“Here!” Crane shouted.
Newcombe reached up to grab the chip and port it.
“Do it … hurry!” Crane said.
The chairs and tables were bouncing across the floor even as the entire structure moaned and danced. Crane reveled in experiencing whiplash first hand. Another violent jolt or two and the restaurant was going to be first-floor property.
Newcombe ported, his head twisted as the chip sucked his mind into an inch-square sheet of clear plastic. The building was bellowing as it swayed dangerously. Crane, on his knees now, took a quick drink.
Newcombe pulled the chip out of his port.
“I’m ready to go,” he said, handing it to Crane who quickly fed it into his pad and transmitted. “God, am I ready to go.”
A wild spasm caught them, both men tossed across the room, slamming into the bar which was bouncing in their direction. And, then, the Beast began to scream in earnest as the rending agony built.
“It’s the craziest thing,” Crane shouted over the roaring, “but my arm… it doesn’t hurt!”
The building began to crumble, bits of ceiling falling in on them. And the world tumbled then. Lewis Crane jerked a chip out of his own head and jammed it into his pad, even as he felt himself falling … falling …
… the image pulling away. Distant. A city collapsing, a house of cards built in a wind tunnel, swept away in an instant.
EPILOGUE
The geography helo vanished, replaced by Moonscape. Geodesic domes, reflecting brilliant sunlight and stretching to the horizon, were connected by skyways and tunnels and catwalks. A central plaza sat just within view; a working King Projection globe of the Moon dominated it.
“And that, children,” said a virtual Lewis Crane as he walked through the fourth grade classroom, “is how Moonbase Charlestown came to be.”
His good arm holding his bad behind his back, he reached the front of the room. The virtual Lewis Crane was a globe projection that held its namesake’s soul within its electrical charges. It wasn’t real, but it was Lewis Crane. And, with pride, he drank in its surroundings, the product of his imagination.
“This … city,” he said, “is yours to create, you know. What will you do with it? I ask only that you use your minds before you make your choices, and that you feel the pain of others as intensely as you feel your own.” The Virtual smiled. “I want to introduce a couple of people you might recognize.”
He reached his good arm out toward the door, and Burt Hill, Dan Newcombe, Sumi Chan, and Lanie King walked in. Crane’s virtual self felt a flush of joy as the children gasped in happiness, then applauded the other minds that Crane had stored in the machine.
Lanie, Dan, and Sumi stood with him in the front of the room. “Believe,” Crane said, moving to embrace the people who’d made his life worthwhile. “Believe in dreams. They never die.”
He looked toward the classroom door, Lanie already staring that way, Hill, Newcombe, and Sumi smiling broadly.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” Crane said. “Come on out and let the kids see you.”
“Yes, please do,” Lanie said.
And, much to the delight of his father and his mother and his other adult friends, little Charlie Crane, eighteen months old, toddled through the doorway, arms outstretched.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Many years ago I was standing in a Delhi hotel, when I became aware of a faint vibration underfoot. “I had no idea,” I said to my hosts, “that Delhi had a subway system.”
“It doesn’t,” they answered.
That was my one and only encounter with earthquakes—so how did I get involved with Richter 10? Well, the initial inspiration was undoubtedly the January 1994 Northridge earthquake, the aftermath of which I had witnessed on local TV. Between the first and the third of February, while this was still fresh on my mind, I wrote an 850-word movie outline, which I immediately faxed to my agent, Russell Galen. I did not have the necessary background to take the matter further, as my knowledge of California was restricted to the MGM backlot and the foyer of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. So Mike McQuay was commissioned to do all the hard work, and he succeeded magnificently.
Another very important input was the program California Earthquakes, created by John Hinkley, the computer genius whose Vistapro virtual reality program made possible the “before and after terraforming” Mars illustrations in my own The Snows of Olympus. This plots over 20,000—that’s right, 20,000—earthquakes during the period 1992-94. When turned on, it shows a map of California, and one can select by color coding all the earthquakes between the magnitudes of 1 and 6. They can then be shown at rates from one second equals one minute, to one second equals one year. A zoom function also allows examination in detail.
When switched on, the display is amazing—and terrifying. Little circles of various colors and sizes explode all over California, and after a short time the outline of the San Andreas fault becomes clearly visible, as does a second fault line along the eastern border of the state. The central region is completely free from quakes, and one can see at once where any sensible person would wish to purchase real estate. The Northridge event is truly spectacular, particularly if one zooms in for a close-up. When it is displayed at the slowest rate, literally hundreds of aftershocks are visible, continuing for over a week. It’s a very scary program indeed, and I’m surprised that the California Chamber of Commerce hasn’t banned its export—or declared John (who’s still living there!) persona non gratissima.
During the year after the Richter 10 contract was signed, I never received any communication from Mike or sent him any further ideas of my own. So when the manuscript arrived, I had no idea what to expect. He had done such an amazing job of fleshing out the bare bones of my synopsis that I read the manuscript with mounting excitement, turning the pages more and more feverishly in my anxiety to know what happened next…
Although I have actively collaborated with other authors on a few occasions—notably, with Gentry Lee on the Rama series—this is the first time that I have given an idea to another author to develop entirely as he wished. But it may not be the last: I’ve discovered that this gives me all the fun of creation—but none of the lonely hours slaving away at the keyboard.
I hope that you have enjoyed the resulting novel as much as I did.
Arthur C. Clarke 26 April 1995
Postscript Barely a month after I had written the above note, I received the tragic news that Mike had just died of a heart attack at the age of forty-six. Apparently there had been no prior warning.
I am indeed glad that I had written to him at once after receiving the manuscript, expressing my admiration for the skill with which he had developed my synopsis. And I was delighted to receive his very friendly and heartfelt reply—doubtless one of the last letters he wrote.
Though we never met, I feel sure that with his untimely passing the science fiction field has lost one of its most able, and promising, contributors.
Arthur C. Clarke 27 July 1995