“No,” Newcombe said, and his voice caught slightly. “The death of your wife and son was my punishment for everything else I’d done.”
Crane backed away from him, a hand to his mouth. He’d been so caught up in his own pain and loss he’d never considered that Dan’s love for Lanie could have been as great as his own.
He looked at the man, really looked at him, and saw a mirror of his own soul, his own feelings. They saw it in each other, Newcombe nodding acknowledgment of a great truth. Crane reeled, staggering back several paces.
There was a commotion in the gallery. Khadijah was pushing her way through the spectators to get out of the room. She was followed quickly by his children.
Crane swallowed hard and faced Newcombe again, the feelings charging through him, pulsing like pressure waves. “I think,” he said quietly, “that I can be man enough to set you free without forgiving you, and that you can achieve freedom without asking my forgiveness. And I think that’s what’s called civilization.”
He turned and looked at Sumi. Tears were running down her cheeks.
He looked at the bureaucrat at the desk.
“Sir,” he said, in almost a whisper, “I believe we have come to a crossroads in society. Two great nations are grinding against each other, tearing at each other like the strike-slip fault that is ripping California apart. Mr. N … Talib is the pressure point on the plate, the bumper, that is keeping both societies from moving forward. Everything compresses on this point and if the pressure isn’t relieved, the fault will rupture completely, destroying much for no reason.”
Crane looked down at the floor. “I’ve hated earthquakes all my life because of what they took from me and I’ve hated Mr. Talib for the same reason. What a stupid … stupid fool I’ve been.” He stared out at the gallery. “Hatred, I’ve realized, accomplishes nothing positive. It is only destructive. It is the active agency of fear. What does it get us? What good does it do us? I implore you to set this man free, no matter how much you may hate or fear him. Ease the pressure on the fault for the good of all. Talib is no danger to anyone, surely you can see that. He’s merely a man who made a mistake, and that is all. Let him go home, and we’ll all put this behind us.”
He walked immediately out the door without looking at Newcombe. The pain was still there, but more than anyone, he had always known that life was pain.
In the hallway he shared a look with Newcombe’s wife, the woman hating him despite his positive testimony. Khadijah seemed a person of deep and abiding anger. Too bad. She turned abruptly and moved into the protective circle of the mestizos in the hall.
He sat down beside Burt, the man taking one look at him and nodding. “You didn’t burn him either, did you?” Crane shook his head. “We’re both a couple of old fools, that’s what.”
“Ah, what the hell,” Crane said, letting his head fall back against the beige metal wall. “Life goes on. You can’t live for hatred, not really live.”
The door swung open, and Sumi came out, a huge smile on her face. “You did it!” she said, hurrying to him to throw her arms around him.
Within a second, people exploded through the doorway, cheering, a confused Newcombe being swept along on a tide of love and support. Neither man looked directly at the other. Crane’s gut clenched when he saw the royal treatment Newcombe was getting, but it didn’t clench as much as it would have yesterday.
And that was called progress.
Chapter 22
RICHTER TEN
Crane could pinpoint the time when he had known his life was over: the spring of 2055. One day he’d started going through storage cubes, dragging out all the testimonials and awards and service medals he’d received in over half a century of trying to slay the beast within. He’d framed the most significant honors and hung them on the walls of his office at the Foundation until there wasn’t any more wall space. And he’d looked at them, reflecting. It was then he knew he was living in the past, not the future. It was then that he began planning for today.
He sat with a young man named Tennery in his office, embarrassed that the display on the wall seemed gaudy, ostentatious. He spoke simply to hold Tennery’s attention and keep him from looking around. “Why do you want to join our little colony?” he asked.
“I’ve heard that it’s… different,” Tennery said, curly red hair falling to his shoulders. He was twenty-four years old. “I heard that you’re trying to build a world where logic speaks loudly, where people think before they act.” He laughed. “I’ve always wanted to live in a world like that, because it seems to me I’m surrounded by maniacs.”
“True enough,” Crane said, his gaze drifting to the view of the globe in the main room. It was turning slowly, lights and whistles signifying geologic movement on San Andreas. “You’re a botanist?”
“No,” the man said. “A farmer. Just a plain, simple farmer. I do have my agricultural degree, but—”
“But it’s useless as far as real farming goes?”
The man nodded. “Getting up at 5:30 in the morning takes something more than a degree. Besides, I’m interested in Moondust.”
“Yes. I know. Sterile soil, totally devoid of any organic compounds. Yet, when mixed with regular dirt…”
“The Sea of Ingenuity dust I’ve been receiving from Charlestown has increased my corn production by nearly fifteen percent. I also hear you have a mix.”
Crane smiled again. He liked this one a lot. “Yes. Delta dirt, Ganges dirt, Amazon dirt, Himalayan dirt. We’re mixing up to fifty different soils, looking for the best pH and natural nutrient balance. Interested?”
“Am I?” The man looked at his hands, then back at Crane. “My wife wanted me to ask you something. We’ve been hearing there’s a lot of problems with water supply on the Moon—”
“Not at Charlestown,” Crane said. “When the Islamic consortiums got control of all the shipping of water Moonside, they started using it as a blackmail device, rationing, threatening to cut it off if the Moon didn’t become an Islamic State. We had already anticipated such an eventuality and had been secretly mining Mars for permafrost. We now have a permanent, dependable shipping system from Mars, new water arriving every six weeks. We’re hoping we’ll have enough to sell to the other colonies to make some money and keep the region autonomous.”
“Good luck.”
“I should wish it to you. You’re the one who is going to live in Charlestown.”
“You’re not going to be there?”
“Not like you think.” Crane smiled. “Welcome aboard.”
“So I’m accepted?”
“You and your wife, Mona, and your two children.” He thought for a minute. “Lana and Sandy. We need people like you in the colony. I think eventually it will be the last refuge for humanity. As such, it should be represented by people who are decent, honest.”
“We know very little about Charlestown.”
“Intentional,” Crane said. “We’re not advertising. The right people tend to seek us out. In that way we’re kind of like a lighthouse.”
“What are the rules?”
“Be polite,” Crane said, “and live your life. We have no police, no jails, no courts. It’s been set up as a large family unit. Whatever earnings we generate go to the maintenance of the city itself. Whatever’s left is divided up. People seem satisfied with it. I don’t know, to tell you the truth. The city seems to be self-perpetuating, evolving its own way of life. I learned a long time ago that I don’t have all the answers. I meet the applicants. If I like them, they go up. If I don’t, they don’t. You’re the last.”