Crisis!

by James Gunn

  “What would you do?” Johnson asked.

  “I—I....” Mohammed said, as if unable to answer.

  “That's something,” Johnson said.

  “Of course if we decide to break out, we've got to do it in the next hour or so, while it's still dark,” Chrisman said.

  “I've got to go to the bathroom,” Delaney said suddenly. “I can't hold it any longer."

  “It's dark,” Chrisman said, “and there are lots of corners."

  “There also may be rats and spiders,” she said.

  “And snakes,” Chrisman said. He seemed to take pleasure in teasing her.

  “Maybe I can wait,” she said.

  “We have an hour,” Johnson said. “We should give them time to get bored and sleepy, anyway. We can talk."

  “Let's talk,” Chrisman said.

  “We're fortunate in a way,” Johnson said. “We have a representative group: a reluctant terrorist, someone who is terrified, and a couple of reasonable people, one of whom is in a position to recommend a solution that might be considered seriously by the authorities."

  “Aren't we lucky,” Delaney said. Her small attempt at sarcasm was undercut by the break in her voice.

  “Yes,” Johnson said.

  “What's your idea, Johnson?” Chrisman said lazily.

  “Most of the problems with terrorism seem to be involved with the ownership of land,” Johnson said. “Particularly homelands. And particularly when a piece of land is homeland to more than one people."

  “Religion also seems to play a part,” Chrisman said.

  “Yes. but usually when it is associated with some kind of nationalistic movement. The big problem seems to be land."

  “And, as Will Rogers once said,” Chrisman said, “they ain't making any more."

  “That's the point,” Johnson said. “If I'm right, we have almost reached the stage where we can make more.” Chrisman sat up in the darkness, the hay making an audible squeak under the blanket. “Yeah."

  “That's the work you're involved in, I believe,” Johnson said. “You're not a regular astronaut. This sort of thing is what took you into space."

  “Making land,” Chrisman said. “It might work."

  “I don't understand what you two are talking about!” Delaney protested.

  “Me also,” Mohammed said helplessly.

  “Space habitats,” Chrisman said. “That's what I'm into. Making places in space where people can live. Out of materials constructed on Earth and transported into space to be put together there for living quarters, laboratories, factories. At first, anyway. Later getting raw materials from the moon. Much later moving large asteroids into orbit around the Earth, mining them for iron and other minerals, hollowing them into habitats, maybe mobile ones containing their own gravity, air, air-renewal system, farms, factories, propulsion systems. Eventually making them self-sufficient, maybe capable of carrying the inhabitants anywhere they want to go in the solar system, maybe anywhere in the galaxy."

  His enthusiasm was evident, even in the darkness. It was clear that he had thought about this a great deal and even made speeches about it.

  “I don't see what good that's going to do us,” Delaney said. “I wouldn't live in a place like that, even if we get out of here alive."

  “Nobody's asking you to, Delaney,” Chrisman said. “We're going to ask Mohammed here."

  “Me?” Mohammed said. In the darkness his expression could only be imagined.

  “How would you like to live in a world orbiting the Earth?” Chrisman said.

  “I be frightened,” Mohammed said. “How I live? How I breathe?"

  “Those things would be taken care of,” Chrisman said. “You would be taught things. And there would be others there. Your sister. The rest of your people eventually. Anybody who wants to go."

  “There be millions,” Mohammed said. “You put all in space?"

  “Those who want to go. The committed. The terrorists. The adventurous. Some will refuse. But think: the Palestinians protest because they say they have been cheated of their heritage and their future. If they go to live in space habitats, the future will be theirs."

  “Theirs only?"

  “Of course there will be others,” Chrisman said. “Other dissident groups to begin with, but once it gets rolling young people of many nationalities will want their own chance in space."

  “My people not know such things as space—what you say—habitats."

  “The Palestinians are intelligent and well-educated, and anybody who can handle explosives secretly without blowing themselves up can learn how to take the necessary precautions to live in space. It requires forethought, but this is something your people are good at. The Irish? Maybe they can learn."

  “You mean we would go to the great expense of putting these living quarters into space so that terrorists could live in them?” Delaney said incredulously.

  “That's the beauty of it, don't you see?” Chrisman said. “Humanity's future lies in space. It doesn't matter who goes first. It's all of us. Right now there aren't enough people who can see this clearly enough to finance it. But maybe we can get enough support by making it serve two purposes: we'll solve the terrorist problem and get the space habitats started at the same time."

  “But that's rewarding the terrorists for killing people,” Delaney protested.

  “We can't afford that kind of thinking,” Johnson said.

  “It's just solving the problem,” Chrisman said impatiently. He seemed to have adopted the idea as if it were his own. “You don't realize how much money and resources go into the business of coping with terrorism. And how close terrorism might come to destroying us all in a nuclear war if the wrong people get their hands on nuclear weapons, or somebody miscalculates. We could lose everything."

  “Maybe my people not go,” Mohammed said. “This space thing not be Palestine."

  “There are many reasons why your people should accept a generous offer. Not the least is their pride. It would be dangerous. Some would die in accidents. There would be martyrs. But there would be peace, and a land brighter and richer than Palestine."

  “Then the Jews would want one,” Delaney said.

  “Let them have one,” Chrisman said. “Let anybody who wants a habitat have one if they can afford it or the funds can be raised somewhere. People will be too busy in space making things work to worry about old antagonisms. Just like the settlers were too busy in America. Maybe, if we all work at it, we can turn our competitive instincts toward our galactic environment rather than each other."

  “There still will be problems,” Johnson said.

  “Oh, of course,” Chrisman said. “This isn't utopia. It just gives us breathing room. And maybe it scatters humanity's seed far enough that a single accident can't wipe it out. If we can just get it done, it will mean that humanity is immortal. Or at least as immortal as the universe."

  “Maybe it work,” Mohammed said. For the first time he sounded hopeful.

  “You think your sister would go for it?” Delaney said. For the first time she sounded hopeful, too.

  “Maybe.” He seemed excited now. He moved toward the door, stumbling in the darkness, and pounded on it.

  The noise was startling in the night. A voice outside spoke loud, harsh words in a foreign language, and Mohammed replied in the same language. The captives could make out the word “Fatima.” It was repeated several times.

  “Already?” Chrisman said. “At this time of night?"

  “Why not?” Delaney said. She was standing. “Johnson? Are you there?"

  “Yes.” Johnson felt a hand touch his and cling to it for a moment.

  “I'm sorry,” she said. She released his hand. It was enough. She, too, had the capacity to change. She laughed. “I'm going to the bathroom while I have the chance."

  The door opened. Through the doorway came the light of the full moon outlining the figure of Mohammed's sister and casting a long shaft of silver across the barn floor.

&
nbsp; “Fatima,” Mohammed said confidently, “I have good idea...."

  * * * *

  The prisoners were released on a street corner in Washington, D.C., not far from a telephone booth and only half a dozen blocks from Capitol Hill. Mohammed had been persuasive, but inbred paranoia was not quickly discarded. There was much work to be done; it would take time, years perhaps.

  “Do you think it will work, Johnson?” Chrisman asked as he waited for Delaney to be finished with the telephone.

  “I know it will,” Johnson said. His eyes had the look of someone who was seeing distant visions.

  “You have people here?” Chrisman asked. “You need a lift somewhere?"

  “Don't worry about me,” Johnson said. “But do you have a piece of paper on you?"

  Chrisman looked down at his astronaut's coveralls and smiled. “I'm afraid not. As a matter of fact. I was going to borrow a quarter from you or Delaney for the telephone call."

  Johnson rummaged through his pockets and came up with a quarter. “Here,” he said, and when Chrisman turned to the telephone booth, he walked quickly away.

  In an alley between office buildings he found an area enclosed by overflowing trash containers and large cardboard boxes. He rummaged through the containers until he found a small box, tore the flap from it, settled down behind one of the large ones, and held the flap up to a distant streetlight as he wrote:

  “Your name is Bill Johnson. You have just helped solve the problem of political terrorism and launched humanity toward the stars, and you don't remember. You may find the newspapers filled with reports of what happened, but you will find no mention of the part you played.

  “For this there are several possible explanations....” After he had finished, he propped the flap against an adjacent trash container where he would see it when he awoke, pulled his jacket tightly around him against the night's chill, and lay back to await the new day.

  Episode Five

  Woman of the Year

  The man lying behind the large cardboard boxes and the overflowing trash containers opened his eyes to a half-circle of faces framed against the blue sky. One of the faces was older and sterner. Below it was a blue uniform. “You can't sleep here, mister,” it said.

  The man pulled his old gray tweed jacket a little tighter around his body and sat up. “I wasn't doing much sleeping, I assure you,” he said and grinned.

  It was a good grin and a pleasant face, even though it seemed a bit blank at the moment as if it had been wiped clean by the night's healing hand. The face was a golden brown, not as if it had been tanned but as if that was its native color, and it was smooth as if fresh shaven, although clearly the man had not had the opportunity to shave. He had dark, curly hair, and when he got up, as he did now, he was of medium height. In fact, though he may have been better looking than most, he seemed an average sort of person, a man easily overlooked by those who only passed by.

  “We don't allow vagrants around here,” the policeman said. “The Capitol and the White House ain't that far away. It don't look good."

  The policeman was surrounded by children, big and little, white and black and brown, clean and dirty, neat and ragged. They had gathered as if by magic to stare at this curiosity in their midst. By their dress and the books in their hands, some of them were on their way to school. Others, perhaps, were only loitering, looking for excitement or trouble. One of the younger children stuck her tongue out. The man smiled at her. An older boy dressed in ragged jeans and a dirty jacket held his right hand with the thumb hooked over his waistband near his back pocket as if it held an amulet, and his eyes were narrow and calculating as he studied the man who had been sleeping in this dirty alley. “Whatcha doin’ here anyway?” he asked.

  The man patted his pockets and pulled a billfold out of the rear one. He opened it for the policeman's inspection. “I've got money and credit cards,” he said. There were a few bills in it and a couple of plastic cards. “I just got trapped here last night and couldn't get a cab, so I decided to wait out the night. Pretty cold, too."

  “Okay, what's your name?” the policeman asked, taking out a pad of paper and a pencil.

  The man looked at one of the cards. “Bill Johnson,” he said.

  “You don't know your own name?"

  “Just a habit, officer,” the man said. “I'd rather you didn't write this up, however. After all, I haven't broken any laws."

  “You think sleeping in the street is legal in this town?” the policeman asked.

  “I think he's a looney,” the older boy said. He was looking at the billfold in Johnson's hand.

  “Go on about your business, Tommy, if you have any,” the policeman said.

  “What's going on here, officer?” asked a woman's voice from behind the throng of children.

  The policeman turned, motioning to the children as if he were parting the Red Sea. “Get away. Go along to school or wherever you're headed. It's just this man here, Ms. Franklin,” he said to the young woman unveiled by the children. “I found him sleeping behind these boxes, and I'm trying to find out what's going on."

  “Is everything all right?” the woman named Franklin asked. She was of medium height and slender, with dark blonde hair and blue eyes and a face and figure of unusual beauty. The younger children clustered around her and the older boys gave her room, appraising her out of the corner of their eyes and unconsciously straightening their backs and brushing the hair from their eyes.

  “Perfectly fine, ma'am,” Johnson said. He smiled at her.

  “Says his name's Johnson, Bill Johnson,” the policeman said, putting away his pad and pencil.

  “I'll be responsible for Mr. Johnson,” the woman said. “I'll see that he gets wherever he's going."

  “That's fine with me, Ms. Franklin,” the policeman said. “Get along to school, you kids! Go on, now!"

  The children stirred but did not disperse. The policeman moved off unhappily, as if searching for more satisfying situations.

  “Do you want to come with me?” the woman said.

  “Very much,” Johnson said.

  “You can go on about your own business if you like,” she continued. “I'm going to work, but I can find you a taxicab or a hotel.” Her voice was lovely, too, low and melodious.

  “You're kind,” Johnson said.

  She shrugged. “Just common courtesy."

  “I was hoping for more.” He dusted himself off and straightened his clothing. “I'm ready."

  They moved out of the alley onto the street, the children following them as if one of them were the Pied Piper. “So your name is Bill Johnson,” she said.

  “I think so,” he said.

  They were halfway down the street when Johnson stopped suddenly. “Can you wait just a moment?” he asked. “I've forgotten something.” He turned and ran back the way they had come, and down the odorous alley to the spot where he had been lying. He looked around the area for a moment and saw a piece of cardboard with some writing on it. He glanced at it, folded it so that the writing was inside, and walked quickly back toward the little group with the piece of cardboard in his hand. The children were clustered around the young woman. It was clear now who was the Pied Piper. Johnson studied her as she talked to the children, clearly caring about them.

  “Okay,” he said.

  She looked up at him and smiled. “Go on to school, children,” she said. For her they did what they would not do for the man in uniform, moving off, chattering and waving their hands. “I'm Sally Franklin,” she said. “And I work in the People, Limited, building just down the street. If you want to walk there with me, we can get you settled somewhere. Where is it you belong?"

  “Would you believe me if I told you I don't know?” he asked.

  She tilted her head to look at him as they walked along. “I'm in the business of believing people."

  “You're good at it,” Johnson said. “That's because you like people, and they like you.” He looked at her as if he were seeing not onl
y the person in front of him but all the people she had been and might yet become.

  Within a couple of blocks, the streets were busier, the sidewalks were cleaner, and the buildings were large and institutional, with sawed-limestone exteriors and polished brass street markers on their corners. Where there were brief stretches of green lawn in front of or beside the buildings, some of them had neat signs identifying them. One of them read “People, Limited."

  “This is where I work,” she said, turning in at the doorway. She had her purse open in her hand and an identification card inserted in a slot beside the plate-glass doors. They swung open and she motioned Johnson to go in.

  An attractive dark-haired young woman seated at a desk just inside the doorway looked up as they entered. “Good morning, Ms. Franklin,” she said and gave a curious look at Johnson, but didn't say anything, as if she were accustomed to seeing the other woman with strange companions.

  “Jessie, this is Mr. Johnson,” Sally Franklin said. “I found him in an alley.” She smiled at Johnson as if to say it was a joke between them. “See if you can find him a place to stay, or transportation, or whatever he needs."

  “How about a job?” Johnson said.

  “You don't have a job?” Franklin asked.

  “I don't think so."

  “There's a great deal you don't know about yourself,” she said, looking at him without accusation, “but that's none of my business. We're always looking for volunteers. We don't have many paid positions, but why don't you fill out an application, listing your qualifications and employment record, if you have any, and if we can't find something for you here maybe we can locate employment elsewhere."

  “You really are kind,” he said, holding out his hand.

  She took his hand and pressed it briefly. “I seem to get involved with people who don't have a home or a future,” she said and smiled. She turned toward the elevator a few feet away.

  “Strays?” he asked.

  “Strays,” she agreed.

  “Thanks for everything,” he said.

  She stepped into the elevator with a wave of her hand and was gone. “She's a remarkable woman,” Johnson said, turning to the young woman at the desk.