Chapter 1
OLD NEWYORK-AD. 2076.
Benjamin Rufus, a tired, old man, walked through the slums of Old Newyork for two hours before reaching the street corner of
his memories .
By then, the sweat on his forehead felt as heavy and thick as blood. The morning was hot and muggy, the sunlight filtered
through a haze. Con- crete and steel reflected the heat. In Old Newyork, no trees or grass provided relief. Because he was
ill, the old man half wondered if indeed he had begun to sweat blood. He was afraid to wipe his forehead to find out.
Passersby noticed nothing out of the ordinary about him. He was just another sad-faced old man walking the streets. He was
thin and stooped, his hair cropped short and gray. Not even the long coat he wore in the heat was unusual. Many moved through
Old Newyork with everything they owned. After all, it was easier to wear a coat than carry it.
A closer observer, however, would have seen a certain peace in the man's face. His wrinkles were not set in anger. His eyes
were clear. Not many in the slums at his age showed these small indications of hope.
One thing about this man--impossible to see- would have astounded the passersby. Before step- ping onto a ferry the day
before to cross the river to Old Newyork, Benjamin had been among the rich- est men in the world. He had given up everything--
name, fortune, freedom--just to reach this street corner in the slums.
The old man did not move for several moments. He paused to draw a breath of courage, and looked around with a mixture of
sadness and satisfaction. This street corner would suit him now, as it had many years before.
Long ago this area had been a park. A magnifi- cent statue had guarded the entrance to lawn and trees and ponds with
fountains. That was before the great Water Wars. Before Technocrats and the World United govemment. When people still drove
gasoiine- powered vehicles. When the city was proud and free, not a bombed out island. Not a giant prison where gangs reigned
supreme.
Most of the people now passing by had never seen the park of those earlier times. The heavy, tall statue had long since been
pulled down for the value of its bronze. All that remained was its high, wide concrete base, stripped, too, of its bronze
plaque.
The park itself was now filled with leaning shacks and honeycombed with twisting, littered paths. The fountains had been
drained by people desperate for any kind of water. Skyscrapers behind the park cast shadows on the shacks, like mountains
overshadow-ing a village.
Down the street, a watt·Iman sold daslrs of water at merciless prices. Bodyguards armed with machine guns protected him.
Between the waterman and the old man, vendors of clothes, food, and cigarettes lined the streets, drawing people from their
shacks and hiding holes.
Many, many years before, on this same street corner, Benjamin had climbed onto the pedestal of the broken statue before him.
He had spoken to the hundreds of people who were scurrying past. Back then his reasons for being here were much differ- ent.
He had returned today to make up for what had happened because of that first speech.
He drew another deep breath, remembering across the years. He had felt this excitement, hope, and fear then as he had
prepared to'address the crowd of an earlier generation. It was not easy to speak to a large group of strangers, to gather
them together and beg them to listen. Some would laugh. Some would call out insults. And in these slums one could not ask
for protection. Not from anyone. Not against anyone.
The excitement, fear, and hope rolled through his belly like kittens tumbling over a ball of yarn. The roof of his mouth,
dry from nervousness, tasted of copper. For a long doubting moment, he consid- ered turning away from the street corner and
fading back among the street vendors.
Why was he here? What good would it do? How could he hope to make a difference? Thousands and thousands of slum people were
spread over dozens and dozens of square miles of street canyons.
He closed his eyes for a moment of prayer. Prayer calmed him, gave him strength. Not for the first time the old man marveled
at the joy and love from the Creator of the universe.
Why was he here? In his mind he saw the mother and father and children he had rescued from the work gangs only hours earlier.
They and all the other families like them were his reason for coming here.
What good could he do? None, not by himself. He could only trust the power of a message that had given hope to people
throughout the centuries. He could only trust the power of the One behind that message.
How could he hope -to make a difference? BY planting seeds in soil barren of any hope at all.
"One final breath to calm my nerves," Benjamin Rufus told himself. One final breath of courage. He took in a lungful of air.
And coughed. His lungs rattled with pain. With a wry grin, he told himself he deserved the pain for trying to delay his task.
Benjamin moved to the base of the statue. With great effort, he climbed onto the base. For several moments, he swayed on his
feet. He closed his eyes and waited for some energy to return.
A few people stared briefly upward at him then ducked their heads and walked by. What was one more madman among them?
When he felt ready, Benjamin reached inside his coat. Twenty-four hours earlier, he had been one of the most powerful men on
Mainside. It had been no problem to buy the small electronic device he now pulled from his pocket. It was shaped much like a
flip-phone. He slipped its looped cord over his neck, and the device dangled against his chest.
The old man flicked a small switch. Instantly, the microphone at the top of the device was ready to broadcast his words
loudly and clearly above the din of the people on the street below.
"People of Old Newyork, " Benjamin said. He spoke in a normal voice, knowing his lungs would not permit him any more force.
"Listen."
The shock of broadcast words cut through the crowds. Through the shacks behind him. People stared with wonder. Many of them
had never heard a voice amplified through speakers. How could this man's words ring through the air like thunder?
Instantly, everyone grew silent.
"Gather close," he urged. "Listen."
Slowly, they began to shuffle toward him.
Benjamin noted that one of the waterman's body- guards sprinted down the street, away from the statue base.
He'd gone to send a message to one of the ganglords. Benjamin knew he had five minutes, maybe ten at the most.
"We all know that there is nothing here of greater value than water," Benjamin said. "Let me tell you about the One who will
give you water, so that you will never thirst again."
The crowd muttered excitedly.
"Yes," Benjamin said clearly and slowly. "There is a place waiting for all of you, a place without hunger or fear or thirst.
Your greatest hope is because of a man who died on a cross for you. A man from God and of God. A man who rose from the dead."
"No man rises from death!" someone shouted. The crowd hummed with an excited babble of interest and jeers.
"No man born of man," Benjamin Rufus answered calmly, "Let me tell you how this man was different."
As he continued to speak, the old man watched and waited for those who would arrive with spears and crossbows to try to
silence him.
