"I am thinking of a city. A city with doctors, lawyers, a mayor. A city with homes, with families. With mothers bringing up children, fathers supporting families. I am thinking of homes, entire family units. Industries. Their lives cut short by some deliberate negligence by a multinational corporation whose assets we can seize."
"I like it," said Schwartz. "A city has bankers and industrialists in it too."
"A city has hope. A city is a world unto itself. A city represents us all, everything that is most civilized about any culture. All our artists and great ideas come from our cities," said Rizzuto.
"Snuffed out cruelly," said Palmer.
"By a multinational whose assets we can freeze," said Schwartz.
They all nodded to the old scratched wood desk in the glass case.
"Well," said Palmer quite pleased with himself. "It looks as though we won't have to break out that one for a while, will we?"
"A city will be expensive for the genius," said Schwartz.
"Everything is expensive for the genius," said Palmer. "That's why we're in so much overhead trouble. "
"But a city is going to be worth it," said Rizzuto, knowing he himself would now get back into action. With an entire city injured and in pain, he could create an image of the end of the world, which meant of course the end of a juror's world. The rewards would be enormous.
Thus it was decided in the elegant Century Park City offices in Los Angeles that a call be put in to the genius.
The price tag was a whopping five million dollars. When Palmer, Rizzuto agreed to deliver it immediately, there was one question.
"Do you have any particular city in mind?"
"No. Any one you think is right."
"I don't do things that aren't right," said the voice. The phone call from the partners' office was picked up by an automatic program on CURE computers. While ordinarily sounds would be translated into written words, examined, and compared to a data base of flash signals to warn Smith of special dangers needing his attention, this phone call from Palmer, Rizzuto did not register as being received at any registered location. Someone had bypassed the general electronic circuitry of the phone company, something CURE's computers continued to insist was not happening even while it was being done. Nor did the computers pick up the word "Gupta" coming back to Palmer, Rizzuto There was some indication of trouble because one of the secretaries dutifully reported the preparation of a disaster team. This was not only filed in the law firm's computers but also secretly was forwarded to the CURE data bank, which could not place its importance immediately.
In the city of Gupta, India, dawn came as it had for aeons over the sacred mountains of Kalil, the sun representing one of the million Hindu gods, shining blood-red through the haze of morning.
From the first days of man-made fires, Gupta had always been hazy. The dung used for fuel burned in acrid smoky clouds, hardly lifted by passing breezes, for Gupta was at the bottom of a bowl-shaped valley ringed by mountains. He who controlled the mountains controlled Gupta. Warrior princes had ruled here. Mogul invaders had ruled here. The British had ruled here, and now the remnants of all their seeds calling themselves Indians ruled here, Muslim and Hindu and Sikh and Christian.
No one noticed the great death come upon them because it walked surely like one who knew how Gupta worked. It came first to the wife of a government official. It came with the hiss of jealousy.
How much more important she would be if her husband was recognized as a true Indian in the central government. But alas, in Gupta the colonialists still ruled.
She did not know where the voice came from. She knew it was somewhere and that if it were some intruder in her courtyard her husband would have him beaten.
"There are no colonialists here. India is free."
"Then what is that International Carborundum factory doing here?"
"The people love it. It gives work. It gives high positions. It employs engineers and laborers. It makes us industrialized. "
"It makes your husband, I am sorry to say, less respected in Delhi."
"You are a liar. You will be beaten. You will have your tongue cut in a thousand places."
The voice seemed to be coming from the walls. It was an American voice. International Carborundum was American. Were they playing some trick? She turned so quickly she almost got tangled in her peach-colored sari. Was a god talking to her? Did she fail to make the proper sacrifices? Was her home made unclean by some act during a wrong time of her menstrual cycle? There were so many things this voice could be, but the last thing it could be was what it said it was.
"I am your friend, good woman. Look at all the major government ministers. Is there another who in his own domain has so many whites in high positions?"
"Oh, voice, you spread lies. And if you had a body it would die with a thousand cuts. If you had eyes they would be punctured. My husband is a regional administrator. Even the police chief bows to him."
"But, good woman, your husband does not have a major post in Delhi. Your husband does not sit in council with the ministers. Your husband follows orders and is kept at a distance like an untouchable."
"I will not listen to another word," said the woman. She clasped her hands to her ears and left the room. But in a few minutes she was back.
"Do not be insulting, voice, and I will listen to you. What is wrong at International Carborundum ? Not that my husband is at fault. "
"The Americans do not respect you. Certainly there are important jobs Indians have with the company, but not the crucial ones."
"An Indian is president of the Gupta installation," she answered. She had even seen his office, so large. So important, with so many wooden cabinets. It looked out over the fifteen-acre chemical plant like a tower of a Mogul prince. It was as modern, she was told when on tour of the factory, as any in America. She saw many impressive buttons and dials in many rooms.
The president of the local installation, a Brahman who had graduated from a British engineering school, had personally greeted all the wives of the important ministers.
"What are those wonderful buttons and dials?" asked one of the wives. "What magic do they perform?"
"I know what every one of them does," the president answered sharply.
"What does the shiny one with the light do?" asked the woman.
"It keeps nosy women in their place," he said, and laughed at his own joke. She bowed to the rebuke. But later it was revealed that one should never ask the president how any of the complicated controls and gauges worked. He knew exactly what he had to know: that there were always Americans to take care of everything. He was not to be bothered with the petty tasks, but dealt with the higher concepts. He sat behind a big desk and ordered people about. If ever he wanted to know how any dial or button worked, he would call in an American and order him to explain.
But why should he ask? Did he ask the untouchables how they collected dung for the fires that burned throughout the Gupta valley? This the woman remembered as the invisible voice spoke to her, and the invisible voice began to make sense.
"The Americans are smarter than the British. The British sat on horses, parading in fine uniforms, and let others do the work. But the Americans know those are not the people who run things. The people who run things know how they work. And look at the American factory in Gupta. Look at the jobs Indians have. They sit at desks and collect money and they are happy. But they do not know how to run the factory. And the moment the Americans leave, all they will have will be their fancy desks and fancy offices and nothing and no one to order about. Do you think the important ministers in Delhi do not know this?"
"But my husband is blameless," pleaded the woman.
"Your husband is regional director. He is most to be blamed."
"What can we do?"
"You can begin by insisting that Indians hold crucial, not ceremonial, posts."
"What is a crucial post?"
"Safety engineer."
"That is crucial?"
"That is most crucial. If the safety engineer does not do his job, no one will be safe. If the president of the factory does not show up for a week, who even notices he is gone?"
"What if my husband beats me for my insolence?"