“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.