The debate was scheduled for noon on Monday, Nov. 22, at the historic open-speech area of downtown’s John Martin Roberts Park. Initially, only a small audience was expected, as holovision coverage made public debates easily accessible to those who preferred the comforts of home. It was quite a shock, then, when the Police Department announced, on the Friday before the big event, that because of unexpected interest in the Milgrom-Rensselaer confrontation, tickets would be carefully inspected, and only holders of valid ones would be admitted to the open-speech area. Just thinking about the police announcement chilled Rayna’s backbone with vague foreboding.
A light breeze jostled branches and flapped the bunting on the platform in the center of the open-speech area. Fourteen students had joined her on the field trip. Not too bad, she thought. All but eight of the students in her class on contemporary American concerns. That’s a clear majority for freedom of speech.
Heeding advice from a friend in the Park Service, she had insisted on arriving an hour early. Even shortly after 11 a.m., however, most of the 150 seats in the semicircular rows around the speaker’s platform were already taken. Unable to find 15 seats together, she grouped 12 students into threesomes. The remaining pupils would sit with her. As they awaited the start of the program, she reassured herself that all was well by making the rounds from one group to another before she finally returned to her own seat, a few rows from the back of the ticket-holders’ area.
The sun was nearing its zenith when the official entourage left the recreation building—about 200 yards distant—and began making its way to the concrete-and-woodstone platform. The park’s open-speech center was one of the first undertakings of Project New Start’s Youth Corps, established in the aftermath of the 1971 riots. A very fitting place for a historic debate, Rayna mused, pretending not to notice the nervous flutter in her stomach.
The area behind them was dense with spectators now, as knots of people clustered in back of the rope barricades the police had erected to separate the seated ticket-holders from any curious onlookers who might wander by. Rayna realized, however, that the throng she’d seen develop over the past hour had to include more than the merely curious.
A buzz, growing to a steady rumble, oozed from the crowd as the speakers neared the platform. Rayna strained to see as the contingent of three men and two women mounted the steps to the stage. All but one, that is. Althea Milgrom couldn’t use the steps. Instead, she directed her powered wheelchair up a gently sloped ramp and took her place on the left side of the podium. Imposing in his navy-and-red Merchant Fleet uniform, Adm. Ethan O. Rensselaer sat on the opposite side of a woodstone lectern.
“She’s a funny-looking old bird,” said Damon Taylor, one of the students with Rayna. “Why’s she using that chair? She lose her MediNet card or something?”
”They can’t help her any more, dummy!” said the dark-haired girl seated next to Damon. “Don’t you know who that is?” As usual, Ginny Winokis skipped the niceties. “For Pete’s sake! It’s Althea Milgrom!”
Damon’s face turned a deep crimson. “Oh,” he muttered.
Rayna’s classes had been discussing Milgrom and Rensselaer for days. The students knew about Rensselaer’s years of service in the Asteroid Belt. They knew he’d been honored for his courage and ingenuity in helping to establish life domes on some of the most inhospitable of the colonized asteroids. And, of course, they all knew about the accolades heaped upon him for his handling of the Nitinol crisis.
The students also knew that, despite the miracles of modern medicine, Althea Milgrom still needed her wheelchair. The chair was a token of the multiple sclerosis that plagued her from the age of 24. A vaccine developed 14 years later led to treatment that halted progression of her MS, and other treatments had managed to turn back some of her symptoms, but by that time, her condition was too advanced to be fully reversible.
Milgrom discovered that she had a special aptitude for computers, and she worked hard to develop and apply it. Five years ago, at age 62, she was appointed to head the Consolidated Data Network—a job she had filled admirably and without incident until she began to speak out about the Nitinol controversy.
A tall, stout man dressed in a loose-fitting gray business tunic and black trousers whispered to the others on the stage and then approached the lectern.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “I’m Franklin Wentworth, chairman of the Los Angeles Public Issues Society. Our organization is dedicated to the proposition that full and open discussion of controversial public policy questions is the hallmark of our democracy.”
He stopped talking and scanned the audience—rather nervously, Rayna thought. She unfastened her cardigan, enjoying the unexpectedly balmy climate. Must be close to 75, she thought as Wentworth introduced the speakers and others on the dais. And the weather man said it wouldn’t get past the mid 60s today! She inhaled deeply. It felt good to be here. There was nothing quite like seeing one of these debates live. It’s not just what you hear or see. It’s knowing that what’s around you is more than a holographic projection—knowing that it’s real!
A sudden bump jarred her out of her reverie. “Stop fidgeting, Damon,” she urged as her student contorted his body for a better view of the stage. He stopped squirming but looked puzzled.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“I was just trying to see where they set up the sound-envelope generator.”
Rayna sighed and patted Damon on the shoulder. “Save your investigation of the sound equipment for some other time. We’re here for the debate.”
He scowled but settled down. Rayna couldn’t help smiling. Lately, Damon had lost the enthusiasm and creative energy she remembered from last year. At least, now he was actively interested in something.
And the sound system here was a marvel of acoustical engineering, a new design especially suited to outdoor performances. It was based on a special field, a “sound envelope,” within which the sound from the stage was modulated so that it could be heard at normal, conversational volume. Outside the field, sounds remained unaltered—and thus, often unheard.
Rayna pulled her sweater close about her throat. True, the sound-envelope generator was a wonderful innovation, but using it today? Presumably, the rope barriers indicated the limits of the sound envelope. All those people beyond the ropes would be cut off from the sound as effectively as if they were outside a building looking in. Yet only a few cords of twisted fibers separated them from the speakers and ticketed guests—including Rayna and her students.
“As you know,” Wentworth was saying, “Earth’s energy systems were recently dealt a serious blow by the diversion of a shipment of Nitinol wire and by colonial demands for triple payment.”
Was that an unhappy protest from the crowd behind her? Rayna twisted around for a look. The people behind the ropes made her nervous.
“Both of today’s guests are very well informed about the situation,” Wentworth announced, “but they have come to quite different conclusions about what to do.”
“We know all about Milgrom’s conclusions!” a voice called out. “She wants to sell us out to the rock farmers!”
Although the comment was loud and clear to Rayna, Wentworth either didn’t hear, or else he chose to ignore it.
“And now,” the moderator continued, “it is my pleasure to present our speakers. They have agreed that Adm. Rensselaer will make his presentation first.”
Rensselaer slowly rose to his full height, walked to the lectern, and shook hands with Wentworth, who then joined the others seated at the rear of the stage.
Rensselaer recited the standard thank-you’s to Wentworth and his organization, then slowly scrutinized the audience with an almost hypnotic gaze. Rayna’s flesh erupted into goose bumps. I could swear he’s looking directly at me. Of course, that was just her imagination. Good eye contact was a basic public-speaking technique. Still, she had never before encountered anyone who did it quite so effectively.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rensselaer said in a commanding baritone, “energy is the lifeblood of our planet. Without it, most of the advances of the modern world would have been impossible. Without it, most of the things we now accept as commonplace would be useless.” Again, the turn of the head, the establishment of eye contact with a new section of the audience. “Energy is of vital importance in every facet of our lives, from transportation, to medicine, to agriculture. Yes, even to production of the very food we put into the mouths of our children.”
Rayna heard a groan to her right and quickly shot Ginny a stern look, but the teacher couldn’t help being pleased by her student’s recognition of Rensselaer’s brand of old-fashioned political posturing.
“Decades ago,” the admiral was saying, “Earth established colonies in the Asteroid Belt. Among the raw materials we found on the asteroids were rich deposits of nickel and titanium, the elements needed to produce the Nitinol we must use to meet most of our present energy needs. By mutual consent, we developed healthy trade relations with those colonies.”
Rayna craned her neck until she finally spotted her other students in the audience. The separation couldn’t be helped, but it made her uneasy to be so far from some of her charges.
“I am proud to say that I was instrumental in helping to establish some of those colonies,” said Rensselaer, “but I’m not proud of what the colonists are doing today. By holding our Nitinol supplies for ransom, they have committed nothing less than an act of war!”
Rayna bent her head and closed her eyes. Rensselaer’s position on the Nitinol question was well-known and shared by many throughout the world, but that didn’t make her like it any better. The speech continued in the same, familiar vein: The colonists had hijacked property bound for Earth, in clear violation of the laws of interplanetary trade. They had been unresponsive or threatening in their communications with Earth. They demanded a price increase that would bankrupt some nations and cause severe economic repercussions all over the world.
As he spoke, he grew more animated and his language became simpler. Simple words for simple solutions, Rayna thought.
“I say it’s time for action!” he said, index finger stabbing the air. “We have the power to starve the colonies into submission!”
While the resultant buzz remained low-key, the number of nodding heads around her tightened Rayna’s colon, and a backward glance confirmed that many of those behind the ropes were all for Rensselaer’s point of view: She could see placards—even one holographic sign—bearing anti-colony slogans, and some in the crowd appeared to be yelling or cheering, despite the fact that they could hear little if any of what Rensselaer had to say.
Damon nudged Rayna: “I thought the colonies made their own food.”
Rayna nodded. “Yes, but they need supplies from Earth to keep producing it.”
Once again, she searched the audience until she located her other students. She had instructed them to meet her after the debate at the Trans-Mat center on the north side of the park, but she didn’t like the way things were going at all, and.... None of that, now. Stop worrying. Everything’s going to work out just fine.
“If the colonies still won’t listen to reason,” Rensselaer continued with a hushed earnestness that seemed all the more powerful for its lack of volume, “if they still insist on robbing us of our Nitinol supplies, then we have no choice: We’ll have to resort to force.”
The admiral’s face was grave as his eagle-eyes examined the audience. It’s almost as if he’s measuring every one of us for a soldier’s uniform, Rayna thought, an icy chill once more ascending her spine.
“I believe in this planet,” he said, voice heavy with emotion. “I believe in free trade with the colonies. But I don’t believe in submitting to a cowardly enemy who threatens our very way of life! If that means full-scale war, then so be it!”
With a curt nod to Wentworth, the admiral pivoted smartly and returned to his seat as a loud cheer, audible despite the barrier formed by the sound envelope, erupted from behind the ropes.
“My folks really like Rensselaer,” Damon said as Wentworth waited for the audience to finish applauding. “That’s why they let me come here today.”
“My parents like him, too,” said Ginny, “but he makes me kind of nervous. Did you see how he limps?”
“How come his limp bothers you, but you don’t seem to mind her being a cripple? The admiral’s a hero. but that Milgrom creep, she’s just a sickie.”
“Damon, you’re the biggest—”
“Now, cut it out, you two!” Rayna ordered. “This is neither the time nor the place for that sort of thing. Besides...” she tried to ignore the churning sensation in her belly “...I need your help. I want you to help me keep track of the others. This is a big crowd—a lot bigger than anyone expected—and I’d feel much better if we could all get away from here and back to school as soon as the speeches are over.”
Ginny and Damon glared at each other for several long seconds before agreeing to cooperate. When they turned their frowning faces back toward the podium, Rayna knew they were inspired more by their anger at one another than by any interest in Wentworth’s introductory remarks about Althea Milgrom.
Wentworth pressed a button on the side of the lectern, which slowly descended to the proper height for someone who was sitting down. Milgrom then glided up and began to speak. Moments later, however, she stopped, looked over the left arm of her wheelchair and reached down toward the bottom of her seat.
“Please bear with me,” she said against a hardly audible electronic hum. In a smooth motion, the chair brought her to a standing position behind the lowered lectern.
“Ah,” she said, patting the strap that secured her to the now-vertical support that, moments before, had looked like a standard wheelchair, “that’s better. An adjustable lectern is fine, but today I think I prefer rising to the occasion!”
Despite the murmur that rippled through the “official” audience, Rayna was sure she detected catcalls and derisive shouts from behind the ropes, the uninvited jeers muffled by interference from the electronic boundary of the sound envelope.
“First,” Milgrom said, “I want to assure you that, like Adm. Rensselaer, I consider the present situation extremely serious. Where the admiral and I part company is on the question of what to do about it.”
“You part company with most of the rest of the world on that, too, lady,” Damon said to himself, not bothering to speak in a whisper.
“You may be right, young man,” Milgrom said without rancor, “but being different isn’t the same thing as being wrong.” Damon’s eyes grew round as he realized the speaker was addressing him. “Don’t forget,” she added, “this sound envelope is multi-directional: You can hear me without my having to shout, but, as you just found out, I can hear you, too.”
Damon watched his shoes scuff the ground as Milgrom continued.
“The admiral says, we need energy in order to use most of our modern technology. He’s right. But I assure you, energy is not the only vital need in our society. Information and its partner, communication, are equally—if not more—important. I see it every day. After all, the CDN is the central nervous system of our information and communication network, not only on Earth but also in the colonies.”
While those in the ticket-holding audience listened politely, the catcalls and booing from behind the rope barrier continued. It wasn’t Milgrom’s words that prompted the heckling, though. Rayna was sure that most of those behind the barrier couldn’t hear her. No, the problem was that Milgrom stood for conciliation in a world that wanted action—any action.
“I believe in communication,” Milgrom said. “Maybe that’s because there was a time when about the only thing I could do was communicate. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t use my hands. I couldn’t even talk. So communication wasn’t exactly simple. I used to signal in Morse Code by blinking my eyes, and I could only do that for a little while at a time, because it would exhaust me.”
She shook her head slowly from side to side. “No matter how hard it was, though, it was always worth the effort. You see, it was communication that kept me human, and it was my desire to join with the rest of humanity in the business of living that made me stubborn enough to hold on until the scientists could reverse the worst of my symptoms.”
The hostility behind the rope notwithstanding, the audience within the sound envelope was hushed with respect.
“Now, then,” said Milgrom, “as head of the CDN, it’s my job to make sure that the physical lines of communication remain open. I think it’s the job of our political and economic leaders to make sure the human lines of communication stay open as well.”
She hesitated for a moment, eyes traversing the audience in small, discreet leaps from one face to another. “That’s why I continue to believe that we must contact the colonies again—especially since my preliminary examination of CDN transmission records suggests there may have been some irregularity involved in the earlier messages.”
Rayna’s jaw dropped. Irregularities in communication with the colonies? Could that have anything to do with Tauber and company? Keith had been pretty closed-mouthed concerning the details of what Tauber was doing, but he did mention something about the CDN. Could Milgrom have uncovered the thread that would unravel Tauber’s plan?
Rayna was still thinking about the possibilities when a commotion erupted behind her. The bared teeth and shaking fists in the unofficial crowd made her gasp. When she turned back to the stage, a skinny teenager in a Park Service uniform was whispering something to Wentworth. The moderator’s face blanched, and he rushed to where Milgrom stood, waiting for the disturbance to subside. Though he was addressing the CDN director, not the audience, the sound envelope transmitted his words distinctly: “Sorry, Mrs. Milgrom, but I really don’t think you should continue under the circumstances. We just got word that the missing Nitinol has been destroyed.”
Rayna fought down a spike of nausea. An angry roar spread through the audience, despite Wentworth’s attempt to restore calm. As Milgrom adjusted her wheelchair to its normal position, someone shouted something that Rayna couldn’t make out in the growing din. Milgrom heard it, though. She flushed and started to answer, but before she could respond, the throng behind the rope broke through.
Rayna pushed Ginny and Damon away from the mob and directed them toward the Trans-Mat center. With dry mouth and racing pulse, she combed the crowd for her other students. Shoving and squeezing through a crush of humanity, she managed to locate all but the last trio—the three who had found seats in the first row.
Tim, Lyna and Jason were near the stage when she spotted them. For the moment, at least, they were in the clear. Good kids. They’re heading for the Trans-Mat center. She held her breath and hurried toward them, but as she passed the stage-access ramp, a menacing voice behind her called out: “There’s the traitor!” As she glanced back, a Goliath brandishing a makeshift club crashed into her.
“Outta the way,” he shouted, “unless you wanna get some of what she’s got coming!”
That’s when Rayna saw Althea Milgrom at the foot of the ramp, struggling unsuccessfully to coax her wheelchair along the path to the recreation building. A policeman had spotted Milgrom, too, and was trying to get through the mob, but he was several yards away. Meanwhile, the club-wielder had turned from Rayna to the CDN director. A few more feet, and Goliath would be within striking range. Instinctively, Rayna grabbed his right forearm, dropped to the ground and rolled. Off balance, he stumbled and fell.
An instant later, he jumped to his feet, eyes ablaze, and turned on Rayna. “Bitch!” he yelled, waving the club over her head. She had to do something. Fast. But her mind was a blank. The moment was frozen, and her reason with it. All she knew was that the back of her head hurt. The sounds of the crowd melted into one another, as if the world were drifting away.
“I believe your quarrel is with me, sir,” Althea Milgrom’s dignified voice cut through the mental fog.
As the assailant turned to face Milgrom, Ethan Rensselaer seized the would-be attacker’s arms and wrenched them behind his back.
“Are you all right?” Milgrom asked, having maneuvered her wheelchair to where the dazed Rayna lay. Rayna looked up into Milgrom’s concerned brown eyes and grasped an arm of the chair in an effort to pull herself to a sitting position. A wheel began to rotate, and Milgrom quickly engaged the brake.
“Oh,” said Rayna, “I’ll be fine. I just need....”
Furrowing her brow, Rayna leaned against the side of the wheelchair and reached back to touch the sore spot on her head. She squinted in a vain attempt to clear her suddenly cloudy vision, then abandoned the effort and permitted the cloud to engulf her as she slid to the ground.