I continued to stare at this total darkness above me for minutes, not daring to believe I’d seen what I thought I’d seen, and then I saw another one. Yes, a real star.
I thought that could only mean that a crack to the surface had opened above me; incredibly narrow, or far above me, but open enough that now and then a star drifted by its opening. I was beyond climbing, but perhaps where photons could get in, photons could get out.
Shaking and miserable, I started transmitting.
“Uranus Control, Uranus Control, Wojciech Bubka here. I’m down at the bottom of a crack on Miranda. Help. Uranus Control, Uranus Control.…”
* * *
Something sprayed on my face, waking me again. Air, and mist as well.
I opened my eyes and saw that a tube had cemented itself to my faceplate and drilled a hole through it to admit some smaller tubes. One of these was trying to snake its way into my mouth. I opened to help it, and got something warm and sweet to swallow.
“Thanks,” I croaked, around the tube.
“Don’t mention it,” a young female voice answered, sounding almost as relieved as I felt.
“My wife’s in this passage, somewhere in the direction my head is pointed. Can you get one of these tubes to her?”
There was a hesitation. “Your wife.”
“Miranda Lotati,” I croaked. “She was with me. Trying to get to the surface. Went that way.”
More hesitation.
“We’ll try, Wojciech. God knows we’ll try.”
Within minutes, a tiny version of Sam fell on my chest and scuttled past Sam’s wreckage down the compressed passage in her direction, trailing a line. The line seemed to run over me forever. I remember reading somewhere that while the journey to singularity is inevitable for someone passing into the event horizon of a black hole, as viewed from our Universe, the journey can take forever.
What most people remember about the rescue was the digger; that vast thing of pistons, beams, and steel claws that tore through the clathrate rift like an anteater looking for ants. What they saw, I assure you, was in no way as impressive, or scary, as being directly under the thing.
* * *
I was already in a hospital ship bed when they found Randi, eleven kilometers down a passage that had narrowed, narrowed, and narrowed.
At its end, she had broken her bones forcing herself through one more centimeter at a time. A cracked pelvis, both collarbones, two ribs, and her remaining ankle.
The last had done it, for when it collapsed she had no remaining way to force herself any farther through that crack of doom.
And so she had lain there, and, minute by minute, despite everything, willed herself to live as long as she could.
Despite everything, she did.
They got the first tubes into her through her hollow right boot and the plastiflesh seal of her stump, after the left foot had proved to be frozen solid. They didn’t tell me at first—not until they had convinced themselves she was really alive.
* * *
When the rescuers reached Cathy and Nikhil, Cathy calmly guided the medic to her paralyzed husband, and as soon as she saw that he was in good professional hands, gave herself a sedative, and started screaming until she collapsed. She wasn’t available for interviews for weeks.
But she’s fine now, and laughs about it. She and Nikhil live in a large university dome on Triton and host our reunions in their house, which has no roof—they’ve arranged for the dome’s rain to fall elsewhere.
Miranda, my wife, spent three years as a quadruple amputee, and went back into Miranda the moon that way, in a powered suit, to lead people back to the Cavern of Dead Ends. Today, it’s easy to see where the bronze weathered flesh of her old limbs ends and the pink smoothness of her new ones start. But if you miss it, she’ll point it out with a grin.
So, having been to hades and back, are the four of us best friends? For amusement, we all have more congenial companions. Nikhil is still a bit haughty, and he and Cathy still snipe at each other a little, but with smiles more often than not. I’ve come to conclude that, in some strange way, they need the stimulation that gives them, and a displacement for needs about which Nikhil will not speak.
Cathy and Randi still find little to talk about, giving us supposedly verbally challenged males a chance. Nikhil says I have absorbed enough geology lectures to pass doctorate exams; so maybe I will do that someday. He often lectures me toward that end, but my advance for our book was such that I won’t have to do anything the rest of my life, except for the love of it. I’m not sure I love geology.
Often, on our visits, the four of us simply sit, say nothing, and do nothing but sip a little fruit of the local grape, which we all enjoy. We smile at each other and remember.
But don’t let this studied difference of ours fool you. The four of us are bound with something that goes far beyond friendship, far beyond any slight conversation, far beyond my idiot critiques of our various eccentric personalities or of the hindsight mistakes of our passage through the Great Miranda Rift. These are the table crumbs from a feast of greatness, meant to sustain those who follow.
The sublime truth is that when I am with my wife, Nikhil, and Cathy, I feel elevated above what is merely human. Then I sit in the presence of these demigods who challenged, in mortal combat, the will of the Universe—and won.
The author would like to acknowledge the inspiration of Fritz Leiber (“A Pail of Air”), Hal Clement (Still River) and, of course, Jules Verne (A Journey to the Center of the Earth).
MWALIMU IN THE SQUARED CIRCLE
Mike Resnick
Mike Resnick is one of the best-selling authors in science fiction, and one of the most prolific. His many novels include The Dark Lady, Stalking the Unicorn, Paradise, Santiago, Ivory, and Soothsayer. Of late, he has become almost as prolific as an anthologist, producing, as editor, Inside the Funhouse: 17 SF stories about SF, Whatdunits, More Whatdunits, and Shaggy B.E.M. Stories, a long string of anthologies coedited with Martin H. Greenberg that includes Alternate Presidents, Alternate Kennedys, Alternate Warriors, Aladdin: Master of the Lamp, and Dinosaur Fantastic (with several more Resnick/Greenberg anthologies on the way), as well as two anthologies coedited with Gardner Dozois, Future Earths: Under African Skies and Future Earths: Under South American Skies. He won the Hugo Award in 1989 for “Kirinyaga,” one of the most controversial and talked-about stories in recent years. He won another Hugo Award in 1991 for another story in the Kirinyaga series, “The Manumouki.” His most recent books (not counting anthologies) are the novels Prophet, Lucifer Jones, and Purgatory, and the collection Will the Last Person to Leave the Planet Please Shut Off the Sun?, and coming soon are new novels, A Miracle of Rare Design and The Widowmaker in Springtime. His stories have appeared in our Sixth, Seventh, and Ninth Annual Collections. He lives with his wife, Carol, and at least one (no doubt very tired) computer, in Cincinnati, Ohio.
Here he gives us all front-row seats at what surely must be the oddest boxing match in all history, one that has the life or death of millions and the fate of nations riding on it.…
While this effort was being made, Amin postured:“I challenge President Nyerere in the boxing ring to fight it out there rather than that soldiers lose their lives on the field of battle … Muhammad Ali would be an ideal referee for the bout.”
—George Ivan Smith
Ghosts of Kampala (1980)
As the Tanzanians began to counterattack, Amin suggested a crazy solution to the dispute. He declared that the matter should be settled in the boxing ring. “I am keeping fit so that I can challenge President Nyerere in the boxing ring and fight it out there, rather than having the soldiers lose their lives on the field of battle”. Amin added that Muhammad Ali would be an ideal referee for the bout, and that he, Amin, as the former Uganda heavyweight champ, would give the small, white-haired Nyerere a sporting chance by fighting with one arm tied behind his back, and his legs shackled with weights.
—Dan Wooding and Ray Barnett
Nyerere looks up through the haze of blood masking his vision and sees the huge man standing over him, laughing. He looks into the man’s eyes and seems to see the dark heart of Africa, savage and untamed.
He cannot remember quite what he is doing here. Nothing hurts, but as he tries to move, nothing works, either. A black man in a white shirt, a man with a familiar face, seems to be pushing the huge man away, maneuvering him into a corner. Chuckling and posturing to people that Nyerere cannot see, the huge man backs away, and now the man in the white shirt returns and begins shouting.
“Four!”
Nyerere blinks and tries to clear his head. Who is he, and why is he on his back, half-naked, and who are these other two men?
“Five!”
“Stay down, Mwalimu!” yells a voice from behind him, and now it begins to come back to him. He is Mwalimu.
“Six!”
He blinks again and sees the huge electronic clock above him. It is one minute and fifty-eight seconds into the first round. He is Mwalimu, and if he doesn’t get up, his bankrupt country has lost the war.
“Seven!”
He cannot recall the last minute and fifty-eight seconds. In fact, he cannot recall anything since he entered the ring. He can taste his blood, can feel it running down over his eyes and cheeks, but he cannot remember how he came to be bleeding, or laying on his back. It is a mystery.
“Eight!”
Finally his legs are working again, and he gathers them beneath him. He does not know if they will bear his weight, but they must be doing so, for Muhammad Ali—that is his name! Ali—is cleaning his gloves off and staring into his eyes.
“You should have stayed down,” whispers Ali.
Nyerere grunts an answer. He is glad that the mouthpiece is impeding his speech, for he has no idea what he is trying to say.
“I can stop it if you want,” says Ali.
Nyerere grunts again, and Ali shrugs and stands aside as the huge man shuffles across the ring toward him, still chuckling.
* * *
It began as a joke. Nobody ever took anything Amin said seriously, except for his victims.
He had launched a surprise bombing raid in the north of Tanzania. No one knew why, for despite what they did in their own countries, despite what genocide they might commit, the one thing all African leaders had adhered to since Independence was the sanctity of national borders.
So Julius Nyerere, the Mwalimu, the Teacher, the President of Tanzania, had mobilized his forces and pushed Amin’s army back into Uganda. Not a single African nation had offered military assistance; not a single Western nation had offered to underwrite so much as the cost of a bullet. Amin had expediently converted to Islam, and now Libya’s crazed but opportunistic Quaddafi was pouring money and weapons into Uganda.
Still, Nyerere’s soldiers, with their tattered uniforms and ancient rifles, were marching toward Kampala, and it seemed only a matter of time before Amin was overthrown and the war would be ended, and Milton Obote would be restored to the Presidency of Uganda. It was a moral crusade, and Nyerere was convinced that Amin’s soldiers were throwing down their weapons and fleeing because they, too, know that Right was on Tanzania’s side.
But while Right may have favored Nyerere, Time did not. He knew what the Western press and even the Tanzanian army did not know: that within three weeks, not only could his bankrupt nation no longer supply its men with weapons, it could not even afford to bring them back out of Uganda.
* * *
“I challenge President Nyerere in the boxing ring to fight it out there rather than that soldiers lose their lives on the field of battle.…”
The challenge made every newspaper in the western world, as columnist after columnist laughed over the image of the 330-pound Amin, former heavyweight champion of the Ugandan army, stepping into the ring to duke it out with the five-foot one-inch, 112-pound, 57-year-old Nyerere.
Only one man did not laugh: Mwalimu.
* * *
“You’re crazy, you know that?”
Nyerere stares calmly at the tall, well-built man standing before his desk. It is a hot, humid day, typical of Dar es Salaam, and the man is already sweating profusely.
“I did not ask you here to judge my sanity,” answers Nyerere. “But to tell me how to defeat him.”
“It can’t be done. You’re spotting him two hundred pounds and twenty years. My job as referee is to keep him from out-and-out killing you.”
“You frequently defeated men who were bigger and stronger than you,” notes Nyerere gently. “And, in the latter portion of your career, younger than you as well.”
“You float like a butterfly and sting like a bee,” answers Ali. “But fifty-seven-year-old presidents don’t float, and little bitty guys don’t sting. I’ve been a boxer all my life. Have you ever fought anyone?”
“When I was younger,” says Nyerere.
“How much younger?”
Nyerere thinks back to the sunlit day, some forty-eight years ago, when he pummeled his brother, though he can no longer remember the reason for it. In his mind’s eye, both of them are small and thin and ill-nourished, and the beating amounted to two punches, delivered with barely enough force to stun a fly. The next week he acquired the gift of literacy, and he has never raised a hand in anger again. Words are far more powerful.
Nyerere sighs. “Much younger,” he admits.
“Ain’t no way,” says Ali, and then repeats, “Ain’t no way. This guy is not just a boxer, he’s crazy, and crazy people don’t feel no pain.”
“How would you fight him?” asks Nyerere.
“Me?” says Ali. He starts jabbing the air with his left fist. “Stick and run, stick and run. Take him dancing til he drops. Man’s got a lot of blubber on that frame.” He holds his arms up before his face. “He catches up with me, I go into the rope-a-dope. I lean back, I take his punches on my forearms, I let him wear himself out.” Suddenly he straightens up and turns back to Nyerere. “But it won’t work for you. He’ll break your arms if you try to protect yourself with them.”
“He’ll only have one arm free,” Nyerere points out.
“That’s all he’ll need,” answers Ali. “Your only shot is to keep moving, to tire him out.” He frowns. “But…”
“But?”
“But I ain’t never seen a fifty-seven-year-old man that could tire out a man in his thirties.”
“Well,” says Nyerere with an unhappy shrug, “I’ll have to think of something.”
“Think of letting your soldiers beat the shit out of his soldiers,” says Ali.
“That is impossible.”
“I thought they were winning,” said Ali.
“In fourteen days they will be out of ammunition and gasoline,” answers Nyerere. “They will be unable to defend themselves and unable to retreat.”
“Then give them what they need.”
Nyerere shakes his head. “You do not understand. My nation is bankrupt. There is no money to pay for ammunition.”
“Hell, I’ll loan it to you myself,” says Ali. “This Amin is a crazy man. He’s giving blacks all over the world a bad name.”
“That is out of the question,” says Nyerere.
“You think I ain’t got it?” says Ali pugnaciously.
“I am sure you are a wealthy man, and that your offer is sincere,” answers Nyerere. “But even if you gave us the money, by the time we converted it and purchased what we needed it would be too late. This is the only way to save my army.”
“By letting a crazy man tear you apart?”
“By defeating him in the ring before he realizes that he can defeat my men in the field.”
“I’ve seen a lot of things go down in the squared circle,” says Ali, shaking his head in disbelief, “but this is the strangest.”
* * *
“You cannot do this,” says Maria when she finally finds out.
“It is done,” answers Nyerere.
“You are not a prizefighter,” she says. “You are Mwalimu. No one expects you to meet this madman. The press treats it as a joke.”
“I would be happy to exchange doctoral theses with him, but he insists on exchanging blows,” says Nyerere wryly.
“He is illiterate,” said Maria. “And the people will not allow it. You are the man who brought us independence and who has led us ever since. The people look to you for wisdom, not pugilism.”
“I have never sought to live any life but that of the intellect,” he admits. “And what has it brought us? While Kenyatta and Mobutu and even Kaunda have stolen hundreds of millions of dollars, we are as poor now as the day we were wed.” He shakes his head sadly. “I stand up to oppose Amin, and only Sir Seretse Khama of Botswana, secure in his British knighthood, stands with me.” He pauses again, trying to sort it out. “Perhaps the old mzee of Kenya was right. Grab what you can while you can. Could our army be any more ill-equipped if I had funneled aid into a Swiss account? Could I be any worse off than now, as I prepare to face this madman in”—he cannot hide his distaste—“a boxing ring?”
“You must not face him,” insists Maria.
“I must, or the army will perish.”
“Do you think he will let the army live after he has beaten you?” she asks.
Nyerere has not thought that far ahead, and now a troubled frown crosses his face.
* * *
He had come to the office with such high hopes, such dreams and ambitions. Let Kenyatta play lackey to the capitalist West. Let Machal sell his country to the Russians. Tanzania would be different, a proving ground for African socialism.
It was a dry, barren country without much to offer. There were the great game parks, the Serengeti and the Ngorongoro Crater in the north, but four-fifths of the land was infested with the tsetse fly, there were no minerals beneath the surface, Nairobi was already the capital city of East Africa and no amount of modernization to Dar es Salaam could make it competitive. There was precious little grazing land and even less water. None of this fazed Nyerere; they were just more challenges to overcome, and he had no doubt that he could shape them to his vision.
The Year's Best SF 11 # 1993 Page 44
