishmael replied. “I’m not here to argue with you, only to wait with you … to grieve with you if it comes to that.” “Let’s not worry about the grief yet.” “Indeed. Are you involved in the S and R mission?” “In a small way,” Newcombe said, looking past the holo to the diggers. “What happened on Martinique? They haven’t been able to explain that cloud or anything else on the news—” “They’ll figure it out eventually,” Newcombe said, angry that no one had taken charge of the surveillance gear on site. A good optical sensor could save them hours. Burt Hill would have seen to the equipment. Damn Crane for not taking him. He looked again at Brother Ishmael. “This kind of eruption happens from time to time. The French call it “What is it?” “A kind of lateral eruption with just enough force to blow the top layer of crater scum straight down the mountain. It acts as a heavy liquid, a mixture of gas, steam, and solid particles. As the heavier particles settle, the gas and steam are free to continue onward, only the smaller particles holding the cloud earthbound. As those are dispersed, the cloud ascends.” “What’s the thing they’re bringing to the dig now?” Ishmael asked. Newcombe looked at the screen, his insides tightening up for the big one. An optical sensor. Now they’d see. Crane and Lanie sat side by side in their muddy tomb, leaning back against the tub that saved their lives. The boy whose name they hadn’t learned lay beside them in the darkness. It was completely black. Crane had no idea of how much mud separated them from the outside. What air they had, he feared, was dissipating quickly. It was foul and musty. He tapped his wristpad. “Dan … you there?” “I’m here, Crane.” There was relief and happiness in Newcombe’s voice. “I think we’ve isolated your location. We’re coming at it with an optical sensor.” “Get an air tube in here.” “Okay. Let me talk to Lanie.” “She’s indisposed,” Crane said, tapping off and sagging against the tub. Beside him, Lanie slid in and out of consciousness. She’d had a nasty cut on the temple; he’d stopped the bleeding by applying mud. He’d torn off the sleeve of his shirt and tied it tightly around her wound, loosening it every few minutes, then retightening. He’d gone through medical school for the field knowledge, never carrying it any further than on-site emergency treatment. Lanie needed a real doctor. She moaned, regaining consciousness, just as she had fifteen times already. She had the damnedest type of concussion, one with trauma to the deep section of the frontal lobes involving recent memory. She could not capture and hold on to a new thought. Every time she became conscious, the experience was brand new to her. Crane prepared to start with her again at Square One. He heard her sudden intake of breath, knew she was reacting to the darkness and the pain, and quickly put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t panic,” he said low, soothing. “Crane?” “Take it easy. You’ve had a blow to the head. Try and relax.” “Where the hell are we?” “Trapped,” he said, “in the debris of a house … under a mudslide. In Martinique. They’re coming to rescue us.” “You’re kidding? Martinique? Is Dan all right?” “He’s fine … though a little worried. He’s back in California.” “He is? Why don’t I remember?” “It’s normal,” he said calmly, patting her shoulder again. “Don’t worry about it.” “What happened to me?” “A blow to the head.” “Really? And Dan?” “He’s all right. He’s not here.” “We’re not in California, are we?” “No.” If the circumstances weren’t so grim, he knew he’d find it difficult to keep himself from laughing. “I’m fine now.” “I know.” “Where are we?” “Martinique.” “Really? And Dan’s not here, right?” “Right.” “We got trapped here, but we’re going to get rescued.” “That, dear lady, is my sincerest hope.” She grunted. “I’m fine. Really okay now. My head feels like hell, though. I think there’s some dorph somewhere … I never travel without—” “I’ve got it,” he said. “You’ve already had some, but if you want some more…” “Only one,” she said, holding out her hand. He retrieved the dorph from his work shirt pocket and gave her a tablet. They’d repeated this particular scenario six times. “You take one,” she said, swallowing the pill. “You know I don’t take dorph.” “How come? Ow! That hurts.” “Don’t touch your head.” He drew his legs up. “You know, it just occurred to me I can tell you anything, because you won’t remember it.” “I’ll remember.” She laughed. “I told you I’m fine. I simply need to know … is Dan all right?” “He’s fine. He’s back in California.” “Did I take a dorphtab?” “Yes,” he said, the most wicked, thrilling sense of freedom stealing through him: no surveillance and perhaps a ton of mud for soundproofing insulation; a listener who would immediately forget what he said. If this were to be his last conversation, he’d make it a winner. “I was about to tell you why I don’t take dorph.” “Why?” “I tried it once. It stopped the pain.” “That’s what it’s supposed to do.” “That’s why I don’t take it.” He felt her stir beside him and looked in her direction, imagining her face in the darkness, her wide, inquisitive eyes. “I get it,” she said. “You’re going to be honest.” “And you’ll forget everything I say. By the way, what’s the last thing you remember?” “Well, we’re talking … I remember that. I remember being on a boat. Why is it so dark?” “We’re trapped under a mudslide, but they’re coming to rescue us.” “Dan’s fine, though. Right?” “That’s right. You know I’m attracted to you?” “Whoa … hold it. I’m not looking for a quickie in the rubble.” “I’ve never met a woman like you. Passionate … intelligent. I can see your mind working as I look into your eyes.” His fingertips came up to brush her face. She pulled away slightly, but only slightly, he noted. “Right,” she said. “How many times have you trotted that line out?” “What line?” “That … you know, whatever you said.” He smiled. “I’m going to tell you my story. You’re my perfect audience for it. I lived with my mother’s sister, Ruth. My aunt and her husband didn’t have much money, and he didn’t like me. Her own kids came first, so I had to perform to get noticed. I’d read every book ever written on seismology and plate tectonics by the time I was ten. Got my first college degree at age fifteen and went on fast from there.” “What about your emotional life… friends … girlfriends?” “I was the outsider,” he said. The rubble shifted and planks fell to the floor nearby. Lanie scooted closer and clutched his arm. “I grew up around people years older than myself. It strengthened my performing, but got me no friends. Nothing was ever expected of me emotionally.” “Women?” “None. Not even close. Never been kissed. I’m thirty-seven years old and I’ve never even held hands with a girl I liked.” “Well, I’ll tell you what,” she said, laying her head on his shoulder. “If we ever get out of here, I’ll give you a first-class kiss to get you started on your way.” “Promise?” “You bet, I … it’s so dark. Why are we here?” “We were trying to save a boy trapped by the volcano—” “Volcano?” “—and we got trapped ourselves. And yes, Dan’s all right. He’s not here. Here is Martinique.” “Have I asked you these questions before?” “A time or two.” “Guess I forgot. But I won’t forget now. What happened to the boy we were trying to save?” “Put your left hand out beside you.” “Okay, I—Oh God!” She practically jumped onto his lap. “Is that…?” “The boy. He didn’t make it.” She went limp, then slumped against the tub. “We’re going to die, aren’t we? We’re going to die in the dark.” “The possibility exists. I’m sorry. They’re looking for us now. We did get the city evacuated in time, though.” “City … evacuated?” He heard her take a deep breath. “Can we do anything from in here?” “Not really,” he said. “In the dark, I’d be afraid to pull on anything for fear of bringing the house down on us.” “Maybe there’s a lighter or—” “We’ve already looked … even in the boy’s pocket. Besides, I’m beginning to worry about the oxygen.” “Scare me, why don’t you?” “It’s all right, you’ll forget.” “I resent that. I will not. Is Dan here?” “No … and he’s fine.” “Good,” she said, then took a long breath. “Did we predict this one?” she asked. “I can’t predict anything,” he said, then stared in her general direction. “You want to hear the whole story?” “What story?” He drew a deep breath of the fetid air. “I’d been tracking Sado,” he said low, “since the day the Israelis saw the Iranian helos overhead and blew their whole nuclear stockpile, thirty multimegaton bombs. Fifty million people vaporized instantly, ten million more within seconds.” Tears rolled down his cheeks; Lanie was shuddering. “The blasts not only irradiated the entire Middle East and its oil, but it had profound effects below ground—first on the Arabian Plate, which in turn had an effect on the Turkish-Aegean and Iran Plates. It was like watching dominoes fall. By the time the Indo-Australian and Eurasian Plates started to buckle, I was predicting the quakes with a fair degree of accuracy, within, say, a month or two. Finally, years later, the Indo-Aus, Philippine, North American, and Pacific Plates collided roughly, which had a small, but devastating effect on a zone near Sado.” He shrugged. “It was laid out like a road-map.” “What was?” “The EQ’s connected to the Masada Option.” “Why didn’t you predict other quakes before Sado?” “Two reasons. First, nobody listens anyway. Second, if I was going to take the chance of being wrong and being forever labeled as a crackpot, I’d take the best odds. Sado was the plum, the shot heard round the world.” “Now … we’re not at Sado now, are we?” “We’re in Martinique. Dan’s not here. He’s fine. Ask me the next question. If you’ve been listening, you’re probably wondering what I’m selling since you now know that I can’t really predict earthquakes.” “Yeah. Tell me that. I’ll remember this time.” “I’m selling the dream of a perfect world,” he said. “This kind of suffering is needless, wasteful.” “I’m sorry … I lost something back—” She flailed her arms, squealing. “Crawling on me. A thing’s crawling on me. Get it off. Off!” His hand felt her thigh, running its length. He felt it then, cold, metallic. “Ha!” He grabbed the optical sensor that had slithered into their lair and held it up to his face. “It’s about time you got here. Dig us out slowly. We’ve got a pocket here, but the whole place is about to go. Tunnel in easy. Try and get us an air tube first. And for God’s sake, get me a drink! They have sugar mills here; there must be rum. If you can get to the air hole, shove a bottle through.” The sensor slithered away. He relaxed at the sound of the rescue workers pounding a pipeline of fresh air into their musty tomb. “Is Dan out there?” Lanie asked. “He’d better not be,” Crane said. “He’s supposed to be at the labs looking for quakes.” “If you really can’t predict,” she said, “what’s the point?” He took her hand in the darkness, kissed it. “Dear lady, you don’t give up your life’s dream just because it has no reality.” Suddenly the barest light shone in the cavern, brightening it to a sickly haze. A rush of fresh air followed, and with it, hope. “Dr. Crane,” a voice called down the five-inch tube. “I’m here! Where’s that rum I ordered?” “Coining!” The bottle was shoved through the tube, followed by a bottle of water. Crane handed Lanie the water and unscrewed the cap on the rum, taking a long drink. “How far away are you?” “Ten to fifteen feet,” the voice returned. “We’ll have you out quickly.” “Are we the only ones?” “Everybody alive got out … except you three.” “Two,” Crane said, taking another long swig of rum. “There’s only two of us here.” He sat back, glancing sadly at the corpse. Lanie had been staring at it ever since the light had entered. “What happened?” she asked reaching for his bottle of rum after she finished the water. “We tried to save him. He died. End of story.” “Was this an earthquake?” “A volcano … we’re in Martinique.” “You’re kidding. Where’s Dan?” “Back home.” He liked having her this way. He was able to be honest without ramifications, sincere without recriminations. “Do you remember your promise?” he asked. “Promise…” “Never mind.” He sagged close to her, pressing his lips to her ear. “I love you, you know,” he whispered. “Don’t say things like that,” she said sternly. “We have enough problems in our lives.” “Say things like what?” She took another drink and passed him the bottle. They looked like people made of clay. “You know,” she said, “there’s something I don’t understand.” “Yes?” “You want all this funding, all this … power to predict quakes. Didn’t we just talk about that?” “Yes, we did. You’re probably wondering what I really want.” “Yeah. Predicting to save lives is a noble cause, but Dan’s the person working those fields. Why not go his way? Define areas likely to be affected and rewrite building codes or make them off limits. You don’t need the detailed information you want to do that.” He said what he’d never had the guts to say to another human being. “I don’t give a damn about earthquake prediction,” he whispered. “It’s a means to an end.” “What end?” “I cannot co-exist with the world the way it is,” he said. “So I intend to change it. I intend to stop earthquakes from happening.” She laughed and reached for the bottle again. He took another long drink before giving it to her. “And how do you intend to stop earthquakes?” “By fusing the plates,” he said fierce and low. “This world was once one continent, named Pangaea. It had no earthquakes, no volcanoes. I’m going to make it that way again.” Lanie drank deep, Crane grabbing the bottle from her and finishing it. She giggled. “You said you wanted to fuse the plates, didn’t you?” “Yes.” “How?” He winked at her before murmuring directly into her ear, “By exploding huge thermonuclear bombs right on the fault lines.” “What?” Light flooded in, the sound of excited voices echoing all around them. “Come on, Elena King,” he bellowed, grabbing her around the waist with his good arm. “We live to fight another day!” “Is Dan here?” she asked as hands reached in to pull them to safety. “No.” “What about the boy?” “Leave him. Nothing mars a triumphal rescue like an untimely death. PR, Lanie. We live and die by it.” Dan Newcombe sat staring at the screen, fists clenched, keeping his mind clear and controlled as he watched the SAR team digging gingerly in the gray-green mud that had once been a two-story house. The image of Ishmael floated just beside him, quiet, contemplative. He could see the icon, but it could not see him. “Are you watching the dig?” he asked, his voice choked. “Yes,” Ishmael said. “I have a very positive feeling about it.” “How so?” “Crane is a madman. He will walk unscathed through tragedy. It is his blessing, Brother, and his curse also.” “The first time I’ve ever heard you speak well of him.” “I am not speaking well of him. He is not a man in the normal sense. He is a force moving through my life as I am a force moving through his. We’re glaciers, Crane and I, slowly creeping, rolling over everything in our paths. Crane is beyond definition. Do you see the man in the bright blue coat by the truck?” Newcombe looked. It was the tech working the monitor for the opticals. He appeared to be excited as he turned the dials. “I think he’s got them,” Newcombe said, watching the man dance an impromptu jig in the mud. “Look at him jumping! They’re alive!” The lecture hall door banged open. Burt Hill and several programmers charged in, whooping. A similar scene was being monitored on the huge screen by the crew in Martinique. “Go,” Newcombe whispered, Ishmael disappearing on Hill’s entry. Newcombe made a mental note to call and thank the man for his friendship during a bad time. “I ain’t Newcombe nodded. “Believe me, next time Crane goes into the field, I’ll personally chain him to you.” “Gawd,” Hill said, shaking his head as the workers shoved a bottle of rum through an air facilitation tube. “He’s getting a drink before he gets out. That’s Crane.” Newcombe continued to stare as they dug, the workers handing bucketsful of mud along a human chain, shoring up the wreckage as they went. There was life. Now to see if there were injuries. The team broke through within minutes. The crew in the theater and in Martinique cheered as Crane stumbled out of the debris under his own power, smiling wide for the cameras. He was carrying Lanie in his arms, his good arm taking most of the weight, the nearly empty bottle of rum dangling from his bad hand. Newcombe’s stomach lurched. Lanie’s head was bandaged, blood covering her entire left side, matting her hair. She appeared to be only semiconscious. Crane didn’t look any the worse for wear. “She’s hurt,” Hill said. Newcombe grunted. “They’d better have someone more experienced than interns down there.” He banged on the wrist pad, reopening the contact between him and the team. A muddy figure, barely recognizable as human, blipped onto his screen. “Get Crane over here,” he told the man. Just then, on the main screen, he saw Lanie throw her arms around Crane and give him a long kiss as she was lowered onto a stretcher. His insides knotted and he clenched his teeth to keep from cursing out loud. Crane seemed more startled than surprised at the kiss. What was happening? Crane waved heartily at the cameras, holding up his bottle of rum and laughing, one more sumptuous meal at the buffet table of his exciting life. Damn the man. Brother Ishmael was right—he wasn’t human. Swallowed up by his rescue team, Crane slithered off the screen and disappeared for half a minute, only to blip up on the insert box, finishing the rum. “Crane,” Newcombe said low. “Danny boy!” Crane dropped the bottle to wipe his face with a towel. “Did you miss us?” “Where is she?” Newcombe said. “I’m hoping you haven’t killed her.” “This is an open line, Danny boy.” “Where is she?” Crane had put on his public face and it wasn’t going to budge. He smiled. “We’re getting set to vac her over to Dominica for some doctoring. I think it’s only a concussion. She’ll be fine. Keeps asking for you, by the way.” “Put her on.” “Can’t do that, Dan.” He looked off camera for a second. “They’re getting her ready to go. Besides … you don’t need to be having any reunions over an open line. Save it for later.” “For the love of God, Crane, put her on. I have to know if she’s all right.” Crane shook his head, the smile still on his face. “Not on an unsecured line,” he said. “We don’t want to give away any trade secrets.” “Crane—” “Got to go, Danny boy. My public awaits.” Crane walked away from the screen leaving dead air behind. Newcombe fell back heavily in his chair, staring at the screen and the workers preparing to leave the site. “I got to set up for them to come back,” Burt said, standing, quickly putting distance between himself and Newcombe. He got everyone else out with him. Newcombe sat alone, feeling stupid, feeling used. He hated Crane at this moment, would hurt him if he could. Ishmael had been so right about so many things. He saw with a clarity that defied rationalization. The Q line was the secure fiber. He tapped it up on his wrist pad and pegged in the number he had memorized in the Sumi Chan sat before her surveillance terminal, juicing right into the wall screen in her Foundation chalet. “Are you receiving the transmission, Mr. Li?” she asked, the wall screen rerunning a scene of Newcombe speaking with a small projection of Mohammad Ishmael. “Yes, quite clearly, Sumi. Thank you.” “I felt the subject matter might be of interest to you.” “More than in passing. Pursue whatever connection between Dr. Newcombe and the outlaw that happens your way. We will do the same. Mohammad Ishmael’s provocative behavior and poor public ratings have forced us to condemn his actions and the existence of the Nation of Islam as an entity.” “I see,” Sumi said, but she didn’t see at all. “Is there anything else for now?” “Keep up the good work. We have big plans for you. Contact broke from Li’s end, though his computers had dumped the entire conversation between Ishmael and Newcombe into its memory. Sumi shut down and pulled the green dorph bottle from the desk beneath the full 3-D wall screen. She moved to the front door. The chalet was huge and roomy, basically one open room with a loft bedroom beneath an A-frame roof. The entire front was open to the outside and a magnificent vista. Under different circumstances she could have known complete peace here. She stepped out onto her balcony, the wind warm and playful this high up. A lone condor flew beneath her. She felt Mr. Li was making a mistake in condemning the Nation of Islam whose members were consumers, at least to some degree, and in their own way a part of mainstream life in America. Condemnation set them apart and drew attention. That attention could lead to derision, certainly. It could also lead to support. Americans were used to diverse, individual thought patterns. Unchallenged, they would absorb NOI. Forced to choose, however, Americans were likely to opt for freedom, a concept unknown to Mr. Li. Feeling suddenly melancholy, she uncorked the green bottle and drank directly from it. Her breasts hurt beneath their bindings, a monthly problem. Her special dorph, containing high concentrations of both oxytocin and euphoric PEA, seemed to help, even if it did burden her with a certain sexual yearning that could never be satisfied. No sexual partner could be trusted. Sex itself could not be trusted. She let the feelings spill over her, warming her, evening her out. Bilious clouds filled the sky, running tapes of Nation of Islam supporters being arrested by the G just outside the beefed-up security checkpoints into East LA. Below, Burt Hill was supervising the setup of a buffet under a large awning for the returning team. There was also a bar, a small aid station, and a stage for a press conference. Sumi would skip the press this time. All she wanted to do was unbind and hide under the covers in the loft bed. She drank from the dorph again. Maybe today, for once, she could lose herself in bliss. |
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