“I went forward 250 years on the globe and found no activity that wasn’t already destined to happen. Perhaps farther on there might be, but how much insurance do you want? We’ve learned that this one weld decreases worldwide temblor activity by seven percent.”
“You mean it?”
“I mean it.”
Sumi walked out of the rows of seating to stand at the end of their aisle. She pointed at Crane. “This is bigger than California with you, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Crane said simply. “The globe has shown me fifty-three weld spots that, when completed, will halt continental drift completely, along with their associated EQs, volcanoes, and tsunamis. I figured that talking the world into doing it will be one hell of a lot easier once we’ve shown it works in one place.”
“Thirty-two years is two lifetimes for a politician! That presents problems.”
“It’s tougher than that,” Crane said. “We’ve got only a five-year window, at the most, on the San Andreas weld. By September of 2033 the pressure will have increased enough all along the fault that the weld won’t be possible without starting a major quake.”
Sumi moved along the aisle and sat beside him, staring up at the justices’ bench. “And what would you need, exactly, from the government?”
“A lot of things except money. First off, we’d have to figure out a way to get around the ban on detonating nukes. I’d need the right permissions to dig down into the Imperial Valley in the Salton Trough. And, of course, I’d need access to nuclear stockpiles.”
“Maybe,” Sumi said, “it wouldn’t be quite so difficult as you think.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re an expert on nukes,” Sumi answered. “Do you remember the development of the first atomic bomb?”
“The Manhattan Project,” Crane said. “So what?”
“It was done in utmost secrecy, the government treating it as a national security measure, not telling anyone about it until it was dropped on the Japanese.”
“Are you suggesting we could do this whole thing secretly?” Lanie asked.
Sumi nodded, then looked at Crane, and touched his arm. “I’ve always had faith in you. If you say to me, this is possible, then I believe it is possible. You’re a gracious man. I’ve wronged you badly and I owe you, and you know I do. It’s an obligation.”
“No, Sumi, I’d never—”
Sumi put her hand up for silence. “Please. Allow me to retrieve my honor and gain face. Liang Int has suffered a severe blow. They would ultimately approve the project if we could run it right near the next election and succeed—especially if it won’t cost them anything. That’s the ringer here.”
“I understand,” Crane said.
“It would be in absolutely no one’s interest to let this leak to the world. I can just hear the outcry now, especially with the Masada Cloud circumnavigating the globe every seventeen days to remind people of the nuclear terror. This may be an historic period for you, the chance at last to realize your dream. I assume this is what you’ve been aiming for all this time?”
“You assume correctly.”
“It will be the greatest sell job in the history of the world, but I’m ready to undertake it. The aspects are as good as they’ll ever get. I’ll need more from you than this disk to sell the program, though. You’ll fund it all, every cent?”
“I’m prepared to do that.”
“Then I only have to convince the right people of its feasibility. Get it all on paper. I assume you’ve red-teamed it?”
Crane nodded. “That’s what I’ve spent the last year doing. I know every argument against it and each counterargument.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out another disk. “It’s all on here.”
Sumi took the disk. “You are a feared and respected man at Liang Int. They landed on your wrong side once and paid the price. They’ll want to listen.” She pocketed the disk and stood. “I’ll get on it right away.”
Crane also stood. “You’ll do it, really do it?”
“Absolutely. It may be why I was put on this planet … solely to do this job.”
Lewis Crane, hard as rock and focused as an epicenter, fell back in his seat, stupefied. “I-I don’t know how to thank you, I—”
“No,” Sumi said, shaking her head vigorously. “It is I who thanks you. I may recoup my honor now.”
She bowed and hurried out of the chamber. Crane was shaking, nearly delirious.
Lanie squealed and threw her arms around his neck. “You did it! You … did … it! How do you feel?”
Crane wiped his eyes and kissed his bride to be. “I feel like the weight of five billion years has been lifted from my shoulders.”
Abu Talib, also known as Daniel Newcombe, stood in a huge cotton field with representatives from the Islamic republics of Algeria and Guatemala. Daily, Islamic dignitaries came to pay their respects or to negotiate trade deals with New Cairo. Right now, cotton was king.
Upon conversion to Islam, Newcombe had taken the name of Abu Talib. It was the name of Mohammed’s uncle and greatest lifelong supporter, who also had not believed in the prophet’s mission, as Newcombe/Talib did not believe in the tenets of Islam or in the philosophy of Brother Ishmael. It was the godless man’s way to embrace religion.
The field stretched out for hundreds of acres, the Yo-Yu screens, ten feet overhead, casting a slight bluish glow over everything. In the far distance Liang’s wall split the horizon. Hundreds of people worked in the field around them. Right now the cotton plants resembled small dead bushes, but the earth was black and rich, the spring rains mere weeks away.
Ali Garcia, the trade rep from Guatemala, was kneeling by a plant, frowning at it. “This will be American Upland cotton?” he asked, his fingers playing with a twiggy branch.
“Best in the world,” Brother Talib said. “It doesn’t look like much now, but the flowers will start forming after the rains come. Once they wither, the boll forms and matures in a couple of months. You’ll be able to take delivery in mid-August.”
“What can you produce from a field like this?” asked the Algerian, Faisal ben Achmed.
“We got eight hundred thousand bales of cotton from these fields last year without knowing what we were doing. This year we’ll double that. Interested?”
“Of course we’re interested,” Garcia said. “What are you looking for in return?”
“Investment capital, farm machinery, livestock, and building materials,” Talib said.
“We’re digging in, entrenching until the rest of our people are welcomed to the homeland. We want to establish a strong base from which to grow.”
“Kwiyis.” Faisal nodded. “Your people are strong, your soil blessed. You will make a good addition to our international family.”
“We must go,” Garcia said, standing, “if we wish to catch the shuttle to Belize.”
“Sure you can’t stay and have a meal with me?” Talib asked. “The food is delicious, and all raised right here in New Cairo. Let me extend my full hospitality.”
“Alfshukre,” Faisal said. “But no, and with regrets. Abu Talib’s hospitality is renowned.”
Talib nodded, then led them toward the main road through the fields, the three of them climbing, under a fat, warm sun, into the vehicle waiting there.
“How large are the occupied territories?” Garcia asked as the driver opened the focus and sped off.
“We are the northwestern corner of the territories,” he said. “The Mississippi divides us from Arkansas and Louisiana, and provides us a natural boundary all the way south to the Gulf of Mexico. We will extend east to the Atlantic Ocean. There will be enough room.”