“I’m sorry it’s come to this,” Umber said.
Waxman nodded silently.
“Are you returning to Earth?”
“I suppose I’ll have to.”
“Will it be safe for you?”
Waxman smiled slightly and shook his head. “No. It will be the death of me.”
“You really believe that they’ll try to kill you?”
Locking his eyes with the minister’s, Waxman replied, “They will try, Kyle. And they’ll succeed. It’s people like Dacco and his ilk that led you to build this habitat, to get away from them and their evil.”
For a long moment Umber did not reply. At last he murmured, “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
Suddenly Waxman burst, “Give me another chance, Kyle! Please, please, I beg of you! Don’t send me off to my death. They’ll kill me! At least here on Haven I have a chance to survive. Your colonizers are screened, scanned. You reject the violent ones, the dangerous ones.”
Umber nodded slowly. “I’ve tried to make this habitat a true haven for the downtrodden people of Earth. I dreamed of bringing millions of them here, to this new world, where they could live in decency, where they could build new lives for themselves, a new world.”
“And you can still do that, Kyle! Your dream isn’t dead. You can go ahead with it. Build more habitats. Take in Earth’s weary, poor, downcast people.”
“Yes, I can still do that,” Umber replied. “But what about you? What am I to do with you, Evan?”
“Let me help you! Let me continue as your strong right hand. Let me live!”
Umber leaned back in his chair, as if driven by the force of Waxman’s plea.
“You told me that Haven will be bankrupt within a year,” he said.
“We can survive! We can adopt an internal economic system, like the early colonies in the New World on Earth. We can grow our own food, manufacture all that we need—”
“Would that be possible?”
“I’ll make it possible! You’ll see, Kyle. We may drop down to a subsistence economy, but we can survive. And as newcomers arrive, our economy will grow! Just as the Americans and Australians and other colonists on Earth survived and prospered.”
“Could we create a self-sustaining economy here?” the minister wondered. “Without importing goods from Earth?”
“But if you’re accepted into the Interplanetary Council you could establish trade links with Earth and the other worlds. Haven could prosper, eventually.”
“You could make that happen?”
“I’ll work night and day to make it happen!”
Umber nodded. “That would be a magnificent undertaking.”
“We’ll make it happen, Kyle,” Waxman said. “You and I, working together.”
“Working together,” Umber repeated. He nodded again. But then his fleshy face settled into a hard frown.
Waxman saw the change in the minister’s expression.
“What is it, Kyle?”
“Quincy O’Donnell,” said Umber.
“Quincy…?”
“He was murdered.”
“By a robot,” Waxman claimed.
With a reluctant sigh, Umber replied, “By a robot that was programmed to tear off his space suit’s helmet.”
“Programmed?”
“Robots do not spontaneously attack people, Evan. We both know that.”
“But—”
“But that particular robot attacked O’Donnell and killed him. Who programmed the robot to do that?”
“Nobody! The damned machine went wild. That’s why we destroyed it.”
“You destroyed it so that no evidence of your programming remained for anyone to find.”
“Kyle, that incident is over and done with. I—”
“That incident was cold-blooded murder, Evan. You murdered O’Donnell.”
Waxman sat frozen in his chair, his face white with shock, his lips parted, as if trying desperately to breathe.
“I… but…”
“The Interplanetary Council’s penalty for murder is cryonic freezing,” said Umber, his voice low but implacably unyielding. “You’ll be frozen until medical science learns how to eliminate the violence in your brain.”
“No… please, Kyle. Forgive me.”
“Only God can truly forgive you. I’m merely His representative here on Haven.”
Waxman slid off his chair, crumpled to his knees. “Please, Kyle. Please!”
Umber had to get to his feet to lean over his desk to see Waxman’s kneeling form. “Evan, you’re going to have to stand trial for murder. I will recommend leniency to the judges. If they grant it, you can resume your duties as executive director—but with Raven Marchesi as your assistant. She will work side by side with you every moment of the day.”
Clawing his way clumsily back into his chair, Waxman said, “Yes, yes, that would work out. I could live with that.”
As he resumed his chair, Umber repressed an urge to smile at Waxman’s unintended pun.
“The mark of Cain is upon you, Evan. I don’t know if it can ever be expunged.”
“God is merciful! I’ve heard you say that a thousand times.”
“Let us hope so.”
THE BARGAIN
“He murdered Quincy?” Raven gasped.
Kyle Umber nodded solemnly from behind his desk. “He programmed the robot that killed the man.”
“And you’re recommending leniency?”
“Yes.”
Sitting in front of Umber’s desk, Raven stared at the minister’s stony features for several silent moments.
Then, “I can’t work with him.”
“You must, Raven. We must all help to redeem Evan’s soul.”
“Redeem his soul? I’d rather send him to hell!”
Umber shook his head sadly. “No, Raven. We’re not here to condemn or to punish. Waxman’s soul should be saved, if we have the strength and the grace to save it.”
Raven felt hot anger simmering within her. The bastard murdered Quincy, and the reverend expects me to work with him, to forgive him, to help him?
As if he could read her thoughts, Umber said, “I know it won’t be easy for you. Vengeance is a very deep emotion. But forgiveness is better, Raven, far better.”
“I don’t know if I can forgive him.”
With the slightest hint of a smile, Reverend Umber replied, “This will be a test for you, then. A test for all of us.”
A test, Raven thought. We’re all being tested: Waxman, myself, even the reverend.
“Will you try to work with him? Please?”
Raven heard herself say, in a barely audible voice, “If that’s what you want.”
Umber responded, “I believe with all my heart that it’s what God wants.”
Raven suppressed an urge to shake her head in denial. Instead she said, “God doesn’t make it easy for us, does He?”
Glad to have the Waxman business behind him, Reverend Umber watched Raven leave his office, her face clouded with suspicion and doubt. He settled himself back in his desk chair and saw that his next visitor was to be Harvey Millard, from the Interplanetary Council.
Millard arrived precisely on time. Umber rose from his chair once again, as Millard—slim, elegant, wearing an ordinary suit of light brown jacket and darker slacks—entered his office and went straight to one of the chairs in front of the reverend’s desk.
Before the IC’s executive director could say anything, Umber asked, “What do you think of Gomez’s theory? Truly.”
Millard’s light brown eyes widened with surprise. “I’m not an astronomer—”
“Neither am I,” Umber interrupted. “But I would appreciate your honest opinion of the idea.”