Rust. Narcotics. God knows what else is taking place in that tower Evan’s built, right under my nose. And I’ve been too vain, too conceited, too stupid to take notice of it.
Fool. Blind, arrogant, trusting fool.
I’ve let Evan place me on a pedestal. And now I don’t know how to climb down off it and take control of Haven back into my own hands.
Pride, Reverend Umber told himself. The sin of pride.
Umber remembered the words of St. Augustine: It was pride that changed angels into devils.
Pride. Blind, stupid, self-glorifying pride. The sin from which all others arise.
Slowly, painfully, Umber struggled to his feet. All around him lay the trappings of power, the ornaments of selfish pride. His quarters resembled a scene out of ancient royalty: luxurious damask draperies and silken bed linens, bejeweled chandeliers and fine graceful furniture.
All the embellishments of wealth and power. Useless. Vain, self-glorifying, self-defeating pride.
I wanted to create a new heaven, here among the distant worlds, far from the corruption and temptations of Earth. And all I’ve accomplished is to create a center for drugs, narcotics, lustful sin. I’ve built a modern hell, not a new heaven.
Tottering before his handsome desk, surrounded by lush foliage and exquisite furniture, Umber cried aloud, “Lord, show me the way!”
But he heard no answer.
Raven was undressing for bed when the phone buzzed.
It must be Tómas, she thought. For an instant she hesitated. After the way he behaved at dinner, why should I talk to him? But she was already leaning across her bed, reaching for the phone. He’s under tremendous stress, she told herself. I shouldn’t get frosty with him.
The face in the phone screen was obviously a nurse. Tómas has been hurt. Badly. Raven pulled her discarded clothes back on and ran to the hospital.
He was stretched out on the bed, one leg encased in a cast and raised in traction, a big bandage hiding one side of his face, his skull wrapped in more bandages.
The doctor standing beside Raven, a plump red-haired woman, was saying in a whisper, “It’s the concussion that worries me most. They almost killed him.”
“They?” Raven asked, tearing her eyes away from Tómas’s unconscious form. “Who?”
The doctor made a small shrug. “We don’t know. He was found unconscious on the floor of the passageway. Surveillance video shows he was accosted by three young men.”
Raven stared down at Tómas’s battered face. Who would do this? Why?
The astronomer’s eyes fluttered open. Bloodshot, unfocused, blinking. Then they stopped at Raven’s form standing beside the bed.
He made a groaning sound.
She flung herself onto his prostrate form, cradling his bandaged face in her hands. He winced deeply.
“Tómas!” she sobbed.
He croaked, “Raven. I’m sorry.”
“Who did this to you?”
Tómas did not answer. All he could remember was the suddenness of the attack. The pain. His helplessness. But he recognized that Raven was here, sobbing uncontrollably as she lay sprawled across his chest.
He smiled faintly as he slid back into unconsciousness.
The following morning Evan Waxman strolled through his outer domain and into his private office, smiling at his assistants as they sat at their desks, already busy with their morning assignments.
Sliding into his handsome, comfortable chair, he told his desktop computer to present a summary of the week’s production figures. He smiled as the numbers showed that sales of various narcotics were climbing nicely.
Then an attention-demanding star flashed in the corner of his screen. With a puzzled frown Waxman told the computer to present the relevant data.
The screen showed the passageway from the shuttle docking area. A man was being viciously assaulted by a trio of thugs wearing gray hooded jackets. Waxman couldn’t make out their faces. They swiftly beat their victim and left him sprawled unconscious on the passageway floor as they ran away.
Waxman stared at the scene, his eyes wide with surprised disbelief. A mugging! Here in Haven? Outrageous. Unacceptable. Umber will hit the ceiling when he learns of this.
“Phone,” Waxman commanded. “Get me the security department. Top priority!”
The screen immediately showed a young woman wearing police blue. Waxman demanded to speak to the chief. The woman swiftly connected him.
Before Waxman could speak a word, the security chief—a grizzled, gray-haired man in a tight-fitting blue uniform—said, “This is about the incident last night, isn’t it?”
“Incident?” Waxman snapped. “We can’t have that kind of violence here! What the hell happened?”
“We’re trying to put the pieces together,” said the security chief, his beefy face showing concern, almost anger. “Seems like a random act of violence.”
“Random act? You mean those thugs were just having fun?”
“Could be,” said the chief.
“Who are they? Have you identified them?”
“Not yet. Those hoods they were wearing hid their faces pretty effectively.”
“Well find them!” Waxman demanded. “Find them quickly! We can’t have this kind of violence here!”
As reasonably as he could, the chief said, “You’ve got to expect little outbreaks like this from time to time. After all, this habitat is filled with the dregs of society.”
“You let them get away with this and pretty soon the whole damned colony will become a battleground! Find them! Quickly!”
The chief nodded. “Right.”
Waxman’s screen went blank. He leaned back in his self-adjusting chair, thinking, Umber will go berserk the minute he learns of this. He’ll blame me for it!
REACTIONS
Kyle Umber sat open-mouthed with shock as he watched the video of the attack on Tómas Gomez.
“This is terrible!” he exclaimed.
Evan Waxman, standing anxiously before Umber’s ornate desk nodded unhappily. “The victim was one of the astronomers: Tómas Gomez.”
“How badly was he hurt?”
“Broken leg, broken nose, fractured skull.”
“Good lord!”
“The assailants said something to him, but the surveillance system couldn’t make out the words.”
“I’ve got to go to the poor man,” Umber said, pushing himself up from his desk chair.
“We’re trying to amplify the words, maybe they’ll give us a clue as to who the ruffians were.”
As he came around his desk, Umber said, “And why they did such a senseless act of violence. Why would they do this?”
Waxman said, “Young thugs. They don’t need a reason.”
“No,” Umber disagreed. “Every human action has a motivation behind it. The motivation might seem farfetched, outrageous, but every action has a cause.”
Waxman shrugged. “I suppose so.”
“I’m going to the hospital, Evan. Please let me know if you learn anything about this.”
“I will.”
“Immediately.”
“Certainly.”
Umber hurried out of his ornate office. Waxman watched him leave, then headed for the meeting that the chief of security had set up for him. With a Sergeant Jacobi.
“Frankly,” said Jacobi, “I’m surprised that we haven’t seen more of this kind of thing.”
Waxman was sitting before Jacobi’s desk, a standard-issue gray metal type shoehorned into the sergeant’s narrow office; it was nothing more than a closet-sized space partitioned off from the rest of the station by flimsy shoulder-high panels. The area was barely big enough for the two of them, and Waxman could hear the daily chatter of the security people filling the air outside the cubicle.