THE DARK DESIGN
by
Philip Jose Farmer

Last printing: 05/28/02
`;2:-' ISBN: 0-2672-104-6811-1
Jill Gulbirra does not care as much about the mission as she wants the chance to captain the great airship, which in all likelihood will be the last airship
ever constructed by humankind. But in landing the coveted role, she faces stiff competition--especially from the greatest swordsman of all time, Cyrano
de Bergerac, who turns out to be a natural pilot. But even if Jill can win the command of the airship and even if the ship can reach the river's headwaters,
there is no guarantee it can get through the mountain wall that surrounds the tower. And it's likely that one or more agents of the Ethicals--the creators
of Riverworld--are on board the airship, plotting its downfall. Worse still, somewhere along the way the airship is sure to encounter the Rex Grandissimus,
the steamboat stolen by Sam's archnemesis, King John Lackland.
 

 
  Though some of the names in The Riverworld Series are
 fictional, the characters are or were real. You may not
             be mentioned, but you're here.
  To Sam Long and my godson David, son of Doctor Doctor
     And still the Weaver plies his loom, whose warp
  and woof is wretched Man Weaving th' unpattern'd dark
                   design, so dark we
                  doubt it owns a plan.
           -The Kasidah of Haji Abdu al- Yazdi
          "Sentence first-verdict afterwards."
                  -Alice in Wonderland
                            
                        Foreword
                            
                            
THE BOOK AT HAND IS VOLUME III OF THE RIVERWORLD SERIES.
Originally, it was to be the conclusion of a trilogy.
However, the Ms. was more than 400,000 words long.
Published under one cover, it would be too heavy and
unwieldy for the reader.
Therefore, the publisher and myself decided to cut it
into two. Volume TV, The Magic Labyrinth, will follow
this book. It will definitely conclude this phase of the
series, explain all the mysteries set forth in the first
three volumes, tie up all ends in a knot, Gordian or
otherwise.
Any novels about the Riverworld after volume IV are not
to be considered as part of the mainstream of the series.
These will be the "sidestream," stories not directly
concerned with mystery and the quests of the first three.
My decision to write these is based on my belief-and that
of many others-that the Riverworld concept is too big to
compress within four volumes. After all, we have a planet
on which a single river, or a very long and narrow sea,
runs for 16,090,000 kilometers, or about 10,000,000
miles. More than thirty-six billion people live along its
banks, human beings who existed from the Old Stone Age
through the first part of the Electronic Age.
There is not room in the first four volumes to chronicle
many events which might interest the reader. For
instance, the resurrectees were not distributed along The
River according to the chronological sequence in which
they had been born on Earth. There was a considerable
mixture of races and nationalities from different
centuries. Take as an example one of the many thousands
of blocs along the banks. This would be in an area ten
kilometers long, and the people comprising it would be 60
percent 3rd-century A.D. Chinese, 39 percent 17th-century
A.D. Russians, and 1 percent men and women from anywhere
and anytime.
How would these people manage to form a viable state from
anarchy? How would they succeed, or fail, in their
efforts to get along with each other and to form a body
which could defend itself against hostile states? What
problems would they have?
In the book at hand, Jack London, Tom Mix, Nur ed-din el-
Musaf ir, and Peter Jairus Frigate sail on the Razzle
Dazzle II up The River. There is considerable
characterization of Frigate and Nur in volumes III and
IV. However, there was not enough space to fully develop
the characters of the others. So, the "sidestream"
stories will give me scope to do this.
These will also relate how the crew of the Razzle Dazzle
meet some major and minor representatives of various
fields of human endeavor. These should include da Vinci,
Rousseau, Karl Marx, Rameses II, Nietzsche, Bakunin,
Alcibiades, Eddy, Ben Jonson, Li Po, Nichiren Daishonin,
Asoka, an Ice Age cavewife, Joan of Arc, Gilgamesh, Edwin
Booth, Faust et al.
It's been apparent to some that Peter Jairus Frigate
remarkably resembles the author. It is true that I am the
basis for that character, but Frigate has approximately
the similarity to me that David Copperfield has to
Charles Dickens. The author's physical and psychic
features are only a springboard for propelling reality
into that parareality-fiction.
I apologize to the readers for the cliffhanger endings of
the first three volumes. The structure of the series was
such that I could not emulate that of Isaac Asimov's
Foundation series. In these each volume seemed to have a
definite conclusion, the mystery seemingly solved, only
to reveal in the sequel that the previous ending was
false or misleading.
I hope to finish the series, volumes I through V (or
possibly VI), before it's my time to lie down and rest
while waiting to board the fabulous riverboat.
-Philip Jose Farmer

                            1
                            
Dreams haunted the Riverworld.
Sleep, night's Pandora, was even more generous than on
Earth. There, it had been this for you and that for your
neighbor. Tomorrow, that for you and this for next door.
Here in this endless valley, along these unceasing
Riverbanks, she dumped her treasure chest, showering
everybody with all gifts: terror and pleasure, memory and
anticipation, mystery and revelation.
Billions stirred, muttered, groaned, whimpered, laughed,
cried out, swam to wakefullness, sank back again.
Mighty engines battered the walls, and things wriggled
out through the holes. Often, they did not retreat but
stayed, phantoms who refused to fade at cockcrow.
Also, for some reason, dreams recurred more frequently
than on the mother planet. The actors of the nocturnal
Theater of the Absurd insisted on return engagements,
performances which they, not the patrons, commanded. The
attendees were powerless to jeer or applaud, to throw
eggs and cabbages or walk out, to chatter with their
seatmates or doze.
Among this captive audience was Richard Francis Burton.
                            2
                            
                            
FOG, GREY AND SWIRLING, FORMED THE STAGE AND THE
BACKDROP.
Burton stood in the pit like an Elizabethan too poor to
afford a seat. Above him were thirteen figures, all in
chairs which floated in the mist. One of them faced the
others, who were arranged in a semicircle. That man was
the protagonist-himself.
There was a fourteenth person mere, though it stood in
the wings and could be seen only by the Burton in the
pit. It was a black, menacing shape which, now and then,
chuckled hollowly.
A not quite similar scene had happened before, once in
reality and many times in dreams, though who could be
sure which was which? There he was, the man who'd died
seven hundred and seventy times in a vain effort to elude
his pursuers. And there sat the twelve who called
themselves the Ethicals.
Six were men; six, women. Except for two, all had deeply
tanned or heavily pigmented skins and black or dark brown
hair. The eyes of two men and a woman had slight
epicanthic folds, which made him think that they were
Eurasians. That is, they were if they had originated on
Earth.
Only two of the twelve had been named during the brief
inquisition-Loga and Thanabur. Neither name seemed to be
of any language he knew, and he knew at least a hundred.
However, languages change, and it was possible that they
might be from the fifty-second century A.D. One of their
agents had told them that he came from that time. But
Spruce had been under threat of torture and might have
been lying.
Loga was one of the few with comparatively pale skins.
Since he was sitting and there was (and had been) nothing
material to measure him against, he could be short or
tall. His body was thick and muscular, and his chest was
matted with red hair. The hair on his head was fox-red.
He had irregular and strong features: a prominent, deeply
clefted chin; a massive jaw; a large and aquiline nose;
thick pale-yellow eyebrows; wide, full lips; and dark
green eyes.
The other light-skinned man, Thanabur, was obviously the
leader. His physique and face were so much like Loga's
that they could be brothers. His hair, however, was dark
brown. One eye was green, though a rare leaf-green.
The other eye had startled Burton when Thanabur had first
turned his face toward him. Instead of the green mate he
had expected, he saw a jewel. It looked like an enormous
blue diamond, a flashing, multifaceted precious stone set
in his eye socket.
He felt uneasy whenever that jewel was turned on him.
What was its purpose? What did it see in him that a
living eye could not see?
Of the twelve, only three had spoken: Loga, Thanabur, and
a slim but full-breasted blonde with large blue eyes.
From the manner in which she and Loga spoke to each
other, Burton thought that they could be husband and
wife.
Watching them offstage, Burton noted again that just
above the heads of each, his other self included, was a
globe. They whirled, were of many changing colors, and
extended six-sided arms, green, blue, black, and white.
Then the arms would shrink into the globe, only to be
replaced by others.
Burton tried to correlate the rotating spheres and the
mutation in the arms with the personalities of the three
and of himself, with their physical appearances, with the
tones of their voices, with the meanings of their words,
with their emotional attitudes. He failed to find any
significant linkages.
When the first, the real, scene had taken place, he had
not seen his own aura.
The spoken lines were not quite the same as during the
actual event. It was as if the Dream-Maker had rewritten
the scene.
Loga, the red-haired man, said, "We had a number of
agents looking for you. They were a pitifully small
number, considering the thirty-six billion, six million,
nine thousand, six hundred and thirty-seven candidates
that are living along The River."
"Candidates for what?" the Burton on the stage said.
In the first performance, he had not uttered that line.
"That's for us to know and you to find out," Loga said.
Loga flashed teeth that seemed inhumanly white. He said,
"We had no idea that you were escaping us by suicide. The
years went by. There were other things for us to do, so
we pulled all agents from the Burton Case, as we called
it, except for some stationed at both ends of The River.
Somehow, you had knowledge of the polar tower. We found
out how later."
Burton, the watcher, thought, But you didn't find out
from X.
He tried to get nearer to the actors so he could look at
them more closely. Which one was the Ethical who had
awakened him in the preressurection place? Which one had
visited him during a stormy, lightning-racked night? Who
was it that had told him that he must help him? Who was
the renegade whom Burton knew only as X?
He struggled against the wet, cold mists, as ethereal yet
as strong as the magic chains which had bound the monster
wolf Fenrir until Ragnarok, the doom of the gods.
Loga said, "We would have caught you, anyway. You
see,every space in the restoration bubble-the place where
you unaccountably awakened during the preresurrection
phase-has an automatic counter. Any candidate who has a
higher than average number of deaths is a subject for
study sooner or later. Usually later, since we're short-
handed.
"We had no idea it was you who had racked up the
staggering number of seven hundred and seventy-seven
deaths. Your space in the PR bubble was empty when we
looked at it during our statistical investigation. The
two technicians who had seen you when you woke up in the
PR chamber identified you by your . . . photograph.
"We set the resurrector so that the next time your body
was to be recreated, an alarm would notify us, and we
would bring you here to this place."
But Burton had not died again. Somehow, they had located
him while he was alive. Though he had run away again, he
had been caught. Or had he? Perhaps, as he ran through
the night, he had been killed by lightning. And they were
waiting for him in the PR bubble. That vast chamber which
he supposed was somewhere deep under the surface of this
planet or in the tower of the polar sea.
Loga said, "We've made a thorough search of your body. We
have also screened every component of your . . .
psychomorph. Or aura, whichever word you prefer."
He pointed at the flashing, whirling globe above the
Burton who sat in the chair facing him.
Then the Ethical did a strange thing.
He turned and looked out into the mists and pointed at
Burton, the watcher.
"We found no clues whatsoever."
The dark figure in the wings chuckled.
The Burton in the pit called out, "You think there are
only twelve of you! There are thirteen! An unlucky
number!"
"It's quality, not quantity, that matters," the thing off-
stage said.
"You won't remember a thing that occurs down here after
we send you back to the Rivervalley," Loga said.
The Burton in the chair said something that he had not
said in the original inquisition.
"How can you make me forget?"
"We have run off your memory as if it were a tape
recording," Thanabur said. He talked as if he were
lecturing. Or was he warning Burton because he was X?
"Of course, it took a long time to run your memory track
for the seven years since you've been here. And it
required an enormous amount of energy and materials. But
the computer Loga monitored was set to run your memory at
high-speed and stop only when you were visited by that
filthy renegade. So, we know what happened then exactly
as you knew what happened. We saw what you saw, heard
what you heard, felt what you touched, what you smelled.
We even experienced your emotions.
"Unfortunately, you were visited at night, and the
traitor was effectively disguised. Even his voice was
filtered through a distorter which prevented the computer
from analyzing his-or her-voice-prints. I say his or her
because all you saw was a pale thing without identifiable
features, sexual or otherwise. The voice seemed to be
masculine, but a female could have used a transmitter to
make it seem a man's.
"The body odor was also false. The computer analyzed it,
and it's obvious that a chemical complex altered that.
"In short, Burton, we have no idea which of us is the
renegade, nor do we have any idea why he or she would be
working against us. It is almost inconceivable that
anyone who knew the truth would try to betray us. The
only explanation is that the person is insane. And that,
too, is inconceivable."
The Burton in the pit knew, somehow, that Thanabur had
not spoken those words during the first performance, the
real drama. He also knew that he was dreaming, that he
was sometimes putting words in Thanabur's mouth. The
man's speech was made up of Burton's own thoughts,
speculations, and fantasies which were afterthoughts.
The Burton in the chair now voiced some of these.
"If you can read a person's mind-tape it, as it were-why
don't you read your own minds? Surely you have done that?
And just as surely, you would have found your traitor."
Loga, looking uncomfortable, said, "We submitted to a
reading, of course. But ..."
He raised his shoulders and spread out his palms upward.
Thanabur said, "So, the person you call X must have been
lying to you. He is not one of us but one of the second-
order, an agent. We are calling them in for memory
scanning. That takes time, however. We have plenty of
that. The renegade will be caught."
The Burton in the chair said, "And what if none of the
agents is guilty?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Loga said. "In any event your
memory of awakening in the preressurection bubble will be
erased. Also, your memory of the renegade's visit and all
events from that time on will be a blank space. We are
truly sorry to have to do this violent act. But it is
necessary, and the time will come, we hope, when we can
make amends."
The Burton in the chair said, "But... I will have many
recollections of the preressurection place. You forget
that I often thought of that between the time I awoke on
the banks and X's visit. Also, I told many people about
it."
Thanabur said, "Ah, but do they really believe you? And
if they do, what can they do about it? No, we do not want
to remove your entire memory of your life here. It would
cause you great distress; it would remove you from your
friends. And"-here Thanabur paused-"it might slow down
your progress."
"Progress?"
"There is time for you to find out what that means. The
insane person who claims to be aiding you was using you
for his own purposes. He did not tell you that you were
throwing away your opportunity for eternal life by
carrying out his designs. He or she, whoever the traitor
is, is evil. Evil, evil!"
"Now, now,'' Loga said. "We all feel strongly about this
but we must not forget. The . . . unknown is sick."
The jewel-eyed man said, "To be sick is, in a sense, to
be evil."
The Burton in the chair threw back his head and laughed
loudly and long.
"So you bastards don't know everything?"
He stood up, the gray fog supporting him as if it were
solid, and he shouted, "You don't want me to get to the
headwaters of The River! Why? Why?"
Loga said, "Au revoir. Forgive us for this violence."
A woman pointed a short, slim blue cylinder at the Burton
on the stage, and he crumpled. Two men, wearing only
white kilts, emerged from the fog. They picked up the
senseless body and carried it into the mists.
Burton tried again to get at the people on the stage.
Failing, he shook his fist at them, and he cried, "You'll
never get me, you monsters!"
The dark figure in the wings applauded, but his hands
made no noise.
Burton had expected to be placed in the area where he had
been picked up by the Ethicals. Instead, he awoke in
Theleme, the little state which he had founded.
Even more unexpected was that he had not been deprived of
his memory. He remembered everything, even the
inquisition with the twelve Ethicals.
Somehow, X had managed to fool the others.
Later, he got to wondering if they had lied to him and
had not intended to tamper with his memory. That made no
sense, but then he did not know what their intentions
were.
At one time, Burton had been able to play two games of
chess at the same time while blindfolded. That, however,
only required skill, a knowledge of the rules, and
familiarity with the board and the pieces. He did not
know the rules of this game, nor did he know the powers
of all the chessmen. The dark design had no pattern.
                            3
                            
groaning, burton half-awoke.
For a moment, he didn't know where he was. Darkness
surrounded him, darkness as thick as that which he felt
filled him.
Familiar sounds reassured him. The ship was rubbing up
against the dock, and water lapped against the hull.
Alice was breathing softly by him. He touched her soft,
warm back. Light footsteps came from above, Peter Frigate
on night watch. Perhaps he was getting ready to wake up
his captain. Burton had no idea what time it was.
There were other well-known sounds. Through the wooden
partition the snores of Kazz and his woman, Besst,
gurgled. And then, from the compartment behind theirs,
the voice of Monat issued. He spoke in his native
language, but Burton could not distinguish the words.
Doubtless, Monat was dreaming of far-off Athaklu. Of that
planet with its "wild, weird clime" which circled the
giant orange star, Arcturus.
He lay for a while, rigid as a corpse, thinking, Here I
am, a one-hundred-and-one-year-old man in the body of a
twenty-five-year-old.
The Ethicals had softened the hardened arteries of the
candidates. But they had not been able to do anything
about atherosclerosis of the soul. That repair was
apparently left up to the candidate.
The dreams were going backward in time. The inquisition
by the Ethicals had come last. But now he was dreaming
that he was experiencing again the dream he'd had just
before he awoke to the Last Trump. However, he was
watching himself in the dream; he was both participant
and spectator.
God was standing over him as he lay on the grass, as weak
as a newly born baby. This time, He lacked the long,
black, forked beard, and He was not dressed like an
English gentleman of the fifty-third year of Queen
Victoria's reign. His only garment was a blue towel
wrapped around his waist. His body was not tall, as in
the original dream, but was short and broad and heavily
muscled. The hairs on His chest were thick and curly and
red.
The first time, Burton had looked into God's face and
seen his own. God had had the same black straight hair,
the same Arabic face with the deep, dark eyes like
spearpoints thrusting from a cave, the high cheekbones,
the heavy lips, and the thrust-out, deeply cleft chin.
However, His face no longer bore the scars of the Somali
spear that had sliced through Burton's cheek, knocking
out teeth, its edge jammed into his palate, its point
sticking out the other cheek.
The face looked familiar, but he couldn't name its owner.
It certainly was not that of Richard Francis Burton.
God still had the iron cane. Now He was poking Burton in
the ribs.
"You're late. Long past due for the payment of your debt,
you know."
"What debt?" the man on the grass said.
The Burton who was watching suddenly realized that fog
was swirling around him, casting veils between the two
before him. And a grey wall, expanding and contracting as
if it were the chest of a breathing animal, was behind
them.
"You owe for the flesh,'' God said. He poked the ribs of
the man on the grass. Somehow, the standing Burton felt
the pain.
"You owe for the flesh and the spirit, which are one and
the same thing."
The man on the grass struggled to get onto his feet. He
said, gasping, "Nobody can strike me and get away without
a fight."
Somebody snickered, and the standing Burton became aware
of a dim, tall figure in the fog beyond.
God said, "Pay up, sir. Otherwise, I'll be forced to
foreclose."
"Damned money lender!" the man on the grass said. "I ran
into your kind in Damascus."
"This is the road to Damascus. Or it should be."
The dark figure snickered again. The fog enclosed all.
Burton awoke, sweating, hearing the last of his
whimperings.
Alice turned and said sleepily, "Are you having a
nightmare, Dick?"
"I'm all right. Go back to sleep."
"You've been having many nightmares lately."
"No more than on Earth."
"Would you like to talk?"
"When I dream, I am talking."
"But to yourself."
"Who knows me better?" He laughed softly.
"And who can deceive you better," she said a little
tartly.
He did not reply. After a few seconds, she was breathing
with the gentle rhythm of the untroubled. But she would
not forget what had been said. He hoped that morning
would not bring another quarrel.
He liked arguing; it enabled him to explode. Lately,
however, their fights had left him unsatisfied, ready at
once for another.
It was so difficult to blaze away at her without being
overheard on this small vessel. Alice had changed much
during their years together, but she still retained a
ladylike abhorrence of, as she put it, washing their
dirty linen in public. Knowing this, he pressed her too
hard, shouted, roared, getting pleasure out of seeing her
shrink. Afterward, he felt ashamed because he had taken
advantage of her, because he had caused her shame.
All of which made him even more angry.
Frigate's footsteps sounded on the deck. Burton thought
of relieving Frigate early. He would not be able to get
back to sleep; he'd suffered from insomnia most of his
adult life on Earth and much here, too. Frigate would be
grateful to get to bed. He had trouble staying awake when
on watch.
He closed his eyes. Darkness was replaced by grey ness.
Now he saw himself in that colossal chamber without
walls, floor, or ceiling. Naked, he was floating in a
horizontal position in the abyss. As if suspended on an
invisible, unfelt spit, he was turning slowly. Rotating,
he saw that there were naked bodies above, to the sides,
and below. Like him, their heads and pubic regions were
shaven. Some were incomplete. A man nearby had a right
arm which was skinless from the elbow down. Turning, he
saw another body that had no skin at all and no muscles
in the face.
At a distance was a skeleton with a mess of organs
floating inside it.
Everywhere, the bodies were bounded at head and foot by
red metallic-looking rods. They rose from the unseen
floor and ascended to the unseen ceiling. They stood in
rows as far as he could see, and in a vertical line
between each pair hovered the wheeling bodies, rank on
rank of sleepers, bodies as far down, bodies as far up,
as the eye could encompass.
They formed vertical and horizontal lines stretching into
grey infinity.
This time, watching, he felt some of the bewilderment and
the terror of the first moment of awakening.
He, Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton, Her Majesty's
consul at the city of Trieste in the Austro-Hungarian
Empire, had died on Sunday, October 19, 1890.
Now he was alive in a place that was like no heaven or
hell he had ever heard of.
Of all the millions of bodies he could see, he was the
only one alive. Or awake.
The rotating Burton would be wondering why he was singled
out for this unsought honor.
The watching Burton now knew why.
It was that Ethical whom Burton called X, the unknown
quality, who had roused him. The renegade.
Now the suspended man had touched one of the rods. And
that had broken some kind of circuit, and all the bodies
between the rods had started to fall, Burton among them.
The watcher felt almost as much terror as when it had
first occurred. This was a primal dream, the universal
human dream of falling. Doubtless, it originated from the
first man, the half-ape half-sentient, for whom the fall
was a dread reality, not just a nightmare. The half-ape
had leaped from one branch to another, thinking in his
pride that he could span the gulf. And he had fallen
because of his pride, which distorted his judgment.
Just as Lucifer's fall had been caused by his pride.
Now that other Burton had grabbed a rod and was hanging
on while the bodies, still turning slowly, hurtled past
him, a cataract of flesh.
Now he looked up and saw an aerial machine, a green canoe
shape, sinking down through the space between nearby
rods. It was wingless, propellerless, apparently buoyed
up by some kind of device unknown to the science of his
day.
On its bow was a symbol: a white spiral which ended
pointing to the right and from which point white threads
flared.
In the reality, two men had looked over the side of the
flying machine. And then, suddenly, the falling bodies
slowed in their fall, and an invisible force seized him
and brought his legs up and tore him loose from the rod.
He floated upward, revolving, went past and above the
canoe, and stopped. One of the men pointed a pencil-sized
metal object at him.
Screaming with rage and hate and frustration, that Burton
shouted, "I'll kill! I'll kill!"
The threat was an empty one, as empty as the darkness
that stilled his fury.
Now, only one face looked over the edge of the machine.
Though he could not see the man's face, Burton thought it
looked familiar. Whatever the features, they belonged to
X.
The Ethical chuckled.
                            4
Burton sat upright and grabbed for the throat of X.
"For God's sake, Dick! It's me, Pete!"
Burton opened his hands from around Frigate's throat.
Starlight as bright as Earth's full moon beamed in
through the open doorway and silhouetted Frigate.
"It's your watch, Dick."
"Please be less noisy," Alice murmured.
Burton rolled off the bed and felt the suit hanging from
a peg. Though he was sweating, he shivered. The little
cabin, hot from the night-long radiation of two bodies,
was cooling now. The cold fog was pressing in.
Alice said, "Brrr!" and sounds indicated she was pulling
the thick towels over her. Burton caught a glimpse of her
white body before it was covered. He glanced at Frigate,
but the American had turned and was heading up the
ladder. Whatever his faults, he was not a Peeping Tom.
Not that he could really blame the fellow if he had taken
a look. He was more than half in love with Alice. He had
never said so, but it was obvious to Burton, to Alice,
and to Loghu, Frigate's bunkmate.
If anybody was to blame, it was Alice. She had long ago
lost her Victorian modesty. Though she would deny it, she
may have, subconsciously, of course, teased Frigate with
a quick flash of herself.
Burton decided not to bring that subject up. Though he
was angry at both Frigate and Alice, he'd look like a
fool if he said anything about this. Alice, like most
people, bathed in The River in the nude, seemingly
indifferent to the passersby. Frigate had seen her hun
dreds of-times without clothing.
The night suit was composed of a number of thick towels
held together by magnetic tabs underneath the cloth.
Burton opened it and fitted the cloths to make a hooded
garment around legs and body. He buckled on a belt of
hornfish skin holding scabbards containing a flint knife,
a chert axe, and a wooden sword. The edges of the latter
were lined with tiny flint chips and its end held a sharp
hornfish's horn. He removed from a rack a heavy ash spear
tipped with horn and went up the ladder.
Gaining the deck, he found that his head was above the
fog. Frigate was his same height, and his head seemed to
float bodiless above the swirling wool of the mists. The
sky was bright, though The Riverworld had no moon. It
blazed with stars and with vast, shining gas clouds.
Frigate believed that this planet was near the center of
Earth's galaxy. But it could be inside some other galaxy,
for all anybody knew.
Burton and his friends had built a vessel and had sailed
from Theleme. The Hadji II, unlike its predecessor, was a
cutter, a fore-and-aft rigged single-master. Aboard it
were Burton, Hargreaves, Frigate, Loghu, Kazz, Besst,
Monat Grrautut, and Owenone. The latter was a woman of
ancient pre-Hellenic Pelasgia who did not mind at all
sharing the Arcturan's bunk. With his peculiar crew
(Burton had a not always fortunate talent for collecting
an unhomogeneous band of followers), he had voyaged up-
River for twenty-five years. One of the men with whom he
had shared many adventures, Lev Ruach, had decided to
stay in Theleme.
The Hadji II had not gotten as far as Burton had hoped.
Since the crew had little elbow room, its members were in
too close and constant contact with each other. It had
been necessary to take long shore leaves so they could
cool off their cabin fever.
Burton had decided that it was about time for another
long liberty when the boat had sailed into this area.
This was one of the rare widenings of The River, a lake
about 20 miles or 32 kilometers long and 6 miles or 9.6
kilometers wide. At its western end the lake narrowed
into a strait about a quarter-mile or 321 meters wide.
The current boiled through this, but fortunately the
prevailing wind here was behind a vessel going upstream.
If the Hadji II had had to sail against the wind, it
would have had little space to tack.
After looking at the strait, Burton thought that the
passage could be made, though it would be close. However,
now was the time to take a long rest. Instead of putting
into one of the banks, he had stopped the boat alongside
one of the scores of rocks that jutted up from the middle
of the lake. These were tall spires With some level land
at their bases. Some of them had grailstones, and around
these were gathered a few huts.
The island-spire nearest the strait had a few floating
docks. They would have been more convenient if they had
been on the down-current side, but they were not, so the
boat was taken alongside one. It was secured by lines to
the posts and against the bumpers, bags of tough skins of
alligator-fish filled with grass. The island's inhabi
tants approached them cautiously. Burton quickly assured
them of his peaceful intentions, and he politely asked if
his crew could use the grailstone.
There were only twenty islanders-short, dark people whose
native language was unknown to Burton. They spoke a
degraded form of Esperanto, however, so there was little
language barrier.
The grailstone was a massive mushroom-shaped structure of
grey red-flecked granite. The surface of its top was as
high as Burton's chest and bore seven hundred round
indentations in concentric circles.
Shortly before sunset, each person put in one of the
shallow holes a tall cylinder of grey metal. English-
speakers called it a grail, a pandora (or its shortened
form, dora), a tucker box, lunch pail, glory bucket, and
so on. The most popular name was that given it by the
missionaries of the Church of the Second Chance. This was
the Esperanto pandora. Though the grey metal was as thin
as a sheet of newspaper except for the base, it was
unbendable, unbreakable, and indestructible.
The owners of the grails retreated about fifty paces and
waited. Presently, intense blue flames roared upward from
the top of the stone to 20 feet or a little over 6
meters. Simultaneously, every one of the stones lining
the banks of the lake spat fire and shouted thunder.
A minute later, several of the little dark people climbed
onto the stone and handed down the grails. The party sat
down under a bamboo roof by a fire of bamboo and
driftwood and opened the lids of the cylinders. Inside
were racks holding cups and deep dishes, all filled with
liquor, food, crystals of instant coffee or tea,
cigarettes and cigars.
Burton's grail contained both Slovene and Italian food.
He had been first resurrected in an area consisting
mainly of people who had died in the Trieste area, and
the grails of these usually gave the type of food they
had been accustomed to eat on Earth. About every ten
days, however, the grails served something entirely
different. Sometimes it was English, French, Chinese,
Russian, Persian, or any of a hundred national foods.
Occasionally it offered dishes which were disgusting,
such as kangaroo meat, burned on the surface and raw
underneath, or living grubworms. Burton had gotten this
Australian aborigine meal twice.
Tonight the liquor cup contained beer. He hated beer, so
he traded it for Frigate's wine.
The islanders' grails contained food much of which
reminded Burton of Mexican cuisine. However, the tacos
and tortillas were packed with venison, not beef.
While they ate and talked, Burton questioned the locals.
From their descriptions, he surmised that they were pre-
Columbian Indians who had lived in a wide valley in the
Southwest desert. They had been composed of two different
tribes speaking related but mutually unintelligible
languages. Despite this, the two groups had lived
peacefully side by side and had formed a single culture,
each of the groups differing only in a few traits.
He decided that they were the people whom the Pima
Indians of his time had called the Hohokam, The Ancient
Ones. These had flourished in the area which the white
settlers would call the Valley of the Sun. It was mere
that the village of Phoenix of the Arizona Territory had
been founded, a village which, according to what he had
been told, had become a city of over a million population
in the late twentieth century.
These people called themselves the Ganopo. In their
Terrestrial time they had dug long irrigation ditches
with flint and wooden tools and turned the desert into a
garden. But they had suddenly disappeared, leaving the
American archaeologists to explain why. Various theories
had been advanced to account for this. The most widely
accepted was that belligerent invaders from the north had
wiped them out, though mere was no evidence for that.
Burton's hopes that he could solve this mystery were
quickly dissipated. These people had lived and died
before their society came to an end.
They all sat up late that night, smoking and drinking the
alcohol made from the lichen which coated their rock
spire. They told stories, mostly obscene and absurd, and
rolled on the ground with laughter. Burton, when he told
Arabic tales, found it necessary not to use unfamiliar
references or to explain them if they were simple enough
to be understood. But they had no trouble grasping the
stories of Aladdin and his magic lamp or of how Abu Hasan
broke wind.
The latter had been a great favorite with the Bedouins.
Burton had often sat around a fire of dried camel dung
and sent his listeners into shrieks of laughter though
they had heard it a thousand times.
Abu Hasan was a Bedouin who had left his nomadic life to
become a merchant of the city of Kaukaban in Yemen. He
became very rich, and after his wife died he was urged by
his friends to marry again. After some resistance, he
gave in and arranged a marriage to a beautiful young
woman. There was much feasting of rices of several colors
and sherbets of as many more, kids stuffed with walnuts
and almonds and a camel colt roasted whole.
Finally, the bridegroom was summoned to the chamber where
his bride, clad in many rich robes, waited. He rose
slowly and with dignity from his divan but, alas! He was
full of meat and drink, and as he walked toward the
bridal chamber, lo and behold! he let fly a fart, great
and terrible.
On hearing this, the guests turned to each other and
talked loudly, pretending not to have noticed this social
sin. But Abu Hasan was greatly humiliated, and so,
pretending a call of nature, he went down to the
horsecourt, saddled a horse, and rode away, abandoning
his fortune, his house, his friends, and his bride.
He then took ship to India, where he became the captain
of a king's bodyguard. After ten years be was seized with
a homesickness so terrible that he was about to die of
it, and so he set out for home disguised as a poor fakir.
After a long and dangerous journey, he drew near to his
city, and he looked from the hills upon its walls and
towers with eyes flowing with tears. However, he did not
dare venture into the city until he knew that he and his
disgrace had been forgotten. So he wandered around the
outskirts for seven days and seven nights, eavesdropping
upon the conversations in street and marketplace.
At the end of that time he chanced to be sitting at the
door of a hut, thinking that perhaps he could now venture
into the city as himself. And then he heard a young girl
say, "O my mother, tell me the day I was born, for one of
my companions needs to know that so she can read my
future."
And the mother replied, "You were born, O daughter, on
the very night when Abu Hasan farted."
The listener no sooner, heard these words than he rose
from the bench and fled, saying to himself, "Truly your
fart has become a date, which shall last forever."
And he did not quit traveling and voyaging until he
returned to India and there lived in self-exile until he
died, and the mercy of God be upon him.
This story was a great success, but before he told it
Burton had to preface his story with the explanation that
the Bedouins of that time considered farting in company a
disgrace. In fact, it was necessary that everyone within
earshot pretend that it had not happened, since the
disgraced one would kill anyone who called attention to
it.
Burton, sitting cross-legged before the fire, noted that
even Alice seemed to enjoy the story. She was a middle-
Victorian, raised in a deeply religious Anglican family,
her father a bishop and the brother of a baron, descended
from John of Gaunt, King John's son, her mother the
granddaughter of an earl. But the impact of River-world
life and a long intimate association with Burton had
dissolved many of her inhibitions.
He had then gone on to the tale of Sinbad the Sailor,
though it was necessary to adapt this to the experiences
of the Ganopo. They had never seen a sea, so the sea
became a river, and the roc which carried off Sinbad
became a giant golden eagle.
The Ganopo, in their turn, told stories from their
creation myths and the ribald adventures of a folk hero,
the trickster Old Man Coyote.
Burton questioned them about the adaptation of their
religion to the reality of this world.
"O Burton," their chief said, "this is not quite the
world after death which we had envisioned. It is no land
where maize grows higher than a man's head in one day and
deer and jackrabbit give us a good hunt but never escape
our spears. Nor have we been reunited with our women and
children, our parents and grandparents. Nor do the great
ones, the spirits of the mountains and the river, of the
rocks and the bush, walk among us and talk to us.
"We do not complain. In fact, we are far happier than in
the world we left. We have more food, better food, than
we had there, and we do not have to work to get it,
though we had to fight to keep it in the early days here.
We have far more than enough water, we can fish to our
heart's content, and we do not know the fevers that
killed or crippled us nor do we know the aches and pains
of old age and its enfeeblements."
                            5
here the chief frowned, and with his next words a shadow
fell upon them and the smiles faded.
"Tell me, you strangers, have you heard anything about
the return of death? Of death forever, I mean? We live
upon this little island and so do not get many visitors.
But from the few we do meet and from those we talk to
when we visit the banks, we have heard some strange and
troubling stories.
"They say that for some time now no one who has died has
been raised again. A person is killed, and he or she does
not wake up the next day, his wounds healed, his grail
beside him, upon a bank far from the scene of his death.
Tell me, is this true or is it just one of those tales
that people like to make up to worry others?"
"I do not know,'' Burton said. "It is true that we have
traveled for thousands of kilometers ... I mean, we have
passed by an uncountable number of grailstones on our
voyage. And for the past year, we have noticed this thing
of which you speak."
He paused for a moment, thinking. From the very second
day after the great resurrection, the lesser
resurrections, or translations, as they were generally
called, had occurred. People were killed or killed
themselves or had fatal accidents, but, at dawn the next
day, they found themselves alive. However, they were
never raised at the scene of their deaths. Always, they
found themselves far away, often in a different climatic
zone.
Many attributed this to a supernatural agency. Many more,
among whom was Burton, did not think that there was any
agency except an advanced science which accounted for
this. There was no need to call in the supernatural. "No
ghosts need apply,"-to quote the immortal Sherlock
Holmes. Physical explanations sufficed.
Burton knew from his own experience, apparently a unique
one, that a dead person's body could be duplicated. He
had seen that in the vast space where he had awakened
briefly. Bodies were somehow made from some kind of
recording, their wounds healed, diseased flesh
regenerated, limbs restored, the ravages of old age
repaired, youth restored.
Somewhere under the crust of this planet was an immense
thermionic energy-matter converter. Probably, it was
fueled by heat from the nickel-iron core. Its machinery
operated through the complex of grailstones, the roots of
which reached deep under the earth, forming a circuit so
complex that it staggered the mind to think of it.
Was the recording of the dead person's cells made by
something in the stones themselves? Or was it made as
Frigate had suggested, by unseen orbital satellites which
kept an eye upon every living being, much as God was
supposed to note even the fall of a sparrow?
Nobody knew, or, if they did, they were keeping the
secret to themselves.
Energy-matter conversion through the grailstone system
also accounted for the free meals every citizen of The
Riverworld found in his grail three times a day. The base
of each of the metal cylinders must conceal a tiny
converter and an electronic menu. The energy was
transmitted through the grailstone complex into the
grails. And there electricity became complex matter:
beef, bread, lettuce, etcetera, and even luxuries,
tobacco, marijuana, booze, scissors, combs, cigarette
lighters, lipstick, dreamgum.
The towel-like cloths were also provided via the stone
system, but not through the grails. They appeared in a
neat pile next to the resurrected body and the grail.
There had to be some sort of mechanism inside the
underground roots of the stone complex. This somehow
could project through many meters of earth the vastly
complicated configuration of molecules of human bodies,
grails, and cloths at precisely a centimeter above ground
level.
Literally, people and things formed from the air.
Burton had sometimes wondered what would happen if the
translatee should happen to be formed in an area occupied
by another object. Frigate said that there would be a
terrible explosion. This had never happened, at least not
to Burton's knowledge. Thus, the mechanism "knew" how to
avoid this intermingling of molecules.
There was, however, as Frigate had pointed out, the
volume of atmosphere which the newly formed body had to
displace. How were the molecules of air kept from a fatal
mingling with the molecules of the body?
No one knew. But the mechanism must somehow remove the
air, make vacuums into which the body, grail, and cloths
appeared. It would have to be a perfect vacuum, too,
something which the science of the late 10th century had
not succeeded in making.
And it did it silently, without the explosion of a mass
of suddenly displaced air.
The question of how bodies were recorded still did not
have a satisfactory answer. Many years ago, a captured
agent of the Ethicals, a man calling himself Spruce, had
said that a sort of chrono-scope, an instrument which
could look back in time, recorded the cells of human
beings. Of every person who had ever lived from about two
million B.C. to 2008 a.d.
Burton did not believe this. It did not seem possible
that anything could go backward in time, bodily or
visually. Frigate had expressed his disbelief, too,
saying that Spruce probably had used "chronoscope" in a
figurative sense. Or perhaps he had lied.
Whatever the whole truth, the resurrection and the grail
food could be explained in purely physical terms.
"What is it, Burton?" the chief said politely. "You have
been seized by a spirit?"
Burton smiled and said, "No, I was just thinking. We too
have talked to many who said that no one has been
translated for a year in their areas. Of course, this may
just mean that the places through which we voyaged may
not have had any translatees. It is possible that there
have been translatees elsewhere. After all, The River may
be ..."
He paused. How could he put across the concept of a River
which was possibly 10,000,000 or more kilometers long to
people who did not understand any number above twenty?
"It may be so long that a man who sailed from one end of
The River to the other would take as many years to do it
as the combined lifetimes of your grandfather, father,
and yourself on Earth.
"Thus, even though there may be as many deaths as there
are blades of grass between two grailstones, that still
would not be much compared to the numbers who live along
The River. Even though we have voyaged very far, we still
have not gone far compared to the length of The River.
So, there may be many areas where the dead have risen.
"Also, not as many people die now as in the first twenty
years here. The many, many little states have been
permanently established. Few slave states now exist.
People have made states which keep order among their own
citizens and protect them from other states. The evil
people who lusted for power and the food and goods of
others were killed off. It is true they popped up
elsewhere, but in other areas they found themselves
without their supporters. Things are fairly well settled
now, though, of course, there are still accidents, mainly
from fishing, and individuals do kill, though chiefly
from passion.
"There are not so many dying nowadays. It is possible
that the areas through which we went just were not the
areas in which translatees appeared."
"Do you really believe that?" the chief said. "Or are you
saying that merely to make us feel happy?"
Burton smiled again. "I do not know."
"Perhaps," the chief said, "it is as the shamans of the
Church of the Second Chance tell us. That this world is
only a stepping stone, a way station, to another. A world
even better than this one. The shamans say that when a
person becomes a very good man here, much better than he
was on Earth, he goes on to a world where the great
spirits truly dwell. Though the shamans do insist that
there is only one great spirit. I cannot believe that,
since everybody knows that there are many spirits, born
high and low."
"That is what they say," Burton replied. "But how should
they know any more than you or I know?"
"They say that one of the spirits that made this world
appeared to the man who founded their church. This spirit
told the man that this was so."
"Perhaps the man who claims this is mad or a liar,"
Burton said. "In any event, I would have to talk to this
spirit myself. And he would have to prove that he was
indeed a spirit."
"I do not trouble myself about such matters," the chief
said. "It is better to leave the spirits alone, to enjoy
life as it is and to be one whom the tribe finds good."
"Perhaps that is the wisest course," Burton said.
He did not believe this. If he did, why was he so
determined to get to the headwaters of The River and to
the sea behind the mountains ringing the north pole, the
sea that was said to have at its center a mighty tower in
which the secret makers and rulers of this world lived?
The chief said, "I mean no offense, Burton, but I am one
who can see into a person. You smile and you tell funny
stories, but you are troubled. You are angry. Why do you
not quit voyaging on that small vessel and settle down?
You have a good woman, all, in fact, that any man needs.
This is a good place. There is peace, and thieves are
unknown, except for an occasional passerthrough. There
are not many fights except between men who want to prove
that one is stronger than the other or between a man and
his woman because they cannot get along with each other.
Any sensible person would enjoy this area."
"I am not offended," Burton said. "However, for you to
understand me, you would have to listen to the story of
my life, here and on Earth. And even then you might not
understand. How could you when I don't understand it
myself?"
Burton fell silent then, thinking of another chief of a
primitive tribe who had told him much the same thing.
This was in 1863 when Burton, as Her Majesty's consul for
the west African island of Fernando Po and the Bight of
Biafra, visited Gelele, king of Dahomey. Burton's mission
was to talk the king into stopping the bloody annual
human sacrifices and the slave trade. His mission had
failed, but he had collected enough data to write two
volumes.
The drunken, bloody-minded, lecherous king had acted high
handedly with him, whereas when Burton had visited Benin
its king had crucified a man in his honor. Still, they
had gotten along rather well, considering the
circumstances. In fact, on a previous visit, Burton had
been made an honorary captain of the king's Amazon guard.
Gelele had said that Burton was a good man but too angry.
Primitive people were good at reading character. They had
had to be to survive.
Monat, the Arcturan, sensing that Burton's withdrawal was
lowering the high spirits of the occasion, began to tell
stories of his native planet. Monat had somewhat awed the
islanders at first because of his obviously nonhuman
origin. However, he had no trouble in warning them, since
he knew exactly how to make a human being feel at ease.
He should have; he had had to do this every day of his
life on The Riverworld.
After a while, Burton arose and said that his crew should
be getting to bed. He thanked the Ganopo for their
hospitality but said that he had changed his mind about
staying there for several days. His original intention to
rest there while he studied them was gone.
"We would like very much for you to stay here," the chief
said. "For a few days or for many years. Whichever you
prefer."
"I thank you for that," Burton said. He quoted the words
of a character from The Thousand and One Nights. "Allah
afflicted me with a love of travel."
He then quoted himself, "Travelers like poets are mostly
an angry race."
That at least made him laugh, and he went to the boat
feeling less gloomy. Before going to bed, he set the
watches. Frigate protested that a guard wasn't needed in
this isolated place where the few inhabitants seemed to
be honest. He was overruled, which was no surprise to
him. He knew that Burton thought that acquisitiveness was
the mainspring of human action.
                            6
Burton was thinking of this and other events of last
night, including the dreams. He stood for a while,
smoking a cigar, while Frigate stood by him. The
assemblage of closely packed stars and wide-spreading gas
sheets paled as they silently watched. Dawn would be
coming within a half-hour. Its light would wash out most
of the celestial objects, would spread out for some time
before the sun finally cleared the northern mountain
wall.
They could see the fog, like a woolly blanket, covering
The River and the plains on both banks. It lapped against
the tree-covered hills, on the sides of which were a few
lights. Beyond the hills of the valley were the
mountains, inclined at an angle of forty-five degrees for
the first thousand feet or 305 meters or so, then
ascending straight up, smooth as a mirror, for 10,000
feet or about 3048 meters.
During his first years here, Burton had estimated the
mountains to be about 20,000 feet or 6096 meters high. He
was not the only one to make that error when only the eye
was available for calculation. After he had been able to
construct rather crude surveying instruments, however, he
had determined that the mountain walls were, generally,
twice as low as he had thought. Their blue-grey or black
rock created an illusion. Perhaps this was because the
valley was so narrow, and the walls made the dwellers
feel even more pygmyish.
This was a world of illusions, physical, metaphysical,
and psychological. As on Earth, so here.
Frigate had lit a cigarette. He had quit smoking for a
year, but now, as he put it, he had "fallen from grace."
He was almost as tall as Burton. His eyes were hazel. His
hair was almost as black as his companion's, though it
reflected a reddish undercoating in sunlight. His
features were irregular: bulging supraorbital ridges, a
straight nose of average size but with large nostrils,
full lips, the upper very long, a clefted chin. The
latter seemed to recede because of his unusually short
jaw.
On Earth he had been, among many other things, one of
that rare but vigorous breed which collected all
literature by, about, and relevant to Burton. He hadn
also written a biography of him but had eventually
novelized it as A Rough Knight for the Queen.
On first meeting him, Burton had been puzzled when
Frigate had identified himself as a science fiction
writer.
"What in Gehenna is that?"
"Don't ask me to define science fiction," Frigate had
said. "No one was ever able to give it a completely
satisfactory definition. However, what it is ... was ...
was a genre of literature in which most of the stories
took place in a fictional future. It was called science
fiction because science was supposed to play a large part
in it. The development of science in the future, that is.
This science wasn't confined to physics and chemistry but
also included extrapolations of the sociological and
psychological science of the author's time.
"In fact, any story that took place in the future was
science fiction. However, a story written in 1960, for
instance, which projected a future of 1984, was still
classified as science fiction in 1984.
"Moreover, a science fiction story could take place in
the present or the past. But the assumption was that the
story was possible because it was based on the science of
the author's time, and he merely extrapolated, more or
less rigorously, what a science could develop into.
"Unfortunately, this definition included stories in which
there was no science or else science poorly understood by
the author.
"However (there are a lot of howevers in science
fiction), there were many stories about things which
could not possibly happen, for which there was no
scientific evidence whatsoever. Lake time travel,
parallel worlds, and faster-than-light drives. Living
stars, God visiting the Earth in the flesh, insects tail
as buildings, world deluges, enslavement through
telepathy, and more in an endless list."
"How did it come to be named science fiction?"
"Well, actually, it was around a long time before a man
named Hugo Gernsback originated the label. You've read
the Jules Verne novels and Mary Shelley's Frankenstein,
haven't you? Those were considered to be science
fiction."
"It sounds as if it were just fantasy," Burton had said.
"Yes, but all fiction is fantasy. The difference between
mundane fantasy, what we called mainstream literature,
and science fiction was that mainstream stories were
about things which could have happened. They also always
took place in the past or the present.
"Science fiction stories were about things that could not
happen or were highly improbable. Some people wanted to
name it speculative literature, but the term never caught
on."
Burton never thoroughly understood what science fiction
was, but he did not feel bad about it. Frigate couldn't
explain it clearly either, though he could give numerous
examples.
"Actually," Frigate had said, "science fiction was one of
those many things that don't exist but nevertheless have
a name. Let's talk about something else."
Burton had refused to drop the subject. "Then you were in
a profession which didn't exist?"
"No, the profession of writing science fiction existed.
It was just that science fiction per se was nonexistent.
This is beginning to sound like a dialog in Alice in
Wonderland."
"Was the money you made from your writings also nonexis
tent?"
"Almost. Well, that's an exaggeration. I didn't starve in
a garret, but I also wasn't driving a gold-plated
Cadillac."
"What's a Cadillac?"
Thinking of that now, Burton found it strange that the
woman who slept with him was the Alice who had been the
inspiration for Lewis Carroll's two masterpieces.
Suddenly, Frigate said, "What's that?"
Burton looked eastward toward the strait. Unlike the
areas above and below it, the strait had no banks. High
hills rose abruptly along its length, hills which were
smooth walls. Below the strait something-no, two objects-
were moving toward him, seemingly suspended above the
fog.
He climbed a rope ladder to get a better look. The two
objects were not suspended in the air. Their lower parts
were just hidden by the mists. The nearest was a wooden
structure with what seemed to be a human figure on its
top. The second, much farther back, was a large, round,
black object.
He called down. "Pete! I think it's a raft! A very large
one! It's moving with the current, and it's headed
directly toward us! There's a tower with a pilot on it.
He isn't moving, though, just standing there. Surely ..."
No, not surely. The man on the tower had not moved. If he
were awake, he would have seen that the raft was on a
collision course.
Burton hooked an arm around a rope, cupped his hands, and
bellowed warnings. The figure leaning against the
guardrail did not move. Burton stopped shouting at him.
"Wake up everybody!" he thundered at Frigate. "On the dou
ble! We must get the boat out of the way!"
He climbed swiftly down and went over the side onto the
dock. Here, where his head was below the surface of the
fog, he could see nothing. By running one hand along the
hull, however, he could feel his way to the mooring
posts. By the time he had untied two lines, he heard the
others on the deck above. He shouted that Monat and Kazz
should get onto the dock on the other side and untie the
lines there.
In his haste, he rammed into a post and for several
seconds hopped around holding his knee. Then he resumed
his work.
Having completed his part of unloosing, he groped back
along the hull. Someone had by then let down the gangway.
He went up it, his hands sliding along the railing, and
came aboard. Now he could see the tops of the women's
heads and the American's face.
Alice said, "What's going on?"
"Have you gotten the poles out?" he said to Frigate.
"Yeah."
He swung up onto the rope ladder again. The two objects
were still on a course that must end at the docks. The
man on the watch tower had not moved.
By now there were voices coming from the island. The
Ganopo were awake and calling out questions.
Monat's head and shoulders rose from the greyness. He
looked like a monster sliding up out of the fog of a
Gothic novel. The skull was similar to that of a human
being's, but the fleshy features made him seem only
semihuman. Thick black eyebrows curved down alongside the
face to knobbed cheekbones and flared out to cover them.
Thin membranes that swung with the movement of his head
hung from the lower part of his nostrils. At the end of
his nose was a deeply cleft boss of cartilage. His lips
were like a dog's, thin, black, and leathery. The
lobeless ears were convoluted like seashells.
Kazz bellowed somewhere near Monat. Burton could not see
him since he was the second shortest of the crew, only
about 5 feet or 1.5 meter tall. Then he came very close,
and Burton could make out the squat figure.
"Get the poles and push the boat from the docks!'' Burton
yelled.
"Where in hell are they?" Besst called.
Frigate said, "I pulled them from the rack. They're on
the deck below it."
Burton said, "Follow me," and then he cursed as he
stumbled over something and fell flat on his face. He was
up again at once, only to bump into somebody. From the
bulky shape, he thought it must be Besst.
After some confusion, the poles were gotten and their
wielders were stationed along the sides. At Burton's
orders, they thrust the ends against the top of the dock,
there being no room between the hull and the side of the
dock for the poles to shove against the stone bottom of
the underwater shelf. Since they had to fight against the
current, which was strongest on the middle of the lake,
they could only move the vessel very slowly. Once past
the dock, they lowered the ends of the poles into the
water and pushed against the rocky bottom. Even so, the
poles slipped on the bare, smooth rock.
Burton ordered that they should let the prow of the boat
swing around. This was done, and then the polers on the
port side moved to the starboard to help the others keep
the vessel from drifting side-wise against the spire. At
this point, both the beach and the underwater shelf
abruptly ceased. Now they had to hold the poles hori
zontally and shove against the wall of the spire.
Burton, hearing an unknown voice, looked back. The dark
figure on the tower was moving now and screaming down
into the fog. Other voices, fainter than the pilot's,
came through the mists.
The large, round, dark object had become even larger. In
the starlight it looked like the head of a giant. He
estimated that the distance between the tower and the
other object was about 100 meters. That meant that the
raft which carried them was huge. He had no idea how wide
it was, and he hoped he did not find out until after the
boat was on the other side of the island.
Just before he turned back to his task, he saw another
man appear on the tower. He was waving his hands, and his
shrill voice dominated the other man's.
"Here it comes!" Frigate called out.
Burton didn't blame him for sounding panicked. He was in
a frenzy himself. All that weight and momentum, hundreds,
perhaps thousands of logs, were moving toward the Hadji
II.
"Push your guts out!" he yelled. "We'll be crushed if you
don't!"
By then the bowsprit, the large spar projecting forward
of the ship, had cleared the spire. About ten more pushes
should clear the corner, and the Hadji II would be taken
by the current past the spire, away from the danger.
The yelling from the raft was loud and close. Burton
spared a glance at the tower. It was only a little over
400 feet or 122 meters away. Furthermore, the side of the
tower had turned a little. He cursed. That meant that the
raft had turned, or been turned, off its course to avoid
striking the island in its center part. Unfortunately, it
was going to the left instead of to the right.
"Heave!" Burton shouted.
He wondered where the tower was located. Was it on the
very prow of the raft or was it set back? If the latter
was the situation, then there would be a large part of
the raft forward of the tower. That meant that somewhere
under the fog the forward part of the raft was very near
the boat.
In any case, the raft was not going to miss the island.
He did not care about that if it did not strike the boat.
A man on the tower was screaming orders in an unknown lan
guage down into the mists.
The prow of the Hadji II was now past the spire. But here
the strong current at the corner had pressed the boat
against the rocky wall, and their poles were slipping on
the rock, which was smoother than that just passed.
"Push, you sons of bitches, push!" Burton thundered.
There was a roar, an abrupt lifting of the deck, a
tilting inward toward the rock. Burton was dashed against
a bright hardness that made him go soft and black inside.
Dimly, he was aware that he had fallen back onto the
deck, was lying on his back, was trying to get up in the
dark greyness. Screams arose from around him. These and
the snapping of smashed timbers and a final explosion,
the impact of the forward part of the raft against the
rock, were the last things he heard.
                            7
Fog blinded Jill Gulbirra.
By keeping close to the right bank of The River, she
could barely discern the grailstones. They looked
ominous, like giant toadstools in a dismal wasteland.
The next one should be the end of her odyssey. She had
been counting them as she passed them, counting all
night.
Now, a phantom in a ghost canoe, she paddled on. The wind
was dead, but she revived it a little, or made it a
pseudowind, by her own motion, driving against the
current. The heavy wet air rubbed against her face like
ectoplasmic curtains.
Now she saw a fire by the stone which had to be her
destination. It had been a small spark. Now it was
bigger, glowing palely, a ghost of a fire. From near it
the voices of men. Disembodied voices.
She herself, she thought, must look like the spirit of a
nun. White cloths held together by concealed magnetic
tabs swathed her body. One cloth formed a hood so that
anyone near enough in the fog would see her face as a
darker blank in the dark greyness.
Her few belongings crouched on the floor of the canoe. In
this wet, dim woolliness, they were two small beasts,
white and grey. Near her was a tall grey metal cylinder,
her "tucker box.'' Beyond it was a bundle, cloths
containing various items. A bamboo flute. A ring of oak
set with polished jadeite stone, her lover's gift, a
lover departed but dead in only one sense-as far as she
knew. A bag of dragonfish leather, crammed with artifacts
and memories. Tied to the bundle, but invisible in this
darkness, was a leather case holding a yew bow and a
quiver of arrows.
Under her seat lay a spear, a bamboo shaft tipped with a
hornfish horn. By it lay two heavy oak war-boomerangs and
a bag containing two leather slings and forty stones.
As the fire brightened, the voices became louder. Who
were they ? Guards? Drunken revelers? Slavers hoping to
catch just such as she? Early worms out to catch a bird?
She smiled grimly. If they wanted violence, they would
get it.
However, they sounded more like drunks. If what she had
been told down-River was true, she was in peaceful
territory. Neither Parolando nor its neighboring states
practiced grail slavery. She could have sailed the canoe
boldly in daylight, according to her information. She
would be welcomed and free, free to come or to go.
Moreover, it was true that they, Parolandoj, were
building a giant airship.
But distrust was her native element, though she could not
be blamed for that. Consider her terrible experiences.
So, she would scout around in the dark. It would require
more work and inconvenience; it would be inefficient. You
had to make your choice between survival and efficiency,
though in the long run survival was optimum efficiency,
no matter how much time and effort it took.
Death was no longer a temporary event in the Rivervalley.
Resurrection seemed to have stopped, and with its
cessation the ancient terror had returned.
Now the fire was bright enough for her to see the huge
toadstool shape. The blaze was just beyond it. Four
figure, black outlines, moved by the flames. She could
smell the smoke of bamboo and pine, and she thought she
whiffed cigars. Why had the disgusting cigars been
provided by the Mysterious Donors?
They were talking in somewhat slurred English. Either
they had been drinking or English was not their native
tongue. No. The voice now booming through the fog
belonged to an American.
"No!" the man bellowed. "By the holy flaming rings of bug
gered Saturn, no! It's not sheer ego, downright stinking
hubris! I want to build the biggest ever built, a
fabulous ship, a true queen of the skies, a colossus, a
leviathan! Bigger than Earth or The River-world has ever
seen or will ever see again! A ship to make everybody's
eyes bug out, make them proud they're human! A beauty! A
wondrous behemoth of the air! Unique! Like nothing that
ever existed before! What? Don't interrupt, Dave! I'm
flying high, and I'm going to keep on flying until we get
there! And then some!"
"But, Milt!"
"But me no buts! We need a big one, the biggest, the
grandest, for purely logical scientific reasons. My God,
man, we have to go higher, further, than any dirigible
ever has! We have to range 16,900 kilometers maybe,
depending upon where the boat is! And God only knows what
winds we'll run into! And it's all one vast one-shot! Do
you hear me, Dave, Zeke, Cyrano? A one-shot!"
Her heart would not quit racing. "Dave" had spoken with a
German accent. They must be the very men she was looking
for. What luck! No, not luck. She had known how many
kilometers distant, counted by the grailstones spaced
along the bank, her destination was. And she had been
told exactly where the headquarters of Milton Firebrass
was. And she knew that David Schwartz, the Austrian
engineer, was one of Firebrass' lieutenants.
"It'll take too much time, too much material," a man said
.loudly. His speech was that of a native of Maine. There
was something, or was it just her overactive imagination,
of the shriek of the wind in rigging, the creaking of
rope and wood in a rolling ship, the thunder of surf, the
flapping of sails, in his voice? Imagination, of course.
"Stop that, Jill," she told herself. If Firebrass had not
called him Zeke, she would not now be imposing open-sea-
sailing-ship images. on the voice. He would be Ezekiel
Hardy, captain of a New Bedford whaler, killed by a sperm
whale off the coast of Japan-1833?- and he had convinced
Firebrass that he would make an excellent helmsman or
navigator for the airship. After suitable training, of
course. Firebrass must really be hard up for a crew if he
signed on an early-nineteenth-century whaling ship
skipper. The man had probably never even seen a balloon,
maybe not even a steam-driven riverboat.
The grapevine had it that Firebrass had had little
success so far in finding experienced airshipmen. Men, of
course. Always men. So, he had accepted candidates who
seemed most likely to benefit from training. Airplane
pilots. Balloonists. Sailors. Meanwhile, the word had
spread up and down The River for 60,000 kilometers,
perhaps 100,000, that Firebrass wanted lighter-than-air
men. Always men.
What did Firebrass know about building and flying a
gasbag? He may have journeyed to Mars and Ganymede,
orbited Jupiter and Saturn, but what did that have to do
with dirigibles? David Schwartz, it was true, had
designed and built the first truly rigid dirigible. It
had also been the first to have a structure and skin made
completely from aluminum. This was in 1893, sixty years
before she had been born. He'd then started to build a
better airship-in Berlin, 1895?-but work had stopped on
it when Schwartz had died-January, 1897?
She was not sure now. Thirty-one years on The River had
dimmed much of memories on Earth.
She wondered if Schwartz knew what had happened after he
had died. Probably not unless he'd met some gasbag freak,
a layman Zepfan. Schwartz's widow had carried on his
work, and yet no book Jill had read had bothered to note
her first name or her maiden name. She was only Frau
Schwartz. She had gotten the second ship built, despite
being only a woman. And some male jackass had flown the
aluminum ship (which looked more like a thermos bottle
than anything else), had panicked, and had wrecked it.
All that was left of Schwartz's dream and his wife's
devotion to it was a crumpled mass of silvery-looking
metal. So much for dreams in a high wind when a big
phallus, lilliputian brains, and mouse courage were at
the controls. Now, if the jackass had been a woman, her
name would have been recorded. See what happens when a
woman leaves the kitchen? If God had intended . . .
Jill Gulbirra trembled, a hot ache in her chest. Get hold
of yourself, she murmured. Cool does it or you blow it.
She started from her reverie. While she had been dreaming
of Frau Schwartz's dream, she had allowed the canoe to be
carried down-River. The fire had become smaller, and the
voices fainter, and yet she had not noticed. Better
bloody watch out, she told herself. She had to be ever
alert, or she would never convince the powers-that-be
that she was qualified to be one of the airship crew. To
be captain?
"There's plenty of time!" Firebrass thundered. "This
isn't any government-contract, low-fund, high-pressure
project! It'll be thirty-seven years or more before Sam
gets to the end of The River. It'll only take two-maybe
three-years to complete the beast. Meanwhile , we'll use
the blimp for training. And then we' re off, heigh ho for
the wild blue yonder, the misty sea of the north pole,
where no Santa Claus, but somebody who's given us gifts
that make Saint Nick look like the world's worst
tightwad, lives! Off to the Misty Tower, the Really Big
Grail!"
The fourth man spoke up now. He had a pleasant baritone,
but it was evident that English was not his natal speech.
What was it? It sounded like a French accent in some ways
but. . . Yes, of course. That could be Savinien de Cyrano
de Bergerac, if she could believe what she had heard at
about hundredth hand. It just did not seem possible that
she would soon be talking to him. Perhaps she wouldn't
be, since there were so many phonies on The River.
There was silence for a moment, the silence that only the
River-valley knew-when people kept their mouths shut. No
birds, no animals (especially no barking dogs), no
mechanical monsters roaring, bellowing, buzzing,
screeching, no tooting horns, no whooping or screaming
sirens, no shrieking brakes, no loud radios, no blaring
loudspeakers. Only water lapping against shore and then a
splash as a fish leaped out and fell back. And the
crackle of wood in the fire.
"Ah!" Firebrass said. "Smooth! Better'n anything I ever
had on Earth! And free, free! But when, when will the
airmen show up? I need more men with experience, real
gasbaggers!"
Schwartz made a smacking sound-Jill could see the bottle
tilted above his lips now-and he said, "So! You are not
so unworried!"
The canoe touched shore, and she got out of it without
tipping it. The water was up to her waist, but the
magnetically sealed cloths kept the cold liquid out. She
waded closer and lifted the long, heavy canoe, moving
forward until she was on shore. She let the craft down
and dragged it until its entire length was out of the
stream. The bank was only about 30 centimeters above the
water level. She stood for a moment, planning her
entrance, then decided not to go armed.
"Oh, I'll get them eventually," Firebrass was saying.
She stepped closer, sliding her feet over the short
grass. .
"I'm the one you're looking for," she said loudly.
The four whirled, one almost falling and grabbing
another. They stared, their mouths and eyes dark holes in
paleness. Like her, they were covered with cloths but
theirs were brightly colored. If she had been an enemy,
she could have put an arrow into each one before they
could grab their weapons--if they had such. Then she saw
that they did have guns, placed on the edge of the
mushroom top of the grailstone.
Pistols! Made of iron! So, it was true!
Now she suddenly saw a rapier, a long, steel sharp-
pointed blade, in the hand of the tallest man there. His
other hand brushed his hood back and revealed a long,
dark face with a big nose. He had to be the fabled Cyrano
de Bergerac.
Cyrano reverted to seventeenth-century French, of which
she could understand only a few words.
Firebrass. pushed his hood back, too.
"I almost crapped in my britches! Why didn't you warn us
you were coming?"
She lowered her hood.
Firebrass stepped closer and looked keenly at her. "It's
a woman!"
"Nevertheless, I'm your man," Jill said.
"What'd you say?"
"Don't you understand English!" she said angrily.
Her displeasure was more at herself. She had been so
excited, though pretending to be composed, that she'd
reverted to her Toowoomba dialect. She might as well have
spoken in Shakespearean English for all they understood.
She repeated, in the standard Midwestern American she'd
learned so painstakingly, "Nevertheless, I'm your man. My
name, by the way, is Jill Gulbirra."
Firebrass introduced himself and the others, then said,
"I need another drink.''
"I could use one myself," Jill said. "It's a fallacy that
alcohol warms you up, but it does make you think you're
warmed up."
Firebrass stopped and picked up a bottle-the first glass
Jill had seen for years. He handed it to her and she
drank the scotch without wiping the mouth of the bottle.
After all, there were no disease germs on The River. And
she had no prejudices about drinking from a bottle that
had been in the mouth of a half-black. Wasn't her
grandmother an aborigine? Of course, abos were not
Negroes. They were black-skinned archaic Caucasians.
Why was she thinking such thoughts?
Cyrano, his head stuck forward, his back bent, walked up
to her. He looked her over, shook his head, and said,
"Mordioux, the hair is shorter than mine! And there is no
makeup! Are you sure she is a woman?"
Jill moved the scotch around in her mouth and swallowed
it. It was delicious, and it warmed all the way down.
"We shall see," the Frenchman said. He put his hand on
her left breast and squeezed gently.
Jill sank a fist into his hard belly. He bent over, and
Jill brought her knee up against his chin. He fell
heavily.
Firebrass said, "What the hell?" and stared at her.
"How would you react if he felt your crotch to see if you
were a man?"
"Simply thrilled, honey," Firebrass said. He whooped with
laughter and danced around while the other two men looked
at him as if they thought he was crazy.
Cyrano got onto his hands and knees and then onto his
feet. His face was red, and he was snarling. Jill wanted
to back away, especially after he picked up the rapier.
But she did not move, and she said, her voice steady, "Do
you always take such familiarities with strange women?"
A shudder went over him. The redness faded away, and the
snarl became a smile. He bowed. "No, madame, and my
apologies for such inexcusable manners. I do not usually
drink, since I do not like to cloud my mind, to become
bestial. But tonight we were celebrating the anniversary
of the departure of the Riverboat."
"No sweat," Jill said. "Just don't let it happen again."
Though she smiled, she was cursing herself for having
begun in such a bad way with a man for whom she had a
great admiration. It was not her fault, but she could not
expect him to forgive her for having felled him so easily
before witnesses. No male ego could survive that.
                            8
THE MIST THINNED. NOW THEY DID NOT NEED THE FIRELIGHT TO
see each other's faces. Below their waists the grey-white
coils were still dense, however. The sky was brightening,
though it would be some hours before the sun cleared the
eastern peaks. The great white gas sheets that covered
one-sixth of the sky had faded away with the lesser
stars. Thousands of the giants still flamed red, green,
white, blue, but their intensity, like gas jets slowly
being turned off, was diminishing.
Westward, a dozen structures towered up from the mists.
Her eyes widened, though she had heard about these
through the grapevine and the drum-telegraph. Some were
four-and-five-story-high buildings of sheet-iron and
aluminum. Factories. But the colossus was an aluminum
building, a hangar.
"It's the biggest I ever saw," she murmured.
"You ain't seen nothing yet," Firebrass said. He paused,
then said, wonderingly, "So you have come to sign up?"
"I said that once."
He was The Man. He could hire and fire her. But she'd
never been able to conceal irritation at stupidity.
Repetition was wasteful and hence stupid. Here was a man
who had a Ph.D. in astrophysics and a master's in
electronic engineering. And the United States had not
sent any dummies into space, though they may not have
been brilliant. Maybe it was the liquor that made him
seem stupid. As it did every man. And every woman, she
hastened to remind herself. Be fair.
He was close, breathing the whiskey fumes up into her
face. He was a head shorter than she, his broad
shoulders, muscular arms, and deep chest making a curious
contrast with long, skinny legs. His large eyes were
brown, the balls bloodshot. His head was large, his
forehead bulged, his bronze hair was so curly that it was
almost kinky, his skin was bronze-red. He was supposed to
be a mulatto, but the Caucasian and Onondaga Indian genes
seemed to be dominant. He could pass for a Provencal or
Catalonian. Or just about anything South European.
He looked her up and down. Was his bold stare supposed to
challenge her to knock him down as she had Cyrano?
Jill said, "What are you thinking of? My qualifications
for airship officer? Or what kind of body is under these
baggy towels?"
Firebrass burst out laughing. When he had recovered, he
said, "Both."
Schwartz looked embarrassed. He was short and slight,
blue eyed and brown haired. Jill glared at him, and he
turned away. Ezekiel Hardy was, like Cyrano, almost as
tall as she. He was narrow faced, high cheekboned, black
haired. He stared at her with hard pale-blue eyes.
"I'll repeat this because it needs to be stressed," she
said. "I'm as good as any man and ready to prove it. And
I'm a godsend. I have an engineering degree and I can
design an airship from A to Z. I have 8342 hours flight-
time in four different types of blimp. I can handle any
post, including captain."
"What proof do we have?" Hardy said. "You could be
lying."
"Where are your papers?" Jill said. "And even if you were
skipper of a whaling ship, so what? What qualification is
that for a dirigible man?"
"Now, now," Firebrass said. "Don't let us get our bowels
in an uproar. I believe you, Gulbirra. I don't think
you're one of the many phonies I've had to put up with.
"But let's get one thing straight. You are a hell of a
lot more qualified than I am-as of this moment, anyway-to
command the ship. But nevertheless, I am the captain, the
boss, the head cheese! I'm running this whole show from
start to finish. On the ground and up there. I didn't
give up being chief engineer on Clemens' boat so I could
take a minor position in this project.
"It's Captain Firebrass, and don't ever forget that. If
that's okay, signed and sealed in blood, then I'll be
jumping with joy to welcome you aboard. You might even be
first mate-no sexual implications involved-though I can't
promise that. The roster is a long way from being
filled."
He paused, cocked his head, and narrowed his eyes.
"First thing off. You have to swear by your personal
honor-and by God, if you believe in one-that you'll obey
the laws of Parolando. No ifs, ands, buts."
Gulbifra hesitated. She licked her lips, feeling their
dryness. She desired-no, lusted for-the airship. She
could visualize it even now. It hovered over them,
casting a shadow over her and Firebrass, shining silvery
where the imaginary sun struck it.
"I'm not going to sacrifice any of my principles!" she
said. She spoke so loudly that she startled the men. "Are
men and women equal here? Is there any discrimination in
sex, race, nationality, and so forth? Especially in sex?"
"No," Firebrass said. "Theoretically and legally, that
is. Actually, that is, personally, there is, of course.
And there is, as there has always been everywhere and
everytime, discrimination based on competency. We have
high standards here. If you're one of those who think
that a person should be given a job just because he-or
she-belongs to a group that has been discriminated
against, forget it. Or move your ass on out of here."
She was silent for a moment. The men looked at her,
obviously aware of the struggle inside her.
Firebrass grinned again. "You're not the only one in
agony," he said. "I want you in the worst way, just as
you want in the worst way, that is, the best way, to be
one of the crew. But I've got my principles, just as you
have yours."
He jerked a thumb at Schwartz and Hardy. "Look at them.
Both nineteenth-century. One's an Austrian; one, a New
Englander. But they've not only accepted me as the
captain, they're good friends. Maybe they still believe,
way deep down, that I'm an uppity nigger, but they'd take
a poke at anyone who called me that. Right, men?"
They nodded.
"Thirty-one years on The Riverworld changes a person. If
he's capable of being changed. So, what do you say? Want
to hear the constitution of Parolando?"
"Of course. I wouldn't make a decision until I knew what
I was getting into."
"It was formulated by the great Sam Clemens, who left on
his boat, the Mark Twain, almost a year ago."
"The Mark Twain? That's pretty egostistical, isn't it?"
"The name was chosen by popular vote. Sam protested,
though not very strongly. Anyway, you interrupted me.
There's an unwritten rule that nobody interrupts the
captain. So here goes. We, the people of Parolando, do
hereby declare ..."
There was no hesitation nor, as far as she knew, any
mistakes in the long recital. The almost total lack of
the written word had forced the literate population to
rely on memory. A skill that once had flourished only
among preliterates-and actors-was now general property.
While the words rose to the sky, the sky became brighter.
The mists shrank to their knees. The valley floor was
still covered with what looked at a distance like snow.
The foothills beyond the plains were no longer distorted.
The long hillgrass, the bushes, the iron-trees, oaks,
pines, yews, and bamboo no longer looked like a Japanese
painting, misty, unreal, and far off. The huge flowers
that grew from the thick vines intertwined on the
irontree branches were beginning to collect color. When
the sun would hit them, they would glow with vivid reds,
greens, blues, blacks, whites, yellows, stripes and
diamonds of mixed colors.
The western precipices were blue-black stone on which
were enormous splotches of bluish-green lichen. Here and
there, narrow cataracts fell dull-silvery down the
mountain sides.
All of this was familiar to Jill Gulbirra. But each
morning awoke in her the same sense of awe and wonder.
Who had formed this many-million-kilometers-long
Rivervalley? And why? And how and why had she, along with
an estimated thirty-four to thirty-seven billion people,
been resurrected on this planet? Everybody who had ever
lived from about 2,000,000 b.c. to 2008 a.d. seemed to
have been raised from the dead. The exceptions were
children who'd died at or under the age of five and the
mentally retarded. And also, possibly, the hopelessly
insane, though there was doubt about the definition of
hopelessly.
Who were the people who had done this? Why?
There were rumors and tales, strange, disturbing, and
maddening, of people who had appeared among the lazari.
Briefly. Mysteriously. They were named, among other
things, the Ethicals.
"Are you listening?'' Firebrass said. She became aware
that they were staring at her. "I can give you back,
almost verbatim, what you've said so far," she answered.
This wasn't true. But she was sensitized-keeping one ear
open, as it were, like an antenna receiving on a single
frequency-for what she considered important.
Now the people were coming out of the huts, stretching,
coughing, lighting up cigarettes, heading for the bamboo-
walled latrines, or walking toward The River, grails in
hand. The hardy wore only a towel; most were clad from
head to foot. Bedouins of the Rivervalley. Phantoms in a
mirage.
Firebrass said, "Okay. You ready to be sworn in? Or do
you have mental reservations?"
"I never have those," she said. "What about you? In
regard to me, I mean?"
"It wouldn't matter, anyway." He grinned again. "This
oath is only a preliminary one. You'll be on probation
for three months, then the people vote on you. But I can
veto the vote. Then you take the final oath, if you pass.
Okay?"
"Okay."
She didn't like it, but what could she do? She certainly
wasn't going to walk out. Besides, though they didn't
know it, they'd be on probation with her.
The air became warmer. The eastern sky continued to
brighten, quenching all but a few giant stars. Bugles
blew. The nearest was on top of a six-story bamboo tower,
in the middle of the plain, and the bugler was a tall,
skinny black wearing a scarlet towel around his waist.
"Real brass," Firebrass said. "There are some deposits of
copper and zinc a little ways upstream. We could have
taken them away from the people who owned it, but we
traded instead. Sam wouldn't let us use force unless it
was necessary.
"South of here, where Soul City used to be, were big
deposits of cryolite and bauxite. The Soul Citizens
wouldn't keep their side of the bargain-we were trading
steel weapons for the ores-so, we went down and took it.
In fact," he waved his hand, "Parolando now extends for
64 kilometers on both sides of The River."
The men removed all cloths except for those around the
waist. Jill kept on a green-and-white-striped kilt and a
thin, nearly transparent cloth around her breasts. They
had looked like desert Arabs; now they were Polynesians.
The dwellers of the plains and the bases of the foothills
were gathering by the Riverside. A number shucked all
their cloths and jumped into the water, whooping at the
cold and splashing each other.
Jill hesitated for a minute. She had sweat all day and
all night paddling her canoe. She needed a bath, and
sooner or later she'd have to disrobe entirely. She
dropped her towels and ran to the bank and dived flatly
out. After swimming back; she borrowed a bar of soap from
a woman and lathered the upper part of her body. She came
out of the water shivering and rubbed herself vigorously.
The men stared frankly, seeing a very tall woman, slim,
long lagged, small breasted, wide hipped, deeply tanned.
She had short, straight, russet hair and large russet
eyes. Her face, as she well knew, was nothing to write
home about. It was passable except for large buck teeth
and a nose a little too long and too hawkish. The teeth
were an inheritance from her blackfeller grandmother.
There was nothing she could do about them. Nor was there
anything she wanted to do about them.
Hardy's gaze was fastened on her pubic hair, which was
extraordinarily long, thick, and ginger colored. Well,
he'd get over that, and he was as close to it as he was
ever going to get.
Firebrass went around the side of the grailstone and
returned with a spear. Just below the steel head,
attached to the shaft, was a large vertebral bone from a
hornfish. He drove the spear straight into the ground
beside her canoe.
"The bone means it's my spear, the captain's," he said.
"I stuck it in the ground by the canoe to tell everybody
that it's not to be borrowed without permission. There
are a lot of things like that for you to learn.
Meanwhile, Schwartz can show you your quarters and then
give you a guided tour. Report to me at high noon under
that irontree there."
He indicated a tree about 90 meters to the west. Towering
over 300 meters, if had a thick, gnarly grey bark, scores
   of great branches extending 90 meters outward, huge
  elephant's-ear leaves with green and red stripes. Its
  roots surely drove down at least 120 meters, and its
unburnable wood was so hard it would resist a steel saw.
"We call it The Chief. Meet me there."
The bugles rang out again. The crowds organized
themselves into a military formation under the directions
of officers. Firebrass pulled himself onto the top of the
grailstone. He stood there, watching while the roll call
was made. The corporals reported to the sergeants and the
sergeants to the lieutenants, and they to the adjutant.
Then Hardy to Firebrass. A moment later, the mob was
dismissed. However, they did not leave. Firebrass got off
the mushroom-shaped stone, and the corporals took his
place. These put the grails in the depressions on the
surface of the stone.
Schwartz was beside her. He cleared his throat.
"Gulbirra? I'll take care of your grail."
She took it from the canoe and handed it to him. This was
a grey metal cylinder, 45.72 centimeters across, 76.20
centimeters high, weighing empty about 0.55 kilogram. It
had a lid which, once shut, could be lifted only by the
owner. There was a curved handle on the lid. Tied to it
by a bamboo fiber rope was her I.D., a tiny baked-clay
dirigible. It bore her initials on both sides.
Schwartz ordered a man to place her grail on the stone.
The man did so quickly, glancing often at the eastern
peaks. But he was safe by two minutes. At the end of that
time, the sun ballooned over the top. A few seconds
later, the mushroom-shape spouted blue flames over 9
meters high. The roar of its discharged electricity
mingled with the thunder of every stone on both sides of
The River for as far as could be seen. All these years
had not inured Jill to the sight nor sound. Though
expecting it, she jumped a little. The report rolled back
from the reflector of the mountains, echoed again, and
died out with a mutter.
Everybody had breakfast.
                            9
They were on a foothill. the tall esparto-like grass had
been recently mown to about a centimeter and a half-
length. "We have some machines that do that, though much
cutting is done with sickles," David Schwartz said. "The
grass is made into ropes."
"We didn't have any machines where I come from," Jill
said. "We used flint sickles. But we made rope from it,
of course."
It was shady and cool here. The branches of an iron tree
spread out to cover a small village, a scattering of
square or round huts of bamboo. Many of them were
thatched with the scarlet and green leaves of the iron
tree. A rope ladder dangled from the lowest branch of the
colossus, 33 meters up. Near it, a hut sat on a platform
supported on two branches. There were other rope ladders,
other platforms and huts here and there.
"Perhaps you will be assigned one of them after your
probation," Schwartz said. "Meanwhile, here's your home."
Jill entered the indicated doorway. At least, she did not
have to stoop in this. So many people were short and had
therefore built low entrances.
She set her grail and bundles down on the floor. Schwartz
followed her in. "This belonged to a couple killed by a
dragonfish. It came up out of the water as if it had been
fired from a cannon. It bit off one end of the fishing
craft. Unfortunately, the couple were standing on the end
and were swallowed along with the logs.
"It was also unfortunate that this happened after the
resurrections ceased. So, they won't be appearing
elsewhere, I suppose. You haven't heard anything about
new lazari, have you? Recently?"
"No, I haven't," she said. "Nothing reliable, anyway."
"Why do you suppose it stopped? After all these years?"
"I don't know," she said sharply. Talking about this made
her uneasy. Why had the gift of immortality been so
suddenly withdrawn?
"Bloody hell with it," she said loudly. She looked
around. The floor was hidden under grass that reached
almost to her crotch. The blades rasped against her legs.
She would have to cut the grass close to the ground and
then bring in earth to cover it. Even then the blades
might not die. The roots went so deep and were so
interconnected that the grass could flourish without
benefit of sunshine. Apparently they could draw their
sustenance from the roots of those exposed to light.
A steel sickle hung from a peg on the wall. Steel was so
common here that this tool, priceless elsewhere, had not
been stolen.
She moved around, slowly, so that the sharp edges of the
grass would not cut her legs. She found two clay pots-
thundermugs-in the tall green. A jar for drinking water
was on a bamboo table which had not as yet been
overturned by the pressure of the growing grass. A
necklace of fishbones hung on another peg. Two bamboo
cots and pillows and mattresses, made from magnetically
locked cloths stuffed with leaves, were partially hidden
by the grass. Near them lay a harp made from turtlefish
shell and fish intestines.
"Well, it's not much," she said. "But then it never is,
is it?" "It's big enough, though," Schwartz said. "Plenty
of room for you and your mate-when you find one."
Jill took the sickle from the peg and swiped at the
grass. The blades fell like so many heads. "Hah!"
Schwartz looked at her as if he wondered if she would go
from the grass to him.
"Why do you assume that I want a lover?" "Why, why, why,
everybody, that is, everybody does." "Everybody doesn't,"
she said. She hung the sickle back onto the peg. "What's
next on this Cook's tour?"
She had expected that, when they were alone in the hut,
he would ask her to go to bed with him. So many men did.
It was evident now that he would like to ask her, but he
didn't have the guts. She felt relief mixed with
contempt. Then she told herself that it was a strange
feeling, self-contradictory. Why should she look down on
him because he behaved as she wanted him to behave?
Perhaps some disappointment was also present. When a man
got too aggressive, despite her warnings, then she
chopped his neck with the edge of her hand, squeezed his
testicles, kicked him in the stomach while he writhed on
the ground. No matter how big and strong a man, he was
taken by surprise. They were all helpless, at least while
the agony in the testicles lasted. Afterward . . . well,
most of them left her alone. Some had tried to kill her,
but she was ready for that. They didn't know how handy
she was with a knife- or with any weapon.
David Schwartz was unaware of how narrowly he had escaped
crippling and a permanent dent in his ego.
"It's quite safe to leave your belongings here. We've
never had a case of theft yet."
"I'll take the grail. I'd feel nervous if I couldn't keep
my eye on it."
He shrugged and took a cigar from the leather bag hanging
from his shoulder. One of this morning's offerings from
his grail.
"Not in here," she said quietly. "This is my home, and I
don't want it stunk up."
He looked surprised, but he shrugged again. As soon as
they had stepped out, however, he lit it. And he moved
from her left side to upwind, puffing vigorously, blowing
in her direction.
Jill repressed the remark she wanted so much to make. It
would be indiscreet to offend him too much, to give him a
chance to blackmark her. After all, she was on probation;
she was a woman; she wouldn't needlessly antagonize a man
with such a high position, a good friend of Firebrass'.
But she would bend her principles, her neck, only so far.
Or would she? She had taken a lot of crap on Earth
because she had wanted to be an airship officer. And
smiled and gone home and smashed dishes and pottery and
written dirty words on the wall. Childish, but
satisfactory. And here she was, in a similar situation,
undreamed of until several years ago. She couldn't go
someplace else, because there wasn't any other place.
Here was where the only airship in the world would be
built. And that was to be a one-shot, a single-voyage
phenomenon.
Schwartz stopped on top of the hill. He pointed at an
avenue formed by ridgepole pines. At its end, halfway
down the hill opposite, was a long shed.
"The latrine for your neighborhood," he said. "You'll
dump your nightpots in it first thing every morning. The
urine in one hole and the excrement in the one next to
it."
He paused, smiled, and said, "Probationers are usually
given the task of removing the stuff every other day.
They take it up the mountain to the gunpowder factory.
The excrement is fed to the powder worms. The end product
of their digestion is potassium nitrate, and ..."
"I know, "she said, speaking between clamped teeth. "I'm
not a dummy. Anyway, that process is used wherever sulfur
is available."
Schwartz teetered on his heels, happily puffing his
cigar, tilted upward. If he had had suspenders, he would
have snapped them.
"Most probationers put in at least a month working in the
factory. It's unpleasant, but it's good discipline. It
also weeds out those who aren't dedicated."
"Non carborundum illegitimatus," she said.
"What?" he said out of the side of his mouth.
"A Yank saying. Jack-Latin. Translation: Don't let the
bastards grind you down. I can take any crap handed me-if
it's worth doing it. Then it's my turn."
"You're a tough one."
"Too right. You have to be if you survive in a man's
world. I thought perhaps things would be different here.
They weren't, and aren't, but they will be,"
"We've all changed,'' he said slowly and somewhat sadly.
"Not always for the better. If you'd told me in 1893 that
I'd be listening to a woman, an upper-class woman, not a
whore or a millhand, mind you, spewing filth and
subversive ..."
"Instead of subservient, you mean," she said harshly.
"Allow me to finish. Subversive suffragette rot. And if
you'd told me that it wouldn't particularly bother me,
I'd have said you were a liar. But live and learn. Or, in
our case, die and learn."
He paused and looked at her. The right side of her mouth
jerked; her eyes narrowed.
"I could tell you to stick it,'' she said. "But I must
get along with you. I will take only so much, however."
"You didn't understand all I said," he replied. "I said
it doesn't bother me now. And I said, live and learn. I
am not the David Schwartz of 1893. I hope you are not the
Jill Gulbirra of ... when did you die?"
"In 1983."
They walked down the hill in silence, Jill carrying her
grail on the end of her spear, which was on her shoulder.
Schwartz stopped once to point out a stream that ran down
from the hills. Its source was a cataract in the
mountains. They came to a small lake between two hills. A
man sat in a rowboat in the middle of the lake, a bamboo
fishing pole in his hand, the float drifting toward a
bush overhanging the bank. Jill thought he looked
Japanese.
Schwartz said, "Your neighbor. His real name is Ohara,
but he prefers to be called Piscator. He's crazy about
Izaak Walton, whom he can quote verbatim. He says a man
needs only one name in this world, and he's chosen
Piscator. Latin for fisher. He's a fish freak, as you can
see. Which is why he's in charge of the Parolando
Riverdragon fishing. But today's his day off."
"That's interesting," she said. He was, she believed,
leading up to something .unpleasant for her. The slight
smile looked sadistic.
"He'll probably be the first mate of the airship," he
said. "He was a Japanese naval officer and during the
first part of World War I he was attached to the British
Navy as an observer and trainee on dirigibles. Later, he
was a trainee-observer on an Italian Navy airship which
made bombing raids on Austrian bases. So, you see, he's
had enough experience to rank him very high on the list."
"And he is a man." She smiled, though seething inside.
"And though my experience is much much more than his,
still, he's a man."
Schwartz backed away from her. "I'm sure Firebrass will
appoint officers according to their merits only."
She did not reply.
Schwartz waved at the man in the boat. He rose from his
seat and, smiling, bowed. Then he sat down, but not
before giving her a look that seemed to sweep over her
like a metaphysical radar beam, locating her place in the
world, identifying her psychic construction.
Imagination, of course. But she thought that Schwartz was
right when he said, "An extraordinary man, that
Piscator."
The Japanese's black eyes seemed to burn holes in her
back as she walked away.
                           10
Blackness outside. inside, a night writhing with snakes
of pale lightning, twisty and fuzzy. Some time later, in
a place where there was no time, a bright beam ahead
shone as if from the lens of a movie projector. The light
was a whisper in the air; in her mind, it was bellowing.
The film was being shown on a cathode-ray oscilloscope;
it was a series of letters, broken words, signs, and
symbols, all part of an undeciphered code. Perhaps:
undecipherable.
Worse, it seemed to run backward, spun back into the
reel(ity?). It was a documentary made for television, for
the boobish (boobed?) viewer of the boob tube. Yet,
backward was an excellent technique. Images flashed to
suggest, to reverberate, to echo, to evoke, to flap
intimation upon intimation with electronic quickness.
Like flipping the pages of an illustrated book from back
to beginning. But the text, where was the text? And what
was she thinking of when she thought of images? There
were no images. No plot. Yes, there was a plot, but it
had to be put together from many pieces. Ah, many pieces.
She almost had it, but it had slipped away.
Moaning, she awoke. She opened her eyes and listened to
the rain beating upon the thatched roof.
Now she remembered the first part of the dream. It was a
dream of a dream, or what she thought was a dream but was
not sure. It was raining, and she had half-awakened or
had seemed to do so. The hut was 20,000 kilometers from
this one, but it was almost identical, and the world
outside the hut, as seen by occasional flashes of
lightning, would not have differed much. She had turned,
and her hand had not felt the expected flesh.
She had sat up and looked around. A lightning streak,
close enough to make her jump, showed that Jack was not
in the hut.
She had got up and lit a fish-oil lamp. Not only was he
not there, his cloths, weapons, and grail were gone.
She had run out into the stormy night to look for him.
She never found him. He was gone, and no one knew where
or why.
The only one who might have been able to tell her had
also sneaked out that same night. He, too, had left his
hutmate without saying a word about his intentions. It
was apparent to Jill that the two had run off together.
Yet, as far as she knew, they had been only casual
acquaintances.
Why had Jack left her, so silently and heartlessly?
What had she done?
Was it just that Jack had decided that he did not want to
put up with a woman who wouldn't play second fiddle in
their relationship? Also, the wanderlust had gotten him
again? With both motives pushing him, he had just up and
went, to use one of his corny Americanisms?
Whatever was the truth, she was living with no man
anymore, ever again. Jack was the best, and the last was
the best, as it should be, but he had not been good
enough.
She was on the rebound when she met Fatima, the little
sloe-eyed Turk. Fatima, one of the hundreds of concubines
of Mohammed IV (ruled Turkey from 1648-1687), had never
gone to bed with him. She had, however, not suffered
overmuch from lack of sexual satisfaction. There were
plenty of fellow prisoners of the Seraglio who preferred
their own sex as lovers, either through natural incli
nations or conditioning. She became a favorite of Kosem,
Mohammed's grandmother, though there was nothing overtly
homosexual in their relationship.
But Turban, Mohammed's mother, sought to get control of
the government from Kosem, and eventually Kosem was
caught by a party of Turban's assassins and strangled to
death with the cords from her own bed curtain. It was
Fatima's bad fortune to be attending Kosem when this
happened and so she had to share her fate.
Jill took the sexy little Turk in as hutmate after Fatima
had quarreled with her lover, a French ballet danseuse
(died 1873). Jill was not in love with her, but she was
sexually exciting and, after a while, she became fond of
her. Fatima, however, was ignorant and, worse,
unteachable. She was selfish and would remain so, was
infantile and would remain so. Jill got tired of her
after a year. Even so, she was grief-stricken when Fatima
was raped and then beaten to death by three drunken
Sikeli (born 1000 B.C.?). Her grief was intensified by
the knowledge (or belief, since there was no proof) that
Fatima was truly dead. Resurrection had apparently
stopped. No more would a dead person rise the next day at
dawn far, far from the scene of his or her demise.
Before succumbing to her sorrow, however, Jill had put an
arrow into each of Fatima's murderers. They were not
going to rise elsewhere either.
Years later, she had heard rumors of the great dirigible
that was being built up-River. She did hot know if they
were true or not, but there was only one way to find out.
So here she was, though it had taken a long time to get
here.
                           11
From The Daily Leak, a five-page newspaper. owner and
owner and publisher: the state of Parolando. Editor: S.C.
Bagg. In the upper left-hand corner above the headline is
the standard notice:
CAVEAT LECTOR
By law, the reader must place this journal in a public
recycling barrel the day after receipt. In case of
emergency, it may be used for toilet paper. We recommend
the Letters to the Editor page as most appropriate for
this purpose. First offense: a public reprimand. Second:
confiscation of all booze, tobacco, and dreamgum for a
week. Third: permanent exile.
Prominent in the Newcomers section:
JILL GULBIRRA
We welcome, in spite of the advice of many, our latest
female candidate for citizenship. On Sunday last, this
tall drink of water appeared out of the predawn fog and
accosted four of our leading public figures. Despite
their certain state of inebriation and possibly lecherous
thoughts, two conditions leading to mental fogginess, the
quartet finally comprehended that their unexpected guest
had traveled approximately 32,180 kilometers (or 20,000
miles, for you dummies and dodos). She had done this
alone and in a canoe (and not been raped or dunked once)
and all this odyssey was performed just to make sure that
our airship project proceeds on proper lines. While not
exactly demanding that she be appointed commander of the
dirigible when it is commissioned, she did intimate that
it would be to everybody's good if she did obtain this
post.
After a few snorts of the divine product of Caledonia,
the quartet partially recovered from this onslaught. (One
witness thus describes her appearance: "Amazonly, with a
demeanor of sheer brass nerves and ironclad guts,
unseemly in any woman worthy of the name.")
The famous four inquired as to her credentials. She fur
nished these, which, if valid, are impressive indeed. A
prominent citizen interviewed on the subject by our
intrepid reporter, Roger "Nellie" Bligh, affirms that she
is indeed what she claims to be. Though never having met
her in his Terrestrial existence, he did read about her
in various periodicals and once viewed her on television
(a mid-twentieth-century invention which your editor did
not live long enough to see and from all accounts was
fortunate to have missed).
It seems that, unless this woman bears a remarkable
physical resemblance to the genuine Jill Gulbirra, she is
not one of the numerous phonies that have plagued this
River-valley for far too long a time.
The Office of Vital (some say Deadly) Statistics has
furnished us with the following information. Gulbirra,
Jill (no middle name). Female. Natal name: Johnetta
Georgette Redd. Born February 12, 1953, Toowoomba,
Queensland, Australia. Father: John George Redd. Mother:
Marie Bronze Redd. Heredity: Scotch-Irish, French
(Jewish), Australian aborigine. Unmarried on Earth.
Attended schools in Canberra and Melbourne. Graduated
1973 from Massachusetts Institute of Technology, master's
degree in aeronautical engineering. Commercial aviator's
license, four-motor. Free balloonist's license. Engineer-
navigator on West German freighter blimp serving Nigerian
government, 1977-78. Blimp pilot for Goodyear, United
States, 1979. Blimp pilot for the Sheik of Kuwait, 1980-
81. Blimp instructor for British Airways Systems, 1982.
Became in 1983 the only qualified woman airship captain
in the Western world. Logged 8342 hours airship flight
time.
Died April 1, 1983 A.D., automobile accident near How-
den, England, just before assuming command of the newly
commissioned rigid airship Willows-Goodens.
Profession: obvious from above.
Skills: flute, archery, fencing, kendo, quarterstaff, mar
tial arts, badmouthing.
She is pretty good with her dukes, too, having slammed a
distinguished citizen, Cyrano "Schnozzola" deBergeracin
the breadbasket, following with a knee to the jaw,
rendering him hors de combat and speechless. This
phenomenon occurred as a result of his having laid hands
(without permission) upon her teat. Normally, the fiery
Frenchman would have challenged anyone who handled him so
savagely to a duel to the death (across the Parolando
boundary, of course, since dueling is illegal in our fair
state). But he is so old-fashioned that he would feel, as
he put it "comme un imbecile," if he were to fight a
woman. Moreover, he feels that he was in the wrong for
having made advances without invitation "verbal" or
"ocular."
An hour after suppertime yesterday, your enterprising
intrepid appeared at the door of Gulbirra's hut and
knocked. There were some grunts and then a querulous
voice called. "What in hell do you want?" Apparently, the
would-be interviewee didn't give a hoot about the
identity of her caller.
"Miss Gulbirra, I'm Roger Bligh, reporter for The Daily
Leak. I'd like to interview you."
"Well, you'll have to wait. I'm on the pot."
Your journalist lit up a cigar to pass the time. He also
planned to use its burning tip later to clear out the
fumes in the hut. After some time, during which he heard
splashing of water in a basin, he heard, "Come on in. But
leave the door open."
"Gladly," said your dauntless.
He found the subject seated at a chair by the table and
smoking a joint. What with the cigar and maryjane and
residue of the subject's recent occupation and the smoke
from several fish wax candles, neither visibility nor
olfactor-iness were at an optimum.
"Miss Gulbirra?"
"No. Miz." "What does the title mean?"
"Are you asking just to get my views or don't you really
know? There are plenty of people of my time around. Sure
ly, you've encountered Miz before?"
Your reporter confessed his ignorance.
Instead of enlightening Mr. Bligh, the subject said,
"What is the position of women in Parolando?"
"In the daytime or at night?" Mr. Bligh said.
"Don't get smart with me," Miz Gulbirra said. "Let me put
it simply so your mind can grasp exactly what I'm talking
about. Legally, that is, theoretically, women have equal
rights here. But in practice, in reality, what is the
male
attitude toward females?"
"Mainly lecherous, I'm afraid," the intrepid replied.
"I'll give you one more chance,'' the subject said. "Then
it'll be a question of chance and gravity which strikes
the ground first outside the door, your ass or your
stinking cigar."
"My apologies," the intrepid said. "But, after all, I am
here to interview you, not vice versa. Why don't you ask
our female citizens what they think of the male attitude
toward them? Anyway, are you here to conduct a
suffragette crusade or to build and to man (if I may use
the word) the proposed dirigible?"
"Are you making fun of me?"
"The farthest thing from my mind," the dauntless said
hastily. "We are quite modern here, even though the late-
twentieth-centurians constitute only a small percentage
of the population. The state is dedicated to the
construction of the airship. To that goal, strict
discipline during working hours is maintained. But a
citizen may do what he damn well pleases on his hours
off, as long as he doesn't hurt anybody else. So, let's
get down to business. What is a Miz, not to be confused
with amiss?"
"You aren't putting me on?"
"I'd swear by a stack of Bibles, if any existed."
"Briefly, it's a title which the members of the women's
liberation movement in the sixties adopted. Miss and Mrs.
were too indicative of male sexual attitudes. To be a
Miss was to be unmarried, which automatically evoked
contempt, consciously or unconsciously, on the part of
the male, if the Miss were past marriageable age. It
implied that something was lacking in the woman, and also
that the Miss must be dying to be referred to as Mrs.
That is, without an identity of her own, regarded as an
appendage to her husband, a second-class citizen. Why
should a Miss, for that matter, be known by her father's
name? Why not her mother's?"
"In the latter case," our intrepid replied, "the name
would still be a man's, the woman's father's name."
"Exactly. That is why I changed my name from Johnetta
Georgette Redd-you'll notice that both my so-called Chris
tian names are feminizations of masculine names-I changed
it to Jill Gulbirra. My father raised hell about that,
even my mother protested strongly. But she was a typical
Aunt Dora-brainwashed."
''Interesting," Mr. Bligh said. "Gulbirra? What kind of a
name is that? Slavic? And why did you choose it?"
"No, it's Australian aborigine, you dummy. A gulbirra is
a kangaroo that catches dogs and eats them."
"A carnivorous kangaroo? I thought they were all
vegetarians."
"Well, actually, it may not have existed. But the abos
claimed that it did exist in the outlands. It may have
been mythical, but what's the difference? It's the
symbolism that counts."
"So you identify with the gulbirra? I can imagine what
the dogs symbolize."
At this point, Miz Gulbirra smiled so terrifyingly that
your correspondent felt compelled to down a snort of the
Dutch courage he always carries in his shoulderbag.
"Not that I chose that name because I identify with, or
sympathize with, blackfellow culture," the Miz said. "I
am one-quarter abo, but so what? It was a male chauvinist
culture through and through, women were mere objects,
subject to slavery, they did all the hard work and they
were often beaten by their fathers and husbands. A lot of
Caucasian males have sentimentalized about the
destruction of abo society, but I personally thought it
was a good thing. Of course, I deplore the suffering that
went along with its disintegration."
"Deploration, unlike defloration, is usually managed
without pain," Mr. Bligh said.
"Virginity! That's another male myth, invented solely to
aggrandize the male ego and enforce his opinions about
his property rights," Miz Gulbirra said bitterly.
"Fortunately, that attitude changed considerably during
my lifetime. But there are still plenty of pigs around,
fossil boars, I called them, who . . ."
"That's all very interesting," the dauntless dared to
interrupt. "But you can reserve your opinions for the
Letters to the Editor page. Mr. Bagg will print anything
you say, no matter how scurrilous. Our readers just now
would like to know what your professional plans are. Just
how do you see yourself as contributing to Project
Airship, as it's officially called? Just where do you
think you'll fit into the hierarchy?"
By now, the heavy acrid fumes of marijuana overrode all
others. A wild, fierce light glittered in her drug-
expanded pupils. Your correspondent felt it necessary to
expand his rapidly shrinking dauntless state with another
pull on the divine bottle.
"By all logic and by right of superior knowledge, experi
ence , and capability,'' she said slowly but loudly, "I
should be in charge of the project. And I should be
captain of the airship! I've checked out everybody's
qualifications, and there's no doubt at all that I am by
far the best qualified.
"So why am I not put in charge of the construction? Why
am I not even considered as a candidate for the
captaincy? Why?"
"Don't tell me," your intrepid answered. Possibly he was
overly emboldened by the liquid lava coursing through his
veins and dulling his otherwise fine sensibilities.
"Don't tell me. Let me hazard a guess. Could it be, I'm
just groping for an explanation, mind you, could it be
that you are relegated to an inferior position because
you are only a woman?"
The subject stared at your correspondent, took another
puff, drew it deep into her lungs, causing a slight
lifting of slight breasts, and finally, face bluish with
lack of oxygen, discharged the tag-ends of fumes through
her nostrils. Your intrepid was reminded of pictures of
dragons he had seen during his Terrestrial existence. He,
however, thought of the better part of valor and did not
remark upon the similarity.
"You've got it," she said. "Maybe you're not so dense
after all."
Then, gripping the edge of the table as if she'd squeeze
the wood, she sat up straight. "But just what do you mean
by only a woman?"
"Oh, that's only my verbalization of your thoughts," the
intrepid said hastily. "I was being ironic. Or
whatever..."
"If I were a man," she said, "which, thank God I am not,
I'd have been made at least first mate on the spot. And
you wouldn't be sitting there sneering at me."
"Oh, you're mistaken about that," our dauntless said. "I
am not sneering at you. However, there is a point that
you may have overlooked. It wouldn't make any difference
what your sex is; you could have the biggest balls for
40,000 kilometers around, and you still wouldn't be put
in charge.
"Long before the Riverboat was built-the second one, I
mean, not the one King John stole-it was agreed that
Firebrass would be in charge of the airship project. It's
even in the Parolando constitution, which you must know,
since he himself recited it chapter and verse to you. You
were aware of that and by taking the oath you accepted
that. So, tell me, why all the bitching?"
"You don't understand after all, do you, you clown?" she
said. "The point is that that rule, that arrogantly
imperious law, should never have been made."
Your correspondent swallowed some more of the stuff that
encourages-and stupefies-and said, "The point is that it
was made. And if a man came along twice as qualified as
you, he'd still have to accept the fact that he could
never be higher than second. He could be Captain
Firebrass' chief construction assistant and first mate on
the ship. But that's all."
"There isn't any such creature as twice as qualified as
me," she said, "unless an officer from the Graf Zeppelin
should show up. Listen, I'm getting tired of this."
"It is rather hot and smoky in here," your correspondent
said, wiping the sweat off his brow. "However, I would
like to get more of your background, details of your
earthly life, you know, human interest stuff. And also
the story of what happened to you right after
Resurrection Day. And ..."
"Are you hoping I'll get turned on by this joint and by
your overwhelming male charm and virility?" she said.
"Are you getting ready to make a pass at me?"
"God forbid," I said. "This is a strictly professional
visit. Besides ..."
"Besides," she said, and she was the one sneering now,
"you're scared of me, aren't you? You're all alike. You
have to be dominant, the superior. If you meet a woman
with more brains, one who is able to handle you in a
fight, who is clearly the superior, then the hot air
whistles out of you like a pricked balloon. A balloon
with a prick."
"Now, really, Miz Gulbirra," your dauntless said, feeling
his face heat up.
"Bug off, little man," the subject said.
Your correspondent thought it was wise to obey this
imperative. The interview, though not complete from our
viewpoint, was terminated.
                           12
JILL PICKED UP NEXT EVENING'S Leak FROM THE DISTRIBUTION
shack outside the press building. Some people who
obviously had already read the news snickered or grinned
at her. She opened the paper to the Newcomers page,
suspecting what she would find there, angry before
reading it.
The pages rattled in her shaking hands. The interview was
bad enough, though she should have known that a late-
nineteenth-century man like Bagg would print such rot.
What had he been, editor of some crummy yellow rag of
some frontier town in the Arizona Territory? Yes, that
was it. Tombstone. Firebrass had told her something about
him.
What really enraged her was the photograph. She hadn't
been aware of it, but someone in the crowd her first
morning here had snapped her picture. There she was,
caught in a silly-looking, almost obscene, posture.
Naked, bending over, her breasts hanging straight down
like a cow's udders, the towel in one hand behind her and
one before as she sawed it, drying her crotch. She was
looking up, her mouth open, and she seemed all nose and
buckteeth.
Surely, the cameraman had taken other shots. But Bagg had
chosen this one just to make her a laughingstock.
She was so furious she almost forgot to pick up her
grail. Swinging it from one hand, thinking how she was
going to brain Bagg with it, the newspaper clutched in
the other-it was also going to be jammed all the way up-
she stormed toward the building. But when she got to the
door, she stopped.
"Come on, Jill!" she told herself. "You're reacting just
as he hoped you would, just as they all hope you will.
Play it cool; don't be a knee-jerk. Sure, it'd make you
feel great to slam him around his office a little. But it
might ruin everything. You've endured worse, and you've
come out on top."
She walked slowly homeward, the handle of the grail
looped over one arm. In the fading light, she read the
rest of the paper. She wasn't the only one Bagg had
libeled, slandered, and mocked. Firebrass himself, though
treated gently in the write-up on her, was severely
criticized elsewhere and not only by Bagg. The vox pop
page contained a number of signed letters from citizens
outraged by Firebrass' policies.
As she left the plain and started her winding way through
the hills, she was softly hailed. Turning, she saw
Piscator. He smiled as he walked toward her and said in
an Oxford accent, "Good evening, citizen. May I accompany
you? We will be happier in each other's company than
alone? Or perhaps not?"
Jill had to smile. He spoke so gravely, almost in a
seventeenth-century style. This impression was
strengthened by his hat, a tall cylinder sloping inward
to the top and with a wide circular brim. It reminded her
of the hats of the New England Pilgrims. It was made of
dark-red leather from the scaleless redfish. Several
aluminum alloy flies were snagged in its brim. A black
cloth was over his shoulders, held together at the
throat. A dark-green cloth served as a kilt, and his
sandals were of redfish leather.
Over his shoulder was a bamboo rod. In the other hand was
the handle of his grail. A newspaper was clamped by an
arm to his body. A wicker basket hung by a strap from the
other shoulder.
He was tall for a Japanese, the top of his head coming to
her nose. And his features were attractive, not too
Mongolian.
"I suppose you've read the paper?" she said.
"Unhappily, most of it," he said. "But don't be grieved.
As Solomon says of scoffers, Proverbs xxiv. 9. They are
an abomination to mankind."
"I prefer humankind," she said.
He looked puzzled. "But what . . .? Ah, I see, you
obviously object to man in mankind. But man means man,
woman, and child in this usage."
"I know it does," she said as if she were repeating this
for the thousandth time, which she was. "I know it does.
But the use of man conditions the speaker and the hearer
to think of man as the human male only. The use of
humankind, or personkind, conditions people to think of
Homo sapiens as consisting of both sexes.''
Piscator drew breath in through his teeth. She expected
him to say, "Ah, so!" but he did not. Instead, he said,
"I have in this basket three of the savory tench, if I
may call them that. They are remarkably similar in
appearance and taste to Terrestrial fish of that name.
They are not quite as delicious as the grayling, if I may
call them that, which are caught in the mountain streams.
But they are much sport, a cunning and lusty fish."
She decided that he must have learned his English from
The Compleat Angler.
"Would you care to share some of the fish with me
tonight? I'll have them baked piping hot at 16:00 by the
waterclock. I will also have a plentiful supply of skull-
bloom."
This was the local name for alcohol made from the lichen
scraped off the mountain face. It was watered down, three
parts to one, and then blossoms from the irontree vines
were dried, crushed, and mixed with alcohol. After the
blossoms had given a purplish color and a roselike
fragrance to the liquid, it was ready to be served.
Jill hesitated for several seconds. She did not mind
being alone- most of the time. Unlike most of her
contemporaries, she did not get desperate, panicked, if
she were thrown on her own resources. But she had been
her only company for too long. The voyage up The River
had taken four hundred and twenty days, and during most
of that time she had been utterly alone by day. At night,
she had eaten and talked with strangers. She had passed
an estimated 501,020,000 people and had not seen one face
she had known on Earth or Riverworld. Not one.
But then she had seldom gotten close enough to the banks
during the day to have recognized facial features. Her
socializing at night was limited to a few people. What
was mental agony, or would have been if she permitted
herself such an emotion, was that she might have passed
by some people, she had loved on Earth, or, at least,
liked. There were some she wanted very much to see again.
Perhaps the one she most longed to talk to was Marie.
What had Marie felt when she learned that her senseless
jealousy had been responsible for the death of her lover,
Jill Gulbirra? Would she have been grief-stricken,
perhaps have taken her own life because of guilt? After
all, Marie was suicide-prone. Or, rather, to be exact,
prone to taking just enough pills to endanger her but not
enough so that she could not get medical assistance in
time to save her. Marie had come close to death at least
three times that Jill knew about. But not very close.
No, Marie would have been plunged into gloom and self-re
proach for about three days. Then she would have
swallowed about twenty phenobarbitols and called her
closest friend, probably another lover, Jill thought, her
breast hurting-the bitch!-and the lover would have called
the hospital, and then there would be the stomach pump
and the antidotes and the long, anxious waiting in the
lobby and then the attendance by the bed while Marie
rambled on half-mindlessly, still fogged by the drug but
not so fogged that she would not be deliberately working
on her lover's emotions. It would not just be sympathy
that she would be evoking. The sadistic little bitch
would also make a few wounding remarks to her lover,
getting across some criticisms which she would claim
later that she did not remember making.
Then Marie would be taken to her apartment by her lover,
and tenderly taken care of for a while, and then . . .
Jill could not bear fantasizing that then.
At these times she had to laugh, though grimly, at
herself. It was thirty-one years after she had stormed
out of the house and driven off, tires screaming, rubber
burning, and raced recklessly through three stoplights
and then . . . then the blinding lights and the blaring
horn of the huge lorry and the savage wrenching at the
wheel to rum the Mercedes-Benz, the frozen sickness
inside her, the looming of the juggernaut, and ...
And she had awakened with countless others, naked, her
thirty-year-old body restored to a twenty-five-year-old
state-minus certain blemishes and imperfections-on the
banks of the Rivervalley. Nightmare in paradise. Or what
could have been paradise if so many human beings did not
insist on making a hell of it.
Thirty-one years ago. Time had not mended all hurts, not,
at least, this one. By now she should have gotten over
the mingled fury and grief. It should have receded beyond
the horizon of things that mattered now. She should have
no slightest emotion about Marie now. But she did.
She was suddenly aware that the Japanese was looking at
her. He evidently expected her to reply to something he
had just said. "I'm sorry," she said. "Sometimes, I get
lost in the past." "I am sorry, too," he said. "Sometimes
... if one is using dreamgum as a means to rid oneself of
painful or crippling memories or undesirable psychic
states, one instead . . . gets lost." "No," she said,
trying to keep the anger out of her voice. "It's just
that I have been alone so long, I have fallen into the
habit of reverie. Why, when I was sailing the canoe up
The River, I would do so automatically. Sometimes, I
would realize that I had put ten kilometers behind me and
not even been aware, consciously anyway, of what had
happened during that time.
"But now that I'm here, where I have a job that requires
constant mental alertness, you will see that I can be as
much on my toes as anyone."
She added that because she knew that Piscator might
report her to Firebrass. Absentmindedness was not to be
tolerated in an airship officer.
"I am sure you will," Piscator said. He paused, smiled,
and said, "By the way, do not be worried about
competition from me. I am not ambitious. I will be
satisfied with whatever rank or position I am given,
because I know that that will fit my abilities and
experience. Firebrass is fair.
"I am curious about our goal, the so-called Misty Tower
or Big Grail or the dozen other titles it bears. In fact,
I am eager to journey there, to inquire into what may
hold the secret of this world. Eager but not anxious, if
you understand what I mean. I readily admit that I do not
have your qualifications, and so I anticipate being
ranked under you."
Jill Gulbirra was silent for a moment. This man belonged
to a nation which practically enslaved its women. At
least, in his own time (1886-1965), it had. It was true
that after World War I there had been a certain amount of
liberation. He would, theoretically, still have the
attitude of the old-fashioned Japanese man toward women.
Which was a terrible attitude. On the other hand, The
Riverworld did change people. Some people.
"You really wouldn't mind?" she said. "Not really, deep
down!"
"I seldom lie," he said. "And that only to spare the
feelings of someone or to keep from wasting time with
fools. I think I know what you are thinking. Would it
help you to know that one of my masters in Afghanistan
was a woman? I spent ten years as her disciple before she
decided that I was not as stupid as when I had come to
her and that I could go on to my next sheik."
"What were you doing there?"
"I would be happy to discuss that some other time. As of
the moment, let me assure you that I am not prejudiced
against women or against non-Japanese. I was, but that
foolishness was emptied out of me a long time ago. For
instance, at one time, for some years after World War I,
I was a Zen monk. First, though, do you know anything
about Zen?"
"There were many books written about it after 1960 or
thereabouts," Jill said. "I read a few."
"Yes. Did you know any more after reading these than you
did before?" he said, smiling.
"A little."
"You are truthful. As I was saying, I retired from the
world after I resigned from the Navy and I resided at a
monastery in Ryukyu. The third year, a white man, a
Hungarian, came to the monastery as a humble novitiate.
When I saw how he was treated, I suddenly acknowledged
what I had known unconsciously but had resisted bringing
to light. That was that many years in the discipline of
Zen had not rid either the disciples or masters, no one
in the monastery, except myself, of their racial
prejudices. Their national prejudices, I should say,
since they showed hostility and even contempt for Chinese
and Indo-Chinese, fellow Mongolians.
"After being honest for the first time with myself, I
acknowledged to myself that the practice of Zen had not
resulted in anything deeply worthwhile in myself or the
others. Of course, you must realize that Zen does not
have goals. To have goals is to frustrate the attaining
of goals. Is that contradictory? It is.
"It is also nonsense, as is that business of emptying
oneself. Perhaps the state of being empty is not
nonsense, but the methods used to achieve it were, as far
as I was concerned. And so, one morning, I walked out of
the monastery and took ship to China. And I began my long
wanderings, called by some inaudible voice toward Central
Asia. And from thence . . . well, that is enough for the
time being. I can continue this later if you wish.
"I see that we are getting close to our homes. I bid you
adieu then until tonight. I will set out two torches,
which you may see from your window, to announce when our
little gathering begins."
"I did not say that I was coming."
"But you had nevertheless accepted," he said. "Is that
not true?"
"Yes, but how did you know?"
"It's not telepathy," he said, smiling again. "A certain
posture, a certain relaxation of muscles, the dilation of
your pupils, an undertone to your voice, undetectable
except to the highly trained, told me that you were
looking forward to the party."
Jill said nothing. She had not known herself that she was
pleased with the invitation. Nor was she sure now. Was
Piscator conning her?
                           13
A  KONTREE GREW FROM THE TOP OF A HILL 200 METERS FROM
Jill's hut. Piscator's hut was near the top, nestled
between the upper parts of two roots. Its back rested
upon a shelf of earth; its front was held up by bamboo
pylons to keep it from slipping down the steep slope.
Jill went up the hill without Jack, though there would be
Jackasses at its top, she thought. She went under the
house and up a bamboo staircase which entered the
structure through the floor halfway along its length.
The building was larger than most of those in this area,
three rooms on the ground floor and two on the first
story. According to a neighbor, it had once housed a
commune. Like all such nonreligious organizations
composed of Occidentals, it had dissolved after a while.
Piscator had moved in then, though Jill did not know why
one man wanted such a large house. Was it because it was
a prestige symbol? He did not seem to be the sort of man
who would care for such things.
Along the railing were bright acetylene lamps behind
white, green, or scarlet shades made from fish
intestines. Piscator, at the top of the steps, smiled and
nodded at Jill. He was wearing a kimonolike arrangement
of varicolored towels. In his hand he held a bouquet of
huge blooms plucked from the vines entwining the upper
reaches of the iron tree.
"Welcome, Jill Gulbirra."
She thanked him, breathing deeply the strong odor of the
flowers, reminiscent of honeysuckle with a very slight
scent of old leather. A peculiar but pleasing
combination.
Gaining the top of the steps, she found herself in the
largest room of the house. Its ceiling was about three
times her height; from it hung a score of Japanese lamps.
The bamboo floor was covered here and there with
throwrugs made from bamboo fiber. The furniture was of
bamboo, light, simple forms the seats of which were sof
tened with cushions. Some of the chair arms and table
legs and the posts supporting the ceiling were, however,
of oak or yew. Heads of animals, demons, Riverfish, and
human beings had been carved from these. They did not
look as if they had been done by a Japanese. Probably, a
previous occupant had sculptured them. Tall, wasp-waisted
bell-mouthed vases stood on the floor. Shorter versions
stood on top of spindly legged round-topped tables. These
were formed on a potter's wheel, baked, and glazed or
painted. Geometrical designs were on some vases; others
bore marine scenes from Earthlife. The boats were
lateens; the sailors, Arabs. Blue dolphins leaped from a
blue-greenish sea; a monster opened its mouth to swallow
a ship. However, since there were large fish called
dolphins in The River, and the colossal Riverdraon did
bear a faint resemblance to the monster, it was possible
that the artist had represented Riverlife.
The doorways to the neighboring rooms were filled with
dangling strings of white and red hornfish vertebrae;
these emitted a tinkling when disturbed. Mats of woven
fibers from irontree vines hung on the walls, and
transparent intestines of Riverdragons, stretched on
bamboo frames, were above each window.
All in all, though there were some things, such as the
acetylene lamps, not found elsewhere, the room was a
variation of what many called Riparian Culture; others,
Riverine Polynesian.
The lamp lights strove to pierce the heavy clouds of
tobacco and marijuana. A band played softly on a small
podium in a corner. It was providing its services in
return for booze and a chance to please itself with
useful work. The musicians were beating or brushing
drums, blowing on a bamboo flute, a clay ocarina;
stroking a harp made of a turtlefish shell and fish guts;
sawing on a fiddle of fish intestines and English-yewlike
wood with a yew bow fitted with the horsehairlike mouth
cilia of the blue dolphin; hammering a xylophone; blowing
a saxophone, a trumpet.
The music was unrecognizable, at least for Jill. But she
thought that it was derived from a Central or South
American Indian piece.
"If this were tete-a-tete, instead of a large party, I
would be able to give you tea, my dear," Piscator said.
"But it is not possible. My grail does not provide me
with tea daily, but only one small bagful once a week."
He had not changed so much that he did not miss the
ceremony of tea, so beloved by all Japanese. Jill
regretted the scarcity of the herb, too. Like most of her
nation, she felt that something vital was missing if she
didn't get, her tea at the proper time.
Piscator dipped a glass in a huge glass bowl full of
skull-bloom and handed it to her. She sipped on it while
he told her how happy he was to see her here. He sounded
as if he really meant it. She found herself warming to
him, though she did remind herself that he came from a
culture which conditioned males to regard females as plea
sure and work objects. Then she warned herself-for the
ten thousandth time?-that she must not be as guilty of
prejudice as others. Find the facts first and study them
before judgment.
Her host led her around, introducing her briefly.
Firebrass waved at her from a corner. Cyrano smiled
thinly and bowed. They had encountered each other a
number of times since that morning, but each had been
aloof though polite. She did not want it that way. After
all, he had apologized, and she was very curious about
this flamboyant seventeenth-centurian.
She said hello to Ezekiel Hardy and David Schwartz, whom
she saw every day in the office inside the hangar and in
the factories nearby. Hardy and Schwartz were friendly
enough; they had learned by now that she was thoroughly
knowledgeable in her field. In many, in fact. She had
bridled her impatience and anger at their ignorance and
their assumed superiority. It had paid off, though she
did not know how long she could repress herself.
"Don't bottle up," she told herself. "Empty yourself."
How many times had she done that, or tried to do that?
And it had seemed to work so many times, though not
always by any means. Yet, here was this Japanese, Ohara,
calling himself by the goofy name of Piscator-how weird-
telling her than Zen was nonsense. Well, not exactly
nonsense. But he had certainly indicated that it was
overrated. She had not liked to hear that. It struck her
below the belt of her self-image; it injured her. Which
it should not have done. She should have laughed at him,
even if only inwardly. But he had seemed so sure.
                           14
ONE OF THE WOMEN SHE WAS INTRODUCED TO WAS JEANNE JUGAN.
Piscator mentioned that she had once been a servant in
her native France but then had become one of the founders
of the Roman Catholic religious order of the Little
Sisters of the Poor, established in 1839 in Brittany.
"I am his disciple," Jugan said, nodding at Piscator.
Jill's eyebrows rose. "Oh!" She had no chance to continue
the conversation. Piscator steered her away with a light
touch on the elbow.
"You may talk to her later."
Jill wondered what particular religion, sect, or mental
discipline Piscator belonged to. He wasn't a member of
the Church of the Second Chance. A Chancer always wore a
hornfish spiral vertebra or its wooden facsimile on a
string from his neck.
However, the next person she met did wear that emblem,
three, in fact, indicating that he was a bishop. Samuelo,
short, very dark, and hawk faced, had been born sometime
around the middle of the second century A.D. He had been
a rabbi of the Jewish community at Nehardea in Babylonia.
According to Piscator, he was somewhat famous in his time
for his knowledge of traditional law and for some
attainments in science. One of his feats was the
compilation of a calendar of the Hebrew year. His chief
claim to fame, however, lay in his efforts to adjust the
Jewish law to the law of the land in which the Jews of
the Diaspora lived.
"His principle was The law of the state is the binding
law," Piscator said.
Samuelo introduced his wife, Rahelo. She was even
shorter, though not as dark, and she had very broad hips
and heavy legs, but a face of startling sensuality.
Replying to Jill's questions, she said that she had been
born in the Krakow ghetto in the fourteenth century a.d.
Piscator would tell Jill later that Rahelo had been
abducted by a Polish nobleman and imprisoned for a year
in his castle. Tiring of her, he had then kicked her out,
though not without a fat purse of gold coins. Her husband
had murdered her because she had not had the grace to
kill herself because of her dishonor.
Samuelo sent Rahelo running several times to get him a
drink from a bowl filled with nonalcoholic bloom juice.
He also gestured for her to light his cigar. She obeyed
quickly and then resumed her position behind him.
Jill felt like kicking Rahelo for putting up with her
ancient degradation and Sanmuelo for his ancient
complacency. She could visualize him at prayers, thanking
God that he was not born a woman.
Later, Piscator said to feet, "You were furious with the
bishop and his wife."
She did not ask him he he knew. she said, ''It must have
been a hell of a shock for him to wake up here and find
out that he was not one of God's chosen people. That
everybody, idol worshipper, cannibal, swine eater
uncirmcumcised dog of an infidel, all God's children,
were here, all were chose."
"We were all shocked," Piscater said. "And terrified.
Weren't,
you?"
She stared at turn for a moment, then laughed, and said,
"Of course. I was an atheist, and still am. I was sure
that I was just so much flesh that would become so much
dust. And that was that. I was horribly frightened when I
awoke here. But at that same time, well, not at first but
a little later, I was relieved. So, I thought, there is
eternal life; Then, even later, I saw such strange
things, and we were in such a strange place, nothing like
heaven or hell, you know ..."
"I know,'' he said. He smiled. "I wonder what Samuelo
thought when he saw that the uncircumcised goyim of Earth
had been resurrected without their foreskins? That must
have been as puzzling as the fact that men could no
longer grow beards. On the one hand, God had performed a
briss upon all the Gentiles who needed it and so He must
be a Jewish god. On the other band, a man could no longer
sport the full beard demanded by God, so He surely could
not be a Jewish god.
"It was, and is, such things that should have and should
be changing our patterns of thinking," Piscator said.
He came close, looking up at her with dark brown eyes set
in fleshy slits. "The Second Chancers have some excellent
ideas about why we have been raised from the dead and who
has done it. They are not too far wrong about the way, or
ways, one must take to attain the goal. A goal which
mankind should desire and the gate to which our unknown
benefactors have opened for us. But exactness is
tightness. The inexact Church has wandered off the main
road, or, I should say, the only road. Which is not to
say that there is not more than one road."
"What are you talking about?'' she said. "You sound as
weird as those Chancers."
"We shall see-if you care to see,'' he said. He excused
himself and walked to the big table, where he started
talking to a man who had just entered.
Jill sauntered toward Jeanne Jugan, intending to ask her
what she meant by calling herself Piscator's disciple. De
Bergerac, however, placed himself in front of her. He was
smiling broadly now.
"Ah, Ms. Gulbirra! I must beg your pardon for that
unfortunate incident again! It was the liquor which
caused me to behave so unforgivably, well not
unforgivably I hope, but so barbarically! It is seldom
that I drink more than an ounce or two, since I abominate
the dulling of my senses. Alcohol makes one a swine, and
I do not care for the beast on the hoof, though I adore
him sliced and fried in a pan or roasted on a spit. But
that night we were fishing . . ."
"I didn't see any fishing equipment," she said.
"It was on the other side of the grailstone. And the fog
was thick, remember, mademoiselle ?"'
"Ms."
"And we got to talking of things on Earth, places, people
we had known, friends who had come to a bad end, children
who had died, how our parents had misunderstood us,
enemies, why we were here, and so on, understand? I
became depressed, thinking of what might have been on
Earth, especially what my cousin Madeleine and I might
have done if I had been more mature or had not been so
naive at that time. And so . . ."
"And so you got drunk," she said, her face grave.
"And offended you, Ms., though I swear that I did not
believe that you were a woman. The fog, the baggy
clothing, my own addled wits ..."
"Forget it," she said. "Only ... I believed you would
never forgive me, since you would have lost face after a
woman punched you out. Your ego ..."
"You must not stereotype!" Cyrano cried.
"And you are right," she said. "That is a failing I
loathe, and yet I find myself doing it all the time.
However, so often . . . well, most people are living
stereotypes, aren't they?"
They stood there, talking for a long time. Jill sipped on
the purple passion, feeling her belly slowly warm up. The
marijuana fumes became thicker, and she added to their
intensity by drawing on the burning joint between her
fingers. The voices were becoming louder, and there was
much more laughter. Some couples were dancing now, their
arms around each other's necks, shuffling languorously.
Piscator and Jugan seemed to be the only ones who were
not drinking. Piscator was smoking a cigarette now, the
first, she believed, that he had lit up since she had
entered.
The combination of liquor and pot had given her a
pleasant halo now. She felt as if her flesh must be
leaking a red-colored light. The smoke clouds were
forming into almost-shapes. Sometimes, out of the corners
of her eyes, she would glimpse a definite figure, a
dragon, a smokefish, once, a dirigible. But when she
turned her head toward them, she could see only amorphous
masses.
When she saw a metal tub float by to one side, she knew
that she had had it. No more booze and grass the rest of
the night. The reason for the appearance of the tub was
apparent, since Cyrano had been telling her about crime
and its punishments in the France of his day. A
counterfeiter, for instance, was stretched out upon a
large wheel. The executioner then broke his arms and legs
with an iron bar, sometimes pounding them to a pulp.
Executed criminals were hung in chains in marketplaces
and left to rot until the bodies fell through the chains.
The guts of others were left in big open tubs so that
they could remind the citizens of what happened to
transgressors.
"And the streets ran with sewage, Ms. Gulbirra. No wonder
that those who had the money drenched themselves with
perfume."
"I thought it was because you seldom bathed then."
"True," the Frenchman said. "I mean, true that we did not
bathe often. It was thought to be unhealthy, un-
Christian. But one can get used to the stench of unwashed
bodies. I was not often aware of it since I was, as you
might say, immersed in it, as unconscious of it as a fish
is of water. But here, helas! Where so few clothes are
worn and where running water is so at hand, and where one
encounters so many who cannot endure the odor of long-
dirty humans, then one learns new habits. I, myself, now,
I must confess that I saw no reason to be so fastidious,
but then after some years I met a woman with whom I fell
into love almost as passionately as I had with my cousin.
She was Olivia Langdon ..."
"You can't mean Sam Clemens' wife?"
"But yes. Though of course that meant nothing to me when
I first met her and still does not. I understood that he
was the great writer of the New World-she told me much
about what happened since I had died on Earth-but I do
not think much about it. And then Olivia and I wandered
down The River and suddenly we were confronted with that
classical situation which so many people dread. We met
the former, the Terrestrial, spouse, of one's hut mate.
"By then, though I was still fond of her, my passion had
cooled off. Each of us did so many things to annoy, even
enrage the other, and why not? Is that not something
commonplace here, where man and woman may be not only
from different nations but from different times? How can
the seventeenth-century person mesh with the nineteenth?
Well, sometimes such a mismatch can be reshaped to match.
But add the temporal differences to those that naturally
exist between individuals, and what do you have? Quite
often, a hopeless case.
"Livy and I were far up The River when I heard about the
boat that was being built. I had heard of the meteorite
that fell here, but I did not know that it was Sam
Clemens who had seized the meteorite. I wanted to be one
of the crew, and especially I wanted to feel a steel
rapier in my hand again.
"And so, my dear Ms. Gulbirra, we came to this place. The
shock was powerful indeed for Sam. I felt sorry for him,
for a while, and regretted having forced this reunion
that was not a reunion. Olivia showed no inclination to
leave me for Clemens even though our passion was not
quite what it had been. She did feel guilt about not
feeling love for him. This was all the stranger when it
is considered that they were deeply in love on Earth.
"But there had been many frictions, deeply hidden
hostilities. She said that when she was in her terminal
illness she did not want to see him. This hurt him very
much, but she could not help it. And why, I asked her,
had she not cared to admit him into her sickroom? She
replied that she did not know. Perhaps it was because
their only son had died because of Sam's negligence.
Criminal negligence, she called it, though she had never
used, or even thought of, that word on Earth.
"I said that that was a long time ago and on another
planet. Why did she still hold that fierce grievance
within her breast? Did it matter now? Was not little ...
I forget his name ..."
"Langdon," Jill said.
"... risen from the dead now? And she said, yes, but she
would never see Langdon. He had died when he was two, and
no one under five years of age at death had been
resurrected. At least not here. Maybe on another world.
In any event, even if he had been raised here, what
chance would she have of running across him? And what if
she did? He would be full grown now, he would not even
remember her. She would be a stranger to him. And God
only knew what kind of a boy he would be. He might have
been resurrected among cannibals or Digger Indians and
not even know English or table manners."
Jill grinned and said, "That sounds like something Mark
Twain would say, not his wife."
Cyrano grinned back and said, "She didn't say that. I
made that up, paraphrasing her. There was, of course,
much more to-her feeling than the accidental death of her
baby. Actually, I can't blame Clemens. Being a writer, he
was very absentminded when he was pondering upon a story.
I am that way myself. He did not notice that the
coverings of the baby had slipped aside and that the icy
air was blowing full upon the unprotected infant. He was
automatically driving the horse which was drawing the
sledge through the snows while his mind was intent upon
that other, world-his fiction.
"However, Olivia was certain that he was not as
absentminded as he believed. She insisted that he could
not have been, that some part of his mind must have
observed the baby's situation. He did not really want a
son. Unlike most men, he preferred daughters. Besides ,
the baby was sickly from birth, a nuisance. To Sam, I
mean.''
"That's one thing in his favor," Jill said. "I mean, that
he preferred girls. Though I suppose, to be fair, that it
is as neurotic to prefer a female infant as to prefer a
male. Still, he did not have that male chauvinism ..."
Cyrano said, "You must comprehend that Olivia did not con
sciously acknowledge all this during her Terrestrial
existence. At least, she claimed not to have done so,
though I suspect that she had such thoughts, was ashamed
of them, and so put them away in the deep, dark files of
her soul. But it was here, in this Valley, when she
became addicted to chewing the soi-disant, the so-called
dream-gum, that she perceived her true feelings.
"And so, though she still loved Clemens, in a manner of
speaking, she hated him even more."
"Did she quit using the gum?"
"Yes. It upset her too much. Though she now and then had
some ecstatic or fantastic visions, she had too many
horrible experiences."
"She should have stuck with it," Jill said. "But under
proper guidance. However ..."
"Yes?"
Jill compressed her lips, than said, "Perhaps I shouldn't
be too bloody critical. I had a guru, a beautiful woman,
the best and wisest woman I ever knew, but she couldn't
keep me from running headlong into . . . well, no need to
go into it here ... it was too . . . dismaying? No,
horrifying. I chickened out. So I shan't be criticizing
anyone else, shouldn't anyway. I have been considering
taking it up again, but I don't trust the Second
Chancers' use of it, even though they claim to have
excellent, quite safe, techniques. I couldn't put full
confidence in people who have their religious beliefs."
" I was a free thinker, a libertin, as we styled
ourselves," Cyrano said. "But now . . . I do not know.
Perhaps there is after all a God. Otherwise, how does one
account for this world?"
"There are a score of theories," Jill said.'' And no
doubt you've heard them all."
'' Many, at any rate,'' Cyrano said. " I was hoping to
hear a new one from you."
                           15
AT THAT MOMENT, SEVERAL PEOPLE INVADED THE CONVERSATION.
Jill broke off from the clump and drifted around, looking
for another clump, a temporary colony, to attach herself
to. In The Riverworld, as on Earth, all cocktail or after-
dinner parties were alike. You spoke briefly, trying to
make yourself heard above all the chatter and music, and
then changed partners or groups until you had made a
complete circuit. If you were intrigued or even
interested in someone, you could make arrangements to see
him or her some other time, when you could have a chance
for an uninterrupted and quiet conversation.
In the old days, long ago, when she was young in mind,
she had often met men or women at such gatherings who
enthralled her. But then she had been full of booze or
pot or both and so wide open. It was easy to fall in love
with a mind or body-or both at the same time. Sobering up
usually meant wising up. A disappointment. Not always.
Just most of the time.
Here was a gathering all of whom had the bodies of twenty-
five-year-olds. Chronologically, she was sixty-one. Some
here might actually be one hundred and thirty-two or even
more. The youngest could not be under thirty-six.
The index of wisdom should be high, if it was true that
age brought wisdom. She had not found that to be true
about most people on Earth. Experience was something it
was difficult to avoid, though many people had managed to
keep it to a minimum. Experience did not by any means
give-wisdom, that understanding of the basic mechanics of
humanity. Most oldsters she had known had been as
governed by conditioned reflexes as when they had been
nineteen.
So it was expected that people would not have benefited
much from their experiences here. However, the hammer
blows of death and resurrection had broken open the seals
of the minds of many.
For one thing, absolutely no one had expected this type
of afterlife, if you could call this an afterlife. No
religion had described such a place, such events. Though,
to tell the truth, those religions which did promise
paradises and hells were remarkably lacking in
descriptive detail. Perhaps not so remarkably, since very
few persons had actually claimed to have seen the
postmortem world.
And there certainly was nothing supernatural about this
place and the raising of the dead in it. Everything-well,
not everything but almost everything-could be explained
in physical, not metaphysical, terms. This did not keep
people from originating religious theories or reshaping
old ones.
Those religions which had no eschatology of resurrection
or immortality in the Western sense, Buddhism, Hinduism,
Confucianism, Taoism were discredited. Those which did
have such, Judaism, Islamism, Christianity, were equally
discredited. But here, as on Earth, the death of a major
religion was the birth pang of a new one. And there were,
of course, minorities who refused stubbornly, despite all
evidence, to admit that their faith was invalid.
Jill, standing near Samuelo, ex-rabbi, present bishop of
the Church of the Second Chance, wondered what his
reaction had been that first year on this world. There
was no Messiah come to save the Chosen People, nor,
indeed, any Chosen People assembled together at Jerusalem
on Earth. No Jerusalem, no Earth.
Apparently the shattering of his faith had not shattered
him. Somehow he had been able to accept that he had been
wrong. Although a superorthodox rabbi of ancient times,
he had a flexible mind.
At that moment Jeanne Jugan, who was hostess, offered
Samuelo and Rahelo a dish of bamboo tips and fileted
fish. Samuelo looked at the fish and said, "What is
that?"
"Toadfish," Jeanne said.
Samuelo tightened his lips and shook his head. Jeanne
looked puzzled, since the bishop was obviously hungry and
his fingers were only a few centimeters from seizing the
tips. These, as far as Jill knew, were not tabu according
to the Mosaic laws. But they were on the same plate as
the forbidden scaleless fish and so contaminated.
She smiled. It was much easier to change a person's
religion than his/her food habits. A devout Jew or Moslem
could give up his creed but would still feel nauseated if
offered pork. A Hindu whom Jill had known had become an
atheist on The Riverworld, but he still could not abide
meat. Jill, though of partial blackfellow descent, could
not force herself to eat worms, though she had tried.
Genetic descent had nothing to do with dietary matters,
of course; it was social descent that determined food
choices. Though not always. Some people could adapt
easily enough. And there was always the individual taste.
Jill had ceased eating mutton the moment she had quit her
parents' house. She hated it. And she preferred hamburger
to beef roast.
The whole point to this reverie, she thought as she
emerged from it, shedding thoughts as a surfacing diver
sheds water, the whole point was that we are what we eat.
And we eat what we do because of what we are. And what we
are is determined partly by our environment and partly by
our genetic makeup. All my family except myself loved
mutton. A sister shared my indifference to beef roast and
my love for hamburgers.
All my brothers and sisters, as far as I know, are
heterosexual. I am the only bisexual. And I don't want
that. I want to be one way or the other, a gate that is
latched, not swinging either way depending upon which way
the wind is blowing. My internal wind which shifts from
east to west or vice versa, twirling the windcock this
way, or that way.
Actually, she did not want it one way or the other. If
she had her choice-and why shouldn't she?-she would be a
woman lover.
Woman lover. Why didn't she say to herself: lesbian? The
English language was the greatest in the world, but it
had its faults. It was often too ambiguous. Woman lover
could mean a man who loved women, a man or woman who
loved women, or a woman who was a lover.
There, .she'd said it. Lesbian. And she didn't feet any
shame. What about Jack? She had loved him. What about . .
. ?
She had come up from the reverie only to dive down again.
Across the room, Firebrass, though talking to others, was
looking at her. Had he noticed her tendency to become a
statue, slumped, her head slightly cocked to the left,
her eyelids lowered, and the eyes slightly rolled up? And
if he had, then had he decided she was too moody and
hence untrustworthy?
At that, she felt a slight panic. Oh, God, if he rejected
her as a candidate just because she was pensive now and
then! She was not that way when On duty! Never. But how
could she convince Fire-brass of that?
She would have to be alert, always act as if she were on
her toes, extroverted, prepared, trustworthy. As if she
were a Girl Scout.
She walked up to a circle in the center of which was
Bishop Samuelo. The dark little man was telling some
stories about La Viro. Jill had heard a number of them,
since she had attended many Second Chancer meetings and
talked withjts missionaries. In Esperanto, the official
language of the Chufch, La Viro meant The Man. He was
also called La Fondinto, The Founder. Apparently, no one
knew his Terrestrial name or else it was not considered
important by the Second Chancers.
Samuelo's tale concerned the stranger who had approached
La Viro one stormy night in a cave high in the mountains.
The stranger had revealed that he was one of the people
who had reshaped this planet into one long Rivervalley
and who had then resurrected the people of Earth.
The stranger had instructed La Viro to found the Church
of the Second Chance. He was given certain tenets to
preach, and he was told that after he had spread these up
and down the Valley, he would then be given more
revelations. As far as she knew, these new "truths" had
not yet been forthcoming.
But the Church had spread everywhere. Its missionaries
had traveled on foot or boat. Some, it was said, had
journeyed in balloons. The fastest means of
transportation had been death and resurrection.
Actually, those who had killed the Chancer preachers were
doing the Church a service. It ensured that the faith
spread around The Riverworld in a much faster time.
Martyrdom was a convenient means of travel, Jill thought.
But it took great courage to die for your religion now
when once dead always dead. She had heard that there had
been a great falling away from the Church recently.
Whether that was caused by the permanency of death now,
or it was just that the movement had lost its steam, she
did not know.
One of the group was a man to whom she had not been in
troduced. Piscator had, however, pointed to him across
the room and said, "John de Greystock. He lived during
Edward I of England's reign. Thirteenth century? I have
forgotten much of British history, though I studied it
intensively when I was a naval cadet.''
"Edward ruled from about 1270 to very early 1300, I
think," Jill said. "I do remember that he ruled thirty-
five years and died when he was sixty-eight. I remember
it because that was a long life in those days, especially
for an Englishman. Those chilly, drafty castles, you
know."
"Greystock was made a baron by Edward and accompanied him
on his Gascon and Scottish expeditions," Piscator said.
"I don't really know much about him. Except that he was
governor of La Civito de La Animoj-Soul City in English-a
little state some forty-one kilometers down-River. He
came here before I did, not too long after King John
stole Clemens' boat. He enlisted in Parolando's army,
rose rapidly in rank, and distinguished himself during
the invasion of Soul City ..."
"Why would Parolando invade Soul-City?" Jill said.
"Soul City had made a sneak attack on Parolando. It
wanted to get control of the meteorite iron supply here
and the Not For Hire too. It almost succeeded. But
Clemens and several others blew up a big dam. This had
been built to store water from a mountain stream so it
could be used to generate electrical power. The blowing
up of the dam released many millions of liters of water.
The invaders were wiped out, along with thousands of
Parolandans. It also swept the aluminum and steel mills
and the factories into The River. The Riverboat, too, but
that was recovered almost undamaged.
"Clemens had to rebuild almost from scratch. During our
vulnerable situation, the Soul Citizens allied with some
other states and attacked again. They were repulsed but
with heavy losses. The Parolanders badly needed Soul
City's bauxite, cryolite, cinnabar, and platinum. It had
the only supply in the Valley. The bauxite and cryolite
were needed to make more aluminum. Cinnabar is the ore of
mercury, and platinum is used as electrical contacts for
various scientific apparatuses, and as absolutely
required catalysts in various chemical reactions."
"I know that," Jill said with some asperity.
"Forgive me," Piscator said, smiling slightly. "After the
unsuccessful attack by the Soul Citizens, Greystock was
made a colonel. And after Parolando's successful invasion
of Soul City, he was made its governor. Clemens wanted a
tough, ruthless man, and like most feudal lords,
Greystock was that.
"However, several weeks ago Soul City voluntarily became
one of the states in the United States of Parolando,
fully equal with the mother state.
"Of course"-here Piscator smiled lopsidedly-"by now the
supply of minerals in Soul City is almost exhausted.
Project Airship doesn't need Soul City anymore. Also,
through the process which Greystock calls attrition, a
very euphemistic term, I fear, the original makeup of the
population there has changed considerably. It was once a
majority of mid-twentieth-century American blacks, with a
minority of medieval Arabs-fanatical Wahhabis-and
Dravidian speakers of ancient India. Because of the wars
and Greystock's harsh governorship, its population became
about half-white."
"He sounds so savage," she said. "With due apologies to
the savages."
"He had several rebellions to put down. No one was forced
to stay at Soul City, you know. Clemens would not permit
slavery. Everybody was given a chance to leave, to go
peacefully and with all his possessions elsewhere. Many
citizens stayed there, swore loyalty to Parolando, but
then became saboteurs."
"Guerrilla warfare?"
"Hardly," Piscator said. "You know that the topography
just isn't fined for guerrilla activity. No. It seems
that a number of Soul Citizens thought that sabotage
would be a method of recreation."
"Recreation?"
"It gave them something to do. It was better than
drifting on down The River. Besides, many of them wanted
revenge.
"To give Greystock his due, he usually just kicked any
saboteurs he caught out of the state. Actually, he threw
them into The River. Well, that is history, and it
happened before I came here. Anyway, Greystock has come
here because he wants to be a member of the airship
crew."
"But he has no qualifications!"
"True-in one sense. He does not come from a highly
technological culture, relatively speaking. But he is
intelligent and curious, and he can learn. And though he
was once a baron of England and governor of Soul City, he
is willing to be a lowly crewman. The idea of flying
fascinates him. It's akin to magic-for him. Firebrass has
promised him that he can go-if there are not enough
qualified airshipmen. Of course, if by chance the crew of
the Graf Zeppelin or the Shenandoah should just happen to
come along ..." Piscator had smiled.
Greystock was about 1.8 meters, a very tall height during
the medieval period. His hair was black, long, and
straight; his eyes, large and grey; his eyebrows, thick;
his nose, slightly aquiline. His features harmonized into
a ruggedly good-looking face. His shoulders were broad;
his waist, narrow; his legs, thickly packed with muscle
but long.
At the moment, he was speaking to Samuelo, his grin and
his tone both sarcastic. Piscator had said that Greystock
hated priests, though he had been very devout during his
Terrestrial existence. Apparently, he had never forgiven
the clergy for falsely claiming to know the truth about
the afterlife.
Using Esperanto, Greystock said, "But surely you must
have some idea of who and what La Viro was on Earth? What
race was he? What nationality? When was he born, when
died? Was he prehistoric, ancient, medieval, or what the
later peoples called modern? What had he been on Earth, a
religionist, agnostic, or atheist? What was his trade or
profession? His education? Was he married? Did he have
children? Was he a homosexual?
"Was he unknown during his time? Or was he, perhaps,
Christ? And is that why He is remaining anonymous,
knowing that no one is going to believe His lies a second
time?"
Samuelo scowled, but he said, "I know little of this
Christ; only what has been told me and that is not much.
All I know of La Viro is what I have heard through word
of mouth. They say that he is very tall, white skinned
though very dark, and some say that they think he might
have been Persian.
"But all this is irrelevant. It is not his background or
his physical appearance that matters. What does matter is
his message."
"Which I have heard from many preachers of your Church
many times!'' Greystock said. "And which I believe no
more than I do the stinking falsehoods the stinking
priests offered me as God's own truths in my own time!"
"That is your privilege, though not your right," Samuelo
said.
Grey stock looked puzzled. Jill did not understand what
he meant either.
Greystock said loudly, "All you priests talk mumbo-
jumbo!" and he walked away scowling.
Piscator, watching him, smiled. "A dangerous man. But
interesting. You should get him to tell the story of his
journey with an Arcturan."
Jill's eyebrows went up.
"Yes, he knew a being who came to Earth from a planet of
the star Arcturus. Apparently, this being came with some
others in a spaceship in 2002 A.D. But he was forced to
kill almost all human beings. He died, too, though. It's
a horrible story, but true.
"Firebrass can give you the details. He was on Earth when
it happened."
                           16
Eager to talk to Greystock, Jill made her way through the
crowd toward him. But she was stopped by Firebrass before
she could reach the Englishman.
"A messenger just told me that radio contact's been made
with the Mark Twain. Want to come along and get in on the
pow-wow? You might get to talk to the great Sam Clemens
himself."
"Too right I would!" she said. "And thanks for the
invitation."
Jill followed Firebrass to the jeep, which was near the
foot of the staircase. It was made of steel and aluminum
and had pneumatic nylon tires. Its six-cylinder motor was
fueled by wood alcohol.
There were five passengers: Firebrass, Gulbirra, de
Bergerac, Schwartz, and Hardy. The jeep took off swiftly,
following the narrow valleys among the hills. Its bright
beams showed the grass, closely cut by machines, huts
here and there, stands of the incredibly quick-growing
bamboo, some 31 meters or over 100 feet high. Leaving the
hills, it sped over the plain gently sloping to The
River.
Jill could see the lights of the aluminum-processing
factory, the steel mill, the distillery, the welding
shop, the armory, the arms factory, the cement mill, and
the government building. The latter housed the newspaper
and radio station offices, and the top government
officials had residences there.
The colossal hangar was down-River and hence downwind of
the other buildings. Up in the mountains to the west were
strings of lights. These were on the dam constructed to
replace the one that Clemens had blown up.
The jeep passed the hangar. A steam locomotive, burning
alcohol, chuff chuffed by, hauling three flatbed cars
piled with aluminum girders. It entered the blazing
interior of the hangar, stopped, and a crane hook swung
down to the rear car. Workers gathered around it to
connect hooks to the steel cables around the girders.
"City Hall" was the northernmost building. The jeep
stopped before its porch. The riders got out and went
between two massive Doric columns. Jill thought that the
building was an abomination, architecturally speaking.
Nor did it fit in with the surroundings. Seen from a
distance, this area looked as if both the Parthenon and a
section of the Ruhr had been teleported to a remote
section of Tahiti.
Firebrass' suite of offices was to the left of the
entrance to the immense lobby. Six men stood guard before
its entrance, each armed with a single-shot rifle firing
.80-caliber plastic bullets. They also carried cutlasses
and daggers. The radio "shack" was a large room next to
the conference hall and Firebrass' sanctum sanctorum.
They entered the former to find several men standing
around the operator. He was adjusting dials on the big
panel before him. On hearing the door slam open under his
commander's overvigorous shove, he looked up.
"I've been talking to Sam," he said. "But I lost him
about thirty seconds ago. Hold on. I think I got him."
A series of squeals and crackles issued from the
loudspeaker. Suddenly, the interference eased off, and a
voice could be heard above the noise. The operator made a
final adjustment and gave up his chair to Firebrass.
"Firebrass speaking. Is that you, Sam?"
"No. Just a moment."
"Sam here," a pleasant drawling voice said. "Is that you,
Milt?"
"Sure is. How are you, Sam? And what's doing?"
"As of today, Milt, the electronic log says we've
traveled 792,014 miles. You can convert that into
kilometers if you wish. I prefer the old system, and
that's what we're . . . well, you know that. Not bad for
three years' travel, heh? But downright aggravating. A
snail could go to the North Pole faster than we can, if
it could go on a straight line. Or, pardon me, a great
curve. It would have time to build a hotel for us and
make an enormous fortune renting rooms to the walruses
until we arrived. Even if the snail was traveling only a
mile every twenty-four hours and we're averaging about
eight hundred miles a day.
"As of . . ." sputter, crackle "... little trouble."
Firebrass waited until reception was clear before
speaking again. "Is everything all-go, Sam?"
"Copacetic," Sam said. "Nothing unusual has happened.
Which means that there are always emergencies, always
trouble, but not mutinies, among the crew. I've had to
boot a few out now and then. If this keeps up, by the
time we get to our million-mile mark, I'll be the only
person who was on the boat when it left Parolando."
More crackles. Then Jill heard a voice that was so deep,
so bottom-of-the-well, that cold ran over her neck.
Sam said, "Yeah? Oh, all right, I forgot you, though
that's not easy with you breathing booze down my neck.
Joe says he'll still be here, too. He wants to say hellow
to you. Joe, say hello."
"Hello, Milt."
Thunder in a barrel.
"How're thingth going? Thwell, I hope. Tham here, he'th
kinda thad becauthe hith girl friend left him. Thye'll be
back, though, I think. He'th been havingk bad dreamth
about that Erik Bloodakthe again. I told him if he'd lay
off the boo the, he'd be okay. He hathn't got any
ekthcyuthe to drink, thinthe he hath me ath a thyining
ekthample of thobriety."
Jill looked at Hardy, saying, "What the ..."
Hardy grinned and said, "Yeth, he lithpth. Joe Miller is
as big as two Goliaths put together but he lisps. Joe
belongs to a species of subhuman .which Sam named
Titanthropus clemensi, though actually I think Joe's kind
is really just a giant variant of Homo sapiens. Anyway,
it became extinct an estimated fifty thousand to one
hundred thousand years ago. He and Sam met many years
ago, and they've been real pals since. Damon and Pythias.
Roland and Oliver."
"More like Mutt and Jeff or Laurel and Hardy," someone
muttered.
Hardy said, "Hardy?"
Firebrass said, "Mute it. Okay, Sam. Everything's in
orbit. We got a great new candidate, real first-class
officer material. Australian, named Jill Gulbirra. She's
got over eight hundred hours dirigible experience and she
has an engineering degree. How do you like that?"
Crackle. Then, "A woman?"
"Yeah, Sam, I know they didn't have female riverboat
pilots or railroad engineers in your day. But in my day
we had women airplane pilots and horse jockeys and even
astronauts!"
Jill unfroze and started forward. "Let me talk to him,"
she said. "I'll tell that son of a bitch . . ."
"He isn't objecting. He's just surprised," Firebrass
said, looking up at her. "Take it easy. What do you care?
He's all right. Even if he wasn't, he couldn't do
anything. I'm Numero Uno here.
"Sam, she said she's pleased to meet you."
"I heard her," Sam said, and he chuckled. "Listen . . ."
Crackle, hiss, sputter. "... when?"
"Static shot that all to hell,'' Firebrass said. "And
you' re drifting off. I don't think we can keep contact
much longer. So here goes, fast. I'm a long way from
having a full crew, but it'll be a year before the big
ship's finished. By then I might have enough. If not,
what the hell? Airplane pilots and mechanics are a dime a
dozen and they can be trained for dirigible operation.
"Listen."
He paused, looked around-though why Jill did not know-and
said, "Heard from X? Have ..."
Static rolled over his voice, chewed it up, and wouldn't
let go of the pieces. After trying for several minutes to
get hold of Clemens again, Firebrass gave up.
Jill said to Hardy, "What is this about hearing from X?"
"I don't know," the New Englander said. "Firebrass says
it's a private joke between Sam and him."
Firebrass turned off the radio and got up from his chair.
"It's getting late, and we have a lot to do tomorrow. Do
you want Willy to drive you home, Jill?"
"I don't need anyone to protect me," she said. "And I
don't mind walking. No thanks."
Covered with the magnetically attached towels, she walked
across the plain. Before she had reached the first hill,
she saw clouds racing across the blazing sky. She took a
stick of dreamgum from her shoulderbag, tore off half of
it, and thrust it into her mouth. It had been years since
she had chewed it.
Now, as she moved the coffee-tasting chicloid around in
her mouth, she wondered why she had suddenly, almost
involuntarily, decided to try it again. What secret
motive did she have? It had been almost an unconscious
act. If she had not gotten into the habit of closely
observing herself, she might not even have been aware of
what she was doing.
Lightning flashed to the north. Then the rain fell as if
dumped from a ballast bag. She put her head down under
her hood and hunched her shoulders. Her bare feet were
wet, but the cloth over her body repelled the drops.
She unlatched the door of her hut. Inside, she put down
the bag, opened it, and removed the heavy metal lighter
provided twice a year by her grail. She groped toward the
table which held an alcohol lamp, a gift from Firebrass.
The lightning came nearer, and by its increasing
brightness, she could see the lamp.
Something touched her shoulder.
She screamed and whirled, dropping the lighter. Her right
fist struck out. A hand gripped her right wrist. Her knee
came up, aiming at the groin she hoped was in its path.
It slid by a hip, and another hand caught her other
wrist. She sagged, and the attacker was deceived. He
chuckled and pulled her close. She could see him vaguely
now as flashes of light dimly illumined the interior of
the hut. His nose was in front of her and close, though
below her, since he was short.
She bent her head swiftly, bit down on the end of the
nose, and jerked her head savagely. The man screamed and
released her. He staggered backward holding his nose. She
followed him, and this time her foot shot up between his
legs. Though she had no shoes, her hard-driven toes sent
him writhing to the ground, clutching his genitals.
Jill came up and leaped up and down, landing on his side.
His ribs snapped loudly. Stepping off him, she bent down
and grabbed both ears. He tried to reach up then, but she
yanked outward. The ears came loose with a ripping sound.
The man, ignoring his injured genitals and broken ribs,
came up off the floor. Jill caught the side of his neck
with the edge of her palm. He fell, and she went to the
table and lit the lamp with a lighter ' in a shaking
hand. The wick took hold, and then the flame brightened
as she turned the knob on the side of the lamp. After
trimming it, she turned, and she yelled again.
He had risen and had seized a spear from its wall
brackets and was thrusting it at her.
The lamp flew from her hand in unthinking but deadly
reaction. It struck him in the face, shattered, and the
alcohol spilled out.
Flames exploded. He screamed and ran blindly-his eyes
were on fire-toward her. She screamed. Only now did she
recognize him.
She shrieked, "Jack!'' and then he was on her, had
wrapped his burning arms around her, knocked her upon her
back, the breath coming out of her in a whoof. Unable to
breathe for a moment, but in a frenzy to escape his fiery
arms, she tore herself loose and rolled away. Her
fireproof clothing had kept her from being burned.
Before she could get up, however, he had grabbed her
garment hem and yanked on it. The magnetic tabs
separated. Naked, she leaped to her feet and ran for the
spear, lying where he had dropped it. She bent down to
get it, and Jack was on her from behind, blazing hands
grabbing her breasts, his blazing erection driving into
her. Their screams bounced around the walls of the hut,
seeming to mount in intensity with each echo. She was
being fried, seared, inside her, on her buttocks, on her
breasts, and in her ears-as if the echoes were flames,
too. She could only roll over and over until brought up
short against the wall.
Jack was on his hands and knees now, his hair burned off,
his scalp black, crinkled, and ridged, his skin broken
open to reveal reddish-black blood and grey-black bone.
The only illumination was the fire still consuming his
face and chest and belly and the penis-which was swollen
as if with the passion of hate-and the lightning cracking
into the earth outside.
She was up and running toward the door to get to the
outside, where the blessed rain would put out the fire
and soothe her external burns. Somehow, he grabbed hold
of her ankle. She fell heavily, knocking her breath out
again. Jack was on top of her again, muttering strange
croaking sounds-his tongue was burned, too?- and both
were enfolded in fire.
She slid down a scream of pure agony toward a hole far
below, a hole which expanded swiftly and received her as
she fell toward the center of this world and toward the
heart of all things.
                           17
JACK'S FACE WAS HANGING ABOVE HER. IT WAS UNCONNECTED TO
a body, floating freely like a balloon. The curly reddish
hair, the broad handsome face, the bright blue eyes, the
strong chin, the full lips, smiling . . .
"Jack!" she murmured, and then the face dissolved and
became another, attached to a body.
The face was broad and handsome, the cheekbones high, the
eyes black, slanted by epicanthic folds, the hair
straight and black.
"Piscator!"
"I heard you screaming.'' He leaned down and took her
hands. "Can you get up?"
"I think so," she said shakily. She came up easily enough
with his help. She became aware that the thunder and
lightning had ceased. Nor was it raining, though water
was still dripping from the eaves. The door was open,
showing only darkness. The clouds had not yet
disappeared. No, there was the silhouette of a hill
suddenly rising. Beyond was a break in the skycover and
the white flare of a great gas sheet in which thousands
of giant stars were embedded,
She also became aware that she was naked. She looked down
and saw her breasts were reddened, as if they had been
too near a fire. The red slowly faded away as she
watched.
Piscator said, "I thought you had been slightly burned.
Your breasts and your pubic area were inflamed, swollen,
reddened. But there was no evidence of a fire."
"The fire was from within, inside me,"she said.
"Dreamgum."
His eyebrows arose. He said, "Ah, so!"
She laughed.
He helped her to the cot, and she lay down on it with a
sigh. The slight warmth inside her vagina had subsided
now. Piscator busied himself, placing towels over her,
getting her a drink of rainwater from the bamboo barrel
placed outside the door. She drank the water, holding the
cup with one hand, leaning on the elbow of the other arm.
"Thanks," she said. "I should have known better than to
chew the gum. I was depressed, and when I'm in that kind
of a mood, I get strange effects from it. It all seemed
so real, so horrible. I never questioned its reality,
though it was clearly impossible."
He said, "The Second Chancers use dreamgum in their
therapy, but it's done under supervision. It seems to
have some beneficial results. But we do not use it except
in the initial stages of education with some people."
"We?"
"Al Ahl al-Hagg, the followers of the Real. What you
Occidentals call Sufis."
"I thought so."
"You should, since we have had this conversation once
before.''
She gasped and said, "When was that?"
"This morning."
"It must be the gum,'' she said. "I'm through with it. No
more of this bloody stuff."
She sat up and said, "You won't tell Firebrass about
this, will you?"
He was no longer smiling. "You are experiencing some very
strong psychic disturbances. To cause burns, stigmata, on
your body through mental means . . . well ..."
"I won't be using the gum anymore. I'm not just making an
empty promise you know. I'm not addicted. I am mentally
stable.''
"You're deeply troubled," he said. "Be honest with me,
Jill. I may call you Jill, may I not? Have you had
attacks similar to this? If so, how many and how serious
were they? That is, how long did they last? How long did
it take you to recover from them?"
"Not one recent attack, as you call it," she said.
"Very well. I will say nothing to anyone. That is, if
there is no recurrence. You will be honest with me and
inform me if you do suffer from any, won't you? You would
not endanger your ship just because you want so
desperately to be a member of the crew?"
"No, I would not," she said. But the words came hard.
"Then we'll let it stand at that, for the time being."
She rose on one elbow again, ignoring the slipping aside
of the towel and the baring of her breast:
"Look, Piscator. Be honest. If you are given a rank
inferior to mine, and it's likely, if Firebrass awards
ranks according to experience, would you resent serving
under me?"
"Not in the slightest," he said, smiling.
She lay back and pulled the towel up. "You come from a
culture which held women in a very inferior position.
Your women were practically on a level with the beasts of
burden. They ..."
"That is in the past, the long dead and faraway past," he
said. "Nor was nor am I a typical male, Nipponese or not.
You must avoid stereotyping. After all, that is what you
hate, what you have fought all your life, have you not?
Stereotyping?"
"You're right," she said. "But it's a conditioned
reflex."
"I believe I said this once before to you. However,
repetition has its uses in education. You should learn to
think in a different pattern."
"And how do I do that?"
He hesitated, then said, "You will know when to attempt
that. And whom to see about it."
Jill knew that he was waiting for her to ask him to
accept her as his disciple. She was having none of that.
She just did not believe in organized religion. Though
Sufism was not a religion, its members were religious.
There was no such thing as an atheist Sufi.
She was an atheist. Despite having been resurrected, she
did not believe in a Creator. At least, she did not
believe in a Creator who was personally interested in her
or in any creature whatsoever. People who did believe in
a deity who considered human beings as His children-and
why was a spirit always he?-why not be logical since God
had no sex, an it?- people who believed in Him were
deluded. The believers in God might be intelligent, but
they were mentally benighted. The gears in that part of
the brain which dealt with religion had been put into
neutral, and they were spinning. Or the circuit of
religion had been disconnected from the main circuit of
the intellect.
That was a bad analogy. People used their intellect to
justify the nonintellective, emotionally based phenomenon
called religion. Often brilliantly. But, as far as she
was concerned, uselessly.
Piscator said, "You are going to sleep. Good. If you need
me, though, feel free to call on me."
"You're no physician," she said. "Why should you . . ."
"You have potential. And though you sometimes act
foolishly, you are no fool. Though you have fooled
yourself from time to time and still are. Good night."
"Good night."
He bowed quickly and walked out, closing the door behind
him. She started to call out, but she stopped. She had
wanted to ask him what he was doing near the hut when he
had heard her. It was too late. Nor was it important.
Still... what had he been doing here? Had he intended to
seduce her? Rape was out of the question, of course. She
was bigger than he, and though he probably was a master
of the martial arts, so was she. Moreover, his position
as an airship officer would be seriously jeopardized if
she were to accuse him.
No, he would not have been here either to seduce or to
rape. He did not give the impression that he was that
type of man. On the other hand, no matter how nice they
acted, weren't they all? No, there was something about
him-she hated to use the imprecise and unscientifically
founded term vibrations-but there it was. He did not
radiate that length of frequency classified as "bad
vibes."
It was then she realized that he had not asked her to
describe her experience. If he had been curious, he had
managed not to show it. Perhaps he had felt that she
would have volunteered if she had wanted to share the
details with him. He was a very sensitive man, very
perceptive.
What did that horrifying attack by Jack mean? That she
was afraid of him, of men in general? Of the male sex? Of
sex itself when in male form? She could not believe that.
But the illusion? delusion? visitation? had revealed
certain feelings of hate and destruction. Not just for
men in general and for Jack in particular. She had set
him afire but she had also burned and raped herself-in a
sense. Which made no sense. She certainly did not
subconsciously wish to be raped. Only a mentally sick
woman would desire that.
Did she hate herself? The answer was, yes, at times. But
who didn't?
Some time later, she sank into an uneasy sleep. Once, she
dreamed of Cyrano deBergerac. They were fencing with
epees. The circling point of his blade dazzled her, and
then her weapon was knocked up and his leaped in and its
point sank deep into her navel. She looked down in
surprise at the blade as it withdrew, but the navel did
not spout blood. Instead, it swelled and thickened and
then a tiny dagger issued from the tumor.
                           18
The shock of cold water fully awoke Burton. for a minute,
he was completely beneath the surface, and he did not
know which way was up in the darkness.
There was only one way to find out. After five strokes,
he felt the pressure on his eardrums increasing.
Reversing position, he swam in what he hoped was the
opposite direction. For all he knew, he was moving
horizontally. But the pressure eased, and just as he
feared he could not possibly hold his breath anymore, he
broke the surface.
At the same time, something rammed into the back of his
head, knocking him half-senseless again. His flailing
hand hit an object and he grabbed it. Though he could see
nothing in the mists, he could feel the thing that was
holding him up. A massive log.
Bedlam was around him, screams, shouts, someone nearby
calling for help. He released his hold as soon as he had
regained all his senses and swam toward the woman crying
for aid. As he neared her, he realized that it was
Loghu's voice. A few strokes brought him to her, close
enough to see her face dimly.
"Take it easy," he said. "It's me, Dick!"
Loghu seized him by the shoulders, and they both went
down. He fought her, pushed her away, then grabbed her
from behind.
Loghu said something in her native Tokharian. He answered
her in the same tongue.
"Don't panic. We'll be all right."
Longhu, gasping, said, "I've got hold of something. I
won't sink."
He released her and reached around her. Another log. The
collision must have torn some of the forward logs loose.
But where was the boat and where was the raft? And where
were Loghu and he?
It seemed probable that they had fallen into the gap made
when the lashings of the logs of the raft had been torn
loose. But the current would by now surely have carried
the intact part against the rock, crushing everything
between it and the rock. Had they been carried around the
corner of the spire and were now drifting with the
current?
If so, they were in a tangle of logs and pieces from the
boat. They kept bumping against him and Loghu.
She moaned and said, "I think my leg's broken, Dick. It
hurts so."
The log to which they were clinging was very thick and
long, its ends so distant they could not be seen through
the fog. They had to dig into the rough bark with their
fingers. It would not be long before they would lose
their grip.
Suddenly Monat's voice tore through the greyness.
"Dick! Loghu! Are you out there?"
Burton shouted, and a moment later something rapped along
the log. It struck his fingers, causing him to yell with
pain and to slip back into the water. He struggled back
up, and then the end of a pole shot like a striking snake
in ambush from the fog. It grazed his left cheek. A
little to the right and it would have stunned him,
perhaps broken his skull.
He seized it and called out that he was to be pulled in.
"Loghu's here, too," he said. "Be careful with that
pole!"
He was dragged in by Monat to the edge of the raft where
Kazz pulled him out with a single heave. Monat then stuck
the pole into the darkness. A minute later, Loghu was
drawn in. She was half-unconscious.
"Get some cloths and wrap her up in them. Keep her warm,"
he told Kazz.
"Will do, Burton-naq," the Neanderthal said. He turned
and was enfolded in the mist.
Burton sat down on the wet, smooth surface of the raft.
"Where are the others? Is Alice all right?"
"They're all here except Owenone," Monat said. "Alice
seems to have some broken ribs. Frigate hurt his knee. As
for the boat, it's gone."
Before he could recover from this shock, he saw torches
flaring. They drew nearer, casting light enough for him
to see their bearers. There were a dozen of them, short,
dark-faced Caucasians with large, hooked noses, clad from
head to foot in cloths of many stripes and colors. Their
only arms were flint knives, all sheathed.
One of them spoke in a language which Burton thought was
Semitic. If so, it was an ancient form of that family. He
could understand a few words here and there, though. He
replied in Esperanto, and the speaker switched to that.
There followed a swift dialog. Apparently, the man on the
tower had fallen asleep because he had been drinking. He
had survived the fall from the tower when the raft had
crashed, into the island and toppled him and the man whom
Burton had seen climb up to him.
The second man had not been so lucky. He had died of a
broken neck. As for the luck of the pilot, it had run out
on him. He had been thrown overboard by his enraged
fellows.
The great grinding noises Burton had heard before the
boat struck came from the collision of the tip of the V-
shaped prow with the docks and then the hard rock of the
beach. This had crumpled the front half of the V and torn
loose many of the fish-leather lashings. The V had also,
absorbed much of the shock, preventing more of the raft
from being ripped apart.
A section of the northwest side had been ripped off, but
it was forced on by the main body. It was this jumble of
massive logs which had rammed into the Hadji II, crushing
the lower half of the back part. After the torn-off front
half of the boat had fallen into the water, the back
half, knocked apart by the great blow, had fallen down
from-and through-the log jam.
Burton had been thrown forward by the impact against the
rock, had fallen back onto the deck, and then had been
tilted off it as it slid into the water.
The crew was indeed lucky that no one had been killed or
seriously hurt. No, Owenone was yet to be accounted for.
There were more things to find out. Just now, the wounded
had to be attended to. He made his way to where the
others lay beneath the blaze of three torches. Alice put
out her arms to him and cried when he embraced her.
"Don't squeeze me," she said. "My side hurts'."
A man came to him and said that he had been appointed to
take care of them. The two women were carried by some
raftsmen, while Frigate, groaning, hobbled along
supported by Kazz. By then the daylight had increased
somewhat so they could see further. After progressing for
perhaps 61 meters or over 200 feet; they stopped before a
large bamboo hut thatched with the great irontree leaves.
This was secured to the raft by leather ropes tied at one
end to pegs fitted into drilled holes in the logs.
Inside the hut was a stone platform on which a small fire
burned. The injured were laid near this on bamboo beds.
By then the fog was getting thinner. The light increased
and presently they were startled by a noise like a
thousand cannon shells exploding at once. No matter how
often they heard it, they jumped.
The grailstones had spouted their energy.
"No breakfast for us," Burton said.
He raised his head abruptly.
"The grails? Did anyone get the grails?"
Monat said, "No, they were lost with the boat." His face
twisted with grief, and he wept. "Owenone must have
drowned!"
They looked at each other in the firelight. Their faces
were still pale from their ordeal; even so, they lost a
shade of color.
Some of them groaned. Burton cursed. He too felt grief
for Owenone, but he and his crew were beggars, dependent
upon the charity of others. It was better to be dead than
without a grail, and in the old days those who had lost
theirs could, and often did, commit suicide. The next day
they would wake up, far from their friends and mates, but
at least with their own source of food and luxuries.
"Well," Frigate said, "we can eat fish and acorn bread."
"For the rest of our lives?"Burton,said, sneering. "Which
may be forever for all we know."
"Just trying to look on the bright side of things," the
American said. "Though even that is pretty dim."
"Why don't we deal with things as they come up?" Alice
said. "For the moment, I'd like my ribs seen to, and I'm
sure poor Loghu would like her broken bone set and
splinted."
The man who had conducted them there arranged for
treatment of the injured. After this was done and the
pains of his patients had been eased with pieces of
dreamgum, he went outside. Burton, Kazz, and Monat
followed him inside. By then the sun was burning away the
fog. Within a few minutes it would all be gone.
The scene was appalling. The entire V-shaped prow of the
raft had broken up when its point had ridden up onto the
beach and its port side had smashed into a corner of the
spire. The docks and the boats of the Ganopo were
smashed, buried somewhere in the pile of logs on the
beach. The main part of the raft had also slid for at
least 13 meters onto the shore. Several hundreds of the
raftspeople were standing at the edge of the wreck,
talking animatedly but doing nothing constructive.
To the left, logs were jammed against the sheer wall of
the spire by the current. There was no sign of the Hadji
II, or of Owenone. Burton's hope that he might be able to
retrieve at least a few grails was not going to be
realized.
He looked around the raft. Even-though it had lost its
forepart, it was still immense. It had to be at least 660
feet or 201 meters long with a breadth at its widest of
122 meters. Its stem was also V shaped.
In the center was the large, round, black object he had
seen floating above the mists. It was the head of an idol
30 feet or over 9 meters tall. Black, squat, and ugly, it
dominated the raft. It was sitting cross-legged, and its
spine bore lizardlike crests. The head was a demon's, its
blue eyes glaring, its wide, snarling mouth displaying
many great white sharkfish teeth.
These, Burton assumed, had been removed from a dragonfish
and set within the scarlet gums.
In the middle of its huge paunch was a round hole. Inside
this was a stone hearth on which a small pile of wood
blazed. Its smoke rose within the body and curled out of
the batlike ears of the idol.
Forward, near the edge of the raft, the watch tower lay
on its side, its supports broken off at the base by the
force of the collision. A body still lay near it.
There were some large buildings here and there with many
smaller ones among them. A few of the smaller ones had
collapsed, and one of the big constructions leaned
crazily.
He counted ten tall masts with square-rigged sails and
twenty shorter ones with fore-and-aft rigs. All of the
sails were furled.
Alongside the edges were a number of racks holding boats
of various sizes.
Behind the idol was the largest building of all. He
supposed that this was the house of the chief or perhaps
a temple. Or both.
Presently wooden trumpets blew and drums beat. Seeing the
people streaming toward the great building, Burton
decided to join-them. They congregated between the idol
and the building. Burton stood behind the mob where he
could hear the proceedings but at the same time examine
the statue. A little discreet scratching with a flint
knife revealed that it was adobe covered with a black
paint. He wondered where the paint for the body, eyes,
and gums had been obtained. Pigments were rare, much to
the sorrow of artists.
The chief, or the head priest, was taller than the others
though still half a head shorter than Burton. He wore a
cape and kilt with blue, black, and red stripes and an
oaken crown with six points. His right hand held a long
shepherd's staff of oak. He spoke from a platform at the
building's entrance, gesturing often with the staff, his
black eyes fiery, his mouth-spewing a torrent of which
Burton understood not one word. After about half an hour
he got down from the platform, and the crowd broke up
into various work parties.
Some of these went to the island to clear away the logs
which had broken from the prow and piled onto the main
body. Others went to the starboard rearside, where the V-
shaped stem joined the main part. These lifted huge oars
and fitted them to locks. Then, like a gang of galley
slaves, working to a rhythm beat out on a drum, they
began rowing.
Apparently, they were trying to bring the stern around so
that the current would catch it on one side and then
swing the entire raft. As soon as the vessel presented
enough of its starboard side to the current, it would be
turned around enough to be free of the island.
That was the theory, but the practice failed. It became
apparent that the log jam would have to be cleared first
and then leverage applied to push the front part from the
beach.
Burton wished to talk to the headman, but he had gone
around to the front of the idol and was bowing rapidly
and chanting to it. Whatever Burton had learned or not
learned, he knew that it was dangerous to interrupt a
religious ritual.
He strolled around, stopping to look at the dugouts,
canoes, and small sailboats in racks or on slides along
the edge of the raft. Then he poked around the larger
buildings. Most of these had doors which were barred on
the outside. Making sure that no one was noticing him, he
entered several.
Two were storehouses of dried fish and acorn bread. One
was crammed with weapons. Another was a boatshed
containing two half-finished dugouts and the pine
framework of a canoe. In time the latter would be covered
with fish-skin. The fifth building held a variety of
artifacts: boxes of oak rings fpr trading, spiral bones
and the unicornlike horns of the hornfish, piles of fish-
and human-leather, drums, bamboo flutes, harps with
hornfish guts for strings, skulls fashioned into drinking
cups, ropes of fiber and fish-skin, piles of dried
dragonfish intestines, suitable for sails, stone lamps
for burning fish-oil, boxes of lipstick, face-paint,
marijuana, cigarettes , cigars, lighters (all doubtless
saved up for trading or tribute), about fifty ritual
masks, and many more items.
When he went into the sixth building, he smiled. This was
where the grails were kept. The tall grey cylinders were
stacked in wooden racks, waiting for their owners. He
counted three hundred and fifty. One grail for each of
the approximately three hundred and ten raftspeople meant
that there were thirty extra grails.
A few minutes' inspection showed him that all but thirty
were tagged. The others had cords tied around the handles
of the tops, the other ends of which cords were connected
to baked clay tablets bearing cuneiform writing. These
were the names of their owners. He examined some of the
incised marks, which looked like those he had seen in
photographs of Babylonian and Assyrian documents.
He tried to raise the lids of a number of the tagged
cylinders but failed, of course. There was some sort of
mechanism preventing anyone but its owner from opening
it. There were several theories about the operation, one
being that a sensitive device inside the grail detected
the electrical field of the owner's skin and then
activated an opening mechanism.
However, the untagged grails were of a different kind,
called "freebies" by some English-speakers.
When over thirty-six billion of Earth's dead had awakened
whole and young along the immense stretch of The River,
they had found a personal grail at their side. At the
same time, each of the grailstones bore in its central
depression one grail. This apparently had been provided
by the resurrectors to show the new citizens just how
their grails worked.
Each stone had vomited noise and light, and when the
thunder and lightning had ceased, curious people had
climbed onto the stones to look into the grails left
there. The lids were raised, and the contents were
revealed. Wonder of wonders, joy of joys! The hollow
interior held snap-down racks on which were dishes and
cups full of food and various goodies!
The next time the stones discharged, the private grails
were on the stones, and these, too, supplied everything
they needed and more, though human nature was such that
many people complained because there wasn't more
variety.'
The freebies had become very valuable; people bullied and
thieved and killed to get them. If a person had a private
grail and a freebie, he or she had twice as much food and
luxuries as he or she was supposed to get.
Burton himself had never owned one, but here were thirty
on racks before him.
The problem of the lost grails was solved-if he could get
the headman to part with them. After all, his raft was
responsible for the loss of the boat and the grails. He
owed the crew of the Hadji II.
So far, he and his crew had been treated decently. He
could think of other groups he had met that would have
done nothing for them except throw them overboard-after
mass-raping the women and perhaps sodomizing the men.
However, there might be a limit to the raftspeople's
hospitality. The free grails were anything but free. This
group might even have stolen these. However they got
them, they would be saving them for emergencies, such as
replacements for those they lost or as tribute if they
ran into a particularly hostile and powerful group.
Burton left the building, barred the door after him, and
walked around pondering. If he asked the chief to give
him seven grails, he could be refused. That would make
the man suspicious, and he would set up guards over this
building. Not to mention the fact that he might get
nervous having potential thieves around and would ask
them, politely or otherwise, to leave.
Passing by the idol, he saw that the chief had stopped
praying and was walking toward the island. Apparently, he
intended to supervise the activities there.
Burton decided to ask him now about the grails. No use
putting off the issue.
The man who sits on his arse sits on his fortune.
                           19
MUTU-SHA-HJ WAS HIS NATIVE NAME, MEANING "MAN OF GOD,"
but to Esperanto speakers he was Metusael. In English,
Methusaleh.
For a delirious moment, Burton wondered if he had met the
model for the long-lived patriarch of the Old Testament.
No. Metusael was a Babylonian, and he had never heard of
Hebrews until he had come to The Riverworld. He had been
an inspector of granaries on Earth, but here he was the
founder and head of a new religion and commander of the
great raft.
"One night many years ago, while a storm raged outside, I
was sleeping. And a god came to me in my dream, a god
named Rushhub. I had never heard of this god, but he told
me that he had once been a mighty god of my ancestors.
Their descendants, however, had abandoned him, and in my
lifetime on Earth only a small village at the edge of the
kingdom had still worshipped him.
"But gods do not die, though they may take other forms
and new names, or even become nameless; and he had lived
in the dreams of many people through many generations.
Now he had decided that the time was come to leave the
dreamworld. Thus, he told me that I must arise and go
forth and preach the worship of Rushhub. I must gather
together a group of the faithful and build a giant raft
and take my people down The River upon it.
"After many years, perhaps several generations as we knew
generations on Earth, we would come to the end of The
River, where it empties into a hole in the base of the
mountains that ring the top of this world.
"There, we would go through the underworld, a great dark
cavern, and then we would come out into a bright sea
surrounding a land where we would live forever in peace
and happiness with the gods and goddesses themselves.
"But before the raft was launched we must make a statue
of the god Rushhub and set it upon the raft and worship
it as the symbol of Rushhub. So do not say, as so many
have said, that we are idolaters who mistake the physical
symbol for the body of the god itself."
Burton thought the man was crazy, though he was discreet
enough not to say so. He and his crew had fallen into the
hands of fanatics. Fortunately, the god had told Metusael
that his worshippers must harm no one unless it was in
self-defense. However, he knew from experience that "self-
defense" could mean whatever a person or group wanted it
to mean.
"Rushhub himself told me that just before we enter the
underworld, we must break the idol into little bits and
cast them into The River. He did not say why we should do
so. He merely said that by the time we reach the cavern,
we will understand."
"That is all very well for you," Burton said. "But you
are responsible for destroying our boat. Also, we have
lost our grails.''
"I am indeed sorry, but there is little I can do for you.
What happened to you is the will of Rushhub."
Burton felt like striking the man in his face. Mastering
himself, he said, "Three of my people are too injured at
the moment to move them very far. Could you at least give
us a boat so we could get to shore?"
Metusael glared with fierce black eyes, and. he pointed
at the island..
"There is the shore, and there is a foodstone. I will see
that your injured are placed there, and we will give you
some dried fish and acorn bread. In the meantime, please
do not trouble me with any more requests. I have work to
do. We must get our raft back into The River. Rushhub
told me that we should not delay our journey for any
reason whatsoever.
"If we take too long, we may find the gates to the land
of the gods forever shut. Then we will be left to howl at
the gates and repent in vain for our lack of faith and
determination."
At that moment Burton decided that anything he did would
be justified. These people owed him much, and he owed
them nothing.
Metusael had walked away. Now he stopped suddenly,
pointing at Monat, who had just come out of the building.
"What is that?"
Burton walked up to him and said,' "That is a man from
another world. He and some of his kind traveled from a
distant star to Earth. This was over a hundred years
after I died, perhaps four thousand years after you died.
He came in peace, but the people of Earth discovered that
he had a... drug which could keep people from aging. They
demanded that he tell them its secret, but he refused. He
said that Earth people had enough problems as it was with
overpopulation. Besides, a person should not be given the
chance to live forever unless that person was worthy of
it."
''He was wrong then,'' Metusael said. "The gods have
given us a chance to live forever." '
"Yes, in a way. Though, according to your religion, only
a very small group, just those on this raft, will become
truly immortal. Am I right?"
"It seems hard," Metusael said. "But that is the way it
is, and who are we to question the motives and methods of
the gods?"
"It is, however, a fact that we only know what the gods
desire through human beings who speak for them. I have
never met a person yet whose motives and methods I would
not question."
"The more fool you."
"Aside from that,'' Burton said, smiling to hide his
anger, "the Arcturans, Monat and his people, were
attacked by the Earth people. They were all killed, but
before he died Monat caused almost all of the Earth
people to die."
He paused. How could he explain to this ignoramus that
the Arcturans had left their mother ship in orbit around
Earth? And that Monat had transmitted a radio wave signal
to the orbiting vessel and that it had projected an
energy beam of such a frequency that only human beings
had died?
He did not really understand it himself, since in his
time such things as radio and spaceships had not existed.
Metusael was wide-eyed now. Looking at Monat, he said,
"He is a great magician? He killed all those people
through his powers?"
For a moment, Burton considered using Monat's supposed
magic as alever. Perhaps he could pry a boat and free-
grails out of this man if he threatened him. But, though
Metusael might be ignorant, and crazed, he was not
unintelligent. He would ask why Monat, if he was such a
sorcerer, had not protected the HadjiII from destruction
and his companions from hurt. He also might ask why
Burton needed a boat, since surely Monat could give them
the power to fly through the air.
"Yes, he did slay them," Burton said. "And he also woke
up on these banks, not knowing how or why. His magical
tools were left on Earth, of course. However, he says
that he will find the materials to make more tools some
day, and he will regain his powers and be as mighty and
as deadly as ever. Then those who have scorned and mocked
him will have good reason to fear him."
Let Metusael chew on that.
Metusael smiled, and said, "By that time ..."
Burton understood. By men the raft would be long gone.
"Besides, Rushhub will protect his people. A god is
mightier man a man, even a demon from the stars."
"Why didn't Rushhub avert this accident then?" Burton
said.
"I do not know, but I am sure that he will come to me in
a dream, and he will tell me why. Nothing happens to the
people of Rushhub without a purpose."
Metusaej walked off. Burton returned to the building to
check on his crew. Kazz stepped outside just as Burton
was about to enter. He had removed all his cloths except
for his kilt, revealing a very hairy, squat, big-boned,
powerfully muscled body. His head was thrust forward on a
bowed and bull-like neck. His forehead was low and
slanting; his skull long and narrow; his face, broad. His
supraorbital ridges were thick, bony shelves above shrewd
dark-brown eyes. The nose was puggish but had flaring
nostrils. The bulging jaws pushed out thin lips. The
massive hands looked as if they could squeeze stone to
powder.
Despite his fearsome appearance, he would not have gotten
more than a passing glance in the East End of London in
Burton's time if he had been clothed.
His full name was Kazzintuitruaabemss. In his native
language, Man-Who-Slew-The-White-Tooth.
"What's up, Burton-naq?"
"You and Monat come in with me."
When he was in the hut, he asked the others how they
felt. Alice and Frigate said they could walk but not run.
Loghu's case was evident. She was in no pain because of
the dreamgum given her, but she would not be restored to
full health for four or five days. It took that long for
a broken bone to knit completely. The fantastic speed in
healing was due to causes unknown, perhaps something in
their food.
Whatever the reason, bones healed, teeth and eyes regrew,
torn muscles and burned flesh were renewed, all with a
quickness that had once astonished the Valley-dwellers.
Now it was taken for granted.
Burton had no sooner explained the situation to them man
twelve armed men appeared. Their captain said he had
orders to escort them to the island. Two men put Loghu on
a stretcher and carried her out. Frigate, supported by
Monat and Kazz, limped after them. They made their way,
with some difficulty, over the wilderness of logs and
onto the shore. Here they were met by the Ganopo, all
angry but helpless.
Loghu was taken into a hut, and the guards left. Not,
however, before their captain cautioned Burton that he
and his crew must stay away from the raft.
"And if we don't?" Burton said loudly.
"Then you will be thrown into The River. Perhaps with a
stone tied to your legs. Almighty Rushhub has told us not
to spill blood except in self-defense. But he said
nothing about drowning our enemies."
Shortly before the midday grailstone discharge, a store
of dried fish and acorn bread was delivered to Burton.
"Metusael says that this will keep you from starving
until you can catch more fish and make more bread."
"I'll save my thanks to deliver in person to him," Burton
said to the captain. "He may not like its form, though."
Monat said, "Was that empty bluster or do you plan on
some sort of revenge?"
"Revenge isn't my dish," Burton said. "I do intend,
however, to see that we do not go grailless."
Two days passed. The front part of the raft was still
beached. The log jam had been cleared away, and the raft
had been pushed back toward the water several meters.
This was a tedious, back-breaking job. The entire
population of the raft, their leader excepted, pried away
at the front end with small thin logs as levers. From
sunup until sunset, the Babylonian words for "Heave! One,
two three, heave!" bellowed from hundreds of mouths.
Every mass effort only succeeded in pushing back the
immensely heavy raft a millimeter or so. Often, the
stones wedged between the rock of the beach and the front
edge of the raft would slip a little, and the raft, urged
by the current, would move back onto the beach. Several
times, the wedges were knocked out, and all gains were
lost.
Since the wind blew from down-River, the sails on the
masts were unfurled. Metusael hoped that the upstream
wind would give the heavers an advantage. The theory
would have worked if it had not been that the rock spire
blocked off most of the breeze.
By the morning of the third day, the raft had been pushed
back about a meter. At this rate, it would take seven
more days to free it.
The Ganopo were busy meanwhile. Unable to borrow a boat
from Metusael, they sent four strong swimmers out. These
got to the right bank, where they explained the situation
and were loaned a small sailboat. They returned with a
fleet of twenty boats manned by the chiefs of the local
state and the best fighting men. The head chief, a tall
Shawnee, looked around and then conferred with the
Ganopo. Burton and Monat sat in on the meeting.
There was. a lot of talking, complaints from the Ganopo,
various counsels offered, and a speech by Burton. He told
them of the large store of goods on the raft, omitting
mention of the free-grails, and suggested that perhaps
the Babylonians would part with some of their stores if
the locals loaned enough men to help free the raft.
The Shawnee thought this was a good idea. He talked to
Metusael, who was polite but said he did not need any
help.
Disgruntled, the Shawnee returned to the island.
"Those eagle-noses do not have much sense," he said:
"Don't they know that we can take everything they have
without giving anything in return? They have wrecked the
boats and the docks of the Ganopo and offered nothing in
restitution. They have wrecked the strangers' vessel,
which took a year to build and cost them much tobacco and
booze in trade for the wood with which to build it. They
have caused a crewman to die. They have also caused the
loss of the strangers' grails. A person might as well be
dead as not have a grail.
"And what do they offer as payment? Nothing! They mock
the Ganopo and the strangers. These are evil people, and
they should be punished as such."
"Not to mention the valuable goods the chief and his
chums will obtain," Burton murmured in English to Monat.
"What did you say?" the chief said.
"I was telling my friend, the man from the stars, that
you have great wisdom and know what is right and wrong.
That what you do to the eagle-noses will be right and
just, and the great spirit will smile upon you."
"Your language says much in a few words."
"The tongue of my people is not forked."
And God forgive me for that remark, Burton thought.
Though the Shawnee did not say what he meant to do, it
was evident to Burton that he would be planning a raid in
force. Perhaps for that very night.
Burton called the others into his hut.
"Don't look so gloomy. I think we'll have grails after
all, lose our beggar status. However, we must act
tonight. How about it, Loghu, Pete, Alice? Do you feel up
to some action? Some perhaps vigorous action?"
The three replied that they could walk. Running was as
yet out of the question.
"Very well. Here is what we'll do, if you have no
objections. If you do, we'll do it anyway."
                           20
They ate their evening meal, fish and bread which
disgusted them before they put it in their mouths. The
Ganopo, however, were kind enough to give them a few
cigarettes and as much of the lichen-alcohol as they
wanted. Before going into his hut, presumably to retire
for the night, Burton walked around the beach. The Babylo
nians were either in their huts or talking in small
groups before them. They were tired after three days of
hard and frustrating labor and would soon be asleep. All,
that is, except for the guards stationed along the edge
of the raft. They would light pine torches soaked in fish-
oil and pace back and forth under their illumination,
waiting for their reliefs.
The largest groups were at the forward end. Metusael had
placed them there to make sure that Burton's people did
not try to sneak aboard to steal their goods. The little
dark-skinned men watched him closely as he sauntered
along. He grinned and waved at them. They did not return
his greeting.
Having checked the situation, Burton walked back to his
hut. On the way he passed the Ganopo chief, who was
sitting before his hut and smoking one of the little
briar pipes the grails offered once a year.
Burton squatted down by him.
"I am thinking, O chief, that tonight the raftspeople may
be in for a big surprise."
The chief removed his pipe and said, "What do you mean?"
"It is possible that the chief of the people on the north
bank may be leading a raid upon the raftspeople. Have you
heard anything about that?"
"Not a word. The great chief of the Shaawanwaaki does not
confide in me. However, I would not be surprised if he
and his warriors did not resent the injuries and the
insults which we Ganopo, who are under his protection,
have suffered from the eagle-noses."
"If they did make this raid you suggest, when would they
be likely to do it?"
"In the old days, when the Shaawanwaaki warred against
the people on the south bank, they would cross the River
just before dawn. The clouds are still duck then, and
they could not be seen approaching. But soon after they
had landed, the sun would come up and the clouds would
burn away under its heat. Then the Shaawanwaaki could see
to strike."
"That is what I thought," Burton said. "However, one
thing troubles me. It is an easy matter to cross a river
or even a small lake in the fog and find me other side.
This is a small island which would be difficult to find
in the clouds. It is true the rock tower is very high,
but the raiders would be in the fog and could not see
it."
The chief tamped down the coals in his pipe, and he said,
"That is no worry of mine."
Burton said, "There is a ledge on the spire. It faces the
north bank, but an outcropping of rock would prevent the
raftspeople from seeing it. It would also prevent them
from seeing a bonfire. A bonfire which anyone on The
River north of the island might see even through the fog.
Is that why some of the Ganopo have been busy all day
carrying bamboo and pine up to this ledge?"
The chief grinned. "You have the curiosity of a wildcat
and the eyes of a hawk. However, I promised the
Shaawanwaaki chief not to say a word about this
business."
Burton stood up. "I understand. Many thanks for your
hospitality, chief, whether or not I ever see you again."
"If not in this world, perhaps in the next."
It was difficult to get to sleep. After hours of tossing
and turning, he was surprised to find himself being
shaken awake by Monat. Burton freed himself of the
Arcturan's three fingers and thumb and got up. Monat, who
also came from a planet with a twenty-four hours'
rotation, had a biological chronometer in his head.
Burton had depended upon him to wake the others at the
right time.
They moved around, talking softly while they drank
instant coffee. The crystals, a gift from the islanders,
provided a boiling heat as they dissolved.
After going over their plan once more, they moved outside
and relieved themselves. The hut was just high enough to
be above the mists, enabling them to see a faint glow
high up on the spire. The Shaawanwaaki, even though in
fog, would be able to discern it as a dim glow. That
would be all they needed.
Frigate and Burton were the only ones who had been
wearing a full suit of cloths when the Hadji II had gone
down. The others, however, had cloths given them by the
Ganopo. Clad from head to foot in these, they walked down
into' the fog. Burton led, one hand in Alice's, hers in
Frigate's, and so on down the line. Depending upon an
unusual sense of direction, Burton ted them to the
water's edge. Now they could see the glow of the torches
in the fuzziness.
Burton took out his flint knife. Kazz had a club he'd
fashioned from a stick of pine with a knife- he'd
borrowed from a Ganopo. Frigate's knife had been given to
the Neanderthal woman, Besst. The rest were unarmed.
Burton moved cautiously forward until he was at the edge
of the raft. There was enough space between the torches
ranged along the edge for him to crawl through unseen. He
proceeded to do this until he was well out of range of
the guards' vision and hearing. He waited while, one by
one, me others caught up.
"This is the easy part," he said. "From now on we'll be
blind until we come across a torchlight. I have the
location of the buildings and the boats in my head, but
in this fog ... well, follow me."
Despite his assurances, he blundered around for a while.
Then, abruptly, the huge black figure of the idol, a fire
in its hollow belly, was in front of him. He stood for a
minute, estimating the probable number of paces from the
statue to the building which held the grails.
Kazz said, "I can just see some lights to the right."
Keeping to the right of the torches, Burton led the
others until he saw the square walls and conical roof of
the storehouse. From the front of the building came the
voices of the guards, speaking in low tones, stamping
their feet now and then. After going behind the building,
touching it with a finger to keep contact. Burton stopped
on the other side.
Here he removed from under his cloths a coil of leather
rope borrowed from the Ganopo chief, who had not asked
him about its intended use. Monat and Frigate also
carried coils. Burton tied their ends together to make a
single rope. While Alice held one end, he moved out into
the darkness with Frigate, Monat, Loghu, and Kazz. He
knew that there was a boat-rack on the edge of the raft
just opposite the storehouse. This time, he went straight
to his target.
Cautioning them to move slowly and silently, he and the
others eased a large canoe off the rack. It could hold
ten people and so, though made of light pine and thin
fish-skin, was heavy.
After me canoe was in the water and paddles placed in it,
all returned except Loghu. It was her job to keep the
canoe from drifting away.
Following the rope, they went swiftly back to the
storehouse.
Just as they returned, Kazz grunted, and said, "Others
coming!"
The flames of four torches became visible.
"It's a change of guards!" Burton said.
They had to move around to the other side of the building
since the four armed men were headed toward them.
Burton looked upward. Was it his imagination or was the
fog becoming less dark above?
They waited, some of them sweating despite the damp, cold
air. The guards exchanged some words, somebody must have
cracked a joke, judging by their laughter, then the
relieved men said good night. The torches showed that two
were going to homes in the forward part. The other two
went in the opposite direction, causing a swift retreat
by the invaders.
Burton, watching from the corner said, "Those two are
separating. Kazz, do you dunk you could get one of them?"
"No sweat, Burton-naq," Kazz said, and he was gone.
Both the torches were almost out of sight when Burton saw
one of them drop. A minute later it lifted, becoming more
bright as it approached them.
By then, Burton had moved the group from the side to the
back of the building. He did not want a guard to walk
past the front and see the torch.
Kazz had thrown his hood back. His big, blocklike teeth
gleamed in the light of the flames. In one hand he held
the heavy oak spear tipped with a long hornfish horn
which he had taken from the guard. His belt held a chert
knife set in a heavy wooden handle and a flint-headed
axe. These he passed out to Frigate and Alice. His club
went to the Arcturan.
"I hope you didn't kill him," Monat whispered.
"That depends on how thick his skull is," Kazz said.
Monat grimaced. He had an almost pathological abhorrence
of violence, though he could be an effective fighter in
self-defense.
"Will your leg handicap you?" Burton said. "Think you can
throw that axe as effectively as usual?"
"I think so," Frigate said. He was shaking now, though he
would be steady when the fighting started. Like the
Arcturan, he dreaded physical conflict.
Burton told them what to do, then he led Kazz and Alice
around one side toward the front. The others went around
the opposite corner.
Burton peered around the corner. The four guards were
standing close together, facing each other, and talking.
A moment later, a torchlight appeared around the corner.
The guards did not see it until it was close. As soon as
Burton saw them turn toward it, calling a challenge, he
moved out.
Kazz, his features shrouded by his hood, got near to them
before he was required to stop. Probably, the guards
thought that he was one of the relieved men, returned for
some reason.
By the time the mistake was discovered, it was too late
for them. Kazz grasped his spear just behind its head,
and, using it as a quarterstaff, struck its butt against
the side of a guard's neck.
Burton, holding his knife in his left hand, chopped the
edge of his right against the back of the neck of another
man. He had no wish to kill, and he had ordered the
bloodthirsty Kazz to avoid using the spearhead if he
could do so.
Frigate's axe whirled out of the greyness and caught a
third in the chest. It was thrown not quite accurately
enough, or perhaps Frigate was trying not to kill. In
which case, his axe-throwing was superb. The blunt
forefront, not the cutting edge, struck, and the man fell
back, the wind knocked out of him. Before he could
recover it, he was knocked out by Burton's savage kick to
the side of his head.
At the same time as the others, Monat struck, and the
fourth crumpled from a blow on the head.
There was silence for a moment as they waited to find out
if anyone had heard the fight. Then they picked up the
torches from the deck, and Burton unbarred the door. The
fallen were dragged inside, where Monat examined them.
"Very good. They're all alive."
"Some of them'll be coming to soon," Burton said. "Watch
them, Kazz."
He held a torch above the free-grail rack. "We're beggars
no longer."
He hesitated. Should just seven grails be taken? Why not
all thirty? The extras could be used to trade for wood
and sails for the new boat to be built.
Honour Not Honours was his motto, but this was a matter
of recompense, not thievery.
He gave the order, and each took five grails. They put
the wide handle of one grail over their head, letting it
hang behind them by the neck and thrust each arm through
the handles of two grails. Then they left the building,
barred the door, and followed the leather cord to the
canoe. The torches were left upon the deck outside the
storehouse.
Loghu said, "Isn't it about time the Indians attacked?"
"Past time, I would say," Monat replied.
The canoe loaded, they paddled away. Their destination
was the south bank, which they intended to follow up-
River until just before dawn. Burton was worried about
the extra grails. If the local authorities saw them, they
might seize them. Even if they didn't, greedy individuals
would try to steal them.
There was only one way to hide them. The extras were
filled with water. Sections of leather line were cut, and
one end of each was tied to a handle. The other end was
tied to the upper part of the canoe framework through a
hole punched in the skin.
The drag on the canoe was heavy, but fortunately they
were very close to the bank. They stopped at a dock
complex near a grailstone and tied the canoe to a piling
under a dock.
They sat down under the stone and waited. Dawn and
hundreds of citizens came. Burton's group introduced
itself and requested permission to use the stone. This
was given gladly, since the south-bank locals were
peaceful. In fact, they welcomed strangers, a source of
news and gossip.
The fog burned away. Burton got on top of the stone and
looked toward the spire. Its base was about 2.5 nautical
miles distant, which, from his altitude, put the horizon
4 miles away. He could see the larger buildings and the
idol but the flames he had expected to be rising from
them were nonexistent. Perhaps the Shaawanwaaki had not
set them afire. After all, they might have wanted to keep
the raft intact until it could be taken to the shore and
dismantled. Its logs were valuable.
Instead of pushing on that day, he decided that they
would rest. That afternoon a Ganopo party landed, the
chief among them. Burton questioned him.
The chief laughed. "Those Shaawanwaaki turtleheads
completely missed the raft. They couldn't see the fire,
though how they could not, I don't understand. Anyway,
they paddled around for hours, and when the fog lifted
they found that the current had taken them five stones
below the island. What a bunch of bums!"
"Bid the Babylonians say anything to you about their
missing canoe? Not to mention the guards we had to rough
up?"
Burton thought it best not to say anything about the
grails.
The chief laughed again. "Yes, they came storming ashore
before the stone flamed. They were very angry, though
they did not say why. They knocked us around a little,
but the bruises and the insults did not bother us because
we were happy that you had made fools of them. They
searched the island thoroughly, but they did not find
you, of course. They did find the ashes of the fire and
asked us about it. I told them that it was a ceremonial
fire.
"They didn't believe me. I think they must have guessed
the truth. You won't have to worry about them sending out
search parties for you. Every one of them, .including
Metusael, is straining to get the raft off today. They
must expect another attack tonight."
Burton asked the chief why the Shaawanwaaki didn't attack
in the daylight. They could easily overwhelm the
Babylonians.
"That is because there is an agreement among the states
in this area to protect strangers. So far, it has been
honored and with good reason. The other states would be
compelled to go to war against the aggressor. However,
the Shaawanwaaki were hoping to keep it a secret. If they
were to be found out, they would say that the raftspeople
had refused to pay compensation for the damage done to
us.
"I don't know. Perhaps the Shaawanwaaki will give up the
idea.
Still, there are many among them who would like to make a
raid just for the sake of excitement."
Burton never found out what happened to the Babylonians.
He decided that they should leave that day. After the
canoe was on its way, the grails were pulled up, emptied,
and placed in the bottom of the canoe.
                           21
After traveung 200 kilometers, burton found an area
suitable for boat construction. It was not determined by
the wood available, since all places had plenty of pine,
oak, yew, and bamboo. What was now difficult to find was
flint and chert for cutting timber. Even in the
beginning, these stones were restricted to certain sites,
some being rich in them, others comparatively poor, and
many lacking them entirely. Wars for flint had been
common in the old days.
The minerals were even rarer now. Hard as they were,
flint and chert wore out, and new supplies were almost
unheard of. As a result, the end of 32 a.r.d. (After
Resurrection Day) was also the near end of large-vessel
construction. At least, it was in the countries through
which Burton had passed, and he presumed that it was the
same everywhere.
The area at which he stopped was one of the very few that
still had a plentiful store. The locals, a majority of
pre-Columbian Algon-quins and a minority of pre-Roman
Picts, were well aware of the value of their stones.
Their chief, a Menomini named Oskas, haggled fiercely
with Burton. Finally, he stated that his rock-bottom
price was seven thousand cigarettes of tobacco, five
hundred of marijuana, twenty-five hundred cigars, forty
packages of pipe tobacco, and eight thousand cupfuls of
liquor. He also suggested that he would like to sleep
with the blonde, Loghu, every five days or so. Actually,
he would prefer that it be every night, but he did not
think his three women would like that.
Burton took some time to recover from his shock. He said,
' "That's up to her. I don't think either she or her man
would agree to it. Anyway, you're asking far too much.
None of my party would have booze or tobacco for a year."
Oskas shrugged and said, "Well, if it isn't worth it to
you... ?"
Burton called a conference and told his crew what Oskas
demanded. Kazz objected the most.
"Burton-naq, I lived all my life on Earth, forty-five
summers, without whiskey or nicotine. But here I got
hooked and if I go a day without either, I am ready, as
you put it, to climb the wall. You know that I tried to
quit both at different times, and before a week was gone
I was ready to bite my tongue off. I was as mean as a
cave bear with a thorn in his paw."
Besst said, "I haven't forgotten."
"If there was no alternative, we'd have to do it," Burton
said. "It'd be cold turkey or no boat. But we do have the
extra grails."
He returned to Oskas and, after they had smoked a pipe,
he got down to business.
"The woman with the yellow hair and blue eyes says the
only part of her you'll get is her foot, and you might
have a hard time pulling it out of your ass."
Oskas laughed loudly and slapped his thigh.
When he had dried his tears, he said, "Too bad. I like a
woman with spirit, though not with too much."
"It so happens that some time ago I got hold of a free-
grail. Now, I am willing to trade that for a place in
which to build our boat and the materials to build it."
Oskas did not ask him how he got it, though it was
evident that he thought Burton had stolen it.
"If that is so," he said, smiling, "then we have a deal."
He stood up. "I will see that things are arranged at
once. Are you sure that the blonde is not just playing
hard to get?"
The chief took the grail to the council's stronghouse,
adding it to the twenty-one free-grails there. These had
been collected through the years for the benefit of
himself and his subchiefs.
Here, as everywhere, special people made sure that they
got special privileges.
It took a year to build another cutter. When it was half-
finished, Burton decided not to name it after its
predecessors, Hadji I and Hadji II. Both had come to bad
ends, and, though he denied it, he was superstitious.
After some talk with his crew, it was agreed that Snark
was suitable. Alice liked the name because of her
association with Lewis Carroll, and she agreed with
Frigate that it was most appropriate.
Smiling, she recited part of the Bellman's speech from
The Hunting of the Snark.
"He had bought a large map representing the sea,
Without the least vestige of land: And the crew were much
pleased when they
found it to be A map they could all understand.
" 'What's the good of Mercator's North Poles and
Equators, Tropics, Zones, and Meridian Lines?'
So the Bellman would cry: and the crew would
reply "They are merely conventional signs!
" 'Other maps are such shapes, with their islands
and capes!
But we've got our brave Captain to thank' (So the crew
would protest) 'that he's bought us A perfect and
absolute blank!' "
Burton laughed, but he was not sure that Alice was not
obliquely insulting his abilities as a captain. Lately,
they had not been getting along so well.
"Let's hope the voyage in the new boat won't be another
agony in eight fits!" Alice cried. .
"Well," Burton said, grinning savagely at her, "this
Bellman knows enough not to get the browsprit miffed up
with the rudder sometimes!
"Nor,'' he added, "is there a Rule 42 of the boat's code.
No one shall speak to the Man at the Helm."
"Which," Alice said, her smile gone, "was decreed by the
Bellman himself. And the Man at the Helm shall speak to
no one." .
There was a short silence. All felt the tension between
the two, and they looked uneasy, dreading another violent
explosion of their captain's temper.
Monat, eager to avoid this, laughed. He said, "I remember
that poem. I was especially struck by 'Fit the Sixth, The
Barrister's Dream.' Let me see, ah, yes, the pig was on
trial for having deserted its sty, and the Snark, dressed
in gown, bands, and wig, was defending it.
"The indictment had never been dearly expressed,
And it seemed that the Snark had begun, And had spoken
three hours, before any one
guessed What the pig was supposed to have done."
He paused, rolled his eyes, and said, "I have it. That
one quatrain which so impressed me.
"But their wild exultation was suddenly checked When the
jailor informed them with tears,
Such a sentence would not have the slightest effect, As
the pig had been dead for some years.''
They all laughed, and Monat said, "Somehow, that verse
squeezes out the essence of Terrestrial justice, its
letter if not its spirit."
"I am amazed," Burton said, "that in your short time on
Earth you managed not only to read so much but to
remember it so well.''
"The Hunting of the Snark was a poem. I believe that you
can understand human beings better through poetry and
fiction man through so-called fact-literature. That is
why I took the trouble to memorize it.
"Anyway, an Earth friend gave it to me. He said that it
was one of the greatest works of metaphysics that
humanity could boast of. He asked me if Arcturans had
anything to equal it."
Alice said, "Surely he was pulling your leg?"
"I don't think so."
Burton shook his head. He had been a voracious reader,
and he had an almost photographic memory. But he had been
on Earth sixty-nine years, whereas Monat had lived there
only from 2002 to 2008 a.d. Yet, during the years they
had voyaged together, Monat had betrayed a knowledge that
no human could have accumulated in a century.
The conversation ended since it was time to go back to
work on the boat. Burton had not forgotten Alice's
seeming barb, however. He brought it up as they got ready
to go to bed.
She looked at him with large, dark eyes, eyes that were
already retreating into another world. She almost always
withdrew when he attacked, and it was this that heated
his anger from red to white-hot.
"No, Dick, I wasn't insulting you. At least, I wasn't
doing so consciously."
"But you were doing it unconsciously, is that it? That's
no excuse. You can't plead that you have no control of
that part of you. What your unconscious thinks is just as
much you as the conscious is. It's even worse. You can
dismiss your conscious thoughts, but what you really
believe is what that shadowy thing believes."
He began pacing back and forth, his face looking like a
demon's in the faint light cast by the small fire on the
stone hearth.
"Isabel worshipped me, yet she was not afraid to argue
violently with me, to tell me when she thought I was
doing something wrong. But you . . . you harbor
resentment until it makes an absolute bitch of you, yet
you won't come out with it. And that makes things even
worse.
"There's nothing evil about a hammer-and-tongs,
screaming, throwing argument. It's like a thunderstorm,
frightening when it happens; but it clears the air after
it's over.
"The trouble with you is that you were raised to be a
lady. You must never lift your voice in anger, you must
always be calm and cool and collected. But that shadowy
entity, that hindbrain, that inheritance from your ape
ancestors, is tearing at the bars of its cage. And,
incidentally, tearing at you. But you, you won't admit
it."
Alice lost her dreamy look, and she shouted at him.
"You're a liar! And don't throw up your wife to me! We
agreed never to compare each other's spouse, but you do
it every time you wish to get me angry! It isn't true
that I lack passion. You of all people should know that,
and I don't just mean in bed.
"But I won't go into a rage over every petty word and
incident. When I get mad it's because the situation
demands it. It's worth getting angry about. You ...
you're in a perpetual state of rage."
"That's a lie!"
"I don't lie!"
"Let us get back to the point," he said. "What is there
about my capacity as commander that you don't like?"
She bit her lip, then said, "It's not how you run the
boat or how you treat your crew. That's such an obvious
matter, and you do fine at it. No, what troubles me is
the command, or lack of it, over yourself."
Burton sat down, saying, "Let's have it. Just what are
you talking about?"
She hitched forward on the chair and leaned over so that
her face was close to his.
"For one thing, you can't stand to stay in one place more
than a week. Before three days are up, you get uneasy. By
the seventh day you're like a tiger pacing back and forth
in his cage, a lion throwing himself against the bars."
"Spare me the zoological analogies," he said. "Besides,
you know that I have stayed in one place for as much as a
year."
"Yes, when you were building a boat. When you had a
project going, one which would enable you to travel even
more swiftly. Even then, you took short trips, leaving
the rest of us to work on the boat. You had to go see
this and that, investigate rumors, study strange customs,
track down a language you didn't know. Never mind what
the excuse was. You had to get away.
"You have a blight of the soul, Dick. That's the only way
I can describe it. You can't endure to stay long in one
place. But it's not because of the place. Never! It's you
yourself that you can't tolerate. You must run so you can
get away from yourself!"
He stood up and began pacing again.
"You say then that I can't endure myself! What a pitiable
fellow! He doesn't love himself, which means that no one
else can love him!"
"Nonsense!"
"Yes, all you're saying is pure rot!"
"The rot is in you, not in what I say."
"If you can't stand me, why don't you leave?"
Tears slid down her cheeks, and she said, "I love you,
Dick!"
"But not enough to put up with my trifling
eccentricities, is that it?"
She threw up her hands. "Trifling?"
"I have an itch to travel. So what? Would you taunt me if
I had a physical itch, say athlete's foot?"
She smiled slightly. "No, I'd tell you to get rid of it.
But this isn't just an itch, Dick. It's a compulsion."
She got up and lit a cigarette. Waving it under his nose,
she said, "Look at this. In my time on Earth I would
never have dared smoke, wouldn't even have considered it.
A lady did not do such things. Especially a lady whose
husband was of the landed gentry, whose father was a
bishop of the Anglican church. Nor did she ever drink
strong liquor to excess or curse. And she would never
have considered bathing nude in public!
"But here I am, Alice Pleasance Liddell Hargreaves of the
estate of Cuffnells, a most proper Victorian female
aristocrat, doing all that and much more. By much more,
well, I'm doing things in bed that even the French novels
my husband was so fond of reading would not even have
hinted at.
"I've changed. So why can't you?
"To tell the truth, Dick, I'm sick of traveling, always
moving on, cooped up inside a small vessel, never knowing
what tomorrow will bring. I'm no coward, you know that.
But I would like to find a place where they speak
English, where the people are of my own kind, where there
is peace, where I can settle down, put down roots. I'm so
tired of this eternal voyaging!"
Burton was moved by her tears. He put his hand on her
shoulder and said, "What can we do about it? I must keep
going on. Now, my ..."
"Isabel? I'm not she. I'm Alice. I do love you, Dick, but
I'm not your, shadow, trailing you wherever you go,
present when there's light, gone when there's darkness, a
mere appendage."
She got up to put out the half-smoked cigarette in a
baked-clay ashtray. Turning to him, she said, "But
there's more! There's something else that bothers me-very
much. It hurts me that you don't fully confide in me. You
have a secret, Dick, a very deep, very dark secret."
"Perhaps you can tell me what it is. I certainly don't
know."
"Don't lie! I've heard you talking in your sleep. It has
something to do with those Ethicals, doesn't it?
Something happened to you you didn't tell anyone about
when you were gone all those years.
"I've heard you muttering about bubbles, about killing
yourself seven hundred and seventy-seven times. And I've
heard names you never mention when you're awake. Loga.
Thanabur. And you speak of Ecks and the mysterious
stranger. Who are these people?"
"Only the man who sleeps alone can keep a secret,''
Burton said.
"Why can't you tell me? Don't you trust me-after all
these years?"
"I would if I could. But it would be too dangerous for
you. Believe me, Alice, I have said nothing because I
must say nothing. It is for your own good. No arguments
now. I won't give in, and I'll get very angry if you
persist in questioning me."
"Very well then. But keep your hands to yourself
tonight."
It was a long time before he fell asleep. Some time in
the night he awoke, aware that he had been talking. Alice
was sitting up, staring at him.
                           22
OSKAS, HALF-DRUNK AS USUAL, VISITED BURTON DURING LUNCH
hour. Burton did not mind, especially since the chief
gave him a skin containing at least two liters of
bourbon.
"Have you heard the rumors of this great white boat which
is said to be coming from down-River?" the Indian said.
"Only a deaf man would not have heard," Burton said, and
he took a long pull of the whiskey. It had a winey odor
and went down smoothly, needing no dilution with water.
But then the grails never delivered anything but the
best.
He said, "Aah!" and then, "I find it hard to believe the
stories. From the description, the vessel is propelled by
paddlewheels. That would mean that its engines are of
iron. I doubt that anyone could gather enough ore to make
engines of any size. Also, I have heard that the hull of
the boat is made of metal. There's not enough iron in the
whole planet to make a vessel that big. If it is as big
as the rumors say."
"You are full of doubts," Oskas said. "That is bad for
the liver. However, if the stories are true, then the
great boat will be coming along some day. I would like to
have such a boat."
"You and millions more. But if such a boat can be made,
then its maker could have iron weapons, perhaps firearms.
You have never seen these though you do have some
gunpowder bombs. Firearms, however, are metal tubes which
can shoot metal projectiles to a great distance. Some of
these can fire so fast that a man could not shoot one
arrow before he was hit ten times. And then there are
cannons. These are giant tubes which shoot large bombs
farther than, the mountains.
"So, you can assume that others have tried to take this
boat away from its owners and have died before they could
get within arrow range. Besides, what would you do with
it if you did get it? It takes highly trained people to
operate such a boat."
"Those could be gotten," Oskas said. "You, for instance.
Could you operate it?"
"Probably."
"Would you be interested in helping me take it? I would
be grateful. You would be first among my subchiefs."
"I am not a warlike man," Burton said. "Nor am I greedy.
However, just for the sake of conversation, let us say
that I was interested. Here is what I would do."
Oskas was fascinated by the intricate but fantastic plan
that Burton proposed. When he left he said that he would
send Burton more whiskey. They must talk about this some
more. Smiling broadly, Oskas staggered away.
Burton thought the chief was very gullible. He did not
mind stringing him along, however. It would keep him
happy.
The truth was that Burton had some plans of his own.
If the stories were true, then the boat was a means for
traveling much faster than by sail. Somehow, he was going
to get on it. Not by force but by cunning. The main
trouble was that he had no idea as yet how he could
accomplish that.
For one thing, the boat might not, probably would not,
stop at this area. For another, it might not have room
for more people. Also, why should its captain want to
take him and his crew on?
The rest of the day, he was silent, absorbed in his
thoughts. After he had gone to bed, he lay a long time
considering every possibility. One of the things he
considered was that of going along with Oskas' plan.
Then, at the last moment, he could betray him. That might
get him into the good graces of the boat's captain.
He rejected that almost instantly. In the first place,
even if Oskas was rapacious and treacherous, he, Burton,
would feel dishonored if he deceived him. Secondly, it
was inevitable that many of Oskas' people would be killed
and wounded. He did not wish to be responsible for that.
No, there had to be another way.
Finally, he found it. Its success depended upon stopping
the boat or at least getting the attention of those
aboard it. How he would do it if it passed during the
night, he did not know. Somehow, he would.
Smiling, he fell asleep.
Two months passed. In another week, the Snark would be
launched. In the meantime, details about the approaching
paddle-wheeler had come in piecemeal. These had arrived
by drum, smoke, fire, and mica-mirror signals. Putting
the items together, Burton had built a picture of the
vessel. It was probably larger than any Mississippi
riverboat of his time. It was undoubtedly of metal, and
it traveled at least 15 miles an hour or a little over 24
kilometers per hour. Sometimes, it had been seen going
twice as fast. The calculations were crude, of course,
since none of the observers had a stopwatch. But seconds
could be counted as it passed from one grailstone to the
next.
Burton had presumed from the first reports that the boat
was a steamer. However, later messages said that the
vessel seldom took in wood. This was for a boiler which
heated water for showers and made steam for machine guns.
Burton could not understand how steam propelled bullets.
Monat suggested that the weapon used a synchronizing
system to drop projectiles into the barrel, through which
steam at considerable pressure was shot at regular
intervals.
The motors of the boat used electricity, drawn from a
grailstone when it discharged.
"Then they not only have steel, they have copper for the
windings of the electrical motors," Burton said. "Where
did they get all that metal?"
Frigate said, "The boat could be mainly aluminum. And
aluminum could be used for the windings, though it's not
as efficient as copper."
More data came in. The vessel bore its name on its sides
in big black Roman letters. Rex Grandissimus. Latin for
"The Greatest King," that is, greatest in manner or style
of life. Its commander, according to informants, was none
other than the son of Henry II of England and Eleanor,
divorced wife of Louis VII of France, daughter of the
Duke of Aquitaine. King John, surnamed Lackland, was the
captain. After his famous brother, Richard the Lion-
Hearted, had died, John had become Joannes Rex Angliae et
Dominus Hiberniae, etc. He had also gained such a bad
reputation that there was an unwritten law in the British
royalty that no heir to the throne should ever be named
John.
On first learning the captain's name, Burton had gone to
Alice. "One of your ancestors commands the paddle
wheeler. Perhaps we could appeal to his family affections
to get him to take us aboard. Though, from what history
said, he did not seem to have much family loyalty. He led
a rebellion against his father, and he is said to have
murdered his nephew, Arthur, whom Richard had made heir
to the crown."
"He was no worse than any other king of that time," Alice
said. "And he did do some good things, despite what
people think. He reformed the coinage, he supported
development of the Navy, he did all he could to develop
trade, he urged the completion of London Bridge. He was
also unusual among the monarchs of his time in that he
was an intellectual. He read Latin books and French
histories in the vernacular, and wherever he went he took
his library with him.
"As for his opposition to the Magna Carta, that has been
misrepresented. The barons' revolt was not in the
interests of the common people; it was no democratic
movement. The barons wanted special privileges for
themselves. The freedom for which they fought was the
freedom to exploit their subjects without opposition from
the king.
"He fought hard against the barons, and he battled to
keep the French provinces under the English crown. But
there was no way he could get out of that; he had
inherited old conflicts from his father and brother."
"Well!" Burton said. "You make him sound like a saint."
"He was far from that. He was also far more interested in
England itself, the welfare of its people, than any
previous Anglo-Norman king."
"You must have done much reading and thinking about him.
Your opinions go against the grain of everything I've
read."
"I had much time to read when I lived in Cuffnells. And I
form my own opinions."
"Bully for you. Nevertheless, the fact remains that
somehow this medieval monarch has gotten control of the
greatest artifact, the most superb machine, on this
world. I can deal with him when I get to him. The problem
is, how do I do it?"
"You mean, how do we do it?"
"Right. My apologies. Well, we shall see."
The Snark was let down the ways into The River amid much
cheering and drinking. Burton was not as happy as he
should have been. He had lost interest in it.
During the festivities, Oskas took him aside.
"You don't intend to leave soon, I hope? I am counting on
you to help me take the great boat."
Burton felt like telling him to go to hell. That would,
however, not be diplomatic, since the chief might decide
to confiscate the Snark for himself. Worse, he might quit
resisting the temptation to take Loghu to his bed. During
the year he had given her some trouble, though he had
made no violent moves. Whenever he got very drunk, which
was often, he had openly asked her to move in with him.
There had been many uneasy moments when it looked as if
he was going to take her by force. Frigate, whose nature
was anything but belligerent, had intended to challenge
him to a duel, though he thought that it was a stupid way
to solve a problem. But honor demanded it, manhood
demanded it, there was no other way out unless he and
Loghu sneaked away some night. He would not leave the
people with whom he had been so intimate so many years.
Loghu had told him, "No, you will not get killed or kill
that savage and so arouse his people to kill you. Leave
it to me."
Loghu had men astonished everybody, Oskas most of all, by
challenging him to a fight to the death.
After recovering from the shock, Oskas had roared with
laughter. "What? I should fight a woman? I beat my wives
when they anger me, but I would not fight one. If I were
to do this, it would not matter that I would kill you
easily. I would be laughed at; I would no longer be
Oskas, The Bear Claw, I would be The Man Who Fought a
Woman."
"What will it be?" Loghu had said. "Tomahawk? Spear?
Knife? Or bare hands? You have seen me in the contests.
You know how good I am with all weapons. It is true that
you are bigger and stronger, but I know many tricks you
don't. I've had some of the best instructors in the
world."
What she did not mention was that he was very
intoxicated, very fat, and very much out of condition.
Had it been a man who talked to him like that, Oskas
would have leaped upon him. Drunk as he was, he knew that
he was in a quandary. If he killed this woman, he would
be a public jest. If he didn't accept the challenge, he
would be said to be afraid of her.
Monat, smiling, stepped forward. "Chief, Loghu is my very
good friend. I am also a friend of yours. Why don't we
drop this matter? After all, it is the drink that is
speaking in you, not you yourself, Oskas, the chief, a
mighty warrior on Earth and along The River. No one can
blame you for refusing to fight a woman.
"However, it is not right that you should bother another
man's woman. You would not do it if you were not full of
whiskey. So, I say that from now on you must not treat
this woman with anything but the respect you demand from
other men toward your women.
"Now, as Burton has told you, I was once a great
magician. I still have some powers left, and I will not
hesitate to use them if you harm Loghu. I would do so
reluctantly, since I have great respect for you. But I
will if I have to."
Oskas turned pale beneath the dark skin and the flush of
whiskey-heated blood. He said, "Yes, it must be the
drink. No one can blame me for what I do when I am
drunk."
No more was said that night, and the next day Oskas
claimed to have been so intoxicated he did not remember
anything about the party.
For several months, he had been cool though polite to
Loghu. Lately, he had resumed making remarks to her,
though he had not touched her. This may have been because
Loghu had told him, in private so that he would not lose
face, that she would slice open his belly if he so much
as laid a hand on her. Following which, she would crush
his testicles.
She reported that he had only laughed at her. Despite
which, he was aware that, given a chance, she could do
just what she said. Nevertheless, Oskas had a compulsive
passion for her. Now that the time was drawing close for
her to leave, he was again after her.
Burton, talking to him now, kept this in mind. It
wouldn't do to have him think that he had little time
left to get Loghu into his bed.
"No, we are not leaving. We will follow the plan that I
have worked out for you, and I and my people will be
among the vanguard when we seize the boat.
"However, as you know, it is essential that we get to the
boat when it has stopped to draw lightning from a stone.
If it's moving we have no chance. Now, I have calculated
the area where the boat will stop nearest to this place.
I can't pinpoint it. But I can say within four or five
grailstones where it will stop in the evening.
"Our boat needs a shakedown cruise. I propose to take it
on one tomorrow. I'll sail down to the place where the
great boat will stop, and I'll look over the situation.
We need to know the lay of the land if we are to attack
the mighty vessel with any chance of success.
"Would you like to come along?"
Oskas had been looking at him narrow-eyed. Now his face
cleared, and he smiled.
"Of course I will go along. I do not blunder blind into a
battle.''
That took care of Oskas' unvoiced suspicion that the
Snark would not return from the cruise. Even so, he
stationed four men in a hut nearby to keep an eye on the
boat, though he said nothing of it to Burton. That night,
the entire crew sneaked out through the fog to the hills.
There they retrieved the free-grails from a hole in the
base of the mountain and brought them back to the boat.
These were put in a hiding place behind what looked like
a solidly secured bulkhead.
The next day, after breakfast, Oskas came aboard with
seven of his best warriors. They crowded the vessel, but
Burton did not complain. He began passing out lichen-
alcohol flavored with ground irontree leaves. His crew
had orders to be very abstemious. By midafternoon, the
chief and his men were loud-mouthed, laughing drunks.
Even their lunch had not been enough to sober them to any
extent. Burton kept pressing his guests with drinks.
About an hour before they were to stop for dinner, the
Indians were staggering around or lying on deck asleep.
It was easy to push the still conscious ones into the
water and then throw the unconscious after them.
Fortunately, the shock of the water woke up the latter.
Otherwise, Burton would have felt compelled to pick them
up and take them ashore.
Oskas, treading water, shook his fist at them and raved
in Menomini and Esperanto. Laughing, Burton bent his
thumb and all except the middle finger and jerked his
hand upward. Then he held out his hand with the first and
fourth fingers extended, the ancient sign of the "evil
eye," a sign that in modern times had come to mean
"bullshit."
Oskas became even more violent and colorful in his
description of the many ways he would get revenge.
Kazz, grinning, threw the chief's grail to him so
accurately that it struck him on the head. The warriors
had to dive down after him. When they brought him up, two
were forced to support him until he could regain
consciousness.
Kazz thought that putting a lump on Oskas' head was very
funny.
He would have considered it to be even a better joke if
the chief had drowned. Yet, among his crewmates, he was
as sociable, tender, and compassionate a man as anyone
could ask for. He was a primitive, and all primitives,
civilized or preliterate, were tribal people. Only the
tribe consisted of human beings and were treated as such.
All outside the tribe, though some might be considered
friends, were not quite human. Therefore, they did not
have to be treated as if they were completely human.
Though the Neanderthal had lost his tribe on Earth, he
had regained it in the crew of the Snark. This was his
family, his tribe.
                           23
The Snark did not stop where Burton had told Oskas it
would wait for the paddlewheeler. It would have been
foolish to do so. Oskas could have made his way back
quickly to his territory by renting or stealing a boat.
He would then return with many warriors before the
arrival of the Rex Grandissimus.
The cutter sailed on past the designated stop and
continued down-River for two days. Meanwhile, its crew
saw and heard messages sent by Oskas via heliograph, fire
and smoke signals, and drum. The chief claimed that
Burton's party had stolen cigarettes and booze from him
and then had kidnapped him. Oskas offered a reward to
anyone who would seize and hold the "criminals" until he
could arrive to take them into custody.
Burton had to act quickly to counteract this, though it
was doubtful that any authorities of the small states
would arrest the crew of the Snark. Oskas was not popular
because of the troubles he had given them over the years.
However, individuals might organize privateering groups.
Burton went ashore with a box of tobacco and liquor and
some oak rings. With these he paid the head of the local
branch of the signal company to send out a message for
him. This was that Oskas lied, and the truth was that the
chief had wanted to take a female crew member by force
and so she and her companions had been compelled to flee.
Oskas had pursued them but his warcanoe had been sunk
when he had tried to board the Snark.
Burton then added that he knew that the chief and his
councillors had a great treasure, a hoard of free-grails
numbering at least a hundred.
This was a lie, since Oskas, when drunk, had told Burton
that the headmen only had twenty. Burton did not mind
stretching the truth. Attention would now be diverted
from him to the chief. His people would hear this, and
they would be raising hell about it. Undoubtedly, they
would demand that the proceeds of the free-grails be
added to the communal stockpile. Also, Oskas would now
have to worry about thieves. Not only would these be of
his own people, but many from other states would be
planning how they could steal the grails.
Oskas was going to be too busy to worry about revenge.
Burton chuckled as he thought about this.
The Snark came to an area where the current of The River
slowed down considerably. The boat had encountered many
of these, places where a river should no longer be able
to flow downward. On Earth this would have meant that The
River would have spread out into a lake, deluging the
Valley.
However, after passing through the almost dead current,
the cutter came to an area where the water picked up
speed. Once again, it was running toward the faraway
mouth, that legendary great cavern leading to the north
polar sea. There were a number, of explanations for this
phenomenon, none of which had so far been proved valid.
One was that there were enough variations in local
gravity to permit the impetus of The River to overcome
the lack of downward gradient. Those who favored this
theory said that the unknown makers of this world might
have installed underground devices which caused a weaker
gravity field in appropriate areas.
Others suggested that water was pumped under great
pressure from pipes deep beneath The River.
A third school speculated that the ceaseless current-flow
was caused by a combination of pressure pumps and "light-
gravity" generators.
A fourth maintained that God had decreed that the water
go uphill and so there was no use wondering about the
phenomenon.
The majority of people never thought about it.
Whatever the cause, The River never stopped rolling along
its many-million-meter course.
At the end of the second day, the Snark docked in the
locality where the great metal boat should stop. The news
here was that the Rex had stopped traveling for several
days. Its crew was taking a short shore leave.
"Excellent!" Burton said. "We can get to it by tomorrow
and have a whole day to talk Captain John into enlisting
us."
Though he sounded cheerful, he did not feel so. If his
plan did not work, he'd have to take the Snark through
Oskas' area in daylight since there was little wind at
night. Warned by the signal system that it was coming,
the chief would be waiting for it with his full force.
Burton felt that he should have turned back up-River
after getting rid of the. Indians and sailed far past
their land. However, the paddle-wheeler might then have
passed by the Snark, and Burton would have had no chance
to talk to its commander.
Sufficient unto the day is .the evil thereof, and the
best-laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley. He'd
enjoy tonight and take care of tomorrow tomorrow. Despite
which reassurance, he worried.
The locals here were a majority of sixteenth-century
Dutch, a minority of ancient Thracians, and the usual
small percentage of people from many places and many
times. Burton met a Fleming who had known Ben Jonson and
Shakespeare, among other famous persons. He was talking
to him when a newcomer joined the crowd sitting around a
bonfire. He was a Caucasian of medium stature, thin
bodied, black haired, and blue eyed. He stood for a
minute, looking intently at Frigate. Then he smiled
broadly and ran up to him.
He cried out in English, "Pete! For God's sake, Pete!
It's me, Bill Owain! Pete Frigate, by the Lord! It is
you, isn't it, Pete?"
Frigate looked startled. He said, "Yes? But you, you're
... what did you say your name was?"
"Bill Owain! For Christ's sake, you haven't forgotten me,
Bill Owain, your old buddy! You look a little different,
Pete. For a moment, I wasn't sure! You don't quite look
like I remember you! Bill Owain! I didn't recognize you
at first, it's been so long!"
They embraced then and both talked swiftly, laughing now
and then. When they let loose of each other, Frigate
introduced Owain.
"He's my old schoolmate. We've known each other since
fourth grade in grammar school. We went to Peoria Central
High together and buddied around for some years
afterward. When I finally settled down in Peoria after
working around the country, we used to see each other now
and then. Not very often, since we had our own lives to
live and belonged to different circles."
"Even so," Owain said, "I don't see how you could have
failed to recognize me right off. But then I wasn't quite
sure about you either. I remembered you differently. Your
nose is a little longer and your eyes are greener and
your mouth isn't quite as broad and your chin seems
bigger. And your voice-you remember how everybody kidded
you because it was a dead ringer for Gary Cooper's? It
doesn't sound like it used to, like I thought it did. So
much for memory, eh?"
"Yeah, so much for memory. You know, Bill, mine was never
very good. Besides, we remember each other as middle-aged
and old men, and now we look like we did when we were
twenty-five. Also, we're not wearing the clothes we did
then, and it's a shock, a real shock, to run across
somebody I knew then. I was stunned!"
"I was, too! I wasn't quite sure! Listen, do you know
you're the first person I've met that I knew on Earth?"
Frigate said, "You're the second for me. And that was
thirty-two years ago, and the guy I met wasn't one I
cared to associate with!"
That, Burton thought, would be a man called Sharkko. A
publisher of hardcover science fiction books in Chicago,
he had cheated Frigate in a rather complicated deal. The
business had taken several years, at the end of which
Frigate's writing career had been almost wrecked. But one
of the first persons Frigate had encountered after being
resurrected was Sharkko. Burton had not witnessed the
meeting, but Frigate had recounted how he had avenged
himself by punching the fellow in the nose.
Burton himself had met only one person he had known on
Earth, though his acquaintances had been numerous and
worldwide. That was also a meeting he could have passed
up. The man had been one of the porters on his expedition
to find the source of the Nile. On the way to Lake
Tanganyika (Burton and his companion Speke were the first
Europeans to see it), the porter had purchased a slave, a
girl about thirteen years old. She had become too sick to
continue with them, so the porter had cut off her head
rather than allow someone else to own her.
Burton had not been present to prevent the murder, nor
would it have been discreet to punish the man. He had the
legal right to do with his slave as he wished. However,
Burton would punish him for other things, such as
laziness, thievery, and breakage of goods, and he laid
the whip on him whenever the opportunity arose.
Now Owain and Frigate sat down to drink lichen-alcohol
and to talk of old times. Burton noticed that Owain
seemed to remember incidents and friends much better than
Frigate did. This was surprising, since Frigate had very
good recall.
"Remember how we used to see the shows at the Princess,
Columbia, and Apollo theaters?" Owain said. "Do you
remember the Saturday we decided to find out how many
movies we could see in one day? We went to a
doublefeature at the Princess, then a double-feature at
the Columbia, a triple-feature at the Apollo, and a
midnight show at the Madison."
Frigate smiled and nodded. But his expression showed that
his recollection was faulty.
"Then there was that time we took a trip to St. Louis
with Al Everhard and Jack Dirkman and Dan Doobin. Al's
cousin got some dates for us; they were nurses, remember?
We drove out to the cemetery-what was it called?"
"Damned if I remember," Pete said.
"Yes, but I'll bet you haven't forgotten how you and that
nurse stripped and you were chasing her around the
cemetery and you jumped over a tombstone and fell smack
into a wreath and got all torn up from the thorns and
roses! Bet you haven't forgotten that!"
Frigate grinned embarrassedly. "How could I?"
"It sure took the wind out of your sails! And everything
else! Haw, haw!"
There was more reminiscence. After a while, the talk
turned to their reactions on awakening along the banks of
The River. The others joined in then, since this was a
favorite topic. That day had been so frightening, so awe-
inspiring, so alien that no one would ever forget that.
The horror, the panic, and confusion were still with
them. Burton sometimes wondered if people were still
talking so much about that experience because the
recapitulation was a form of therapy. They hoped to rid
themselves of the trauma by a verbal discharge.
There was a general agreement that everybody had acted
somewhat silly that day.
"I remember how absurdly formal and dignified I was,"
Alice said. "Not that I was the only one. However, most
people were hysterical. We were all in great shock. The
wonder is that nobody died of a heart attack. You'd think
that waking up in this strange place after you'd died
would be enough to kill you again-at once."
Monat said, "Perhaps, just before resurrection, our
anonymous benefactors injected some sort of drug into us
that eased the impact of the shock. Also, the dreamgum we
found in our grails may have acted as a sort of
postoperative anesthesia. Though I must say that its
effect caused some terribly savage behavior."
Alice looked at Burton then. Even after all these years,
she still blushed at the memory. All their social
inhibitions had been stripped off for a few hours, and
they had acted as if they were minks whose sole diet was
Spanish fly. Or as if their secret fantasies had taken
control.
The conversation then centered on the Arcturan.
Previously, despite his warm manner, he had encountered
the standoffishness he met everywhere at first from
strangers. His obvious nonhuman origin made them shy or
caused repulsion.
Now they questioned him about his life on his native
planet and his experience on Earth. A few had heard tales
of how the Arcturans had been forced to slay almost all
the people on Earth. No one present, however, except
Frigate, had been living when the Arcturans' ship had
arrived on Earth.
Burton said, "You know, that is peculiar, though I
suppose it's to be expected. There were, according to
Pete, eight billion people living in 2008 a.d. Yet, aside
from Monat and Frigate here, and one other person, I've
never met anyone who lived then. Did any of you?"
Nobody had. In fact, the only locals who had lived past
the seventies of the twentieth century were Owain and a
woman. She had died in 1982; he, in 1981.
Burton shook his head. "There must be at least thirty-six
billion along The River. The biggest majority should be
those who lived between 1983-I choose that date because
I've met only three who lived past it-those who lived
between 1983 and 2008. Yet, where are they?"
"Maybe there are some at the next grailstone," Frigate
said. "After all, Dick, nobody's taken a census. What's
more, nobody is able to do that. You pass hundreds of
thousands every day, but how many do you get to talk to?
A few dozen a day. Sooner or later you're bound to run
into one."
They speculated for a while about why and how they had
been resurrected and who could have done it. They also
talked about why the growth of facial hair in men was
inhibited, why all males had awakened circumcised, and
why women had their hymens restored before resurrection.
As for not needing to shave, half the men thought it a
good thing while the other half resented not being able
to grow moustaches and beards.
There was also some wonder about why the grails of both
men and women occasionally yielded lipstick and other
cosmetics.
Frigate said that he thought that their benefactors
probably did not like to shave and that both their sexes
painted their faces. That was, to him, the only
reasonable explanation.
Then Alice brought up Burton's experience in the
preresurrection bubble. This got everybody's attention,
but he told them that he had no memory of that. He'd
suffered a blow on his head which had wiped out all
recollection of it.
As always, when he told this lie, he caught Monat smiling
slightly at him. He suspected that the Arcturan guessed
that he was prevaricating. However, the fellow had never
said so. He respected Burton's reasons for concealment
even if he did not know what they were.
Frigate and Alice recounted Burton's tale as they
remembered it. They made several mistakes, which he, of
course, could not correct.
"If that is so," a man said, "then the resurrection isn't
a supernatural thing. It was done through scientific
means. Amazing!"
"Yes, it is," Alice said. "But why are we no longer
resurrected? Why has death, permanent death, returned?"
A gloomy pensiveness fell upon them for a minute.
Kazz broke it by saying, "There is one thing which Burton-
naq has not.forgotten. That's the business with Spruce.
The agent of the Ethicals."
That brought forth more questions.
"What are Ethicals?"
Burton took a long drink of scotch and launched into the
story. At one time, he said, he and his party had been
captured by grail-slavers. There was no need to explain
this word. Everybody had had some experience with grail-
slavers.
Burton told them how his boat had been attacked and how
they had been put into a stockade. Thereafter, they had
left it only to work under a heavy guard. All of their
tobacco, marijuana, dream-gum, and liquor were taken by
their captors. Moreover, these kept half of the food for
themselves, leaving their prisoners on a bare-minimum
diet.
After a few months, Burton and a man named Targoff had
led a successful revolt against the slavers.
                           24
"A FEW DAYS AFTER WE'D WON OUR FREEDOM, FRIGATE, MONAT,
and Kazz came to me. They greeted me, and then Kazz spoke
excitedly.
"A long time ago, before I could speak English good, I
see something. I try to tell you then, but you don't
understand me. I see a man who don't have this on his
forehead.'
"My friend here, my naq, as he calls it in his speech,
indicated the center of his forehead and that of all of
us.
"Kazz then said, 'I know you can't see it. Pete and Monat
can't either. Nobody else can. But I see it on
everybody's forehead. Except on that man I try to catch
long time ago. Then, one day, I see a woman who don't
have it, but I don't say nothing to you. Now, I see a
third who don't have it.'
"I still did not understand. Monat, however, explained.
" 'He means that he is able to perceive certain symbols
of characters on the forehead of each and every one of
us. He can see these only in bright sunlight and at a
certain angle. But everyone he's ever seen has had those
symbols-except for the three he's mentioned.'
"Frigate added that Kazz somehow could see a little
further into the color spectrum than non-Neanderthals
could. Into the ultraviolet , as a matter of fact, since
the symbols were bluish. At least that is the way Kazz
described them. All of us, except certain individuals,
seem to bear this mark. As if we're branded cattle. Since
that time, Kazz, and his woman Besst, have observed these
on people's foreheads, when the lighting conditions were
right, of course."
This news, as always, resulted in astonishment,
indignation, and even shock. Burton waited until the
furor died down before speaking.
"Some of you late-twentieth-centurians may know that the
so-called Neanderthal man was reclassified. The
anthropoligists decided that he was not a separate
species but a variant of Homo sapiens. Nevertheless, just
as he differed somewhat in physical build and teeth from
us, he also has the ability to see into the ultraviolet."
Besst said, "I am not a Neanderthal man but a woman, and
I, too, have this ability."
Burton grinned and said, "Women's lib has penetrated into
the Old Stone Age. However, let me point out that events
will show that Whoever made this world and stamped us
with, in a manner of speaking, the mark of the beast, did
not know that Homo neanderthalis had a special visual
ability. This means that Whoever is not omniscient.
"To resume my narrative. I asked for the identity of the
person who lacked the symbol. Frigate replied, 'Robert
Spruce!'
'' Spruce had also been a grail slave. He claimed to be
an Englishman born in 1945. That was about all I knew of
him.
"I said that we would get him and question him. Frigate
told me that we'd have to catch him because he was
probably long gone. It seems that Kazz told Spruce he'd
noticed Spruce lacked the mark on his forehead. Spruce
had turned pale, and a few minutes later he left
hurriedly. Frigate and Monat sent search parties out, but
at the time they reported to me he hadn't been found.
"It seemed to me that his flight was an admission of
guilt, though I didn't know what he was guilty of. A few
hours later, he was discovered hiding in the hills. He
was brought before the newly formed council of our newly
formed state. Spruce was pale and trembling, though he
looked us straight in the eye defiantly enough.
"I informed him that we suspected that he was an agent
for the Ethicals if not an Ethical himself. I also told
him that we would go to any lengths, including torture,
to get the truth from him. This was a lie, since we would
have been no better than the men who'd enslaved us if we
had resorted to torture. Spruce, however, did not know
that.
"Spruce said, 'You may be denying yourself eternal life
if you torture me. It will at least set you far back on
your journey, delay your final goal. "
"I asked him what that final goal was, but he ignored
that question. Instead, he said, 'We can't stand pain.
We're too sensitive.'
"There was some more exchange, but he would not answer
our questions. Then one of the councillors suggested that
he be suspended above a fire. Monat spoke up then. He
told Spruce that he was from a culture somewhat more
advanced than that of Earth's. He felt he was more
qualified to make guesses about the truth than the rest
of us, and no one argued with him about this. Monat said
that he would like to spare him the pain of the fire and
also the pain of betraying his trust. Perhaps Monat could
make some speculations about the Ethicals and their
agents, and Spruce could merely affirm or deny the
speculations. In this way, Spruce would not be making a
positive betrayal of his trust, whatever that was."
Bill Owain said, "That was a peculiar arrangement."
"True. But Monat hoped to get him to talking. You see, we
were not going to use any brutal methods of inquisition.
If we couldn't scare him, then we were going to try
hypnosis. Both Monat and I are skilled mesmerists.
However, as it turned out, we didn't have to resort to
that.
"Monat said, 'It's my theory that you are a Terrestrial.
You come from an age chronologically far past 2008 a.d.
In fact, you are a descendant of the few people who
survived the death beam projected from our orbital ship.'
Monat guessed that the technology and energy required to
reconstruct this planet into one vast Rivervalley was
very advanced. He suggested that Spruce was born in the
fiftieth century A.D.
"Spruce replied that he should add two thousand years.
"Monat then said that not everyone had been resurrected.
There wasn't enough room on this world. It was known that
no children who had died before the age of five were
here. And though it couldn't be proved, it seemed likely
that no imbeciles and idiots had been resurrected here.
Nor was anyone who lived after 2008 a.d., with the
exception of Spruce here.
"Where were these people?
"Spruce answered that they were elsewhere, and that was
all he would say on the subject.
"Monat then asked him how the people of the Earth had
been recorded. That is, what device had the Ethicals used
to make recordings of our bodies? Since it was obvious
that scientific, not supernatural, means were used to
resurrect us, that meant that everyone from the Old Stone
Age to 2008 a.d. had somehow been observed, the structure
of every cell of a person's body recorded, and this
recording was stored somewhere to be used later in the re
creation of the body.
"Monat said that the recordings must be placed in an
energy-matter converter, whereupon the body was
duplicated. The effects of injuries, wounds, and diseases
that had caused death were cancelled. Amputated limbs and
organs were restored. I myself saw some of this
regeneration process when I awoke in the preresurrec-tion
space. Also, those aged past twenty-five were
rejuvenated.
"Monat further speculated that the bodies in the PR
bubble were destroyed after the regeneration process was
completed. But recordings of the new bodies had been
made, and these recordings were used in the final stage,
the great resurrection, when all of us appeared together
on that never-to-be-forgotten day.
"Monat supposed that the resurrection was accomplished
through the metal of the grailstone system. That is, all
the stones are connected deep underground to form a
circuit of some sort, and the energy is supplied from the
hot nickle-iron core of this planet.
"Monat then said, "The big question is why?'
"Spruce said, 'If you had it in your power to do all
this, would you not think it your ethical duty?"
"Monat said that he would think so. But he would bring
back to life only those who deserve a second life.
"Spruce became angry then. He replied that Monat was
setting himself up as an equal of God. Everybody, no
matter how stupid, selfish, petty, brutal, etcetera, must
be given another chance to redeem themselves, to make
themselves worthy. It would not be done for them; they
must, somehow, lift themselves by their own moral
bootstraps.
"Monat asked Spruce how long this process would take. A
thousand years? Two? A million?
"Spruce became angry, and he shouted, 'You will stay here
as long as it takes you to be rehabilitated! Then . . .'
"He paused, glaring at us as if he hated us, and he said,
'Continued contact with you makes even the toughest of us
take on your characteristics. We then have to go through
a rehabilitation process ourselves. Already, I feel
unclean . . .'
"One of the councillors, wishing to press him, urged that
he be put over the fire until he would talk freely.
"Spruce cried, 'No, you won't! I should have done this
long ago! Who knows what . . .'"
Burton paused dramatically.
"Then Spruce fell dead!"
There were gasps, and someone said, "Mein Gott!"
"Yes, but that isn't the end of the story. Spruce's body
was taken away for dissection. It seemed too coincidental
that he should have had a heart attack. Not only was it
too convenient for him, it was unheard of.
"While he was being dissected, we discussed what
happened. Some thought that he was lying to us. Or, at
least, only giving us half-truths. We did agree on one
thing. That was that there were people in this Valley who
were agents of the Ethicals or perhaps the Ethicals
themselves. These did not bear the mark on their
foreheads.
"But it seemed likely that we would not be able to
distinguish them anymore by using Kazz's peculiar visual
powers. Spruce would be resurrected wherever their
headquarters was. He would report to the others that we
now knew about the symbols. And of course they would put
the mark on their agents.
"This would take time, and in the meantime Kazz might
detect others. But this has not happened. Neither he nor
Besst has seen anybody unmarked. Again, of course, this
does not mean too much. They have to get a close look
under certain conditions to see the mark.
' "Three hours later, the surgeon reported to us. There
was nothing remarkable about Spruce. Nothing to
distinguish him from, other members of Homo sapiens."
Once more, Burton paused.
"Except for one small item! This was a very tiny black
sphere! The doctor had found it on the surface of
Spruce's forebrain. It was attached to the cerebral
nerves by extremely thin wires. This led us to conclude
that Spruce had literally thought, or wished, himself to
die.
"Somehow, the sphere interacted with his mental processes
in such a manner that he could think himself dead.
Perhaps he thought of a certain code sequence, and this
released a poison into his system. The doctor could find
no evidence of this, but then he lacked the necessary
chemical means to make an accurate analysis.
"In any event, Spruce's body showed no damage. Something
had stopped his heart, but the doctor did not know what
that was.''
A woman said, "Then there could be such people among us?
Now, here, in this group?"
Burton nodded, and everybody started talking at once.
After fifteen minutes of this babel, he stood up and
indicated to his crew that it was time to go to bed. On
the way to the cutter, Kazz drew him aside.
"Burton-naq, when you mentioned you and Monat were hyp
notists . . . well, that made me think about something.
I've never thought about it before . .. maybe there's
nothing funny about it... only . . ."
"Well?"
"It's nothing, I'm sure. Only it was funny. You see, I
told Spruce I could see he didn't have no sign on his
head. He left a few minutes later, but I could smell the
fear in his sweat. There were others there, all eating
breakfast, Targoff, Doctor Steinborg, Monat, Pete, and a
number of others. Targoff said we should convene the
council, though this was some time after Spruce had taken
off. Monat and Pete agreed. But they said they wanted to
question me a little more. You know, what the marks
looked like. Were they all alike or did they differ?"
"I said they differed. A lot of them were. . . what you
say? . . . similar, yes, that's it. But each one . ..
what the hell, you know what they look like, I've drawn
pictures of them for you."
Burton said, "Aside from some looking something like
Chinese ideograms, they resemble nothing I've ever seen.
My guess is that they're symbols of a numbering system."
"Yeah, I know what you said. The thing is, Monat and
Frigate took me aside before we went to your place to
tell you what'd happened. In fact, we went to Monat's
hut."
Kazz paused. Impatiently Burton said, "Well?"
"I'm trying to remember. But I can't. I went into the
hut, and that's all!"
"What do you mean, that's all?"
"Burton-naq, I mean that's all. I don't remember a thing
about going into that hut. I remember starting through
the door. The next I remember is walking with Monat,
Pete, and the other councillors to your hut!"
Burton felt a slight shock, yet he had no idea what had
caused it.
"You mean that you don't remember anything from the time
you entered until the time you walked out?"
"I mean that I don't remember walking out. All of a
sudden, there I was, a hundred paces from Monat's house
and walking along, talking to Monat."
Burton frowned. Alice and Besst were standing on the
dock, looking back as if wondering why they had dropped
behind.
"This is most peculiar, Kazz. Why haven't you told me
about this before? After all, it's been many years since
it happened. Didn't you think about this before?"
"No, I didn't. Ain't that funny? Not one frigging
thought. I still wouldn't remember even entering the hut
if Loghu hadn't said something about it the other day.
She saw me go in, but she wasn't with the group that day
and so didn't know what was going on until later.
"What happened was that she was standing in the doorway
of her and Frigate's hut. Frigate, Monat, and me was
going to go into Frigate's hut. When they found she was
there, they went to Monat's. It was just by chance that
she mentioned this yesterday. We was talking about when
we was grail slaves, and this brought up Spruce. That's
when she asked me what Monat, Pete, and me was talking
about. She said she wondered sometimes why they wanted to
talk to me in private.
"She just never brought it up before because it didn't
seem important. It still wasn't, but she was curious, and
since the subject was brought up, she remembered to ask
me. You know how curious women are."
"Women have the curiosity of cats," Burton said, and he
chuckled. "Whereas men are as curious as monkeys." "What?
What does that mean?"
"I don't know, but it sounds deep. I'll think up an
explanation later. So, it was Loghu's remarks that made
you remember the events preceding and following your
entry into Monat's place?" "Not right away, Burton-naq. I
got to puzzling about what she said. I really strained my
brain. I could hear the tissues ripping. Finally, I could
remember, in a dim way, how we meant to go into Pete's
hut. Then I could remember Loghu being there and Monat
saying they'd use his hut. And after a while... I could
faintly recollect going into there.
"While you was talking didn't you notice me sitting there
by the fire, frowning away like there was a thunderstorm
on my brow?"
"I just thought you'd taken too much to eat and drink, as
usual.''
"That, too. But it wasn't no farts storming around inside
me. It was gas on the brain."
"Since you've recalled this, you haven't said anything to
Monat or Frigate about it?"
"No."
"Don't, then."
Kazz had a low forehead, but he was not unintelligent.
"You think there's something phony about those two?"
Burton said, "I don't know. I'd hate to think so. After
all these years . .. and they are good friends. At least
. . ."
"It don't seem possible," Kazz said. He sounded as if his
heart were about to break.
"What doesn't?"
"I don't know what. But it has to be something bad."
"I don't know that," Burton said. "There may be a very
good explanation other than the one I'm thinking of.
Anyway, don't mention this to anyone."
"I won't. Only ... listen, those two do have symbols on
their heads. They always had them. So, if them agents
didn't have them at one time, Pete and Monat couldn't be
agents!"
Burton smiled. Kazz's thoughts were his. Nevertheless, he
had to look into this. How could he do it without putting
the two on guard? Of course, they might have nothing to
hide.
"Yes, I know. Don't forget that Besst has also seen their
symbols. So we have double confirmation, not that we need
it.
"In any course, mum's the word until I say otherwise."
They started to walk toward the Snark. Kazz said, "I
don't know. I sure have a bad feeling about this. Wish
I'd kept my mouth shut. Loghu would say something about
it."
                           25
Burton paced back and forth on the deck in the fog.
though his body was warm in the cloths, his face was
chilled. An unusually cold body of air had moved into the
area, and as a result the mists were piled halfway up the
mast. He could not see beyond his outstretched arms.
As far as he knew, everybody aboard except himself was
asleep. His only company were his thoughts. These tended
to stray as if they were sheep on a hillside. Burton had
to work hard to bring them back, arrange them in an
orderly band, keep them moving toward pasture. And what
was pasture? Bitter eating.
There were thirty-three years to cover in his memory. It
was a selective process, one which concentrated on Monat
and Frigate. What actions, what words of theirs were
suspicious? What could be fitted into a dark jigsaw
puzzle?
There were very few people available. There might be
more, but he could be looking at them and not even
realize that they were pieces.
That terrible, joyous day, the day that he had awakened
from the dead, he had met the Arcturan first of all. Of
all those he had encountered that day, Monat had acted
most calmly and rationally. He had taken stock of the
situation amazingly fast, checked out the environment,
and immediately understood the purpose of the grails.
The second person Burton had especially noticed was the
Neanderthal, Kazz. He, however, had not tried to talk to
Burton at first. He had merely followed him for a while.
Peter Frigate had been the second person to talk to
Burton. And, now that Burton considered it, Frigate had
been rather easy and casual in manner. This was strange
in view of Frigate's claim that he suffered from anxiety
and hysteria.
Later events had seemed to confirm this. However, from
time to time, and consistently in the past twenty years,
Frigate had overcome his faults. Had he really attained
self-mastery or had he just abandoned a role, ceased to
play-act?
Certainly, it had been quite a coincidence that the
second person Burton met had written a biography of him.
How many biographers of his existed? Ten or twelve? What
were the probabilities that one of them would be
resurrected only a few meters from him? Twelve in thirty-
six billion.
Still, it was within the realm of chance; it was not
impossible.
Then Kazz had joined those who'd collected around Burton.
Then Alice. Then Lev Ruach.
Today, while Kazz had been helmsman, Burton had stood by
him and questioned him. Had Kazz talked to Monat and
Frigate during Resurrection Day when Burton had not been
around? Did he remember anything that was suspicious
about them?
Kazz had shaken his thickly boned head. "I was with them
several times when you were not in sight. But I don't
remember nothing strange about them. That is, Burton-naq,
there was nothing stranger than strange. Everything was
strange that day."
"Did you notice the marks on people's foreheads that
day?"
"Yes, a few. That was when the sun was highest."
"What about Monat and Frigate?"
"I don't remember seeing any on theirs that day. But then
I don't remember seeing one on you, either. The light had
to reflect at a certain angle."
Burton had taken out of his shoulderbag a pad of bamboo
paper, a sharply pointed fish bone, and wooden bottle of
ink. He took over the wheel while Kazz drew the marks he
saw on the foreheads of the Arcturan and the American.
Both were three parallel horizontal lines crossed by
three parallel vertical lines juxtaposed to a cross
enclosed in a circle. The lines were of even thickness
and length except at the ends. Monat's lines broadened at
the right; Frigate's, at the left.
"What about the sign on my forehead?" Burton had said.
Kazz showed him four wavy parallel horizontal lines next
to a symbol like an ampersand (&). Below it was a short,
thin, straight horizontal line.
"Mortal's and Pete's are remarkably alike," Burton said.
At Burton's request, Kazz then drew the symbols on the
foreheads of everyone of the crew. Not one resembled any
other.
"Do you remember Lev Ruach's?"
Kazz nodded, and a moment later he handed Burton the
drawing. He felt disappointed, though he had no conscious
reason to be so. Ruach's symbol was not at all like his
prime suspects'.
Now, walking on the deck, Burton wondered why he had
expected it to be similar to the other two. Something
tickled the back of his brain, some suspicion he could
not scratch. There was a linkage among the three, but it
slipped away just as he was about to grasp it.
He had done enough thinking. Now for action.
A white bundle lying against the cabin was the
Neanderthal, wrapped in cloths. Guiding himself by the
fellow's snoring, Burton went to him and shook him. Kazz,
snorting, woke up at once.
"Time?"
"Time."
First, though, Kazz had to piss over the railing. Burton
lit a fish-oil lantern, and they walked down the
gangplank onto the dock. From there they moved slowly
onto the plain, their destination an empty hut about two
hundred paces away. They missed it, but after circling
around, they found it. After they had entered, Burton
shut the door. A bundle of logs and shavings had been
placed in the stone hearth that evening by Kazz. In a
minute, a small fire was blazing. Kazz sat down on a
bamboo wickerwork chair near the fire. He coughed as he
breathed smoke which had escaped the feeble draught of
the chimney.
It was easy to place Kazz into a hypnotic trance. He had
been one of Burton's subjects for years when Burton
entertained locals by displaying his powers as a
mesmerist.
Now that Burton thought about it, Monal and Frigate had
always been present at these times. Had they been nervous
then? If they had, they had successfully concealed it.
Burton took Kazz straight back to the time when he had
mentioned to the breakfasting group that Spruce had no
mark. Working forward, he took him then to the point
where the Neanderthal had gone into Monat's hut. Here he
encountered first resistance.
"Are you now in the hut?"
Kazz, staring straight ahead, his eyes seemingly turned
inward upon the past, said, "I am in the doorway."
"Go on in, Kazz."
The fellow shook with effort.
"I can't, Burton-naq."
"Why not?"
"I do not know."
"Is there something you fear in the hut?"
"I don't know."
"Has anyone told you that there is something bad in the
hut?"
"No."
"Then you have nothing to fear. Kazz, you are a brave
man, aren't you?"
"You know I am, Burton-naq."
"Why can't you go on in then?"
Kazz shook his head. "I don't know. Something . . ."
"Something what?"
"Something . . . tells me ... tells me ... can't
remember."
Burton bit his lower lip. The flaming wood cracked and
hissed.
"Who tells you? Monat? Frigate?"
"Don't know."
"Think!"
Kazz's forehead wrinkled. Sweat poured down it.
The firewood crackled again. Hearing it, Burton smiled.
"Kazz!"
"Yes."
"Kazz! Besst is in the hut, and she's screaming! Can you
hear her screaming?"
Kazz straightened up and looked from side to side, his
eyes wide open, his nostrils distended, his lips drawn
back.
"I hear her! What is the matter?"
"Kazz! There's a bear in the hut, and it's going to
attack Besst! Take your spear and go in there and kill
the bear, Kazz! Save Besst!"
Kazz stood up, and, his hand grasping the imaginary
spear, sprang forward. Burton had to move swiftly to get
out of his way. Kazz stumbled over the chair and fell
upon his face.
Burton grimaced. Would the shock bring Kazz out of his
trance? No, Kazz was up on his feet and about to run
forward again.
"Kazz! You're in the hut! There's the bear! Kill it,
Kazz! Kill it!"
Snarling, Kazz grabbed the phantom spear with both hands
and thrust it.
'' Ayee! Ayee!'' And a gabble of harsh sounds followed.
Burton, having learned his native language, understood
them.
"I am the Man-Who-Slew-The-White-Tooth! Die, Hairy-One-
Who-Sleeps-All-Winter! Die, but forgive me! I must, I
must! Die! Die!"
Burton spoke loudly. "Kazz! It's run away! The bear has
run out of the hut! Besst is safe now!"
Kazz stopped thrusting the spear. He stood upright now,
looking from side to side.
"Kazz! It's a few minutes later. Kazz! Besst has left.
You're in the hut now! Inside it. You've nothing to fear!
You've entered the hut, and there is nothing to be afraid
of! But who else is in there with you?
"Kazz! You're in the hut a few minutes after you saw that
Spruce had no mark on his forehead. Who else is in the
hut with you?"
The Neanderthal had lost his fierce expression. Now he
looked dully at Burton.
"Who? Why, Monat and Pete."
"Very good, Kazz. Now . . . who first spoke to you
there?"
"Monat did."
"Tell me what he said to you. Tell me what Frigate said,
too."
"Frigate never said anything. Just Monat."
"Tell me what he said .... what he is saying."
"Monat says, 'Now, Kazz, you will remember nothing that
took place in this hut. We will talk a minute and then we
will leave. After you leave you will not remember going
into the hut or leaving it. Everything between that time
will be a blank. If anyone should ask you about this
time, you will say that you don't remember. And you will
not be lying because you will have forgotten everything.
Isn't that right, Kazz?' "
The Neanderthal nodded.
' "Also, Kazz, just to make sure, you will not remember
the first time I told you to forget that you had
mentioned to me and Frigate that we had no marks. Do you
remember that time, Kazz?' "
Kazz shook his head. " 'No, Monat.' "
He gave a drawnout sigh.
"Who sighed?" Burton said.
"Frigate."
It was evidently an expiration of relief.
"What else is Monat saying? Tell me what you are saying,
too.''
" 'Kazz, when I talked to you that first time, the time
just after you had told Frigate and me that we had no
signs, I also told you to tell me whatever Burton said
about meeting a mysterious person. By that I mean someone
who might call himself an Ethical.' "
Burton said, "Aah!"
" 'Do you remember that, Kazz?'
" 'No.'
" 'Of course not. I told you not to remember that. But I
now tell you to remember it. Do you remember it, Kazz?' "
A silence of about twenty seconds followed. Then the
Neanderthal said, " 'Yes, I remember now.'
' "Very good, Kazz. Now, forget it again, though what I
told you then still is a command. Isn't that right?'
" 'Yes, that's right.'
" 'Now, Kazz. Has Burton ever said anything to you about
this Ethical? Or about anyone, man or woman, who claimed
to be one of those who brought us back from the dead?'
" 'No, Burton-naq never told me anything like that.'
' "But if, in the future, he does tell .you, you will
come to me at once and tell me. You will only do this,
however, when no one else is around. Where no one can
overhear us. Do you understand that?'
" 'Yes, I understand.'
' "If for some reason I am not available, if you cannot
get hold of me because I am dead or gone on a journey,
you will tell Peter Frigate or Lev Ruach, instead of me.
Do you understand?' "
Burton said, in a low voice, "Ruach, too!"
" 'Yes, I understand. I will tell Peter Frigate or Lev
Ruach instead of you.'
" 'And you will tell them only when no one is around,
where no one else can overhear you two. Understand?'
" 'Yes, I understand.'
' "And you will not tell anyone else about this, you will
only tell Frigate, Ruach, or myself. Understand?'
" 'Yes, I understand.'
" 'Very good, Kazz. That's fine. We will go now, and when
I snap my fingers twice, you will not remember this or
the first time. Understand?'
" 'Yes, I understand.'
" 'Kazz, you will also . . . oh, oh! Someone's calling
for us! No time for an excuse now. Let's go!' "
Burton had to guess what this last remark meant. Monat
must have been about to tell Kazz what he should say if
anyone asked him what the conversation had been about.
That was a lucky break for Burton. If Kazz had had a
reasonable story, then Burton would never have become
suspicious.
                           26
Burton said, Sit down, Kazz. make yourself comfortable.
You sit there for a minute. I'm leaving. Monat will be
coming in, and he will talk to you."
"I understand."
Burton walked out of the hut and stood for a minute. He
should have posed as Monat when he first started the
session. That might have overcome Kazz's resistance more
quickly, and Burton would not have had to resort to the
trickery of the bear and Besst.
He re-entered, and said, "Hello, Kazz. How are you?"
"I'm fine, Monat. How are you?"
"Great! Very well, Kazz. I'll take over from where your
friend, Burton, left off. We'll go back to that first
time I talked to you, just after you had noticed that
Frigate and I had no marks on our foreheads. You now
remember that time, Kazz, because I, Monat, tell you to
do so.
"You will go back to the second after you had told Monat.
Are you there?"
"Yes, I am there."
"Where are you, Monat, and Frigate?"
"We are near a grailstone."
"What day, or night, is that?"
"I do not understand."
"I mean, how many days was it after Resurrection Day?"
"Three days."
"Tell me what happened after you spoke to them about the
lack of the mark."
Kazz, speaking in a monotone, described the events
immediately after. Monat had said that he and Frigate
wanted to speak to him privately. They had walked across
the plain and gone into the hills. There, behind a giant
irontree, Monat had fixed his eyes upon Kazz's. Without
the use of any mechanical devices, without even informing
Kazz what he was doing, Monat had hypnotized him.
"It was as if something dark flowed from him to me,
something dark and overpowering."
Burton nodded. He had seen Monat demonstrate this power,
this "animal magnetism" as it was known in Burton's time.
He was a stronger mesmerist than Burton, which was one
reason why Burton had never permitted the Arcturan to
attempt hypnotizing him. In fact, Burton had taken
precautions against getting caught unawares by Monat. In
an elaborate self-hypnosis, he had told himself that he
must never allow himself to be mesmerized by Monat.
However, Monat could be powerful enough to break down
that command, so Burton had been extremely cautious about
being alone with him.
That forearming had been based on the fear that Monat
might stumble across the time when he had been visited by
the Ethical. That was Burton's secret, one he wanted no
one to know. He had had no idea then, of course, that
Monat was one of Them.
He wondered if Frigate was also an expert hypnotizer. The
fellow had never given any indication that he was.
However, he had refused to let Burton try mesmerism on
him. His plea had been that he could not endure the
thought of losing his self-control.
Kazz remembered that, during the course of the session,
Monat had remarked to Frigate about the Neanderthal's
ability to see the symbols.
" ' We never knew about that. We'll have to tell HQ as
soon as we get a chance.'"
So, Burton thought, Monat and Frigate were in
communication from time to time with the Ethicals. How
did they manage that? Were prearranged landings of the
flying machines, which Burton had once glimpsed, one
method of communicating? Those machines which flickered
into and out of visibility as they flew along?
Those two must have been watching him closely. That was
one of the reasons the Mysterious Stranger had visited
him at night during a storm. The Ethical must have known
that Monat and Frigate were in Burton's party. But he had
never mentioned them, had not put him on his guard.
Perhaps he had meant to do so, but he had been hurried.
He'd said that the Ethicals were coming soon in their
flying machines. And he had left abruptly. Even so, he
surely would have mentioned so grave a matter. A few
words would have warned him. Why had he not done so? Was
it possible that he did not know that Monat and Frigate
were with him? And Ruach, too. He must not forget Ruach.
Why had three agents been assigned to him? Wouldn't one
have been enough? Also, why was one so conspicuous as the
Arcturan given the job?
Whatever the reasons for this, the matter of the lack of
signs on the heads of the three agents was more pressing.
Evidently, Ethicals, first-order or second-order, did not
have such marks. Now that they were aware that
Neanderthals could observe this, they had made sure that
Kazz would not say anything about it.
Moreover, Monat had then told Kazz that from that moment
on he would see the marks on the foreheads of himself and
his two colleagues.
Why had he not then installed a command that Kazz would
see these signs on everybody who did not have them?
Perhaps he thought that it would not be necessary. The
chances of running across other Neanderthals, never a
numerous people, were slight. Still, it would have
eliminated any exposures of agents from then on.
The explanation might be simple. Monat would have had to
describe the marks of every agent in the valley. Inasmuch
as there might be hundreds, or thousands, for all Burton
knew, that would have been impossible.
Monat had not been too wrong in thinking that encounters
with Neanderthals would be rare. In fact, Burton had
never seen more than a hundred. All of these except Kazz
and Besst had been passed by swiftly and at a distance
during the day.
Yet, they had come across Besst.
He tried to recollect the exact circumstances under which
she had been met. It was three years ago that they had
come ashore at evening. This was an area populated
largely by fourteenth-century A.D. Chinese and ancient
Slavs. Besst was living with a Chinese, but she had made
it evident from the first that she wished to go on the
boat wifh Kazz. It was dark, so she would not have
noticed anything unusual about Frigate and Monat-aside
from the latter's being nonhuman, of course.
The two had gotten together and talked until late that
night. When her hutmate had ordered her to come with him,
she had refused. There was a tense moment when it looked
as if the Chinese were going to attack Kazz. Discretion
won. He realized that, though he was bigger than the
Neanderthal, he was also much weaker. Though very short,
Kazz's massive bones and muscles made him stronger than
any but the most powerful of modern men. In addition, his
brutal face was enough to scare anybody.
The two had gone aboard to spend the night together. Yet
they must have gone to sleep before dawn. Could Monat
have gotten to her then? Probably. Burton did not know
how he had done it. But Besst had never said anything
about Frigate's and Monat's marks.
Kazz finished his account of the session. It was short
and what Burton had expected.
He sent Kazz after Besst, telling him to be very quiet.
In a few minutes he was back with her. Burton told her he
would satisfy her curiosity later. For the time being,
would she let him hypnotize her ? Sleepily, she agreed,
and she sat down on the chair Kazz had occupied.
After telling her he was Monat, he took her back to the
mesmerizing by Monat. As he had thought, it had been done
after she and Kazz had gone to sleep. Monat had simply
described tp her the marks which he had hypnotized her
mate into seeing on the three agents' foreheads. Then he
had ordered her to see the same marks. The whole process
would have been done very quietly and quickly.
Monat and his colleague had been lucky. Before Kazz had
encountered Spruce, he had seen two other people without
the marks. However, the first time had been on
Resurrection Day. He had called out to the man, asking
him why he had no mark. The man had fled, probably not
because he understood what Kazz was saying but because he
had misunderstood the Neanderthal's intentions.
Later, after meeting Burton, Kazz had tried to tell him
what he had seen, but neither could speak the other's
language yet. And Kazz had simply forgotten about it in
the days following, when they were all busy trying to
survive.
The. second person he'd seen lacking a mark was a woman,
a Mongolian. This had happened at high noon, and the
woman had just come out of The River, where she was
bathing. Kazz had tried to talk to her, but her hutmate,
who did have a mark on his head, had taken the woman
away. Evidently, he was jealous. Once more, Kazz's
intentions were misunderstood.
At that time, Burton and the others had been talking to
the local headman in the council house. Kazz had stayed
behind to watch their boat. After the woman had gone,
Kazz was offered some drinks of lichen-alcohol by several
people who wanted to talk to him. These had never seen a
Neanderthal before, and the liquor was an inducement to
get him to talk. Kazz, easily induced and seduced by free
booze, was half-drunk by the time his crewmates returned.
Burton had reproached him so harshly that Kazz had never
again drunk while on guard duty.
He also forgot about the woman.
After bringing Besst out of the trance, Burton sat for a
while in thought. Besst and Kazz shifted uneasily and
gave each other wondering looks. Finally, he made a
decision. There was no longer any use keeping them in the
dark. Nor would he exclude Alice from now on. He owed the
Stranger nothing, and the fact that he had not reappeared
again could mean that he, Burton, had no reason to keep
silent. Besides, though he was naturally secretive, he
longed now to share his experiences.
Though he gave only a bare outline, he took over an hour.
Both Besst and Kazz were amazed, and they had many
questions. He held up his hand for silence.
"Later! Later! As of now, we must question them. The
Arcturan's a much tougher customer, so we'll tackle
Frigate first."
He told them what they must do. Kazz said, "But wouldn't
it be best to knock out Monat and tie him up? What if he
wakes up while we're getting Frigate?"
"I don't want to make any more noise than we have to. If
Loghu and Alice hear us, we'll have a brouhaha."
"A what?"
"An uproar. Let's go."
The three of them made their way through the fog. Burton
thought of some more questions he would ask Frigate. For
instance, Monat, Frigate, and Ruach must have known that
Spruce was an agent. There had been plenty of opportunity
for them to talk to him while they had been grail slaves.
And Monat had had opportunities after the revolt to
hypnotize Kazz so he would see a mark on Spruce. Why had
he not done that?
If Monat had not been able to get to Kazz after the
revolt, he should then have told Spruce to leave the area
at once. Or, at least, to wear a cloth around his head
when conditions were favorable for seeing the mark.
Could Spruce not have known that they were his fellow
agents? They might be so numerous that each was familiar
only with a few others. But surely all would know of
Monat.
He stopped, and drew in his breath.
The Mysterious Stranger had never said anything about
having his own agents. Yet, he was a renegade, and he
might have enlisted a few highly trusted people. Could
Spruce have been one? And could Monat somehow have found
this out? And so gotten rid of him by not telling him
about Kazz's visual abilities?
That did not seem probable. If Monat had found out that
Spruce was on the Stranger's side-and how would he ever
be able to do that?-would he not then have hypnotized
Spruce? That would enable him to identify the Stranger,
supposing, of course, that Spruce knew who he was.
There was another possibility. Monat knew of Spruce's
ability to kill himself by means of the sphere on his
forebrain. Thus, he was not worried that Spruce would be
forced to divulge any information at all.
Also, he may have used Spruce as a messenger. He would
have given him some information to pass on when Spruce
was resurrected at HQ-if HQ meant headquarters.
Monat had taken part in Spruce's inquisition. How amused
he must have been at that. Also, it was Monat who had
given Spruce some leading questions.
Had Spruce been prepared by Monat to give the answers he
had made? Were they all lies?
If so, why should he lie? Why were all resurrectees kept
in the dark?
It was quite possible that Spruce, acting on Monat's
orders, had deliberately ensured that Kazz would notice
him.
By then, the three had boarded the Snark. The
Neanderthals stayed above. Burton felt his way to the
cabin, down the companion way, and, counting the
compartment doors, stopped outside Frigate's and Loghu's.
He opened the door slowly and stepped inside. It was a
very small space, just large enough to hold two bunks
against the bulkhead and room to climb down from them.
The bunk-chambers were the only places where any privacy
was available. Even defecation was done in them, in the
bamboo chamber pots which were stored in a rack to one
side.
Frigate usually slept in the top bunk. Burton moved
forward, his hand outstretched. He would wake him gently,
whisper that it was his watch, and then he would follow
him to the deck. There Kazz would knock him out, and he
would be carried to the hut.
Since it would be impossible to keep him from killing
himself once he was fully conscious, Burton had decided
to try to mesmerize him as he was regaining his wits. It
would be a chancy procedure, but he would have to try it.
Frigate, unlike Spruce, might not be so willing to commit
suicide now that there were no more resurrections.
However, Burton was not sure that the Ethicals' agents
were not resurrected.
His fingertips felt the smooth sideboard of the bunk.
They moved up onto the cloths that served as a mattress.
They stopped.
Frigate was not in his bunk.
Burton felt along the cloths though he knew that nobody
was on the bunk. They were warm. Then he stood for a
minute. Had Frigate gone above to relieve himself because
he did not want to awake Loghu? Or had he awakened early
and decided to talk to his captain a few minutes before
going on guard duty?
Or had he . . . ? Burton felt furious. Had he sneaked out
of bed and now was with Alice?
Feeling ashamed of himself, he rejected that idea. Alice
was honest. She would never betray him. If she wanted
another lover, she would have said so. She would have
told him and then left him. Nor did he believe that
Frigate would ever do anything like that to him, though
he may have contemplated it in his mind.
He bent down and reached out until he touched cloth. His
fingers moved along, traced a curve-Loghu's breast under
the cloth-and he backed out and closed the door.
Silently, his heart thudding so fast he could almost
believe that it could be heard throughout the cabin, he
moved to Monat's partition. His ear against the door, he
listened. Silence. He straightened, opened the door, and
felt into the upper bunk. Monat was not there, but he
could be sleeping in the lower bunk. If so, his breathing
was not audible.
His hand slid over unoccupied cloths.
Cursing softly, he groped back to the deck.
Kazz stepped out of the fog with his fist raised.
"Wallah! What's the matter?"
"They're both gone," Burton said.
"But. . . how could that be?"
"I don't know. Maybe Monat knew that something was wrong.
He's the most sensitive person I've ever met; he can read
your slightest expression, detect the feeblest nuance in
your voice. Or perhaps he heard you wake up Besst,
investigated, and guessed the truth. For all I know, he
may have been listening to us outside the door of the
hut."
"Neither Besst or me made any noise. We was as silent as
a weasel sneaking up on a rabbit."
"I know. Look, around. See if our launch is missing."
He met Kazz coining around the other way.
"The boats're all here."
                           27
Burton roused Lochu and Alice. While they drank hot
coffee, he outlined everything that had happened to him
in connection with the Ethicals. They were stunned, but
they kept silent until he had finished. Questions
hailstormed him then, but he said that he would answer
them later. It would be dawn shortly, which meant that
they had to put their grails on the stone for breakfast.
Alice was the only one who had not said anything. It was
evident from her narrowed eyes and tight lips that she
was furious.
"I am sorry that I had to keep all this from you," Burton
said. "But surely you can see how necessary it was? What
if I told you everything and then the Ethicals grabbed
you, as they did me? They could have read your mind and
discovered that they had erred in thinking they had
erased relevant portions of my memory."
"They didn't do so," she said. "Why should they have even
thought of that?"
"How do you know they didn't?" he said. "You wouldn't
remember it if they had done it."
That gave her another shock. Nevertheless, she did not
speak again until after breakfast.
This took place in unusual weather. Normally, the sun
quickly burned off the fog. The sky was clear the rest of
the day in the tropical zone or until midaftemoon in the
temperate zones. In the latter, clouds quickly gathered,
rain fell for fifteen minutes or so, and then the clouds
disappeared.
This morning, however, black masses rolled between sun
and earth. Lightning flickered as if chips of the bright
sky above the clouds were falling through. Thunder was
the muttering of a giant behind the mountains. A pale
light spread over the land, staining it brownish-yellow.
The faces around the grailstone looked as if a blight had
settled upon them.
Kazz and Besst hunched down uneasily over their food and
looked around as if they expected an unwelcome visitor.
He muttered in his native tongue, "The-Bear-Who-Collects-
The-Bad is walking."
Besst almost whined. "We must find a hut to hide in. It
is not good to be near the water when he walks."
The others looked as if they were going to seek shelter,
too. Burton stood up and said loudly, "One moment,
please! I'm interested in finding out if any of you are
missing a boat!"
A man said, "Why?"
"Two of my crew deserted last night, and it's possible
that they stole a boat to get away."
Forgetting about the coming storm, the party scattered to
look along the bank. Within a minute, a man reported that
his dugout was gone.
"They're far away by now," Kazz said. "But did they go up
or down The River?"
"If there was a signal system in this area, we could find
out quickly enough," Burton said. "Unless, of course,
they beached their boat and went into the hills to hide."
Alice said, "What do we do now, Dick? If we stay here to
look for them, we'll not be able to get on the Rex."
Burton stifled the impulse to tell her not to point out
the obvious to him. She was still simmering; no sense in
making her boil again.
"Monat and Frigate can hole up today and sneak out
tonight and steal another boat. It would be futile to try
to catch them. No, we'll try to get aboard the paddle
wheeler. But those two will come along some day, and when
they do . . ."
"We'll tear them apart?" Kazz said.
Burton shrugged and spread his palms upward.
"I don't know. They've got the advantage. They can either
drop dead on us or lie to us. Until we get to the tower
..."
Alice spoke then, her eyes dark with accustomed reverie:
"If at his counsel I should turn aside Into that ominous
tract which, all agree, Hides the Dark Tower. Yet
acquiescingly
I did turn as he pointed; neither pride
Nor hope rekindling at the end descried,
So much as gladness that some end might be.
"For, what with my world-wide wandering. What with my
search drawn out thro' years, my hope Dwindled into a
ghost not fit to cope
With that obstreperous joy success would bring-
I hardly tried now to rebuke the spring My heart made,
finding failure in its scope.
"There they stood, ranged along the hillsides, met To
view the last of me, a living frame For one more picture!
in a sheet of flame I saw them and I knew them all. And
yet Dauntless the slug-horn to my, lips I set And blew,
'Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came.' "
Burton grinned savagely. "Browning would have thought ...
must think . .. that this world is even stranger than the
setting of his outre poem. I appreciate your sentiment,
even if he said it first, Alice. Very well, we will go to
the Dark Tower."
"I don't know what Alice was talking about," Kazz said.
"Anyway, just how're we going to get on that boat?"
"If King John has room for us, I'll offer him our
treasure trove, our free-grails. That should appeal even
to the ungreediest heart.''
"And if he doesn't have room?"
He was silent for a moment. That tickle in the back of
his brain, that feeling that he had overlooked some
linkage between agents, had returned while Alice was
speaking. And now he saw, or thought he saw, the means
for scratching the itch, the kind of chain binding the
agents together.
How did they recognize each other? Monat was no problem;
he did not need identification. But what kind of secret
signal would the human agents use to identify each other?
If they possessed a Neanderthal's ability, they could see
the negative signal, lack of a sign, in their colleagues'
foreheads. Suppose, though, they did not have this
ability? Spruce had been surprised when he found out
about Kazz's optical talent. Though he had not said so,
his manner had indicated that he had never heard of such
a thing. Evidently, machines were used to detect and
translate the symbols into whatever meaning they had.
That would probably be done in the PR bubble or whatever
HQ was.
If, then, they could not see the symbols with the naked
eye, they would have another means of identification.
Suppose, just suppose, that there was a cutoff date. A
period of time at which no more people from Earth were
resurrected, not, at least, on this planet. According to
Monat, Frigate, Ruach, and Spruce, that cutoff date had
been 2008 A.D.
What if that was not the true date? What if it were
earlier than 2008 A.D.?
He had no idea what the true date would be, though he had
never met anyone, except the agents, who claimed to have
lived past 1983 A.D. From now on, he would question every
late-twentieth-centurian he met. And if 1983 was the
latest at which anybody had died, then he would be fairly
certain that that was the cutoff point.
So ... perhaps the Ethicals had contrived a fiction which
would enable them to identify each other instantly. That
was that they had lived during 2008 A.D. And, of course,
there would be a fixed story about events from 1983, or
whatever date it was, to 2008.
Which meant that perhaps it was untrue that the Arcturans
had killed most of humanity in that year. The terrible
slaugher might never have happened. In fact, anything he
had heard about the years 1983-2008 might be a lie. Yet,
there was Monat. He was not a Terrestrial. There was no
reason to believe that he had not come from a planet of
the Bear Watcher.
For the present, there was no way to explain his presence
on The Riverworld.
Meanwhile, Burton had two means for catching ah Ethical.
Kazz was one; the 2008 story was another.
However-humanity lived not only in an as-if world, it was
a but-if world, too-however, just possibly the agents had
been recruited from a time past 1983. So, their stories
could be true.
There were so many possibilities. For instance, how did
he know that Monat, Frigate, and Ruach had told him the
truth about what had happened to them when they were away
from him? There was that incident when Frigate had
claimed he had met the publisher who had cheated him on
Earth. Frigate said he had gotten a long-delayed revenge
by punching him on the nose.
There were bruises on Frigate, supposedly gotten during
the fight with Sharkko and his gang. Those could have
come from conflict with others, though. Frigate's nature
was such that he dreaded violence, physical or verbal. He
might fantasize revenge, but he would never carry it out.
Suppose, just suppose, that the agents adopted disguises
based on real life Terrestrials. What if there was an
actual Peter Jairus Frigate somewhere on this planet? The
pseudo-Frigate could be pretending to be the man who had
had such an intense interest in Burton's life. That would
be one means of getting close to Burton, of making sure
that Burton would let him attach himself to Burton. After
all, it would be hard for any man to be indifferent to
his biographer, to a person who seemed to worship him.
Yet, why would it be necessary for an agent to adopt such
a disguise? Why not make up one from whole cloth?
Perhaps it was not necessary, it was just easier, more
convenient. As for an agent encountering the person he
was pretending to be, that was highly unlikely.
There were so many potentialities, so many questions to
be answered.
Alice said, "Dick! What's the matter?"
He came out of his reverie with a start. Everybody except
his crew and the man whose boat had been stolen had fled.
The man looked as if he would like to ask for reparations
but was hesitating because he had no one to back him up.
A wind was whipping the waves of The River and ruffling
the thatches of the huts. The Snark thumped against the
bumpers of its dock. The light had gone from brownish-
yellow to pale grey, making the faces around him even
more ghastly. Across the water lightning flashed its
fiery tooth, and thunder bellowed like a bear in a cave.
Kazz and Besst were obviously longing for him to give the
word to look for shelter. The others were only somewhat
less nervous.
"I was thinking," he said. "You asked what we'd do if
King John doesn't have room for us? Well, monarchs have
means for making room if they wish to do so. And if he
refuses, I'll find some way to get aboard. I'm not going
to be stopped by anything or anybody!"
Lightning struck nearby, cracking as if the back of the
world had broken. Kazz and Besst led the headlong flight
for the nearest building.
Burton, standing in the heavy rain that had immediately
followed the bolt, laughed at them.
He shouted, "On to the Dark Tower!"
                           28
IN THE DREAM, PETER JAIRUS FRIGATE WAS GROPING THROUGH A
fog. He was naked; somebody had stolen his clothes. He
had to get home before the sun rose and burned the fog
off and exposed him to the derision of the world.
The grass was wet and scratchy. After a while he got
tired of walking on the shoulder of the road, and he
stepped onto the asphalt pavement. Now and then, as he
trudged along, the fog would thin a little, and he could
see the trees to his right.
Somehow, he knew that he was far out in the country. Home
was a long way off. But if he walked fast enough, he
could make it before dawn. Then he'd have to get into the
house without waking his parents. The doors and windows
would be locked, which meant that he'd have to throw
pebbles against the second-story window in the back. The
rattle might wake his brother, Roosevelt.
But his brother, though only eighteen, was already a
heavy drinker, a skirt chaser, roaring around on his
motorcycle with his sideburned, leather-jacketed dese-and-
dem pals from the Hiram Walker Distillery. This was
Sunday morning, and so he'd be snoring away, filling the
small attic bedroom he shared with Peter with stinking
whiskey fumes.
Roosevelt was named after Theodore, not Franklin Delano,
whom his father hated. James Frigate abominated "the man
in the White House" and loved The Chicago Tribune, which
was delivered on the doorstep every Sunday. His oldest
son loathed the editorials, the whole tone of the paper,
except for the comics. Ever since he had learned to read,
he'd eagerly awaited every Sunday morning, right after
the cocoa, pancakes, bacon, and eggs, for the adventures
of Chester Gump and his pals in quest of the city of
gold; Moon Mullins; Little Orphan Annie and her big Daddy
Warbucks and his pals, the colossal magician Punjab and
the sinister The Asp, and Mr. Am, who looked like Santa
Claus, was as old as the Earth, and could travel in time.
And then there was Barney Google and Smilin' Jack and
Terry and the Pirates. Delightful!
And what was he doing thinking about those great comic-
strip characters while walking naked along a country road
in dark, wet-with-evil clouds? It wasn't difficult to
figure out why. They brought a sense of warmth and
security, happiness even, his belly filled with his
mother's good cooking, the radio turned on low, his
father sitting in the best chair reading the opinions of
"Colonel Blimp." Peter would be sprawling on the living
room floor with the comics page spread out before him,
his mother bustling around in the kitchen feeding his two
younger brothers and his infant sister. Little Jeannette,
whom he loved so much and who would grow up and go
through three husbands and innumerable lovers and a
thousand fifths of whiskey, the curse of the Frigates.
All that was ahead, fading now from his mind, absorbed by
the fog. Now he was dwelling in the front room, happy . .
. no, it too faded away ... he was outside the house, in
the backyard, naked and shivering with the cold and the
terror of being caught without his clothes and no way of
explaining why it happened. He was throwing pebbles
against the window, hoping their rattle wouldn't wake up
his little brothers and sister sleeping in the tiny
bedroom below and to one side of the attic bedroom.
The house had once been a one-room country schoolhouse
outside the mid-Illinois town of Peoria. But the town had
grown, houses sprang up all around it, and now the city
limits were a half a mile to the north. A second story
and indoor plumbing had been added sometime during the
growth of this area. This was the first house he had
lived in in which there had been an indoor toilet.
Somehow, this once-country house became the farmhouse
near Mexico, Missouri. Here he, at the age of four, had
lived with his mother, father, and younger brother and
the family of the farmer who'd rented out two rooms to
the Frigates.
His father, a civil and electrical engineer (one year in
Rose Polytechnic Institute in Terre Haute, Indiana, and a
diploma from the International Correspondence School) had
worked for a year at the generating plant in Mexico. It
was in the farmyard behind the farmhouse that Peter had
been horrified on realizing that chickens ate animals and
he ate chickens that ate animals. That had been the first
revelation that this world was founded on cannibalism.
That was not right, he thought. A cannibal was a creature
that ate its own kind. He turned over and passed back
into sleep, vaguely aware that he had been half-waking
between segments of this dream and mulling over each
before passing on to the next. Or he had been redreaming
the entire dream each time. In one night he would have
the same dream several times. Or a dream would recur a
number of times over several years.
The series was his specialty in dreams or in fiction. At
one time, during his writing career, he had twenty-one
series going. He'd completed ten of them. The others were
still waiting, cliff-hangers all, when that great editor
in the skies arbitrarily canceled all of them.
As in life, so in death. He could never-never? Well,
hardly ever-finish anything. Hie great uncompleted. He'd
first become aware of that when, a troubled youth, he had
poured out his torments and anxieties onto his college
freshman advisor, who also happened to be his psychology
teacher.
The professor, what was his name? O'Brien? He was a
short, slim youth with a fiery manner and even fierier
red hair. And he always wore a bow tie.
And now Peter Jairus Frigate was walking along in the fog
and there was no sound except for the hooting of a
distant owl. Suddenly, a motor was roaring, two lights
shone faintly ahead of him, then brightly, and the motor
screamed as he screamed. He dived to one side, floating,
slowly floating, while the black bulk of the automobile
sped slowly toward him. As he inched through the air, his
arms flailing, he turned his head toward it. Now he could
see, beyond the glare of its lights, that it was a
Duesenberg, the long low, classy roadster driven by Gary
Grant in the movie he's seen last week, Topper. A
shapeless mass sat behind the wheel, its only visible
features its eyes. They were the pale-blue eyes of his
German grandmother, his mother's mother, Wilhelmina
Kaiser.
Then he was screaming because the car had swerved and
headed directly toward him and there was no way he could
escape being hit.
He woke up moaning. Eve said,sleepily, "Did you have a
bad . . . ?" and she subsided into mumbles and a gentle
snoring.
Peter got out of bed, a short-legged structure with a
bamboo frame and rope supports for a mattress made of
cloths magnetically attached around treated leaves. The
earthen floor was covered with attached cloths. The
windows were paned with the ising-glasslike intestinal
membrane of the hormfish. Their squares shone faintly
with the reflected light from the night sky.
He stumbled to the door, opened it, walked outside, and
urinated. Rain still dripped from the thatched roof.
Through a pass in the hills, he could see a fire blazing
under the roof of a sentinel tower. It outlined the form
of a guard leaning on the railing and looking down The
River. The flames also shone on the masts and rigging of
a boat he had never seen before. The other guard wasn't
on the tower, which meant that he would be down by the
boat. He'd be questioning the boat's skipper. It must be
all right, since there were no alarm drums beating.
Back in bed, he considered the dream. Its chronology was
mixed up, which was par for dreams. For one thing, in
1937, brother Roosevelt had been only sixteen. The
motorcycle, the distillery job, and the peroxided blondes
were still two years away. The family wasn't even living
in that house anymore. It had moved to a newer, larger
house a few blocks away.
There was that amorphous, sinister dark mass in the car,
the thing with his grandmother's eyes. What did that
mean? It wasn't the first time he had been horrified by a
black hooded thing with Grandma Kaiser's almost colorless
blue eyes. Nor the first time he'd tried to figure out
why she appeared in such horrendous guise.
He knew that she had come from Galena, Kansas to Terre
Haute to help his mother take care of him just after he'd
been born. His mother had told him that his grandmother
had also taken care of him when he was five. He didn't
remember, however, ever seeing her before the age of
twelve, when she had come to this house for a visit. But
he was convinced that she had done something awful to him
when he was an infant. Or it was something which had
seemed awful. Yet she was a kindly old lady, though
inclined to get hysterical. Nor did she have any control
at all over her daughter's children when they were left
in her care.
Where was she now? She'd died at about seventy-seven
after a long and painful siege of stomach cancer. But
he'd seen photographs of her when she was twenty. A
petite blonde whose eyes looked a lively blue, not the
washed-out red-veined things he remembered. The mouth was
thin and tight, but all the adults in her family were
grim lipped. Those brown-toned photogravures displayed
faces that looked as if they 'd had a very tough time but
would never break under the strain.
The Victorians, judging by their photographs, were a hard-
nosed, stiff-spined lot. His German grandma's family had
been made of the same stern stuff. Persecuted by their
Lutheran neighbors and the authorities because they had
converted to the Baptist church, they left Oberellen,
Thuringia for the land of promise. (Peter's family on
both sides had always opted for the religion of the
minority, usually a somewhat crank religion. Maybe they
were trouble seekers.)
After years of moving from one place to another, never
finding a single street paved with gold, after
backbreaking labor, soul-searing poverty, and the deaths
of many children and finally of parents and grandparents,
the Kaisers had made it. They had become well-to-do
fanners near, or owners of machine shops in, Kansas City.
Was it worth it? The survivors said that it was.
Wilhelmina had been a pretty, blue-eyed blonde of ten
when she had come to America. At eighteen she had married
a Kansan twenty years older than she, probably to escape
poverty. It was said that old Bill Griffiths was part-
Cherokee and that he had been one of Quantrill's
guerrillas, but there was a lot of malarkey in Peter's
family on both sides. They were always trying to make
themselves look better, or worse, than they really were.
Whatever old Bill's past, Peter's mother never wanted to
talk about it. Maybe he was just a horse thief.
Where was Wilhelmina now? She'd no longer be the
wrinkled, bent old women he'd known. She'd be a good-
looking, shapely wench, though still with the vacuous
blue eyes and still speaking English with a heavy German
accent. If he should run across.her, would he recognize
her? Not likely. And if he did, what could he find out
from her about the traumas she'd inflicted on her infant
grandson? Nothing. She wouldn't remember what would have
been minor incidents to her. Or, if she did, she surely
wasn't going to admit that she had ever mistreated him.
If indeed the dark deed had ever been done.
During a brief stint of psychoanalysis, Peter had tried
to break through the thick shadows of repressed memory to
the primal drama in which his grandmother played such an
important role. The effort had failed. More extended
attempts in dianetics and scientology had resulted in
zilch also. He had kept on sliding past the traumatic
episodes, like a monkey on a greased pole, on past his
birth and into previous lives.
After being a woman giving birth in a medieval castle, a
dinosaur, a prevertebrate in the postprimal ocean, and an
eighteenth-century passenger in a stage coach going
through the Black Forest, Peter had abandoned
scientology.
The fantasies were interesting, and they revealed
something of his character. But his grandmother evaded
him.
Here, on The Riverworld, he had tried dreamgum as a
weapon to pierce the thick shadows. Under the guidance of
a guru, he had chewed half a stick, a heavy load, and
dived after the pearl hidden in the depths of his
unconscious. When he woke from some horrible visions, he
found his guru, battered and bloody, unconscious on the
floor of the hut. There was no mystery about who had done
this deed.
Peter had left the area after making sure that his guide
would live without serious aftereffects. He could not
stay in the area nor could he feel anything but guilt and
shame whenever he saw his guru. The fellow had been very
forgiving, had, in fact, been willing to continue the
sessions-if Peter was tied up during them.
He could not face the violence that he felt dwelt deep
within him. It was this fear of violence in himself that
made him so afraid of violence in others.
The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in the stars but in our
lousy genes. Or in failure of one's conquest of one's
self. The fault, dear Brutus, is in our fear of knowing
our self. The next, almost inevitable, scene in this
drama of recollection was the seduction of Wilhelmina.
How easy to think of this fantasy as potentially real,
since it was possible that he would meet her. After some
mutual questioning, they would discover that they were
grandmother and grandson. Then the long talk with her
telling what had happened to her daughter and her husband
(Peter's father) and her grandchildren and great-
grandchildren and great-greatgrandchildren. Would she be
horrified when she found that a great-granddaughter had
married a Jew? Undoubtedly. Anyone of rural stock born in
1880 was bound to be deeply prejudiced. Or what if he
told her that his sister had married a Japanese? Or that
a brother and a first cousin had married Catholics? Or
that a great-granddaughter had converted to Catholicism?
Or that a great-grandson had become a Buddhist?
On the other hand, The Riverworld might have changed her
attitudes, as it had done to so many. However, many more
were as psychologically fossilized as when they had lived
on Earth.
To get on to the fantasy.
After a few drinks and long talk, bed?
Rationally, one could not object to incest here. There
would be no children.
But when did people ever think rationally in such
situations?
No, the thing to do would be to say nothing about their
relationship until after they'd been to bed.
The construction crumbled then. To reveal that would make
her grievously ashamed. It would be cruel. And no matter
how much he wanted revenge, he could not do that to her.
To anyone. Besides, it would be revenge for some act that
he only thought might have been committed. Even if it had
occurred, it might have been something only a child would
have thought terrible. Or something misinterpreted in his
infant mind. Or something that she, being aproduct of her
times, would have thought only natural.
It was exciting to think about laying your grandmother.
But, in reality, it just wouldn't happen. He was sexually
drawn only to intelligent women, and his grandmother had
been an ignorant peasant. Vulgar, too, though not in an
obscene or irreligious way. He remembered when she was
eating with the family on a Thanksgiving holiday. She'd
sneezed, the snot had landed on her blouse, and she had
wiped it off with her hand and deposited it on her skirt.
His father had laughed, his mother had looked stricken,
and he had lost his appetite.
There went the whole fantasy, dissolved in disgust.
Still, she might have changed.
To hell with it, he told himself, and he turned on his
side and went to sleep.
                           29
DRUMS BEAT, AND WOODEN TRUMPETS BLEW. PETER FRIGATE WOKE
up in the midst of another dream. It was three months
after Pearl Harbor, and he was an air cadet at Randolph
Field being chewed out by his flight instructor.
The lieutenant, a tall young man with a thin moustache
and big feet, was almost as hysterical as Grandma Kaiser.
' "The next time you turn left when I tell you to turm
right, Frigate, I'm bringing us in right now, cutting the
goddamn flight, and I'm refusing to go up with you! You
can get an instructor who doesn't give a shit if his dumb
student kills him or not! Jesus Christ, Frigate, we
coulda been killed! Didn't you see that plane on your
left! Are you suicidal! That's all right with me, but
don't take me and two others with you! And do it on your
own time, off the field, and not with government
property! What the hell is the matter with you, Frigate!
Do you hate me!"
"I coudn't hear you, sir," Peter said. Though he was
sweating in the heavy flight clothes in the warm room, he
was shivering and he felt a painful urge to urinate. "I
just can't seem to hear through those tubes."
"There's nothing wrong with the tubes! I could hear you
all right! And there's nothing wrong with your ears! You
had a medical checkup only two weeks ago, didn't you? All
you pissy-assed cadets are examined when you transfer
here! Aren't you?"
Peter nodded and said, "Yes sir, just like you were."
The lieutenant, his face red, eyes bugging, said, "What
do you mean by that? Are you saying I was a pissy-assed
cadet?"
"No, sir," Peter said, feeling the sweat pour out from
his arrjipits. "I would never say 'pissy-assed' in
reference to you, sir."
"What would you say?" the lieutenant said, almost
screaming.
Peter looked from the corners of his eyes at the other
cadets and instructors. Most of them were paying no
attention or pretending not to. Some were grinning.
"I would never mention you," Peter said.
"What? Because I'm not worth mentioning, is that it?
Frigate, you try me! I don't like your attitude on the
ground or in the air. But to get back to the subject
despite all your efforts to avoid it! Why in hell can't
you hear me when I can hear you? Is it because you don't
want to hear me?
"Well, that's dangerous, Frigate! It's frightening, too.
You scare the hell out of me! Do you know how many of
those stubby-winged BT-12's spin in every week? Those
sons of bitches have got a builtin spin, cadet. Even when
an instructor tells his ape-brained student to spin it
deliberately, and he's got his hand on the stick, ready
to take over, the sons of bitches sometimes still keep on
spinning!
"So I sure as hell don't want to tell you to turn right
and have you think I'm telling you to spin her and catch
me off guard. You could have us twenty feet deep in the
ground before I could take to the chute! Okay, what is
the matter with your ears?"
"I don't know," Peter said miserably. "Maybe it's wax.
Wax builds up in my ears. It's a family trait, sir. I
have to have the wax blown out every six months."
"I'll blow out more than wax out of another place than
your ears, mister! Didn't the doctor check out your ears?
Sure he did! So don't tell me it's wax! You just don't
want to hear me! And why? God knows why! Or maybe you
hate me so much you don't care if you die just so you
take me with you? Is that it?"
Peter would not have been surprised to see the lieutenant
foaming at the mouth.
"No, sir."
"No, sir, what?"
"No, sir, to any of that."
"You mean you're denying everything? You did turn left
when I said turn right, didn't you? Don't tell me I'm a
liar!"
"No, sir."
The lieutenant paused, then said, "Why are you smiling,
Frigate?"
"I didn't know I was," Peter said. That was true. He was
really in mental and physical distress. So why had he
smiled?
"You're crazy, Frigate!" the lieutenant shouted. A
captain, standing behind him, frowned. But he made no
move to interfere.
"I don't want to see you again, Frigate, until you have a
written testimonial from a doctor that your ears are
okay. Do you hear that?"
Peter nodded. "
"Yes, sir, I hear you."
"You're grounded until I get that report. But I want it
at flight time, tomorrow, when I take you up again, God
help me!"
"Yes, sir," Peter said and almost saluted. That would
have been another excuse for the instructor to ream him
out. Saluting was not done in the flight room.
He looked back as he checked in his parachute. The
captain and the lieutenant were talking earnestly. What
were they saying about him? That he ought to be washed
out?
Maybe he should be. He really couldn't hear his
instructor. Only half of the lieutenant's frenzied gabble
came through intelligibly on the tubes. It wasn't because
of wax. Or the high altitude. Or anything physically
wrong with his hearing.
It would be years later before he knew that he just did
not want to hear the lieutenant.
"He was right," Peter said.
"Who was right?" Eve said. She was sitting up in bed,
leaning on one arm, looking down at him. Her body was
covered with thick varicolored towels tabbed together,
and the hood still shrouded her face.
Peter sat up and stretched. The inside of the hut was
dark; the drums and bugles along the bank sounded
faintly. Nearby, a neighbor was banging on his fish-skin-
and-bamboo drum as if he were trying to wake up the whole
world. "Nothing."
"You were groaning and mumbling." "Earth is always with
us," he said, and he left her to figure that out for
herself. With him he took the thunder mug to the neighbor
hood deposit hut which was about a hundred paces away.
There he greeted a score of men and women, all on the
same task. They dumped the contents of the pots into a
large bamboo wagon. After breakfast, this would be hauled
out of the building by a team of men into the foothills
to the base of a mountain. There the excrement would be
treated to make potassium for black gunpowder. Frigate
worked two days a month there and four days on the
sentinel towers. A grailstone was just on the other side
of the hill on which their hut stood. Usually, he and Eve
took their grails to it. This morning, however, he wanted
to talk to the crew of the boat that had arrived during
the night. Eve would not object if he went by himself,
since she had to finish stringing necklaces of hornfish
vertebrae, varicolored helical bones in demand as
ornaments. She and Frigate traded them for tobacco and
liquor and flints. Frigate also made boomerangs and,
occasionally, dugouts and canoes.
Frigate carried his grail with his left hand and his yew-
wood flint-tipped spear in the other. A fish-skin belt
around his waist held a sheath containing a chert axe. A
quiver of arrows, flint tipped and fletched with thin,
carved bones, was slung over one shoulder. A bow of yew,
wrapped in bamboo paper, was strapped to the quiver to
protect it from the early-morning moisture.
The little state of which he was a citizen, Ruritania,
was not at war or under threat of war. The law requiring
that all have their weapons handy was a hangover from the
old days of turbulence. Obsolete laws had almost as hard
a time dying here as on Earth.
Social inertia was everywhere, though its resistance to
change varied from state to state.
Frigate walked among the huts spread out over the plain.
Hundreds, covered like him from foot to head against the
chill, joined him. About a half-hour after the sun rose,
they began to shed their cloths. While eating breakfast,
Frigate looked for new faces. There were fifteen, all
from the newly arrived schooner, the Razzle Dazzle. They
sat in a group, eating and talking to those interested in
the newcomers. Peter sat down by them to watch and
listen.
The captain, Martin Fairington, also known as the Frisco
Kid, was a muscular man of medium height. His handsome
face looked Irish. His hair was reddish-bronze and curly;
his eyes, large and deep blue; his chin, strong. He
talked energetically, smiling often, cracking jokes. His
Esperanto was fluent but not perfect, and it was evident
that he preferred English.
The first mate, Tom Rider, also known as Tex, stood about
5.08 centimeters or 2 inches shorter than Frigate's 1.8
meter or 6 feet.
He was what the pulp magazine writers of Frigate's youth
called "ruggedly handsome." Not as muscular as the
captain, he moved quickly though gracefully with a
confidence that Frigate envied. His dark hair was
straight and if his tanned skin had been two shades
browner, he could have passed for an Onondaga Indian. His
Esperanto was perfect, but, like Farrington, he was
pleased to find some English-speakers in the crowd. His
voice was a pleasant baritone which combined a
Southwestern drawl with a Midwestern pronunciation.
Frigate learned much about the crew just by listening to
their uninhibited account of themselves. They were the
usual motley collection met on the larger boats that
wandered up and down The River. The captain's woman was a
nineteenth-century South American Caucasian; the first
mate's, a citizen of the Roman city of Aphrodita of the
second century a.d. Frigate remembered that its ruins had
been discovered by archaeologists in Turkey sometime
around the 1970's.
Two of the crew were Arabs. One was Nur el-Musafir (The
Traveler). The other had been the wife of a captain of a
South Arabian ship which had traded with the southwest
African empire of Monomotapa in the twelfth century a.d.
The Chinese crewman had ended his Earthly life by
drowning when Kubla Khan's invasion fleet was destroyed
by a storm enroute to Japan.
There were two eighteenth-centurians, Edmund Tresillian,
a Cornishman who lost a leg-in 1759 during the capture of
Hood's Vestal of the French Bellona off Cape Finisterre.
Pensionless, and with a wife and seven children, he was
reduced to begging. Caught stealing a purse, he died in
prison of a fever while waiting for his trial. The second
man, "Red" Cozens, had been a midshipman on the Wager, a
rebuilt Indiaman merchant accompanying Admiral Anson' s
flotilla on its voyage around the world. It had been
wrecked off the coast of Patagonia. After innumerable
sufferings and hardships, part of its crew had gotten to
civilization, where the Spanish government of Chile
imprisoned them for a while. However, poor Cozens had
been shot and killed by a Captain Cheap a few days after
the wreck in the mistaken belief that he was a mutineer.
John Byron, the poet's grandfather, also a midshipman
then, had criticized Cheap for this in The Narrative of
the Honourable John Byron (Commodore in a Late EXPEDITION
round the WORLD) Containing An Account of the Great
Distresses Suffered by Himself and His Companions on the
Coast of Patagonia, from the Year 1740, till their
Arrival in England, 1746, etc., London, 1768.
Frigate had owned a first edition of this book, in which
he had found a description of an animal encountered by
Byron which had to be a giant sloth.
He would have liked to have run across Byron. The little
man had to have been incredibly tough to survive his
experiences. Later, he had become an admiral, nicknamed
"Foul Weather Jack" by his sailors. Just about every time
he put out to sea, his fleet was hit by a bad storm.
Other interesting crew members were a late-twentieth-
century Rhode Island millionaire and yachtsman; an
eighteenth-century Turk, a bos'n's mate who had died of
syphilis, a common sailor's disease then; and Abigail
Rice, Earthly wife of an early-nineteenth-century second
mate on a New Bedford whaler. Binns, the yachtsman, and
Mustafa, the Turk, were obviously in love with each
other.
As Peter would find out later, Cozens, Tresillian, and
Chang shared Abigail Rice. This made Frigate wonder what
she had been doing while her husband was spending two to
three years chasing whales. Perhaps nothing she shouldn't
have been doing. Perhaps she had been so sexually starved
on Earth that she had exploded here.
And then there was Umslopogaas. Pogaas for short. He was
a Swazi, son of a king of that South African nation which
had been enemies of the great Zulu people. He had lived
during the expansion of the British and the Boers and the
conquests of the bloody military genius, Shaka. On Earth,
he had killed twelve warriors in duels; here, at least
fifty.
He would have been unnoticed by history, despite his
fighting prowess, if he had not happened to be attached
in his old age to the mission of Sir Theophilus
Shepstone. With Shepstone was a young man, H. Rider
Haggard, who had been much attracted by the stately
figure and the tall stories of the old Swazi. Haggard was
to immortalize Umslopogaas in three novels, Nada the
Lily, She and Allen, and Allan Quatermain. However, he
made the Swazi a Zulu, which must have disturbed his
model.
Now Pogaas lounged near the ship, leaning on a long-
handled war-axe of flint. He was tall and slim and his
legs were extraordinarily long. His features were not
Negroid but Hamitic, thin lipped, hawk nosed, and high
cheek boned. He seemed friendly enough, but there was
something about his bearing that told all but the most
insensitive that he was not to be trifled with. He was
also the only person on the crew who did not help handle
the ship. His specialty was fighting.
Frigate was tinkled pink, when he discovered the identity
of this man. Imagine that! Umslopogaas!
After talking to various crew members, Frigate went back
to a spot near the two officers. From what he heard, they
were in no hurry to get to any particular place. The
captain did, however, comment that he would like to get
to the headwaters of The River some day. Which was, to
say, in a hundred years or so.
Frigate finally spoke up, asking the captain and Rider
about their Terrestrial origins. Farrington said he'd
been born in California, but he gave no birthdate or
place. Rider said he'd been born in Pennsylvania in 1880.
Yes, he had spent a lot of time, most of his life, in
fact, in the West.
Frigate swore softly. He had thought the two looked
familiar. However, they wore their hair longer than on
Earth and the lack of Terrestrial clothes gave them a
different appearance. What Rider needed was a big white
ten-gallon hat and a flashy pseudo-Western coat and
breeches and a pair of ornamented cowboy's boots. And a
horse to sit upon.
As a child, Frigate had seen him in just such garments
and on a horse. That had been during a parade preceding a
circus-Sells and Floto? Never mind. Frigate had stood
with his father on Adams Street, just south of the
courthouse, and waited eagerly for his favorite Western
film hero to ride by. And so the hero had, but, being
drunk, he had fallen off his horse. Unhurt, he had swung
into the saddle again, riding off to the mingled laughter
and cheers of the crowd. He must have sobered up after
that, for he gave a great demonstration of riding and
roping in the Wild West Show following the main events.
At that time, Frigate regarded drunkards as moral lepers
and thus should have been completely disillusioned about
Rider. But his worship of Rider was so intense that he
was willing to forgive him. What a little prig he'd been!
Frigate was well acquainted with Farrington's portrait
since he'd seen it so many times in biographies and on
the back of dust jackets. Frigate had begun reading his
works at the age of ten, and when he was fifty-seven he
had contributed a foreword to a collection of
Farrington's fantasies and science fiction,
For some reason, both his heroes were traveling under
false names. He, Peter Frigate, was not going to expose
them-not unless he had to. No, he wouldn't do it even
then, but if he were forced to threaten them with
exposure, he would do so. He'd do almost anything to get
aboard the Razlle Dazzle.
After a while, the Frisco Kid announced that he and Tex
would now interview anyone who'd like to sign on as a
deckhand. Two folding chairs were set up on the end of
the dock, and the "employment" line formed in front of
the seated officers. Frigate immediately got into the
line. Three men and a woman were ahead of him. This gave
him a chance to listen to the questioning and to decide
what he would tell his prospective employers.
                           30
The Frisco Kid, sitting on a folding bamboo chair and
smoking a cigarette, ran his eyes up and down Frigate.
"Peter Jairus Frigate, heh? American. Midwest. Right? You
look strong enough, but what's-your nautical experience?"
"Not much on Earth," Peter said. "I used to sail a small
boat on the Illinois River. But I've done a lot here. I
sailed on a large single-masted catamaran for three years
and I put in a year on a two-masted-schooner like yours."
That was a lie. He'd only shipped on the two-master for
three months. But that was enough for him to know,
literally, the ropes.
"Hm. Did these ships make short local trips or were they
on long voyages?"
"Long ones," Frigate said. He was glad he hadn't referred
to the vessels as boats. Some sailors were very touchy
about the distinction between "boats" and "ships." For
Frigate, anything on a river was a boat. But Farrington
was a seafaring man, even if there were no more seas.
"In those areas," he added, "the wind was usually from up-
River. So we were sailing close-hauled most of the time."
"Yeah, anybody can sail with the wind," Martin Farrington
said.
" Why do you want to sign up?" Rider asked suddenly.
"Why? I'm fed up with life here. Rather, I'm dissatisfied
with doing the same old thing day after day. I ..."
"You know how it is on a ship," Farrington said. "It's
cramped, and you spend most of your time with just a few
people. And it's pretty much the same old thing day after
day."
"I know that, of course," Frigate said. "Well, I'd like
to travel to the end of The River, for one thing. The
catamaran I was on was going there, but it got burned
during an attack by slavers. The schooner was sunk by a
dragonfish while we were helping some locals fish for it.
It was Moby Dick and the Pequod all over again."
"You were Ishmael?" Rider said.
Frigate looked at him. Rider was supposed to have been
able to quote great chunks of Shakespeare, to be well
read indeed. But that could have been Hollywood publicity
crap.
"You mean, was I the lone survivor? No, six of us got to
shore. It was scary, though."
"Was . . . ?"
Farrington stopped, cleared his throat, and looked at
Rider. Rider raised thick, dark eyebrows. Farrington was
evidently considering how to rephrase the question.
"Who were the captains of these two crafts?"
"The catamaran captain was a Frenchman named DeGrasse.
The schooner captain was a rough son-of-a-bitch named
Larsen. A Norwegian of Danish birth. He'd been captain of
a sealer, I believe."
Nothing he said about Larsen was true. But Peter couldn't
resist testing Farrington's reaction.
The captain's eyes narrowed, then he smiled. He said
slowly, "Was Larsen nicknamed Wolf?"
Peter kept his face blank. He wasn't falling for that
trap. If Farrington thought that he was trying to tell
him circuitously that he recognized him, Farrington would
not take him on.
"No. If he had a nickname, it was 'Bastard.' He was about
six and a half feet tall and very dark for a
Scandinavian. His eyes were as black as an Arab's. Did
you know him?"
Farrington relaxed. He dubbed out his cigarette on a
baked-clay ashtray, and lit up another. Rider said, "How
good are you with that bow?"
"I've been practicing for thirty years. I'm no Robin
Hood, but I can shoot six arrows in twenty seconds with
reasonable accuracy. I' ve studied the martial arts for
twenty years. I never look for a fight and I avoid one if
it's possible. But I've been in about forty major actions
and a lot of minor ones. I've been badly wounded four
times."
Rider said, "When were you born?"
"In 1918."
Martin Farrington looked at Rider, then said, " I suppose
you saw a lot of movies when you were a kid?"
"Didn't everybody?"
"And what about your education?"
"I got a B. A. in English literature with a minor in
philosophy and I was a compulsive reader. Lord, how I
miss reading!"
"Me, too," Farrington said.
There was a pause. Rider said, "Well, our memories of
Earth get dimmer every day."
Which meant that if Frigate had seen Rider in the films
and Farrington on the dust jackets of books, he did not
remember them. The captain's question about his education
might, however, have a double interest. He would want a
crewman who could talk intelligently about many matters.
On Earth, Farrington's forecastle companions had been
brutal and illiterate, not exactly his soulmates. So, for
that matter, had been most of the people he knew until he
had gone to college.
"We seem to have about ten in all to interview,''
Farrington said. "We'll make our choice after we've
talked to everybody. We'll let you know before noon."
Peter wanted desperately to be chosen, but he was afraid
that too much eagerness might put them off. Since they
we're, for some reason, traveling under pseudonyms, they
might be wary of someone who was trying too hard to sign
on. Why, he did not know.
"One thing we forgot," Rider said. "We don't have room
for more than one hand. You can't take your woman along.
Is that okay?"
"No problem."
"You can take turns with Abigail," Rider said. "If you
don't mind sharing with three others. And if she likes
you, of course. But she hasn't shown many antipathies so
far."
"She's a luscious woman," Peter said. "But that sort of
thing doesn't appeal to me."
"Mustafa kind of likes you," Farrington said, grinning.
"He's been eyeing you."
Frigate looked at the Turk, who winked, and he blushed.
"That appeals even less."
"Just make that plain, and you won't be bothered by him
or Binns," Farrington said. "I'm no homo, but I saw a lot
of buggery. Any man who sails under the mast has; every
ship, naval or commercial, has been a viper's nest of
sodomy since Noah. Those two are real he-men, aside from
their lack of interest in the fair sex. And they're damn
good sailors. So just tell them to back off. If, that is,
we accept you. But I don't want any bitching about being
hard up. You can catch up when we go ashore, and if we
lose a man you can get a woman for your bunkmate. She has
to be a good sailor, though. Everyone pulls his weight on
this ship."
"Abigail's looking more appealing by the second," Frigate
said.
Farrington and.Rider laughed, and Frigate moved on.
For a while, he stood by the dock area. This was a
shallow bay which had been hacked with much labor out of
the bank. Stone cut from the base of the mountains had
been carried down here and used to line the shore. Wooden
docks had been extended from the bank, but these held
mainly small catboats, lugboats, and catamarans. Two
giant rafts with masts were tied up here, too. These were
used for dragonfishing. A number of warcanoes, capable of
holding forty men each, were beached near the rafts.
Canoes and rowboats were putting out now for fishing. By
noon, The River would be heavily salted with small and
large boats.
The Razzle Dazzle was too large to fit within the piers.
It was anchored near the mouth of the bay behind a
breakwater of large black rocks. It was a beautiful ship,
long and low, built of oak and pine. There wasn't a nail
in it, and the pegs had been cut with flint. The sails
were made of treated outer skin of the dragonfish, so
thin they were translucent. The oaken figurehead was a
full-busted mermaid holding a torch.
The ship was a wonder, and the wonder was how its crew
had managed to avoid having it taken from them. Many had
been murdered for much lesser craft.
Feeling anxious, he walked past Farrlngton and Rider. The
interviews were by no means over. Word had gotten around,
and now there were about twenty men and ten women waiting
in line. If this continued, the questioning might take
all day. There was nothing he could do about it, so he
shrugged and went back home. Eve was gone, which was just
as well. There was no need to tell her what he was doing
until he found out if he was leaving. If he was turned
down, he'd say nothing to her.
Part of his duty as a Ruritanian citizen was to assist in
alcohol-making. He might as well work off a half-day
today. The labor would help keep him from worrying. He
walked through the passes between the hills until these
gave out. There were four more hills to climb, each
increasingly higher. The trees were thicker here; the
huts, fewer. Presently he was on top of the highest hill,
which was at the base of the mountain. Its smooth stone
ran straight up for an estimated 1228 meters or about
6000 feet. A waterfall thundered about 91 meters or 100
yards away, spilling thousands of liters a minute into a
pool. From this, the water ran in a broad channel which
would thread a course through the hills to The River.
Frigate passed by the fires, the wooden, glass, and stone
equipment , and the odor of alcohol. He climbed up a
bamboo ladder until he was on a platform placed against
an area of stone from which lichen had not yet been
removed. He reported to a foreman, who gave him a chert
scraper. The foreman took from a rack a pine stick with
Frigate's initials cut into it. It bore alternating
horizontal and vertical lines, the former indicating the
days he'd worked, the latter the number of months.
"Next year you'll be using a stick to scrape off the
stuff," the foremen said. "We'll be saving the chert and
flint for weapons."
Peter nodded and went to work.
In time, the supply of flint would be exhausted.
Technology on The Riverworld would go backward. Instead
of progressing from a wooden to a stone age, humanity
would reverse the procedure.
Frigate wondered how he was going to get his flint-tipped
weapons out of the state. If he sailed on Farrington' s
craft he would, according to the law, have to leave his
precious stones behind.
The time put in by Frigate on this work was estimated by
the foreman. Except for the sun, there were few clocks of
any type. The little glass available was used in the
alcohol-making process, so there were not even
hourglasses. For that matter, the sand used to make the
glass had been imported from a state 800 kilometers down-
River. That had cost Rumania several boatloads of tobacco
and booze and piles of dragonfish and hornfish skins and
bones. The tobacco and alcohol had been contributed by
the citizens from their grails. Frigate had given up
smoking and drinking for two months during this time of
sacrifice. When it was over, he continued his abstinence
from smoking, trading his cigarettes and cigars for
whiskey. But, as had happened on Earth and here, he had
slipped back into the arms of Demon Nicotine.
He worked hard, scraping off the thick green-blue plant
growth from the black rock and stuffing it into the
bamboo buckets. Others lowered the buckets on ropes to
the ground, where their contents were dumped into vats.
Shortly before noon, he knocked off for the lunch hour.
Before going down the ladders, he looked out over the
hills. Far below, the white hull of the RazzleDazzle
shone in the bright sun. Somehow, he was going to be on
it when it up-anchored.
Peter walked back to the hut, noted that Eve wasn't
there, and went on down to the plain. The line of
interviewers did not look any shorter. He passed along
the edge of the plain where its short grass abruptly
stopped and the long grass of the hills began. What made
for the line of demarcation? Were there chemicals in the
hill soil that halted the encroachment of plain grass? Or
was it vice versa? Or both? And why?
The archery range was about half a kilometer south of the
dock area. He practiced shooting at a target of grass on
a bamboo tripod for about thirty minutes. Then he went to
the gymnasium area and ran sprints and made long jumps
and engaged in judo, karate, and spear-fighting for two
hours. At the end of the time, he was sweating and tired.
But he was bursting with joy. It was wonderful to have a
twenty-five-year-old body, the tiredness and feebleness
of middle and old age gone, the aches and pains, the fat,
the hernia, the ulcer, the headaches, the long-
sightedness, all no more. Replacing it, the ability to
run or swim swiftly and far, to feel sexual desire every
night (and a good part of the day).
The worst thing he had done on Earth was to get a desk
job as a technical writer at the age of thirty-eight and
then at fifty-one, to become a fulltime fiction writer.
He should have stayed in the steel mill. It was
monotonous work, but while his body was handling the hot,
heavy work, his mind-was busy dreaming up stories. At
night he would read or write.
It was when he had started to sit on his butt all day
that he had begun drinking so heavily. And his reading
had diminished, too. It was too easy after working on a
typewriter eight hours a day to sit in front of the TV
all evening and swill Bourbon or Scotch. TV, the worst
thing that had happened to the twentieth century. After
the atom bomb and overpopulation, of course.
No, he told himself, that wasn't fair. He didn't have to
be a boob before the tube. He could have used the self-
discipline which enabled him to write to turn the set off
except at highly selected times. But the lotus-eater
syndrome had gotten him. Besides, there were programs on
TV which were really excellent, both entertaining and
educational.
Still, this world was good in that there were no TV's or
automobiles or atom bombs or gross national production or
paychecks or mortgages or medical bills. Or air or water
pollution and almost no dust. And nobody gave a damn
about communism or socialism or capitalism, because they
didn't exist. Well, that was not quite true. Most states
did have a sort of primitive communism.
                           31
HE WALKED TO THE RlVER AND PLUNGED IN, CLEANING OFF THE
sweat. Then he trotted along the bank (no huts allowed
within 30 meters of it) to the dock area. He hung around
until dinnertime, talking to friends. In between, he
watched the two from the Razzle Dazzle. They were still
interviewing, though lubricating their throats with
frequent drinks. Wasn't that line ever going to end?
Just before it was suppertime, Farrington stood up and
announced in a loud voice that he was taking no more
applications. Those still in the line protested, but he
said that he'd had enough.
By then the head of Ruritania, "Baron" Thomas Bullitt,
had appeared with his councillors. Bullitt had had some
small claim to fame in his day. In 1775 he had explored
the Ohio River falls by the area which would become
Louisville, Kentucky. Commissioned by the William and
Mary College of Virginia, he surveyed the area. And
thereafter disappeared from history. His aide-de-camp,
Paulus Buys, a sixteenth-century Dutchman, was with him.
Both invited the crew of the Razzle Dazzle to a parry in
their honor that night. The main reason for the
invitation was to hear the adventures of the crew. River-
dwellers loved gossip and exciting tales, since their
fields of entertainment were limited.
Farrington accepted, but said that six of the crew would
have to stay on the ship as guards. Frigate followed the
crowd to a large roofed-over area, the Town Hall. Torches
and bonfires drove back the darkness, and an orchestra
played while the local variety of square-dancing began.
Frisco and Tex stood around for a while, talking to the
chief statesmen and their wives and close friends.
Frigate, as one of the hoi polloi, was not admitted to
the sacred circle. He knew, however, that the event would
become much less formal later on. While he was standing
in line to get the free liter of pure alcohol allowed per
person at such functions, he was joined by his hutmate.
Eve Bellington waved at him and then got into line twelve
persons behind him. She was tall, full figured, black
haired, blue. eyed, a Georgia peach. Born 1850, died two
days before her one hundred first birthday. Her father
was a wealthy cotton planter with a distinguished record
as a major in the Confederate cavalry. The Bellington
plantation was burned down during Sherman's march through
Georgia, and the Bellingtons had become penniless. Her
father had then gone to California and found enough gold
to buy a partnership in a shipping firm.
Eve had loved being wealthy again, but she still had not
forgiven him for leaving her mother and herself to
struggle through the occupation and the early years of
Reconstruction.
During her father's absence, Eve and her mother had lived
with her father's brother, a handsome man only ten years
older than Eve. He had raped her (without too much
resistance, Eve admitted) when she was fifteen. When her
mother had found that her daughter was pregnant, she had
shot the uncle in the legs and the genitals. He survived
a few years as a crippled eunuch in prison.
Mrs. Bellington then moved to Richmond, Virginia, where
her husband joined them. Eve's son by the uncle grew up
to be tall and handsome, dearly beloved by his mother.
After a furious quarrel with his uncle-grandfather, he
left to seek his fortune in the West. A letter from
Silver City, Colorado, was the last Eve ever heard from
him. He'd disappeared somewhere in the Rockies, according
to a . report sent by a detective.
Her mother had died in a fire, and her father had died of
a heart attack while trying to rescue her mother. Eve's
first husband died of cholera shortly thereafter, and
before she was fifty she had lost two more husbands and
six of her ten children.
Her life was that of a heroine of a novel on which
Margaret Mitchell and Tennessee Williams might have
collaborated. She didn't think it was very funny when
Peter had told her that.
After thirty-plus years on The Riverworld, Eve had gotten
over her prejudice against niggers and her hatred of
bluebellies. She had even fallen in love with a Yankee.
Peter had never told her that his great grandfather had
been with an Indiana regiment on that "infamous" march
with Sherman. He hadn't wanted to strain her affection.
Peter moved on up the line and received the alcohol in
his soapstone mug. He mixed one part of alcohol with
three parts of water in a bamboo bucket and walked back
to talk to Eve, who was still in line. He asked her where
she had been all day. She replied that she had been
wandering around, thinking.
He didn't ask her what her thoughts had been. He knew.
She was trying to think of a way to break off their
relationship without pain. They'd been drifting apart for
some months, their love suddenly and unaccountably
cooled. Peter had done some thinking on this subject
himself. But each was waiting for the other to take the
initiative.
Peter said he would see her later, and he pushed through
the noisy crowd toward Farrington. Rider was on the dance
floor, whooping and whirling with Bullitt's woman. Peter
waited until the captain was through telling about his
adventures in the 1899 Yukon gold rash. Farrington's
tale, which involved losing some of his teeth from
scurvy, somehow became a hilarious experience.
Peter said, "Mr. Fairington, have you made up your mind
yet?"
Farrington paused, his mouth open to launch on another
story. His reddened eyes blinked. He said, "Oh, yes!
You're . . . ah ... um ... named Frigate, right? Peter
Frigate. The one who's read a lot. Yes, Tom and I've made
up our minds. We'll announce our choice some time during
the party."
"I hope it's me," Peter said. "I really want to go with
you."
"Enthusiasm counts for a great deal,'' Farrington said.
"Experience counts for even more. Put the two together,
and you have a fine jack-tar."
Peter breathed deeply and took the plunge.
"This uncertainty is getting me down. Could you at least
tell me if I've been eliminated? If I have been, I can
drown my sorrow."
Farrington smiled. "It really means that much to you?
Why?"
"Well, I do want to get to the end of The River."
Farrington cocked his eyebrows. "Yeah? Do you expect to
find the answers to all your questions there?"
"I don't want millions, I want answers to my questions,"
Peter said. "That's a quotation from a character in
Dostoyevsky's Brothers Karamazov."
Farrington's face lit up.
"That's great! I'd heard of Dostoyevsky but I never had a
chance to read him. I don't think there was an English
translation of his books in my time. At least, I never
ran across any."
"Nietzsche admitted that he'd learned a lot about
psychology just from reading the Russian's novels," Peter
said.
"Nietzsche, hen? You know him well?"
"I've read him in both English and German. He was a great
poet, the only German philosopher who could write in
anything but waterlogged prose. Well, that's not fair,
Schopenhauer could write stuff that wouldn't put you to
sleep or give you a nervous breakdown while you were
waiting for the sentence to end. I don't go along with
Nietzsche's conception of the Ubermensch, though. Man is
a rope across an abyss between animal and superman. That
may not be the exact quotation; it's been a hell of a
long time since I read Thus Spake Zarathustra.
"Anyway, I do believe that man is a rope between animal
and superman. But the superman I'm thinking of isn't
Nietzsche's. The real superhuman, man or woman, is the
person who's rid himself of all prejudices, neuroses,
and.psychoses, who realizes his full potential as a human
being, who acts naturally on the basis of gentleness,
compassion, and love, who thinks for himself and refuses
to follow the herd. That's the genuine dyed-in-the-wool
superman.
"Now, you take the Nietzschean concept of the superman as
embodied in Jack London's novel The Sea Wolf."
Peter paused, then said, "Have you read it?"
Farrington grinned. "Many times. What about Wolf Larsen?"
"I think he was more London's superman than Nietzsche's.
He was London's idea of what the superman ought to be.
Nietzsche would have been appalled by Larsen's brutality.
However, London did kill him off with a brain tumor. And
I suppose that London meant to show by this that there
was something inherently rotten about Larsen as superman.
Maybe he meant to tell the reader that. If he did, it
went over the heads of most of the literary critics. They
never got the significance of Larsen's manner of death.
Then, too, I think London was also showing that man, even
superman, has his roots in his animal nature. He's part
of Nature, and no matter what his mental attainments, no
matter how much he defies Nature, he can't escape the
physical facts. He is an animal, and so he's subject to
disease, such as brain tumors. How are the mighty fallen.
,
"But I think that Wolf Larsen was also, in some respects,
what Jack London would have liked to be. London lived in
a brutal world, and he thought that he had to be a
superbrute to survive. Yet, London had empathy; he knew
what it was to be one of the people of the abyss. He
thought that the masses could find relief from their
sufferings, and realize their human potential, through
socialism. He fought for it all his life. At the same
time, he was a strong individualist. This conflicted with
his socialism, and when it did, his socialist beliefs
lost out. He wasn't any Emma Goldman.
"In fact, his daughter Joan criticized him for that in
her study of his life."
"I didn't know that,'' Farrington said. "She must have
written it after I died. Did you know much about her,
what happened to her after London died, how she died?"
"I knew a London scholar who knew her well," Peter said.
Actually, the scholar had only corresponded with her a
little and had met her briefly. Peter didn't mind
exaggerating if it would get him a berth on the ship.
"She was a very active Socialist. She died in 1971, I
think. Her book about her father was very objective,
especially considering that he had divorced her mother
for a younger woman.
"Anyway, I think that London wanted to be a Wolf Larsen
because that would have made him insensitive to the
world's woes. A man who doesn't feel for others can't be
hurt himself. At least, he thinks he can't. Actually,
he's hurting himself.
"London may have realized this and was, in fact, trying
to put this idea across. At the same time, he wished to
be a Larsen, even if this meant being frozen inside, that
is, a superbrute. But writers have countercurrents in
their psychic sea, as all humans do. That's why, when the
critics have done with them, great writers are still
enigmas. When skies are hanged and oceans drowned, the
single secret will still be man."
"I like that!" Farrington cried. "Who wrote that?"
"e.e. cummings. Another line of his that's a favorite of
mine is: Listen! There's a hell of a good universe next
door. . .Let's go!"
Peter thought that he might be pouring it on too thick.
Farrington, however, seemed to be enjoying it.
Once Frigate was on the ship, he could bring up subjects
which might anger and would certainly irritate
Farrington. For instance, the man's knowledge of
Nietzsche had been gotten mostly from dialogs with a
friend, Strawn-Hamilton. He had apparently made some
attempt to read the philosopher in English. But he had
been so taken by the poetic phrases and the slogans that
he had not taken in the full philosophy. He had picked
what he liked from Nietzsche and ignored the rest-as
Hitler had done. Not that Farrington was any Hitler.
What was it his daughter had said? " "The glad perishers,
"the Superman, "live dangerously!-these were more potent
than wine.' "
As for Farrington's knowledge of socialism, he had not
read anything of Marx's except The Communist Manifesto.
But, as his daughter had said, ignoring Marx was a common
practice among American Socialists then.
There were many other things to discuss-and contemn.
London had wanted socialism only for the benefit of the
Germanic peoples. He firmly believed that men were
superior to women. Might made right. And he was not, in
one sense of the word, a true artist. He wrote only for
money, and if he had enough money would have quit
writing. At least he had claimed he would. Frigate
doubted this. Once a writer, always a writer.
"Well," Peter said, "whatever else can be said against
London, Fred Lewis Patton probably had the final word. He
said it was easy to criticize him, easy to deplore him,
but impossible to avoid him.''
Farrington liked that even more. But he said, "Enough of
London , though I would like to meet him some day.
Listen. Your idea of the superman sounds a lot like the
ideal man of the Church of the Second Chance. It sounds
even more like that of one of my crew, you know, the
little Arab, though he isn't really an Arab. He's a
Spanish Moor, born in the twelfth century a.d. He's not a
Chancer, though."
He pointed to a man Frigate had seen among the crew of
the Razzle Dazzle. He was standing in the center of a
circle of Ruritanians, holding a drink and a cigarette.
His speech seemed to be amusing; at least those around
him were laughing. He was about 163 centimeters or a
little less than 5 feet 5 inches tall, thin but with a
suggestion of wiry strength, very dark, and big nosed. He
looked like a young Jimmy Durante.
"Nur-ed-din el-Musafir," Farrington said. "Nur for
short."
Frigate said, "In Arabic that means Light-of-the-Faith
the-Traveler."
"You know Arabic?" Farrington said. "I never could get
the hang of any foreign language except Esperanto."
"I picked up a lot of words from Burton's Arabian
Nights."
He paused. "Well, what about it? Am I eliminated?"
Farrington said, "Yes and no." He laughed at Frigate's
puzzled expression, and he clapped him on the shoulder.
"Can you keep your mouth shut?"
"Like a Trappist monk."
"Well, I'll tell you, Pete. Tom and I had picked out that
big Kanaka there." He pointed at Mauf, a giant Marquesan,
looking very Polynesian in a white cloth around his waist
and a big dark-red bloom in his thick, black, curly hair.
"He was top's'l man in a whaler and then a harpooner for
thirty years. He looks like he'd be a hellcat in a fight.
Tom and I agreed that he was easily the best qualified.
But he doesn't know anything about books, and I need
educated people around me. That may sound snobbish, but
so what?
"I'll tell you now. I just changed my mind. You're signed
up-as far as I'm concerned. No, wait a minute! Don't look
so happy. I have to talk to Tom about this. You wait.
I'll be right back."
He plunged among the dancers, caught Rider by the hand,
and dragged him off protesting to one side. Peter watched
them talking. Rider looked at him several times but did
not seem to be arguing.
Peter was glad that he had not had to play his trump
card. If he hadn't been chosen, he would have told the
two that he knew their true identities. What would have
happened then, he couldn't guess. The two had some good
reason to go under fake names. Perhaps they would have
rushed off, leaving him behind if he had threatened to
expose them. Or perhaps they would have taken him along,
just to keep his mouth shut, and then thrown him
overboard far up The River.
Possibly Farrington had caught on to what he was doing.
He must have wondered why a man so familiar with London's
works would not recognize him. In which case, Farrington
would have decided that Frigate was playing some kind of
game. He would go along with it until they were well up
The River and then find out just what he was up to.
However, Peter did not think he was in any danger of
being killed. Neither Farrington nor Rider were
murderers. Still, if some changed for the better on this
world, others changed for the worse. And he had no idea
how deep and desperate this game was.
Rider came over, shook his hand, and told him he was
welcome aboard. A few minutes later, Farrington stopped
the music and announced his choice of the new deckhand.
By then, Peter had taken Eve outside and given her the
news.
Eve was quiet for a while. Then she said," Yes, I knew
you were trying to get on that ship. It's not easy to
keep a secret here, Peter. I do feel bad, though mostly
because you hadn't told me you were going to go away."
"I tried to get hold of you," he said. "But you had gone
off without telling me where."
Eve began to cry. Peter's eyes were moist. But she wiped
the tears, sniffled, and said, "I'm not grieved because
you're leaving me, Pete. I'm full of sorrow because our
love died. I once thought that it would last forever. I
should have known better, though."
"I'm still fond of you."
"But not fond enough, is that it? Of course it is. I'm
not blaming you, Peter. I feel the same way. It's just
that... I wish we could have gone on feeling like we
first did."
"You'll find someone else. At least, we didn't part with
hatred.''
"It would have been better that way. It's bad enough when
you love each other but can't get along. But to have love
just die out, cold! I can't stand indifference."
"You've stood a lot more than that," he said. "If we'd
still been in love, I would've stayed here or I would've
tried to get them to take us both."
"And then you would've resented me. No, this may not be
the best way, but it's the only way."
He pulled her to him to kiss her, but she gave him her
cheek.
"Goodbye, Peter."
"I won't forget you."
"A lot of good that'll do us," she said, and she walked
away.
Peter went back under the roof. People crowded around to
congratulate him. He didn't feel happy. Eve had upset
him, and he felt uncomfortable when he was the focus of
public attention. Then Bullitt was shaking his hand.
"We'll be sorry to see you go, Frigate," he said. "You've
been a model citizen. However, there is one thing."
He turned to the sergeant-at-arms next to him and said,
"Mr. Armstrong, please confiscate Mr. Frigate's weapons."
Peter did not protest, since he had sworn to give them up
if he quit Ruritania. However, he had not given his word
not to steal them back. Early that morning, while it was
still dark, he did just that.
He told himself that he had put in too much labor making
the weapons to give them up. Besides, he had been wounded
once in the service of this state. Ruritania owed him
those weapons.
He had not gotten more than a kilometer up The River when
he felt like going back and surrendering the weapons.
That fit of honesty lasted for a day, and then he was
cured.
Or he thought that he was! The recurring dream came back
again. This time it progressed past the point where he
was standing naked outside the house. He threw pebbles
against the window of the bedroom but repeated casts
failed to wake Roosevelt. He went around trying the doors
and windows, and when he got to the front door, he found
it unlocked. He crept in through the front room, into the
small kitchen, and he took the two steps needed to get to
the door opposite the bathroom. This led up a steep
stairway to the attic, a section of which had been made
into a tiny bedroom. He would have to go slowly, walking
on the ends of the steps. They squeaked abominably if he
stepped in their middle.
It was then that he saw that the doors to his parents'
bedroom and the younger children's were open. Moonlight
came in. (Never mind that it had been dawn just as he
opened the front door. This was a dream.) By its bright
light he saw that his parents' big old-fashioned brass
bed was empty. And so was his little sister's. He looked
around the corner and saw that the bunkbeds of Mungo and
James, Junior were also deserted.
Nor was Roosevelt in his bed.
In a panic, he looked out the back window. The doghouse
in the backyard was empty.
Everybody, even the dog, had gone off without a word.
What nameless crime had he committed?
                           32
"THE TRAINING BLIMP WILL BE COMPLETED WITHIN A MONTH,"
Firebrass said. "Jill Gulbirra is the most experienced
aeronaut by far, so she'll take charge of the training.
In fact, I'm making her captain of the trainer. How about
that, Jill? If you can't be commander of the big ship,
you will be unchallenged chief honcho of the little one.
Don't ever say I never did anything for you."
The other men offered her their congratulations, though
some did so sourly. Cyrano seemed genuinely delighted,
and if he had not been aware of her dislike for being
touched, would doubtless have embraced her tightly and
kissed her. On impulse, Jill pulled him to her and gave
him a quick hug. After all, he was trying to make up for
his offensive behavior on the Riverbank.
Twenty minutes later, she, Firebrass, Messnet, Piscator,
and ten engineers began working on the blueprints for the
big airship. The specifications had been determined
during three weeks of hard work, usually twelve to
fourteen hours a day. Instead of drawing lines on paper,
however, they made blueprints on the cathode-ray tube of
a computer. This was much faster, mistakes or alterations
were erased quickly, and the computer itself double-
checked the proportions. Of course, the computer had to
be programmed first, and Jill participated in this. She
loved this sort of work. It was creative and gave her a
chance to play with mathematical relations.
Nevertheless, it did cause nervous tension. To relieve
this and to stay in good physical shape, Jill fenced for
two hours almost every day. Sword exercise here was not
what it had been on Earth. The light, supple foil was
discarded for the heavier, stiffer rapier. Moreover,
every point of the body was a target, requiring that the
fencers wear padded garments on their legs.
"We are not playing now," Cyrano told her. "You will be
learning to fence for more than just points. The time may
come when you will be striving in deadly earnest to keep
your opponent from running you through while you try to
pierce him from front to back."
She had been an excellent fencer. A great teacher, an
Olympic champion, had told her that she could become a
top contender in world competition if she would devote
enough time to training. That had been impossible since
her job required too much time away from the fencing
courts. But when she had a chance to practice, she had
taken it. She loved fencing; it was in some respects a
very physical form of chess, which she also loved.
It was a joy to take a blade in hand again and to relearn
all the long-unused, but not quite forgotten, skill. It
was an even greater joy to find that she could beat most
of her male opponents. Though she looked awkward, once
she had gripped the handle of the rapier, she became all
grace and liquid speed.
There were two men she could not master. One was
Radaelli, the Italian master, author of Istruzione per la
schema di spada a di sciabola, published in 1885. The
other, the indisputable champion, was Savinien Cyrano de
Bergerac.
Jill was surprised at this. For one thing, fencing in his
time had not yet developed into a fine art. It was not
until near the end of the eighteenth century that the art
neared its apex of technique. Cyrano had died in the
middle of the seventeenth century before the foil had
been invented, when men fought, often to the death, with
techniques somewhat primitive, if spectacular. The
Italians had put together the basic structure of modern
swordplay by the early seventeenth century, but not until
the beginning of the nineteenth century had the
techniques reached the ultimate.
Thus Cyrano had established a reputation as the greatest
swordsman of all times without having to compete with the
more sophisticated fencers of a later age. Jill had
believed that his reputation had been wildly exaggerated.
After all, no one knew if the famous incident of the
Porte de Nesle was true or not. No one except the
Frenchman himself, and he would not talk about it.
However, he had learned all later refinements from
Radaelli and Borsody. Within four months of starting his
education, he was steadily out scoring his mentors. In
five months, he was unbeatable. So far, at least.
Though rusty at first, Jill soon gained polish and began
to give him a better battle. Never once, however, did she
win more than one point of the total five within the six-
minute limit of a match. And he always made four points
before she got one. This led her to believe that he was
giving her the one point to soften the defeat. Once,
after a match in which she became furious because of her
frustration, she accused him of patronizing her.
"Even if I were in love with you and desired very much to
keep from hurting your feelings," he said, "I would not
do that! It would be dishonest, and while it is said that
all is fair in love and war, it is not so for me. No, you
have gotten your points fairly because of your quickness
and skill."
"But if we were playing for keeps," she said, "with
unblunted points, you would have killed me every time.
You always strike first."
He raised his mask and wiped his forehead. "True. But
surely you are not thinking about challenging me to a
duel? You are still not angry with me are you?"
"About that incident on the bank? No. Not about that."
"About what, then, if I may be so bold to ask?"
She would say nothing then, and he would raise his
eyebrows and shrug his shoulders in a completely Gallic
manner.
Cyrano was better than she. No matter how much she
practiced, no matter how hard her determination to best
him, because he was a man, because she did not like to
lose to anybody, male or female, she always lost. Once,
when she had jeered at his ignorance and superstitions
and so had made him furious (she had done it on purpose),
he had attacked her with such vigor that he had touched
her five times in one and a half minutes. Instead of
losing his head, he had become even more a being of cold
fire, moving with certitude and swiftness, doing
everything exactly right, one hundred percent
anticipatory of her every movement.
It was she who was humiliated.
Rightfully so, she told herself, and she apologized,
though it was a double humiliation to do so.
"I was terribly wrong to sneer at your lack of knowledge
of science and at your mistaken beliefs,'' she said. "It
is not your fault that you were born in 1619, and I
should not have taunted you with that. I did so just to
make you so mad I'd get an edge on you. It was a rotten
thing to do. I promise not to do it again, and I most
abjectly beg your pardon. I did not really mean it."
' "Then you said those nasty vicious things merely as a
trick?'' he said. "A verbal device to gain points? There
was nothing personal in those so-cutting remarks?"
She hesitated a moment, then said, "I have to be honest.
My main purpose was to make you lose your head. But I was
not so cool myself. At the moment, I did feel that you
were an ignorant simpleton, a living fossil. But that was
my own anger speaking out in me.
"Actually, you were far ahead of your time. You rejected
the superstitions and the barbarisms of your time, as far
as anybody is able to reject his culture. You were an
exceptional man, and I honor you for being that. And
you'll never hear such words from me again.''
She hesitated again, then said, "But is it true that you
repented on your deathbed?"
The Frenchman's face became red. He grimaced and said,
"But yes, Ms. Gulbirra, I did indeed say that I was sorry
for my blasphemies and my unbelief and I asked the good
God for His pardon. I, who had been a violent atheist
since the age of thirteen! I, who hated the fat, smug,
oily, stinking, ignorant, hypocritical, parasitical
priests! And their unfeeling, merciless, cruel God!
"But you do not know, you who lived in a freer and more
permissive age, you do not know the horrors of hellfire,
of eternal damnation! You cannot know what it was to have
the fear of hell soaking you, drowning you! It was taught
us from earliest childhood, ground into our flesh, our
bones, our deepest mind!
'' And so, when I knew for sure that I was dying from a
combination of that filthy disease with the lovely
bucolic name of syphilis and a blow on the head from that
beam, fallen accidentally or dropped by an enemy of mine,
and I who only wanted to love all mankind, and womankind,
too ... where was I?
"Ah, yes, knowing for sure that I was to die, and with
the terrors of the devils and of eternal tortures
swarming around me, I gave in to my sister, the toothless
bitch and withered nun, and my good, too good friend, Le
Bret, and I said, yes, I repent, I will save my soul, and
you may rejoice, dear sister, dear friend, I will
probably go to purgatory, but you will pray me out of it,
won't you?
"Why not? I was frightened as I had never been in all my
life, and yet, and yet, 1 did not wholly believe that I
was destined for damnation. I had some reservations,
believe me. But then, it could not hurt to repent. If
Christ was indeed available for salvation, not costing a
centime, mind you, and there was a heaven and a hell,
then I would be a fool not to save my worthless skin and
invaluable soul.
"On the other hand, if all was emptiness, nothingness,
once one had died, what had I to lose? I would make my
sister and that superstitious but kind-hearted Le Bret
happy."
''He wrote a glowing panegyric of you after you died,"
she said. "It was his preface to your Voyage to the Moon,
which he edited two years after you died."
''Ah! I hope he did not make me out to be a saint!"
Cyrano cried.
"No, but he did give you a fine character, a noble if not
quite saintly one. However, other writers . . . well, you
must have had many enemies."
"Who attempted to blacken my name and reputation after I
was dead and couldn't defend myself, the cowards, the
pigs!"
"I don't remember," she said. "And it doesn't actually
matter now, does it? Besides, only scholars know the
names of your detractors. Unfortunately, most people only
know you as the romantic, bombastic, witty, pathetic,
somewhat Don-Quixotish hero of a play by a Frenchman
written in the late nineteenth century.
"There was a belief for a long time that you were insane
by the time you had written The Voyage to the Moon and
The Voyage to the Sun. That was because your books were
so heavily censored. By the time the churchly Grundies
had slashed your texts, much of it made no sense. But the
text was eventually restored as much as possible, and by
the time I was born, an unexpurgated text had been
published in English."
"I am happy to hear that! I knew from what Clemens and
others said that I had become a literary Olympian, if not
a Zeus at least a Ganymede, a cupbearer in the ranks of
the exalted. But your sneering remark that I was
superstitious hurt me very much, mademoiselle. It is
true, as you observed, that I believed that the waning
moon did suck up the marrow from the bones of animals.
Now you say that that is sheer rot. Very well, I accept
that.And I was wrong, along with millions of others of my
time and God knows how many before my time.
"But this was a minuscule, a harmless error. What did it
matter, what injury did it do to anyone, to have this
misconception? The superstition, the grave error, that
really harmed people, many millions of human beings, I
assure you, was the stupid, barbarous belief in sorcery,
in the ability of human beings to wreak evil through
spells, chants, black cats, and the enlistment of devils
as allies. I wrote a letter against that ignorant and
vicious belief, that social system, rather. I contended
that the grotesque legal sentences and the savagely cruel
tortures and executions inflicted upon insane or innocent
people in the name of God and the battle against Evil
were themselves the essence of evil.
"Now, it is true that this letter I speak of. Against
Sorcerers, was not published while I was alive. With good
reason. I would have been tortured and burned alive. It
was, however, circulated among my friends. It did show
that I was not as you made me out to be. I was ahead of
my time in many respects, though I was not, of course,
the only person in that unhappy situation."
"I know this," she said. ."And I apologized once. Would
you have me do it again?"
"It is not necessary," he said. His broad smile made him
look handsome, or at least attractive, despite his large
nose.
Jill picked up her grail by its handle and said, "Just
about dinnertime."
Jill knew something about the man called Odysseus, having
heard occasional references. He had appeared without
notice, seemingly from nowhere, when Clemens' and King
John's forces were battling invaders who wanted to seize
the meteorite ore. He had killed the enemy leader with a
well-placed arrow, worked havoc among the other officers,
and so had given the defenders the advantage they needed
for victory.
Odysseus of Ithaca claimed to be the historical Odysseus
on whom Homer's mythical character was based. He was one
of the host who had fought before the walls of Troy,
though he stated that the real Troy was not where the
scholars said it was. Its location was elsewhere, much
further south on the coast of Asia Minor.
Jill, first hearing about this, had not known whether to
believe that the man was truly Odysseus or not. There
were so many impostors on the Riverworld. But there was
one thing that made her think that he might actually be
the historical Ithacan. Why should he say that Troy Vila,
which even the archaeologists and Hellenists of her day
had said was the true Ilion, was not the genuine site?
Why would he claim that the historical Troy was some
place else?
Whatever the reason, he was no longer around. He had
disappeared as mysteriously as he had appeared. Agents
sent to track him down had failed. Firebrass had
continued to search for him after Clemens left on the
Mark Twain. One of the searchers, Jim Sorley, had finally
found some trace of the Greek, though it showed only that
he had not been murdered by John's men.
Jill had wondered several times why Odysseus had
volunteered to fight for Clemens' side. Why would a
stranger who had seemingly blundered onto the battle pick
out one force and risk his life for it? What had he to
gain, especially since it seemed that he had known none
of the participants on either force? She had once asked
Fire-brass about this, and he had said that he just did
not know. Sam Clemens might be able to enlighten her, but
he had never volunteered a word on the subject.
Firebrass had added, "However, Odysseus may have been
here for the same reason that Cyrano and I were. We
wanted to get on the paddlewheeler so we could get to the
polar sea."
She thought it was strange that no one had thought of
building a dirigible until shortly before the second
riverboat was completed. Why take decades traveling to
the arctic region on a surface vessel when an airship
could get there in a few days?
Firebrass said, grinning, "Just one of those mysteries of
life. Man, pardon me, humanity, sometimes can't see the
nose on his own face. Then somebody comes along and holds
up a mirror to him."
"If mankind had a nose like mine," Cyrano said, "he would
never have that trouble."
In this case the person with the mirror had been August
von Parseval. On Earth he had been a major in the German
Army, and he had also designed airships for a German
company. His type of dirigible was used by both the
German and the British governments between 1906 and 1914.
Shortly before the Mark Twain was ready to leave
Parolando, von Parseval had come along. He was amazed
that no one had suggested that a Luftschiff would be a
faster means of transportation than a boat.
After Firebrass bad mentally kicked himself for this
oversight, he had hastened to Clemens, taking the German
with him.
Surprisingly, Clemens said that he had long ago
considered building a dirigible. After all, had he not
written Tom Sawyer Abroad? Had not Tom, Jim, and
Huckleberry traveled from Missouri to the Sahara in a
balloon?
Amazed, Firebrass asked him why he had not mentioned
this.
"Because I knew some all-fired fool would want to drop
all the work on the boat faster than a burglar drops his
tools when he sees a policeman! He'd want to abandon the
Riverboat and put all work and materials into a flying
machine!
"No, siree! This boat takes precedence over everything
else, as Noah said when his Wife wanted to knock off work
to go to a rain dance.
"By the blazing balls of the Bull of Bashan, there'll be
no dirigible! It's a chancy thing, a dangerous device.
Why, I wouldn't even be allowed to smoke a cigar on it,
and if I can't do that, what's the use of living?"
Clemens gave additional objections, most of them more
serious. Firebrass, however, perceived that Clemens was
not going to voice his main reason. Getting to the tower
was not genuinely important to Clemens. It was the voyage
itself that mattered to him. To build the greatest
Riverboat that had ever been built, to be its captain,
its lord, to voyage for millions of kilometers in the
splendid vessel, to be admired and adored and wondered at
by billions, that was what Sam Clemens desired.
Moreover, he wanted revenge. He wanted to track and then
to catch up with and destroy King John for having robbed
him of his first boat, his first love, the Not For Hire.
It might take forty years to get from Parolando to the
mountains that ringed the polar sea. Sam did not care.
Not only would he be the revered owner and operator of
the biggest and most beautiful River-boat mankind had
ever seen, he would be going on the longest voyage any
vessel, bar none, had ever taken. Forty years! Put that
in your pipe, Columbus, Magellan, and smoke it!
Also, he would be seeing and talking to hundreds of
thousands. This delighted Sam, who was as curious about
human beings as a housewife was about new neighbors.
If he went in an airship he would have no strangers to
talk to.
Though Firebrass was as gregarious as a flock of ducks,
he did not understand this attitude. He himself was too
eager to solve the mystery of the tower. The key to all
that puzzled humanity might be there.
He did not point out to Clemens what he believed to be
his real reason for his objections to the airship. It
would do no good. Sam would look him straight in the eye
and deny everything. However, Sam did know that he was in
the wrong. And so, sixty days before the Mark Twain was
to depart, he called Firebrass in.
"After I leave, you can build your highly inflammable
folly, if you insist on it. Of course, that means you'll
have to resign as chief engineer of the most magnificent
creation of man. But you must use the dirigible for
observation only, as a scout."
"Why?"
"Now how by the brass balls of burning Baal could it be
used for anything else but that? It can't land on the
tower or anyplace else, can it? According to Joe Miller,
the mountains are sheer and there's no beach. And . . ."
"How would Joe know there's no beach? The sea was covered
by fog. All he saw was the upper part of the tower."
Sam had puffed smoke that looked like angry dragons. "It
stands to reason the people that made that sea wouldn't
make a beach. Would they make a place from which invaders
could launch a boat? Of course not.
"Anyway, what I want you to do is to find out the lay of
the land. See if there's a passage through the mountains
other than what Joe described. Find out if the tower can
be entered otherwise than by the roof."
Firebrass had not argued. He would do what he wished to
do when he got to the pole. Clemens would have no control
of him then.
"I took off then, happy as a dog that's rid of his fleas.
I told von Parseval about Sam's decision, and we had a
big celebration. But two months later poor old August was
swallowed by a dragonfish. I barely missed going down its
gullet with him."
At this point in his story, Firebrass revealed a secret
to Jill.
"You must swear by your honor not to tell anyone else. I
wouldn't be telling you, except that the boat is long
gone, and there's no way you could get the information to
King John. Not that you would, of course."
"I promise to keep it to myself-whatever it is."
"Well.,. one of our engineers was a Californian
scientist. He knew how to make a laser with a range of
404 meters. Within that distance, it could slice the Rex
in two. And we had just enough materials to make one. So
Sam had it done.
"It was a highly secret project, so secret that there are
only six men on the Mark Twain who know of its existence.
The laser is concealed in a compartment known only to
these six, of whom Sam is one, of course. Even his buddy,
Joe, doesn't know about it.
"When the Mark Twain catches up with the Rex, the laser
will be brought out and mounted on a tripod. The battle
ought to be short and sweet. Sweet for Sam, bitterly
short for John. It'll also cut down the casualties
tremendously for both sides.
"I was in on the secret because I was one of the
engineers on the project. Before it was completed, I
asked Sam if it could be left behind. I wanted to take it
on the airship and use it to burn an entrance into the
tower if we could not get in otherwise.
"But Sam flat out refused. He said that if anything
happened to the airship, the laser would be lost. I
wouldn't be able to return it to the Mark Twain. I argued
like mad, but I lost. And Sam did have a strong point.
There's no way of knowing what dangers we'll run into,
meteorological or otherwise.
"However, it was very frustrating."
                           33
JILL WAS ABOUT TO ASK HIM IF HE HAD NOT SENT SCOUTS OUT
TO LOOK for materials to make another laser. At that
moment Firebrass' secretary knocked at the door. Would
Mr. Firebrass see Piscator?
Firebrass said he would. The Japanese entered and, after
inquiring about their health, said that he had good news.
The engineers making the synthetic diesel-oil fuel would
be able to deliver the first supply a week ahead of time.
"That's great!" Firebrass said. He grinned at Jill. "That
means you can take the Minerva up tomorrow! Start the
training seven days ahead of schedule! Fabulous!"
Jill felt even happier.
Firebrass proposed a drink to celebrate. The skull-bloom
had no sooner been poured, however, than the secretary
entered again.
Smiling broadly, she said, "I wouldn't interrupt if it
weren't so important. I think we've got a new airshipman
for you, one with much experience. He just got here a few
minutes ago."
Jill's near-ecstasy whistled out of her, like gas from a
ruptured cell. Her chest seemed to be caving in on her.
So far, she had seemed to have the post of first mate
secured. But here was a person who might have as much, or
even more, experience than she. A male, of course. He
might even be an officer of the Graf Zeppelin or the
Hindenburg. A veteran of the large rigid dirigibles would
have more clout, in Firebrass' estimation, than one with
only blimp experience.
Her heart beating hard, she looked at the man who
followed the secretary into the office. She did not
recognize him, but that meant little. There were scores
of airship personnel of her day and of the pre-Hindenburg
era whose photographs she had not seen. Besides, those
pictures had been of middle-aged men who wore civilian
clothes or uniforms. And many of them had facial hair.
"Chief Firebrass," Agatha Rennick said. "Barry Thorn."
The newcomer wore fish-skin sandals, a bright red-, white-
, and blue-striped kilt, and a long black cloth fastened
at the throat. The handle of his grail was in one hand
and the neck of a large fish-skin bag in the other.
He stood about 1.7 meter tall, and his shoulders seemed
to be almost half that wide. His physique was massive,
irresistibly evoking to Jill the image of a bull. Yet his
legs, though thickly muscled, were long in proportion to
his trunk. His chest and arms were gorillalike, but he
had almost no pectoral hair.
Short, curly yellow hair framed on a broad face. The
eyebrows were straw colored; the eyes, a dark blue. His
nose was long and straight. The lips were full. Smiling,
he revealed very white teeth. The jaw was thick, ending
in a prominent rounded, deeply cleft chin. The ears were
small and close to his head.
At Firebrass' invitation he put down the grail and bag.
He flexed his fingers as if they had been carrying a load
for a long time. Probably, though, he had been paddling a
canoe for a long distance. Despite the broadness of his
hands, the fingers were long and slim.
He seemed very much at ease despite being with strangers
and facing an interview on his qualifications. In fact,
he radiated a well-being and a magnetism that inevitably
made Jill think of that much overused and often
inappropriate word "charisma."
Later, she would find that he had a curious gift of being
able to shut that off as if it were light from a lamp.
Then, despite his obvious physical qualities, he seemed
almost to become one with his background. A psychic
chameleon.
Jill, glancing at Piscator, saw that he was intensely
curious about the stranger. His black eyes were narrowed,
and his head was cocked slightly to one side, as if he
were listening to some soft, faraway sound.
Firebrass shook hands with Thorn.
"Wow! What a grip! Glad to have you aboard, sir, if you
are what Agatha claims you are. Sit down, take a load off
your feet. Have you traveled a long way? You have? Forty
thousand stones? Would you care for food? Coffee? Tea?
Booze or beer?"
Thorn declined everything except the chair. He spoke in a
very pleasant baritone without the usual pauses,
hesitations, and incomplete phrases that distinguished
the speech of most people.
Finding that Thorn was a Canadian, Firebrass switched
from Esperanto to English. In a few minutes of
questioning, he got a capsule biography .of the newcomer.
Barry Thorn was born in 1920 on_his parents' farm outside
Regina, Saskatchewan. After getting a degree in
electromechanical engineering in 1938, he enlisted in the
British Navy while in England. During the war, he was the
commander of a naval blimp. He married an American girl
and after the war went to the States to live because his
wife, an Ohioan who wanted to be close to her parents,
had insisted. Besides, the opportunities were better
there for blimp pilots.
He picked up a commercial pilot's license also, intending
to work for the American airlines. But after his divorce
he quit Goodyear and became a bush pilot for several
years in the Yukon. Then he had returned to Goodyear and
married again. After his second wife died, he had gotten
a job with a newly formed British-West German airship
company. For some years he had captained a great blimp-
tug which towed floating containers of natural gas from
the Middle East to Europe.
Jill asked him a few questions in the hope that his
answers would jog her memory. She had known a few
airshipmen at Thorn's company, and some of these might
have mentioned him. He replied that he remembered one of
them-he thought. He wasn't sure because that had been so
long ago.
He had died in 1983 while on leave in Friedrichshafen. He
did not know the cause of his death. Heart failure,
probably. He had gone to sleep one night and when he had
awakened he was lying naked on a bank of The River-along
with everybody else.
Since then he had been wandering up and down the Valley.
One day, hearing a rumor that a giant dirigible was being
built down-River, he had decided to find out for himself
if the tale was true.
Firebrass, beaming, said, "This is luck! You're more than
welcome, Barry. Agatha, will you make arrangements to
house Mr. Thorn?"
Thorn shook hands with everybody and left. Firebrass
almost danced with delight. "We're coming along
famously."
Jill said, "Does this change my situation?"
Firebrass looked surprised. "No. I said you'd be the head
instructor and captain of the Minerva. Firebrass always
keeps his promises. Well, almost always.
"Now, I know what you're thinking. I made no promises
about who'll be the first mate of the Parsevol. You're a
strong contender for the post, Jill. But it's too early
to decide on that. All I can say is, 'May the best man
win. Or the best woman.' "
Piscator patted her hand. At another time, she would have
resented the gesture. Now, she felt warmed.
Later, after they had left the office, Piscator said, "I
am not certain that Thorn is telling the truth. Not all
of it, anyway. His story may be true as far as it goes.
But there's something that rings falsely in his voice. He
could be concealing something."
"Sometimes you frighten me," she said.
"I could be wrong about him."
Jill got the impression that he did not believe that.
                           34
EACH DAY, BEFORE DAWN, THE Minerva LIFTED FOR A TRAINING
flight. Sometimes it stayed aloft until an hour after
noon. Sometimes it cruised all day, landing at evening.
For the first week, Jill was its only pilot. Then she let
each of the trainee pilots and the control gondola
officers handle the controls.
Barry Thorn did not enter the blimp until four weeks
after aerial training started. Jill insisted that he
attend ground school first. Though he was experienced, he
had not been in an airship for thirty-two years and it
could be presumed that he had forgotten much. Thorn did
not object.
She watched him closely while he was in the pilot's seat.
Whatever Piscator's suspicions of him, Thorn handled the
ship as if he had been doing it steadily for years. Nor
was he any less competent at navigation or at dealing
with the simulated emergencies which were part of the
training.
Jill felt disappointed. She had hoped that he was not all
he claimed to be. Now she knew that he was the stuff from
which captains could be made.
Thorn was, however, a strange man. He seemed at ease with
everybody and he could appreciate a joke as much as
anybody. Yet he never cracked one himself, and off duty
he kept to himself. Though he was given a hut only 20
meters from Jill's, he never dropped in on her or invited
her to visit him. In a way, this was a relief to Jill,
since she did not have to worry about advances from him.
Inasmuch as he made no effort to get a woman to move in
with him, he could have been homosexual. But he also did
not seem interested, sexually or otherwise, in either
gender. He was a loner, though, when he wished, he could
open up and be very charming. Then suddenly his
personality would close like a fist, and he became pale
neutral, almost a living statue.
The entire potential crew of the Parseval was under
intense surveillance. Each had to undergo psychological
tests for stability. Thorn passed both the observation
and the tests as if he had made them up himself.
"Just because he's a little odd in his social life
doesn't mean he isn't a first-class aeronaut," Firebrass
said. "It's what a man does when he's aloft that counts."
Firebrass and de Bergerac proved to be natural dirigible
pilots. This was not surprising in the American's case,
since he had many thousands of hours in jetplanes,
helicopters, and spacecraft. The Frenchman, however, came
from a time when not even balloons had existed, though
they had been envisioned. The most complicated mechanical
device he had handled then were matchlock, wheel-lock,
and flintlock pistols. He had been too poor to afford a
watch, which, in any case, required the owner only to
wind it.
Nevertheless, he quickly absorbed the instruction in
ground school and aerial flight, nor did he have much
trouble with the necessary mathematics.
Firebrass was very good, but de Bergerac was the best
pilot of all. Jill reluctantly admitted that to herself.
The Frenchman's reactions and judgment were almost
computer-swift.
Another surprising candidate was John de Grey stock. This
medieval baron had volunteered to be part of the crew
that would man the semirigid Minerva when it attacked the
Rex. Jill had been skeptical about his ability to adapt
to aerial flight. But, after three months of flight, he
was considered by both Firebrass and Gulbirra to be the
best qualified to command the ship. He was combat wise,
ruthless, and utterly courageous. And he hated King John.
Having been wounded and thrown overboard by John's men
when the Not For Hire was highjacked, he lusted for
revenge.
Jill had come to Parolando near the end of the month
called Dektria (Thirteenth in English). Parolando had
adopted a thirteen-month calendar since this planet had
neither season nor moon. There was no reason except
sentiment to keep the year at 365 days, but sentiment was
good enough. Each month was made of four seven-day weeks,
twenty-eight days in all. Since twelve months only made
336 days, an extra month had been added. This left one
day extra, which was generally termed New Year's Eve Day,
Last Day, or Blow-Your-Top Day. Jill had landed three
days before this in 31 a.r.d.
Now it was January of 33 a.r.d. , and though work on the
big airship had started, it would be almost another year
before it was ready for the polar flight. This was partly
due to the inevitable unforseen difficulties and partly
due to Firebrass' grandiose ideas. These had caused many
revisions of the original plans.
As of now, the crew had been chosen, but the appointment
of the officers had not been determined. As far as she
was concerned, the list was fairly definite-except for
the posts of first and second mate. One would go to Thorn
and the other to herself. This had not caused her much
anxiety-except in her dreams-since Thorn did not seem to
care which position he got.
On this Wednesday of January or First-Month, she was
happy. The work on the Parseval was going so well that
she decided to quit early. She'd get her fishing pole and
cast for some of the "chub" in the little lake near her
hut. As she climbed the first of the hills, she saw
Piscator. He was also carrying fishing tackle and a
wickerwork basket.
She called to him, and he turned but did not give her his
usual smile in greeting.
"You look as if you've got something on your mind," she
said.
"I do, but it is not my problem, except that it concerns
one whom I like to think is my friend."
"You don't have to tell me," she said.
"I think I do. It concerns you."
She stopped. "What's the matter?"
"I just learned from Firebrass that the psychological
evaluation tests were not finished. There is one more to
go, and every one of the flight crew will have to take
it."
"Is that something I should worry about?"
He nodded. "The test involves deep hypnosis. It's
designed to probe for any residue of instability which
previous tests might have overlooked."
"Yes, but I . . ."
She paused again.
"I'm afraid that it might disclose these ... ah ...
hallucinations that have disturbed you from time to
time."
She felt faint. For a moment, the world around her seemed
to dim. Piscator held her elbow and her arm to support
her.
"I am sorry, but I thought it best that you be prepared."
She pulled away, saying, "I'm all right."
Then, "Godalmighty! I've had no trouble with those for
eight months! I've had no dreamgum since that time you
found me in the hut, and I'm sure that any residual
effects are gone. Furthermore, I've never had those
hallucinations except late at night when I was home. You
don't really think that Firebrass would eliminate me, do
you? He doesn't have enough reason to do so!"
"I don't know," Piscator said. "Perhaps the hypnosis
might not uncover these attacks. In any event, if you
will forgive me for trying to influence you, I think that
you should go to Firebrass and tell him about your
troubles. Do so before the tests are made."
"What good would that do?"
"If he finds out that you have been holding back on him,
he probably would discharge you immediately. But if you
are candid, confess before you get official word of the
test, he might listen to your side of the case. I myself
do not think that you are any danger to the welfare of
the ship. But my opinion doesn't count."
"I won't beg!"
"That wouldn't influence him anyway-except negatively."
She breathed deeply and looked around, as if there might
be an escape route to another world nearby. She had been
so sure, so happy only a moment ago.
"Very well. There's no use putting it off."
"That's courageous," he said. "And commonsensical. I wish
you luck."
"See you later," she said, and she strode off, her jaw
set.
Nevertheless, by the time she had climbed the stairs to
the second story, where Firebrass' apartment was, she was
breathing hard, not from poor physical condition but from
anxiety.
Firebrass' secretary had told her that he had gone to his
suite. She was surprised at this but did not ask Agatha
why he had quit work so early. Perhaps he, too, felt like
relaxing.
The door to his apartment was halfway down the hall.
Before it stood the bodyguard that usually accompanied
him. Two assassination attempts in the last six months
had made this necessary. The would-be killers had been
slain themselves and thus could give no information.' No
one knew for certain, but it was believed that a ruler of
a hostile state down-River had sent the men. He had made
no bones about his desire to get hold of Parolando's
mineral wealth and rnarvelous machines and weapons. It
was possible that he had hoped that, if he removed
Firebrass, he might be able to invade Parolando. But this
was all speculation by Firebrass.
Jill walked up to the ensign in command of four heavily
armed men.
"I'd like to talk to the chief."
The ensign, Smithers said, "Sorry. He gave orders he
wasn't to be disturbed."
"Why not?"
Smithers looked curiously at her. "I wouldn't know, sir."
Anger caused by her fear overcame her.
"I suppose he has a woman in there!"
The ensign said, "No, not that that is any of your
business, sir."
He grinned maliciously and said. "He's got a visitor. A
newcomer named Fritz Stern. He just got here an hour ago.
He's a German, and, from what I heard, a hotshot Zeppelin
man. I heard him tell the captain he was a commander for
NDELAG, whatever that means. But he's got more flight
time than you."
Jill had to restrain herself from hitting him in his
teeth. She knew that Smithers had never liked her, and no
doubt he enjoyed needling her.
"NDELAG," she said, hating herself because her voice was
trembling. ' "That could be Neue Deutsche
Luftschifffahrts-Aktien-Gesellschaft."
Now her voice seemed to be coming from far away, from
someone else. "There was a Zeppelin line called DELAG in
the days before World War I. It carried passengers and
freight in Germany. But I never heard of an NDELAG."
"That would be because it was formed after you died,''
Smithers said. He grinned, enjoying her obvious distress.
"I did hear him tell the captain that he graduated from
the Friedrichshafen academy in 1984. He said he ended his
career as commander of a super-Zeppelin named Viktoria."
She felt sick. First Thorn and now Stem.
There was no use staying here. She squared her shoulders
and said, in a firm voice, "I'll see him later."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," Smithers said, grinning.
Jill turned away to go back down the stairs.
She whirled around as a door banged and somebody shouted.
A man had run out of Firebrass' apartment and slammed the
door behind him.
He stood for several seconds, frozen, facing the guards.
These were pulling their heavy pistols from their
holsters. Smithers had his sword halfway from its sheath.
The man was as tall as she. He had a beautiful physique,
broad shouldered, slim waisted, long legged. His face was
handsome but rugged; his hair, wavy ash blond; his eyes,
large and dark blue. But his skin was unhealthily pale
and blood was flowing from a wound on the shoulder. He
held a bloodied dagger in his left hand. Then the door
opened, and Firebrass, a rapier in his hand, appeared.
His face `;2:-' was twisted, and his forehead bled.
The ensign shouted, "Stern!"
Stern whirled and ran down the hall. There was no
stairway at its end, only a tall window. Smithers cried,
"Don't fire, men! He can't get away!"
"He can if he goes through the window!" Jill screamed.
At the end of the hall, Stern leaped with a shout,
whirling so that his back would strike the plastic and
holding an arm over his face.
The window refused to give way. Stem hit it with a thud
and bounced back, falling flat with another thud on his
face. He lay there while Firebrass, the ensign, and the
guards behind him, ran toward Stern.
Jill followed them a second later.
Before the group could reach him, Stern got to his feet.
He stared at the men racing toward him, looked at the
dagger, which he had dropped on the floor when he had hit
the window. Then he closed his eyes and crumpled to the
floor.
                           35
By the time Jill got there,Firebrass was feeling the
man's pulse.
"He's dead!"
"What happened, sir?" the ensign said.
Firebrass stood up.
"I wish I could say why it happened. All I can tell you
is what happened. We were getting along fine, drinking
and smoking, joking, and he was giving me the details of
his professional career. Everything was A-okay. And then
all of a sudden he leaps up, pulls a dagger, and tries to
stab me!
"He must have gone crazy, although he seemed quite
rational until the moment he attacked. Something went
wrong in him. Otherwise, why would he drop dead of a
heart attack?"
Jill said, "A heart attack? I haven't ever heard of
anyone having a heart attack here. Have you?"
Firebrass shrugged and said, "There's always a first
time. After all, the resurrections have stopped, too."
"He looks bloody cyanotic for a heart attack," Jill said.
"Could he have swallowed a poison? I didn't see him put
anything in his mouth."
"Where would he get cyanide or prussic acid or any poison
except here in Parolando?" Firebrass said. "He hasn't
been here long enough to do that."
He looked at Smithers. "Wrap up the body and take it into
one of my bedrooms. Take it out after midnight and drop
it into The River. The dragonfish can have him."
"Yes, sir," Smithers said. "What about that cut on your
forehead, sir? Should I get a doctor?"
"No, I'll patch it up myself. And not a word about this
to anybody. Have you got that, all of you? You, too,
Jill. Not a word. I don't want to upset the citizens."
They all nodded. Smithers said, "Do you suppose that that
bastard Burr sent this man, too?"
"I don't know," Firebrass said. "Or care. I just want you
to get rid of him, okay?"
He turned to Jill. "What're you doing here?"
"I had something important to talk about," she said. "But
I'll do it later. You're in no condition to talk."
"Nonsense!" he said, grinning. "Sure I am. You don't
think this is going to shake me up, do you? Come on in,
Jill, and we'll talk after I fix up this scratch."
Jill sat down in an overstaffed chair in the living room
of the luxurious suite. Firebrass disappeared into the
bathroom, returning after a few minutes with a white tape
slanting across his forehead.
Smiling cheerily as if this were a typical day, he said,
"What about a drink? It might settle your nerves."
"My nerves?"
"Okay. Both our nerves. I'll admit I'm a little shaken
up. I'm no superman, no matter what people say about me."
He poured purplish skull-bloom into two tall glasses half-
filled with ice cubes. Neither the ice nor the glasses,
like the band-aid, were available anywhere but in
Parolando-as far as she knew.
For a minute they sipped on the cool, tangy drink, their
eyes meeting but neither saying a word. Then Firebrass
said, "Okay. Enough of the social amenities. What did you
want to see me about?"
She could scarcely get the words out. They seemed to jam
in her throat, then come tumbling out, broken by the
pressure.
After pausing to take a long drink, she continued more
slowly and smoothly. Firebrass did not interrupt but sat
immobile, his brown eyes, flecked with green, intent on
hers.
"So," she finished, "there you are. I had to tell you
about this, but it's the hardest thing I ever did."
"Why did you finally decide to spill it? Was it because
you heard about the hypnosis?"
For a second, she thought of lying. Piscator would not
betray her, and she would look so much better if she had
not been forced to admit the truth.
"Yes. I heard about it. But I'd been thinking for some
time that I should tell you about it. It was just... it
was just that I couldn't bear the thought of being left
behind. And I really don't think I'm a danger to the
ship."
"It would be bad if you had an attack during a crucial
moment of flight. You know that, of course. Well, here's
the way I look at it, Jill. Barring Thorn, you're the
best airshipman-I mean, person- that we have. Unlike
Thorn, who was a keen airman but doesn't make aeronauting
his whole life, you're a fanatic. I honestly think you'd
pass up a roll in the hay for an hour's flight. Myself,
I'd try to combine both.
"I wouldn't want to lose you, and if I had to, I'd worry
about your killing yourself. No, don't protest, I really
think you would. Which makes you unbalanced in that
respect. However, I have to consider the welfare of ship
and crew first, so I'd discharge you if I had to, no
matter how much it would grieve me.
"So I'm putting you on probation. If you don't have
another attack or hallucination from now until the ship
takes off for the big voyage, then you'll be in.
"The only trouble with this is that I'll have to depend
on your word for it that you've not had an attack. Well,
not really. I could put you under hypnosis to find out if
you've been telling the truth. But I don't like to do
that. It'd mean I don't trust you. I don't want anybody
on the ship I can't trust one hundred percent."
Jill felt like running over to him and throwing her arms
around him. Her eyes filmed, and she almost sobbed with
joy. But she stayed in her chair. An officer did not
embrace the captain. Besides, he might misinterpret her
behavior and try to take her into his bedroom.
She felt ashamed of herself. Firebrass would never take
advantage of any woman. He would scorn using his
influence. At least, she thought he would.
"I don't understand about this hypnosis," shesaid. "How
could you make all the others go through with it but omit
me? That's discrimination which the others ..."
"I've changed my mind about that."
He got up and walked to a rolltop desk, bent over it to
write on a piece of paper, and then gave it to her.
"Here. Take this down to Doc Graves. He'll take an X-ray
of you."
She was bewildered. "Whatever on earth for?"
"As your captain I could tell you to shut up and obey my
order. I won't because you'd be resentful. Let's just say
it's something the psychologists learned in 2000 A.D. It
would defeat the purpose of the test if I told you what
it was all about.
"Everybody else will have to be X-rayed, too. You have
the honor of being the first."
"I don't understand," shemurmured. "But I'll do it, of
course."
She rose. "Thank you."
"No thanks necessary. Now get your tail down to Doc
Graves.''
When she arrived at the doctor's office, she found him
talking on the phone. He was frowning and chewing his
cigar savagely.
"All right, Milt. I'll do it. But I don't like it that
you won't confide in me."
He hung the phone up and turned to her." Hello, Jill.
You' ll have to wait until Ensign Smithers gets here.
He'll pick up the X-ray photos as soon as they're made
and run them up to Firebrass."
"He has a darkroom?"
"No. They don't need developing. Didn't you know? They're
just like other photographs, electronically processed at
the moment they're taken. Firebrass himself designed the
equipment. It's a process developed about 1998, he said."
Graves began striding back and forth, biting hard oh the
cigar.
"Damn it! He won't even let me see the X-rays! Why?"
"He said he didn't want anyone but himself to see the X-
rays .It's part of the psychological evaluation tests-."
"How in hell could X-rays of the head tell you anything
about a man's psyche? Is he nuts?"
"I suppose he'll tell us all about it when he's seen all
the photos. By the way, speaking of a man's psyche, I'm
not a man."
"I was speaking in the abstract."
He stopped and scowled even more fiercely. "I won't be
able to sleep nights worrying about this. Man, I wish I'd
lived longer. I shuffled off this mortal coil in 1980, so
I didn't get to see the later developments in medical
science. Just as well, I suppose. I couldn't keep up with
the deluge of new stuff as it was."
Turning to Jill, and stabbing the cigar at her, he said,
"Something I'd like to. ask you, Jill. Something that's
been bothering me. Firebrass is the only one I've ever
met who lived beyond 1983. Have you ever met anyone who
did?"
She blinked with surprise. "No-o-o. No, I haven't, now I
think about it. Firebrass excepted."
For a moment, she had been about to tell him about Stem.
That was going to be a hard secret to keep.
"Neither have I. Damn peculiar."
"Not really," she said. "Of course, I haven't been all
over The River, but I have traveled several hundred
thousand kilometers and talked to thousands of people.
The twentieth-century people seem to have been scattered
thinly everywhere. If they were resurrected in clumps, as
it were, I never heard of any. So that means that
anywhere in the Valley you'll likely find a few, but most
of the population segments will be from other centuries.
"So there's nothing remarkable in the rarity of people
born after 1983."
"Yeah? Maybe so. Ah, here comes Smithers and two other
thugs. Step into my X-rated parlor, my dear, as the
spider said to the fly."
                           36
Extracts from various editions of The Daily Leak:
Dmitri "Mitya" Ivanovitch Nikitin is pro tempore pilot
third officer of the Parseval. He was born in 1885 in
Gomel, Russia, of middle-class parents. His father was a
harness-factory owner; his mother taught piano. His
qualifications for candidacy were based on his experience
as chief steersman of the Russie, a French airship built
by the Lebaudy-Juillot Company in 1909 for the Russian
government.
Ms. Jill Gulbirra, chief airship instructor, says that
Mit-ya's experience was rather limited from her
viewpoint, but he has shown excellent ability. However,
according to rumors, he is too fond of skull-bloom. Take
a tip from us, Mitya. Lay off the booze.
. . . Charges will not be brought by the editor against
Pilot Nikitin. During a necessarily brief interview in
the hospital, Mr. Bagg said, "I've been laid out by
better men than that big slob. The next time he comes
charging into my office, I'll be prepared. The reason I'm
not having him arrested isn't just because I have a big
heart, however. I just want a chance to personally knock
his brains out. Speak softly and carry a big stick."
. . . Ettore Arduino is Italian (what else?), but he is
blond and blue-eyed and can pass for a Swede as long as
he keeps his mouth shut and doesn't eat garlic. As all
but new citizens know, he entered Parolando two months
ago and was immediately signed up for training. He has an
illustrious though tragic history, having been chief
motor engineer on the airship Norge and then on the
Italia under Umberto Nobile. (See page 6 for a
minibiogrpahy of this son of Rome.) The Norge
accomplished its primary mission to fly over the North
Pole on May 12, 1926. It also established that there was
no large land mass between the North Pole and Alaska as
reported by that great explorer, Commodore Robert E.
Peary (1856-1920), the first man to reach the North Pole
(1909). (Though Peary was accompanied by a Negro, Matthew
Henson, and four Eskimos whose names we don't remember,
actually Henson was the first man to stand on the North
Pole.)
The Italia, after passing over the Pole, found itself
bucking a very strong headwind on its way to King's Bay.
The controls jammed from heavy icing; a crash seemed
assured. However, the ice melted, and the airship
proceeded. Some time later, the vessel began to fall
slowly. The helpless crew was forced to stand by while
the queen of the skies struck the surface ice. The
control gondola was torn off, a fortuitous event for
those in it. These scrambled out and then looked up in
shock as the dirigible, freed of the weight of the
gondola, rose again.
Ettore Arduino was last seen standing on the gangway to
the starboard engine gondola. As reported by a crew mem
ber, Dr. Francis Behounek of the Wireless Institute of
Prague, Czechoslovakia, Arduino's face was a mask of
utter disbelief. The Italia floated away, and nothing of
it or the men still aboard was ever seen again. On Earth,
that is.
Arduino relates that he perished of the cold after the
Italia fell for the second and last time on the ice. His
complete account of this horrendous experience will be
printed in next Thursday's issue. After this blood-
chilling event, no reasonable person could expect Ettore
to volunteer again for airship travel. But he is
undaunted by this and expresses eagerness for another
polar expedition. We don't care what people say about
Italians, and we have nothing but contempt for the
attitude prevalent in Tombstone, where it was stated as a
fact that all wops were yellow. We personally know that
they have more guts than brains, and we are sure that
Ettore will be a shining adornment to the crew.
... last seen paddling desperately toward the middle of
The River while Mr. Arduino fired shots at him with the
new Mark IV pistol. Either this weapon is not what it's
cracked up to be, or Mr. Arduino's marksmanship was below
normal that day.
. . . your new editor accepts the suggestion of President
Fircbrass that this journal temper the privilege of free
speech with discretion.
... Mr. Arduino was released after promising that he
would no longer settle grievances, justified or
unjustified, by violent means. The newly created Board of
Civil Disputes will handle such matters from now on with
President Firebrass as the court of last appeal. Though
we will miss S.C. Bagg, we must confess that . . .
. . . Metzing had been chief of the Naval Airship
Division of Imperial Germany in 1913. He was
Korvettenkapitan of the Zeppelin L-l when it went down on
September 9, 1913, during maneuvers. This was the first
naval Zeppelin to be lost. The crash was not due to any
deficiency on the part of crew or vessel but to the
ignorance at that time of meteorological conditions in
the upper air. In other words, weather forecasting was
then a primitive science. A violent line squall lifted
the L-1 up past her pressure height and then dashed her
down. With propellers still spinning and ballast
ejecting, the ship smashed into the sea off Heligoland.
Metzing died with most of his crew . . . We welcome this
experienced officer and likable gentleman to Parolando
but hope he brings no bad luck with him.
. . . Flash! Just arrived! Another airship veteran, Anna
Karlovna Obrenova from up-River some 40,000 kilometers.
In the brief interview allowed before Ms. Obrenova was
taken to President Firebass' HQ, we learned that she had
been captain of the USSR freighter-dirigible Lermontov,
logging 8584 hours of flight time in this and other
airships. This exceeds Ms. Gulbirra's 8342 hours and Mr.
Thorn's 8452 hours. A complete account of Obrenova should
be in tomorrow's issue. All we can say at the moment is
that she is a peach, a real pipperoo!
                           37
IT WAS FUNNY, THOUGH NOT LAUGHING-FUNNY.
She had been worried that a man with more airtime than
herself would show up. One had, but he had not been
aggressive. His only ambition was to be on the ship, and
he did not seem to care what rank he got.
Somehow, she had never thought of being displaced by a
woman. There were so few female airship officers in her
time. And so few people who had lived past 1983 had come
by-only one, in fact- that she had not worried about
dirigibilists of that era. From what Firebrass said, post-
1983 had been the great age of the large rigid airships.
But the odds against aeronauts of that era showing were
high.
Chance had thrown its dice, andsohere was Obrenova, a
woman who had 860 hours flight time as captain of a giant
Soviet airship.
So far, the officers' positions had not been announced.
No matter. Jill knew that the little blonde newcomer
would be first mate. Realistically, she should be. If
Jill were in Firebrass' place, she would have had to
appoint Obrenova as first mate.
On the other hand, there were only two months left before
the Parseval took off for the polar voyage. The Russian
might need more retraining than that. After thirty-four
years of ground life, she would be rusty. She would have
a month reacquainting herself with gasbags in the
Minerva. Then she would have a month of training in the
big ship with everybody else.
Could she do it? Of course, she could. Jill would have
been able to do it in that time.
She had been in the conference, room with the officer
candidates when Anna Obrenova was brought in by Agatha.
On seeing her, Jill's heart had seemed to turn over like
a sluggish motor. Before she heard Agatha's excited
announcement of the newcomer's identity, she had known
what it would be.
Anna Obrenova was short and slim but long legged and full
breasted. She had long, shining yellow hair and large,
dark blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, a
cupid's bow mouth, and a deep tan. She was, to quote
another newspaper article, a "beaut."
Disgustingly delicate and feminine. Unfairly so. Just the
type that men simultaneously wanted to protect and to
bed.
Firebrass was on his feet, advancing toward her, his face
aglow, his eyes seeming to drip male hormones.
But it was Thorn's reaction that surprised Jill. On
seeing Obreno va enter, he had jumped to his feet and
opened his mouth, closed it, opened it, then closed it
again. His ruddy skin was pale.
"Do you know her?" Jill said softly.
He sat down and covered his face with his hands for a
moment.
When he took them away, he said, "No! For a second I
thought I did! she looks so much like my first wife! I
still can't believe it."
Thorn remained shaking in his chair while others crowded
around Obrenova. Not until the others had been introduced
did he get up and shake her hand. He told her then how
remarkably she resembled his wife. She smiled-
"dazzlingly" was a cliche, but it was the only adverb
appropriate-and she said, in heavily accented English,
"Did you love your wife?"
That was a strange thing to say. Thorn stepped back a
pace and said, "Yes, very much. But she left me."
" I am sorry,'' Obrenova said, and they did not exchange
another word while in the room.
Firebrass sat her down and offered her food, cigarettes,
and liquor. She accepted the former but declined the
rest.
"Does that mean you have no vices?" Firebrass said. "I
was hoping you'd have at least one."
Obrenova ignored this. Firebrass shrugged and began
questioning her. Jill got depressed while listening to
the account of her experience. She had been born in
Smolensk in 1970, had been educated as an aeronautical
engineer, and in 1984 had become an airship trainee. In
2001 she had been made captain of the passenger freighter
Lermontov.
Finally, Firebrass said that she must be tired. She
should go with Agatha, who'd find quarters for her.
"Preferably in this building," he said.
Agatha replied that no rooms were available. She would
have to be satisfied with a hut near those of Ms.
Gulbirra and Mr. Thorn.
Firebrass, looking disappointed, said, "Well, maybe we
can find a place here for her later. Meantime, I'll go
with you, Anna, and make sure you're not given a dump."
Jill felt even lower. How could she expect objectivity
from him, when he was so obviously smitten by the
Russian?
For a while, she indulged in some fantasies. How about
abducting the little Russian and tying her up in a hidden
place just before the Parseval was to take off? Firebrass
would not hold up the flight until she was found. Jill
Gulbirra would then become first mate.
If she could do that to Obrenova, why not to Firebrass?
Then she would be the captain.
The images evoked were pleasing, but she could not do
that to anyone, no matter how strongly she felt. To
violate their human rights and dignities would be to
violate, to destroy herself.
During the week that followed she sometimes beat her
fists on the table or wept. Or both. The next week she
told herself that she was being immature. Accept what was
unavoidable and enjoy what was left. Was it so important
that she should finally be captain of an airship?
To her, yes. To anyone else in the world, no.
So she swallowed her resentment and disgust.
Piscator must have known how she felt. Frequently, she
caught him looking at her. He would smile or else just
look away. But he knew, he knew!
Six months passed. Firebrass gave up trying to get
Obrenova to move into his apartment. He made no secret of
his desire nor did he hide the fact that she had finally
rejected him.
''You win some, you lose some," he said to Jill with a
wry smile. "Maybe she doesn't go for men. I know a score
or more who've been panting for her, and she's as cool to
them as if she were the Venus de Milo."
"I'm sure she isn't a lesbian," Jill said.
"Takes one to know one, heh? Haw, haw!"
"Damn it, you know I'm ambivalent," she said angrily, and
she walked away.
"Indecisive is the right word!" he had shouted after her.
At that time Jill was living with Abel Park, a tall,
muscular, handsome, and intelligent man. He was a
Rivertad, one of the many millions of children who had
died on Earth after the age of five. Abel did not
remember what country he had been born in or what his
native language had been. Though resurrected in an area
the majority of whom were medieval Hindus, he had been
adopted and raised by a Scots couple. These were
eighteenth-century Lowlanders of peasant origin. Despite
his poverty, the foster father had managed to become a
medical doctor in Edinburgh.
Abel had left his area after his parents had been killed
and had wandered down-River until he came to Parolando.
Jill had liked him very much and had asked him to be her
hutmate. The big fellow had gladly moved in, and they had
had some idyllic months. But, though he was intelligent,
he was ignorant. Jill taught him everything she could;
history, philosophy, poetry, and even some arithmetic. He
was eager to learn, but eventually he accused her of
patronizing him.
Shocked, Jill had denied this.
"I just want to educate you, to give you knowledge denied
you because you died so early."
"Yes, but you get so impatient. You keep forgetting that
I don't have your background. Things which seem simple to
you, because you were raised among them, are bewildering
to me. I don't have your referents."
He had paused, then said, "You're a knowledge-chauvinist.
In short, a... what's the word? ... a snob."
Jill was even more shocked. She denied this, too, though
reflection showed her that he was perhaps right. By then
it was too late to make reparations. He had left her for
another woman.
She consoled herself by telling herself that he was too
used to the idea of the man being the boss. He found it
difficult to accept her as an equal.
Later, she realized that that was only partly true.
Actually, she had, deep down, a contempt for him because
he was not, and never would be, her mental equal. That
had been an unconscious attitude, and now that she was
aware of it, she regretted having it. In fact, she felt
ashamed of it.
After that, she made no effort to have anything but the
most impermanent liaisons. Her partners were men and
women who, like her, wanted only sexual satisfaction.
Usually, she and they got it, but she always felt
frustrated afterward. She needed a genuine affection and
companionship.
Obrenova and Thorn, she observed, must be doing the same
thing as she. At least, no one moved into their huts. For
that matter, though, she never observed them taking any
interest in anybody which could be interpreted as sexual.
As far as she knew, they were not even having one-night
stands.
Thorn did, however, seem to like Obrenova's company. Jill
often saw them talking earnestly together. Perhaps Thorn
was trying to get her to be his lover. And perhaps the
Russian refused because she thought she would only be a
substitute for his first wife.
Three days before the final liftoff, a holiday was
declared. Jill left the plains area because it was so
crowded and noisy with people from up and down The River.
She estimated that there were already several hundred
thousands camping in Parolando and that there would be
over twice that number by the time the Parseval left. She
retired to her hut, leaving it only for a little fishing.
The second day, as she was sitting on the edge of the
little lake, looking emptily into the water, she heard
someone approaching.
Her irritation at the invasion died when she saw
Piscator. He was carrying a fishing pole and a wickerwork
basket. Silently, he sat down beside her and offered her
a cigarette. She shook her head. For some time they
stared at the surface, rippled by the wind, broken now
and then by a leaping fish.
Finally, he said, "It won't be long before I must
reluctantly say goodbye to my disciples and to my
piscatorial pursuits."
"Is it worth it to you?"
"You mean, giving up this pleasant life for an expedition
that may end in death? I won't know until it happens,
will I?"
After another silence, he said, "How have you been? Any
more experiences such as that night?"
"No, I'm fine." "But you have been carrying a knife in
your heart.''
"What do you mean?" she said, turning her head to look at
him. She hoped her puzzlement did not look as faked as it
felt to her.
''I should have said three knives. The captaincy, the
Russian, and most of all, yourself."
"Yes, I have problems. Don't we all? Or are you an
exception? Are you even human?"
He smiled and said, "Very much so. More than most, I can
say with seeming immodesty. Why is that? Because I have
realized my human potentiality almost to its fullest. I
can't expect you to credit that. Nor will you, unless,
some day ... but that day may never come.
"However, regarding your question of my humanity. I have
sometimes wondered if some people we have met are human.
I mean, do they belong to Homo sapiens?
"Isn't it possible, even highly probable, that the
Whoevers responsible for all this have agents among us?
For what purpose, I don't know. But they could be
catalysts to cause some kind of action among us. By
action, I do not mean physical action, such as the
building of the Riverboats and airships, though that may
be part of it. I refer to psychic action. To a, shall we
say, channeling of humanity? Toward what? Perhaps toward
a goal somewhat similar to that which the Church of the
Second Chance postulates. A spiritual goal, of refinement
of the human spirit. Or perhaps, to use a Christian-
Muslim metaphor, to separate the sheep from the goats."
He paused and drew on his cigarette.
"To continue the religious metaphor, there may be two
forces at work here, one for evil, one for good. One is
working against the fulfillment of that goal."
"What?" she said. Then, "Do you have any evidence for
that?"
"No, only speculation. Don't get me wrong. I don't think
that Shaitan, Lucifer if you will, is actually conducting
a cold war against Allah, or God, whom we Sufis prefer to
name The Real .But I sometimes wonder if there isn't a
parallel to that in some sense ... well, it is all
speculation. If there are agents, then they look like
human beings."
"Do you know something I don't?"
"I have 'probably observed certain things. You have, too,
the difference being that you have not put them into a
pattern. A rather dark pattern it is. Though it is
possible that I am looking at the wrong side of the
pattern. If it were turned over, the other side might be
blazing with light."
"I wish I knew what you were talking about. Would you
mind letting me in on this .. . pattern?"
He rose and tossed the cigarette stub into the lake. A
fish rose, swallowed it, and splashed back.
"There are all sorts of activity going on beneath that
mirror of water," he said, pointing to the lake. "We
can't see them because water is a different element from
the air. The fish know what's going on down there, but
that doesn't do us much good. All we can do is to lower
our hooks into the darkness and hope we catch something.
"I read a story once in which a fish sat down on the
bottom of a deep, dark lake and extended his fishing pole
into the air over the bank. And he caught men with his
bait."
"Is that all you're going to say about that?"
He nodded, and said, "I presume you are coming to
Firebrass' farewell party tonight."
"It's a command invitation. But I hate going. It'll be a
drunken brawl."
"You don't have to soil yourself by joining the pigs in
their swinishness. Be with but not of them. That will
enable you to enjoy the thought of how superior you are
to them."
"You're an ass," she said. Then, quickly, "I'm sorry,
Piscator. I'm the ass. You read me correctly, of course."
"I think that Firebrass is going to announce tonight the
ranking of the officers and pilots."
She held her breath for a moment. "I think so, too, but I
am not looking forward with pleasure to that."
"You prize rank too highly. What is worse, you know it
but will do nothing about it. In any event, I think you
have an excellent chance."
"I hope so."
"Meanwhile, would you care to go out in the boat with me
and participate in the angling?"
"No, thanks."
She rose stiffly and pulled in the line. The bait was
gone off the hook.
"I think I'll go home and brood a while."
"Don't lay any eggs," he said, grinning.
Jill snorted feebly and walked away. Before she reached
her hut, she passed Thorn's. Loud, angry voices were
issuing from it. Thorn's and Obrenova's.
So, the two had finally gotten together. But they did not
seem happy about it.
Jill hesitated a moment, almost overcome with the desire
to eavesdrop. Then she plunged on ahead, but she could
not help hearing Thorn shout in a language unknown to
her. So-it would have done her no good to listen in. But
what was that language? It certainly did not sound like
Russian to her.
Obrenova, in a softer voice, but still loud enough for
Jill to hear her, said something in the same language.
Evidently, it was a request to lower his voice.
Silence followed. Jill walked away swiftly, hoping they
would not look outside and think she had been doing what
she had almost done. Now she had something to think
about. As far as she knew, Thorn could speak only
English, French, German, and Esperanto. Of course, he
could have picked up a score of languages during his
wanderings along The River. Even the least proficient of
linguists could not avoid doing that.
Still, why would the two talk in anything but their
native languages or in Esperanto? Did both know a
language which they used while quarreling so that nobody
would understand them?
She would mention this to Piscator. He might have an
illuminating viewpoint on the matter.
As it turned out, however, she had no chance to do so,
and by the time the Parseval took off, she had forgotten
about the matter.
                           38
Discoveries in Dis
Jan. 26, 20 a.r.d.
Peter Jairus Frigate
Aboard the Razzle Dazzle
South Temperate Zone
Riverworld
Robert F. Rohrig Down-River (hopefully)
dear bob:
In thirteen years on this ship I've sent out twenty-one
of these missives. Letter from a Lazarus. Cable from
Charon. Missive from Mictlan. Palaver in Po. Tirades from
Tir na nOc. Tunes from Tuonela. Allegories from al-Sirat.
Sticklers from the Styx. Issues from Issus. Etc. All that
sophomoric alliterative jazz.
Three years ago I dropped into the water my Telegram from
Tartarus. I wrote just about everything significant
that'd happened to me since you died in St. Louis of too
much living. Of course, you won't get either letter
except by the wildest chance.
Here I am today in the bright afternoon, sitting on the
deck of a two-masted schooner, writing with a fishbone
pen and carbonblack ink on bamboo paper. When I'm done,
I'll roll the pages up, wrap them in fish membrane,
insert them in a bamboo cylinder. I'll hammer down a disc
of bamboo into the open end. I'll say a prayer to
whatever gods there be. And I'll toss the container over
the side. May it reach you via Rivermail.
The captain, Martin Farrington, the Frisco Kid, is at the
tiller right now. His reddish-brown hair shines in the
sun and whips with the wind. He looks half-Polynesian,
helf-Celtic, but is neither. He's an American of English
and Welsh descent, born in Oakland, California in 1876.
He hasn't told me that, but I know that because I know
who he really is. I've seen too many pictures of him not
to recognize him. I can't name him because he has some
reason for going under a pseudonym. (Which, by the way,
is taken from two of his fictional characters.) Yes, he
was a famous writer. Maybe you'll be able to figure it
out, though I doubt it. You once told me that you had
read only one of his works, Tales of the Fish Patrol, and
you thought it was lousy. I was distressed that you'd
refuse to read his major works, many of which were
classics.
He and his first mate, Tom Rider, "Tex," and an Arab
named Nur are the only members of the original crew left.
The others dropped out for one reason or another: death,
ennui, incompatibility, etc. Tex and the Kid are the only
two people I've met on The River who could come anywhere
near being famous people. I did come close to meeting
Georg Simon Ohm (you've heard of "ohms") and James
Nasmyth, inventor of the steamhammer. And lo and behold!
Rider and Farrington are near the top of the list of the
twenty people I'd most like to meet. It's a peculiar
list, but, being human, I'm peculiar.
The first mate's real surname isn't Rider. His face isn't
one I'd forget, though the absence of the white ten-
gallon hat makes it seem less familiar. He was the great
film hero of my childhood, right up there with my book
heroes: Tarzan, John Carter of Barsoom, Sherlock Holmes,
Dorothy of Oz, and Odysseus. Out of the 260 western
movies he made, I saw at least forty. These were second
or third runs in the second-class Grand, Princess,
Columbia, and Apollo theaters in Peoria. (All vanished
long before I was fifty.) His movies gave me some of my
most golden hours. I don't remember the details or the
scenes of a single one-they all blur into a sort of
glittering montage with Rider as a giant figure in the
center.
When I was about fifty-two years old, I became interested
in writing biographies. You know that I had planned for
many years to write a massive life of Sir Richard Francis
Burton, the famous or infamous nineteenth-century
explorer, author, translator, swordsman, anthropologist,
etc.
But financial exigencies kept me too busy to do much on A
Rough Knight for the Queen. Finally, just as I was ready
to start full time on Knight, Byron Farwell came out with
an excellent biography of Burton. So I decided to wait a
few years, until the market could take another Burton
bio. And just as I was about to start again, Fawn
Brodie's life of Burton- probably the best-was published.
So I put off the project for ten years. Meanwhile, I
decided to write a biography of my favorite childhood
film hero (though I ranked Douglas Fairbanks, Senior, as
my other top favorite).
I'd read a lot of articles about my hero in movie and
western magazines and newspaper clippings. These depicted
him as having led a life more adventurous and flamboyant
than those of the heroes he played in films.
But I still did not have the money to quit writing
fiction long enough to travel around the country
interviewing people who'd known him-even if I could have
found them. There were some who could have given me
details of his careers as a Texas Ranger, a U.S. Marshal
in New Mexico, a deputy sheriff in the Oklahoma
Territory, a Rough Rider with Roosevelt at San Juan Hill,
a soldier in the Philippine Insurrection and the Boxer
Rebellion, a horse breaker for the British and possibly
as a mercenary for both sides in the Boer War, as a
mercenary for Madero in Mexico, as a Wild West show
performer, and as the highest-paid movie actor of his
time.
The articles about him couldn't be trusted. Even those
who claimed to have known him well gave differing
accounts of his life. His obituaries were full of
contradictions. And I knew that Fox and Universal had put
out a lot of publicity stories about him, most of which
had to be checked out for exaggeration or downright lies.
The woman who thought she was his first wife had written
a biography of him. You'd never know from it that he had
divorced her and married twice thereafter. Or had two
daughters by another woman. Or that he had a "drinking
problem." Or an illegitimate son who was a jeweler in
London.
She thought she was his first wife, but, as it turned
out, she was his second or third. Nobody's too sure about
that.
That he was still a flawless hero to her even after all
this says much about the man, though. It says even more
about her.
A good friend of mine, Coryell Varoll (you remember him,
a circus acrobat, juggler, tightrope walker, gargantuan
beer drinker, a Tarzan fan) wrote me about him. In 1964,
I think.
"I remember the first time I met him I thought I was
meeting God ... over the years, being on the same lot
with him many times" (in the circus, he means) "the awe
fell apart but he was always liked by most people and
always idolized by the kids even after he quit making pix
... I know that sober he was a swell guy, drunk he'd
fight at the least excuse and do some of the damnedest
things (don't we all?). .. I've a few dozen stories about
him that never made the publications. I'll tell them the
next time we get together."
But somehow Cory never did.
Even his birthdate was in doubt. His studios and his wife
claimed he was born in 1880. The monument near Florence,
Arizona (where he died doing 80 mph on a dirt road), says
1880. But there was contrary evidence that it was 1870.
Whether he was sixty or seventy, though, he looked like a
young fifty. He always kept himself in great shape.
Also, a friend who saw him off on his fatal trip said he
was driving a yellow Ford convertible. His wife said it
was white. So much for eyewitnesses. The studio publicity
departments claimed he was born and raised in Texas. I
found out myself that that was a lie. He was born near
Mix Run, Pennsylvania, and he left there when he was
eighteen to enter the Army.
Just as I was about to write to the War Department to get
a copy of his military record-and find out for myself
just what he had done in the Army-a novel by Darryl
Ponicsan came out. I was stymied again; again, too late.
Though the book was semifictional, its author had done
the job of research that I'd been planning to do.
So-my hero wasn't the grandson of a Cherokee chief. Nor
was he born in El Paso, Texas. And, though he was in the
Army, he hadn't been severely wounded at San Juan Hill
nor wounded in the Philippines.
Actually, he'd enlisted the day after the Spanish-
American War started. I'm sure-as was Ponicsan-that he
hoped to get into action. There is no doubt that he had
great courage and that he desired to be where the bullets
were the thickest.
Instead, he was kept at the fort, then honorably
discharged. He thereupon reenlisted. But still, no
action. So he deserted in 1902.
He did not go to South Africa, as the studios claimed.
Instead, he married a young schoolteacher and went with
her to the Oklahoma Territory. Either her father got the
marriage annulled or she just left him and a divorce was
never filed. Nobody's sure.
While working as a bartender, shortly before he went to
work for the 101 Ranch in Oklahoma, he married another
woman. This didn't work out, and he apparently failed to
divorce her, too.
Most of what the studio publicity departments-and Rider
himself-claimed was false. These tales were made up to
glamorize a man who did not need it. Rider went along
with these tales, maybe made up some himself for the
studios. After a while he got to believing them himself.
I mean, really believing them. I should know. I've heard
him relate almost all of the prevarications, and it's
evident that by now the fiction is as genuine as the
reality to him.
This blurring of distinction between reality and fantasy
in no way interfered with his competency in real life, of
course.
He did, however, reject Fox's wish to advertise him as
the illegitimate son of Buffalo Bill. That might have
started inquiries which would have exposed the whole
truth.
And he never says a word about having been a great movie
star. He does tell stories about his film experiences,
but in these he's always an extra.
Why is he using a pseudonym? I don't know.
His third wife described him as tall, slender, and dark.
I suppose that in the early 1900's he would have been
considered a tall man, though he's shorter than I am. His
slim body does contain steelwire muscles. Farrington is
shorter than he but very muscular. He's always after Tom
to Indian wrestle him, especially when he (Farrington)
has been drinking. Tom obliges. They put an elbow on the
table, lock raised hands, and then try to force each
other's hand down to the table. It's a long struggle, but
Tom usually wins. Farrington laughs, but I think he's
really chagrined.
I've wrestled with both of them, coming out about fifty
percent winner (or loser). I can beat both of them in the
dashes and the long jump. But when it comes to boxing or
stick fighting, I usually get licked. I don't have their
"killer instinct." Besides, this macho thing never was
important to me. Though that may be because I suppressed
it from some unconscious fear of competition.
It's important to Farrington. If it is to Tom, he never
shows it.
Anyway, it was a thrill to be with these two. It still
is, though familiarity breeds, if not contempt,
familiarity.
Tom Rider has been up and down The River for hundreds of
thousands of kilometers and has three times been killed.
Once he was resurrected near the mouth of The River. By
near I mean he was only about 20,000 kilometers distant.
This was in the arctic region. The River's mouth is, like
its headwaters, near the North Pole. However, the two
seem to be diametrically opposite, the waters issuing
from the mountains in one hemisphere and emptying into
the mountains in the other hemisphere.
From what I've heard, there's a sea around the North
Pole, and it's walled by a circular mountain which would
make Mount Everest look like a wart. The sea pours out of
a hole at the base of the mountains, winds back and forth
in one hemisphere, finally curving around the South Pole
to the other hemisphere. There it wriggles like a snake
up and down from the antarctic to the arctic and back
again a thousand or so times, and finally empties into
the north polar mountains. (Actually, it's one mountain-
like a volcanic cone.)
If I drew a sketch of The River, it'd look like the
Midgard Serpent of Norse myth, a world-girdling snake
with its tail in its mouth.
Tom said that the areas near the mouth are populated
chiefly by Ice Agers, ancient Siberians, and Eskimos.
There's a scattering of modern Alaskans, upper Canadians,
and Russians, though. And some others from everywhere and
every time.
Tom, being the adventurer that he is, decided to travel
to the mouth. He and six others made some kayaks and
paddled downstream from the land of the living into the
wasteland of the fog shrouds. Surprisingly, vegetation
grew in the mists and the darkness all the way to the
mouth. Also, the grailstones extended for a thousand
kilometers into the fog. The expedition had its last
grail meal at the last stone and then, laden with dried
fish and acorn bread and what they'd saved from the
grails, they paddled on, the ever increasing current
speeding them toward their goal.
The last hundred kilometers was in a current against
which there was no turning back. They couldn't even try
for the shore; sheer canyon walls soared up from the edge
of the water . The voyageurs were forced to eat and sleep
sitting up in their kayaks.
It looked like curtains, finit, for them, and it was.
They plunged into a great cave the ceiling and walls of
which were so far away that Tom's torchlight could not
reach them. Then, with a horrible roaring, The River
entered a tunnel. By then the ceiling was so low that
Tom's head was knocked against it. That's all he
remembers. Undoubtedly, the kayak was torn to pieces
against the ceiling.
Tom woke up the next day somewhere near the south polar
region.
                           39
(Frigate's letter continued)
"There's a tower in the middle of a sea surrounded by the
polar mountains," Tom said.
"A tower?" I said. "What do you mean?"
"Haven't you heard about that? I thought everybody knew
about the tower."
"Nobody ever mentioned it to me."
"Well," he said, looking somewhat peculiar, "It is a hell
of a long River. I suppose there are plenty of areas
where nobody's heard the tale."
And he proceeded to tell me that that was just what it
was, a tale. No proof. The man who told Tom about it may
have been a liar, and God knows there are just as many
here as there were on Earth. But this wasn't an account
heard from a man who'd heard it from another who'd heard
it from still another and so on and so on. Tom himself
had actually talked to a man who claimed to have seen the
tower.
Tom had known this man for a long time, but he'd never
said a word about it until he got stumbling drunk with
Tom one night. After he sobered up, he refused to talk
about it. He was too scared.
He was an ancient Egyptian, one of a party led by the
Pharaoh Akhenaten or Ikhnaton, as some pronounced it. You
know, the one who tried to found a monotheist religion
about the thirteenth century B.C. Apparently, Akhenaten
was resurrected in an area of people from his own time.
The teller of the tale, Paheri, a nobleman, was recruited
by Akhenaten along with forty others. They built a boat
and started off, not knowing how far they had to go. Or,
indeed, what their goal was, except the source of The
River. Akhenaten believed that Aton, God, the sun, would
live there and that he would receive any pilgrim with
great honor. Would, in fact, pass him on to paradise, a
place better than The Riverworld.
Paheri, unlike the Pharaoh, was a conservative
polytheist. He believed in the "true" gods; Ra, Horus,
Isis, all the Old Bunch. He went along with his Pharaoh,
thinking that he would lead them to the seat of the gods
and would then get his just deserts for having abandoned
the old religion on Earth. Poetic justice. But he,
Paheri, would be suitably rewarded for his faith.
Fortunately for their quest, the area in which they'd
been first resurrected was in the northern hemisphere,
far up The River. Also fortunately, they passed through
areas mainly inhabited by late-twentieth-century
Scandinavians. These were comparatively peaceful, so the
boat's crew wasn't enslaved, and there was no problem
using the grailstones.
As they got closer to the polar mountains, they came into
an area populated by giant subhumans. These seem to have
been a species the fossils of which were never found on
Earth. Eight to ten feet high (2.45 to 3.048 meters),
believe it or not. With noses like proboscis monkeys.
Language users, though their speech was simple.
Any one of these behemoths could have wiped out the whole
crew singlehanded, but the boat frightened them. They
thought it was a living monster, a dragon. Apparently,
their area, which extended for several thousand
kilometers, was cut off from the area below them by a
very narrow valley. The River boiled through it at great
pressure, making a current against which a boat could not
be rowed.
The Egyptians weren't stopped by this. It took them six
months, but they made it. Using flint tools and some iron
tools-there was some iron in this area for which they
traded booze and tobacco from their grails-they chopped
out a narrow ledge about 3 meters above the water. They
disassembled the boat and, carrying the parts on their
backs, they crawled the kilometer or so to the end of the
narrow part.
In the land of the giants, the Egyptians recruited an
individual whose name they couldn't pronounce. They
called him Djehuti (the Greek form of this name was
Thoth) because his long nose reminded them of that god.
Thoth had the head of an ibis, a long-beaked bird.
The boat proceeded up The River, to where the grailstones
ceased. This area was in perpetual fog. Though The River
had given up much of its heat while going through the sea
behind the polar mountains, it still had enough left to
form clouds when it encountered the colder air.
They came to a cataract that was wide enough to float the
moon on, or so said Paheri. The boat had to be left
behind then, and for all anybody knows it is still on a
platform in a sheltered cove. Rotten by now, what with
all that moisture.
Now, here comes one of the strangest parts of the tale.
The expedition came to a cliff which seemed
insurmountable. But they found a tunnel which someone had
cut through the cliff. And then, later, at the bottom of
another insurmountable cliff, they found the end of a
rope made from cloths. Up it they went, and though their
path was anything but smooth from then on, they did get
to the polar sea beyond the mountains.
Who made the tunnel and who left the rope? And why? It
seems obvious to me that someone prepared the way for us
Earthlings. I doubt that it was Riverdwellers who cut the
tunnel and who planted the rope. The mountain which
contained the tunnel was made of hard quartz. The tunnel
would have worn out a large number of steel tools, which
would not in any event have been available in large
numbers. Moreover, Paheri said that there was no debris,
no cuttings and shavings which would have to be piled
outside the tunnel. Even with iron tools, a party would
not have time enough to cut the tunnel. They couldn't
possibly have brought along enough food for the time it
would take to do the job.
In addition, how could anyone have gotten up the
aforementioned cliff without a rope? Maybe some
mysterious party preceding the Egyptians fired a rocket
trailing a rope? But there was only one projection, a
tall, thin spire of rock, for the hypothetical rope with
hypothetical grapnels to catch on. The chances of the
rocket hitting it (especially when it's invisible from
below) and the grapnels catching on it are highly remote.
Also, there was no empty rocket case around. Whoever had
lowered the rope had tied the end of the rope around the
projection. And Paheri said that it looked as if the
projection had been cut out of a larger spire.
Anyway, after crawling on a ledge through a dark cave
through which a cold wind howled, they came out onto the
sea. Clouds covered the sea from rim to rim of the
unbroken range circling the sea. Only it wasn't really
unbroken. On the other side there must have been a great
gap between two mountains. Djehuti saw it first; he went
around a corner just as the sun broke through for a
moment. Those behind him heard a cry, then a bellow, and
then a long, dwindling wail. They inched around the
corner and got to the edge of the ledge just in time to
see Djehuti's body disappear in the clouds below.
Afterward, they reconstructed what had happened. He had
rounded the corner and seen a grail a few paces before
him. Yes, a grail. Someone had preceded them. Apparently,
Djehuti saw it, too, and then the sun shone through the
gap in the mountain. Blinded, or startled, he had stepped
backward and tripped over the grail.
There was just enough light from the passing sun to give
a glimpse of something in the middle of the sea. It
looked like the upper end of a colossal grail sticking
from the clouds. Then the sun passed the gap and the
clouds rolled back up and covered the big grail.
You're probably asking, how could the Egyptians see the
sun? Even if the break in the mountains extended to the
horizon, wouldn't the clouds still cover it? The answer
is, yes, the clouds would cover it under normal
circumstances. But there was a combination of wind which
cleared the clouds away momentarily just as the sun
passed the gap. An unhappy combination of circumstances,
for Djehuti, anyway.
The winds are peculiar in that region. Twice, they
cleared the clouds away so that the Egyptians could see,
briefly, the upper portion of the tower. Without the
direct rays of the sun, in the gloomy twilight of
reflection from the skies, they could see only a dark
bulk. But it was enough. There was an object out there, a
vast object. Not necessarily a manmade object, since we
don't know if the owners and operators of this planet are
human. But it was an artifact; it was too smoothly
cylindrical to be anything else. Though, at that
distance, it could have been a spire of rock, I suppose.
But here's another clincher. Several hours later the
Egyptians saw an object rise up from the clouds around
the tower. It was round, and for them to see it from
where they stood, it must have been enormous. When it got
far up, it reflected light from the never setting sun.
Then it rose so high it became invisible.
That really excited me. I said, "That tower could be the
headquarters, the home base, of Whomever is behind all
this?"
"That's what Frisco and I think."
The Egyptians had become fond of Djehuti. Despite his
ogreish appearance, he had a good heart, and he liked to
joke. He wasn't above making puns in Egyptian, which
shows a considerable intelligence on his part. Humankind
is unique in the animal kingdom; it's the only species
that can pun. Homo agnominatio? I don't know. My Latin
gets weaker by the day. If I could find an ancient Roman
or a Latin scholar I'd take a refresher course.
Back to Paheri's tale. And Djehuti. If it hadn't been for
his gorillan strength, the Egyptians wouldn't have gotten
as far as they did. So they said some prayers over him
and pushed on down the path.
The narrow ledge inclined, generally, at a 45-degree
angle and was slippery with moisture. It was just wide
enough for one man to walk along, his shoulder brushing
the cliff. There were several narrowings where they had
to face the cliff and slide along it, their chests
against the rock, their heels hanging over the edge,
their fingers clutching every tiny roughness.
Halfway down, Akhenaten almost fell off. He'd stumbled in
the fog over a skeleton. Yes, a skeleton, undoubtedly the
one who'd abandoned the grail. None of his bones seemed
to be broken, so they guessed that he had died of
starvation. The Pharaoh said a prayer over the bones and
cast them into the sea. After a while they came to the
end of the path. This was at sea level. They despaired
then, but Akhenaten grabbed hold of an outcropping with
one hand and with a torch in his other hand looked around
the projection.
On the other side was an opening, the mouth of a cave. He
eased around the outcropping, the sea up to his knees,
his feet on the underwater continuation of the ledge. His
torch showed him a smooth rock floor that slanted upward
at a 30-degree angle. The others followed him without
mishap.
Akhenaten in the lead, they walked up the slope. Their
hearts beat hard, their skins were cold, their teeth
chattered. One man-our Paheri-was so scared that he had
nervous diarrhoea:
Was this the entrance to the hall of the gods? Was jackal-
headed Anubis waiting to conduct them to the great judge
who would balance their good deeds against the bad?
It was then that Paheri got to thinking about the mean
and unjust things he'd done, his pettinesses and
cruelties, his greed and treachery. For a moment he
refused to go on. But when the others kept walking, and
the darkness began to press in on him, he resumed walking-
though at a distance behind them.
The cave became a tunnel, the rock walls evidently worked
by tools. It began curving gently and then, after a
hundred meters, it entered a very large circular chamber.
This was lit by nine black metal lamps on tall tripods.
The lamps were ball shaped, and they burned with a cold,
steady light.
There were several things in the chamber to astonish
them. The nearest, though, was another skeleton. Like the
other, it was still clothed. The right arm was fully
extended as if it had been reaching out for something.
Beside it was a grail. At the moment, they didn't examine
the bones, but I'll describe it now. It was the skeleton
of a female, and the skull and some still unrotted
patches of hair showed that it was a Negress's.
She had probably died of starvation. That was tragically
ironic, since she had died a few meters from food.
After her companion had died, she'd gone on, probably
crawling part of the way, summoning enough strength to
stand up and edge around the very narrow places. Then,
with salvation in sight, she had died.
I wonder who she was? What drove her to take that
perilous journey? How many of her party died or turned
back before they got through the vast cave through which
the waves of the polar sea rush out? How did they get
past the hairy, big-nosed colossi? What was her name, and
why was she so fiercely determined to drive on into the
heart of darkness?
Perhaps she may have left a message inside her grail.
However, its lid was closed, and so only she could open
it. Anyway, it's very unlikely that the Egyptians could
have read her writing. This was before the Chancers
spread Esperanto around the world. Furthermore, billions
who can speak this language don't know how to read it.
The Egyptians said a prayer over the bones and then
silently inspected the largest objects in the chamber,
metal boats. There were eleven, some large, some small,
all in low, metal V-shaped supports open at both ends.
There were also supplies of food. They didn't know that
at first, since they'd never seen plastic cans. But
diagrams on plastic sheets indicated how to open them,
which they did. They contained beef, bread, and
vegetables. They ate heartily, and then they slept for a
long time, being very fatigued from their journey.
But they felt that the gods (in Akhenaten's view. The
God) had provided for them. A path had been prepared for
them, though it had not been an easy one. The road to
immortality had never been easy, and only the virtuous
and hardy would traverse it. Perhaps Djehuti had sinned
in some way and so had been hurled from the ledge by the
gods.
There were diagrams, how-to-do-it sketches using signs,
in the boats. They studied these and then carried one of
the large boats through the tunnel. It could hold thirty
people, but four people could lift it easily or one
strong man could drag it. It was shoved under the ledge
into the sea, which was moderately rough, and the party
got into it. There was a small control board by the
wheel. Though he was a Pharaoh and so above work of any
kind, Akhenaten nevertheless took over the controls.
Following the diagrammed instructions, he punched a
button on the board. A screen lit up, and a bright orange
outline of the tower appeared on it. He punched another
button, and the boat moved of its own accord outward into
the sea.
Everybody was scared, of course, though their leader did
not show it. Yet they felt that they were in the right
place and were welcome-in a sense. The boat they likened
to the barge in which, in their religion, the dead
journeyed across the waters of the Other World, Amenti.
(Amenti comes from Ament, a goddess whose name meant "the
Westerner." She wore a feather, as did the Libyans, the
people to the west of Egypt. She may have been a Libyan
goddess borrowed by the Egyptians. A feather was also the
sign or hieroglyph for the word "Western." In later
times, "the West" meant the Land of the Dead, and Ament
became the goddess of the country of the dead. She it was
who welcomed them at the gate of the Other World. She
proffered them bread and water and, if they ate it, they
became "friends of the gods.")
Naturally, the food they'd found in the cave reminded
them of this, just as the boat was an analog of the barge
used by the dead in the Other World. The Egyptians, like
many people, had been upset, not to mention outraged,
when they woke from death upon The Riverworld. This was
not what the priests had said would happen to them after
death. Yet, there were parallels here, physical analogs,
to the promised land. Also, that there was a River was
comforting. They had always been a riparian folk, living
close to the Nile. And now they had been guided by a
divine being to the heart of the Other World.
They wondered if they should have named the giant
subhuman Anubis instead of Djehuti. Anubis was the jackal-
headed god who conducted the dead in the Underworld to
the Double Palace of Osiris, the Judger, the Weigher of
Souls. Still, Djehuti was the spokesman of the gods and
the keeper of their records. Sometimes, he took the shape
of a dog-headed ape. Considering their companion's
features and his hairiness, he did look like that avatar
of Djehuti.
Note: These two aspects of Thoth (Djehuti) indicate that
there may have been a fusion of two different gods in
early times.
This world did have some similarities to the Other World.
Now that they were in the Abode of Osiris, the
similarities were even more striking. The Riverworld
could be that country between the world of the living and
the dead vaguely described by the Priests. The priests
had told confusing, contradictory stories. Only the gods
knew the full truth.
Whatever the truth was, it would soon be found. The tower
didn't look like their picture of the Double Hall of
Justice, but perhaps the gods had changed things. The
Riverworld was a place of constant change, a reflection
of the state of mind of the gods themselves.
Akhenaten turned the wheel so that the orange tower was
bisected by the vertical line splitting the screen. At
times, just to reassure himself that he had control of
the speed, he would squeeze the bulb fixed to the right
side of the steering wheel. The boat's speed would
increase or decrease according to the force of the
squeezing.
The boat headed straight through the choppy, fog-shrouded
sea for the tower at a speed frightening to its
passengers. Within two hours the image on the screen had
become enormous. Then the image burst into a flame which
covered the entire screen, and Akhenaten let the boat
proceed very slowly. He punched a button, and they all
cried out in fright and wonder as two round objects on
the prow of the boat shot forth two bright beams of
light.
Ahead lay a vast bulk-the tower.
Akhenaten punched a button indicated by the diagram.
Slowly, a large, round door, a port, swung open from what
had been a smooth, seamless surface. Light sprang into
being. Inside was a wide hall, its walls of the same grey
metal.
Akehnaten brought the boat alongside the entrance. Some
of the crew grabbed the threshold. The Pharaoh pressed
the button which shut off the invisible power that moved
the boat. He stepped onto the side of the boat, which was
just below the threshold. After jumping inside the hall,
he took the ropes attached to the inside of the hull and
secured them around hooks set into the hall. Apprehen
sively, silently, the others followed him.
All, that is, except for Paheri. The terror was now
almost unendurable. His teeth clicked uncontrollably. His
knees shook. His heart beat in his frozen flesh like a
frightened bird's wings. His mind moved sluggishly, like
winter mud flowing down a hillside warmed by the sun.
He was too weak to get up from the seat and step into the
corridor. He was sure that if he could go on, he'd face
his judge and be found wanting.
I'll say one thing for Paheri. Two. He did have a
conscience, and he wasn't afraid to admit to Tom Rider
that he'd been a coward. That takes courage.
Akhenaten, as if he had nothing to fear from The One God,
walked steadily toward the end of the corridor. The
others were bunched behind him at a dozen paces. One
looked back and was surprised that Paheri was still in
the boat. He gestured for him to come on. Paheri shook
his head and hung oh to the gunwale.
Then, without a single cry from anyone, those in the
corridor slumped to their knees, fell forward on their
hands; tried to rise, failed, and sagged onto their
faces. They lay as still and limp as putty models.
The door swung slowly shut. It closed silently, leaving
no evidence that there was a door, not even a thin
seamline, and Paheri was alone in the dark fog and the
cold sea.
Paheri wasted no time in getting the boat turned around.
It moved at its former speed, but now there was no signal
on the scope, no bright image, to direct it. He could not
find the cave, and so he went up and down the base of the
cliff until he gave up trying to locate the cave.
Finally, he directed it alongside the cliff until he came
to the archway through which the sea rams into the
mountains. He got through the long and giant cave there,
but when he came to the great cataract, he could find no
place to beach the boat. It was carried over the falls.
Paheri remembered the bellowing of the waters, being
turned over and over, and then . . . unconsciousness.
When he awoke from his translation, he was lying naked in
the dark fog under the overhang of a grails tone. His
grail-a new one, of course-and a pile of cloths lay by
him. Presently he heard voices. The dim figures of people
coming to place their grails on the stone approached. He
was safe and sound-except for the terrible memory of the
hall of the gods.
Tom Rider was translated to Paheri's area after he'd been
killed by some fanatical medieval Christians. He became a
soldier, met Paheri, who was in the same squad, and heard
his story. Rider worked up to a captaincy and then he was
killed again. He awoke the next day in an area where
Fanington lived.
Several months later they went up-River together in a
dugout. Then they settled down for a while to build the
Rattle Dazzle.
What's my reaction to all this? Well, Paheri's story
makes me want to go see for myself if it's true or not.
If he wasn't making it up, and Tom says Paheri was as
stolid and as unimaginative as a wooden cigarstore
Indian, then this world, unlike Earth, may have answers
to the Big Questions, a mirror to the Ultimate Reality.
Towerward ho!
                           40
(Frigate's letter continued)
There's more to the story than what Rider told me. I
chanced to overhear Frisco and Tex several days ago. They
were in the main cabin, and the hatch was open. I had sat
down, my back against the cabin, and had lit up a cigar.
(Yes, for the nonce, I've fallen into the clutches of Ole
Devil Nicotine.) I really wasn't paying much attention to
their voices, since I was occupied with thoughts
resulting from a conversation with Nur el-Musafir.
Then I heard the captain, who has a loud voice, say,
"Yes, but how do we know he isn't using us for some
reason of his own? Some reason beneficial to him but not
so good for us? And how do we know we can get into the
tower? That Egyptian couldn't. Is there another entrance?
If there is, why didn't he tell us? He did say he'd tell
us more about the tower later on. But that was sixteen
years ago! Sixteen! We ain't seen him since!
"I mean, you ain't seen him. Of course, I never did see
him. Anyway, maybe something happened to him. Maybe he
got caught. Or maybe he doesn't need us anymore!"
Rider said something I couldn't catch. Farrington said,
"Sure, but you know what I think? I think he didn't have
the slightest idea those Egyptians got to the tower. Or
that one got away. At least, not when he talked to you."
Rider said something. Farrington replied, "The tunnel and
the rope and the boats and probably the path must have
been prepared for us. But others got there first."
The wind strengthened then, and I couldn't hear anything
for a minute or two. I moved closer to the companionway
well. Farrington said, "You really think some of them,
one, anyway, might be on this ship? Well, it's possible,
Tex, but so what if it is?
"Why weren't we told who the others were so we could
recognize each other and get together? When are we going
to be told? Where do we all meet? At River's end? What if
we get there and nobody shows up? Do we wait a hundred
years or so there? What if..."
Rider broke in once more. He must have talked a long
time. I was straining my ears, so lit up with curiosity
that I almost shone with a sort of St. Elmo's fire.
Mustafa, at the wheel, was looking at me with a strange
expression. He must have known, or guessed, that I was
eavesdropping. This made me uneasy. I wanted desperately
to hear the rest. But if the Turk told those two I'd been
listening to them, I might get tossed off the ship. On
the other hand, he couldn't know that they were
discussing any thing I shouldn't be hearing. So I puffed
on my cigar, and when it was out, I pretended to fall
asleep.
The situation reminded me of Jim Hawkins' experience in
the apple barrel in Treasure Island, when he overheard
Long John Silver plotting with his pirate cronies to take
over the Hispaniola after the treasure was found. Only,
in this case, Farrington and Rider weren't planning
anything evil against anybody at all. They seemed to be
more plotted against.
Farrington said, "What I'd like to know is why he needs
us? Here's a man with more power than a dozen gods, and
if he's going against his buddies, what help can he get
from mere mortals like us? And if he wants us in the
tower, why doesn't he just ferry us to it?"
There was another interruption, followed by the clink of
grail cups against each other. Then Rider spoke loudly.
"... must have damn good reasons. Anyway, we'll find out
in time. And what else do we have to do?"
Farrington bellowed laughter, then said, "That's right!
What else? Might as well use our time for some end, good
or bad. But I still feel like we're being exploited, and
I'm fed up with that. I was exploited by the rich and the
middle class when I was young, and then when I became
famous and rich, I was exploited by editors and
publishers and then by my relatives and friends. I ain't
going to let anybody exploit me here on this world, use
me like I was a dumb beast fit for nothing but shoveling
coal or canning fish!"
"You did some self-exploiting, too," Rider said. "Didn't
we all? I made plenty of money and so did you. And what
happened? We spent more'n we made on big houses and fast
cars and bad investments and booze and whores and putting
on a big front. We could've played it smart and tight and
saved our money and taken it easy and lived to ripe old
ages in ease and plenty. But ..."
Farrington exploded into laughter again. "But we didn't,
did we? That wasn't our nature, Tex, and it ain't now.
Live it up, burn the candle at both ends, spin off fire
and beauty like a St. Catherine's wheel instead of
trudging along like a steer turning a mill wheel! So the
deballed beast gets turned out to pasture instead of
going to the glue factory? So what? What does he have to
think about while he's munching grass? A long, grey life
and a short, grey future?"
More clinking. Then Farrington started to tell Rider
about a train trip he'd taken from San Francisco to
Chicago. He had introduced himself to a beautiful woman
who was accompanied by her child and a maid. It wasn't
more than an hour after meeting her that he and the woman
went to his compartment, where they coupled like crazed
minks for three days and nights.
I decided that then was a good time to leave. I got up
and strolled to the foremast where Abigail Rice and Nur
were talking. Mustafa apparently never suspected me of
eavesdropping.
Since then, I've been wondering. Who was the he referred
to? It's obvious that he must be one of Those who have
made this world for us and then raised us from the dead.
Could it really be? The idea seemed so tremendous, so
difficult to grasp. Yet-Somebody has to have done this,
Somebodies, I should say. And they are truly gods, in
many senses, anyway.
If Rider is telling the truth, there is a tower in the
north polar sea. And by implication it's a base for
Whomever made this world, our secret masters. Yes, I know
this sounds paranoid. Or like a science fiction tale,
most of which were paranoid, anyway. But, except for the
very few who got rich, science fiction writers were
convinced that their secret (or not so secret) masters
were the publishers. Even the rich ones questioned their
royalty statements. Maybe the tower is inhabited by the
cabal of super-publishers. (Just kidding, Bob. I think.)
Maybe Rider is lying. Or his informant, Paheri, was
lying. I don't believe so. It's obvious that Rider and
Farrington have been approached by one of these Whomever^
They weren't just making up this story to fool an
eavesdropper.
Or were they?
How paranoid can you get?
No, they were discussing something that had really
happened. If they were careless, left the hatch open,
didn't talk subduedly, it was only natural. After all
those years, who wouldn't get careless? As far as that
goes, why shouldn't they tell everybody?
Somebody might be looking for them. Who? Why?
My mind yaws, pitches, and rolls. So many speculations,
so many possibilities. And I think, wow! What a story!
Too bad I hadn't thought of something like this when I
was writing science fiction. But the concept of a planet
consisting of a many-millions-kilometer-long river along
which all of humanity that ever lived had been
resurrected (a good part of it, anyway) would have been
too big to put in one book. It would have taken at least
twelve books to do it anywhere near justice. No, I'm glad
I didn't think of it.
In light of those developments, what do I do now? Should
I mail this letter or tear it up? It won't fall into your
hands, of course, not a chance of that. Into whose, then?
Probably it'll be picked up by someone who can't even
read English.
Why am I afraid it might fall into the wrong hands? I
really don't know. But there is a dark, secret struggle
going on under the seemingly simple life of this Valley.
I intend to find out just what it is. I'll have to
proceed cautiously though. A small voice tells me that I
might be better off if I don't know anything about this.
Anyway, to whom am I really writing these missives? To
myself, probably, though I hope hopelessly that just
possibly impossibly one might drift into the hands of
someone I knew and loved or at least was fond of.
And yet, this very moment, as I stare across the water at
the many people on the bank, I might be looking directly
at the person to whom I've written one of these letters.
But the ship is in the middle of The River just now, and
I'm too far away to recognize anyone recognizable.
Great God, the faces I've seen in twenty years! Millions,
far more than I ever saw on Earth. Some of the faces came
into being three hundred thousand years ago or more.
Undoubtedly, the faces of many of my ancestors, some of
them Neanderthals. A certain number of Homo neanderthalis
was absorbed by miscegenation into Homo sapiens, you
know. And considering the flux and reflux of large groups
through prehistory and history, migrations, invasions,
slavery, individual travel, some, maybe many, of the Mon
golian, Amerindian, Australoid, and Negro faces I've seen
belong to my ancestors.
Consider this. Each generation of your ancestors, going
back in time, doubles its number. You were born in 1925.
You had two parents, born in 1900. (Yes, I know you were
born in 1923 and your mother was forty when she bore you.
But this is an ideal case, an average.)
Your parents' parents were born in 1875. That makes four.
Double your ancestors every twenty-five years. By 1800,
you have thirty-two ancestors. Most of them didn't even
know each other, but they were "destined" to be your
great-great-great-grandparents.
In 1700 a.d., you have five hundred twelve ancestors. In
1600 a.d. 8192 ancestors. In 1500 A.D., 131,072
ancestors. In 1400, 2,097,152. In 1300, 33,554,432. By
1200 A.D., you have 536,870,912 ancestors.
So do I. So does everybody. If the world population was,
say, two billion in 1925 (I don't remember what it was),
then multiply that by the number of your ancestors in
1200 A.D. You get over one quadrillion. Impossible?
Right.
I just happen to remember that in 1600 the estimated
world population was five hundred million. In 1 a.d. , it
was an estimated 138,000,000. So, the conclusion is
obvious. There was a hell of a lot of incest, close and
remote, going on in the past. Not to mention the present.
Probably from the dawn of humankind. So, you and I are
related. And, in fact, it may be possible that we're all
related, many times over. How many Chinese and black
Africans born in 1925 were distant cousins of you and me?
Plenty, I'd say.
So, the faces I see on both banks as I sail along are my
cousins'. Hello, Hang Chow. Yiya, Bulabula. What's
happening, Hiawatha? Hail, Og, Son of Fire! But even if
they knew this, they wouldn't feel any more friendly
toward me. Or vice versa. The most intense quarreling and
the most vicious bloodletting take place in families.
Civil wars are the worst wars. But then, since we're all
cousins, all wars are civil. Mighty uncivil, at the same
time. The paradox of human relations. I'll shoot your ass
off, brother.
Mark Twain was right. Did you ever read his Extract from
Captain Stormfield's Visit to Heaven ? Old Stormfield was
shocked when he got past the Pearly Gates because there
were so many dark people. Like all of us pale Caucasians,
he had envisioned Heaven as being full of white faces
with here and there a few yellow, brown, and black ones.
But it wasn't that way. He'd forgotten that the dark-
skinned peoples had always outnumbered the whites. In
fact, for every white face he saw there were two dark
ones. And that's the way it is here. My hat is off to
you, Mr. Twain. You told it like it was gonna be.
So, here we are in the Rivervalley, knowing not why and
whence. Just like on Eath.
Of course, there are plenty of people who say they know.
There are the two dominant churches, the Chancers and the
Nichirenites, and a thousand sects of reformed
Christians, Moslems, Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, and God
knows what all. The former Taoists and Confucianists say
they don't give a damn; this is a better life, on the
whole, than the last one. The totemists are in a bit of a
bind, since there are no animals here. But that doesn't
mean the totem spirits aren't here. Many's the savage
I've run into who sees his totem in dreams or visions.
The majority of them, though, have been converted to one
of the "higher" religions.
There's also Nur el-Musafir. He's a Sufi. He was just as
shocked as anybody to wake up here. He wasn't outraged,
however, and he reordered his thinking tout de suite. He
says that whatever beings have made this world have done
so with only our eventual good in mind. Otherwise, why go
to all this great expense and trouble? (In this, he
sounds like a barker for a circus. But he's sincere.
Which doesn't mean he knows what he's talking about.)
We shouldn't concern ourselves with the Who or the How,
he says. Just with the Why. In this respect, he sounds
like a Chancer. But I see I'm about to run out of my
quota of paper. So, adiau, adios, selah, amen, salaam,
shalom, and so long. (The English so long is from selang,
the Moslem Malayan's pronunciation of the Arabic salaam.)
Amicably and didactically yours in the bowels of
Whomever,
Peter Jairus Frigate
P.S. I still don't know if I'll mail this in toto, censor
it, or use it for toilet paper.
                           41
ON THE AVERAGE, THE RIVER WAS 2.4135 KILOMETERS OR A MILE
and a half wide. Sometimes it narrowed into channels
always lined by high hills; sometimes it widened into a
lake. Whatever its breadth, its depth was everywhere
about 305 meters or a trifle over 1000 feet.
Nowhere along The River was there water erosion of the
banks. The grass on the plains merged into an aquatic
grass at the water level, and the latter flourished on
the sides and bottom of the channel. The roots of this
fused with the roots of the surface grass to form an
interconnected mass. The grass was not separate blades;
it was one vast vegetable entity.
The water plants were eaten by a multitude of fish life
from surface to bottom. Many species cruised about in the
upper stratum, where the sunlight penetrated. Others,
paler creatures but no less voracious, swarmed in the
middle layer. In the darkness of the bottom many weird
forms scuttled, crawled, wriggled, jetted, swam.
Some ate the leprous-white rooted things that looked like
flowers or were in turn enfolded and digested by them.
Others, large and small, slid steadily along, mouths
gaping, collecting the microscopic life that also lived
in the fluid strata.
The largest of all, vaster than the blue whale of Earth,
was a carnivorous fish called the river dragon. It shared
with a much smaller water dweller the ability to roam the
bottom or skim the surface without harm from change in
pressure.
The other creature had many names, but in English it was
generally called "croaker." It was the size of a German
police dog, as slow as a sloth, and as undiscriminating
in appetite as a hog. The chief sanitation engineer of
The River, it ate anything that did not resist it. The
greater part of its diet, however, was the human turd.
A lungfish, it also foraged ashore at night. Many a human
had been frightened on seeing its huge goggle eyes in the
fog or when stumbling over its slimy body as it crawled
around seeking garbage and crap. Almost as scary as its
appearance was its loud croak, evoking images of monsters
and ghosts.
On this day of year 25 a.r.d., one of these vilely
stinking scavengers was near a bank. Here the current was
weaker than in the middle. Even so, its fin-legs were
going at near top speed to keep it from being moved
backward. Presently, its nose detected a dead fish
floating toward it. It moved out a little and waited for
the carcass to drift into its mouth.
Along came the fish and another object immediately behind
it. Both went into the croaker's mouth, the fish sliding
down the gullet easily, the large object sticking for a
moment before a convulsive swallow drew it in.
For five years, the watertight bamboo jar containing
Frigate's letter to Rohrig had been carried downstream.
Considering the vast numbers of fishers and voyagers, it
should have been picked up and opened long before.
However, it was ignored by all creatures except for the
fish whose primary object had been the delectable rotting
chub.
Five days before the container came to journey's end, it
had drifted past the area in which its intended recipient
lived. But Rohrig was in a hut, surrounded by the stone
and wood sculptures he fashioned for trade in booze and
cigarettes, snoring off the effects of a big party.
Perhaps it was just coincidence, perhaps some psychic
principle was responsible, a vibratory link between the
addresser and the addressee. Whatever the cause, Rohrig
was dreaming of Frigate that early morning. He was back
in 1950 when he had been a graduate student supported by
the G.I. Bill and a working wife.
It was a warm, late-May day (Mayday! Mayday!). He was
sitting in a small room, facing three Ph.D.s. This was
the day of reckoning. After five years of labor and
stress in the halls of learning he would gain or lose the
prize, a Master of Arts in English literature. If he
passed his oral defense of his thesis, he would go out
into the world as a teacher of high-school English. If he
failed, he would have to study for six months and then
try for a second and final chance.
Now the three inquisitors, though smiling, were shooting
questions at him as if they were arrows and he was the
target-which was the case. Rohrig was not nervous since
his thesis was on medieval Welsh poetry, a subject he'd
chosen because he believed that the professors knew very
little about it.
He was right. But Ella Rutherford, a charming lady of
forty-six, though prematurely white haired, had it in for
him. Some time ago they'd been lovers, meeting, twice a
week in her apartment. Then one afternoon they had gotten
into a furious drunken argument about the merits of Byron
as a poet. Rohrig wasn't crazy about his verse, but he
admired Byron's lifestyle, which he considered to be true
poetry. Anyway, he liked to take the opposite side of an
argument.
As a result, he had stormed out of the apartment after
saying some very cruel things to her. He had also shouted
at her that he never wanted to see her in private again.
Rutherford believed that he had seduced her just to get a
high grade in her course, that he was using the argument
as an excuse to quit making love to a middle-aged woman.
She was wrong. He was compulsively attracted to older
women. However, he was finding her demands too great a
strain. He could no longer satisfy her, his wife, two
female sophomores, two of his friends' wives, a female
bartender who gave him free drinks, and the
superintendent of the apartment building in which he
lived.
Five, he could handle; eight, no. He was being drained of
time, energy, and semen, and he was falling asleep in
class. Thus, he had craftily started violent arguments
with his professor, one of the sophomores (it was rumored
that she had the clap), and the wife of a friend (she was
too emotionally demanding, anyway).
Now, Rutherford, her watery blue eyes narrowed, said,
"You've done very well in your defense, Mister Rohrig. So
far."
She paused. He felt suddenly chilled. His anus tightened.
Sweat poured down his face and from his armpits. He had
visions of her sitting up late nights thinking of some
way to get him, some horrible, peculiarly humiliating
way.
Doctors Durham and Pur quit drumming their fingers. This
was getting interesting. Their colleague was burning
bright, like the eyes of a tiger about to spring on a
tethered lamb. Lightning was going to strike, and the
unfortunate candidate was without a grounding rod, unless
it was up his ass.
Rohrig gripped the arms of his chair. Sweat popped out on
his forehead like mice scared from a Swiss cheese; sweat,
acid sweat, nibbled at the armpits of his shirt. What in
hell was coining?
Rutherford said, "You seem to know your subject
thoroughly. You've given a remarkable demonstration of
knowledge of a rather obscure field of poetry .I'm sure
we're all proud of you. We haven't wasted our time with
you in the classroom."
The sly bitch was telling him that she had wasted her
time outside of the classroom with him. But this was only
a sideswipe, a remark meant to injure but not to kill.
She was setting him up for the big fall. It was seldom,
if ever, that the examining professors congratulated the
candidate during the torture. Afterward, perhaps, when
the board had voted that he be passed.
"Now . . . tell me," Rutherford drawled.
She paused.
Another him of the crank of the rack.
"Tell me, Mister Rohrig. "Just where is Wales?"
Something in him lost its hold and slid bumping down to
the bottom of his stomach. He clapped his hand on his
forehead, and he groaned.
"Mother of mercy! Trapped! Holy shit!"
Doctor Pur, dean of women, turned pale. This was the
first time in her life she had ever heard that vile word.
Doctor Durham, who wept when reciting poetry to his
students, looked as if he was about to swoon.
Doctor Rutherford, having hurled her thunderbolt, smiled
without pity or compassion upon the remains of her
victim.
Rohrig rallied. He refused to go down without his flags
flying, the band playing Nearer My God to Thee. He smiled
as if the gold in the pot at rainbow's end had not
suddenly been transmuted into turds.
"I don't know how you did it, but you got me! O.K. I
never said I was perfect. What happens now?"
Verdict: failed. Sentence: six months of probation with
another and final inquisition at its end.
Later, when he and Rutherford were alone in the hall, she
said, "I suggest you study geography, too, Rohrig. I'll
give you a clue. Wales is near England. But I doubt my
advice will help you. You couldn't find your ass if it
was handed to you on a silver platter.''
His friend, Pete Frigate, was waiting at the end of the
hall for him. Pete was one of the group of older students
dubbed "The Bearded Ones" by a sophomore girl who liked
to hang around them. They were all veterans whose college
education had been interupted by the war. They and their
wives or mistresses led a life which was then called
"Bohemian." They were the unknown forerunners of the
beatniks and the hippies.
As Rohrig drew near, Frigate looked questioningly at him.
Though Rohrig was near tears, he put on a big smile and
then began laughing uproariously.
"You won't believe this, Pete!"
Frigate did find it difficult to believe that anyone past
the sixth grade of grammar school did not know where
Wales was. When he was finally convinced, he too laughed.
Rohrig shouted, "How in hell could that white-haired fox
have found out my weak spot?"
Frigate said, "I don't know, but she's magnificent.
Listen, Bob. Don't feel so bad. I know a distinguished
surgeon who doesn't remember if the sun goes around the
earth or the earth goes around the sun. He says it's not
necessary to know that when you're digging into people's
bodies.
"But an English major ... he ought at least to know .. .
ooh, haw, haw!"
In one of those non sequiturs the Dream Scripter so often
writes, Rohrig found himself elsewhere. Now he was in fog
and chasing a butterfly. It was beautiful, and what made
it so valuable was that it was the only one of its kind
and only Rohrig knew that it existed. It was striped with
azure and gold, its antennae were scarlet, its eyes were
green emeralds. The king of the dwarfs had fashioned it
in his cave in the Black Mountains, and the Wizard of Oz
had dunked it in the waters of life.
Fluttering only an inch beyond his outstretched hand, it
led him through the mists.
"Hold still, you son of a bitch! Hold still!"
He plunged after it for what seemed like miles. Dimly,
out of the corner of his eye, he could see shapes in the
clouds, things standing as motionless and quietly as if
they were carved from bone. Twice he distinguished a
figure; one wore a crown, the other had a horse's head.
Suddenly, he was confronted by one of the objects. He
stopped since it seemed impossible for some reason to go
around it. The butterfly hung for a moment above the top
of the thing, then settled down upon it. Its green eyes
glowed, and its front legs shook the antennae mockingly.
Moving forward slowly, Rohrig saw that it was Frigate who
was blocking his path.
"Don't you dare touch it!" Rohrig whispered fiercely.
"It's mine!"
Frigate's face was as expressionless as a knight's visor.
It always looked deadpan when Rohrig was in one of his
many furies and chewing out everybody in sight. That had
made Rohrig even more angry, and now it rocketed him to
the point of utter madness.
"Out of the way, Frigate! Step aside or get knocked
down!"
The butterfly, startled by the outburst, flew off into
the fog.
"I can't," Frigate said.
"Why not?" Rohrig thundered as he hopped up and down in
frustration.
Frigate pointed downward. He was standing on a large red
square. Adjoining it were other squares, some red, some
black.
"I got misplaced. I don't know what's going to happen
now. It's against the rules to put me on a red square.
But then, who cares about rules? Besides the pieces, I
mean."
"Can I help you?" Rohrig said.
"How could you do that? You can't help yourself."
Frigate pointed over Rohrig's shoulder.
"It's going to catch you now. While you've been chasing
the butterfly, it's been chasing you."
Rohrig suddenly felt utterly terrified. There was
something after him, something which would do something
horrible to him.
Desperately, he tried to move forward, to go over or
around Frigate. But the red square held him as it held
Frigate.
"Trapped!"
He could still see the butterfly, a dot, a dust mote,
gone. Forever.
The fog had thickened. Frigate was only a blur.
"I make my own rules!" Rohrig shouted.
A whisper came from the mists before him. "Quiet! It'll
hear you!"
He awoke briefly. His hutmate stirred.
"What's wrong, Bob?"
"I'm drowning in a surf of uncease."
"What?"
"Surcease."
He sank bank into the primal ocean down to where drowned
gods leaned in the ooze at crazy angles, staring with
fish-cold eyes under barnacled crowns.
Neither he nor Frigate knew that he could have answered
one of the questions in the letter. Rohrig had awakened
on Resurrection Day in the far north. His neighbors were
prehistoric Scandinavians, Patagonian Indians, Ice Age
Mongolians, and late-twentieth-century Siberians. Rohrig
was quick at learning new languages and was soon fluent
in a dozen, though he never mastered the pronunciation
and he murdered the syntax. As he always did, he made
himself at home, and he was soon friends with many. For a
while, he even set himself up as a sort of shaman.
Shamans, however, must take themselves seriously if they
would succeed, and Rohrig was only serious about his
sculpturing. Also, he began to tire of the cold. He was a
sun worshipper; his happiest days had been in Mexico
where he was the first mate on a small coastal ship
transporting frozen shrimp from Yucatan to Brownsville,
Texas. He had been briefly involved in gun-smuggling
there but had quit it before spending a few days in a
Mexican jail. He had also quit Mexico. The authorities
could not prove his guilt, but they suggested that he
leave the country.
He was just about to take a dugout down-River for a warm
climate when along came Agatha Croomes. Agatha was a
black woman, born 1713, died 1783, a freed slave, a
backwoods Baptist preacher, a holy roller, four times
married, mother of ten children, and a pipe smoker. She
had been resurrected a hundred thousand grailstones away,
but here she was. A vision had come to her, a vision in
which God told her to come to His dwelling at the North
Pole, where He would hand her the keys to kingdom come,
to glory and salvation forever, to understanding of time
and eternity, space and infinity, creation and
destruction, death and life. She would also be the one to
cast the devil into the pit, lock him up, and throw the
key away.
Rohrig thought she was crazy, but she intrigued him.
Also, he wasn't so sure that the solution to the mystery
of this world did not lie at the beginning of The River.
He knew that no one had ventured into the fog-laden land
further north. If he accompanied her party of eleven, he
would be among the first to reach the North Pole. If he
had anything to do with it, he would be the very first
person to get there. When their goal was in sight he was
going to sprint ahead and plant on the site of the North
Pole a stone statuette of himself, his name incised at
the base.
From then on, anybody who got there would know that he'd
been beat out for first place by Robert F. Rohrig. Agatha
wouldn't take him, however, unless he believed in the
Lord and the Holy Book. He hated to lie, but he told
himself that he wasn't really deceiving her. Deep down,
he did believe in a god, though he wasn't sure whether
its name was Jehovah or Rohrig. As for the Bible, it was
a book, and all books told the truth in the sense that
their authors believed they were writing a kind of truth.
Before the expedition reached the end of the grailstones,
five had turned back. When they got to the enormous cave
out of which The River fell, four decided that they would
starve to death if they kept on going. Rohrig went on
with Agatha Croomes and Winglat, a member of an Amerind
tribe that had crossed from Siberia to Alaska sometime in
the Old Stone Age. Rohrig would have liked to turn back,
but he wasn't going to admit that a crazy black woman and
a paleolithic savage had more courage than he.
Besides, Agatha's preachings had almost convinced him
that she had had a true vision. Maybe Almighty God and
sweet Jesus were waiting for him. It wouldn't do to hold
up the schedule.
After they had crawled along the ledge in the cave and
Winglat had slipped and fallen into The River, Rohrig
told himself that he was as crazy as Agatha. But he went
on.
When they came to the place where the ledge sloped
downward into the fog, the fog that covered a sea the
sounds of which faintly reached them, they were very weak
from hunger. There was no turning back now. If they did
not find food within the day, they would die. Agatha,
however, said that all they could eat was close at hand.
She knew it was so because she had had a vision while
they slept on the ledge within the cave. She had seen a
place where meat and vegetables were in abundance.
Rohrig watched her crawl away from him. After a while, he
followed. But he'left his grail behind because he was too
weak to drag it. If he survived, he could always come
back for it. The statuette was in the grail, and for a
few seconds he considered removing it and taking it with
him. To hell with it, he thought, and he went down the
path.
He never made it. Weakness overcame him; his legs and
arms just would not obey his will.
Thirst killed him before starvation did its job. It was
ironic that The River had rushed by him, and he could not
drink because he had no rope with which to lower his
grail and collect the precious fluid.
A sea was booming against the rocks at the base of the
cliffs, and he could not descend it it.
"Coleridge would appreciate this," he thought. "I wish I
did."
He muttered, "Now I'll never get the answers to my
questions. Maybe it's just as well. I probably wouldn't
have liked them anyway.";
Now Rohrig was sleeping uneasily in a hut by The River in
the equatorial zone. And Frigate, standing watch on the
deck of a cutter, was chuckling. He was recalling
Rohrig's ordeal while defending his thesis.
Perhaps it was telepathy that evoked the incident in
their minds at the same time. It's preferable to use
Occam's razor, that never dull but seldom used blade.
Call it coincidence.
The croaker placed itself directly in the path of the
floating dead fish. The body went into the wide mouth of
the amphibian. Frigate's letter and its container, only a
centimeter behind the carcass, were also engulfed, and
both slid into the gullet and became lodged in the
croaker's belly.
Its stomach could easily handle garbage, excrement, and
rotting flesh. But the cellulose fibers of the bamboo
case were too tough for it to convert into absorbable
form. After feeling sharp pain for a long time, the
croaker died trying to pass the container.
The letter often kills the spirit. Sometimes, the
envelope does it.
                           42
Almost everybody was cheering. people were crowding
around Jill and hugging and kissing her, and for once she
did not mind. Most of the display of affection was due to
booziness, she knew, but she still felt a warm glow
within herself. If they had not been pleased, their very
drunkenness could have resulted in open hostility.
Perhaps she was not as disliked as she had thought. Here
was David Schwaitz, whom she had once overheard calling
her "Old Frozen Face,'' patting her on the back and
congratulating her.
Anna Obrenova was standing by Barry Thorn, though neither
had spoken much to the other all evening. She was smiling
as if she were pleased that Jill Gulbirra had been chosen
over her. Perhaps she really did not care. Jill preferred
to believe that the little blonde was seething with hate,
though she could be wrong. Anna might have a rational
attitude toward her. After all, she was a Johnny-come-
lately, and Jill had devoted thousands of hours to the
construction of the ship and the training of the crew.
Firebrass had shouted for silence. The loud chatter and
singing had finally stopped. Then he had said that he was
announcing the roster of officers, and he had grinned at
her. She had felt sick. His grin was malicious, she was
sure of that. He was going to pay her back for all the
cutting remarks she had made to him. Justified remarks,
because she was not going to allow anyone to run over her
just because she was a woman. But he was in a position to
get revenge.
Yet, he had done the right thing, and he seemed to be
happy about doing it.
Jill, smiling, made her way through the crowd, threw her
arms around Firebrass and burst into tears. He thrust his
tongue deep into her mouth and then patted her fanny.
This time, she did not resent unasked-for familiarities.
He wasn't taking advantage of her emotions or being
condescending. He was, after all, fond of her, and
perhaps he was sexually attracted to her. Or perhaps he
was just being ornery.
Anna, still smiling, held out her hand and said, "My
sincerest congratulations, Jill." Jill took the delicate
and cool hand, felt an irrational, almost overpowering
impulse to yank her arm out of its socket, and said,
"Thank you very much, Anna."
Thorn waved to her and shouted something,
congratulations, probably. He did, however, make no
effort to come to her.
A moment later, she stumbled weeping out of the ballroom.
Before she had gotten home, she hated herself for having
shown how strongly she felt. She had never cried in
public, not even at the funerals of her parents.
The tears dried as she thought of her father and mother.
Where were they? What were they doing? It would be nice
if she could see them. That was all: nice. She did not
want to live in the same area with them. They were not
her old mother and father, grey baked, wrinkling, and
fat, their main concerns their grandchildren. They would
look as young as she, and they would have little in
common with her except some shared experiences. They
would bore her and vice versa. It would be a strain to
pretend that the child-parent relationship had not died.
Besides, she thought of her mother as a cipher, a passive
appendage to her father, who was a violent, loud,
domineering man. She did not really like him, though she
had grieved somewhat when he had died. But that was
because of what might have been, not because of what had
been.
For all she knew, they might be dead again.
What did it matter now?
It did not matter. Then why the second flood of tears?
                           43
"WELL, FOLKS, HERE WE ARE AGAIN. THIS TIME IT'S THE BIG
ONE.
The final take-off. Heigh-ho for the Big Grail, the Misty
Tower, the house of the Santa Claus at the North Pole,
the Saint Nick who gave us the gifts of resurrection,
eternal youth, free food, booze, and tobacco.
' "There must be at least a million people here. The
stands are full, the hills are crowded, people are
falling out of the trees. The police are having a hell of
a time keeping order. It's a beautiful day, isn't it
always? The uproar is really something, and I don't think
you can hear a word I'm saying even through this PA
system. So, folks, up yours!
"Aha! Some of you heard that. Just kidding, folks, just
trying to get your attention. Let me tell you again about
the Parseval. I know that you have pamphlets describing
this colossal airship, but most of you are illiterates.
Not that it's your fault. You speak Esperanto, but you've
never had an opportunity to learn to read it. So here
goes. Only, wait a moment while I moisten my parched
throat with some skull-bloom.
"Ah! That was smoo-oo-ooth! The only trouble is that I've
been quenching my thirst since before dawn, and I'm
having trouble seeing straight. I hate to think of
tomorrow morning, but what the hell. You have to pay for
everything good in this world, not to mention the others.
"There she is, folks, though it's hardly necessary to
point her out to you. The Parseval. Named by Firebrass
for the man who first suggested that the airship be built
though there was a lot of argument at first about what
name'd be painted on her silver sides.
"Third mate Metzing wanted to name her the Graf Zeppelin
III, after the man who was responsible for the first
airship commercial line and chiefly responsible for the
military Zeppelins.
"First Mate Gulbirra thought that she ought to be called
Adam and Eve, after the whole human race, since she
represents all of us. She also suggested Queen of the
Skies and Titania. A little bit of female chauvinism
there. Titania sounds too much like Titanic, anyway, and
you know what happened to that ship.
"No, you don't. I forgot most of you never heard of her.
"One of the engineers, I forget his name at the moment,
he was a crewman on the ill-fated Shenandoah, wanted to
name her Silver Cloud. That was the name of the airship
in a book called Tom Swift and His Big Dirigible.
"Another wanted to name her the Henri Giffard after the
Frenchman who flew the first self-propelled lighter-than-
air craft. Too bad old Henri couldn't be here to see the
culmination of the airship, the acme of dirigible art,
the last and the best and the greatest of all aerial
vessels. Too bad the whole human race can't be here to
witness this challenge to the gods, the flying gauntlet
flung against the face of the powers on high!
"Pardon me a moment, folks. Time for another libation to
the gods to be poured down this dry throat instead of
being wasted by pouring on the ground.
'' Aaah! Mighty good, folks! Drink up! The liquor's free,
compliments of the house, which is the nation of
Parolando.
"So, folks, our esteemed ex-president, Milton Firebrass,
ex-American, ex-astronaut, decided to call this colossus
the Parseval. Since he's the chief honcho, the big
enchilada, the boss, that's what she's titled.
"So ... oh, yeah, I started to give you her statistics.
Captain Firebrass wanted to build the biggest dirigible
ever built, and he did. She's also the biggest that will
ever be built, since, there won't be any more. Maybe he
should have called her The Loft Is the Best.
"Anyway, the Parseval is 2680 feet or 820 meters long.
Its widest diameter is 1112 feet or 328 meters. Its gas
capacity is 120,000,000 cubic feet or 6,360,000 cubic
meters.
"The skin is of stressed duraluminum| and it contains
eight large gas cells with smaller cells in the nose and
tail fairings. Originally, she was to have thirteen
gondolas suspended outside the hull, the control gondola
and twelve motor gondolas, each containing two motors.
This exterior mounting was required because of danger
from the highly flammable hydrogen. But tests of the gas-
cell material, the Riverdragon intestinal layers, showed
that it did pass some gas-that's a joke, folks!-and so
Firebrass ordered his scientists to make a plastic
material that wouldn't-in a manner of speaking-break
wind.
"They did so-when Firebrass says jump, everybody sets a
new record-and . . . ? What? My assistant, Randy, says
everybody can't set a record at once. Who cares? Anyway,
the hydrogen leakage is nil.
"So, the control room and all the motors are inside the
hull except for those in the nose and tail gondolas.
"The hydrogen, by the way, is 99.999 percent pure.
"In addition to the crew of ninety-eight men and two
women, the Parseval will carry two helicopters, each with
a thirty-two person capacity, and a two-man glider.
"But there won't be any parachutes. One hundred
parachutes makes a heavy load, so it was decided not to
carry any. That's sheer confidence for you. More than I
have.
"Look at her, folks! Ain't she something! The sun shines
on her as if she's the glory of God herself! Beautiful,
beautiful, and magnificent!
"A great day for mankind! There goes the orchestra,
playing The Lone Ranger Overture. Ha! Ha! Just a little
joke that'd take too long to explain to you folks. It's
really the William Tell Overture by Rossini, I believe."
Chosen by Firebrass as the take-off music, since he's
hung up on that fiery piece. Not to mention a few others,
some of whom I see in the crowd.
"Hand me up another glass of ambrosia, Randy. Randy's my
assistant M.C., folks, a writer of fantasies on Earth and
now Parolando's chief quality-control inspector for the
alcohol works. Which is like appointing a wolf to guard a
steak.
"Aah! Great stuff! And here comes the Parseval now,
moving out of the hangar! Her nose is locked into the
only mobile mooring mast in the world. The take-off will
occur in just a few minutes. I can see through the
windscreen of the control room or bridge, which is set in
the nose.
"The man in the middle, sitting at the control panel-you
can see his head, I'm sure-is chief pilot Cyrano de
Bergerac. In his day he was an author, too, wrote novels
about travel to the moon and the sun. Now he's in an
aerial machine the likes of which he never dreamed of,
just as he never envisioned himself on such a voyage.
Flying to the North Pole of a planet which nobody, not a
single soul on Earth, as far as I know, had described in
the wildest of tales. Soaring in the wild blue yonder in
the greatest zeppelin ever built, the greatest that will
ever be built. Headed for a fabled tower in a cold, foggy
sea. An aerial knight, a post-Terrestrial Galahad, quest
ing for a giant grail!
"Cyrano's running the whole operation all by himself. The
ship's completely automated; its motors and rudder and
elevators are tied into the control panel with
electromechanical devices. There's no need to have
ruddermen and elevator men and telegraph signals to the
motor engineers as they did in the old dirigibles. One
man could pilot the ship all the way to the North Pole,
if he could stay awake three and a half days, the
estimated flight time. In fact, theoretically, the ship
could fly itself there without a soul aboard.
"And there by Cyrano's right is the captain, our own
Milton Firebrass. He's waving now to the man who's
succeeded him as president, the ever popular Judah P.
Benjamin, late of Louisiana and ex-attorney general of
the late but not necessarily lamented Confederate States
of America.
"What? Get your hands off me, friend! No offense intended
to any ex-citizen of the C.S. A. Take the drunken bum
away, officers!
"And there, standing at the extreme left, is pilot third
officer Mitya Nikitin. He promised to be sober during the
flight and not hide any booze behind the gas cells, ha!
ha!
"To Nikitin's right is first mate Jill Gulbirra. You've
given some of us a hard time, Ms. Gulbirra, but we admire
. . .
"There go the trumpets again. What a blast! There's
Captain Firebrass, waving at us. So long, man capitalne,
ban voyage! Keep us informed by radio.
"And there go the cables from the tail. The ship is
bobbing a little, but she's settling down. I saw the
balancing done a couple of hours ago. The ship's so
equili-bub-bub-rated that one man standing on the ground
under that mighty mass could lift it with one hand.
"Now her nose is uncoupled from the mobile mooring mast.
There goes a little of the water ballast. Sorry about
that, folks. We told you to stand back, not that some of
you couldn't stand a shower.
"Now she's rising a little. The wind's carrying her
backward, southward. But the propellers have already been
swivelled at an angle to drive the ship up and northward.
"There she goes! Bigger than a mountain, lighter than a
feather! Off to the North Pole and the dark tower!
"My God, I'm crying! Must have had too much of the cup
that cheers!"
                           44
UP ABOVE THE WORLD SO HIGH, THE AIRSHIP TWINKLED,
THREADING the needle eye of the blue.
At an altitude of 6.1 kilometers or a little over 20,000
feet, the crew of the Parseval had a broad view of The
Riverworld. Jill, standing at the front windscreen, saw
the twisting parallels of the valleys, running north and
south directly below her but taking a great bend to the
east about 20 kilometers ahead. Then the lines ran for
100 kilometers like thin Malayan krises, wavy blades,
side by side, before turning northeastward.
Now and then, The River bounced back a ray of the sun.
The millions along its banks and on its surface were
invisible from this height, and even the biggest vessels
resembled the backs of surface-cruising dragonfish. The
Riverworld looked as it was just before Resurrection Day.
A photographer in the nose dome was making the first
aerial survey of this planet. And the last. The
photographs would be matched against the course of The
River as reported via radio by the Mark Twain. However,
there would be large gaps in the map made by the
Parseval's cartographer. The paddlewheeler had traveled
far south, to the edge of the south polar regions,
several times. So the airship's cartographer could only
compare his pictures with the maps transmitted by the
surface vessels in the northern hemisphere.
But he could make one sweep of his camera and cover areas
where the Mark Twain would travel some day.
The radar was also making altitude measurements of the
mountain walls. So far, the highest point was 4564 meters
or 15,000 feet. At most points, the mountains were only
3048 meters or 10,000 feet. Sometimes the walls dipped as
low as 1524 meters or 5000 feet.
Before coming to Parolando, Jill had assumed, along with
everybody else she knew, that the mountains were from
4564 to 6096 meters high. These were eyeball estimates,
of course, and no one she had known had ever tried to
make a scientific measurement. Not until she was in
Parolando, where late-twentieth-century devices were
available, did she learn the true altitude of the
mountains.
Perhaps it was the comparative closeness of the walls
that deceived people. They reared straight up, sheer, so
smooth after the first 305 meters that they were
unscalable. Often they were thicker at the top than at
the bottom, presenting an overhang that would daunt any
would-be climber even if he had steel pitons. And these
were available only at Parolando, as far as she knew.
At the top, the width of the mountains averaged 403
meters or a little more than a quarter of a mile. Yet
that relatively small thickness of hard rock was
impenetrable without steel tools and dynamite. It would
be possible to sail north up The River until it curved
for one of its southward travels. There, with enough
drilling and blasting equipment, a hole could be bored
through the mountain wall. But who knew what invulnerable
ranges lay behind that?
The Parseval had bucked the northeasterly surface winds
of the equatorial zone. Passing through the horse
latitudes, it had picked up the tail winds of the
temperate latitudes. In twenty-four hours it had traveled
approximately a distance equal to that from Mexico City
to the lower end of Hudson Bay, Canada. Before the second
day was over, it would run into headwinds from the arctic
region. Just how strong these would be was not known.
However, the winds here seldom matched the winds of Earth
because of the lack of differential between land and
water masses.
A difference in mountain altitude and valley width
between the equatorial and temperate zones was apparent.
The mountains were generally higher and the valleys
narrower in the hotter region.
The narrowness of the valleys and the height' of the
mountains made for conditions comparable to those in the
glens of Scotland. Generally, it rained every day about
15:00 hours or 3 p.m. in the temperate areas. Usually, a
thunderstorm accompanied by rain occurred about 03:00
hours or 3 A.M. in the equatorial zone. This was not a
natural phenomenon in the tropics or at least it was
believed that it was not. The Parolando scientists
suspected that some sort of rain-making machines
concealed in the mountains caused this on-schedule
precipitation. The energy requirements for this would be
enormous, colossal, in fact. But beings who could remake
this planet into one Rivervalley, who could provide an
estimated thirty-six billion people with three meals a
day through energy-matter conversion, could undoubtedly
shape the daily weather.
What was the energy source? No one knew, but the best
suspect was the heat of the planet's core.
There was speculation that some kind of metal shield lay
between the crust of the earth and the deeper layers.
That there was no volcanic activity or earthquakes tended
to strengthen this hypothesis.
Since there were no vast ice or water masses making a
temperature differential comparable to that of Earth, the
wind conditions could have been different. But, so far,
the pattern seemed to be Terrestrial.
Firebrass decided to take the ship down to 3600 meters
altitude, a little over 12,000feet. Perhaps the wind
there might be weaker. The mountain tops were only 610
meters or about 2000 feet below the vessel, and the
effect of the up- and downdrafts were strong at this time
of the day. But the ability to change the angle of the
propellers swiftly compensated somewhat for this roller-
coaster motion. The ground speed increased.
Before 15:00, Firebrass ordered that the vessel be taken
up above the rainclouds. He brought it back down at
16:00, and the Parseval rode majestically above the
valleys. As the sun descended, both the horizontal and
vertical winds would weaken, and the ship could plow
through the air more evenly.
When night came, the hydrogen in the cells would cool,
and the vessel would have to lift its nose even higher to
give it more dynamic lift to compensate for the loss of
buoyancy.
The pressurized control room was wanned by electric
heaters. Its occupants were, however, in heavy cloths.
Firebrass and Piscator were smoking cigars; most of the
others, cigarettes. The fans sucked the smoke away but
not quickly enough to remove the cigar odor which Jill so
detested.
Hydrogen-emission detectors placed by the gas cells would
transmit a warning if there were any leaks. Nevertheless,
smoking was permitted only in five areas: the control
gondola or bridge, a room halfway along the vessel's
axis, the auxiliary control room in the lower tail fin,
and rooms attached to the quarters of the crew fore and
aft.
Barry Thorn, first officer of the tail section, reported
some magnetic readings. According to this, the North Pole
of The River-world coincided with the north magnetic
pole. The magnetic force itself was much weaker than that
of Earth's, so slight, in fact, that it would have been
undetectable without the use of instruments known only in
the late 1970's.
"Which means," Firebrass said, laughing, "that there are
three poles on one spot. The North Pole, the magnetic
pole, and the tower. Now, if only one of our crew was a
Pole, we could have four on the same place."
Radio reception was excellent today. The ship was high
above the mountains, and the transceiver of the Mark
Twain was carried by a balloon towed by the boat.
Aukuso said, "You can talk now, sir."
Firebrass sat down by the Samoan's side and said,
"Firebrass here, Sam. We just got word from Greystock.
He's on the way, heading northeastward, ready to alter
course the moment he gets wind of the location of the
Rex."
"In some ways I hope you don't find Rotten John," Sam
said. "I'd like to catch up with him and so have the
pleasure of sinking him myself. That's not a very
practical attitude, though it's mighty satisfying. I'm
not a vindictive man, Milt, but that hyena would make St.
Francis himself long to kick him off a cliff."
"The Minerva's carrying four forty-six-kilogram bombs and
six rockets with nine-kilogram warheads,'' Firebrass
said. "If only two of the bombs make a direct hit, they
could sink the boat."
"Even so, that royal thief might get away safe and sound
to shore," Clemens said. "He has all the good luck of the
wicked. How would I ever find him then? No, I want to see
his body. Or if he's taken alive, I want to wring his
neck myself."
De Bergerac spoke softly to Jill. "Clemens talks big for
a man who's appalled by violence. It's easy to do as long
as the enemy's sixty thousand kilometers away."
Firebrass laughed and said, "Well, if you can't twist his
head off, Sam, Joe's the man to do the job."
An unhumanly deep voice rumbled, "No, I'll tear off hith
armth and legth. Then Tham can turn hith head around tho
he can thee vhere he'th been. He von't like where he'th
going."
"Tear off an ear for me," Firebrass said. "Old John
almost hit me when he shot at me."
Jill presumed that he was referring to the fight aboard
the Not For Hire when John had seized it.
Firebrass said, "According to calculations, the Rex
should be in the area we'll be over in about an hour. You
should be in the same area but about one hundred forty
kilometers to the west of the Rex. Of course, we could be
way off. For all we know, the Rex may not be traveling as
fast as it could, or King John could've decided to dock
for repairs or a very long shore leave."
An hour's conversation followed. Clemens talked to some
of the crew, mostly those he had known before he'd left
Paiolando. She noticed that he did not ask to speak to de
Bergerac.
Just as Sam was about to sign off, the radar operator
reported that the Rex Grandissimus was on the scope.
                           45
Staying at 452 meters altitude, the Parseval circled the
boat. From that height it looked like a toy, but
photographs, quickly enlarged, showed that it was indeed
King John's vessel. It was magnificent. Jill thought that
it would be a shame to destroy such a beautiful craft,
but she did not say so. Firebrass and de Bergerac felt
very strongly about the man who had hijacked their
fabulous River-boat.
Aukuso transmitted the location to Greystock, who said
that the Minerva should reach the Rex the following day.
He also checked the location of the Mark Twain.
"I'd like to fly over her so that Sam can get a good look
at the ship that's going to sink the Rex," Greystock
said.
"It won't take you out of your way to do that," Firebrass
said. "And it'll give Sam a big thrill."
After he had quit talking to Clemens, Firebrass said, "I
really think Greystock's on a suicide mission. The Rex is
loaded with rockets, and it carries two planes armed with
rockets and machine guns. It all depends on whether or
not Greystock can catch the Rex by surprise. Not much
chance of that if John's radar detects the Minerva. Of
course, it might be off. Why should it be on? The sonar
is good enough for daytime navigation."
"Yes," Piscator said. "But the people on the Rex must
have seen us. They'll be wondering about us, though they
won't know who we are, and they might start using the
radar because they'll be suspicious."
"I think so, too," Jill said. "They can figure out easily
enough that only Parolando could build a dirigible.''
"Well, we'll see. Maybe. By the time the Minerva gets to
the Rex, we'll be behind the polar mountains. I don't
think we can expect good radio reception there. We'll
have to wait until we come back over them."
Firebrass looked thoughtful, as if he were wondering if
the Parseval would return.
The sun sank behind the ground horizon, though at this
altitude the sky remained bright for a long time.
Finally, night came with its blazing star clouds and gas
sheets. Jill talked for a few minutes with Anna Obrenova
before going to her cabin. The little Russian seemed warm
enough, but there was something in her manner which
indicated that she was not at ease. Was she really
resentful because she had not been given the first mate's
position?
Before going to her quarters, Jill took a long walk
through the semipressurized passageway to the tail
section. Here she drank some coffee and chatted briefly
with some of the officers. Barry Thorn was present, but
he, too, seemed a little nervous, even more reticent than
usual. Perhaps, she thought, he was still unhappy at
being rejected by Obrenova. If, indeed, that had been the
cause of their argument.
At that moment, she was reminded that the two had spoken
in a language unknown to her. Now was not the time to ask
him about that. It was possible she might never be able
to bring up the subject. To do so would be to admit that
she had been eavesdropping.
On the other hand, she was very curious. Some day, when
there were not more pressing things to consider, she
would ask him about it. She could claim that she just
happened to walk by-which was the truth-and had heard a
few words of the dialog. After all, if she did not
understand what they were saying, she could not be eaves
dropping, could she?
She went to her cabin, where she crawled into the bunk
and went to sleep almost at once. At 04:00 hours a
whistle from the intercom awoke her. She went to the
control room to relieve Metzing, the third mate. He stood
around a while, talking about his experiences as
commander of the LZ-1, then left. Jill did not have much
to do, since Piscator was a very competent pilot and the
atmospheric conditions were normal. In fact, the Japanese
had set the automatic controls on, though he kept a close
watch on the indicator panel.
There were two others present, the radio and the radar
operators.
"We should see the mountains at about 23:00," she said.
Piscator wondered aloud if they were as high as Joe
Miller had estimated. The titanthrop had guessed them to
be about 6096 meters or 20,000 feet. Joe, however, was
not a good judge of distances, or, at least, not good at
converting distances into metrics or the English system.
"We'll know when we get there," Jill said.
"I wonder if the mysterious occupants of the tower will
allow us to return?" he said. "Or even to enter the
tower?"
That question had the same answer as the previous ones.
Jill did not comment.
"Perhaps, though," Piscator said, "they may allow us to
survey it."
Jill lit a cigarette. She did not feel nervous now, but
she knew that, when they were close to the mountains, she
was going to be at least a little spooked. They would be
entering the forbidden, the tabu, the area of the Castle
Perilous.
Piscator, smiling, his black eyes shining, said, "Have
you ever considered the possibility that some of Them
might be on this ship?"
Jill almost strangled as she sharply drew in cigarette
smoke. When she was through coughing, she said, wheezing,
"What in hell do you mean?"
"They could have agents among us."
"What makes you think that?"
"It's just an idea," he said. "After all, isn't it
reasonable to believe that They would be watching us?"
"I think you have seen more than you're admitting. What
makes you think this? It won't hurt to tell me."
"It's just an idle speculation."
"In this idle speculation, as you call it, is there
someone you think could be one of Them?"
"It wouldn't be discreet to say so, even if there was
someone. I wouldn't want to point the finger at a
possibly innocent party."
"You don't suspect me?"
"Would I be stupid enough to tell you if I did? No, I am
just thinking aloud. A most regrettable habit, one which
I should rid myself of."
"I don't remember you ever thinking aloud before."
She did not pursue the subject, since Piscator made it
evident he was not going to add anything. The rest of the
watch she tried to think of what he might have observed
and then put together to make a pattern. The effort left
her head buzzing, and she went back to bed feeling very
frustrated. Perhaps he had just been putting her on.
In the afternoon, only two minutes short of the time she
had predicted, the tops of the polar mountains were
sighted. They looked like clouds, but radar gave a true
picture. They were mountains. Rather, it was one
continuous mountain wall circling the sea. Firebrass,
reading its indicated height, groaned.
"It's 9753 meters high! That's taller than Mount
Everest!"
There was good reason for him to groan and the others to
look disturbed. The airship could not go higher than 9144
meters, and Firebrass would hesitate to take it to that
altitude. Theoretically, that was the pressure height of
the gas cells. To go above that meant that the automatic
valves on top of the cells would release hydrogen. If
they did not do so, the cells would explode, having
reached their inflation limit.
Firebrass would not like to take the vessel near the
pressure height. An unexpectedly warm layer of air could
cause the hydrogen in the cells to expand even more, thus
making the ship more buoyant than was safe. Under those
conditions, the Parseval would rise swiftly. The pilot
would have to act swiftly, pointing the vessel's nose
down and also tilting the propellers to give a downward
drive. If this maneuver failed, the gas, expanding under
the lessened atmospheric pressure, would stretch the cell
walls to the rupture point.
Even if the ship got through this situation, its loss of
valved-off gas would mean that it would become heavy. The
only way to lighten the ship would be to discharge
ballast. If too much ballast was dropped, the Parseval
would be too buoyant.
Firebrass said, "If it's like this all the way around,
we're screwed. But Joe said . . ."
He stood for a moment, thinking, watching the dark,
ominous mass gradually swell. Below them the Valley
wriggled snakily, eternally covered with fog in this cold
area. They had long ago passed the last of the double
line of grailstones. Yet the radar and the infrared
equipment showed that thick, high vegetation grew on the
hills. One more mystery. How could trees flourish in the
cold mists ?
Firebrass said, "Take her down to 3050 meters, Cyrano. I
want to get a good look at the headwaters."
By "look" he meant a radar view. No one could see through
the massive, boiling clouds covering the mighty hole at
the base of the mountains. Bat radar showed a colossal
exit for The River, an opening 4.9 kilometers or a little
over 3 miles wide. The highest point of the arch was 3.5
kilometers.
The mighty flood rushed straight for 3 kilometers, then
tumbled over the edge of a cliff and fell straight for
915 meters, over 3000 feet.
"Joe may have been exaggerating when he said you could
float the moon on The River where it comes out of the
cave," Firebrass said, "but it is impressive!"
"Yes," Cyrano said, "it is indeed grand. But the air here
is almighty rough."
Firebrass ordered the Parseval to a higher altitude and
on a course which would parallel the mountain at a
distance of 12 kilometers. Cyrano had to crab the
dirigible and swivel the propellers to keep from being
blown south, and it crept alongside the towering range.
Meanwhile, the radio operator tried to get into contact
with the Mark Twain.
"Keep it up," Firebrass said. "Sam'11 want to know how
we're doing. And I'm interested in finding out how the
Minerva made out."
To the others he said, "I'm looking for that gap in the
mountains. There has to be one. Joe said the sun
momentarily flashed through a hole or what he thought was
a hole. He couldn't see the break, but since the sun
never gets more than halfway up the horizon here, it
couldn't shine inside the sea unless there's a break that
starts at ground level.
Jill wondered why They would have erected such a mighty
barrier only to leave an opening.
At 15:05, radar reported that there was a break in the
verticality. Now the airship was over mountains outside
the main wall. These mountains were not the continuous
process surrounding the sea but were peaks, some of which
reached 3040 meters. Then, as they came closer to the
break, they saw that between the lesser mountains and the
wall was an immense valley.
"A veritable Grand Canyon, as you have described it to
me," Cyrano said. "A colossal chasm. No one could get
down its walls unless he used a rope 610 meters long. Nor
could he ever get up the other wall. It is of the same
altitude and its sides are as smooth as my mistress'
bottom."
On the other side of the lesser mountains reared the
mountain that walled The River. If a man could get over
the nearer height and out of the Valley, he would men
have to cross a rugged precipitous range for 81
kilometers or over 50 miles. After which, he would be
confronted by the uncrossable valley.
"Ginnungagap," Jill said.
"What?" Firebrass said.
"From Norse mythology. The primal abyss in which Ymir,
the first of created life, the ancestor of the evil race
of giants, was born."
Firebrass snorted, and said, "Next you'll be telling me
that the sea is populated by demons."
Firebrass looked cool enough, but she thought that this
was a facade. Unless he had superhuman nerves, his body
was under stress, the juices of the adrenals pouring out,
his blood pressure up. Was he also thinking, as she was,
that a much more experienced pilot should be at the
controls? The Frenchman's judgment and reflexes were
probably swifter than anybody else's. They had been
tested scores of times in simulated emergencies during
training. But-he just did not have thousands of hours of
airship travel under Terrestrial, that is, swiftly
changing, conditions. So far, the voyage had been
uneventful. But the polar environment was unknown, and
passing over these mountains might bring the ship into
sudden unexpected forces. Not might. Would.
Here at the top of the world, the sun's rays were weaker
and thus it was colder. The River emptied into the polar
sea on the other side of the circular range where it gave
up the heat remaining after thousands of kilometers of
wandering through the arctic region. The contact of cold
air with warm waters caused the fog reported by Joe
Miller. Even so, the air was relatively colder man that
outside the mountains. The high-pressure cold air inside
the ring of mountains would flow outward. Joe had
described the wind that howled through the passes.
She wanted desperately to ask Firebrass to replace Cyrano
with her. Or with Anna or Barry Thorn, the only other
persons with much experience. Both were, objectively
considered, as good as she. But she wanted to be in
control. Only then would she feel at ease. Or as much at
ease as the situation allowed.
Firebrass might have been of the same opinion. If so, he
was not going to act on it, just as she was not going to
express it. An unwritten, in fact, unspoken, code
prevented that. It was Cyrano's watch. To order him to
give it up for a more qualified pilot would humiliate
him. It would show a lack of confidence, make him seem to
be less a "man."
Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. The entire mission and
one hundred lives were at stake.
Despite which, she would have said nothing even if she
had thought she might be needed. Like the others, she was
bound by the code. Never mind how antisurvival it was.
She could not shame Cyrano. Besides, for her to suggest
that he be replaced would shame her, too.
Now they were opposite the gap. It was not the V-shaped
notch they had expected. It was a perfect circle cut into
the mountain wall, a hole 3 kilometers across and 1000
meters above the base. From it sped clouds, driven by a
wind which, if they could have heard it, would be
"howling." Cyrano was forced to point the dirigible
directly into the hole to keep it from being blown
southward. Even so, with motors operating at top speed,
the Parseval could advance into it at only 16 km/ph or
less than 10 mph.
"What a wind!" Firebrass said. He hesitated. The air
flowing down from the top of the mountain would add its
force to that streaming through the hole. And the pilot
would have to rely on radar to sense the nearness of the
sides of the hole.
"If the mountains aren't any thicker than they are along
The River," Firebrass said, "we can get through the hole
faster than a dog through a hoop. However ..."
He bit down on his cigar, then said through clenched
teeth, "Let's take her through the gates of hell!"
                           46
Convergence of paths through chance fascinated peter
Frigate.
Pure chance had brought his in potentio into essems.
His father was born and brought up in Terre Haute,
Indiana; his mother, in Galena, Kansas. Not much chance
for them to get together and beget Peter Jairus Frigate,
right? Especially in 1918 when people did not travel
much. But his grandfather, the handsome, affluent,
gambling, womanizing, boozing William Frigate, was forced
to take a business trip to Kansas City, Missouri. He
thought his eldest son, James, should learn the details
of handling his various interests throughout the Midwest.
So he took the twenty-year-old along. Instead of driving
in the new Packard, they took the train.
Peter's mother was in Kansas City, living with her German
relatives while she attended a business school. The
Hoosier and the Jayhawk had never heard of each other.
They had nothing in common except being human and living
in the Midwest, an area larger than many European
countries.
And so, one hot afternoon, his mother-to-be had gone to a
drugstore for a sandwich and a milkshake. His father-to-
be had gotten bored listening to a business conference
between his father and a farm machinery manufacturer.
When lunch hour came, the two older men had headed for a
saloon. James, not wanting to start boozing so early, had
gone into the drugstore. Here he was greeted by the
pleasant odors of ice cream and vanilla extract and
chocolate, the swishing of two big overhead fans, a view
of the long marble counter, magazines on a rack, and
three pretty girls sitting on wire chairs around a small
marble-topped table. He eyed them, as would any man,
young or old. He sat down and ordered a chocolate soda
and a ham sandwich, then he decided he'd look the
magazine rack over. He leafed through some magazines and
a paperback fantasy about time travel. He didn't care
much about such romances. He'd tried H.G. Wells, Jules
Verne, H. Rider Haggard, and Frank Reade, Jr. but his
hard Hoosier head rejected such implausibilities.
On the way back, just as he passed the table at which the
three giggling girls sat, he had to leap to one side to
avoid a glassful of Coke. One of the girls, waving her
hand while telling a story, had knocked it off. If he
hadn't been so agile, his pants leg would have been
soaked. As it was, his shoe was stained.
The girl apologized. James told her that there was
nothing to be concerned about. He introduced himself and
asked if he could sit with them. The girls were eager to
talk to a good-looking young man from the faraway state
of Indiana. One thing led to another. Before the girls
had gone back to the nearby school, he had arranged a
date with "Teddy" Griffiths. She was the quietest of the
trio and not quite the best looking, but there was
something about the slim girl with the Teutonic features,
the Indian-straight, Indian-black hair, and large dark-
brown eyes that attracted him.
Elective affinity, Peter Frigate called it, not above
borrowing a phrase from Goethe.
Courting in those days was not as free and easy as in
Peter's day. James had to go to the Kaiser residence on
Locust Street, a long trip by streetcar, and be
introduced to her uncle and aunt. Then they sat on the
front porch with the old folks, eating homemade ice cream
and cookies. About eight o'clock, he and Teddy went for a
walk around the block, talking of this and that. On
returning, he thanked her relatives for their hospitality
and said goodbye to Teddy without kissing her. But they
corresponded, and, two months later, James made another
trip, this time in one of his father's cars. And this
time they did a little spooning, mostly in the back row
of the local movie house.
On his third trip, he married Teddy. They left
immediately after the wedding to take the train to Terre
Haute. James was fond of telling his eldest son that he
should have named him Pullman. "You were conceived on a
train, Pete, so I thought it would be nice if your name
commemorated that event, but your mother wouldn't have
it."
Peter didn't know whether or not to believe his father.
He was such a kidder. Besides, he couldn't see his mother
arguing with his father. James was a little man, but he
was a bantam rooster who ruled the roost, a domestic
Napoleon.
This was the concatenation of events that had slid Peter
Jairus Frigate from potentiality into existence. If old
William had not decided to take his son along to Kansas
City, if James had not been more tempted by a soda than
by beer, if the girl hadn't happened to knock over the
Coke, there would have been no Peter Jairus Frigate. At
least, not the individual now bearing that name. And if
his father had had a wet dream the night before or had
used a contraceptive on the wedding night, he, Peter,
would not have been born. Or if there had been no mating,
if it had been put off for some reason, the egg would
have drifted off and out and into a menstruation pad.
What was there about that one spermatozoan, one in
300,000,000, that had enabled it to beat all the others
out in the race to the egg?
May the best wriggler win. And so it had been. But it had
been close, too close for comfort when he thought about
it.
And then there was the horde of his brothers and sisters
in potentio, unhoarded. They had died, arriving too late
or not at all. A waste of flesh and spirit. Had any of
the sperm had the potentiality for his imagination and
writing talent? Or were those in the egg? Or were they in
the fusion of sperm and egg, a combination of genes only
possible in that one sperm and that one egg? His three
brothers had no creative and little passive Imagination;
his sister had a passive imagination, she liked fantasy
and science fiction, but she had no inclination to write.
What had made the difference?
Environment couldn't explain it. The others had been
exposed to the same influences as he. His father had
purchased that library of little red pseudoleather-bound
books, what in hell was its name? It was a very popular
home library in his childhood. But they hadn't been
fascinated by the stories in them. They hadn't fallen in
love with Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler in A Scandal in
Bohemia, or sympathized with the monster in Frankenstein,
or battled before the walls of Troy with Achilles, or
suffered with Odysseus in his wanderings, or descended
the icy depths to seek out Grendel with Beowulf, or
journeyed with the Time Traveller of Wells, or visited
those wild weird stars of Olive Schneider, or escaped
from the Mohegans with Natty Bumppo. Nor had they been
interested in the other books his parents bought him,
Pilgrim's Progress, Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn,
Treasure Island, The Arabian Nights, and Gulliver's
Travels. Nor had they prospected at the little library
branch, where he first dug the gold of Frank Baum, Hans
Andersen, Andrew Lang, Jack London, A. Oman Doyle, Edgar
Rice Burroughs, Rudyard Kipling, and H. Rider Haggard.
And don't forget the lesser, the silver, ore: Irving
Crump, A.G. Henty, Roy Rock-wood, Oliver Curwood, Jeffrey
Famol, Robert Service, Anthony Hope, and A. Hyatt
Verrill. After all, in his personal pantheon, the
Neanderthal, Og, and Rudolph Rassendyll ranked almost
with Tarzan, John Carter of Barsoom, Dorothy Gale of Oz,
Odysseus, Holmes and Challenger, Jim Hawkins, Ayesha,
Allan Quartermain and Umslopogaas.
It tickled Peter at this moment to think that he was on
the same boat with the man who bad furnished the model
for the fictional Umslopogaas. And he was also a deckhand
for the man who had created Buck and White Fang, Wolf
Larsen, the nameless subhuman narrator of Beyond Adam,
and Smoke Belle w. It delighted him also that he talked
daily with the great Tom Mix, unequaled in cinema flair
and fantastic adventure except by Douglas Fairbanks,
Senior. If only Fairbanks were aboard. But then it would
also be delightful to have Doyle and Twain and Cervantes
and Burton, especially Burton, aboard. And... The boat
sure was getting crowded. Be satisfied. But then he never
was.
What had he drifted off from? Oh, yes. Chance, another
word for destiny.
He didn't believe, as Mark Twain did, that all events,
all characters, were rigidly predetermined. "From the
time when the first atom of the great Laurentian sea
bumped into the second atom, our fates were fixed.''
Twain had said something like that, probably in his
depressing What Is Man? That philosophy was an excuse for
escaping guilt. Ducking responsibility.
Nor did he believe, as had Kurt Vonnegut, the late-
twentieth-century avatar of Mark Twain, that we were
governed entirely by the chemical makeup of our bodies.
God wasn't the Great Garage Mechanic in the Sky or the
Divine Pill Pusher. If there was a God. Frigate didn't
know what God was and often doubted that He existed.
God might not exist, but free will did. True, it was a
limited force, repressed or influenced by environmental
conditioning, chemicals, brain injuries, neural diseases,
lobotomy. But a human being was not just a protein robot.
No robot could change its mind, decide on its own to
reprogram itself, lift itself by its mental bootstraps.
Still, we were born with different genetic combinations,
and these did determine to some extent our intellect,
aptitudes, leanings, reactions, in short, our characters.
Character determines destiny, according to the old Greek,
Heraclitus. But a person could change his/her character.
Somewhere in there was a force, an entity, that said, "I
won't do it!" Or-"Nobody's going to stop me from doing
it!" Or-"I've been a coward but this time I'm a raging
lion!"
Sometimes you needed an outside stimulus or stimulator,
as had the Tin Woodsman and the Scarecrow and the
Cowardly Lion. But the Wizard only gave them what they
had had all the time. The brains of mixed sawdust, bran,
pins and needles, the silk sawdust-stuffed heart, and the
liquid from the square green bottle marked Courage were
only antiplacebos.
By thought you could change your emotional attitudes.
Frigate believed that, though his practice had never
matched his theory. He'd been reared in a Christian
Scientist family. But when he was about eleven his
parents had sent him to a Presbyterian church, since they
were having a fit of religious apathy then. His mother
cleaned up the kitchen and took care of the babies Sunday
mornings while his father read The Chicago Tribune. Like
it or not, he went off to Sunday School and then the
sermon. So, he had gotten two contrary religious
educations.
One believed in free willl, in evil and matter as
illusion, in Spirit as the only reality.
The other believed in predestination. God picked out a
few here and there for salvation and let the others go to
hell. No rhyme or reason to this. You couldn't do a thing
to change that. Once the divine choice had been made, it
was done. You could live purely, agonizedly praying and
hoping all your life. But when the end of life on Earth
came, you went to your appointed place. The sheep, those
whom God for some unexplainable reason had marked with
His grace, went up to sit on His right side. The goats,
rejected for the same mysterious reasons, slid down the
prearranged chute into the fire, sinner and saint alike.
When he was twelve, he had had many nightmares in which
Mary Baker Eddy and John Calvin had fought for his soul.
It was no wonder, when he was fourteen, that he had
decided to blazes with both faiths. With all faiths.
Still, he had been the epitome of the prudish puritan. No
foul words escaped his lips; he blushed if told a dirty
joke. He couldn't stand the odors of beer or whiskey, and
even if he'd liked them, he would have rejected them with
scorn. And he' d have luxuriated in a feeling of moral
superiority for doing so.
His early puberty was a torment. In the seventh grade he
would be called on to stand up and recite, his face red,
his penis thrusting against his fly, having risen at the
trumpet call of his teacher's large breasts. Nobody
seemed to notice, but he was sure every time he stood up
that he would be disgraced. And when he accompanied his
parents to a movie in which the heroine wore a low-cut
dress or displayed a flash of garter, he put his hand on
his pants to hide the swelling.
The flickering light from the screen would reveal his
sin. His parents would know what his thoughts were, and
they would be horrified. He'd be ashamed to look in their
faces forever after.
Twice, his father talked to him about sex. Once, when he
was twelve. Apparently, his mother had noticed some blood
on his bath towel and spoken to his father, James
Frigate, with a good deal of hemming and hawing and a
twisted grin, had asked him if he was masturbating. Peter
was both horrified and indignant. He had .denied it,
though his father acted as if he really did not believe
him.
Investigation revealed, however, that, when bathing,
Peter had not been peeling back his foreskin to wash
under it. He had not wanted to touch his penis. As a
result, the smegma had built up under the skin. How this
could cause a bleeding neither he nor his father knew.
But he was advised to wash thoroughly every time he took
a bath. Also, he was told that jacking-off rotted the
brain, and he was given the example of the village idiot
of North Terre Haute, a boy who publicly masturbated.
With a grave face, his father told him that anybody who
jerked off would become a drooling imbecile. Maybe his
father believed that. So many of his generation did. Or
maybe he'd just passed on that horrifying tale, purveyed
for only God knew how many centuries or even millennia to
scare his son.
Peter would find out that that was superstition, a
reasoning from effect to cause, totally invalid. It was
in a class with the belief that if you ate a peanut
butter and jelly sandwich while you were sitting in the
outhouse, the devil would get you.
Peter hadn't lied. He had not been indulging in the sin
of Onan. Though why it was called Onanism he didn't know,
since Onan hadn't masturbated. Onan had just used what
Peter overheard his father refer to as the IC (Illinois
Central) railroad technique. Pulling out in time.
Some of his junior high school acquaintances-the "racy"
ones-bragged about beating their meat. One of these low-
lifers, a wild kid named Vernon (died in a crash in 1942
while training to be an Air Force bombardier) had
actually masturbated in the rear of a streetcar on the
way home from a basketball game. Peter, watching, had
been fascinated and sickened at the same time. The other
kids had just giggled.
Once he and a friend, Bob Allwood, as puritanical as he,
had been going home on a streetcar after a late movie.
There was no one else aboard except the operator and a
hard-looking peroxide blonde in the front seat. As the
trolley came up toward the end of the line on Elizabeth
Street, the operator had closed the curtain around
himself and the blonde and turned the overhead light off.
Bob and Pete, watching from the back of the car, saw the
woman's legs disappear. It wasn't until a few minutes
later that Peter understood what was happening. The woman
had to be sitting on the ledge in front of him, or on the
control post itself, facing the operator, while he
screwed her. Peter didn't say a thing about it to Bob
until after they'd gotten off the car. Bob had refused to
believe it.
Peter was surprised at his own reaction. He'd been more
amused than anything. Or perhaps envious was more
appropriate. The "proper" reaction came later. That man
and his doxy would go to hell for sure.
                           47
THAT WAS A LONG TIME AGO. THE TIME HAD COME WHEN PETER
HAD laid a woman in front of the altar of an empty
church, though he was drunk when he did it. This was in a
Roman Catholic cathedral in Syracuse, and the woman had
been Jewish. It had been her idea. She hated the religion
because the tough Polish Catholic kids in the Boston high
school she attended had roughed her up several times
because she was a Jew. The idea of defiling the church
had seemed like a good idea at the time, though next
morning he sweated thinking of what would have happened
if they'd been caught. But doing it in a Protestant
church wouldn't have appealed to him so much. Protestant
churches had always seemed barren places to him. God
wouldn't be caught dead there, but He did like to hang
around Catholic places of worship. Peter had always had a
leaning toward Romanism and had twice been on the verge
of converting. You could only blaspheme where God was.
Which was a curious attitude. If you didn't believe in
God, why bother to blaspheme?
As if that wasn't bad enough, he and Sarah had entered a
number of apartment houses on a street whose name he
couldn't recall now. It had once been a very posh
district where the rich had built huge, gingerbreaded,
many-cupolaed houses. Then they'd moved out, and the
houses had been made into apartments. Mostly affluent old
people, widows and aged couples, lived there. The two of
them had wandered through the halls of three buildings
where all the doors were locked tight and not a sound
except the muffled voice of TV sets was heard. They'd
been on the third floor of the fourth building, and Sarah
was down on her knees before him, when a door opened. An
old woman stuck her head out into the hall, screamed, and
slammed the door shut. Laughing, he and Sarah had fled
out into the street and up to her apartment.
Later, Peter had sweated thinking about what would have
happened if they'd been caught by the police. Jail,
public disgrace, the loss of his job at General Electric,
the shame felt by his children, the wrath of his wife.
And what if the old woman had had a heart attack? He
searched the obituary columns and was relieved to find
that no one on that street had died that night. This in
itself was a rarity, since Sarah said that she couldn't
look out of the window from her apartment without seeing
a funeral procession going down that street.
He also looked for a report of the incident in the
papers. If the old lady had called the police, however,
there was nothing in the papers about it.
A thirty-eight-year-old man shouldn't be doing stupid
childish things like that, he had told himself.
Especially if innocent people might be hurt. Never again.
But as the years passed, he chuckled when he thought of
it.
Though an atheist at fifteen, Frigate had never been able
to rid himself of doubts. When he was nineteen, he had
attended a revival meeting with Bob Allwood. Allwood had
been raised in a devout fundamentalist family. He, too,
had become an atheist, but this lasted one year. In that
time, Bob's parents had died of cancer. The shock had set
him thinking about immortality. Unable to endure the idea
that his father and mother were dead forever, that he'd
never see them again, he had begun visiting revival
meetings. His conversion had taken place when he was
eighteen.
Peter and Bob used to see much of each other, since they
had been playmates in grade school and had gone to the
same high school. They argued much about religion and the
authenticity of the Bible. Finally, Peter agreed to go
with Bob to a mass meeting at which the famous Reverend
Robert Ransom was preaching.
Much to Peter's astonishment, he found himself deeply
stirred, though he had come to ridicule. He was even more
amazed when he found himself on his knees before the
reverend, promising to accept Jesus Christ as his Lord.
That promise was broken within a month. Peter just could
not hold fast to his convictions. In Allwood's parlance,
he had "backslid," "fallen from grace."
Peter told Bob that his early religious conditioning and
the passionate exhortations of the converts had been
responsible for putting him in a fine frenzy of faith.
Allwood continued to argue with him, to "wrestle with his
soul." Peter remained adamant.
Peter approached the age of sixty. His schoolmates and
friends were dying off; he himself was not in good
health. Death was no longer a long way off. When he was
young, he had thought much about the billions who had
preceded him, been born, suffered, laughed, loved, wept,
and died. And he thought of the billions who would come
after him, who would be hurt, be hated, be loved, and be
gone. At the end of Earth, all, caveman and astronaut,
would be dust and less than dust.
What did it all mean? Without immortality, it meant
nothing.
There were people who said that life was the excuse for
life, its only reason.
These were fools, self-deluded. No matter how intelligent
they might be in other matters, they were fools -in this.
Self-blinkered, emotional idiots.
On the other hand, why should human beings have another
chance at an afterlife? They were such miserable,
conniving, self-deceiving, hypocritical wretches. Even
the best were. He knew no saints, though he admitted that
there might have been and might be some. It seemed to him
that only saints would be worthy of immortality. Even so,
he doubted the claims of some of those who had been
awarded halos.
Take Saint Augustine, for instance. "Asshole" was the
only word that fitted him. A monster of ego and
selfishness.
St. Francis was about as saintly as a person could be.
But he was undoubtedly psychotic. Kissing a leper's sores
to demonstrate humility, indeed!
Still, as Peter's wife had pointed out, no one was
perfect.
Then there was Jesus, though there was no proof that he
was a saint. In fact, it was evident from the New
Testament that he had restricted salvation to the Jews.
But they had rejected him. And so, St. Paul, finding that
the Jews were not about to give up the religion for which
they had fought so hard and suffered so much, had turned
to the Gentiles. He made certain compromises, and
Christianity, better named Paulism, was launched. But St.
Paul was a sexual pervert, since total sexual abstinence
was a perversion.
That made Jesus a pervert, too.
However, some people just did not have much sex drive.
Perhaps Jesus and Paul had been such. Or they had
sublimated their drive in something more important, their
desire to have people see the Truth.
Buddha was perhaps a saint. Heir to a throne, to riches
and power, married to a lovely princess who had borne him
children, he had given all these up. The miseries and
wretchedness of the poor, the stark unavoidability of
death, had sent him wandering through India, seeking the
Truth. And so he had founded Buddhism, eventually
rejected by the very people, the Hindus, whom he had
tried to help. His disciples had taken it elsewhere,
however, and there it had thrived. Just as St. Paul had
taken the teachings of Jesus from his native land and
planted its seeds among foreigners.
The religions of Jesus, Paul, and Buddha had started to
degenerate before their founders were cold in their
graves. Just as St. Francis' order had begun corrupting
before its founder's body was rotten.
                           48
ON AN AFTERNOON WHILE THE Razzle Dazzle WAS SAILING
ALONG, A good breeze behind its sails, Frigate told Nur
el-Musafir these thoughts. They were sitting against the
bulkhead of the forecastle, smoking cigars and looking
idly at the people on the bank. The Frisco Kid was at the
wheel, and the others were talking or playing chess.
"The trouble with you, Pete-one of the troubles-is you
worry too much about other people's behavior. And you
have too high ideals for them, ideals which you yourself
don't try to live up to."
"I know I can't live up to them, so I make no pretense,"
Frigate said.
"But it bothers me that others claim to have these ideals
and to be living up to them. If I point out that they
aren't, they get angry."
The little Moor chuckled. "Naturally. Your criticism
threatens their self-image. If that were to be destroyed,
they, too, would be destroyed. At least, they think so."
"I know that," Frigate said. "That's why I quit doing
that long ago. I learned on Earth to keep quiet about
such matters. Besides, people got very angry and some
even threatened violence. I can't stand anger or
violence."
"Yet you are a very angry person. And I think your
abhorrence of violence stems from fear of being violent
yourself. You were- are-afraid that you'd hurt someone
else. Which is why you suppressed that violence in
yourself.
"But as a writer, you could express it. It would be done
impersonally, as it were. You wouldn't be doing it in a
face-to-face situation."
"I know all that."
"Then why haven't you done something about it?"
"I have. I tried various therapies, disciplines, and
religions. Psychoanalysis, dianetics, scientology, Zen,
transcendental meditation, Nichirenism, group therapy,
Christian Science, and fundamental Christianity. And I
was strongly tempted to become a Roman Catholic.''
"I never heard of most of those, of course," Nursaid.
"Nor do I need to know what they were. The fault lies in
yourself, regardless of the validity of these. By your
own admission, you never stuck to any of them long. You
didn't give them a chance."
"That," Frigate said, "was because, once in them, I could
see their flaws. And I had a chance to study the people
practicing them. Most of these religions and disciplines
were having some beneficial effect on their
practitioners. But hot nearly what was claimed for them.
And the practitioners were fooling themselves about much
of the benefits claimed."
"Besides, you didn't have the stick-to-itiveness needed,"
Nur said. "I think that comes from fear of being changed.
You desire change, yet dread it. And the fear wins out."
"I know that, too," Frigate said.
"Yet you have done nothing to overcome that fear."
"Not nothing. A little."
"But not enough."
"Yes. However, as I got older, I did make some progress.
And here I have made even more."
"But not nearly enough?"
"No."
"What good is self-knowledge if the will to act on it is
lacking?"
"Not much," Frigate said.
"Then you must find a way to make your will to act
overcome your will not to act."
Nur paused, smiling, his little black eyes bright.
"Of course, you will tell me you know all that. Next, you
will ask me if I can show you the way. And I will reply
that you must first be willing to let me show you the
way. You are not as yet ready, though you think you are.
And you may never be, which is a pity. You have
potentiality."
"Everybody has potentiality."
Nur looked up at Frigate. "In a sense, yes. In another
sense, no.''
"Mind explaining that?"
Nur rubbed his huge nose with a small, thin hand and then
pitched his cigar across over the deck and over the
railing. He picked up his bamboo flute and looked at it
but laid it down.
"When the time comes, if it ever does."
He looked sideways at Frigate.
"You feel rejected? Yes. I know that you react too
strongly to rejection. Which is one reason that you have
always tried to avoid situations in which you might be
rejected. Though why you should then have become a
fiction writer is a mystery to me. Or is it? You did
persist in your intended profession despite initial
rejections. Though, according to your own story, you
often let long periods of time elapse before you tried
again. But you persisted.
"Be that as it may, it is up to you to decide if you will
be disheartened by my refusing you at this time. Try me
later. When you know that you are at least a fit
candidate."
Frigate was silent for a long while. Nur put the flute to
his lips and presently a weird wailing, rising and
falling, issued. Nur was never without the instrument
when off duty. Sometimes he would content himself with
short pieces, lyrics, presumably. Other times, he would
sit cross-legged on top of the forecastle for hours, the
flute silent, his eyes closed. At such time, his request
that he not be interrupted was honored. Frigate knew that
Nur was putting himself into some sort of trance then.
But so far he had not asked him more than one question
about it.
Nur had said, "You need not know. As yet."
Nur-ed-din ibn Ali el-Hallaq (Light-of-the-faith, son of
Ali the barber) fascinated Frigate. Nur had been born in
1164 a.d. in Cordoba, held by the Moslems since 711 A.D.
Moorish Iberia was then near the apotheosis of Saracenic
civilization, which Nur had beheld in all its glory.
Christian Europe, compared to the brilliant culture of
the Moslems, was still in the Dark Ages. Art, science,
philosophy, medicine, literature, poetry flourished in
the great centers of population of Islam. The Western
cities: Iberian Cordoba, Seville, and Granada, and the
Eastern cities: Baghdad and Alexandria, had no rivals,
except in faraway China.
The wealthy Christians sent their sons to the Iberian
universities to get an education unobtainable in London,
Paris, and Rome. The sons of the poor went there to beg
for bread while they learned. And from these schools the
Christians went back to transmit what they had imbibed at
the feet of the robed masters.
Moorish Iberia was a strange and splendid country, ruled
by men who differed in degree of faith and dogmatism.
Some were intolerant and harsh. Others were broadminded,
tolerant enough to appoint Christians and Jews as their
viziers, inclined to the arts and the sciences, welcoming
all foreigners, eager to learn from them, soft on matters
of religion.
Nur's father plied his trade in the vast palace outside
Cordoba, the near city of Medinat az-Zahra. In Nur's time
this had been fabled throughout the world, but in
Frigate's there was scarcely a trace left. Nur was born
there and teamed his father's craft. He desired to be
something else, and, since he was bright, his father used
his connections with his wealthy patrons to advance his
son. Having demonstrated his aptitude for literature,
music, mathematics, alchemy, and theology, Nur went to
the best school in Cordoba. There he mingled with the
rich and the poor, the important and the insignificant,
the Northern Christian and the Nubian black.
It was also there that he met Muyid-ed-din ibn el-Arabi.
This young man was to become the greatest love poet of
his times, and echoes of his songs would be found in
those of the Provencal and German troubadors. The rich
and handsome youth, liking the poor and ugly son of a
barber, invited him in 1202 to accompany him to a
pilgrimage to Mecca. During the journey through North
Africa, they met a group of Persian immigrants, Sufis.
Nur had encountered this discipline before, but talking
to the Persians decided him to be a disciple. However, at
the moment, he found no master who would accept his
petition for candidacy. Nur continued with el-Arabi to
Egypt, where both were accused of heresy by fanatics and
narrowly escaped being murdered.
After completing their hajj in Mecca, they journeyed to
Palestine, Syria, Persia, and, India. This took four
years, at the end of which they returned to their native
city, spending a year on the voyage. In Cordoba both
were, for a time, the pupils of the Sufi woman, Fatima
bint Waliyya. The Sufis regarded men and women as being
equal and so scandalized the orthodox. These were sure
that if men and women mingled socially, it could only be
for sexual purposes.
Fatima sent Nur to Baghdad to study under a famous master
there. After some months, his master sent him back to
Cordoba to another great teacher. But when the Christians
took Cordoba after a savage war, Nur went with his master
to Granada.
After several years mere, Nur started on the series of
wanderings that earned him his lackab, his nickname, el-
Musafir, the Traveler. After Rome, where letters of
introduction from el-Arabi and Fatima gave him safe
conduct, he journeyed to Greece, to Turkey, Persia again,
Afghanistan, India again, Ceylon, Indonesia, China, and
Japan.
Settling down in holy Damascus, he earned his living as a
musician and, as a tasawwuf or Sufi master, accepted a
number of disciples. After seven years, he set out once
more. He went up the Volga and across Finland and Sweden,
then across the Baltic Sea to the land of the idol
worshippers, the savage Prussians. Here, after escaping
sacrifice to a wooden statue of a god, he made his way
westward through Germany. Northern France and men England
and Ireland became part of his itinerary.
At the time Nur was in London, Richard I, surnamed Coeur
de Lion, was king. Richard was not in England then, being
engaged in the siege of the Castle of Chalus in the
Limousin, France. Richard was killed by an arrow from the
castle the following month, and his brother John was
crowned in May. Nur witnessed the ceremonies in the city.
Some time after, he actually succeeded in gaining an
audience with King John. He found him to be a charming
and witty man, interested in Islam culture and in Sufism.
John was especially fascinated by Nur's reports of far-
off lands.
"Traveling in those days was at best arduous and
dangerous," Frigate said. "Even the so-called civilized
countries were no picnic. Religious hatred was prevalent.
How could you, a Moslem, alone, without protection or
money, travel safely in the Christian lands? Especially
when the Crusades were going on then and religious hatred
was endemic?"
Nur had shrugged. "Usually I put myself under the
protection of the dignitaries of the state religions of
those countries. And these got me civil protection. The
church leaders were more concerned with heretics in their
own faith than in infidels. In their own provinces,
anyway.
"At other times, my very poverty was my safeguard.
Robbers were not interested in me. When I traveled in
rural areas, I would earn my keep and provide amusement
by my flute playing and by my skill as a juggler,
acrobat, and magician. Also, I am a great linguist, and I
could pick up the language or the dialect of a place very
quickly. I also told stories and jokes. You see, people
everywhere were crazy for novelty, for entertainment.
They welcomed me most places, though I did have a number
of hostile receptions here and mere. What did they care
if I was a Moslem? I was harmless, and I gave them joy.
"Besides, I radiated an assurance of friendliness. That
is something that we can do."
Returning to Granada, and finding the atmosphere there
changed, not friendly to Sufis, he had gone to Khorasan.
After teaching there for several years, he made another
trip to Mecca. From southern Arabia he had traveled on a
trading ship to the shores of Zanzibar and then to
southeast Africa. Returning to Baghdad, he lived there
until his death at the age of ninety-four.
The Mongols under Hulagu, Jcngbiz Khan's grandson,
stormed into Baghdad, slaughtering and plundering. Within
forty days, hundreds of thousands of its citizens were
slain. Nur was one of them. He was sitting in his little
room playing on the flute when a squat, slant-eyed, blood-
drenched soldier burst in. Nur continued his song until
the Mongol brought his sword down upon his neck.
"The Mongols devastated the Mideast,"Frigate had said.
"Never in history has such desolation been wrought in
such a short time. Before the Mongols left, they murdered
half the population, and they had destroyed everything
from canals to buildings. In my time, six hundred years
later, the Mideast still had not recovered."
"They were indeed the Scourge of Allah," Nur had said.
"Yet there were good men and women among them."
Now, sitting by the little man, watching the dark-skinned
betel-nut chewers on shore, Frigate was thinking about
chance. What destiny had crossed the paths of a man born
in midwestem America in 1918 and of one born in Moslem
Spain in 1164? Was destiny anything but chance? Probably.
But the odds against this happening on Earth were
infinity to one. Then the Riverworld had changed the
odds, and here they were.
It was that evening, after his conversation with Nur,
that all sat in the captain's cabin. The ship was
anchored near the shore, and fish-oil lamps lit their
poker game. After Tom Rider had cleaned up the final big
pot-cigarettes were the stakes-they had a bull session.
Nur told them two tales of the Mullah Nasruddin.
Nasruddin (Eagle-of-the-Faith) was a figure of Moslem
folktales, a mad dervish, a simpleton whose adventures
were really lessons in wisdom.
Nur sipped on his scotch whiskey-he never drank more than
two ounces a day-and said, "Captain, you've told the tale
about Pat and Mike, the priest, rabbi, and minister. It's
a funny story, but it does tell a person something about
patterns of thinking. Pat and Mike are figures of Western
folklore. Let me tell you about one from the East.
"One day a man came by the house of the Mullah Nasruddin
and observed him walking around it, throwing bread crumbs
on the ground.
" 'Why in the world are you doing that,Mullah?"the man
said.
" 'I'm keeping the tigers away.'
" 'But,' the man said, 'there are no tigers around here.'
" 'Exactly. It works, doesn't it?' "
They laughed, and then Frigate said, "Nur, how old is
that story?"
"It was at least two thousand years old when I was born.
It originated among the Sufis as a teaching tale. Why?"
"Because," Frigate said, "I heard the same story, in a
different form, in the 1950's or therabouts. There was
this Englishman, and he was kneeling in the street,
chalking a line on the curb. A friend, coining along,
said, 'Why are you doing that?'
" 'To keep the lions away.'
" 'But there are no lions in England.'
" 'See?' "
"By God, I heard the same story when I was a kid in
Frisco," Fanington bellowed. "Only it was an Irishman
then."
"Many of the instructive Nasruddin stories have become
mere jokes," Nur said. "The populace tells them for fun,
but they were originally meant to be taken seriously.
Here's another.
"Nasruddin crossed the border from Persia to India on his
donkey many times. Each time, the donkey carried large
bundles of straw on his back. But when Nasruddin
returned, the donkey carried nothing. Each time, the
customs guard searched Nasruddin, but he could not find
any contraband.
"The guard would always ask Nasruddin what he was
carrying. The Mullah would always reply, 'I am
smuggling,' and he would smile.
"After many years, Nasruddin retired to Egypt. The
customs man went to him and said, 'Very well, Nasruddin.
Tell me, now it's safe for you. What were you smuggling?'
" 'Donkeys..' "
They laughed again, and Frigate said, "I heard the same
story in Arizona. Only this time the smuggler was Pancho,
and he was crossing the border from Mexico to the United
States."
"I suppose every story is an old one," Tom Rider drawled.
"Probably started with the cave man."
"Perhaps," Nursaid. "But it is a tradition that these
stories were originated by the Sufis long before Mohammed
was born. They are designed to teach people how to change
their patterns of thinking, though they are amusing in
themselves. Of course, they are used in the simplest, the
first, stage of teaching by the masters.
"However, since then these tales have spread throughout
East and West. I was amused to find some of them, in
altered form, told in Ireland in Gaelic. By word of
mouth, over thousands of leagues and two millennia of
time, Nasruddin had passed from Persia to Hibemia."
"If the Sufis originated them before Mohammed," Frigate
said, "then the Sufis must have been Zoroastrians in the
beginning."
"Sufism is not a monopoly of Islamism," Nur said. "It was
highly developed by the Moslems, but anyone who believes
in God can be a Sufi candidate. However, the Sufis modify
their method of teaching to conform to the local
cultures. What will work for Persian Moslems in Khorasan
won't necessarily work for black Moslems in the Sudan.
And the difference in effective methods would be even
greater for Parisian Christians. The place and the time
determine the teaching."
Later, Nur and Frigate stretched their legs on land,
walking around a huge bonfire through a crowd of
chattering Dravidians. Frigate said, "How can you adapt
your medieval Iberian-Moorish methods to teaching in this
world? The people are so mixed, from everywhere and every
time. There are no monolithic cultures. Besides, those
that do exist are always changing."
"I am working on that," Nur said.
"Then, one of the reasons you won't take me as a disciple
is that you are not ready as a teacher?"
"You can console yourself with that," Nur said, and he
laughed. "But, yes, that is one reason. You see, the
teacher must always be teaching himself."
                           49
THE GREY CLOUDS MOVED THROUGH THE BOAT, FILLING EVERY
room.
Sam Clemens said, "Oh, no, not again!" though he did not
know why he said that. The fog not only pressed against
the bulkheads and seeped into everything that could
absorb moisture, it rolled down his throat and enveloped
his heart. The water soaked it, and drops fell off of it,
dripping into his belly, gurgling down inside his groin,
running over, spilling down into his legs, waterlogging
his feet.
He was sodden with a nameless fear which he had
experienced before.
He was alone in the pilothouse. Alone in the boat. He
stood by the control panel, looking out of the window.
Fog shoved against it. He could see no more than an arm's
length through the plastic. Yet, somehow, he knew that
the banks of The River were empty of life. There was no
one out there. And here he was in this gigantic vessel,
the only one aboard. It didn't even need him, since the
controls were set for automatic navigation.
Alone and lonely as he was, he at least could not be
stopped from reaching the headwaters of The River. There
was no one left in the world to oppose him.
He turned and began pacing back and forth from bulkhead
to bulkhead of the pilothouse. How long was this journey
going to take? When would the fog lift and the sun shine
brightly and the mountains surrounding the polar sea be
revealed? And when would he hear another human voice, see
another face?
"Now!" someone bellowed.
Sam jumped straight up as if springs had been unsnapped
beneath his feet. His heart opened and closed as swiftly
as the beating of a hummingbird's wings. It pumped out
water and fear, forming a puddle around his feet.
Somehow, without being aware of it, he had spun around
and was facing the owner of the voice. It was a shadowy
figure in the clouds swirling in the pilothouse. It moved
toward him, stopped, and reached out a vague arm. A
pseudopod flicked a switch on the panel.
Sam tried to cry out, "No! No!" The words ran into each
other in his throat and shattered as if they were made of
thin glass.
Though it was too dim to see which control the figure had
touched, he knew that the boat was now set on a course
which would send it full speed into the left bank.
Finally, the words came . . . screeching.
"You can't do that!"
Silently, the shadowy mass advanced. Now he could see
that it was a man. It was the same height as he, but its
shoulders were much broader. And on one shoulder was a
long wooden shaft. At its end was a truncated triangle of
steel.
"Erik Bloodaxe!" he cried.
Now began the terrible chase. He fled through the boat,
through every room of the three-tiered pilothouse, across
the flight deck, down the ladder into the hangar deck and
through every one of its rooms, down a ladder and through
every room of the hurricane deck, down a ladder and
through every room of the main deck, down a ladder and
into the vast boiler deck.
Here, aware of the waters pressing against the hull,
aware that he was below the surface of The River, he ran
through the many rooms, large and small. He passed
between the giant electric motors turning the
paddlewheels which were driving the vessel toward
destruction. Desperately, he tried to get into the large
compartment holding the two launches. He would rip the
wires out of the motor of one and take the other out into
The River and so leave his sinister pursuer behind. But
someone had locked the door.
Now he was crouching in a tiny compartment, trying to
slow his rasping breath. Then, the hatch opened. Erik
Bloodaxe's figure loomed in the greyness. It moved slowly
toward him, the great axe held in both hands.
"I told you,'' Erik said, and he lifted the axe. Sam was
powerless to move, to protest. After all, this was his
own fault. He deserved it.
                           50
HE AWOKE MOANING. THE CABIN LIGHTS WERE ON, AND
Gwenafra's beautiful face and long honey-blonde hair were
above him.
"Sam! Wake up! You've been having another nightmare!"
"He almost got me that time," he mumbled.
He sat up. Whistles were shrilling on the decks. A minute
later, the intercom unit shrilled. The boat would soon be
heading for a grailstone and breakfast. Sam liked to
sleep late, and he would just as soon have missed
breakfast. But as captain it was his duty to rise with
the others.
He got out of bed and shambled into the head. After a
shower and tooth-brushing, he came out. Gwenafra was
already in her early-morning outfit, looking like an
eskimo who had traded her furs for towels. Sam got into a
similar suit but left his hood down to put on his
captain's cap. He lit a corona and blew smoke while he
paced back and forth.
Gwenafra said, "Did you have another nightmare about
Bloodaxe?"
"Yes," he said. "Give me some coffee, will you?"
Gwenafra dropped a teaspoonful of dark crystals into a
grey metal cup. The water boiled as the crystals released
both heat and caffeine. He took the cup, saying,
"Thanks."
She sipped her coffee, then said,' "There's no reason to
feel guilty about him."
"That's what I've told myself a thousand times," Sam
said. "It's irrational, but when did knowing that ever
make a fellow feel better? It's the irrational in us that
drives us. The Master of Dreams has about as much brains
as a hedgehog. But he's a great artist, witless though he
is, like many an artist I've known. Perhaps including
yours truly."
"There isn't a chance that Bloodaxe will ever find you."
"I know that. Try telling the Dream Master that."
A light flashed; a whistle blew from a panel on a
bulkhead. Sam flicked its switch.
"Captain? Detweiller here. Arrival time at designated
grailstone will be five minutes from now."
"Okay, Hank," Sam said. "I'll be right out."
Followed by Gwenafra, be left the stateroom. They passed
down a narrow corridor and went through a hatch into the
control room or bridge. This was on the top deck of the
pilothouse; the other senior officers were quartered in
the cabins on the second and third decks.
There were three persons in the control room: Detweiller,
who had once been a river pilot, then a captain, then
owner of an Illinois-Mississippi River steamboat company;
the chief executive officer, John Byron, ex-admiral,
Royal Navy; the brigadier of the boat's Marines, Jean
Baptiste Antoine Marcellin de Marbot, ex-general for
Napoleon.
The latter was a short, slim, merry-looking fellow with
dark-brown hair, snub nose, and bright blue eyes. He
saluted Clemens and reported in Esperanto.
"All ready for duty, my captain."
Sam said, "Fine, Marc. You can take your post now."
The little Frenchman saluted and left the pilothouse,
sliding down the pole behind it to the flight deck.
Lights flooded this, showing the Marines in battle array
lined up in its middle. The standard bearer held a pole
on top of which was the boat's flag, a light-blue square
bearing a scarlet phoenix. Near him were rows of
pistoleers, men and women in grey duraluminum coal-
scuttle helmets topped by roaches of human hair stiff
with grease, plastic cuirasses, knee-length leather
boots, their broad belts holding bolstered Mark IV
revolvers.
Behind them were the spearmen; behind them, the archers.
To one side was a group of bazookateers.
Off to one side stood a colossus clad in armor, holding
an oaken club which Sam could lift with two hands only
with difficulty. Officially, Joe Miller was Sam's
bodyguard, but he always accompanied the Marines at these
times. His chief function was to awe the locals.
"But as usual," Sam often said, "Joe goes too far. He
scares the hell out of them just by standing around."
This day started out like every other day. It was
destined to be, however, quite different. Some time
during the day, the Minerva would attack the Rex
Grandissimus. Sam should have felt jubilant. He wasn't.
He hated the idea of destroying such a beautiful boat,
one he had designed and built. Moreover, he'd been
deprived of the joy of wreaking a personal revenge on
John.
On the other hand, it was a lot safer this way.
There was a bonfire on the right side about half a
kilometer away. It revealed a mushroom-shaped grailstone
and gleamed on white cloths covering bodies. The fog over
The River was lower and thinner here than that usually
encountered. It would clear away quickly once the sun got
over the peaks. The sky was brightening, washing out the
flaming giant stars and gas clouds.
Per usual procedure, the Firedragon III, an armored
amphibian launch, preceded the mother boat. When it got
to an area where the boat would have to recharge its
batacitor, its commander parleyed with the locals for the
use of two grailstones. Most areas were pleased to do
this, their remuneration being the thrill of observing
the mammoth vessel at close range.
Those locals who objected found their grailstones
temporarily confiscated. They could do nothing about it
except to protest. The boat had overwhelming firepower,
though Clemens was always reluctant to use it. When
forced to resort to violence, Clemens refrained from
massacre. A few spurts of .80-caliber plastic bullets
from the big steam machine guns on the boat and from the
armored steam-spurting amphibian tearing around on shore,
usually sufficed. It wasn't even necessary to kill
anybody in most cases.
After all, what did the locals lose if two grailstones
were used by somebody else for one time only? Nobody had
to miss a meal. There were always enough unused spots on
nearby stones to take up the slack. In fact, most of
those who surrendered their meal did not even bother to
travel to the next stone. They preferred to stay there so
they could ooh and ah at the magnificent beauty of the
boat.
The four enormous electrical motors of the boat required
tremendous energy. Once a day, a giant metal cap was
placed over the grailstone by which the boat was
stationed. A launch would carry the boat's grails to the
next stone for filling. A crane extended from another
launch would lift the cap and place it over the head of
the stone. When the stone discharged, its energy flashed
via thick cables into the batacitor. This was a huge
metal box which rose from the boiler deck into the main
deck. It stored the energy instantly in its function of
capacitor. As demanded, it would release the energy in
its function of battery.
Sam Clemens went ashore and talked briefly with the local
chief officials, who understood Esperanto. This universal
language had degraded here into a form which was
difficult but not impossible for Sam to understand. He
gravely thanked them for their courtesy, and he returned
to the boat on his small private launch. Ten minutes
later, Firedragon IV returned with a cargo of full
grails.
Whistles blowing and bells clanging to give the locals a
thrill, the boat headed on up-River. Sam and Gwenafra sat
at the head of the great nine-sided table in the dining
room in the main deck salon. The chief officers, except
those on duty, sat with him. After some orders for the
day, Sam retired to the billiards table, where he played
against the titanthrop. Joe was not very good with a cue
or with cards because of his huge hands. Sam almost
always beat him. Then Sam would play against a more
skilled person.
At 07:00, Sam would make an inspection of the boat. He
hated to walk, but he insisted on this because he needed
the exercise. Also, it helped keep up the appearance of a
naval vessel. Without the drills and the inspections, the
crew were likely to become sloppy civilians. They would
get too off-hand, too familiar with their superiors when
on duty.
"I run a tight boat," Sam had often boasted. "At least,
the crew is tight, though no one has ever been found
drunk on duty."
The inspection did not take place that morning. Sam was
called to the pilothouse because the radio operator had
gotten a message from the Minerva. Before Sam could get
off the elevator, the radar scope had blipped an object
coming over the mountain to port side.
                           51
THE BLIMP CAME DOWN OUT OF THE BRIGHTNESS AS IF IT WERE A
silver egg just laid by the sun. To the startled people
on the ground, few of whom had ever seen or even heard of
an airship before, it was a frightening monster. No doubt
some believed that it was a vessel carrying the
mysterious beings who had raised them from the dead. A
few may even have hailed it with a mixture of dread and
joy, sure that a revelation was at hand.
How had the Minerva found the Mark Twain so easily? The
great boat was towing a large kite-shaped balloon which
was above the top of the mountains and which carried a
transmitter sending powerful dots and dashes. Hardy, the
Minerva's navigator, knew the boat's general location
from the map of The River on his table. During the years
of its voyaging, the Mark Twain had sent out data by
radio which had enabled the Parolanders to trace its
route. Furthermore, on spotting the boat, the navigator
of the Parseval had sent a message which gave the Minerva
a rough location.
Having also been given the location of the Rex, the
captain of the Minerva knew that John Lackland's boat was
almost on a straight line with Sam's due east. The Rex
was only 140 kilometers away if a line as straight as a
Prussian officer's back was followed. To follow The
River, however, Sam's boat would have to go perhaps
571,195 kilometers or 355,000 miles before it arrived
where the Rex was now.
Greystock, speaking over the transceiver in the control
nacelle, asked permission to pass over the Mark Twain.
Sam's voice was flat over the transceiver. "Why?"
"To salute you," the Englishman said. "Also, I think that
you and your crew might like to get a close look at the
vessel that is going to destroy King John. And, to tell
the truth, my men and I would like to see your splendid
boat at close range."
He paused, and men said, "It may be our last chance."
It was Sam who paused this time. Then, sounding as if he
were choking back tears, he said, "Okay, Greystock, You
may pass by us, but not over us. Call me paranoid. But it
makes me uneasy to have an airship carrying four big
bombs directly over me. What if they were accidentally
released?"
Greystock rolled his eyes in disgust and grinned savagely
at the other men in the nacelle.
"Nothing could possibly go wrong," he said.
"Yeah? That's what the commander of the Maine said just
before he went to bed. No, Greystock, you do as I say."
Greystock, obviously unhappy, replied that he would obey.
"We'll circle you once and then get to the job."
"Good luck on that," Sam's voice said. "I know that you
fine fellows might not be ..."
He seemed unable to complete his sentence.
"We know we might not get back,'' Greystock said. "But I
think we have an excellent chance of taking the Rex by
surprise."
"I hope so. But remember that the Rex has two airplanes.
You'll have to hit the flight deck first so they can't
get off." "I don't need advice," Greystock said coldly.
There was another pause, longer than the others.
Sam's voice came over the speaker loudly. "Lothar von
Richthofen is coming up to greet you. He wants to fly
alongside and give you his personal blessing. That's the
least lean do for him. I've had a hell of a time keeping
him from convoying you. He'd like to be in on the attack,
too.
"But our planes have a flight ceiling of only 3660
meters. That makes them too susceptible to downdrafts
over those mountains. Anyway, they'd have to carry an
extra fuel tank to get back."
Lothar's voice cut in. "I told him you could spare enough
fuel from your ship, Greystock. We could fly back."
"Nothing' doing!''
Greystock looked down through the forward port. The
balloon was being reeled in, but it would be twenty
minutes before it was landed.
The giant boat was a beauty, a fourth longer than the Rex
and much taller. Jill Gutturra had claimed that the
Parseval was the most beautiful and the grandest artifact
on The Riverworld. Earth had never had anything to equal
it. But Greystock thought that this vessel, to use
Clemens' phrase, "won the blue ribbon by a mile.''
As Greystock watched, an airplane rose on an elevator to
the landing deck while a crew readied a catapult.
The stocky man looked with arctic-grey eyes around the
control gondola. The pilot, Newton, a World War II
aviator, was at his post. Hardy, the navigator, and
Sarnhradh, the Irish first mate, were at the port screen.
Six others were aboard, stationed in the three engine
gondolas.
Greystock walked to the weapons cabin, opened it, and
took out two of the heavy Mark IV pistols. These were
steel four-shooter revolvers using duraluminum cartridges
holding .69-caliber plastic bullets. He held one by the
grip in his left hand; the other, he reversed. Keeping an
eye on the two at the port screen, he walked over to a
position behind Newton. He brought the butt end of the
gun in his right hand against the top of Newton's head.
The pilot fell off his chair onto the floor.
He quickly reached over with his left hand and flicked
the transceiver switch off with his thumb. The two men
turned at the crack of the impact of metal against bone.
They froze, staring at a totally unexpected scene.
Greystock said, "Don't move. Now ... put your hands up be
hind your neck."
Hardy, goggling, said, "What be this, man?"
"Just keep quiet."
He waved a pistol at a cabinet. "Put on your parachutes.
And don't try to jump me. I can shoot both of you
easily."
Samhradh stuttered, his face going from pale to red. "Y .
. . y ... you bastard! You're a traitor!"
"No," Greystock said, "a loyal subject of King John of En
gland." He smiled. "Though I have been promised that I
will be second-in-command of the Rex when I bring this
airship to His Majesty. That ensured my loyalty."
Samhradh looked out the stern port. The action in the
control gondola was visible from the engine gondolas.
Greystock said, "I was gone for half an hour, checking
with the engineers, remember? They're all tied up, so
they won't be of any help to you."
The two men crossed the gondola, opened the cabinet and
began to put on their parachutes. Hardy said, "What about
him?"
"You can put Newton's chute on and throw him out before
you
go-"
"And what about the engineers?"
"They'll have to take their chances."
"They'll die if you're shot down!" Samhradh said.
"Too bad."
When the two men had strapped on their packs, they
dragged Newton to the middle of the gondola. Greystock,
holding pistols on them, backed away while they did this.
He then pushed the button which lowered the port
plexiglas screen. Newton, groaning, half-conscious, was
pushed over the ledge. Samhradh pulled Newton's ripcord
as he fell out. A moment later, the Irishman leaped.
Hardy paused with one leg outside the port.
"If I ever run across you, Greystock, I'll kill you."
"No, you won't," Greystock said. "Jump before I decide to
make sure you won't ever have a chance."
He turned the transceiver on.
Clemens bellowed, "What in blue blazes is going on?"
"Three of my men drew lots to see who leaves the ship,"
Greystock said smoothly. "We decided that the ship should
be lightened. It's better that way; we need all the speed
we can get."
"Why in hell didn't you tell me?" Clemens said. "Now I'll
have to put about and fish them out of the water."
"I know," Greystock said under his breath.
He looked out the port screen. The Minerva was past the
Mark Twain now. Its decks were crowded with people
looking up at the dirigible. The airplane, a low-wing
single-seater monoplane, was on the catapult, which was
being swung around to face the wind. The balloon was
still being reeled in.
Greystock seated himself before the control panel. Within
a few minutes he had brought the ship down to about 91
meters or 300 feet from The River. He turned it then and
headed toward the boat..
The vast white vessel was stopped in The River, its four
paddle-wheels spinning just enough to hold it steady. A
big launch had put out from its port in the stern and was
gbing around the boat to pick up the parachutists, now
struggling in the water.
Both banks were crowded with sightseers, and at least a
hundred watercraft were sailing or being paddled toward
the three chutists.
Steam spurted from the catapult, and the monoplane, shot
out from the deck. Its silvery fuselage and wings shone
greyly as it began to climb toward the airship.
Clemens' voice yammered from the receiver. "What the
damna-tion-to-hell-and-gone are you doing, John?"
"Just coming back to make sure that my men are safe,"
Grey-stock said.
"Of all the numbskulls!" Clemens screeched. "If your
brains were expanded tenfold, they would still rattle
around in a gnat's ass! This is what comes from trying to
make a mink cap from a pig's anus! I told Firebrass that
he shouldn't let a medieval baron near a dirigible!
" 'Greystock's from the dumbest, most arrogant, most
untrustworthy class you could find!' I told him. 'A
medieval nobleman!' ,
"Jumping Jesus H. Christ! But no, he argued that you had
the potentiality, and it would be a nice experiment to
see if you could adjust to the Industrial Age!"
Joe Miller's yoke rumbled. "Take it eathy, Tham. If you
pithth him off, he'll refuthe to attack Chohn'th boat."
"Thyove it up your athth!" Clemens said mockingly. "When
I need advice from a paleoanthropus, I'll ask for it."
"You don't need to get inmulting chutht becauthe you're
mad, Tham," Miller said. "Thay! Did it occur to Your
Machethty that maybe Greythock ith up to thomething
rotten? Maybe he thold out to that aththhole, King
Chohn?"
Greystock cursed. That hairy, comical-looking colossus of
an apeman was much shrewder than he looked. However,
Clerhens, in his towering fury, might ignore him.
By then the airship, her nose down at ten degrees to the
horizontal, was heading straight for the boat. Her
altitude was now 31 meters and dropping.
Von Richthofen's plane zoomed by within 15 meters. He
waved at Greystock, but he looked puzzled. He would have
been listening in on the radio conversation, of course.
Greystock punched a button. A rocket sprang from its
launch under the port fore engine gondola. The dirigible
gained altitude as it was relieved of the weight of the
missile. Spurting tailfire, the long, slim tube swerved
toward the silver plane, the heat locater in its nose
sniffing the craft's exhausts. Richthofen's face wasn't
visible, but Greystock could imagine his expression of
horror. He had about six seconds to get out of the
cockpit and take to his parachute. Even if he escaped,
he'd be lucky at this altitude if it opened in time.
No, he was not going to jump. Instead, he had wing-overed
the plane and sent it diving at the water. Now it was
straightening out just above the surface. There flashed
the rocket. And now the missile and the aircraft
disappeared in a ball of flame.
By then, the flight crew was frantically running another
plane to the catapult. The balloon crew, distracted by
the sirens and horns and the sudden frenzied activity,
had stopped hauling their charge down. Greystock hoped
they would not have the presence of mind to cut it loose.
The huge aerostat would be a drag when the boat tried to
maneuver swiftly.
Through the transceiver, the wail of sirens and Clemens'
voice, almost as high pitched as the alarms, came
faintly.
The boat began to pick up speed and to turn at the same
time. Greystock smiled. He had hoped that the Mark Twain
would present her broadside. He punched a button, and the
airship, relieved of the weight of two heavy torpedoes,
soared. Greystock raised the elevators to depress the
ship's nose even further, and he pushed the throttles in
to full-speed position.
The torpedoes struck the water with a splash. Two wakes
foamed from behind them. The transceiver yelped with
Clemens' voice. The giant boat quit turning and sped at
an angle toward the bank to the left. Rockets spurted up
from its decks. Some of them arced down toward the
torpedoes and exploded immediately after plunging below
the surface. Others headed toward the dirigible.
Greystock swore in Norman French. He hadn't been quick
enough. But the torpedoes would surely hit the boat, and
if they did, King John's orders would have been carried
out.
But he did not want to die. He had his own mission.
Perhaps he should have dropped the bombs while he was
passing over the boat. She had veered off when he had
tried to get directly over her, and be had not wanted to
change course too abruptly. He should have neutralized
the crew earlier and then told Clemens he was bringing
the airship in close so everybody could have a good look
at her.
During these thoughts, he had automatically punched the
button which released all his rockets. They headed toward
the boats' missiles, their heat detectors locked into the
tailflames of the boat's, just as the boats' rockets were
locked into the tailflames of his missiles.
The explosions from rockets meeting rockets shook the
airship. Smoke spread before him, veiling the boat. Then
he was through the dark clouds and almost on the Mark
Twain.
By God's wounds! One torpedo had just missed the
starboard corner of the stem, and the second was going to
hit it! No, it wasn't! Its side had touched the corner,
and it had veered off! The boat had somehow escaped both!
Now Clemens' voice, yammering, told him that no more
rockets would be released. Clemens was afraid that the
airship would explode and, carried by the wind, would
fall flaming onto the boat.
The balloon, trailing its plastic cable, was floating
down-River, rising at the same time.
Clemens had forgotten that the airship's bombs had not
yet been released.
The second airplane, a two-seater amphibian, shot below
him. Its pilot looked upward in frustration at him. They
were too close to each other and he was going too fast to
swing up to the right and shoot the nose machine guns.
But the gunner in the cockpit behind the pilot was
swinging his twin machine guns around. Every tenth bullet
would be a tracer, phosphorous coated. Only one in a gas
cell was needed to ignite the hydrogen. The Minerva was
only 152 meters from the Mark Twain and was closing fast.
Its motors were going at top speed. This, plus a 16-km/ph
tailwind, meant that the boat could not possibly get away
in time.
If only he could drop the bombs before the tracer bullets
struck. Perhaps the gunner would miss. By the time he got
his guns around, the airplane would be past the airship.
The side of the boat loomed up. Even if the dirigible
wasn't hit by the tracers, she was so near the boat that
the bombs would blow up both vessels.
Estimating the arrival tune of the. Minerva over the
paddlewheel-er, he set the release mechanism of the bombs
with a twist of his wrist. Then he got out of the seat
and dived through the open port. no time to put on a
parachute. Besides, he was too near the water for it to
open in time. As he fell, he was struck by a wave of air
like a colossal winnowing fan. He spun, unconscious,
unable even to think fleetingly of how he had lost his
second-in-command under John Lackland. Or his plans to
get rid of John and take over the captainship of the Rex
Grandissimus for himself.
                           52
Peter Frigate had boarded the Razzle Dazzle a week after
New Year's Day of year 7 A.R.D. Twenty-six years later,
he was still on the schooner. But he was getting
sailweary and discouraged. Would the ship ever arrive at
the headwaters?
Since he had first stepped aboard, he had passed, to
starboard, 810,000 grailstones. That meant he'd traveled
about 1,303,390 kilometers or 810,000 miles.
He had started in the equatorial zone, and it had taken a
year and a half to get into the arctic regions, going not
as the crow flies but as the snake wriggles. If The River
had been as straight as a ruler, it would have taken the
ship there in less than six months, maybe five. Instead,
it was as twisted as a politician's campaign promises
after election.
The first time the ship was in the arctic, just after The
River had definitely turned for its southward journey,
Frigate had proposed that they proceed northward on foot.
The polar mountains could not be sees, yet they must be
relatively near. Tantalizingly so.
Fanington had said, "And just how in blue blazes can we
get over those?"
He had gestured at the unbroken stone verticality to the
north. Here it rose to an estimated 3630 meters or a
little less than 12,000 feet.
"In a balloon."
"Are you nuts? The wind blows south here. It'd take us
away from the polar mountains."
"The surface wind would. But if the meteorological
patterns are the same here as on Earth, the upper polar
winds should be flowing northeastward. Once the balloon
got high enough to get in their stream, it'd reverse
direction, get blown toward the pole.
"Then, when we got near mountains that're supposed to
ring the supposed sea, we'd come down. We'd have no
chance of getting over those mountains in the balloon, if
they're as high as they are said to be."
Farrington had actually turned pale when he'd heard
Frigate's proposal.
Rider, grinning, said, "Didn't you know that the Frisco
Kid doesn't even like the idea of air travel?"
"That isn't it!" Martin said, glaring. "If a balloon
could get us there, I'd be the first to board it. But it
won't! Anyway, how by the high muckamuck are we going to
make a balloon even if we could travel on one?"
Frigate had to admit that it couldn't be done. At least,
not in this area. To make a balloon and fill it with
hydrogen was impossible. There were no necessary
materials here. Or anywhere else, as far as he knew.
However, there was another method they might consider.
How about a hot-air balloon to carry a rope up to the top
of the mountain?
Even as he spoke, he had to laugh. How could they make a
rope 3650 meters long, one strong enough not to break
under its own weight? What size of balloon would be
needed to lift the enormous weight of the rope? One as
big as the Hindenburg?
And how could they anchor the rope at the top of the
mountain?
Grinning, Frigate proposed sending a man up in the rope-
carrying aerostat. He could get off at the top and secure
the balloon.
"Forget it!" Farrington said.
Frigate was happy to do this.
The Razzle Dazzle continued to sail southward, the wind
behind it, its crew glad to get away from this gloomy,
chilly area. There were some Old Stone Age people living
here, but they had dwelt in the arctic regions on Earth.
They did not know any better.
Since men, the schooner had crossed the equator and
entered the south polar region nine times. At the moment,
they were in the equatorial zone again.
Peter Frigate was sick of shipboard life. Nor was he the
only one. Shore leave had been getting longer and longer
for some time.
One day, while eating lunch on the bank, Frigate
experienced two thrills in rapid sequence. One was the
offering of his grail. For years he had been hoping to
get peanut butter and a banana at the same time. Now, as
he opened the lid of his grail, he saw the realization of
his dream. '
A grey metal cup in a rack was filled with smooth,
delicious-odored peanut butter. Across another rack was
the yellow-brown-spotted form of a banana.
Grinning, slavering, chortling, he unpeeled the fruit and
smeared one end with the peanut butter. Close to crooning
with delight, he bit off the combination.
It was worth being resurrected if only for the food.
A moment later, he saw a woman walking by. She was very
attractive, but it was what she wore that widened his
eyes. He got to his feet and, speaking Esperanto,
approached her.
"Pardonumin, sinjorino. I couldn't help observing that
unusual armlet. It looks like brass!"
She looked down, smiling, and said, "Estas brazo."
She accepted his proffered cigarette with a murmured,
"Dank-on," and lit it. She seemed to be very amiable. Too
much so, one person thought. Scowling, a tall, dark man
strode up to them.
Frigate hastily assured him that his interest was not in
her but in the armlet. The man looked relieved; the
woman, disappointed. But she shrugged and made the best
of it.
"It comes from up-River," she said. "It cost one hundred
cigarettes and two hornfish horns."
"Not to mention some personal favors on her part," the
man said.
The woman said, "Oh, Emil, that was before I moved in
with you."
"Do you know where it came from?" Frigate said. "I mean,
where it was made?"
"The man who sold it to me came from Nova Bohemujo."
Frigate gave the man a cigarette, and this seemed to ease
the tension. Ernil said that New Bohemia was a rather
large state about nine hundred grailstones up The River.
Twentieth-century Czechs made up its majority. The
minority was composed of some ancient Gaulish tribe with,
of course, the usual one or two percent of peoples from
everywhere and every time.
Until three years ago New Bohemia had been small, just
one of the mingled Slavic-Gaulish peoples in this area.
"But its chief, a man named Ladislas Podebrad, launched a
project about six years ago. He thought there might be
mineral treasures, especially iron, buried deep under the
soil. His people started digging at the base of the
mountain, and they made an enormous and deep hole. They
wore out much flint and bone. You know how tough the
grass is."
Frigate nodded. The grass seemed designed to resist
erosion. Its roots were very deep and intertwined. In
fact, he wasn't sure that it was not one plant, a single
organism extending on both sides of The River and perhaps
beneath it. And its roots were tough silicon bearers.
"It took a long time to get below the grass, and when it
was done,  there was nothing but dirt beneath that. They
kept on, and after going sixty meters, they came to rock.
I believe it was limestone. They almost gave up then. But
Podebrad, who's something of a mystic, told them he'd had
a dream that there were great quantities of iron below
the rock."
"Of course," the woman said, "I can't see you working
like that."
"You're not so dedicated yourself."
Frigate did not give them long to stay together, but he
said nothing. He could be wrong. He'd known couples like
this on Earth who had verbally stung and stabbed each
other from marriage to death. For some sick reason, they
needed each other.
Three years ago, Podebrad's dream and the hard work of
his people had paid off.
They had come across an immense store of minerals: iron
ore, zinc sulfide, sand, coal, salt, lead, sulfur, and
even some platinum and vanadium.
Frigate blinked and said, "You mean, in layers, strata?
But they wouldn't occur naturally in that fashion."
"No," Emil said. "At least, the man told Marie that they
shouldn't. What he said, and I've heard others from New
Bohemia say this, too, it looked as if a gigantic truck
had just dumped the ores there.
"Whoever made this world had pushed the stuff there, you
know, as if by a gigantic bulldozer. Then the rock had
been put over it, then the soil, then the grass."
Podebrad had gotten the minerals out, was, in fact, still
bringing them up. All his people were armed with steel
weapons now. And New Bohemia had expanded from its 12-
kilometer-long boundaries to 60 kilometers on both sides
of The River.
However, this had not been done by conquest. Neighboring
states had asked to be absorbed, and Podebrad had
welcomed them. There was wealth enough for all.
Meanwhile, other states along here had launched their own
digging projects. They had been at it about three years
but had gained only sweat, worn-out tools, and
disappointment.
Podebrad's original site seemed to be the only one to
contain minerals. Or else other dumpheaps-as Emil called
them-were buried even deeper.
Emil pointed at the hills.
"Our own country has a hole sixty meters deep. But it's
being filled up now. The caprock is dolomite. Podebrad
was lucky. His was soft limestone."
Frigate thanked them and excitedly hurried off. As a
result, the Razzle Dazzle anchored off the bank of
Podebrad's capital eleven days later.
The crew smelled New Bohemia half a day before arriving
at its southern limits. The fumes of sulfur and coal
stank throughout the area.
High earth walls had been erected along the banks. Steel
weapons, including flintlock firearms, were everywhere.
The River was patrolled by four large, steam-powered
paddlewheeled boats, each carrying two cannons, and a
large number of smaller boats with machine guns.
The crew of the Razzle Dazzle were astonished. Also,
somewhat depressed. The fair valley was blighted. For too
long, they had taken the clean air and pure blue skies,
the green plains and hills, for granted.
Nur asked a local why it was necessary to foul the land
and make all those weapons.
"We had to do so," the man said. "If we hadn't, then
other states would have tried to take our ores away from
us. And they would have embarked on conquest by arms. We
made the weapons for self-defense.
"Of course, we make other artifacts, too. We trade these,
and we get more tobacco, liquor, food, and ornaments than
we can use."
The man patted his fat paunch.
Nur smiled and said, "The grails provide enough for any
person's needs and some luxuries, too. Why tear up the
land and make a stench to get far more than you need?"
"I just told you why."
"It would have been best to have filled up the hole
again,'' Nur said. "Or never to have dug it in the first
place."
The man shrugged. Then, looking surprised, he walked up
to Rider.
"Say, aren't you the movie star Tom Mix?"
Tom smiled and said, "Not me, amiko. People have told me
I look a little like him, though."
"I saw you . . . him... when he came to Paris during his
European tour. I was on a business trip then, and I stood
in the crowds and cheered you ... him ... as he rode
along on Tony. It was a great thrill for me. He was my
favorite cowboy actor."
"Mine, too," Tom said, and he turned away.
Frigate called the captain and first mate to one side.
"You look excited, Pete," Martin Farrington said. "You
must be thinking of the same thing Tom and I were
discussing just a minute ago."
Frigate said, "Now, how could you do that? What is it?"
Martin looked sidewise at Tom and smiled. "Sure, what
else could it be? We were talking about, just
speculating, mind you, about how nice it would be if we
had one of those small steamboats."
Frigate was astonished. "That wasn't what I was thinking
of! What do you mean, you'd steal it?"
"Sort of," Tom drawled. "They could always make another
one. We were thinking of how much faster we could get up-
River on one of those handy-dandy paddle wheelers."
"Aside from the ethics of the thing," Frigate said, "it'd
be dangerous. I assume they guard them at night."
"Look who's talking of ethics," Martin said. "You stole
your spear and bow and arrows, remember?"
Frigate's face became red.
"Not really. I had made them myself. They were mine."
"It was stealing," Martin said. He gave one of his
wonderfully charming smiles and slapped Frigate on the
shoulder. "No need to get huffy. Your need was greater
than the state's, and you took something that could be
easily replaced. We're in the same situation. We need to
get up-River a lot faster."
"Not to mention a lot more comfortably," Tom said.
"You want us to risk getting killed?"
"Would you volunteer? I wouldn't order anybody to do
this. If you don't care to do it, you won't peach on us,
will you?"
"Of course not!'' Frigate said, getting red in the face
again. "I'm not objecting because I'm afraid! Listen, I'd
do it, if it was necessary. But what I have in mind is
not that. It's something that would get us far north a
hell of a lot faster than a steamboat."
"You mean have this Podebrad build us a speedboat?"
Martin said. "A steam yacht?"
"No, I don't. I-mean something that won't go up The
River. It'll go over it!"
"Rub me for a saddlesore," Tom said. "You mean an air
plane?"
Tom looked eager. Martin turned pale.
"No, that wouldn't work. I mean, a plane could get us a
lot farther faster. But we'd have to land several times
and make more fuel, and there's no way of making more.
"No, I'm thinking about another type of air travel?'
"You can't be thinking of a balloon?"
"Sure, why not? A balloon, or, better yet, a blimp."
Tom Rider liked the idea.
Farrington said, "No! It's too dangerous! I don't trust
those fragile gasbags. Besides, you'd have to use
hydrogen, right? Hydrogen can catch fire like that!"
He snapped his fingers.
"In addition, they're easy prey for strong winds and
storms. Also, where are you going to dredge up a blimp
pilot? Airplane pilots should be easy to find, though
personally I've only run into two. Furthermore, we'd have
to be its crew, and that means we'd have to be trained.
What if we don't have the knack for it? There's another
reason ..."
"A yellow streak?" Tom said, smiling.
Martin reddened, and his hands balled. "How'd you like a
few teeth knocked out?"
"It wouldn't be the first time," Tom Rider said. "But
take it easy, Frisco, I was just trying to think of more
reasons why we can't do it. Help you along, sort of."
Frigate knew that Jack London had never taken any
interest in flying. Yet a man who had lived so
adventurously, who had always been pugnaciously
courageous, and who was also very curious, should have
been eager to go up in the newfangled machine.
Was it possible that he was afraid of the air?
It could be. Many a person who seemed to be afraid of
nothing on earth was scared of leaving it. It was one of
those quirks of human character, nothing to be ashamed
of.
Nevertheless, Martin might be ashamed to show fear.
Frigate admitted to himself that he had some of that
brand of shame. He had gotten rid of some, but there was
too much residue left. He was not afraid to admit a fear
if there was a rational reason to do so. To reveal fear
if it had an irrational basis wasrstill difficult for
him.
Fanington's reaction did have some logic. It could be
dangerous, perhaps even foolish, to go in a blimp in the
unavoidably uncertain conditions.
Nur and Pogaas were called in to hear Frigate's new idea.
Frigate proceeded to tell them what the perils might be.
"Nevertheless, considering the time saved, it's more
efficient, more economical, to go in a blimp. Actually,
considering the time a blimp would take as against the
time a boat would take, you'll encounter many more
dangers in a boat."
"Damn it, I'm not afraid of danger! You know better than
that! It's just that ..."
Martin's voice trailed off.
Tom smiled.
Farrington said, "What are you grinning about? You look
like a skunk eating shit!"
Pogaas grinned also.
"There's no need to get all fired up about this just
now," Tom said. "First we have to find out what the Big
Cheese, Podebrad, will do for us. More than likely, he
won't build us a gasbag. Why should he? But let's mosey
on up to his house and see what he has to say about
this."
Nur and Pogaas had more pressing business, so the
captain, first mate, and deckhand walked toward a large
limestone building pointed out to them by a passerby.
"You aren't serious about stealing one of the
steamboats?" Frigate said.
"That depends," Tom said.
"Nur will never go along with that,'' Frigate said. "Nor
some of the others, either."
"Then we might do without them," Tom said.
They halted at Podebrad's house, which stood on top of a
hill, its peaked roof of bamboo almost touching the lower
branches of a tall pine tree. The guards passed .them on
into a reception room. A secretary listened to them, then
disappeared for a minute. Returning, he told them that
Podebrad would see them just after lunch two days from
now.
They decided to go fishing the rest of the day. Rider and
Farrington caught a few striped "bass," but they spent
most of their time planning how to capture a steamboat.
Ladislas Podebrad was red headed and of medium height,
very broad and muscular, bull necked, thin lipped,
massively chinned. Though he had formidable features and
an icy demeanor, he permitted the meeting to last longer
than the three had expected. It even went well, though
not entirely as hoped for.
"Why are you in such a hurry to get to the North Pole? I
have heard of this tower that is supposed to be in the
middle of a sea behind impassable mountains. I do not
know that I believe the story. But it seems possible.
Perhaps, even probable.
"This world may have been fashioned originally by God.
But it is evident that human beings, or something
similar, have remade the surface of this planet. It is
also evident to me, a scientist, that our resurrection is
caused by physical means, by science, not by a
supernatural agency.
"Why, I do not know. But the Church,of the Second Chance
has an explanation that sounds somewhat logical. Though
they lack much data and even more certainty.
"In fact, the Church seems to me to know more than anyone
else about this business, if I may put it that way."
He drummed long, slim fingers on the table as they all
fell silent. Frigate, watching them, thought how ill
matched they were to his husky physique and broad, thick
hands.
Podebrad rose and walked to a cabinet, opened it, and
withdrew an object.
He held in his fingers a spiral bone taken from a
hornfish.
"You all know what this is. The Chancers wear it as a
symbol of their faith, though I wish they had more
knowledge to back their faith. But if they had more
knowledge, they wouldn't need faith, would they? In this
respect they're like all other religions, Terrestrial or
Riverworld.
"However, we do know that there is an afterlife.
"Or perhaps I should say, there was an afterlife. Now
that people no longer are resurrected after death, we
don't know what to expert. Even the Church has no answer
to the question of why translation has suddenly ceased.
It speculates that,perhaps, people have been given enough
time to save themselves, and there is no longer a reason
to continue the resurrections. '"Either you are saved by
now or you are not.
"I really don't know what the truth is.
"Gentlemen, I was an atheist on Earth, a member of the
Czecho-slovakian Communist Party. But here I met a man
who convinced me that religion has nothing to do with
rationality. At least, its foundation, the basis for its
existence, does not.
"After the act of faith comes, of course, the
rationalization for the faith, its pseudological
justification. However, neither Jesus nor Marx, Buddha
nor Mohammed, Hindu nor Confucian, Taoist nor Jew were
right about the afterworld. They were even more mistaken
about this world than the one we were born in."
He walked to the desk, sat down behind it, and placed the
spiral bone on it.
"Sinjoroj, I was going to announce today my conversion to
the Church of the Second Chance. And also announce my
resignation as head of the state of Nova Bohemujo.
Several days afterward, I would embark up The River to
journey to Virolando, which, I am assured, does indeed
exist. And there I would ask the leader and the founder
of the Church, La Viro, some questions. If he answered
them satisfactorily, or even if he admitted that he did
not know all the answers, I would place myself under his
jurisdiction. Go where he said, do what he said.
"But if my information is correct, and I have no reason
to believe my informants are liars, Virolando is millions
of kilometers away. It would take me half an Earthly
lifetime to get mere.
"Now, you suddenly come to me with a proposal. One that I
am astounded I did not think of myself. Perhaps because I
was really more interested in the voyage than in its end.
"Voyages are always more rewarding in self-discovery than
in anything else, are they not? Perhaps that is why the
obvious escaped me.
"Yes, gentlemen, I can build a blimp for you.
"There is only one stipulation. You must take me with
you."
                           54
After a long silence, Farrington said, "I dont see how we
could say no, Sinjoro Podebrad. I think I speak for all
of us."
Frigate and Rider nodded.
"You really.got us by the short hairs. Not that I have
anything against your coming along with us. In fact, I am
delighted. Only ... well, what if we can't find any
experienced blimp men? We'd be crazy to go up there if we
don't know how to handle the machine or what we might run
into."
"Of course. But it will take a very long time to build
the airship. Unless we can find some engineers who know
how to design such a ship, or at least can calculate the
specifications, we will have to do it from scratch.
"Meanwhile, we can look for a pilot. Though they're very
rare, somewhere along The River, within two thousand
kilometers either way, there must be the man we're
looking for.
"Or perhaps I might say, there could be one. Actually,
the odds are high against finding one."
"I was a balloonist, "Frigate said. "And I read a great
deal about lighter-than-air craft. I was up in a blimp
for two short flights. That doesn't near make me an
expert, of course."
"Perhaps we'll have to train ourselves, Sinjoro Frigate.
In which case, any knowledge will be of help."
"Of course, that was a long time ago. I've forgotten a
lot."
"You don't exactly inspire confidence, Pete," the Frisco
Kid said fiercely.
"Confidence comes with experience," Podebrad said. "Now,
gentlemen, I will start at once. I'll delay my
announcement of my conversion until after the airship is
ready to leave. No member of the Church, no one preaching
total passive resistance, can be head of this state."
Frigate wondered how deep the man's conversion was. It
seemed to him that anybody who really believed in the
tenets of the Church would say so at once. No matter what
the consequences would be.
"As soon as our conference is over, I'll get the
facilities for making hydrogen underway. I think the best
method, considering the minerals available, will be by
the reaction of dilute sulfuric acid and zinc. Our
sulfuric acid industry has been operating for some time.
We were fortunate in finding both platinum and vanadium,
though not in large quantities.
"I do wish we could make aluminum, but. . ."
"The Schutte-Lanz airships were made of wood," Frigate
said. "A blimp wouldn't need much wood, anyway."
Farrington said, "Wood! You want me to go up in a wooden
dirigible?"
''The only wood would be in the keel and the car,"
Frigate said. "The envelope could be made from the
intestinal lining of the dragonfish."
"Which requires much fishing," Podebrad said. He stood
up.
"I have much work to get done today. But I'll see you
gentlemen tomorrow during lunch. We can discuss this in
detail men. Meanwhile, good day."
Farrington, looking grave, spoke to Rider as they left
the building.
"If you ask me, this is crazy!"
"It sounds great to me," Tom said. "To tell the truth,
I'm getting pretty tired of sailing."
"Yeah, but we could get killed while we're bumbling
around trying to learn how to fly that damned thing!
"And what if we find it won't work then? We'll have tost
a lot of time!"
Frigate said, "That doesn't sound like the man who
ferried people through the White Horse rapids in Alaska,
time and again, just to pick up a few bucks. Or the man
who pirated oysters..."
He turned pale. Rider and Farrington had stopped, and
their faces were hard.
Farrington said slowly, "I've told a lot of stories about
the Yukon, but I never said anything about the White
Horse rapids. Not to you anyway. Have you been
eavesdropping?"
Frigate drew a deep bream, and said, "Hell, I don't have
to eavesdrop! I recognized you two the first time I saw
you!"
Suddenly, Rider was behind him and Farrington had put his
hand on the hilt of his flint knife.
Rider spoke in a low monotone. "Okay, whoever you are,
just march on ahead of me. Right into the ship. And don't
try anything funny."
"I'm not going incognito!" Frigate said. "You are!"
"Just do as I say."
Frigate shrugged, and he tried to grin. "It's evident you
two are doing a lot more than just concealing your true
identities. All right. I'll go. But you wouldn't kill me,
would you?"
"That depends," Rider said.
They walked down the hill and across the plain. At the
dock the only crew member present was Nur, who was
talking to a woman. Rider said, "Not a word, Pete. And
smile."
Frigate, looking straight at the little Moor, grimaced.
He hoped that Nur would detect that something was wrong-
he was so sensitive to expressions-but Nur only waved at
them. When they were in the captain's cabin, Frisco shut
the door and made Frigate sit on the edge of the bunk.
Frigate said, "I've been with you twenty-six years.
Twenty-six! And I've never told anybody what your real
names were."
Farrington sat down in the chair at his desk. Toying with
his knife, he said, "That seems against human nature. How
could you keep your mouth shut that long? And why?"
"Especially why?" Rider said. He stood near the door, a
horn-fish stiletto in his hand.
"It was evident that you didn't want it known, for one
thing. So, being your friend, I didn't say anything.
Though I will admit I wondered why you were so
secretive."
Farrington looked at Rider. "What do you think, Tom?"
Rider shrugged, and said, "We made a mistake. We should
have just laughed it off. Admitted who we are and made up
some tall tale to account for it."
Farrington put the knife down and lit a cigarette.
"Yeah. That's hindsight. What'll we do now?"
Rider said, "After all this mysterious folderol, Pete
must know we got something to hide."
"He already said that."
Rider sheathed the stiletto and lit a cigarette. Frigate
wondered if he should make a break for it now. His
chances for success were small. Though both men were
smaller, they were very strong and quick. Besides, trying
to escape would make him look guilty.
Guilty of what?
Tom said, "That's better. Forget about getting away.
Relax."
"With you two thinking of murder?"
Rider laughed and said, "After all these years you ought
to know we can't kill in cold blood. Even a stranger, and
we're sort of fond of you, Pete."
"Well, if I were what you think I am, whatever that is,
what would you do?"
"Work up a passion so I wouldn't have to kill you in cold
blood, I reckon."
"Why?"
"If you aren't really Peter Frigate, then you know."
"Who in hell else could I be?"
There was a long silence. Finally, Farrington ground out
his cigarette in an ashtray clamped to the desk.
' "The thing is, Tom," he said, "he has been with us
longer man any of our wives. If he was one of Them, why
would he stay around so long? Especially since he claims
he recognized us the day he met us.
"We would have been scooped up that night, if he's one of
Them."
"Maybe," Tom said. "We don't know more than one-quarter
of what's going on. One-eightieth, maybe. And what we do
know may be a lie. Maybe we've been played for suckers."
"Them? Scooped up?" Frigate said.
Martin Farrington looked at Tom, and he said, "What'll we
do now? There isn't any way of identifying Them. We're
fools, Tom. We should've just told him a big lie. Now we
got to go all the way."
"If he's one of Them, then he already knows," Rider.said.
"So we wouldn't be telling him much he doesn't know.
Except about the Ethical. And if he is an agent, then he
wouldn't have been put on our trail unless They suspected
we'd been contacted by Him."
"Yeah, we jumped the gun. And there isn't any gun in the
first place. You know, if Pete's an agent, why would he
have suggested the blimp? Would an agent want us to get
to the tower?"
"That's right. Unless ..."
"Don't keep me hanging."
"Unless there's something haywire, and he's as much in
the dark now as we are."
"What do you mean?"
"Listen, Tom, lately I've been doing a lot of thinking
when I should've been sleeping or screwing. I've been
thinking that there's something mysterious going on. I
don't mean what the Ethical told us. I mean this business
of there suddenly being no more resurrections.
"Has it ever occurred to you that maybe stopping them
wasn't the original plan-whatever that is?"
"You mean, somebody threw a monkey wrench in the machin
ery? And that blew the fuse and left everybody in the
dark?"
"Yes. And the agents don't know what's going on any more
than me and you."
"Which could mean that Pete here is an agent. He's just
trying to get home."
'' You mean he might've found us but couldn' t do
anything about it? So he went along for the ride? And he
proposed this blimp idea because it'd help him, not us,
get there faster?"
"Something like that."
"So that puts us back where we were. Pete could be one of
Them."
"If he is, it's like I said. We won't be telling him
anything he don't know."
"Yeah, but he could tell us plenty. Plenty!"
"You going to beat it out of him? What if he really is
Frigate?"
"I wouldn't, anyway. Not unless I knew the stakes were
really high.. Oh, hell, not even then."
"We could just sail on and leave him behind," Farringtbn
said.
Tom smiled crookedly and said, "Yeah? You'd like that,
wouldn't you? You wouldn't have to trust your quivering
flesh and beating heart to a sky boat.''
"You're getting awful close to making me mad, Tom."
"Okay. I won't ever say another word about that subject.
Besides, I know you ain't got a cowardly bone in your
body.
"So, what'll we do? Remember, if we did sail on, by the
time we got to the North Pole-if we ever did-Pete here
would have the whole thing solved."
"Oh, hell," Farrington said. "How could he be one of
Them? They're superior to human beings, right? And Pete
sure isn't no superman. No offense, Pete."
Tom glanced narrow-eyed at Frigate.
"He could be pretending to be only human. But I don't
think anybody could put up a front like that for twenty-
six years."
"Let's tell him then. What do we have to lose? Besides,
I'm tired of keeping a secret for twenty-nine years."
"You always did talk too much."
"Look who's talking, Old Chief Run-off-at-the-mouth
himself."
Farrington lit another cigarette. Rider followed his
example, then said, "You want to light up too, Pete?"
"You're trying to kill me with smoke," Frigate said. He
drew a cigar out of his over-the-shoulderbag.
"I think I need a drink, too."
"We all do. Tom, you do the honors. Then we'll tell all.
God, what a relief!"
                           55
" 'TWAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT," TOM SAID. HE SMILED TO
acknowledge that he knew he was deliberately imitating
the classical opening line of ghost stories.'
"Jack and I..."
"Keep it Martin, Tom. Remember? Even when in private."
"Sure, but you were Jack men. Anyway, I knew the Kid
here, but we weren't good friends yet. Our huts were
close together, both of us were sailors on a patrol sloop
in the navy of a local warlord.
"One night, when I was off duty, sleeping in my hut, I
suddenly woke up. It wasn't the thunder and lightning
that woke me up, either. It was a tap on my shoulder.
"At first, I thought it was Howardine, my woman. You
remember her, Kid?"
"She was a beauty," Martin said to Frigate. "A red-headed
Scotchwoman."
Frigate stirred, and he said, "I'm anxious to get to the
heart of the matter."
"Okay, no frills then. It wasn't her, because she was
sound asleep. Then a flash of lightning showed me a dark
figure squatting by me. I started to rear up, my hand
going under my pillow for my tomahawk. But I couldn't
move.
"I guess I was drugged or under a spell of some kind. I
thought, Oh, oh! This guy has got it in for me, and he's
paralyzed me somehow and now yours truly is going to get
it.
"Of course, I'd wake up someplace else, but I didn't feel
like leaving.
"Then a couple of flashes showed the outline of the guy
in detail. I was startled. Not scared, you realize, just
startled. His body was covered in a big black cloak. And
the head! There wasn't any. I mean, it was covered by a
big globe, like a fishbowl. It was all black so I
couldn't see his face. But somehow he could see me.
"If I couldn't move, I could talk. I said, 'Who are you?
What do you want?' I spoke loud enough to wake Howardine
up, but she didn't stir during the whole parley. I figure
she had been drugged, too, but worse man me.
"The stranger spoke in a deep voice, answering me in
English.
" 'I don't have much time, so I won't go into much
detail. My name doesn't matter. In any event, I couldn't
tell you because they might find you and unreel your
memory.'
"I wondered what that meant, unreeling my memory. The
whole business was beginning to look bizarre. I knew I
wasn't dreaming. I wished I was.
' "If they should, they'll know everything that is said
and done here,' the hombre said. 'It's like taking a
movie of your mind. They can clip out what they don't
want you to remember, and you won't. But if they should
do that,I'll talk to you again.'
"'Who's they?' I said.
" 'The people who restructured this planet and who
resurrected you,' he said. 'Now, listen, and don't talk
until I'm finished.'
"You know me, Kid. I don't take crap off nobody. But this
guy spoke as if the whole world was a ranch he owned and
I was just one of the hands. Anyway, what could I do?
" 'They,' he said, 'live in the tower set in the middle
of the north polar sea. You may have heard rumors about
this. Some men actually did get through the mountains
that surround the sea.'
"Right there I would have asked him if he was the one who
left that long rope so they could get up the cliff and
bored that tunnel for them. But I didn't know about that
story then.
"He continued, 'But they did not get into the tower. One
of their party, however, died when he fell off a mountain
into the sea. He was allowed to be translated back into
the Valley.' "
Tom paused. "He must have had some way of knowing this.
"The stranger continued, 'But the others were not. They
... never mind.'
"So," Tom said, grinning, "he did not know everything
about the Egyptians. What he didn't know was that one of
them escaped. Or, if he did, he wasn't telling me, for
some reason. I don't think, however, he found out about
it. Otherwise, he'd have never let him get away. Still. .
. maybe he did.
"Anyway, the stranger said, 'The swiftness of verbal
communication in the Valley is amazing I believe you call
it the grapevine. The man who fell off the mountain told
his story after he was translated, and it has spread
throughout the Valley. You may speak. Have you heard the
story?'
" 'Not until now,' I said.
" 'Well, you will doubtless hear it in the future. You'll
be going up-River and will surely encounter it in one
distorted form or another. Its essence is true.
" 'Doubtless, you have wondered why you were raised from
the dead and placed here?'
"I nodded, and he said, 'My people, the Ethicals, have
done this purely as a scientific experiment. They have
put all of you here, mixed the races and nations from
different times, solely to study your reactions. To
record them and to classify them.
" 'Then!'-and here his voice rose to a pitch of great
indignation-'after they have subjected you to this
experiment, after they have filled you with hope for an
eternal life, they will close the project! You will die,
forever! There will be no more resurrections for you! You
will go down into dust, be dust forever!'
" 'That seems almighty cruel,' I said, forgetting he'd
not given me permission to speak.
' "It is inhumanly cruel,' he said. 'They have the power
to give you life everlasting! At least, it would last as
long as your sun lasted. Longer even, since you could
always be transported to another planet with a living
sun.
' "But no! They won't do that! They say that you do not
deserve immortality!'
" "That's downright unethical,' I said. 'In which case,
how come they call themselves the Ethicals?'
' "That seemed to stop him for a moment. Then he said,
'Because they think it would be unethical to permit such
a miserable, undeserving species to live forever.'
" They sure don't have a good opinion of us," I said.
" 'I don't either,'' the stranger said. 'But good or bad
opinions of humanity, based on en masse consideration,
have nothing to do with the ethical aspects.'
" 'How can you love someone you despise?' I said.
" 'It isn't easy,' he said. 'But nothing truly ethical is
easy to do. However, this is wasting my time.'
"A bluish fight glowed, and by its light I could see that
he had taken his right hand out from under his cloak.
Around its wrist was a device larger man a man's pocket
watch, and it was emitting the bluish light. I couldn't
see what was on its face, but it was also talking,
softly, like a radio turned way down.
"I couldn't hear the words, but it all sounded to me like
some foreign language I never heard before. And the blue
light showed me the globe, which was black and looked
glassy. His hand was a big one, broad, but with long,
slim fingers.
" 'My time is up,' he said, and he put his hand under the
cloak, and the hut was dark again, except for a lightning
bolt now and then.
" 'I can't tell you now why I chose you,' he said,
'except to say that your aura shows you're a likely
candidate for the job.'
"What's on aura? I thought. I knew what it meant
according to the dictionary, but I had the feeling he
meant something else. And what job? I thought.
"Suddenly, as if he'd been reading my thought, his hand
came out from under the cloak again. The bluish light was
bright, very bright, so bright I could hardly see him.
But I could see both his hands now, and they lifted the
globe off. I though I'd be able to see at least the
outlines of his head, maybe something of his features if
I squinted hard enough. But all I could see was the big
globe above his head. Not the glass globe, because he
held that to one side. The thing above his head was
whirling, shot with many colors, and was so bright I
could see only that.It put out feelers from time to time,
feelers that shot out and men shrank back into the
whirling thing.
"I don't mind admitting that I was scared men. Well, not
really so much scared as awed. It was like seeing an
angel face to face, and there's no shame in being afraid
of an angel."
"Lucifer was an angel," Frigate said.
"Yeah, I know. I've read the Bible. Shakespeare, too.
Maybe I didn't get through grammar school, but I'm self-
educated."
"I wasn't intimating that you were ignorant," Frigate
said.
Martin snorted, and he said, "You two don't really
believe in angels, do you?"
"Not me," Tom said, "But he sure seemed like one. Anyway,
I don't think that aura is ordinarily visible. I think he
showed me it by means of that thing he wore on his wrist.
It suddenly disappeared, and the bluish glow died
immediately. Too soon for me to see his face. Another
lightning flash silhouetted him men, and I saw he'd put
the glass globe back over his head.
"Now I knew what he meant by an aura. I figured from what
he said that I had one, too. And it was invisible."
"Next you'll be claiming to be an angel," Martin said.
" 'You can, you must, be of help to me,' the stranger
said. 'I want you to start up-River, toward the tower.
But first, you must tell this Jack London what has
happened here tonight. And you must convince him that you
are telling the truth. And get him to accompany you.
" 'But under no circumstances are you to tell anyone else
that I have talked to you. No one. We Ethicals are few
and seldom venture from the tower. But my enemies have
agents among you. Not many, compared to you. But they are
disguised as resurrectees, and they will be looking for
me.
" 'Some day, they may even suspect that I have recruited
help from you Riverdwellers. So they will be trying to
find you. If they do, they will take you to the tower,
unroll your memories, read them, and excise the parts
relevant to me. And return you to the Valley.
' "London has a tiger-aura, too. So you must convince him
to go with you. Tell him that I will see both of you
again, and then he will believe. And you two will learn
more of what this is all about.'
"He rose, and he said, 'Until then.'
"I watched him as another flash of lightning outlined his
dark figure, the cloak, and the globe. I was wondering if
I was crazy. I tried to get up but couldn't. After about
half an hour, the paralysis wore off, and I went outside.
The storm was over then, the clouds were starting to
break up. But I couldn't see any sign of him."
Martin took up the story. Tom had come to him the next
evening and made him promise to keep silent about what he
was going to tell him. Martin did not know whether or not
to believe him. What convinced him that he was not lying
was that there was no reason for Tom to make up such a
fantastic tale.
The incident had happened, but was it a hoax by some
unknown party?
Tom thought about that and men wondered if perhaps London
himself was the stranger, playing a joke on him. They
soon realized that neither they nor anybody else they
knew could have had the glass globe or the instrument
he'd used. And how could anybody fake that blazing aura?
The Frisco Kid was getting itchy, anyway. He liked the
idea of building a sailboat and going on. Whatever the
story was, true or not, it gave him an incentive, a
meaning to life. Tom felt the same way. The Tower became
for them a sort of Holy Grail.
"I felt kind of lousy leaving Howardine without a word.
The Kid wasn't getting along too well with his woman, a
tall plain jane with a chip on her shoulder-I don't know
what he ever saw in her-so he had no regrets about
leaving,
"We scooted on up-River for a couple of hundred stones,
and then we started to build our schooner. Nur came along
and helped us build it. He's the only original member of
the crew still with us.''
Tom, holding his finger to his lips, walked softly to the
door. His ear against it, he listened for a moment. Then
he yanked it open.
The little Moor, Nur el-Musafir, was standing by the
door.
                           56
NUR DID NOT SEEM STARTLED OR AFRAID. HE SAID, IN ENGLISH,
"May I come in?"
"Damn right you will!" Tom roared. He did not offer to
drag him in, however. Something about the dark little man
promised dire results if he were attacked.
Nur entered. Farrington, glowering, was on his feet.
"You were eavesdropping?"
"Obviously."
"Why?" Tom said.
"Because, when you three went to the ship, I could tell
from your expressions that something was wrong. Peter was
in danger."
"Thanks, Nur," Frigate said.
Tom Rider closed the door. Martin said, "I need another
drink."
Nur sat down upon the top of a cabinet. Martin downed two
shots of whiskey. Tom said, "You heard everything?"
Nur nodded.
Martin shouted, "We might as well stand on a deck with a
megaphone and tell the whole world!"
Tom said, "For Chrissakes! Now we got another problem on
our hands!"
"There's no more need to kill me than there was to kill
Peter," Nur said. He removed a cigar from his shoulderbag
and lit it.
"I overheard your women saying they'd be coming back
soon. We don't have much time."
"He's a cool one, ain't he?" Tom said to Martin.
"Like an experienced agent.''
Nur laughed, and he said, "No. More like one who's been
chosen by an Ethical!"
Nur said, "You may well stare. But you should have
wondered a long time ago why I joined you from the
beginning and have stuck with you through such a wearying
journey."
Martin and Tom both opened their mouths.
Nur said, "Yes, I know what you're thinking. If I were an
agent, I'd pretend to be one of the Etnicals' recruits.
Believe me, I am not an agent."
"How do we know you're not? Can you prove it?"
"How do I know you two aren't agents? Can you prove it?"
The captain and the first mate were flabbergasted.
Frigate said, "When did the mysterious stranger talk to
you? And why didn't he tell Tom that you were in oh
this?"
Nur shrugged thin shoulders.
"He appeared shortly after his visit to Tom. I don't know
exactly when. As for the second question, I don't know
the answer.
"I do suspect that the Ethical may not be telling the
truth. He may be lying in that he is telling us only a
part of the real situation. Why, I don't know. But I am
intrigued."
Martin said, "Maybe we should just leave these two
behind."
"If you do," Nur said, "Peter and I will take the high
road, and we'll be at the tower afore ye."
"He's paraphrasing Bobby Burns's song, the one you sing
so often," Tom said to Martin.
Martin grunted, and he said, "They wouldn't be agents of
the enemies of your visitor, Tom. Otherwise, we'd have
been turned in long ago. So, we have to believe them. I
still don't understand why the Ethical didn't tell us
about Nur."
Tom proposed a toast to their newfound band, and they
drank. By then, they heard the women on deck. The men
were laughing at one of Martin's jokes when the women
came into the cabin, but they had had time to arrange a
meeting later in the hills.
The next day they met with Podebrad, who introduced them
to his engineering staff. They launched at once into the
specifications of the blimp.
Frigate pointed out that what they would build depended
on their goal. If they just wished to get near the
headwaters, they would need an airship large enough to
carry enough fuel to take them there. It wouldn't have to
have a ceiling of more than 4572 meters or 15,000 feet.
If they wished to get over the mountains that ringed the
polar sea, they'd have to build one which could rise 9144
meters.
That is, if the stories of their height were true. No one
really knew.
It would take much longer to design and build a rigid
dirigible for the longer, higher flight. It would require
a much larger crew and, hence, more training. At higher
altitudes, the engines would need supercharging. Besides,
the winds there would probably be stronger than the lower
winds. Too strong. The zeppelin would have to carry
oxygen supplies for personnel and engines. That made the
load heavier. And there was. the problem of the engine
freezing.
It would be nice if they could use jet engines. These,
however, were inefficient at low altitudes and speeds.
Airships couldn't use them unless they went ao higher
attitudes. Unfortunately, the metals needed for jet
engines were lacking. "
Podebrad coldly replied that a big rigid dirigible was
out. He was interested only in the smaller nonrigid type.
This would go over the mountains, keeping at a height of
+3962.4 meters or 13,000 feet. He understood that the
mountains sometimes rose to 6096 meters. The ship would
just go along them until it came to those of lesser
height.
"That would require more fuel, because it would make the
trip longer," Frigate said.
"Obviously," Podebrad said. "The ship will have to be big
enough to be prepared for that."
It was clear that Sinjoro Podebrad was the boss.
The next day Project Airship was started. It was
completed in eight months, four less than estimated.
Podebrad was a hard driver.
Nur asked Podebrad how he would find Virolando without
charts.
The Czech replied that he'd talked to several
missionaries who'd originated mere. According to their
accounts, Virolando was near the arctic region in which
The River flowed downstream. It was an estimated 50,000
kilometers from the headwaters and shouldn't be too
difficult to identify from the air. Since it was on the
shores of a very large lake with a rough hourglass shape,
and it contained exactly one hundred tall rock spires, it
would be impossible to mistake it for another lake.
That is, it would be unless it had a duplicate somewhere
else.
Afterward, Frigate said, "I got my doubts about his being
a Chancer. Those I've met have been very warm, very
compassionate. This guy could give a refrigerator lessons
in freezing."
"Perhaps he is an agent," Nur said.
The others went numb at the thought.
"If he were, however," Nur said, "wouldn't he want to
build a high-altitude zeppelin to get over the polar
mountains?"
"I don't think an airship could get that high," Frigate
said.
Whatever he was, Podebrad was efficient. Though be failed
to find any airship pilots, he did have enough engineers
to man a dozen vessels. And he decided that the pilots
would train themselves.
Three crews were picked so that if any person dropped out
for any reason, there would be enough replacements. If
was during the ground training that Frigate, Nur,
Farrington, Rider, and Pogaas began to have their doubts.
None of them knew much about engines, which meant they'd
have to be trained. Why should Podebrad use them when he
had experienced engineers and mechanics?
He planned on a crew of only eight. But, true to his
promise, the five from the Razzle Dazzle were assigned to
the first crew. Podebrad went along on every trip, though
ostensibly only as an observer. Frigate was nervous when
he took his first flight, but his experience as a
balloonist helped him overcome his stage fright.
One after the other, the crews trained. Then the big,
semirigid blimp took several shakedown flights of 600
kilometers roundtrip. It went over the four ranges of
mountains, enabling them to see valleys they had never
seen before though they were practically next door.
The night before the flight, the crews attended a big
party given in their honor. The crew of the Razzle
Dazzle, minus the women of the captain, first mate, and
Frigate, were there. The women had gotten angry,
understandably so, because they were being forsaken.
Though they had already taken other lovers, they hadn't
forgiven their former cabinmates.
Nur bad-arrived at New Bohemia without a woman, so he had
nothing to feel bad about.
Shortly before midnight, Podebrad sent everybody home.
The ascent was to be made just before dawn, and the crew
had to be' up even earlier. Farrington's party bedded
down in a hut near the huge bamboo hangar, and, after
some chatter, went to sleep. They had expected Podebrad
to announce his resignation and departure at the party.
But it was obvious now that he intended to wait until he
was in the ship.
"Maybe he thought he'd be lynched," Martin said.
Frigate was the last to fall asleep, or, at least, he
supposed he was. Martin might be faking slumber. Though
he had not shown any fear, he still did not like being
aloft.
Frigate tossed and turned, too high strung to relax.
Sleep always came hard before important events, just as
it had the nights before he played football or ran in a
track meet. Too often, the insomnia had resulted in
fatigue the next day, and so he had not been up to his
full potential. The very worry about not being good
enough had ensured that he would not be.
Besides, having flown airplanes in the U.S. Army Air
Corps when young and balloons in his middle age, he knew
the dangers they could encounter.
He awoke from a light sleep to hear motors roaring,
propellers spinning.
He rolled out of bed and opened the door and looked out.
Though he could see only fog, he knew that there could be
only one source of the noise.
It took a minute to rouse the others. Clad only in kilts
and wearing long, thick towels over their backs, they
dashed toward the hangar. Several times, they ran
headlong into huts, and many times stumbled. Finally, as
they came up the slope of the plains, their heads were
above the fog.
In the bright starlight, they saw what they had feared.
Men and women stood around on the ground, sleepily
cheering. These had hauled out the big blimp on ropes.
Now, their work done, they were watching the ship rise
slowly. Suddenly, water ballast was discharged, drenching
many of them. More swiftly now, the cigar shape rose, its
nose turned up-River. Lights in the cabin, set below the
long, triangular keel that ran beneath the vessel,
blazed. They could see Podebrad's profile through a port.
Howling, cursing, they ran toward ate dirigible. But they
knew they could do nothing to prevent its departure.
Farrington grabbed a spear leaning against the side of
the hangar and threw it. It fell far short and almost hit
a woman. He threw himself on the ground and beat the
grass with his fists.
Mix jumped and yelled and shook his fists.
Nur shook his head.
Pogaas howled curses in his native language.
Frigate wept. Because of him, the others had wasted nine
months. If only he had not nought of the blimp, they
would be 50,000 kilometers or so farther along on their
voyage.
The worst of it was that the Razzle Dazzle had been sold.
Not for a song. For five hundred cigarettes and much
booze and some personal favors.
Later, they sat gloomily around near a grailstone,
waiting for it to erupt and fill their grails. The New
Bohemians around them were a noisy crowd, discussing and
cursing their late chief. The ex-crew of the Razzle
Dazzle and the airship were silent. Finally, Martin
Farrington said, "Well, we can always steal my ship
back."
"That wouldn't be honest," Nur said.
"What do you mean, not honest? I wasn't thinking of just
taking it without paying for it. We'd leave them just
what they paid for it."
"They'd never agree to the deal," Tom said.
"What could they do about it?"
There was a flurry of activity, silencing them for a
moment. A man had announced that the council had elected
a new head of state. He was Podebrad's second-in-command,
Karel Novak. There was some cheering, but most people
felt too depressed to work up much emotion.
"Why do you suppose he shafted us?"Martinsaid. "We were
as good blimp men as anybody else, and he promised us."
Frigate said, his voice near breaking, "The truth is, I
wasn't as good a pilot as Hronov and Zeteny. Podebrad
knew that if he rejected me, you'd all raise hell. So he
just took off without us."
"The dirty sneak!" Tom said. "Naw. That isn't it.
Besides, you're good enough."
"We'll never know,'' Martin said. "Say, do you think
Podebrad could be an agent? And he somehow found out
about us and so left us behind, our thumbs up our
tocuses?"
"I doubt it," Nor said. "He could be one. Perhaps he
originally intended to build a fast steamboat to get up
The River. Then we came along and put a bee in his
bonnet: the blimp. But we're the ones who got stung."
"If he was an agent, how'd he find out about us?"
Frigate raised his head. "That's it! Maybe one of the
women we sloughed off overheard you two talking. You did
get pretty loud when you were talking in your cabin
sometimes. Maybe Eloise or Nadja heard you talking in
your sleep. For revenge, they told Podebrad all, and he
decided he didn't want us along."
"Neither one of them could keep their mouths shut about
it," Tom said. "They'd have spilled the beans to us long
ago."
"We'll never know," Martin said, shaking his head.
"Yeah?" Tom said. "Well, if I ever catch up with
Podebrad, I'll break his neck."
Farrington said, "First, I'll break his legs."
"No, I want to build a six-story house,'' Frigate said.
"With only one window in it, in the top story. Then we'll
execute him by a method peculiarly Czech.
Defenestration."
"What?" Tom said.
"Throw him out the window."
Nur said, "Fantasy revenge is a good method of relieving
anger. It's better, however, not to feel the need for
revenge. What we must do is to act, not blow off steam."
Frigate got swiftly to his feet. "I got an idea! Nur,
will you take care of my grail for me? I'm going off to
see Novak."
"You and your ideas!" Farrington shouted. "They've got us
in enough trouble! Come back here!"
Frigate kept on walking.
                           57
Slowly, majestically, the Parseval moved above the chasm.
Its nose was up, and its propellers were angled upward.
The wind that ripped out of the hole dipped down when it
hit the edge of the canyon top, and the dirigible had to
keep from being gripped by the downdraft. Cyrano had to
calculate the force exactly, keeping the airship at the
same altitude, aimed at the center of the arch-shaped
hole. A slight error could result in the great craft's
being dashed down against the edge of the canyon and
broken in two.
Jill thought that, if she were the captain, she would not
have risked this entrance. It would be better to circle
the mountain, to search for another gateway. However,
that meant using much more fuel. Battling such strong
winds, the motors could burn up so much that there would
not be enough left to return to Parolando. Perhaps the
ship could not even get to the Mark Twain.
Cyrano was sweating, but his eyes were bright and his
expression eager. If he were scared, he did not look so.
She had to admit to herself that he was, after all, the
best one in this situation. His reflexes were the
swiftest, and he would not freeze with panic. To him,
this must be much like a duel with swords. The wind
thrust; he parried; the wind riposted; he
counterriposted.
Now they were in the thick clouds raging from the hole.
Suddenly, they were through.
Though still blinded by fog, they could read the radar-
scopes. Before them was a sea, 1 kilometer below. Around
it circled the mountain. And ahead, in the center of the
sea, 48.5 kilometers away, a little over 30 miles, was an
object which reared high above the water, though still
dwarfed by the mountain.
Cyrano, looking at the CRT on the panel, said, "Behold
the tower!"
The radarman, seated before his equipment on the port
side, confirmed the sighting.
Firebrass ordered that the ship be taken to 3050 meters
altitude, somewhat over 10,000 feet. The propellers could
not be swiveled horizontally to lift the ship faster
because it had to fight the wind.
However, as they rose, they found that the wind lessened.
By the time the ship had reached the desired altitude, it
could proceed straight ahead. Now its estimated ground
speed was 80.50 km/ph, over 50 mph. As it neared the
tower, it picked up more velocity. t
The sky was brighter than at dusk, lit by both the weak
sun and the clustered stellar masses.
Now the radars could sweep the entire sea and touch the
top of the most distant wall. The nearly circular body of
water was 97 kilometers across or somewhat over 60 miles
in diameter. The opposite wall was the same height as the
nearer one.
"The tower!" Firebrass exploded. "It's 1.7 kilometers
tall! And 16 kilometers wide!"
In old-style measurements, that would have been slightly
over a mile high and almost 10 miles in diameter.
There was an interruption. The chief engineer, Hakkonen,
reported that the hull was collecting ice. It was not,
however, on the windscreens of the control room, since
they were made of an ice-resistant plastic.
Firebrass said, "Take her down to 1530 meters, Cyrano.
The air's warmer there."
The River, entering the sea, still carried much heat even
after its passage through the arctic regions. In this
deep, cold cup the waters surrendered warmth, so much
that the temperature at 1524 meters or 5000 feet was 2
degrees above Centigrade. But higher up, the moisture-
heavy air was an ice trap.
While the dirigible was lowered, the radar operator
reported that the interior of the mountain was not as
smooth as the exterior. There were innumerable holes and
bulges, as if the makers of the mountain had not thought
it necessary to finish off the inside.
The narrow ledge described by Joe Miller had been
detected by the radar. It led from the top of the
mountain to the bottom. There was another narrow ledge
leading along the base of the sea, ending at a hole about
3 meters wide and 2 meters high.
No one commented on this. But Jill did wonder aloud why
the big hole through which the dirigible had entered had
been made.
"Maybe it's for their aerial craft, if they have any,"
Firebrass said. "It could be used to keep from having to
fly over the mountain."
That seemed as good a reason as any.
Piscator said, "Perhaps. However, the flash of light that
startled Joe Miller so much could not have come from the
sun's rays going through the hole. In the first place,
the hole is darkened by that cloud stream. In the second
place, even if the sun's rays had flashed through, they
would not have illuminated the top of the tower. Joe did
say that the fog was momentarily blown aside. But even
so, the rays would not have reached the top of the tower.
And if they had, he would have had to be in a straight
line with the rays and the tower.
"He couldn't have been since the ledge on which he stood
doesn't exist far enough to put him in the line of
sight."
"Maybe that flash of light actually came from the
aircraft he saw a minute later," Firebrass said. "It was
coming down and perhaps its engines had to release some
energy, in some fashion, to check its rate of descent.
Joe thought it was the sun's rays."
Cyrano said, "It's possible. Or perhaps the light was a
signal from the tower. However, if the tower is big
enough to be seen by Joe, and he must have been standing
high on that ledge to see 48.5 kilometers away, how could
he see a much smaller object, the aerial machine?"
"Maybe it wasn't so small," Firebrass said.
They were silent for a moment. Jill tried to estimate the
size of an aircraft that could be seen at that distance!
She did not know what it should be, but she thought that
it must be at least a kilometer wide.
"I do not like to think of it," Cyrano said.
Firebrass ordered him to send the ship in a circle around
the sea. The radar indicated that the sides of the
circular tower were smooth and unbroken, except for
openings about 243 meters or slightly less than 800 feet
below the top.
There was a difference in the height of the exterior top
of the tower and the interior. Inside walls 243 meters
tall was the smooth surface of a landing field almost 16
kilometers across.
"Those openings at the bottom of the wall are slightly
lower than the center,'' Firebrass said.' "That must be
so the moisture can drain out through the holes."
What interested them most, however, was the only
protuberance on the "landing field." This was located at
one end, south-all directions from the tower's center
were south-and it was a hemisphere with a diameter of 16
meters and a height of 8 meters.
"If that isn't an entrance, I'll eat my loincloth,"
Firebrass said. He shook his head. "Sam's going to be
disappointed when he hears about this. There is no way
that anybody can get into this tower except by air."
"We're not in yet," Piscator murmured. "Yeah? I know. But
we're sure as hell going to try. Listen, everybody. Sam
ordered that we should make only a scouting trip. I think
that trying to get into that tower comes under the
definition of scouting."
Firebrass was almost always ebullient, but now his whole
body seemed to quiver and his face was lit up as if all
his nerves had suddenly become light transmitters. Even
his voice shook with excitement.
"There may be defensive weapons, manned or automatic,
down there. The only way to find out is to probe. But I
don't want to endanger the ship any more than we have to.
"Jill, I'm going down with a small party in a chopper.
You'll be in charge, which means you'll be captain, even
if only for a short time. Whatever else happens, you've
achieved that ambition.
"You keep the ship at about a thousand meters above the
tower's top and a thousand meters away from it. If
anything should happen to us, you take the ship back to
Sam. That's an order.
"If I see anything suspicious, I'll holler. You take off
then and let me worry about getting back. Got that?"
Jill said, "Yes, sir."
"If that dome has an entrance, it may take an electronic
or mechanical Open Sesame to get in. Maybe not. They
wouldn't think there'd be any chance of us ever getting
to it. I don't think there's anybody home. Maybe there
is, and they're just waiting to see what we do before
they take action. Let's hope not."
Cyrano said, "I'd like to go with you, my captain."
"You stay here. You're our best pilot. I'll take you,
Anna, and Haldorssori, he can fly a chopper, too,
Metzing, Arduino, Chong, and Singh. That is, if they'll
volunteer."
Obrenova phoned the others at their posts and then
reported that they were more than willing.
Firebrass informed the crew of the radar findings over
the general address system. He also told them that a
party would be landing shortly.
He had no sooner finished than he got a call from Thorn.
Fire-brass listened for a minute, then said, "No, Barry,
I have enough volunteers."
Turning away from the phone, he said, "Thorn was very
eager to be with me. He sounded unhappy when I turned him
down. I didn't know he was so fired up about this."
Jill phoned the hangar section and told Szentes, its
chief petty officer, to prepare the No. 1 helicopter for
flight.
Firebrass shook hands with everyone in the control room
except Jill. He gave her a long hug. She was not sure
that she liked that. It seemed unofficerly, and it was
also too much like a farewell embrace. Did he have some
doubts about being able to return? Or was she just
projecting her own anxiety upon him?
Whatever the truth, she was having conflicting emotions.
She resented his treating her differently from the
others, yet she felt warmed because he was especially
fond of her. It was a wonder that she did not have
ulcers, she suffered so much and so frequently from
opposing feelings. But then she had never heard of
anybody having ulcers on this world. Mental and nervous
tensions seemed to manifest themselves in psychic forms.
Her hallucinations, for instance.
A moment later, she was no longer the exception. Cyrano
had asked Piscator to take his post for a minute. Then he
had risen and warmly embraced the captain while tears ran
down his cheeks.
"My dear friend, you must not look so sad! There may be
danger there, but do not fear! I, Savinien de Cyrano de
Bergerac, will be at your side!"
Firebrass released himself, patted the Frenchman on the
shoulder, and laughed, "Hey, I didn't mean to make
everybody think something will go wrong! I wasn't saying
goodbye, just so long! What the hell! Can't I. . . ? Oh,
well! No, Cyrano, you get back to your post."
He smiled, his teeth very white in his dark face, and he
waved at them. "So long!"
Anna Obrenova, looking very pensive, followed him.
Metzing, looking very grim and Teutonic, walked out
behind her.
Jill immediately gave orders that the ship be taken to
the position Firebrass had commanded. The Parseval began
to circle downward. When it had plunged into the fog, its
searchlights were turned on. Though powerful, these could
penetrate only 150 meters or somewhat less than 500 feet.
The dirigible took its position, hovering in one place,
its nose pointed into the wind, its speed exactly
matching the force of the wind. Four tunnels of light
were carved into the fog, but these showed nothing but
dark-grey clouds. The tower was ahead and below,
invisible, yet seeming to radiate a massive ominousness,
extending feelers that gripped the ship.
No one spoke. Cyrano lit up a cigar. Piscator stood
behind the radar operator and watched the sweeps on the
scopes. The radio operator was intent on his dials,
running the set through the frequency spectrum. Jill
wondered just what he hoped to pick up.
After what seemed an hour but was only fifteen minutes,
Szentes called the captain pro tempore. The belly hatch
was open, the chopper was wanned up, and take-off would
be in one minute.
Szentes sounded strained.
"There's a little problem, Ms. Gulbirra, which is why I
called you before take-off. Thorn appeared, and he tried
to argue the captain into taking him along. The captain
told him to get back to his post."
"Did he do that?"
"Yes, sir. The captain told me to call you to make sure.
Mr. Thorn won't have had time to get to the tail section
yet, though, sir."
"Very well, Szentes. I'll take care of it."
She switched off, and she swore softly. Here she was, com
mander for only fifteen minutes, and she was confronted
with a disciplinary problem. What had gotten into Thorn?
There was only one thing to do. If she ignored Thorn's
behavior, she would lose control of the ship, the respect
of the crew.
She phoned the auxiliary control room in the lower tail
structure. Salomo Coppename, a Surinamese, the aft second
mate, answered.
"Arrest Mr. Thorn. Have him conducted to his cabin by a
guard detail, and make sure a guard is posted outside his
cabin."
Coppename must have wondered what was going on, but he
did not question her.
"And call me as soon as he shows."
"Yes, sir."
A red light on the control panel ceased blinking. The
belly hatch had just been closed. The radar had picked up
the No. 1 helicopter, heading downward for the top of the
tower.
A voice suddenly came over the radio.
"Firebrass here."
"We read you loud and clear," the radio operator said.
"Fine. You're coming in L and C, too. I'm going to land
about a hundred meters from the dome. Our radar's working
A-OK and so we shouldn't have any problems. I expect that
the wall will block off most of the wind when we land.
"Jill? You there?"
"Here, Captain."
"What did you do about Thorn?"
Jill told him, and Firebrass said, "That's what I
would've done. I'll ask him why he was so hot to go with
us when I get back. If ... if I don't get back, for any
reason, you question him. But keep him under guard until
this tower business is finished."
Jill ordered Aukuso to tie in the radio with the general
address system. There was no reason that everybody should
not listen in.
"I'm coming down now. The wind is weaker now. Jill, I. .
."
Cyrano said, "The belly hatch is opening!".
He pointed at a blinking red light on the panel.
"Mon Dieu!"
He pointed out through the windscreen.
That was not necessary. Everybody in the control room was
looking at the fiery ball suddenly born in the dark-grey
ness.
Jill moaned.
Aukuso said loudly, "Captain! Come in, Captain!"
There was no answer.
                           58
THE INTERCOM WAS RINGING.
Moving slowly, as if the air was cotton candy, Jill
pushed the switch to ON.
Szentes said, "Sir, Thorn just stole the other chopper!
But I think I got the son of a bitch! I emptied my pistol
at him!"
Cyrano said, "He's on the scope!"
"Szentes, what happened?"
She fought to get out of the thick element in which she
was drowning. She had to shed this numbness, to recover
quickness of analysis and decision.
"Officer Thorn left the hangar bay as the captain
ordered. But he came back as soon as the chopper left,
and he had a pistol with him. He made us get into the
supply compartment, and he shot off the intercom unit.
Then he locked us in. He forgot that arms are stored
there, too. Or maybe he thought he'd be gone before we
could get out.
"Anyway, we shot off the lock, and we rushed out. By then
he was in the chopper and lifting it off the landing
platform. I shot at him just as the chopper was going
down out of the bay. The others shot, too.
"Sir, what's going on?"
"I'll notify the crew just as soon as I know myself,"
Jill said.
"Sir?"
"Yes."
"It was a funny thing. Thorn was weeping all the time he
forced us into the supply room, even when he said he'd
shoot us if we tried to stop him."
"Out," Jill said, and switched the intercom off.
The infrared equipment operator said, ' "The fire's still
burning, sir."
The radar operator, pale under his dark pigmentation,
said, "That fire is the helicopter, sir. It's on the
landing deck of the tower."
She looked into the fog. She could see nothing except the
swirling clouds.
"I've got the other chopper.," the radarman said. "It's
headed down. Toward the base of the tower."
A moment later, he added, "The chopper is on the surface
of the sea."
"Aukuso, call Thorn."
The gluey feeling was receding now. She still felt
confused, but now she was becoming capable of finding
some order in the chaos.
After a minute, Aukuso said, "He doesn't answer."
According to the radar, the amphibious helicopter was now
floating on the sea 30 meters from the tower.
"Keep trying, Aukuso."
Firebrass was probably dead. She was the captain now, her
ambition achieved.
"God! I didn't want it this way!"
Dully, she called Coppename and told him to come to the
control room to take over the duties of the first mate.
Alexandras would.be the aft first officer.
"Cyrano, we'll have to take care of Thorn later. As of
now, we have to find out what happened to Firebrass . . .
and the others."
She paused, and said, "We have to land on top of the
tower."
"Certainly, why not?" Cyrano said.
He was pale, and his jaw set. But he seemed in perfect
control of himself.
The Parseval moved through the clouds, its radar probing
ahead and below. There was a powerful updraft around the
tower, but it lost its force as soon as the dirigible was
over the top.
The belly searchlights lanced downward, sweeping over the
dull grey metal of the vast surface. The people in the
control room could see the flames, but they could not
distinguish the helicopter itself.
Slowly, the airship slid past the fire. Now its
propellers were swiveled horizontally to pull the
colossus down.
As gently as possible, its pilot brought it down. Under
ideal conditions, there would have been no wind at all.
However, the thousands of drainage holes along the base
of the wall permitted a breeze of 8 km/ph. This, on the
Beaufort scale, was a light breeze. Wind felt on the
face. Leaves, if present, rustling. An ordinary wind vane
moved by the wind.
A layman would consider it negligible. But the great
surface of the buoyant ship was easily pushed by this
breeze if no propulsive force countered it. It would be
taken up hard against a wall unless something were done
to stop it.
Unfortunately, there was no mooring mast. Also, the
vessel could not be brought into direct contact with the
landing field. Unlike the Graf Zeppelin and Hindenburg,
the Parseval had no underslung control gondola 'with a
wheel on its bottom to keep the lower tail structure from
rubbing against the ground when landing. Since the
control room of the Parseval was in the nose, the ship
could not land without damaging the tail fin. However,
there were ropes stored aboard. These had been taken
along in case a landing had to be made on a plain
alongside The River. They were to be thrown down to the
people on the ground, and these, hopefully, would
volunteer as a ground crew.
Jill gave a few orders. Cyrano turned the craft broadside
to the wind. For several kilometers, he allowe 'the wind,
which was decreasing, to push the ship toward the wall.
By then it was obvious that the wind was blowing the
other way now, its source the nearest apertures.
When radar indicated that the nose was a half-kilometer
from the wall, he reversed the propellers at slow speed.
The airship halted, and the belly hatch opened.
Ropes were lowered, and, by fours, fifty men climbed down
them. As each group touched the ground, the ship lost its
weight and became more buoyant. Reluctantly, Jill ordered
that hydrogen be released from the cells. This was the
only way to balance the lift, and she hated to expend the
gas. Ballast could be released later to regain the
buoyancy.
Other ropes were thrown down from the nose and the tail.
The men on the ground seized these and hung on, bringing
their weight to bear.
Cyrano now let the airship sail toward the wall, the
propellers unmoving. Before the nose touched the wall,
the propellers started up again, and the airship stopped.
Two men ran to the wall and tested the wind at the
apertures. Via walkie-talkie, they verified that the wind
coming in through these would be strong enough to keep
the ship from swinging broadside into the wall.
Other men were let down on ropes, and more hydrogen was
valved. These added their weight to the crew holding the
aft ropes.
Others hastened to help the men at the nose. After towing
the Parseval slowly until its nose almost touched the
wall, they passed the ropes through the three holes,
using extended hooks to catch the ropes outside and then
draw them in. These were tied, and the tail was swung
around until the dirigible was parallel to the wall. Then
the tail ropes were tied down.
The vessel was now floating about 20 meters away from the
wall.
Jill did not expect any change in the wind. If there was,
it could be exceedingly damaging. One rub of the ship
against the wall could strip off the transmission gears
and the propellers on the port side.
A ladder was let down from the belly hatch. Jill and
Piscator hastened from the control room, walked swiftly
down the passageway, and then went down the ladder.
Doctor Graves was waiting for them, his black bag in his
hand.
The helicopter had crashed about 30 meters from the dome.
With its flames a beacon, they pressed through the fog
toward it. Jill's heart beat hard as they neared the
wreckage. It seemed impossible that vigorous, flamboyant
Firebrass could be dead.
He lay a few meters from the flaming mass where the
impact had thrown him. The others were still in the
machine, the blackened body of one sitting up in its
seat.
Graves handed his lamp to Piscator and bent down over the
figure. Smoke mingled with the fog and brought the
sickening stench of burning gasoline and flesh to them.
Jill felt as if she were going to vomit.
"Hold the light steady!" Graves said sharply.
Jill did so, forcing herself to look at the corpse. His
clothes had been blown off him; his skin was seared from
top to bottom. Despite the burning, his features were
still recognizable. He must not have been in the flames
long. Perhaps he had been ejected by the explosion before
the machine crashed. The fall would account for the
removal of the top of his head.
Jill could not see why the doctor had to examine the
body. She was about to tell him so when he stood up. His
hand, its palm open, was held out to her.
"Look at this."
She brought the lamp close to his hand. The object in it
was a sphere the size of a matchhead.
"It was on his forebrain. I don't know what the hell it
is."
After he had wiped it clean of blood, he said, "It's
black."
He wrapped the little ball in a cloth and dropped it into
his bag.
"What do you want to do with the bodies?" . Jill looked
at the blazing mass of crumpled metal. "There's no use
wasting foam to put the fire out now," she said in a dull
voice. She looked at the men who had followed them.
"Peterson, you get the body back to the ship. Wrap it up
first. The rest of you follow me."
A few minutes later, they halted before the dome.
Searchlights from the dirigible were turned on it, making
it look like a ghost of an Eskimo igloo. Using her lamp,
Jill saw that the dome was made of the same grey metal as
the tower. It seemed to be continuous with the metal of
the tower. At least, there was no sign of welding, no
seams. It was as if it were a bubble blown from the
surface.
The others stood back from its arched entrance, waiting
for her to decide what to do. Their lights revealed an
opening like a cavern. About 10 meters beyond, the walls
curved in, forming a corridor about 3 meters wide and 2.5
meters high. The walls were of the same grey substance.
At its end, about 30 meters away, the hall curved
abruptly. If there was an entrance down into the tower
itself, it had to be just beyond the curve.
Just above the opening were two symbols, both in
altorelief. The top one was a semicircle, and it bore the
seven primary colors. Below it was a circle inside of
which was a looped cross, the Egyptian ankh.
"A rainbow above the emblem of life and resurrection,"
Jill said.
Piscator said, "Pardon me. The cross within the circle is
also the astrological-astronomical symbol for Earth.
However, in that symbol, the cross is a simple one, not
the looped cross."
"A symbol of hope, that rainbow. And, if you remember the
Old Testament, it's God's sign of covenant with His
people. It also evokes the pot of gold at the end of the
rainbow, the Emerald City of Oz, and many other things."
Piscator looked curiously at her.
She was silent for a minute, overcome with awe and a fear
that she hoped would not become overwhelming.
Then she said, "I'm going in. You wait here, Piscator.
When I get to the end of the hall, I'll signal you to
come on in, too. If there' s no trouble, that is.
"If anything should happen to me, I don't know what, you
and the men get to hell back to the ship. And take off.
That's an order.
"You'll be the captain. Coppename's a good man, but he
doesn't have your experience, and you're the steadiest
man I know."
Piscator smiled. "Firebrass ordered you not to land if
something happened to him. Yet you did land. Could I
allow you to be in a dangerous situation and just leave
you?"
"I don't want you to endanger the ship. Or the lives of
almost a hundred men."
"We shall see. I'll act as I feel the situation demands.
You wouldn't do otherwise. And then there is Thorn."
"One thing at a time," she said.
She turned and walked toward the entrance. As she neared
it, she gasped.
A low light had filled the hall.
After hesitating several seconds, she continued. As she
passed beneath the arch, she was suddenly in a bright
light.
                           59
JILL STOPPED. PlSCATOR SAID, "WHERE IS THE LIGHT COMING
from?"
Jill turned and said, "I don't know. There doesn't seem
to be any source. Look. I don't have a shadow."
She turned back and started to walk slowly. And then she
stopped again.
"What's the matter? You ..."
"I don't bloody know. I feel as if I'm in a thick jelly!
I can't breathe, but I have to struggle to take another
step!"
Leaning into the palpable, invisible barrier as if she
were going against a strong wind, she managed to force
herself three more steps. Then, panting, she stopped.
"It must be a field of some sort. There's nothing
material here, but I feel like a fly caught in a spider's
web!"
"Could it be that the field is affecting the magnetic
tabs in your cloths?" he called.
"I don't think so. If that was it, the tabs would be
pulling the cloths, and that's not it. I'll try it,
though."
Feeling some shyness at stripping in front of fifty men,
she pulled the tabs loose. The air temperature was just
above freezing. Shivering, teeth chattering, she again
tried to force her way into the thick element. She could
not go a centimeter beyond the limit of her original
advance.
She bent down to pick up her cloths, noting that she
could do so easily. The force acted only in a horizontal
direction. After backing away two steps, and feeling the
force diminish, she put her cloths back on.
Outside the entrance again, she said, "You try it,
Piscator.
"You think I could succeed where you can't? Well, it is
worth experimenting.''
Naked, he walked in. To her surprise, she saw that he was
not affected by the field. Not, at least, until he had
gotten several meters from the curve. Then he called back
that he was encountering difficulty.
He moved ever more slowly, struggling, his panting so
loud that she could hear it. But he did get to the curve,
and there he paused to regain his breath.
He said, "There's an open elevator at the end. It seems
to be the only way to get down."
"Can you get to it?" she called.
"I'll try."
Moving like an-actor in a slow-motion film, he plowed
ahead. And he was gone around the bend.
A minute passed. Two. Jill went into the corridor as far
as she could. "Piscator! Piscator!"
Her voice rang strangely, as if the corridor had peculiar
acoustical properties.
There was no answer, though if he were just around the
curve, he would be able to hear her.
She shouted again and again. Silence replied.
There was nothing she could do except to return to the
entrance and let others try.
The men went in by twos to save time. Some progressed a
little further than she; some, not as much. All shed
their cloths, but this did not help them at all.
Jill used the walkie-talkie to order the men in the ship
to make the attempt. If one out of fifty-two could do it,
perhaps one of the forty-one in the ship might succeed.
First, though, everybody except herself had to return to
the vessel. They trooped off, phantom figures in the
dimly lit fog. She had never felt so lonely in all her
life, and she had known many hours of the blackest
isolation. The mists pressed wet hands against her face,
which seemed to be congealing into a mask of ice. The
funeral pyre of Obrenova, Metzing, and the others burned
fiercely. And there was Piscator, somewhere around the
corner. What situation was he in? Was he unable either to
go ahead or to go back? Returning had not been difficult
for her or the other men. Why should he not be able to
retreat?
But then she did not know what other obstacles there were
beyond that grim grey hall.
She muttered to herself Virgil's line, "Facilis descensus
Averni." ("It is easy to go down into Hell.")
What was the rest of it? After so many years, she found
it difficult to remember. If only this world had books,
reference materials.
Now it came back.
It is easy to go down into Hell. Night and day, the gates
of Death stand wide. But to climb back again, to retrace
one's steps to the upper air. There's the rub, the task.
The only real trouble with that quotation was that it was
not appropriate. It had been very hard to get to the
gates, impossible for all but one. And climbing back-
except for one-had been easy.
She switched on the walkie-talkie.
"Cyrano. The captain here."
"Yes, what is it, my captain?"
"Are you cry ing?"
"Yes, but of course. Did I not love Firebrass dearly? I
am not ashamed of my grief. I am not a cold Anglo-Saxon."
"Never mind that. Get hold of yourself. We have work to
do."
Cyrano sniffled, then said, "I know that. And I am
willing and able. You will find me no less a man. What
are your orders?"
"You know you're to be relieved by Nikitin. I want you to
bring along twenty-five kilograms of plastic explosive."
"Yes. I hear you. But do you intend to blow up the
tower?"
"No, just the entranceway."
A half-hour passed. The men in the ship had to come out
and those out had to go in. This was a long process,
since, for every man that left, one had to go in
immediately. Taking turns this way slowed the business
but was necessary. Forty-eight leaving all at once would
make the ship too buoyant. It would rise, leaving the end
of the ladder above the reach of those on the ground.
Finally, she saw their lights and heard their voices. She
told them what had happened, though they already knew.
Then she told them what they were to do, which they
expected.
The result was that no one got anywhere as far as
Piscator.
"Very well," Jill said.
The plastic explosive was applied against the exterior of
the dome opposite a point halfway down the corridor. She
would have liked to have set it at the juncture of the
back of the dome and the tower wall. She was afraid that
the explosive might blow a hole in the dome. If it did
so, it might also kill Piscator.
They retreated to the dirigible and the explosives expert
pressed a switch on a transmitter. The blast was
deafening, though the plastic had been applied to the
side of the dome away from them. They ran to it, then
stopped, coughing from the fumes. After the air was
cleared, Jill looked at the dome.
It was undamaged.
"I thought so," she said to herself.
She had called in to Piscator that he should not come out
until after the explosion. There had been no answer. She
had a hunch that he was not in the vicinity, but hunches
were not certainties.
Jill went back into the dome as far as she could. There
was no force against the long-handled hook she thrust
ahead of her. And she could throw a cloth weighted with
metal to the end of the corridor. So, the field was no
barrier to inanimate objects.
If they had a periscope long enough to reach to the end
of the corridor, they could see around it. However, a
periscope was not part of the ship's supplies.
She was not defeated by this. There was a very small
machinist's shop on the Parse vol. A wheeled device which
would go to the end of the corridor could be built. A
camera could be attached to its end, and the camera could
be activated by a radio transmitter.
The chief machinist's mate thought he could construct the
"contraption" in an hour. She told him to do so, and then
she ordered three men to stand guard in the dome.
"If Piscator shows, radio me."
Having returned to the ship, she phoned the machinist's
shop.
"Can you do your work while we're aloft? The air might be
rough."
"No sweat, sir. Well, only a little, anyway."
The process of untying the ship and getting it into the
air took fifteen minutes. Nikitin took the Parseval up
above the tower and then sent her down toward its base.
Radar indicated that the helicopter was now against the
base of the tower. Though the sea was not violent, its
waves were short and choppy, and it had probably smashed
the machine against the tower. However, if they were
lucky, the damage could be minimal.
Aukuso radioed Thorn again without success.
Because of the updraft by the tower, it was impossible to
bring the dirigible close to the helicopter. Nikitin
piloted it down close to the surface and held her against
the wind. The belly hatch was opened, and three men in an
inflatable boat with an outboard motor were lowered. It
headed for the tower, guided by the radarman on the ship.
Boynton, the officer in charge, gave a running report.
"We're alongside the chopper now. It's bumping into the
tower, but its pontoons have kept the vanes from being
damaged. The pontoons don't seem damaged, either. We're
having a hell of a time with this pitching sea. Report
back in a minute."
Two minutes later, his voice came back on.
"Propp and I are in the chopper now. Thorn's here! He's
pretty bloody, looks as if he got a bullet in the left
chest and some richocheting fragments got him in the
face, too. He's alive, though."
"Is there an opening or entrance of any sort in the
tower?"
"Just a minute. Have to light a flare. These lamps aren't
strong enough . . . no, there's nothing there but smooth
metal."
"I wonder why he landed there?" she said to Cyrano.
He shrugged and said, "I would guess that perhaps he had
to land quickly before he passed out."
"But where was he going?"
"There are many mysteries here. We might be able to clear
up some of them if we apply certain methods of persuasion
to Thorn.''
"Torture?"
Cyrano's long, bony face was grave.
"That would be inhumane, and, of course, the end never
justifies the means. Or is that statement a false
philosophy?"
"I could never torture anybody, and I wouldn't permit
anyone else to do it for me."
"Perhaps Thorn will volunteer information when he
realizes that he cannot be free until he does so. I do
not really think so, however. That one looks very
stubborn."
Boynton's voice came in again. "With your permission. Ms.
Gulbirra, I'll fly the chopper out. Everything looks
okay. My men can bring Thorn back in the raft."
"Permission granted," Jill said. "If it's operable, take
it up to the top of the tower. We'll be along later."
Within ten minutes, the radar operator reported that the
helicopter was lifting. Boynton added that everything was
running smoothly.
Leaving Coppename in charge, Jill went down to the hangar
bay. She arrived in time to see Thorn's cloth-wrapped
body being lifted out of the raft. He was still
unconscious. She followed the stretcher bearers to the
sick bay, where Graves immediately took charge.
"He's in shock, but I think I can pull him through. You
can't question him now, of course."
Jill posted two armed guards at the door and returned to
the control room. By then the ship was lifting, headed
for the tower. A half-hour later, the Parseval was again
poised above the landing field. This time, it stayed 200
meters .from the dome. Its nose was pointed against the
slight wind, and its propellers spun lazily.
After a while, the little wagon made by the machinists
was lowered onto the surface. After being pulled to the
entrance, it was pushed as far as two men could get. Then
long poles made by the machinists were used to push the
wagon deeper. Extensions were added to the poles as
needed. In a short time, the forward end of the wagon was
against the far wall.
After six photographs were taken, the wagon was pulled
back by a long rope. Jill eagerly removed the large
plates, which had been developed electronically at the
moment of exposure.
She looked at the first one.
"He's not there."
She handed it to Cyrano. He said, "What is this? A short
hall and a doorway at its end. It looks like an elevator
shaft beyond, yes? But. . . there is no cage and there
are no cables."
"I don't think They would have to depend upon such
primitive devices as cables," she said. "But it's evident
that Piscator got through the field and that he took the
elevator."
"But why does he not come back? He must know that we are
concerned."
He paused, and then he said, "He must also know that we
cannot stay here forever."
There was only one thing to do.
                            
                           60
SHE GAVE THE ORDER TO TIE THE SHIP UP AGAIN. AFTER THIS
WAS done, she summoned the entire crew to the hangar bay.
The photographs were passed around while she told them in
detail everything that had happened.
"We'll wait here a week if we have to. After that, we
must leave. Piscator would not willingly stay down there
so long. If he doesn't come back within twelve hours we
can presume that he's being detained by ... Them. Or
perhaps he has had an accident and has been killed or
hurt. There's no way of knowing. We can do nothing except
wait for a reasonable period of time."
No one would think of deserting Piscator at this time.
But it was evident that they did not like the idea of
staying seven days in this cold, dark, wet, ominously
silent place. It was too much like camping outside the
gates of hell.
By then, helicopter No. 1 had quit burning. A work party
went out to recover the bodies and to investigate the
cause of the explosion. Mechanics began checking the
other copter for pontoon damage and replacing the bullet-
torn windshield and port door.
A three-man guard was posted just inside the dome. Just
before Jill went to the messroom, she got a call from
Doctor Graves.
"Thorn's still unconscious, but he's rallying. I've also
looked at what's left of Firebrass' brain. I can't do
much since I don't have a microscope. But I'd swear that
that little black sphere was attached to the neural
system of the forebrain. I considered the possibility
that it was extraneous and had been injected by the force
of explosion into his brain. But the mechanics tell me
there wasn't any such thing in the copter's equipment."'
"You mean that you think that sphere had been surgically
implanted in his brain?"
Graves said, "There isn't enough frontal skull left to
say for certain. But I'm going to cut the others open,
too. In fact, I'm going to do a complete dissection on
all the victims. That'll take time, especially since I
have to keep an eye on Thorn."
Trying to keep her voice from trembling, she said, "You
realize the implications of that sphere?"
"I've been doing some thinking about it. I don't know
what the hell it means except that it's important. Now,
Jill, I've been doing dissections for years, not because
I had to but just to keep my hand in. And I've never
found anything out of the ordinary in a thousand corpses.
"But I'll tell you this. I think I know why Firebrass
insisted on X-raying the skulls of his crew. He was
looking for people with black spheres on, or in, their
forebrains.
"I'll tell you something else. I think he rushed Stern's
corpse off to The River because he knew that Stern had a
ball in his brain.
"It's like Alice said, 'Mysteriouser and mysteriouser,'
isn't it?"
Her heart pounding hard and her hand shaking, Jill
switched off the intercom.
Firebrass was one of Them.
A moment later she called Graves back.
"Firebrass said he'd tell us why he wanted us X-rayed.
But he never did, not to me, anyway. Did he tell you?"
"No. I asked him to tell me, and he just put me off."
"Then you don't know whether or not Thorn has a sphere in
his head. If he should die, open him up, Doc."
"I'll do that. Of course, I could expose the brain,
anyway. But not now. He has to get well first."
"Wouldn't that kill him? I know that the top of the skull
is removed in operations, but can you expose Thorn's
forebrain?"
"It won't hurt me a bit."
Twenty-four hours passed. Jill tried to keep the crew
busy, but there was very little to do except unnecessary
cleaning and polishing. She wished that she had brought
along some of the movies made in Parolando. Except for
talking and playing checkers, chess, and card games and
throwing darts, there was little to occupy them. She did
organize exercise periods to tire them out, but only so
much of this could be done, and it was almost as boring
as doing nothing.
Meanwhile, the dark and the cold seemed to seep into
their bones. And the thought that below them there might
be those mysterious beings who had made this world for
them was nerve stretching. What were They doing? Why had
They not come out?
Above all, what had happened to Piscator?
Cyrano de Bergerac seemed to be especially affected. His
long silences and obvious brooding could be caused by the
death of Firebrass. It seemed to her, howdver, that
something else was bothering him.
Doctor Graves asked her to come to his office. On
entering it, she found him sitting on the edge of his
desk. Silently, he held out his palm. In it was a tiny
black sphere.
"They were all so badly burned that I couldn't even
determine the sex by exterior observation. Obrenova was
the smallest, though, so I dissected the smallest corpse
first. I found this at once. I didn't say anything to you
because I wanted to examine all of them first.
"She was the only one to have this."
"Two of them!"
"Yeah. And it makes me wonder about Thorn."
Jill sat down and lit a cigarette with trembling hands.
Graves said, "Listen. The only liquor aboard is in my
locker. It's for medical purposes, but I think you need
some medicine. I know I do."
While he got a bottle out, she told him about overhearing
the quarrel between Thorn and Obrenova.
He handed her a cup of the purplish fluid, saying, "So
they weren't just nodding acquaintances?"
"I don't think so. But I don't know what all this means."
"Who does? Except maybe Thorn. Cheers!"
Jill downed the wanning, fruity liquor, and she said, "We
found nothing suspicious in the quarters of any of them,
Firebrass", Obrenova's, or Thorn's."
She paused, then said, "There was one thing, significant
not by its presence but by its absence. Like the dog in
the Sherlock Holmes story who didn't bark. Thorn's grail
wasn't in his chopper or in his cabin. I have, however,
ordered a more thorough search of the chopper.
"You told me a few hours ago that Thorn's conscious now.
Can he be questioned?"
"Not for very long. I'd advise waiting until he's
stronger. Just now, if he doesn't want to talk, he can
pretend to fall asleep."
The intercom rang. Graves flipped on the switch.
"Doctor? C.P.O. Cogswell here. I'd like to speak to the
captain."
Jill said, "Captain here."
"Captain, we just found a bomb in the No. 2 chopper! It's
plastic explosive. Looks like it weighs about two
kilograms, and the fuse is connected to a radio receiver.
It's on the underside of the arms locker in the rear."
"Don't do anything until I get down there. I want to see
it before it's removed."
She stood up. "I don't think there's any doubt that Thorn
set off a bomb in Firebrass' chopper. The investigating
crew hasn't determined the cause of the explosion, but
the chief said he thought it might have been a bomb."
"Yes," Graves said. "The question is why Thorn would want
to do that."
Jill started to walk toward the door, then stopped. "My
God! If Thorn planted bombs in both choppers, he could
have hidden some on the ship, too!"
"You never found a transmitter when you searched his quar
ters," the doctor said. " Maybe he hid one, or several,
on the ship."
Jill immediately alerted all personnel. After giving
orders to Coppename to organize the search parties, she
left for the hangar bay. The bomb was where the chief had
said it was. She got down on her knees and looked at it
with the aid of a flashlight. Then she left the machine.
"Remove the fuse and receiver. Put the plastic in the
explosives hold. Call the electronics officer and tell
him I'd like to know what frequency the receiver is set
on.
"No, wait, I'll call him myself."
She wanted to make sure that his experimenting would be
done in a shielded room. The various bombs-if any-would
have been planted at the same time, but Thorn would set
the receiver of each to respond to its own wavelength.
Still, there was no use taking a chance.
After making sure that Deruyck, the electronics officer,
understood why he should use a shielded room, she went to
the control room. Coppename was at the intercom,
listening to the reports of the search parties.
Cyrano was in the pilot's chair staring at the panel as
if the ship were in flight. He looked up at her as she
entered.
"Is it permitted to ask what Doctor Graves found?"
So far, she had not concealed anything from the crew. She
felt that they had a right to know as much as she did.
Cyrano said nothing for some time after she had finished.
His long fingers drummed on the panel while he looked
upward as if something were written on the overhead.
Finally, he stood up.
"I think we should have a little talk. In private. Now,
if possible."
"With all this going on?"
"We can step into the chart room."
He followed her in and closed the door. She sat down and
lit another cigarette. He began pacing back and forth,
his hands locked behind him.
"It is evident that Firebrass, Thorn, and Obrenova were
agents of Them. I find it hard to believe that Firebrass
could have been. He was so human! Yet it is possible that
They are human, too.
"Still, that being who called himself an Ethical said
that neither he nor the agents were violent. They
detested and abhorred violence. But Firebrass could be
very violent; he certainly did not act like a pacifist.
And then there's the incident of the newcomer Stern. It
seems from what you tell me that Firebrass may have
attacked him, instead of Stern assaulting Firebrass."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Jill said. "It
would be better to begin at the beginning."
''Very well. I will tell you what I promised to keep
secret. I do not easily break my word, in fact, this is
the first time. But I may have given my word to someone
who is my enemy, my secret enemy.
"It was seventeen years ago. How long ago that has been,
yet how recently! I was at that time living in an area of
which most of the people were of my country and time. On
the right bank, you understand. The left was populated by
brown-skinned savages. Indians who had lived on the
island of Cuba before Columbus found it, though I believe
its inhabitants were not aware that their country had
been lost. They were fairly peaceful, and after some
initial struggles and difficulties, our area had settled
down.
"My own little state was, in fact, headed by the great
Conti, under whom I had the honor to serve at the siege
of Arras. Where I received a thrust through the throat,
the second of the serious wounds that convinced me, along
with all else I had seen of war's miseries and horrors,
that Mars was the stupidest of the gods. Also, I was
delighted to find there my good friend and mentor, the so
justly famed Gassendi. He, as you no doubt know, opposed
the infamous Descartes and revived Epicurus, whose
physics and morals he so splendidly presented. Not to
mention his influence on Moliere, Chapelle, and
Dehenault, all my good friends, by the way. He persuaded
them to translate Lucretius, the divine Roman atom-ist
..."
"Stick to the point. Give me only the undecorated truth."
"As for the truth, what is it, to paraphrase slightly
another Roman ..."
"Cyrano!"
                           61
"VERY WELL. TO THE BREACH. IT WAS LATE AT NIGHT. I WAS
SLEEPING soundly next to my so lovely Livy, when I was
suddenly awakened. The only illumination was the night
light seeping in through the wooden bars of our open
window. A huge figure was standing over me, a black mass
with a tremendous round head like a burned-out moon. I
sat up, but before I could bring up my spear, which
always lay by my side, the figure spoke."
"In what language?"
"Eh? In the only one in which I was then fluent, my
native speech, the most beautiful of all the tongues of
Earth. The thing spoke not the most correct of French,
but I understood him.
' "Savinien de Cyrano II de Bergerac,' he said., giving
me my full nomenclature.
" 'You have the advantage of me, sir,' I said. Though my
heart was pounding hard and I felt the most intense need
of pissing, I conducted myself most admirably. By then I
could see, even in that faintly starlit darkness, that he
was not overtly belligerent. If he had a weapon, he had
concealed it under his huge cloak. Though I was somewhat
distracted, I could not but wonder why Livy, a light
sleeper, had not been awakened. But she slept on, snoring
lightly and prettily.
" 'You may call me whatever you wish,' he said. 'My name
is not important at this time. And if you wonder why your
woman is not also awake, it is because I have made sure
that she will not. Oh, no!' he said, as, furious, I tried
to get up, 'she is not harmed in the least. She has been
drugged and will awake in the morning without even a
headache.'
"By that time, I discovered that I, or at least apart of
me, had also been drugged. My legs would not function,
though, strangely, they did not feel leaden or numb. They
just wouldn't work. Naturally, I was furious at the
liberties taken with my person, but there was little I
could do about it.
"The stranger then pulled up a stool and sat down by me.
" 'Listen, and then determine for yourself if I am not
worth listening to,' he said.
"And he told me a most amazing tale, Jill, the like of
which it is evident that you have not heard. He said that
he was one of the beings who had resurrected us. They
called themselves Ethicals. He would not go into detail
about their background or where they came from or
anything like that. He did not have enough time for that.
In fact, if he were caught-by his own people, mind you-it
would be bad indeed for him.
"I had many questions, of course, but when I opened my
mouth, he told me to keep quiet and listen. He would
visit me again, he said, perhaps more than once. Then he
would answer most of my questions. Meanwhile, I was to
understand this! We had not been given life so that we
could live forever. We were just subjects of scientific
experiments, and when the experiments were finished, we
would be finished. We'd die for the last time, forever."
"What kind of experiments?"
"Well, it was more than just experiments. It was also a
historical project. His people wanted to collect data on
history, on anthropology, and so forth. They were also
interested in finding out what kind of societies we
humans would form when we were so mixed together. How
would people change under certain conditions?
"He said that many groups would be allowed to develop
without any interference from his people at all. But some
would be influenced, some subtly, some by more outright
methods. The project would take a long time, perhaps
several hundred years. Then it would be finit for the
project and finit for us. Back to dust we would go-
forever.
"I said, "That does not sound so ethical to me, sir. Why
do they deny to us what they have-eternal life?'
"He said, 'That is because they are not truly ethical.
Despite their high opinions of themselves, they are
cruel, as the scientist who tortures animals to advance
science is cruel. But he has his justifications, his
rationalization.
' "You see, the scientist is doing some good, being
ethical in one sense. It is true that as a result of this
project, a few of you will become immortal. But only a
few.'
" 'How is that?' I said.
"And then he told me about the entity which the Church of
the Second Chance calls the ka. You know of this, Jill?"
Jill said, "I've attended many of their lectures."
"Then you know all about the ka and the akh and the other
stuff. This person said that the Chancer's theology was
partly true. Mainly because one of the Ethicals had
visited the man called La Viro and had thus caused him to
found the Church."
"I thought that was just one of the wild tales those
visionaries had invented," Jill said. "I didn't put any
more credence in it than I did in the ravings of Earth
prophets. Moses, Jesus, Zoroaster, Mohammed, Buddha,
Smith, Eddy, the whole sick crew."
"No more did I," Cyrano said. "Though, when I was dying,
I did repent. But that was to make my poor unhappy sister
and my friend Le Bret happy. Besides, it couldn't hurt if
I made a deathbed conversion. And, to tell the truth, I
was scared of hellfire. After all . . ."
"Your childhood conditioning."
"Exactly. But here was a being who said that there was
such a thing as a soul. And I had proof positive that
there could be a life after death. Still, I could not
help wondering if I was the butt of a joke. What if this
man were just one of my neighbors, pretending to be a
visitor from the gods, as it were? I would believe him,
and then tomorrow I would be laughed at. What? De
Bergerac, the rationalist, the atheist, to be taken in so
completely by this fantastic tale?
"But. . . who would do this to me? I knew no one who
would have the motive or the means for such a joke. And
what about the drug which made Livy sleep and which
paralyzed my legs? I had never heard of such a drug.
Also, where would a practical joker get that sphere which
enclosed his head? There was just enough light to see
that it was black and opaque. Still . . .
"And then, as if he perceived my lack of belief, he
handed me a lens of some material. 'Put this in front of
your eye,' he said. 'Look at Livy.'
"I did so, and I gasped with astonishment. Just beyond
the top of her head was a globe of many colors. It shone
brightly, as if illuminated by itself. It spun and
swelled and expanded and put out arms from time to time,
six-sided tentacles, and these shrank back into the globe
arid then other arms came out.
"The being then reached out and told me to drop the lens
into his hand. He did not say so, but it was evident that
he did not want me to touch him. I obeyed, of course.
"The lens went back into his cloak, and he said, 'What
you saw is the wathan. That is the immortal part of you.'
"Then he said, 'I have chosen a few of you to help me
fight against this monstrous evil my people are
committing. I picked you because of your wathans. You
see, we can read wathans as easily as you can read a
children's book. A person's character is reflected in his
wathan. Perhaps I shouldn't say reflected, since the
wathan is the character. But I don't have the time to
explain that. The point is, only a minute fraction of
humanity will reach the final, the desired ultimate
stage, of wathanhood, unless humanity is given much more
time.'
"He then went on to sketch what the Chancers expound in
such detail. That the unfulfilled wathan of a dead person
wanders through space forever, containing all that is
human but unconscious. Only the complete evolved wathan
has consciousness. And this stage is attained only by
those who achieve an ethical perfection while alive. Or
near perfection, anyway.
" 'What?' I said. "The ultimate in attaining ethical
perfection is to wander like a ghost through space, to
bounce off the walls of the universe like a cosmic
handball, back and forth, yet be conscious of this
horrible state and unable to communicate with anyone but
one's self? That is a desirable state?'
' "You must not interrupt,' the stranger said. 'But I
will tell you this. The being who attains perfect
wathanhood or akhhood, goes beyond. He does not stay in
this world. He goes beyond!'
" 'And where?' I said, 'is beyondT
" 'To go beyond is to be absorbed into the Overwathan. To
become one with the only Reality. Or God, if you wish to
name the Reality that. To become one of God's cells and
to experience the eternal and infinite ecstasy of being
God.'
"I was more than half-convinced then that I was dealing
with an insane pantheist. But I said, 'And this
absorption means the loss of one's individuality?'
" 'Yes,' he said. 'But you then become the Overwathan,
God. To trade your individuality, your self-
consciousness, for that of the Supreme Being is surely no
loss. It is the greatest gain possible, the ultimate.'
' "It is horrible!' I cried. 'What kind of monstrous joke
is this that God plays on His creatures? How is the
afterlife, immortality, any better than death?
" 'No! It does not make sense! Speaking logically, why
should the wathan, or the soul, be created in the first
place? What sense is there to this creation when most
wathans will be wasted, as if they were so many flies
hatched only to be eaten or swatted? And those wathans
who do survive, in a manner of speaking. What about those
who achieve near perfection, sainthood, if you will, only
to be cheated in the end? For surely to lose your self-
consciousness, your individuality, your humanity, is to
be cheated?
" 'No, I want to stand as myself, Savinien de Cyrano de
Bergerac, if I am to be immortal. I do not want this
spurious immortality, this beingness as an unknowing,
brainless cell of God's body! Nameless and brainless!'
" 'Like most of your breed you talk too much.'he said.
'However ...'
"He hesitated, then said, "There is a third alternative,
one which you will like. I did not want to tell you ... I
won't, now. I do not have time, nor is this the best
time. Perhaps the next time. I must leave shortly.
" 'First, though, is the matter of your loyalty and your
aid. Are you with me?'
" 'How can I pledge my support when I do not know if you
are worth supporting? For all I know, you may be Satan
himself!' He chuckled hollowly, and he said, 'You are the
one who denied both God and the Devil. I am not the Devil
or any analog to him. I am in fact on your side, on the
side of deluded, suffering humanity. I can't prove that
to you. Not now. But think of this. Have my colleagues
approached you? Have they done anything but bring you
back from the dead for purposes they do not condescend to
tell you? Have I not chosen you from many billions to
help in this secret struggle? You and eleven others? Why
have I honored you? I'll tell you. Because I know that
you are one of the few who can aid me. Because your
wathan tells me that you will be on my side.'
" 'It is, then, predetermined?' I said. 'I do not believe
in predeterminism.'
" ' No. There' s no such thing, except in a sense which
you would not understand or would find difficult to
accept.
" 'All I can tell you at the moment is that I am on your
side. Without me, you and most of your kind are doomed.
You must have faith in me.'
" 'But,' I cried. 'What can we pitiful few humans do? We
are pitted against superhumans with superpowers.'
"He replied that we twelve could do nothing without a
friend in court. He was that friend. We twelve must get
together and journey to the North Pole, to the tower in
the middle of the sea. We must get there on our own,
however. He could not fly us there. He could not tell me
at the moment why not.
" 'I must proceed slowly and cautiously,' he said. 'And
you must promise not to reveal this conversation to
anyone. To no one except one of the twelve I've picked.
' "To do so might result in your being detected by an
agent. That would mean that you would be stripped of all
memory of your meetings with me. And I would be placed in
even graver danger.'
" 'But how will I recognize these others?' I said. 'How
will Iget to where they are or they to me? Where are
they?'
"While asking these questions, I felt awed and elated at
the same time. That one of the beings who had raised us
from the dead and made this world should be asking for my
help! I, Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac, who am just a
human-being, however great certain of my talents are.
That he should pick me from many billions!
"He knew his man, knew I would not be able to resist his
challenge. If I could have stood up, I'd have crossed
swords with him-if swords were available-and I'd have
pledged my loyalty with a toast-if wine had been handy.
" 'You'll do as I ask?' he said.
" 'But certainly!'I said. 'You have my word, and I never
go back on that!'
"Jill, I won't go into any more detail about what else he
said. Except... he did say that I was to tell Sam Clemens
that he should be on the lookout for a man named Richard
Francis Burton. He was one of those chosen. And we were
to wait for a year in Virolando for all of us to get
together. If some didn't show, then we were to go ahead.
And we would be hearing from him-the Stranger-in the near
future.
"He gave me directions to find Clemens, who was down-
River about ten thousand leagues. Clemens would be
building a great boat made of ore from a meteorite. I
knew who Clemens was though I'd died one hundred and
eighty-one years before he was born. After all, was not
his Earthly wife sleeping in my bed? I told him that, and
he chuckled and said, 'I know.'
" 'Is this not embarrassing for me?' I said. 'And
especially for Livy? Would the great Clemens even admit
me aboard his so grand boat in this situation?'
''' Which is more important to you ?' he said with some
degree of impatience. 'A woman or the salvation of the
world?'
" 'That would depend upon how I felt about the woman,' I
said. ' Objectively and humanely, there is no argument. I
am humane but I am not objective.'
" 'Go there and find out what happens,' he said. 'Perhaps
this woman will prefer you.'
' "When Cyrano is on fire with love,' I said, 'he does
not cool off at command.'
"Then he stood up, and said, 'I will see you,' and he was
gone. I dragged myself with my arms, my dead legs
trailing uselessly, to the door, and pushed it open.
There was no sign of him. The next morning, I announced
to Livy that I was tired of this place. I wanted to
travel, to see this brave new world. She said that she
was tired of traveling. But if I went, she would go with
me. So we set out. The rest you know."
Jill felt a sense of unreality. She believed Cyrano's
story, but it nevertheless made her feel as if she were a
player on a stage, the sets of which concealed something
frightening. And she was also an actor who had not been
given the script.
"No, I don't know the rest. What about you and Clemens?
What did he know that you didn't? And did any of the
others this Ethical had chosen show up?"
"Clemens was visited twice by the Ethical. Clemens calls
him X or the Mysterious Stranger."
Jill said, "He wrote a book once titled The Mysterious
Stranger. A very sad, bitter story, overwhelmingly
pessimistic. The Stranger was Lucifer."
'' He told me about it. However, he did not know much
more than I did. Except that this X had somehow deflected
a meteorite so that it would fall where Clemens could
find it."
"Do you realize the energy that would take?"
"It was explained to me. Anyway, Sam broke his word to
the Stranger. He told Joe Miller and Lothar von
Richthofen about him. He said that he could not help
telling them.
"Also, there were two more. A giant red-haired savage of
a man named John Johnston. And . . . Firebrass!"
She almost dropped her cigarette. "Firebrass! But he ...
!"
Cyrano nodded. "Exactly. He would seem to be one of these
agents whom the Ethical mentioned but did not explain. I
never saw the Ethical again, so I did not get any answers
to my many questions. But I think, though I can't be
sure, that he would have been surprised to learn that
Firebrass claimed to be one of the twelve. Perhaps
Firebrass was an infiltrator. But that does not explain
Thorn and Obrenova."
"Did Johnston or Firebrass add anything to your
knowledge?"
"Of the Ethical? No, Johnston was visited only once.
Firebrass, of course, was not one of the twelve chosen. I
doubt that the Ethical knew he was an agent. How could he
unless he himself had been disguised and in our midst?
Which perhaps he may have been. But if he knew that
Firebrass was an agent, he had reasons not to tell us.
"What worries me, among many things, is that the Ethical
hasn't visited us again."
Jill sat upright.
"Could Piscator be an agent?"
Cyrano stopped walking, lifted his shoulders and
eyebrows, and spread out his extended palms upward.
"Unless he returns, we may never know."
"Purposes, cross-purposes, counter-cross-purposes. Wheels
within wheels within wheels," Jill said. "Maya lowers
seven veils of illusion between us and them."
"What? Oh, you are referring to the Hindu concept of
illusion.''
"I don't think Piscator was an agent. If he had been, he
wouldn't have said anything to me about his suspicions
that something dark and secret was going on."
A knocking on the door startled them.
"Captain! Greeson here, head of Search Group Three. All
areas in this section except for the chart room have been
searched. We can come back later."
Jill, rising, said, "Come on in."
To Cyrano she said, "I'll talk with you later. There's so
much to puzzle out, so many questions."
"I doubt I'll have any answers."
                           62
Three twenty-four-hour periods had passed.
The dead had been buried at sea, their cloth-wrapped
bodies resembling Egyptian mummies as they were tilted
outward through an aperture. As Jill stood in the klieg-
lit fog and watched the corpses slide, one by one,
through the arch at the base of the wall, she calculated
the time of their fall. It was not callousness which made
her indulge in the mental exercise. It was habit, and it
was also a barrier against the horror of death.
Death was for real now; the hope of resurrection in this
world was gone. Death seemed even more all-present and
always threatening in this place with its cold, wet winds
and dark, swirling clouds. She only had to walk a few
paces into the mists, and she would be out of sight and
sound of all living beings and their works. She could not
see her feet or the metal on which she walked.
If she went to an aperture and stuck her head out, she
could not even hear the cold, dead sea crashing against
the tower. It was too far away. Everything was too far
away, even if it was only a few meters distant.
It was truly a wasteland. She would be glad when she
could leave it.
So far, Piscator had not come back. She did not think it
likely that he would. Under no circumstances would he
willingly have stayed so long in the tower. Either he was
dead, hurt badly, or held prisoner. In any event, those
on the outside could do nothing for him, and the proposed
seven-day wait now seemed far too long. Therefore, Jill
had announced to the crew that the airship would leave at
the end of a five-day period.
They received the news with evident relief. Like her,
their nerves were pulled tightly, overtightly, on a rack.
So much so that she had been forced to change the four
hours of guard duty at the dome to two. Some of the
guards were hallucinating, seeing ghostly forms in the
fog, hearing voices coming from the corridor. One man had
even fired at what he thought was a huge form running at
him from the mists.
The first search of the ship had found no bombs or
transmitters. Fearing that the crew might not have
covered every square centimeter, and also wanting to keep
them busy, she ordered another search. This one was
extended to the outside surface of the dirigible, too.
Men went to the top and prowled the walkway, shining
their lamps alongside it. Others swept their lights
across the exteriors of the tail structures.
No bombs were located.
Jill was not relieved. If Thorn had planned from the
beginning to hide explosives, he could have placed some
inside a gas cell. If he had, he had thwarted them, since
there was no way they could get into the cells without
releasing the irreplaceable hydrogen. It was true he'd
need a transmitter, but that was a small object. It could
even be disguised as something else.
This thought set off a third search in which every small
mechanical or electrical device aboard was inspected to
make sure that it was indeed what it appeared to be. All
were what they were supposed to be, but the idea that
there could be a disguised transmitter added to the
general nervousness.
Of course, as long as Thorn was kept inside the sick bay,
he could not get to a hidden transmitter. A lock had been
installed on the door to sick bay, and there were always
two guards on the inside and two outside.
Jill talked to Cyrano about another problem.
"Sam's going to be bloody furious when he hears that he
can't do anything if he ever does get here. There's no
way he can get to the top of the tower from the surface
of the sea. And if he did achieve the impossible, he
still could do nothing to get in.
"It's possible that one or more of his crew might be able
to enter the tower, if he could get to the top. But even
then, what guarantee is there what happened to Piscator
wouldn't happen to them?"
"Whatever that is," Cyrano said gloomily. He had been
almost as fond of the Japanese as he was of Firebrass.
"Did Firebrass tell you, too, about the laser hidden on
the Mark Twain?"
Cyrano came alive. "Aha! What a stupid man I am! The
laser! Yes, Firebrass told me about it, of course. Would
he tell you and not me? I should hope to kiss a pig under
its tail he would not!"
"Well, it's possible that this metal might resist even a
laser beam. But we won't know unless we try it, will we?"
The Frenchman swiftly lapsed into gloom.
"But what do we do about the fuel situation? We cannot
fly to Clemens' boat and get the laser and return here
and then get back to Parolando or the boat. We do not
have enough oil for that."
"We'll get the laser from Sam and then go to Parolando
and make some more oil and then come back here."
"That will take much time. But it is the only thing to
do. However, what if that hardheaded Clemens does not let
us use the laser?"
"I don't see how he could refuse us," Jill said slowly.
"That is the only means we have for getting into the
tower."
"Ah, yes, true: But you are saying that logic will sway
Clemens. He is human, which means that he is by no means
always logical. But we will see."
Jill was so on fire with this idea that she saw no reason
in waiting for Piscator any longer. If he were hurt or
held prisoner by some mechanical device or by living
beings, he wasn't going to be gotten free without the
laser.
First, though, Thorn had to be questioned. After ordering
Cop-pename to wait until she had returned, she walked
down to sick bay with Cyrano. Thorn was sitting up in
bed. His right leg was enclosed by a shackle attached to
a chain, the other end of which was locked to the frame
of the bed.
He said nothing as they entered, and Jill was also silent
for a moment as she studied him. His thick jaw was
locked; his chin, even more outthrust; his dark-blue
eyes, half-lidded. He looked as stubborn as Lucifer
himself.
She said, "Do you want to tell us what this is all
about?"
Thorn did not reply.
She had made sure that he was to be left ignorant of the
crash of the helicopter until she told him.
"We know that you set off that bomb. You murdered
Firebrass and Obrenova, everybody on the chopper."
Thorn's eyes opened fully, but his expression did not
change. Or was that a slight smile at the corners of his
lips?
"You're guilty of premeditated murder. I can have you
shot, and I may do it Unless you tell me everything."
She waited. He glared steadily at her.
"We know about the little spheres on the forebrains of
Firebrass and Obrenova."
That had pierced him, had struck something sensitive. His
skin paled, and he grimaced.
"Is there a sphere on your brain?"
He groaned, and he said, "I was X-rayed. Do you think
Firebrass would have taken me along if there had been
one?"
"I don't know," Jill said. "He accepted Obrenova. Why
would he have accepted her and rejected you?"
Thorn merely shook his head.
"Look. If it's necessary, I'll order that Graves remove
the top of your skull and take a look at your brain."
"That would be a waste of time,'' he said. "I don't have
any such thing inside me."
"I think you're lying. What is the purpose of that
sphere?"
Silence.
"You do know, don't you?"
Cyrano said, "Where were you headed for when you stole
the helicopter?"
Thorn bit his lip, then said, "I presume that you didn't
get into the tower?"
Jill hesitated. Should she tell him about Piscator? Would
that give him some sort of advantage? She could not
imagine what it could be, but then she did not know the
location of any piece in this jigsaw puzzle.
She said, "One man did get into it."
Thorn quivered, and he became even paler.
"One? Who was that?"
"I'll tell you if you'll tell me what this is all about."
Thorn's deep chest rose, and he let out air slowly.
"I won't say another word about this until we get to the
Mark Twain. I'll talk to Sam Clemens. Until then, not a
word. You can open my skull, if you will. But that would
be cruel, and it might kill me, and it would be totally
unnecessary."
Jill motioned to Cyrano to come with her into the next
room. When they were out of Thorn's sight, she said, "Is
there an X-ray machine aboard the Mark Twain?"
Cyrano shrugged and said, "I do not remember. But we can
determine that as soon as we ge 'into radio contact with
the boat.''
They returned to the foot of Thorn's bed. He stared at
them for a minute. A struggle was obviously taking place
in him. Finally, as if he hated himself for having to
ask, he said, "Did that man come back?"
"What does that mean to you?"
Thorn looked as if he'd like to say something. Instead,
he smiled.
"Very well," Jill said. "We are going to the boat. I'll
talk to you when we get there, unless you change your
mind before then."
The checkout tests of the equipment consumed an hour. The
ropes were cast off and drawn into the dirigible. The
guards and the rope handlers came aboard. With Cyrano in
the pilot's seat, the Parseval rose, its propellers
swiveled upward to give it additional lift. Water ballast
was discharged to compensate for the loss of the valved-
off hydrogen. The updraft around the tower lifted the
ship higher than was desired, and so Cyrano sent it back
down, headed toward the great hold through which they
entered.
Jill stood at the windscreen and stared into the fog. "So
long, Piscator," she murmured. "We'll be back."
The wind hurled the vessel through the hole, spitting it
out, as Cyrano said, as if it were a rotten piece of meat
from the mouth of a giant. Or, he added, as if it were a
baby overeager to be born, shot out from the womb of a
mother who couldn't wait to get rid of her nine-months'
burden.
The Frenchman sometimes overstrained his metaphors and
similes.
The clear air and the bright sun and the green vegetation
made them feel like bursting into song. Cyrano, grinning,
said, "If I were not on duty, I would dance! I do not
contemplate returning to that dismal place with any
pleasure."
Aukuso had begun transmitting the ship's call letters as
soon as it had gained a high altitude. Not until an hour
had passed, however, did he report that he had made
contact with the Mark Twain.
Jill started to report to Sam Clemens, but he interrupted
her with a furious description of de Greystock's
treacherous attack. She was shocked, but she became
impatient with his overlong, overdetailed narrative. His
boat was not badly damaged; her account was the important
thing.
Finally, he ran down.
"I've discharged most of my bile, for the moment, anyway.
Say, why are you talking to me? Where's Firebrass?"
"I didn't have a chance to say more than two words," she
said. And she described in detail the events from the
moment the airship had entered the hole in the mountain.
It was his turn to be shocked. Except, however, for some
explosive curses, he did not comment until she had
finished.
"So Firebrass is dead, and you think he was one of Them?
Maybe he wasn't, Jill. Did it occur to you that the black
sphere might have been implanted in a small number of us
for some scientific purpose? That perhaps only one in a
thousand or ten thousand has it? I don't know what its
purpose could be. Maybe it transmits brain waves which
They record for use in some sort of scientific
experiment. Or it could be used by Them to keep tabs on
certain preselected subjects."
"I hadn't thought of that," she said. "I'd like to think
that you're right, because I hate to think that Firebrass
could be one of Them.''
"Me, too. However, the important thing just now is that a
ground expedition is useless. I built those two boats for
nothing. Well, not actually for nothing. There's
something to be said for life on the boat. It affords
luxuries you can't get elsewhere-except on the Rex-and
it's the fastest way to travel, although I really have no
definite place to go to anymore. But I haven't forgotten
King John. I'm going to catch up with him and fix him for
what he did to me."
"You're wrong about one thing, Sam," she said. "I think
we can get into the tower. All I need is the laser."
It sounded to her as if Clemens was strangling.
"You mean that.. . that Firebrass told you about it? Why,
that unjudicious, ungrateful, unprincipled . . . garrh! I
told him not to say a word! He knew how important it was
to keep it a secret! Now everybody in the wheelhouse
knows it. They've heard every word you said. I'll have to
get them to swear not to reveal it, and just how much
chance is there they'll not let it slip? If Firebrass
were here, I'd choke him with one hand and stick my cigar
up his ass with the other!"
Sam went on, "Besides, you should have waited until you
got here before you said anything. For all I know, John's
radiomen have been listening in to us for years! They
might have figured out how our scramblers work and be
taking in every word now, pleased as a hog that's just
found a fresh pile of cow flop!"
"I'm sorry about that," she said. "But it was necessary
to mention it. We have to make arrangements for picking
the laser up without landing."
Jill added, "I need the laser. It's the only means we
have of getting into the tower. Without it all our long
labors and the deaths of several people have been in
vain."
"And I need it to slice up John and his boat. It's a
surefire thing, double-guaranteed to get a quick
victory."
Trying to keep the anger out of her voice, she said,'
"Think on it, Sam. Which is more important, revenge on
King John or solving the mystery of this world, finding
out why we're here and who did this?
"Besides, there's no reason you can't have both. We'll
return the laser to you after we use it."
"Both be damned to hell and back! How do I know you will
come back? The next time you may get caught by those
people. They can sit inside, smug as mice behind a wall
laughing at the cat, if you can't get to them. But when
you start cutting with that laser, you think they'll just
sit on their hands and allow you to waltz on in?
"They'll grab you, just as they did Piscator. And then
what? Besides, for all you know, the metal of the tower
could be resistant to a laser beam."
"Too right. But we have to try. That's the only way we
can find out."
"All right, all right! You've got logic and right on your
side, as if that ever won an argument! But I'm a
reasonable man. So, you can have the laser!
"But, and this is a big but, as the queen of Spain said
to Dan Sickles, you've got to get Rotten John for me
first!"
"I don't know what you mean."
"I mean that I want you to make a raid on the Rex. Send
in a party in the chopper at night and grab John. I'd
rather see him here alive, but if you can't get him alive
and kicking, kill him!"
"That's stupid and vicious!" Jill said. "We could lose
the chopper and all the raiding party in a useless,
vainglorious venture. Not to mention risking lives, we
can't afford to lose the chopper. It's the only one we
have."
Sam had been breathing heavily, but he waited until he
had regained his wind. Now he spoke smoothly, icily.
"It's you that's being stupid now. If John is gotten rid
of, I won't have any reason to pit my boat against the
Rex. Think of the lives that'll be saved. For all I care,
his second-in-command, whoever he is, can take over and
I'll wish him good luck. All I want is that John doesn't
get away with all the crimes he committed and that he
doesn't get to keep the beautiful boat I toiled and
sweated and plotted and suffered agonies for. And don't
forget that he tried to sink this boat, too!
"I want that miserable excuse for a human being standing
in front of me so I can tell him exactly what he is.
That's all. I promise I won't kill him or mistreat him,
if that's bothering you. Thunderation! Why should it?
"And when I'm done chewing him out, the most glorious
verbal reaming ever given anybody since the dawn of time-
it'll make Jeremiah look tongue-tied-then I'll put him
ashore and steam away. Of course, I may maroon him among
cannibals or grail slavers.
"I promise you that, Jill."
"What if he has to be killed?"
"I'll just have to endure my disappointment."
"But I can't order my men to go on such a dangerous
mission.''
"I won't ask you to. Just ask for volunteers. If you
can't get enough, too bad. You can't have the laser.
However, I don't anticipate any dearth of heroes. If
there's one thing I know, Jill, it's human nature."
Cyrano shouted, "I will be honored to enlist, Sam!"
"Is that you, Cyrano? Well, I have to admit you've not
been one of my dearest friends. But if you do go, I wish
you good luck. I mean it."
Jill was so surprised she could not speak for a moment.
Here was the man who'd said he regarded Mars, the deity
of war, as the most stupid of gods.
When she regained her voice, she said, "Why are you doing
this, Cyrano?"
"Why? But you forget that I, too, was on the Not For Hire
when John and his pirates seized it. I was almost killed.
I would like to have my revenge, to see the expression on
his face when he realizes that the trap is sprung on the
trapper, the pirate pirated.
"This is not your vast, impersonal war initiated by
greedy, glory-mad imbeciles who do not care how many
thousands are slaughtered, mutilated, driven insane,
frozen, starved, dying of disease; how many children and
woman blown up; how many women raped or left husbandless
or sonless.
"No, this is personal. I know the man whom I would make
my small, wholly justified war upon. So does Clemens, who
abhors war as much as myself."
Jill did not argue with him. At that moment, he seemed
like a little child to her. An idiot child. He still
wanted to play at war, yet he had seen its miseries and
horrors.
There was nothing for her to do but go along with Sam's
proposal . She did not have to obey him, since he had no
way of enforcing his orders. But if she wanted the laser,
and she did, she could only carry out the raid.
Her last hope that there would not be enough volunteers
died as soon as she called for them. There were enough to
get into three helicopters if they had been available.
Perhaps, she thought, they had been so frustrated at the
tower that they wanted violent action against a foe who
could be seen, who would fight. But she did not really
believe that.
Clemens was right. He did know human nature. Male nature,
anyway. No, that wasn't fair. The nature of some males.
An hour's discussion followed. During this Cyrano said
that he could draw accurate sketches of the layout of the
Rex. Clemens finally signed off, but not before making
sure that he would be notified of the results of the raid
the moment the helicopter returned.
"If it returns," she said.
                           63
THE TORPEDOES SEEMED TO BE DEAD-ON, BUT SAM ORDERED THE
boat swung away and full power applied. A minute later,
an observer at the stem reported that the torpedoes had
just missed. The dirigible loomed before him, coining
swiftly, seeming about to collide with the pilothouse
itself. Sam yelled an order to fire a second volley away.
Before that order could be obeyed, the airship exploded.
Four bombs going off simultaneously should have blown in
every port, should have caved in the hull of the boat. As
it was, many ports were shattered or driven whole into
the interior and people were knocked down. The boat,
immense and heavy though it was, rocked. Sam was hurled
to the deck along with everybody except the pilot, who
was strapped in his chair. Byron was knocked unconscious
as a windscreen slammed into his face.
Sam got to his feet as smoke roiled into the control
room, blinding him, making him cough violently. An acrid
stink surrounded him. He could not hear anything; he was
totally deafened for a minute. He groped through the
cloud and felt along the control panel. Knowing the
location of every dial, gauge, and button, he ascertained
that the ship was still on course-if the steering
mechanism was still operating. Then he unstrapped
Detweiller's bloody, unconscious form and eased him to
the floor. By the time he had slipped into the chair, he
could see again. The airship, or what was left of it, was
in the water. Pieces were scattered over hundreds of
square meters, burning. Smoke billowed out from them, but
by then the boat was out of the clouds. He straightened
her out and headed her up-River. After putting the
automatic pilot on, and making sure that it still
operated, he went to the starboard to survey the damage.
Joe was saying something, his mouth wide open and working
furiously. Sam stabbed a finger at his ear, indicating
that he couldn' t hear. Joe kept on yelling. His skin was
cut in a hundred places.
Later, after everybody had calmed down, Sam decided that
just one of the bombs must have gone off. The force of
its explosion should have set off the other three, but it
surely had not done so.
Nobody had been killed, but several score had been
severely wounded. Luckily, the explosion had failed to
set off the rockets aboard.
Detweiller was the worst casualty, but by the third day
he was up and walking. The boat was still close to shore,
anchored next to the stone that had provided breakfast. A
wide gangplank was built so the crew could walk ashore.
The damage was repaired, and the crew took turns on shore
leave. Sam decided that now would be a good time to make
more alcohol and gunpowder. Arrangements were made to
trade tobacco and some of the whiskey and wine provided
by the crew's grails for wood and lichen from the area.
Von Richthofen was dead. The only survivors of the
Minerva were Samhradh and Hardy, Newton having drowned
while still unconscious. Sam wept when the German's body,
wrapped in a weighted bag, was dropped into The River. He
had been very fond of the ebullient, happy-go-lucky
fellow.
"I know why Greystock did this," Sam said. 'John Lackland
made him an offer he couldn't resist. And the double-
dealing swine almost did the job, too. I thought
Greystock was a cruel man, like all of his kind, but I
didn't think he'd be disloyal. Still, if you've read your
history-you, Marc, not you, Joe-then you'll know that the
medieval noblemen were notorious for treachery. Their god
was Opportunity, no matter how many churches they built
for the glory of Church and God. They all had the morals
of a hyena."
"Not all of them," de Marbot said. "There was William
Marshal of England. He never switched sides."
"Didn't he serve under King John?" Sam said. "He must've
had a strong stomach to stick with him. Anyway, John has
tried once and almost got away with it. What bothers me
is, how many other saboteurs has he planted? You see now
why I've insisted on double guards at every vulnerable
point. And four outside the armory and ammunition hold.
"That's also why I've ordered that every man jack aboard,
and jill, too, report any suspicious conduct they see. I
know it's made some people jumpy. But I've had to be
realistic."
"No vonder you got nightmareth. Me, I don't vorry about
thuch thingth."
"That's why I'm captain and you're only a bodyguard. Say,
don't you worry about protecting me?"
"I chutht do my duty and vorry only about the long time
betveen mealth."
A few minutes later, the chief radio officer reported
that she was in contact with the Parseval. By the time
Sam was through talking to Gulbirra, he felt as if he
were walking through a minefield. Treachery, lies,
frustration, uncertainty, confusion, and misdirection
were waiting to explode under his feet.
Smoking like a dragon though the cigar tasted bitter, he
paced back and forth. So far, there were only two on the
boat who shared the secret of X with him-Joe Miller and
John Johnston. There were, or had been, eight who to his
knowledge knew about the Stranger: Miller, Johnston,
himself, Firebrass (now dead), de Bergerac, Odysseus
(who'd disappeared long ago), von Richthofen (now dead),
and Richard Francis Burton. The being whom Clemens called
X or the Mysterious Stranger (when it wasn't son-of-a-
bitch or bastard) had said he'd elected twelve to get to
the polar tower. X was supposed to return in a few years
and give Sam more information. So far he had not shown.
Perhaps the other Ethicals had finally caught him, and he
was- where?
Sam had told Miller and von Richthofen about the
Stranger. So that left six of those informed by X unknown
to him. Though it was possible that they were all on this
boat. Why had X not given each one a sign or a codeword
of recognition? Maybe he meant to do so but had been
delayed. X's schedule was about as uncertain as that of a
Mexican railroad.
Cyrano had told him about Burton. Sam didn't know where
Burton was, but he knew who he was. The newspapers had
been full of his exploits during Sam's lifetime. And Sam
had read his Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to El-
Medinah, First Footsteps in East Africa, The Lake Regions
of Central Africa, and his translation of the Arabian
Nights.
Also, Gwenafra had known him personally, and she had told
Sam all she remembered about him. She had been only seven
or thereabouts when she had first been resurrected.
Richard Burton had taken her under his wing, and she had
traveled with him on a boat up-River for a year. Then she
had been drowned, but she had never forgotten the fierce,
dark man.
Greystock had also been with them. But neither he nor
Gwen were aware of the Stranger. Or way Greystock an
agent?
That fellow Burton. On Earth he'd led an expedition to
find the source of the Nile. Here, he was as passionately
involved in getting to the headwaters of the Nile, though
for a different reason. De Bergerac had said that the
Ethical had told him that, if he found Burton, Burton
would pretend to have lost his memory of anything related
to the Ethicals. Clemens should tell him that he knew
better, and Burton would then explain why he was
pretending to have amnesia. Very curious.
Then there were Stern, Obrenova, and Thorn. And
Firebrass. Their roles were as clandestine as those of X
and his colleagues. On which side were they?
He needed help in untangling the warp and woof of this
crazy tapestry. Time for a conference.
Within five minutes, he was closeted in his cabin with
Joe and John Johnston. Johnston was a huge man, massively
boned and muscled. His face was handsome though craggy;
his eyes, a startling blue; his hair, bright red. Though
he towered above other humans, he looked small beside the
titanthrop.
Sam Clemens gave them the news. Johnston did not speak at
first, but then the mountaineer was not one to talk
unless there was extreme occasion to do so. Joe said,
"Vhat doeth it all mean? I mean, the gateway through vich
only Pithcator could pathth?"
"We'll find out from Thorn," Sam said. "For the time
being, what worries me is Thorn and the rest of that
filthy crew."
Johnston said, "Ye don't think Greystock was an agent for
them Ethicals, do ye? I think the polecat was just one of
King John's men."
"He could have been that and also an agent," Sam said.
"How?" Joe Miller rumbled.
"How do I know? Anyway, you mean why. That was really
what the thief said to Jesus while he was being nailed to
the cross. Why? That's what we should be asking. Why?
Yes, I think Greystock could have been an agent. He just
fell in with King John's purpose because it suited his
own purpose."
"But them agents don't use violence," Johnston said. "At
least, that's what ye told me X told ye. They not only
hate violence, they don't even like to touch human
beings."
"No, I didn't say that. I said violence was unethical for
the Ethicals. At least, according to X. But I don't know
that he wasn't lying. For all I know, he may be the
Prince of Darkness, who was, if you remember your Bible,
the Prince of Liars."
"Then what're we doing?" Johnston said. "Why're we follow
ing his orders?"
"Because I don't know he's lying. And his colleagues
haven't had the courtesy or decency to speak to me. He' s
all I have to go on. Also, I said that X seemed rather
reluctant to have me get too close. Like the abolitionist
who aired out his house after he'd had a black to dinner.
But I didn't say that the agents were Brahmins, too.
Thorn and Firebrass certainly weren't. I don't know.
Anyway, Joe has a nose for X. He came into my hut once
right after X had left. And he said he smelled somebody
not human."
"Hith thtink vath different from Tham'th," Joe said,
grinning. "I didn't thay that Tham thmelled any better,
though."
"You're a thly one, ain't you?" Sam said. "Anyway, Joe
has never smelled anyone else like that. So I presumed
that the agents are of human origin."
"Tham thmoketh thigarth all the time," Joe said. "I
couldn't thmell a thkunk around thothe weedth."
"That'll be enough of that, Joe," Sam said. "Or I'll run
you back up the banana tree."
"I never thaw a banana in my life! Not until I came here
and my grail gave me vone for breakfatht. Even then I
vathn't thyure it vathn't poithon."
"Stick," Johnston said.
Sam's eyebrows curved like the backs of recoiling
caterpillars.
"Stick what? I hope ..."
"To the point."
"Ah, yes. Anyway, I'm sure that there are agents around.
The boat may be crawling with them. The question is,
whose? X's or the others'? Or both?"
Johnston said, "They ain't seemed to interfere so far.
Not with the boat, anyway. But when we get close to the
headwaters ..."
"I don't know about interference. Even though he never
said so, it's safe to assume that X bored that tunnel and
left that rope for Joe and his Egyptian friends. But
there's no evidence that the others are particularly
against us mere Earthlings getting to the tower. They
just don't want to make it easy for us. Again, why not?
"Also, what about Odysseus? He showed up in the nick of
time and saved us when we were fighting von Radowitz. He
told me he was one of the twelve picked by X. I assumed
at first that it was X who'd sent him. But no, Odysseus
said it was a female Ethical. So, is there another one of
them in on this? Another renegade who's X's ally? I asked
him about her, and he just laughed. He wouldn't tell me.
"But maybe the woman wasn't X's pal. Maybe she was an
Ethical who'd gotten wind somehow of what was going on.
And she sent Odysseus, who may have been an agent posing
as the historic Odysseus.
"I say that because I've run into two Mycenaeans who were
actually at the siege of Troy. At least, they claimed to
have been. There are so many phonies on The River, you
know. Both said that Troy wasn't where Odysseus said it
was. He had told me that Troy was much further down in
Asia Minor than the archaeologists said it was. The two
Greeks said that it was where everybody had always said
it was. Near Hissarlik, Turkey. Well, they didn't
identify the town and country under those names, of
course. Neither was in existence in their day.
"But they did say that Troy was near the Hellespont,
where Hissarlik was later built. Now, how about that
mess?"
"If that Greek feller was an agent," Johnston said, "why
would he make up a lie like that?"
"Maybe to convince me that he was the real stuff. That he
was the dyed-in-the-wool original. He wasn't likely to
encounter anyone who could call him a bald-faced liar.
For one thing, he didn't stick around long enough to be
challenged.
"Here's another thing. The scholars of my time had all
said that the wooden horse of Troy was a myth. The story
was about as credible as a politician's campaign
promises. But Odysseus said that there was a wooden
horse, and he himself proposed it, just as Homer said he
did, and it did get the Greek soldiers into the city.
"But then maybe it was a double-ply lie. By telling me
that the scholars were all wrong, he made it sound as if
he'd really been there. Anybody who could stand there and
look you in the eye and tell you the scholars were full
of sawdust and mouse droppings, because he had been there
and they hadn't, would convince me. The scholars are
always sailing out, looking for a textural Northwest
Passage, trying to navigate with a sextant in a
snowstorm, not sure whether the bowsprit is on the fore
or the stem."
"At least, they tried," Johnston said.
"So did the eunuch in the sheik's harem. I wish I had
some idea of what's going on. We are in deep waters, as
Holmes said to Watson."
"Who're thothe guyth?" Joe said.
The giant mountaineer growled. Sam said, "Okay, John,
sorry. I was hoping we could follow at least one thread
through in this tangled warp and woof. Hell, we can't
even find the end of one thread!"
"Maybe Gwenafra thyould be in thith," Joe said. "Thyee'th
a voman, vhich you may have notithed, Tham. You thaid
vomen can pertheive thingth men can't becauthe they got
female intuithyon. Anyvay, thye doethn't like being left
out in the cold. Thye ain't no dummy. Thye knowth
there'th been thomething going on for a long time that
you've been hiding from her. Right now, thye'th thulking
in the main lounge. Thye hath the red athth every time
you run her out tho ve can have a conferenthe about thith
thubchect."
"I don't believe in women's intuition," Sam said.
"They're just culturally conditioned to observe different
patterns of action and speech, different gestures and
inflections from those men observe. They're more
sensitive to certain subtleties because of this condi
tioning."
"It'th the thame thing in the end," Joe said. "Vhat do ve
care vhat ith'th called? I thay, ve been beating out our
brainth on thith. It'th about time ve had a new dealer in
on thith poker game."
"Squaws talk too much," Johnston said.
"According to you, everybody talks too much," Sam said.
"Anyway, Gwen is as smart as anyone here, maybe smarter."
"It'll end up with the whole world knowing about it,"
Johnston said.
"Well, if you think on it," Sam said, "why shouldn't
everybody know? Ain't it everybody's business?"
"The Stranger must have his reasons for wanting us to
keep quiet."
"But are they good reasons?" Sam said. "On the other
hand, if we did blabber about this there'd be a mob
trying to get to the North Pole. The '49 Gold Rush
couldn't hold a candle to it. There'd be hundreds of
thousands wanting to get to the tower. And a million
hanging around to exploit them."
"Let'th take a vote on Gven."
"You ever heard of a woman at a council of war? The first
thing you know, she'll be wanting to run us. Them
petticoats take an inch if ye give 'em a mile.''
"Women don't wear petticoats anymore," Sam said. "In
fact, they don't wear much of anything, as you must've
noticed."
The vote was two to one. Johnston said, "Okay. But you
make her keep her legs crossed when she sits down, Sam."
"It's a strain just getting her to cover her breasts,"
Sam said. "She's a caution. But it ain't her fault.
Anyway, just about everybody swims naked. So what's the
difference if she is a little careless about how many
square inches of flesh she exposes?"
"It ain't the flesh, it's the hair,'' Johnston said.
"Don't it bother you none?"
"It used to. After all, I lived about the same time as
you. But I didn't spend my life among the Rocky Mountain
Indians. We've been here thirty-four years, John, on a
planet where even Queen Victoria is traipsing around in
an outfit that would've given her heart failure followed
by diarrhoea if she'd seen it worn in front of Buckingham
Palace. Now nudity seems as natural as sleeping in
church."
                           64
GWENAFRA, FOREWARNED BY SAM, WAS WEARING A LOINCLOTH
under her kilt. She sat in a chair and listened wide-eyed
while Sam explained why she had been admitted to the
council.
After she had heard Sam out, she sat silently for a
while, sipping from a cup of tea. Then she said, "I knew
more than you thought I did. You've talked a lot in your
sleep. I knew you were keeping something very serious
from me. That hurt me very much. In fact, I was going to
tell you, Sam, that you must tell me what was going on.
Otherwise, I was going to leave you."
"Why didn't you say so? I had no idea you felt that way."
"Because I supposed that you must have a very good reason
for keeping it from me. But I was getting to the point
where I couldn't stand it anymore. Haven't you noticed
how cross I've been lately?"
"It hadn't escaped me. I thought you were just being
moody. One of the mysteries of woman. But this is no
place to discuss our personal affairs."
"What is the place, then? I know I would have said
something if you'd been so irritable. Anyway, women are
about as mysterious as a tin mine. All you have to do is
carry a lantern into the dark places, and you see
everything. But men like to think women are the eternally
mysterious. That saves men the trouble of asking ques
tions, taking a little time and effort."
"The eternally loquacious, then," Sam said. "You take as
long to get to the point as a broken pencil." "You're
both gabby," Johnston said, scowling.
"There are other extremes," she said, glaring at
Johnston. "But you're right. Maybe 'there's one thing
that you could consider as a key to the mystery of the
tower. That is, what kind of a person was Piscator?"
"Ah, hmmm," Sam said. "I see what you mean. Why was he
able to enter the tower while the others couldn't? Well,
for one thing, he could have been an agent. But if agents
can get through the barrier, why couldn't Thorn?
"Besides, why should Thorn have to Use the Parseval to
get to the tower? The Ethicals and their agents have
their own methods of transportation, some kind of flying
machine."
"I don't know," Gwenafra said. "Let's concentrate on
Piscator. How was he different from the others? It
couldn't be a physical element-clothing, say-that was the
key to entry. All tried to get in naked, yet only
Piscator got in.
"Also, there was a difference in how far each was able to
advance into the entrance. What were the elements in
character that made some advance further than others?"
"We'd need a computer to figure that out," Sam said. "How
ever, Gulbirra knows the men in the airship. She can
describe them when she gets here. Anyway, to be
scientific, the exact distance each person traveled would
have to be known. And that would have to be compared to
each person's character. Nobody was taking measurements
there, so that's out."
"Just consider Piscator then."
"He was one of them samurai," Johnston said.
"I don't think race would have anything to do with it,"
Sam said. "So far we haven't uncovered any Mongolian
agents, though I suppose there could be plenty. Consider
this. Thorn did not want Firebrass and Obrenova to get
into the tower. So he cold-bloodedly blew them up, not to
mention the innocents with them. Maybe, though, Thorn
didn't know Firebrass was an agent. If so, he got two for
the price of one."
"Maybe there were more than two ..." Gwen said. "No, only
two had those black balls in their heads."
"Jumping catfish! Don't make it more complicated than it
is!"
Gwen said, "If those two could've entered, then we should
compare their characters with Piscator's."
"I vath around Firebrathth a lot, and he thmelled chutht
like any human. Thith Ethical left a thmell behind him
when he vithited Tham. It vathn't human. Pithcater, he
vath human, though he did thmell Chapanethe. I can
dithtinguith different typeth of people becauthe of their
diet."
"But you never met a person who smelled nonhuman," Sam
said. "So we don' t know if the agents are nonhuman. They
certainly look as if they are human."
"No, but they mutht've been around me," Joe said. "And
thinthe I never thmelled anybody that didn't thmell human-
though that ain't nothing to brag about-thmelling human,
I mean, then the achentth mutht be human."
"That mought be," Johnston said. "It seems to this here
child that if a non-Earthman cain look like a real
person, then he cain smell like one."
Joe laughed and said, ''Vhy don't ve chutht potht a
notithe in the main lounge? Any Ethicalth or achentth
aboard pleathe report to Captain Clementh."
Gwenafra had been fidgeting about and frowning. She said.
"Why do all of you duck the question I brought up? What
about Piscator?"
"Maybe we're like the circus midget who found the giant's
shoes under his wife's bed," Sam said. "Afraid to ask.
"Very well. I wasn't too well acquainted with the
gentleman from Cipango. He showed up about two months
before the Mark Twain left. From all reports, he was a
very quiet and likable person. Not withdrawn or aloof,
just not aggressive. He seemed to get along with just
about everybody. Which, in my book, makes him suspect.
Yet he wasn't a yes-man. I remember he got into an
argument with Firebrass about the size of the airship to
be built. He thought that it would be better to build a
smaller one. The end of the discussion was that Piscator
said he still thought he was right. But since Firebrass,
was the boss, he would do as he said."
"Did he have any peculiarities?" Gwenafra said.
"He was crazy about fishing, but I don't count that an
eccentricity. Say, what're you asking me for? You knew
him."
"I just wanted to get another viewpoint," she said. "When
Gulbirra gets here, we'll ask her about him. She knew him
better than we did."
"Don't forget Thyrano," Joe said. "He knew him."
"Joe loved Cyrano,'' Sam said. "The Frenchmen's got a
bigger nose than his. Makes Joe feel right at home."
"That'th a crock of thyit. Ain't none of you pygmieth got
a nothe to be proud of. I chutht like him even if you two
get along like two male hyenath in mating theathon."
"I don't care for the simile," Sam said coolly. "Anyway,
what do you think of Piscator, Gwen?"
"He radiated a sort of, what do you call it? Not animal
magnetism, since there was nothing sexual about it. Just
a warm attractiveness. You knew he liked you. Though,
again, he wouldn't put up with fools. He'd go along with
them, even when they were being stupid. But he got rid of
them in a nice way.
"I don't think he was, what is the word? A fundamentalist
or fanatic Moslem. He said the Koran was to be understood
allegori-cally. He also said the Bible was not to be read
literally. He could quote long passages of both, you
know. I talked to him a number of times, and I was
surprised when he told me that Jesus was the greatest
prophet after Mohammed. He also said the Moslems believed
that the first person to enter heaven will be Mary, the
mother of Jesus. You told me Moslems hate Jesus, Sam."
"No, I said they hated Christians. And vice versa."
"No, you didn't. But that's not important. To sum it up,
Piscator impressed me as a wise and good man. But there
was more to him than that. I don't know how to describe
it.
"Perhaps it was that he seemed to be in this world and
yet not of it."
"I think you're saying this," Sam said. "He was somehow
morally, or perhaps it's better to say spiritually,
superior."
"He never said so or acted like he thought he was. But,
yes, that might be it."
"I wish I'd known him better."
"You were too busy building your boat, Sam."
                           65
Frigate did not come into the hut until about an hour
before suppertime. When asked by Nur where he had been,
he said that he had waited all day to see Novak. Finally,
Novak's secretary had said Frigate would have to come
back tomorrow. Novak could spare a minute or so for him
in the morning.
Frigate looked disgruntled. Waiting in line made him very
impatient. That he had done so for such a long time meant
that he was deeply determined. But he refused to say what
he had in mind until he had talked to Novak.
"If he says yes, then I'll tell you."
Farrington, Rider, and Pogaas paid him little attention.
They were too busy discussing means for getting the
Razzle Dazzle back. When asked if he would help them,
Frigate said he did not know yet. Nur only smiled and
said he would wait until they had made up their own minds
about the ethics of the deed.
Nur, as usual, knew more about what was going on than the
others. It was he who told them, just before they left
the hut to eat breakfast, that the discussion was only
academic. The Razzle Dazzle had been loaded with
artifacts for trade by its new owners and would sail down-
River just after breakfast.
Martin exploded. "Why didn't you tell us about this
before?"
"I was afraid you three would do something rash such as
trying to seize the ship in daylight before hundreds of
witnesses. You would never have gotten away with it."
"We're not that stupid!"
"No, but you're that impulsive. Which is a form of
stupidity."
"Thanks a lot," Tom said. "Well, maybe it's just as well.
I'd much rather go off on one of those patrol steamboats.
But we'd have to get the old crew together first and find
some people to replace the women. This is going to take
time and lots of planning."
There were some delays, however. A man from the
government office told them they had to go to work for
the state or clear out. Frigate was absent when this
happened. He returned grinning broadly and did not seem
at all upset by the news.
"I talked Novak into it!"
"Into what?" Farrington said.
Frigate sat down in a bamboo chair and lit up a
cigarette.
"Well, first I asked him if he would build another blimp
for us. I didn't expect him to agree, and he didn't. He
said he meant to build two more blimps-but not for us.
These would be used for patrols and for warfare, if war
should come."
"You want us to steal their blimp!" Farrington said.
Though he had been angry when Podebrad had deserted them,
he had later been relieved. He had denied this, but it
was obvious that he was glad that he did not have to fly
in the airship.
"No. Neither Nur nor I believe that you would steal
anybody's property, even if you like to talk about it.
You two fantasize a lot. Anyway, Nur and I won't have
anything to do with stealing.
"After my first proposal was turned down, I put forth my
second. Novak hemmed and hawed, and then said that he
would do what I suggested. It wouldn't require near the
materials nor time that the blimp did. He felt bad
because we'd been cheated, and he thought that helping us
would compensate us.
"Besides, Novak is interested in balloons. His son was a
balloonist."
"Balloons!" Martin said. "Are you still pushing that
crazy idea?"
Tom looked interested, but he said, "We don't know
anything about the winds above the mountains. We could be
blown south.''
"That's right. But we're a little north of the equator.
If the upper winds are anything like they are on Earth,
we could be driven north and east. Once past the horse
latitudes it's a different matter. But I have in mind a
type of balloon that could get us to the arctic zone.''
"Crazy! Crazy!" Martin said, shaking his head.
"You refuse to do this?"
"I didn't say that. I've always been a little touched in
the head myself. Besides, I don't think the winds will be
going the right way for us. We should get down to
business and build us a ship."
Farrington was wrong and probably knew he was just
expressing a wish. The air, at the altitude at which they
would float, flowed northeast.
However, when the others heard what type of balloon
Frigate proposed making, all objected vehemently.
"Yes, I know it's never been tried out, except on
paper,'' Frigate said. "But here's our chance to try
something unique."
"Yes," Martin said. "But you say Jules Veme proposed that
idea in 1862. If it was such a hot idea, why didn't
anyone ever try it?"
"I don't know. I would have done it on Earth if I'd had
the money, Look. It's the only way we can get a
considerable distance. If we use a conventional balloon,
we'll be lucky to get four hundred and eighty kilometers.
That still might eliminate a million kilometers of
surface travel. But with the Jules Verne, and a lot of
luck, we could get all the way to the polar mountains."
After much argument, the others finally agreed they
should give his plan a try. But when the project began,
Frigate became uneasy. As the time for lift-off neared,
he became downright anxious. Several nightmares about
balloons showed him just how deep his apprehension was.
Nevertheless, he expressed only the greatest confidence
in the project to the others.
Jules Verne had proposed in his novel Five Weeks in a
Balloon, an idea which seemed feasible-though dangerous.
It worked in his book, but Frigate knew that reality
often failed to give diplomatic recognition to
literature.
The balloon was made, and the crew took twelve practice
flights. These, to everybody's amazement, especially
Frigate's, suffered only minor mishaps. However, all the
training runs were made at low altitudes which kept the
aerostat below the top of the mountains walling the
Valley. To rise above them was to be carried away from a
reasonable distance of New Bohemia and so make it
impossible to return before they were ready for the final
flight.
The crew would have to get on-the-job training when they
ventured into the stratosphere. ,
Doctor Fergusson, Verne's hero, had made a balloon based
on the fact that hydrogen, when heated, expanded. This
principle had been used in 1785 and 1810 with disastrous
results. Veme's imaginary heating device was, however,
much more scientific and powerful and worked-on paper.
Frigate had available a more advanced technology than
that in Verne's time, and he had made some modifications
to the system. When the balloon was finished, he bragged
that this was the first of its type in reality. They were
making history.
Frisco said quite vehemently that nobody had tried Veme's
concept because nobody had been crazy enough. Though he
agreed with him, Frigate did not say so. This was the
only type of aerostat that could go the immense distances
to be traversed. He wasn't going to back out. Too many
times, on both worlds, he had started something and then
had failed to see it through. Even if this killed him, he
was going all the way.
That it might also kill the others bothered him. However,
they knew the dangers. No one was forcing them to go.
The final lift-off went according to schedule just before
dawn. Arc lights and torches blazed on the immense crowd
on the plain. The envelope of the balloon, painted with
aluminum, floated like a wrinkled sausage skin hanging
from an invisible hook.
The Jules Verne, at this stage of flight, did not
correspond to the layman's idea of a balloon, a
completely expanded sphere. But as it rose the bag would
fill out from applied heat and decreasing air pressure
around it.
The speeches had been made and the toasts drunk. Tom
Rider noticed that Frisco was using a bumper twice as
large as the others. He said something about "Dutch
courage" but not loudly enough for Frisco to hear him. By
the time Frisco entered the car, he was smiling and
waving merrily to the onlookers.
Peter Frigate completed the weigh-off. Until now, this
had always involved making sure that the weight-envelope,
gas, net, cargo chute, load ring, car, ballast,
equipment, supplies, aeronauts-was slightly less than the
lift. The Jules Verne was the first aerostat in which the
lift-off weight was slightly more than the upward pull of
the gas.
The car hanging below the bag was pumpkin shaped, and its
hull was a double-walled magnesium alloy. In the center
of its deck was a vertical L-shape, the vemian. Two thin
plastic pipes ran from the metal contraption holes in the
overhead. These were tightly packed to prevent escape of
air from the car.
From there, the plastic pipes extended upward and for
some distance beyond the hermetically sealed neck of the
envelope. Their ends were fitted to light alloy pipes
which rose to varying heights inside. One was longer than
the other; both were open-ended.
The crew had been talkative before boarding. Now they
looked at Frigate.
"Close the main hatch," he said, and the lift-off ritual
began.
Frigate checked a gauge and two stopcocks affixed to the
vernian. He opened a little hatch on the side near the
top of the L-shape. He adjusted another stopcock until he
heard a slight hissing. This came from a narrow nozzle at
the end of a steel pipe inside the highest compartment.
He stuck an energized electrical lighter at the end of an
aluminum rod into the furnace. A tiny flame popped from
the nozzle. He turned the stopcock to increase the flame,
adjusted two more to regulate the mixture of oxygen and
hydrogen feeding the torch. The flame began heating the
base of the large platinum cone just above it.
The lower end of the longest pipe extending into the bag
was fitted into the apex of the cone. As the heat was
expanded in the cone, the hydrogen in it moved upward,
flowing into the bag and causing it to expand. The cooler
hydrogen in the lower half of the bag, aided by a suction
effect, flowed into the open end of the shorter pipe
inside the envelope. It went down this pipe into the side
of the vemian and into the side of the cone. There it was
heated and rose, completing the circuit.
One of the compartments at the base of the vernian was an
electrical battery. This was far lighter and much more
powerful than the battery used by Fergusson in Veme's
novel. It broke water into its elements, hydrogen and
oxygen. These flowed into separate compartments, and then
went to a mixing chamber, where the oxyhydrogen was piped
to the torch.
One of Frigate's modifications to Verne's system was a
pipe that led from the hydrogen storage chamber to the
shorter pipe. By opening two stopcocks, the pilot could
allow hydrogen from the storage chamber to flow into the
balloon. This was an emergency measure used only to
replace hydrogen valved off from the bag. When this was
done, the torch was turned off, since hydrogen was highly
inflammable.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then, with no motion noticeable,
the car lifted off the ground. Frigate shut off the torch
several seconds later.
The shouts of the spectators became less audible, then
died out. The huge hangar shrank to a toy house. By then
the sun had cleared the mountain, and the stones
alongside The River thundered like artillery.
"That's our thousand-gun salute," Frigate said.
No one moved or spoke for a while after that. The silence
was as intense as that at the bottom of a deep cave.
However, the alloy walls of the hull had no sound-
absorbing qualities. When Frisco's stomach rumbled, it
sounded like distant thunder.
A slight wind sprang up now, carrying the vessel
southward, away from their goal. Pogaas stuck his head
out of an open port. He felt no sensation of movement
since the balloon traveled at the same speed as the wind.
The air around the hull was as still as if he was in a
sealed room. The flame of a candle set on top of the
vernian would have burned straight upward.
Though he'd gone up in aerostats many times, Frigate was
always gripped by ecstasy during the first minutes of
lift-off. No other form of flight-even gliding-could
thrill him so. He felt as if he was a disembodied spirit,
free of the shackles of gravity, of the cares and worries
of flesh and mind.
This was a delusion, of course, since gravity had the
balloon in its paws, was playing with it, and was likely
to bat it around at any moment. Nor was there much
respite from worries and cares. There was often work for
both body and brain.
Frigate shook himself like a dog coming out of water, and
he got down to the work that keeps a balloon pilot busy
during much of the flight. He checked the altimeter. One
thousand eight hundred and twenty-nine meters. A little
over 6000 feet. The verimeter, or statoscope, indicated
that the rate of ascent was increasing as the sun warmed
the gas in the bag. After checking the O and H storage
chambers were full, he disengaged the battery from the
water. For the present, he had nothing to do except keep
an eye on the altimeter and verimeter.
The Valley narrowed. The blue-black mountains, splotched
with vast patches of grey-green and blue-green lichen,
sank. The mists that ribboned the stream and the plains
were disappearing as swiftly as mice that had gotten word
a cat was in the neighborhood.
They were being carried southward increasingly swifter.
"We're losing ground," Frisco muttered. However, he spoke
only to release nervous tension. Test balloons had shown
that the stratospheric wind would carry them northeast.
Frigate said, "Last chance for a cigarette." Everybody
except Nur lit up. Though smoking had been forbidden on
all hydrogen balloons previous to the Jules Verne, it was
permitted on it at lower altitudes. There was no sense in
worrying about burning tobacco while an operating torch
was present.
Now the balloon had risen above the Valley, and they
thrilled at the sight of more than one at a time. There
they were, row on row. To their left were the valleys-
broad, deep canyons actually- which they had passed in
the Razzle Dazzle. And as they soared higher, the horizon
rushed outward as if in a panic. Frigate and Rider had
seen this phenomenon on Earth, but the others gazed in
awe. Pogaas said something in Swazi. Nur murmured, "It's
as if God were spreading out the world like a
tablecloth."
Frigate had all the ports closed, and he turned on the
oxygen supply and a little fan which sucked carbon
dioxide into an absorbent material. At 16 kilometers or
almost 10 miles altitude, the Jules Verne entered the
tropopause, the boundary between troposphere and
stratosphere. The temperature outside the cabin was - 73
C.
Now the contrary wind seized the aerostat and in so doing
slightly spun it. From then on, unless they encountered
an opposing wind, they would have the view of a rider on
a lazy merry-go-round.
Nur took over the pilot's post. Pogaas got the next, and
Rider had the third watch. When Farrington became the
pilot, he lost his nervousness. He was in control, and
that made all the difference. Frigate was reminded of how
Farrington had described in a book his fierce exultation
when, at the age of seventeen, he'd been allowed to steer
a sealing schooner in rough weather. After watching him
for a few minutes at the wheel, the captain had gone
below. Farrington was the only one above decks, the
safety of the ship and its crew in his hands. It had been
an ecstatic experience never surpassed in a life filled
with perilous adventures.
However, as soon as Frigate relieved him, he lost his
smile, and he looked as uneasy as before.
The sun continued to rise and with it the Jules Verne.
The envelope was near its pressure height now, which
meant that the joy ride was over. Since its neck was
sealed, instead of being open as in most manned
aerostats, it would keep rising until overexpanded. At
this point the bag would rupture, and down would come
everybody posthaste with a postmortem afterward. But
provisions had been made for this.
Frigate checked the altimeter and then rotated a metal
drum set in the overhead. This was attached by a rope to
a wooden valve in the neck of the bag. It opened,
releasing some gas. The balloon sank. It would shortly
begin rising again, though, which meant more gas would
have to be valved off. This called for operation of the
torch at intervals, and also for shutting off the torch
and feeding hydrogen into the balloon.
It required cool and accurate judgment to know just how
much gas to valve and how much to replace. Too much
valved off meant a too fast fall. Too much new gas meant
that the craft could ascend beyond the pressure height. A
safety valve on top of the bag would automatically
release gas to prevent bursting of the bag-if the valve
hadn't frozen-but the balloon would then become,
possibly, too heavy.
In addition, the pilot had to watch out for unexpectedly
warm layers of air. These could lift the Jules Verne too
swiftly and carry it above the pressure height. A sudden
cooling off could precipitate the craft downward.
The pilot could in the latter situation order ballast
thrown out, but this might result in a yoyo morion. And
if he lost all his ballast, he was in trouble. The only
way to lose altitude quickly was to release more gas.
Which meant that the burner might not be able to expand
the hydrogen quickly enough.
Nobody Knows the Troubles I've Seen would be his
swansong. However, the day passed without any nerve-
wracking emergencies. The sun sank, and the Jules Verne,
its hydrogen cooling, did likewise. The pilot had to run
the burner just enough to raise it now and then and keep
the vessel above the tropopause. Those off-duty snuggled
under heavy cloths and slept according to their natures.
Being the only one awake at night was eerie. The
illumination was feeble. The starlight poured into the
ports, but this, with some small lights above the gauges
and dials, was not enough for comfort. The alloy hull
amplified every noise: the impact of a hand on the deck
as somebody turned over and flung out an arm; Pogaas
muttering Swazi; Frisco grinding his teeth; Rider softly
whinnying horselike; the fan whirring.
When Frigate ignited the torch, the sudden explosion and
succeeding roar startled everybody from sleep. Then it
was his turn to burrow under the cloths, to sleep, to be
roused momentarily by the torch or a nightmare of
falling.
Dawn came. The crewmen got up at different times, used
the chemical toilet, drank hot instant coffee or tea, and
ate food saved from the grails, supplemented by acorn
bread and dried fish. The wastes from the toilet were not
jettisoned. Opening a hatch at this altitude meant a
possibly fatal drop in air pressure, and any weight loss
increased the lift.
The Frisco Kid, whose eye was best at estimating ground
speed, though they were clipping along at 50 knots.
Before noon, the vessel was gripped by a wind that took
them backward for several hours before it curved the
craft around northeast again. After three hours they were
going southward again.
"If this keeps up we'll whirl around here forever,"
Frigate said gloomily. "I don't understand this."
Late that afternoon they were back on the proper course.
Frigate said that they should descend to the surface
winds and try their luck there. They were far enough
north to be where the winds generally flowed toward the
northeast.
By letting the burner stay off, the gas slowly cooled.
The Jules Verne sank at a minuscule rate at first, then
began dropping swiftly. Nur turned the burner on for a
few minutes to check its descent. At 13 kilometers
altitude, the wind lessened. It picked up again and in an
opposite direction, the wrong one for them. It also gave
the craft a counterspin. Nur allowed it to sink until it
was about 2000 meters above the mountaintops. Now they
moved at an angle across the valleys, which were running
straight north and south in this area.
"We're going northeast again!" Frigate said happily.
At high noon of the third day they were sailing along at
an estimated 25 kmph or more than 15 mph. Only the Jules
Verne could have gotten this far. Any other type of
balloon would not have been able to ascend to the
stratosphere or descend to the surface winds without
losing too much gas to go on.
They opened the ports to let the thin but fresh air in.
The up- and downdrafts caused them some discomfort,
chiefly from the change in air pressure. They had to keep
swallowing and yawning to ease their eardrums. As dusk
approached, the drafts became less violent.
The next day, in the middle of the afternoon, they were
surprised by a thunderstorm. Farrington was pilot when
the black clouds beneath suddenly welled upward. At one
moment, the storm seemed to be safely below them. But
tendrils reached upward like the tentacles of an octopus.
The next moment, the body of the octopus seemed to shoot
toward them, and they were enveloped in darkness laced
with lightning. At the same time, they whirled like fleas
on a spinning top.
"We're dropping like a brick," Frisco said calmly. He
ordered that some ballast be dropped", but the craft kept
on falling. Lightning cracking nearby flooded the car
with a light in which their faces looked green. Thunder
bellowed in the echo chamber of the hull, and their ears
hurt. Rain shot into the open ports and covered the deck,
adding to the weight.
"Close the ports! Tom and Nur, throw out a Number Three
ballast bag!"
They leaped to obey him. Their bodies felt light, as if
the car was dropping so quickly it would leave them
floating.
Another nearby bolt cast light and fear. All saw a black
rock below, the flat top of a mountain rushing at them.
"Two Number One bags!"
Nur, looking out a port, said loudly but calmly, "The
bags're not falling much faster than we are."
"Two more Number Ones!"
Another fiery streak wrenched the air nearby.
"We ain't going to make it!" Frisco cried. "Two more
Number Ones! Stand by to get rid of all ballast!"
The edge of the hull struck the edge of the mountaintop.
The car bounced, throwing the entire crew to the deck. As
the momentarily loosened net ropes tautened again, the
crew, which had half-gotten to a standing position, were
hurled down again. Fortunately, the savage strain had not
snapped the ropes.
Ignoring their injuries, they got up and stared through
the deck port. Darkness except for a small interior
lights. Another bolt. They were too near the side of the
mountain, and the downdraft was still gripping the
balloon. The pointed tops of giant irontrees were coming
at them like hurled javelins.
It was too late to turn the burner on. Its effect would
be negligible in the little time left before impact.
Besides, the collision with the mountain top might have
loosened the junctions of the pipes. If that were so, one
spark would turn the interior of the hull into a furnace.
"All the ballast!" Frisco shouted.
Suddenly they were out of the clouds, but the blackness
was now a dark grey. They could see well enough to
discern the treetops spinning just below them.
Frisco left his post to help the others throw the bags
and the water containers out. Before anything could be
cast overboard, before Nur could punch a button to
release the ironshoi ballast, the car crashed into the
upper branches of an irontree. Again, they were knocked
down. Helpless, they heard crashing noises. But the
branches bent, then straightened out, hurling the car
upward and into the envelope.
The car fell back, was caught once more by the almost
unbreakable branches. Its occupants were rattled around
as if they were dice shaken in a cup.
Frigate was battered, bruised, and stunned. Even so, he
had wits enough left to envision the punishment the
plastic pipes were taking. They were being violently bent
between car and bag.
If ... oh, God, make it not so! ... if the pipes were
torn loose from the bag ... if the points of the branches
gutted the bag ... the car would fall to the ground. . .
unless it was held among the branches or the net was
tangled among them.
No. Now the car was rising.
But would the balloon go straight up? Outward toward The
River? Or would it be hurled against the side of the
mountain and the envelope ruptured against outcroppings?
                           66
While the rainstorm was at its height, the airship came
over the mountain from the north. Lightning, the only
illumination, tore the skies. The radar swept over the
Valley, over the treetops, across the spires of rock,
across the River, and zeroed in on the great boat. The
passive radar detector indicated that the boat's own
radars were not operating. After all, the boat was at
anchor, and why use the radar when no enemy was expected?
The huge hatches in the belly of the ship opened. The
helicopter, sitting on a platform, began rotating its
vanes. Inside were thirty-one men, Boynton at the
controls, de Bergerac by his side. Arms and boxes of
plastic explosive were stacked in the rear.
As soon as the motors were warmed up, Boynton gave the
high sign. Szentes, the C.P.O. in charge, listened to the
phone on the bulkhead, getting the last-minute report on
the wind. Then he whipped a little flag up and down. Go!
The copter lifted within the huge bay, moved sidewise off
the platform, hovered over the opening, the bay lights
glancing off its windshield and the tips of the whirling
vanes. Then it dropped as a stone, and de Bergerac,
looking up through the windshield, saw the colossal ship
merge into the black clouds and disappear.
Cyrano knew that the two-man glider would be launched
from it within a minute. Bob Winkelmeyer would be
piloting it; James McParlan would be his passenger.
Winkelmeyer was a West Point graduate, a flier who had
been shot down by a Zero during a scouting flight over an
island north of Australia. McParlan had been rather
famous in the 1870's. A Pinkerton detective, he had
infiltrated into the Mollie Maguires, a secret terrorist
organization of Irish coalminers in Pennsylvania. Under
the name of James McKenna, he had penetrated deep into
the gang, narrowly escaping detection and death a number
of times. As a result, the Maguires were arrested,
nineteen of them were hung, and the mine owners continued
to exploit their employees.
Winkelmeyer and McParlan would land in The River and
there sink their glider. Later, if they got a chance,
they would enlist aboard the Rex. There would be
vacancies, since it was doubtful that the raiding party
could pull off a coup without killing some of the crew of
the Rex.
As Sam Clemens had said to the two, "Rotten John doesn't
have a monopoly on double agents. Suck up to him, boys,
get him in your confidence. That is, if the raid fails,
do it. Maybe you won't have to. But I know that slippery
character. He's the greased pole the monkey couldn't
climb.
"So, if he gets out of it, you'll join his crew. And
then, when Armageddon comes, you'll blow up his boat.
It'll be as if Gabriel had planted two angels in the
guise of devils in Hell."
The helicopter plunged into the clouds. Lightning cracked
open the world, slicing like a flaming sword between
earth and heaven. Thunder roared. Rain pelted the
windscreens, dimming vision. The craft's radar, however,
saw the boat, and, within two minutes, the lights of
their target shone weakly.
Boynton took the chopper at a forty-five degree slant
toward the boat, then dropped it until it was close to
The River. At full speed, while lightning tore the fabric
of the night, it sped a meter above the surface. Now the
lights from the wheelhouse and along the decks grew
bigger and brighter.
Abruptly, the copter lifted, shot over the edge of the
flight deck, stopped, poised, and sank. Its wheels struck
the surface, and it bounced a little. But it settled
down, the vanes chirruped as they slowed, and its hatches
burst open.
By the time de Bergerac was on the deck, the motors had
been turned off. Boynton was helping men out on his side;
Cyrano was ordering a man in the craft to hand out the
boxes of bombs.
Cyrano glanced at the top deck of the pilothouse. So far,
no one was looking out of its stern window, no alarms had
been raised. Their luck was even better than they had
expected. Incredibly, there were no sentinels. Or, if
there were, they had noticed nothing untoward. Perhaps
they felt very safe in this area. A large part of the
crew might even be on shore leave. And the sentinels
might be goofing off, sleeping, drinking, or making love.
De Bergerac took out the Mark IV pistol and patted the
hilt of his epee. "Follow me!" Five men raced after him.
Two other groups took off on their appointed duty.
Boynton stayed in the copter, ready to start the motor at
the necessary time.
The flight deck was an extension of the overhead of the
Texas. The Frenchman ran down it toward the pilothouse,
the feet of his men thudding on its oaken surface.
Arriving at the entrance to the second deck of the
pilothouse, he paused. Now someone was shouting from the
open port of the wheelhouse above him. Cyrano ignored him
and plunged through the doorway. The others followed him
up the steep ladder. Before the last man had gotten
through, a shot sounded. Cyrano looked back down.
"Anybody hit?" he shouted.
The man behind him, Cogswell, said, "He missed me!"
Alarms were ringing above, and from a distance came the
whooping of a siren. Within seconds, other sirens joined
it.
The second deck was a brightly illuminated corridor lined
by cabins in which the chief officers and their women
would be quartered. Hopefully, John Lackland would be in
the cabin on the left, just below the ladder leading up
to the bridge or wheelhouse. Clemens had planned to use
that cabin, since it was the largest, and it was not
probable that John would take a smaller one. There were
four doors on each side of the passageway. One of these
opened as de Bergerac plunged in. A man stuck his head
out. De Bergerac aimed the pistol at him, and the man
slammed the door shut.
Quickly, working as planned, each of the six pulled a
device from his belt. These had been delivered from the
machinist's shop only an hour before, and two men carried
an extra. They were short bars of duraluminum with long,
heavy steel nails in each end. Fitted over the side of
the door and the bulkhead, they were driven by heavy
hammers into the oak. A determined person in the cabin
could batter them out in time, but by then, if all went
as planned, John and his abductors would be gone.
There were shouts and screams coming from inside the
cabin. One man tried to push a door open while Cogswell
was hammering. He dropped the hammer and fired through
the narrow opening, not attempting to shoot the man. The
door closed, and he quickly finished his work.
By now, John would have been informed via intercom that
the boat was under attack. But the noise in the corridor
would have been enough to inform him that the invaders
were there. He did not need the explosion of the pistol
to tell him that.
Three men should also have rounded the pilothouse and be
going up its fore ladder. However... ah, yes, here came
one of the wheelhouse watch. He stuck a pale face around
the corner of the entrance at the top of the ladder
leading to the corridor. Now he was stepping out from it,
a heavy .69-caliber pistol in two hands. He wore no
armor.
"Peste!"
Though Cyrano hated to harm the man, whom he had never
seen before, he aimed and fired.
"Quelle merde!"
Cyrano had missed, the plastic bullet shattering against
the bulkhead beside the man. Some fragments must have
struck him, for he screamed and staggered back, dropping
his pistol and clutching his face.
Cyrano was not an excellent shot. This was just as well,
he told himself. If the bullet removed the man without
greatly harming him, instead of killing him, its effect
was even more desirable. Shots and yells came from the
wheelhouse. That would mean that the three had gone up
the aft ladder and were now keeping the watch busy.
He strode to the door of the cabin in which John must be.
There was no use asking its occupant to come out with
hands up. Whatever the ex monarch of England and half of
France was, he was not a coward.
Of course, it was possible that he was not aboard
tonight. He might be on shore, roistering and wenching.
Cyrano smiled as, reaching out from the side of the
bulkhead, he tried the knob. The door was locked. So, the
captain of the Rex was at home, though not receiving.
A man's voice cried out in Esperanto. ''What is
happening?"
Cyrano grinned. It was King John's baritone.
"Captain, we're being attacked!" Cyrano shouted.
He waited. Perhaps John would fall for this trick,
thinking it was the voice of one of his men, and open the
door.
An explosion sounded, followed by a bullet which would
have hit him if he had been standing in front of the
door. It was not one of your plastic missiles which would
shatter against the oak. It was of the precious lead and
made a respectably sized hole.
He gestured at one of his men, and the fellow removed a
package of plastic explosive from a small box. Cyrano
stood to one side while his colleague, Sheehan, crouching
low, pressed the explosive around the lock and over the
hinges.
Crafty John sent another bullet crashing through the
wood. This was low, catching Sheehan in the skull just
above his eyes. He fell back and lay staring, mouth open.
"Quel dommage!"
Sheehan had been a fine fellow. It was a pity that his
funeral sermon was confined to, "What a pity!"
On the other hand, he should not have been so careless as
to put himself in the line of fire.
Cogs well ran up to the corpse, retrieved the electrical
line and battery, and walked swiftly backward, unreeling
the line. Fortunately, Sheehan had inserted the fuse in
the plastic, thus saving a few seconds. Everything was a
matter of utmost speed, and seconds might mean the
difference between success or failure.
Cyrano retreated to the corner, flattened himself against
the bulkhead, turned his head away, and stuck his fingers
in his ears, opening his mouth at the same time.
Though he could not see him, he could imagine Cogswell
securing one end of the wire to a terminal of the
battery, then touching the other with the other end of
the wire.
The explosion rocked and half-deafened him. Clouds of
acrid smoke filled the corridor. Coughing, he felt his
way along the bulkhead, touched the now open doorframe,
dimly saw the blasted door lying over Sheehan's body, and
then he was inside the stateroom.
He had dived in and then rolled side wise, a maneuver
made clumsy by the sheathed sword attached to his belt.
Now he was up against something that felt like the legs
of a bed. Almost directly above him, a woman was
screaming. But where was John Lackland?
A pistol boomed. Cyrano saw its flash through the smoke
and was up and flying across the corner of the bed. His
arms enfolded a thick and naked waist, and the tackled
man went over sideways. There was a grunt, a flailing arm
that struck Cyrano's head without hurting him, and then
the man went limp.
Cyrano had his dagger out and against the man's throat.
"Make one move, and I'll cut your throat!"
There was no response. Was the fellow frozen with terror
or was he faking?
Cyrano's other hand felt along the shoulder, up the neck,
and along the head. The man did not move. Ah! A
stickiness! John, if it was John, had struck his head and
was indeed unconscious.
Cyrano got up, groped along the bulkhead, and found the
switch. The light showed a large room, luxuriously
decorated and furnished by Riverworld standards. The
smoke was clearing away now, revealing a very pretty and
quite naked woman on her knees in the center of the bed.
She had stopped screaming and was staring at him with
huge blue eyes.
"Get under the covers and stay there, and you won't be
hurt, mademoiselle. De Bergerac does not make war upon
women. Unless they try to kill him."
The man sprawled on the deck was short and muscularly
built and tawny haired. His blue eyes were open, and he
was mumbling something. In a few seconds, he would be
recovering his wits.
Cyrano turned and saw why John had fired his pistol.
Hoijes lay on his back on the floor, his chest torn open.
"Mordioux!"
He must have run in immediately after he had seen his
colleague dive through the doorway. And John, seeing him
outlined against the light from the corridor, had shot
him. Doubtless, he, Cyrano, had not been fired at because
the smoke was still too thick for him to be seen.
Two of his men were dead so far. Perhaps there were
others elsewhere. They would be left there, since it had
been agreed that carrying off bodies would slow the
getaway.
Where were the others? Why had they not come in after
him?
Ah, here were Cogswell and Propp!
Something hard struck him, lifted him up and backward,
hurling him into a bulkhead. He fell down on his face,
and lay there, while his ears rang and his head seemed to
expand and collapse, expand and collapse, like an
accordion. More heavy clouds of smoke filled the room,
stinging his eyes and making him cough violently.
It was some time before he could get onto his knees and
more time before he managed to stand. By then he
understood that a bomb had gone off in the corridor. Had
it been thrown down from the wheelhouse?
Whoever had done it, he had killed Cogswell and Propp.
And he had come close to killing Savinien de Cyrano II de
Bergerac.
John was on his knees now, swaying, staring ahead of him
while he coughed. A pistol lay within reach of his hand,
but he did not seem aware of it.
Ah, now the vile fellow had extended his hand to grasp
its butt!
Having neither gun nor dagger, Cyrano unsheathed his
epee. He stepped forward and brought its triangular blade
down like a club against the back of John's head. John
fell forward on his face and lay motionless.
The woman was on her face on the bed, her hands covering
her ears and her shoulders shaking.
Cyrano staggered through the smoke, almost stumbling over
Propp's body. He stopped when he reached the doorway. His
sense of hearing was coming back, but the firing in the
corridor sounded faint. He got down on his knees and
dared to stick his head out. The smoke was being carried
away by the draft from the doorway at the top of the
ladder. A body lay at the foot of the ladder. Evidently
someone from the wheelhouse, perhaps the bomb thrower.
Down at the end of the corridor two men crouched, firing
out through the entrance. They were raiders, Sturtevant
and Velkas.
Now two men, smoke-grimed, were coming down the ladder.
Reagan and Singh. They must have cleaned out the
wheelhouse and were coming to help the abduction party.
Their aid was indeed needed.
Cyrano got up and gestured at them. They said something,
but he could not hear it. That bomb must have been a
rather large one. It had certainly made a mess of the
corridor.
Reagan and Singh entered the cabin and picked up the limp
body of John. Cyrano followed them after sheathing his
sword and reloading his pistols. The woman continued to
hide her face in the mattress and to keep her hands over
her ears. See no evil, hear no evil.
On stepping out of the cabin, he saw that Sturtevant and
Velkas had left. So-whoever they had been shooting at had
been eliminated. Reagan and the giant Sikh, dragging
John, his head lolling, his feet trailing, were almost to
the door. Velkas reappeared, running by the three men,
shouting something at them. They kept on while Velkas
sped to Cyrano.
By putting his mouth against Cyrano's ear and yelling,
Velkas made himself understood. Some of John's crew had
gotten to a steam machine gun. But their backs would be
exposed to fire from John's cabin.
They ran into the cabin and looked out a port. To the
right was a platform which extended over the edge of the
flight deck. On it was mounted the thick barrel of a
steam gun. Two men were behind its shield, swinging the
weapon around to bear on the helicopter.
To his left, below him, were Sturtevant and the two
carrying John. They would also be in the line of fire of
the gun.
Cyrano opened the wide, square port, braced his pistol on
its ledge, and fired. A second later, Velkas' gun boomed
in his ear, deafening him even more.
They emptied their pistols. At this distance accuracy was
impossible. The Mark IV pistols were using precious lead
bullets, but the charges required to propel .69-caliber
missiles caused a powerful recoil. Moreover, the wind,
though slight, had to be compensated for.
The first two volleys missed. Then the gunner fell
sidewise and the other man, taking over, dropped a few
seconds later. Neither may have been struck by a direct
hit. The shield could have made the bullets ricochet. It
did not matter. The effect was the same.
By then, Sturtevant and the man dragging John were
halfway across the deck. The chopper's vanes were
whirling, but Cyrano could not hear them. Even if his
hearing had been regained, the alarm sirens would have
drowned out their noise.
Cyrano grabbed Velkas' arm and pulled him close. Shouting
in his ear, he told him to get to the machine gun and
hold off anybody who tried to attack. He gestured at the
armed men who had just emerged from a hatch at the far
end of the deck.
Velkas nodded and ran out the door.
Cyrano looked again through the porthole. The parties
sent to blow up the paddlewheel motors and the ammunition
supply were not in sight. Either they were still working
or they were cornered and trying to shoot their way out.
He ran up the ladder and into the wheelhouse. Bodies lay
on the deck. One of his men, two of John's. The lights
shone on their blue-grey faces, staring eyes, and open
mouths.
He turned off the alarm sirens and looked out the front
screens. There was no one on the fore decks except a body
at the foot of the ladder leading down from the fore part
of the pilothouse and several bodies near the prow.
The boat was alongside a well-lit dock far longer and
more massive than those usually found along The River.
Perhaps the crew of the Rex had built it, their captain
having decided to give everybody a long liberty. Or
perhaps extensive repairs were needed.
It did not matter. What did was that the raiders had had
the luck to find the boat manned only by guards and a few
officers. John had decided to spend the night aboard,
another item of luck, though not for him.
However, the uproar had awakened those on shore. They
were streaming out from the huts on the plain and the
stockaded fortresses. The lights from the boat showed the
forefront of the mob racing toward the dock. Many of
these were crew members, since they carried metal
weapons.
It had not been in the plan to move the boat from the
dock, but it should have been. Cyrano, knowing that the
boat would be invaded in overwhelming numbers within a
minute or so, took action. He sat down in the pilot's
seat, pressed the motor power switches, and grinned as he
saw the ON lights illuminated. Until now, he had not been
sure that the motor power was available. After all, to
make sure that the vessel was not stolen, John could have
had the switches disconnected.
He prayed that just now would not be the moment for the
motors to be blown up. If they were, the boat would be
immobilized, and he and his fellows might not get to the
chopper in time.
There was no time to untie the mooring lines. Too bad,
but the power of the great electrical motors was immense.
He pulled back on the long, knobbed metal rods, one on
each side of him, and the paddlewheels began turning
backward. They moved slowly at first, too slowly to tear
the lines. He pulled the sticks as far back as they would
go, thus, causing the wheels to rotate at full speed.
The giant mooring ropes were stretched. But, instead of
snapping, they pulled the ends of the vertical beams
alongside the dock after the boat.
For a moment, the fastenings of the piles held. The
people on the dock either threw themselves down or leaped
across the space between dock and boat. With a rending
noise that could be heard even above their shouts and the
firing aft, the piles came loose.
Its supports removed, the near side of the dock tilted,
precipitating most of those on it into the water. Only
one man managed to jump onto the boat without falling in.
The Rex backed swiftly away, dragging the beams alongside
it at the ends of the massive ropes. Cyrano, laughing,
stabbed a panel button, and the steam whistles hooted
derisively at those left ashore or in the water.
"How do you like that, John!" he yelled. "Not only you
but your boat is stolen! It's only just!"
Now he pushed the starboard stick forward, and the great
boat turned down-River. He steered it to the middle of
the stream and set the automatic pilot on. Its sonars
estimating the depth and the distance from both banks, it
would now hold a course exactly in the middle unless it
was on a collision course with a large object. Then it
would turn to avoid it.
The man who had jumped onto the boat ran across the deck
and disappeared from view. A half-minute later, he came
up the ladder to the next deck. Evidently he was headed
from the pilothouse.
At that moment, the rain ceased.
Cyrano leaned out of the door and emptied his pistol at
the man as he ran across the deck. The man dived beneath
an overhang, then stuck his head out and shot back at
Cyrano. The only bullet that came near smashed itself
halfway up the ladder.
Cyrano looked out the aft screen. The helicopter was
still sitting on the flight deck. John and his three
captors were now inside it. Four men were running across
the deck toward the texas. He lowered the screen and
leaned out, gesturing to them that it was he who had
moved the boat. They stopped and waved at him, grinning,
and then turned and ran to the copter.
At the far end of the deck some men were still shooting
at the copter from a hatch. But their large-caliber
plastic bullets were going against the wind, and most of
them were falling on the deck or being blown over the
deck. Cyrano could not determine how many were firing,
but it seemed to him that there could not be more than
three or four.
Of course, there might be others in the boiler deck
fighting with the demolition men.
And then the boat shook and a great cloud of smoke rose
from the deck near the port wheelhousing.
The blast was followed by another almost immediately.
This one was from the starboard side, a much more
powerful explosion than the other. Pieces of flight deck
soared up through the smoke, falling on the deck, some
being propelled near the helicopter. The clouds were
quickly dissipated, however, revealing a great hole just
beside the starboard wheel.
The lights went off, then burned again as the emergency
system took over. The motors having stopped, the boat
began to turn slowly, its nose moving toward the right
bank. It would be drifting now, though it might be many
kilometers before it rammed the bank.
Sturtevant was back out of the chopper and waving at
Cyrano to hurry.
Four men appeared on the starboard side of the flight
deck. Two came up from the ladder on the port.
Cyrano cursed. Were these the only survivors of the
explosives crews?
Now little clouds of smoke rose from the hatch where the
defenders had been firing at the chopper. One of his men
dropped. The others gave protective fire while two of
them picked up the fallen man and began to carry him
between them toward the copter. One of them fell and
could not get back up. He was picked up by two men. The
other wounded man was hoisted up onto the shoulders of a
comrade, and that one carried him though he staggered
under the burden.
Cyrano ran back to the other side of the wheelhouse. That
damnable fellow who had gotten aboard appeared for a
moment, running across the deck just below. He was not
carrying his pistol, which meant that he must have
discarded it after emptying it. He carried an epee in his
right hand.
His eye caught the movement near the foot of the ladder
leading from the wheelhouse to the deck below. One of the
men whom he had thought dead was living. And he was
motioning for help. He must have seen the face of his
chief at the screen.
Cyrano did not hesitate. The orders were to leave the
dead behind, but nothing had been said about abandoning
the wounded. In any case, he would have disregarded such
a command. There seemed to be no immediate grave danger
to the chopper. The few defenders could not cross the
flight deck without exposing themselves to the fire of
those in the chopper. Of course, they could take another
route, come up a ladder near the machine. But he, Cyrano,
could get this poor wounded fellow to the copter before
John's men got there.
He went down the ladder as swiftly as he could, skipping
steps, sliding his hands along the railings. By then
Tsoukas had gotten on his hands and knees. His head hung
low, and he was shaking it.
Cyrano knelt by him. "Do not worry, my friend. I am
here."
Tsoukas groaned and pitched forward into a puddle of
blood.
"Mordioux!"
He felt Tsoukas' pulse.
"Merde!"
The fellow was dead.
But perhaps the other two were still alive.
A swift examination dispelled his hope.
He rose, and whirled, his hand going to the butt of his
bolstered pistol. Here came that lone man, a brave person
but a nuisance. Why had he not fallen into the water and
so saved Cyrano the trouble of killing him and himself
the irreparable harm of being killed?
"Ayyy!"
The pistol was empty; he had forgotten to load it. And
there was no time to pick up one from the deck, to use
the gun dropped by a dead man. Indeed, there was scarcely
time to unsheath his sword and so prevent this audacious
fellow from running him through. Boynton would have to
wait for him a few seconds longer. That surely would be
sufficient to dispose of this obstacle.
"En garde!"
The man was a trifle shorter than himself. But, whereas
Cyrano was as thin as a rapier, this foolish person was
as sturdy as the shaft of a war axe. His shoulders were
broad, his chest was deep, and his arms were thick. He
had a dark, Arabic-looking face of imposing structure,
though his lips were too thick, and his blazing black
eyes and white grin made him look like a pirate. He wore
only a cloth fastened around the waist.
With those wrists, Cyrano thought, his antagonist would
make an excellent saberman-if he had the skill to match
his muscle.
But with a rapier, where speed, not strength, was most
important, ah, that was a different matter.
After the first few seconds, Cyrano knew that, whatever
the man's aptitude with the saber was, he had never
crossed blades with the likes of such before.
Cyrano's parries, attacks, advances and retreats, lunges
and recoveries were equally matched. Fortunately, the
devil did not so far have the slightest superiority in
quickness. If he had, he would have run his opponent
through.
He must know, however, that he was fighting another
master. Even so, he was still smiling, seemingly
undaunted, but behind his savage mask must be a
realization that he would die if he became a fraction of
a second slower in reflex and judgment.
Time was on the side of the dark man. He had no place to
go, nothing to do but fight, and Cyrano had to get to the
machine soon. Boynton must know that Cyrano was still
alive, since Sturtevant had seen him in the wheelhouse.
He would be wondering what was keeping him.
Would he wait a few minutes longer, and then, his chief
not showing, think that he was dead for some
unaccountable reason? Would he then take off? Or would he
send someone to investigate?
There was not time to think about such matters. This
devil was countering every maneuver, just as Cyrano was
countering his. It was a stalemate, though there was
certainly nothing stale about this. The attacking and the
defending blades flashed almost in rhythm with each
other.
Ah! Knowing this, the fellow had broken the rhythm. Once
the rhythm was well established a fencer had a tendency
to continue the sequence of motion. This almost
unparalleled swordsman had hesitated slightly, hoping
that Cyrano would follow the rhythm himself and so be
spitted.
He had underestimated his man. Cyrano adjusted in the
split second needed and so saved himself from a bad
wound. But the point did penetrate his upper right arm
slightly.
Cyrano came out of the retreat with a lunge which was
parried. Not quite well enough. The man's arm also bore a
slight wound.
''You have the honor of the first blood,'' Cyrano said in
Esperanto. "And that is indeed an honor. No other man has
ever succeeded in doing that."
It was foolish to waste desperately needed breath in
conversation. Cyrano, however, was as curious as the
alley cat he resembled.
"What is your name?"
The man said nothing, though it could be stated that his
blade spoke for him. Its point was quicker than the
tongue of a fishwife.
"I am one whom you may have heard of. Savinien de Cyrano
de Bergerac!"
The dark man only smiled more ferociously, and he pressed
Cyrano even more. This fellow was not one to be shaken by
a name, no matter how impressive. Nor did he intend to
expend energy in talking. Of course, it was barely
possible that he did not know the name of de Bergerac.
Someone shouted. It could have been this distraction or
perhaps it was after all the shock of finding out whom he
faced. Whatever the reason, the man's reaction was not
quite what it should have been. Using the thrust invented
by Jamac, Cyrano drove his blade through the man's thigh.
Even so, his point went deep into Cyrano's right arm. His
epee clattered on the deck.
The man fell then, but he tried to get up on one knee to
defend himself. Blood flowed swiftly down his leg.
Cyrano, hearing the slap of feet, looked around. Here
came Sturtevant and Cabell, pistols in their hands.
"Do not shoot him!" Cyrano cried.
The two halted, their weapons aimed at the dark man.
Cyrano picked up his sword with his left hand. His right
arm hurt abominably; the blood was running like wine from
a freshly broached cask.
Cyrano said, "Perhaps this match might have ended in
another fashion if we had not been interrupted."
The fellow must be in great pain, but he was not showing
it. Those black eyes burned as if they were those of
Satan himself.
"Throw down your sword, sir, and I will bind your wound."
"Go to hell!"
"Very well, sir. But I wish you a speedy recovery."
"Come on, Cyrano," Cabell said;
For the first time, Cyrano heard the shots. They were
coming from the port side, which meant that the defenders
had worked their way around to a closer position to the
helicopter.
Cabell continued, "The chopper's been hit several times.
And we'll have to run through their fire to get to it."
"Very well, Richard," Cyrano said. He pointed at the
walkie-talkie fastened to Sturtevant's belt.
"My dear fellow, why don't you summon Boynton to this
side? Then we can board in comparative safety."
"Yeah. I should have thought of that."
Cabell bound a cloth ripped from a corpse around the
wound in the Frenchman's arm. The dark man's skin was
greyish, and his eyes had lost their fire. As the
helicopter settled down near them, Cyrano stepped forward
and, using his epee, knocked the other's from his grasp.
He said nothing; he did not resist as Cyrano tied a cloth
around the wound in his thigh.
"Your comrades can give you more than first aid when they
arrive," Cyrano said.
He ran to the machine and climbed in. Boynton took it up
before the door was closed, sending it at an angle up-
River. John, still completely naked, was slumped in a
seat in the second row. Cyrano, looking at him, said,
"Get some cloths on him. Then tie his hands and his
feet."
He looked down. There were about twenty men on the flight
deck. Where had the others come from? They were shooting
away, their guns flashing like sex-crazed fireflies. But
they had no chance of hitting their target. Did they not
know that their captain was aboard, that they might hit
him? Apparently not.
Something hit him in the back of his head. He was
floating somewhere in a dark greyness while faraway
voices said peculiar things. The ugly face of his
childhood schoolteacher, the village cure, loomed before
him. The brutal fellow had often beaten his student,
rapping him savagely with a stick on the body and on the
head. At the age of twelve, Cyrano, desperate, mad with
rage, had attacked the parish priest, knocked him down,
kicked him, and beaten him with his own stick.
Now the apish features, growing ever larger, swept
through him. And he began to regain his senses.
Boynton was yelling, "I can't believe it! He got away!"
Cabell was saying, "He rammed his elbow into my ribs, and
he kicked Cyrano in the head!"
The chopper was tilted so that he could look down through
the still unclosed door. A searchlight from the boat
briefly caught the king's naked body. His arms were
flailing in an effort to keep himself upright. Then John
had disappeared into the darkness.
"He couldn't survive!" Boynton said. "It's at least a
thirty-meter fall!"
They would not be able to go back down and make sure. Not
only were some shooting at the chopper, others were
running now to a rocket battery. Though there was no
chance the pistol shots could hit the chopper, the heat-
seeking rockets would be .unavoidable unless Boynton got
the machine to a safe distance.
However, Boynton was not the man to be so easily
frightened. And he was undoubtedly infuriated that their
prisoner had escaped.
Now he was flying the copter, not away, but toward the
boat. He was bringing it to a point about 90 meters
opposite the rockets. There went the four rockets the
machine carried, flames spurting from their tails.
And there went the battery in a huge ball of flame and a
cloud of smoke, bodies and pieces of deck and metal
flying on all sides.
"That'll stop them!" Boynton said.
Sturtevant said, "How about strafing them?"
Cyrano was startled. "What? Oh, use the machine gun? No,
let us depart with speed. If there's one survivor, he
could get to another rocket battery, and we'd be done
for. We have failed our mission and lost too many brave
fellows to risk more casualties."
"I don't see how we've failed,'' Boynton said. "Sure, we
didn't bring John back, but he is dead. And it'll be a
long, long time before the boat is ready to operate."
"You think John is dead, eh?" Cyrano said. "I would like
to believe that. But I will not say for certain that he
is dead until I see his corpse."
                           67
Groaning with pain, the crew of the Jules Verne quickly
checked themselves for injuries. Three had ribs that hurt
so badly they were not sure they were not cracked or
broken. Frigate thought that his neck muscles were either
torn or severely strained. Tex and Frisco had bloody
noses, and the latter's knee was paining him. Pogaas'
forehead was skinned and bleeding. Only Nur was unhurt.
There was little time to worry about themselves. The
balloon was now rising but was drifting away from the
mountain. The storm clouds were disappearing as swiftly
as burglars who hear a police siren. Fortunately, the
light system was still working. Frisco could see the
flight instruments. Nur got a flashlight, and he and
Frisco applied a thin liquid to the pipe connections.
Nur, examining these through a magnifying glass, reported
that he could see no bubbles. Apparently, no hydrogen was
escaping.
Nur opened the top hatch, and he and Pogaas climbed out
onto the load ring. While the Swazi directed the beam of
the flashlight, Nur went up the ropes like a monkey. He
could not get close enough to the neck of the bag to
apply a paste. But he did report that the envelope seemed
to be tight around the entrance of the pipes.
Frisco heard this with skepticism. "Yeah, they seem to be
O.K. But we can't really tell unless we land and deflate
the bag."
Frigate said, "As long as we have positive buoyancy,
we'll stay aloft. I don't think we should land until we
come up against the polar winds. That ought to be
tomorrow if we've estimated our travel distance
correctly. If we touch down, we might lose the balloon.
For one thing, we don't know how the locals will react to
it. In the early days of Terrestrial ballooning, a number
were destroyed by ignorant and superstitious peasants
when the aeronauts landed in rural areas. The peasants
believed the balloon to be the devil's work or the
vehicle of evil magicians. We might run into such
people."
Frigate admitted that it made him very uneasy to be
without ballast. However, if they must, they could always
unbolt the chemical toilet and throw it out. Of course,
the situation might be such that there wouldn't be time
to do this.
The Jules Verne lifted above the Valley, and the wind
sent it spanking along northeasterly. After an hour it
lost much of its strength, but the craft was still moving
in the right direction. It was also steadily ascending.
Frigate took over the pilot's post at 4877 meters or a
little over 16,000 feet of altitude. To stop further
ascension, he valved off hydrogen in driblets. When it
began to sink, he turned the burner on. From then on, the
pilot would be busy trying to maintain the vessel within
a 2000-meter zone while losing as little gas as possible
and running the burner at a minimum.
Frigate's neck and shoulder pained him very much. He
would be glad when he was relieved and could get under
the cloths and stretch out. One drink of booze wouldn't
hurt him and it might ease the agony.
So far the voyage had been mostly hard and fast work,
some stomach-squeezing danger, and much boredom. He'd be
happy when the final landing was made. Then the events of
the trip would start to take on the patina of amusing
adventure. As time passed, it would gain a golden glow,
and it would all seem wonderful. The crew would tell
exaggerated stories, making their perils seem even more
hairbreadth than they had actually been.
Imagination was the great cozener of the past.
Standing by the vernian, the only illumination the cold
starlight and the instrument bulbs, all but himself
asleep, Frigate felt lonely. Tempering the loneliness,
however, was pride. The Jules Verne had broken the record
for nonstop balloon flights. From lift-off to this point,
it had floated approximately 4824 kilometers or 3000
miles. And it would cover much more distance-if all went
well- before it was forced to land.
And it had been done by five amateurs. Except for
himself, none had ever been in a balloon on Earth. His
forty hours in hot-air balloons and thirty in gas
balloons did not make him a veteran aeronaut. He'd logged
more time on this flight than all his hours on Earth.
The crew had gone on a voyage which would have made
history if it had been on the native planet. Their faces
would have been on TV screens worldwide, they'd have been
feted and banqueted, they could have written books which
would become movies, the royalties would have rolled in.
Here, only a few would ever know what they had done. Even
a smaller number would refuse to believe them. Not even a
few would know if the voyage ended in the deaths of the
crew.
He looked out a port. The world was bright starlight and
dark shadows, the valleys like snakes crawling, serpents
in march order. The stars were silent, the valleys were
silent. As quiet as the mouths of the dead.
That was a gloomy simile.
As silent as the wings of a butterfly. It recalled the
summers of Earth in his childhood and youth, the many-
colored flowers of the backyard garden, especially the
sunflowers, ah, the tall yellow sunflowers, the songs of
birds, the savory odors of his mother's cooking drifting
to his nose, roast beef, cherry pies, his father playing
the piano ...
He remembered one of his father's favorite songs, one of
his own favorites. He'd often sung it softly while on
night watch on the schooner. When he did so, he saw in
his mind a small glow far ahead of him, a glow like a
star, a light that seemed to travel before him, guiding
him toward some unnamed but nevertheless desirable goal.
"Shine, little glow-worm, glimmer, glimmer, Shine little
glow-worm, glimmer, glimmer.
Lead us, lest too far we wander. Love's sweet voice is
calling yonder.
"Shine, little glowworm, glimmer, glimmer, Shine little
glow-worm, glimmer, glimmer.
Light the path below, above. And lead us on to love!"
Suddenly, he was weeping. The tears were for the good
things that had been or might have been, for the bad
things that had been but should not have been.
Drying his tears, he made a final check and roused the
little Moor for his watch. He crawled under the cloths,
but his neck and shoulders drove sleep away. After trying
vainly to sink into blessed oblivion, he got out to talk
to Nur. They continued a conversation that had gone on,
day and night, for many years.
                           68
"IN SEVERAL RESPECTS," NUR SAID, "THE CHURCH OF THE
SECOND chance and the Sufis agree. The Chancers, however,
have somewhat different technical terms which might lead
you to think that each refers to different things.
"The final goal of the Chancers and the Sufis is the
same. Ignoring the difference in terms, both claim that
the individual self must be absorbed by the universal
self. That is, by Allah, God, the Creator, the Rel, call
Him what you will."
"And this means that the individual being is
annihilated?"
"No. Absorbed. Annihilation is destruction. In absorption
the individual soul, ka, or brahman, becomes part of'the
universal self."
"And that means that the individual loses his self-
consciousness, his individuality? He is no longer aware
of himself?"
"Yes, but he is part of the Great Self. What is the loss
of self-consciousness as an individual compared to the
gain of self-consciousness as God?"
' "That strikes me with horror. You might as well be
dead. Once you're no longer self-conscious, you are dead.
No, I can't understand why the Chancers of Buddhists or
Hindus or Sufis think this state desirable.
"Without self-consciousness, the individual is indeed
dead."
"If you'd experienced that ecstasy which Sufis experience
in one stage of development, the passing-away, you'd
understand. Can a person blind from birth be filled with
ecstasy while those with sight are looking at a glorious
sunset?"
"That's just it," Frigate said. "I have had mystical
experiences. Three.
"One was when I was twenty-six years old. I was working
in a steel mill. In the soaking pits. There cranes strip
large ingots from the molds into which molten steel was
poured in the open hearths. After the stripping, the
cooling ingots are lowered into gas-burning pits which
reheat them. From there they' re taken to the rolling
mill.
"When I worked in the pits, I fancied that the ingots
were souls. Lost souls in the flames of purgatory. They'd
be soaked in the flames for a while, then carried off to
the place where they'd be pressed down into shape for
heaven. Just as the big rolls in the mill squeezed down
on ingots, shaping them, pressing the impurities to the
ends of the ingots, which were then chopped off, so the
souls would be shaped and purified.
"However, this has little to do with the subject of
conversation. Or does it?
"Anyway, one day I was standing at the huge open door of
the soaking-pits building, resting a moment. I was
looking out along the yards at the open hearth. I don't
remember what I was thinking then. Probably that I was
tired of working in this extremely hot place at hard
labor for such low pay. I was also probably wondering if
I was ever going to become a successful writer.
"All of my stories had been rejected, though I'd had a
few encouraging notes from editors. Whit Burnett, for
instance, the editor of a high-prestige if low-paying
magazine, Story, twice came close to buying my stories,
but both times his wife disagreed with him, and he
bounced them.
"Anyway, there I was, staring at the mill's ugliness, not
at all conducive to pleasant thoughts and especially not
to a mystical state.
"I was in low spirits, very low. And the train tracks
that filled the yard, the grey metal dust that covered
the mud and every object on the yard, the huge, hideous
sheet-iron building that housed the open hearths, the
smoke that the wind brought down low to the ground, the
acrid stink of the smoke, all made for a very depressing
mood.
"And then suddenly, unaccountably, it all seemed to
change. In a flash. I don't mean that the ugliness became
beautiful. It was just as grey and unpleasant as before.
"But, somehow, I suddenly felt that the universe was
right. And all was and would be well. There was a subtle
shift in my perspective. Let me put it this way. It was
as if the universe was composed of an infinity of glass
bricks. These bricks were almost, but not quite,
invisible. I could see their edges, though these were
ghostly.
"The bricks had been piled so that their faces were not
quite even. As if God was a drunken mason. But now, in
this subtle shift, the bricks moved, and their faces were
even. Order had been restored. Divine order and beauty.
The cosmic building was no longer an ill-built structure,
fit only to be condemned by the cosmic zoning inspectors.
"I felt exalted. For a moment, I was looking into the
basic structure of the world. Past the plaster that has
been smeared on to make the walls look smooth and even.
"I knew, I knew, that the universe was right. And that I
was right. That is, my place in the world was right. I
fitted. Though I was a living being, yet I was one of
those bricks, and I'd been aligned in the proper place.
"Rather, I'd suddenly become aware that I had been
aligned all along. Until that moment I had thought that I
was out of place, not quite on a level with the other
pieces. But how could I be? All the pieces, the bricks,
were misaligned.
"That was my mistake. Everything was in its place. It was
my eyesight, my comprehension, rather, that had been
twisted. Aberrated, call it what you will."
Nur said, "And how long did that state last?"
"A few seconds. But I felt very good, even happy,
afterward. The next day, though, I remembered the ...
revelation ... but its effect was gone. I went on living
as before. The universe was again a structure built by an
incompetent or drunken builder. Or perhaps by a
malicious, cheating contractor.
"Still, there were moments ..."
"The other experiences?"
"The second should be thrown out. It came from marijuana,
not from myself. You see, I've smoked perhaps half a
dozen marijuana cigarettes in my life. This was during
one year, 1955, some time before the younger generation
took up drugs. At that time, marijuana and hash were
mostly confined to bohemian groups in the big cities. And
to the blacks and Mexicans of the ghetto.
"This particular incident took place, of all places, in
Peoria, Illinois. My wife and I had met a couple from New
York, Greenwich Village types . . . I'll explain what
this means later . . . and they talked us into trying
marijuana. It made me pretty uncomfortable, downright
uneasy, to have the stuff around. I had visions of
narcotics agents bursting in, arresting us, being in
jail, the trial, the conviction, the penitentiary. The
disgrace. And what would happen to our children?
"But alcohol had dissolved my inhibitions, and I tried a
joint, as it was called, among other things.
"I had trouble getting the smoke into my lungs and
holding it, since I had never even smoked tobacco though
I was thirty-seven years old. But I did it, and nothing
happened.
"Later that evening, I picked up what was left of the
joint and finished it. And this time I suddenly felt that
the universe was composed of crystals dissolved in a
solution.
"But now I perceived a subtle shift. Suddenly, the
crystals in the supersaturated solution were
precipitated. And they were all in some kind of beautiful
order, rank on rank, like angels drawn up in a parade.
"However, there was no accompanying sense, as on that
other occasion, that the universe was right, that I had a
place in it, and that the place was right. That it could
be no other way."
"The third time?" Nur said.
"I was fifty-seven then, the sole passenger in a hot-air
balloon soaring over the cornfields of Eureka, Illinois.
The pilot had just turned off the burner, and so there
was no noise except from a flock of pheasants the roar of
the burner had disturbed in a field.
"The sun was setting. The bright summerlight was turning
grey. I was floating as if on a magic carpet in a light
breeze which I couldn't feel. You can light a candle in
the open car in a strong wind, you know, and the flame
will burn as steadily as if in an unventilated room.
"And suddenly, without warning, I felt as if the sun had
come back up over the horizon. Everything was bathed in a
bright light in which I should have had to squint my eyes
to see anything.
"But I didn't. The light was coming from within. I was
the flame, and the universe was receiving my light and my
warmth.
"In a second, maybe longer, the light disappeared. It did
not fade away. It just vanished. But for another second
the feeling that the world was right, that no matter what
happened, to me or to anybody or to the universe, it
would be good, that feeling lasted for a second.
"The pilot noticed nothing. Apparently, I wasn't showing
my feelings. And that was the last time I had any
experience like that.''
Nur said, "Apparently these mystical states had no
influence on your behavior or your outlook?"
"Did I become better because of them? No."
Nur said, "The states you describe are akin to what we
call tajalli. But your tajalli is a counterfeit. If it
had resulted in a permanent state, by self-development in
the right path, then it would have been a true tajalli.
There are several forms of false or wasteful tajalli. You
experienced one of these."
"Does that mean," Frigate said, "that I am incapable of
experiencing the true form?"
"No. At least you felt some form of it."
They fell silent for a while. Frisco, hidden under a pile
of cloths, muttered something in his sleep.
Suddenly, Frigate said, "Nur, for some time I've been
wondering if you'd accept me as your disciple."
"And why didn't you ask me?"
"I was afraid of being rejected."
There was another silence. Nur checked the altimeter and
turned on the vernian for a minute. Pogaas shook aside
his blankets and stood up. He lit a cigarette, the glow
of his lighter throwing strange lights and shadows on his
face. It looked like the head of a sacred hawk cut from
black diorite by ancient Egyptians.
"Well?" Frigate said.
"You've always thought of yourself as a seeker after
truth, haven't you?" Nur said.
"Not a steady seeker. I've drifted too much, floated
along like a balloon. Most of the time I've taken life as
it was or seemed to be. Occasionally, I've made
determined efforts to investigate and even practice this
and that philosophy, discipline, or religion. But my
enthusiasms would subside, and I'd forget about them.
Well, not entirely. Sometimes an old enthusiasm would
flare up, and I'd drive myself again toward the desired
goal. Mostly, though, it's just been floating with the
winds of laziness and indifference."
"You become detached?"
"I tried to be intellectually detached even when my
emotions fired me up."
"To achieve true detachment, you must be free from both
emotion and intellect. It's evident that, though you
pride yourself on a lack of preconceptions, you have
them. If I did take you as a disciple, you'd have to put
yourself absolutely under my control. No matter what I
ask, You must do it at once. Wholeheartedly."
Nur paused. "If I asked you to jump out of this car,
would you do so?"
"Hell, no!"
"Nor would I do so. But what if I ask you to do something
which is the intellectual or emotional equivalent of
jumping out of the car? Something which you'd regard as
intellectual or emotional suicide?"
"I won't know until you ask me."
"I wouldn't ask you until I thought you were ready. If
indeed you ever will be."
Pogaas had been looking out of a port. He grunted and
then said, "There's a light out there! It's moving!"
Frigate and el-Musafir joined him. Tex and Frisco,
aroused by their excited voices, got up and stared
sleepily out another port.
A long shape, at about the same altitude as the balloon,
was silhouetted against a bright stellar cloud.
Frigate said, "It's a dirigible!",
Of all the things they'd seen on The Riverworld, this was
the strangest and most unexpected.
"There're lights near its prow," Rider said.
"It can't be from New Bohemia," Frigate said.
"Then there is another place where metals have been
found," Nur said.
"Unless it's one They built!'' Farrington said. ,"It may
not be an airship, it's just built like one."
One of the lights near the nose of the vessel began
blinking. After looking at it for a minute, Frigate said,
"It's Morse code!"
"What's it saying?" Rider said.
"I don't know Morse code."
"Then how do you know it's Morse?"
"By the length of the pulses. Long and short."
Nur left the port to return to the vernian. He shut it
off, and now the only sound was the heavy breathing of
the crew. They watched the great, sinister-looking shape
turn and move directly toward them. The light continued
blinking. Nur ignited the torch for about twenty seconds.
When he turned it off, he started toward the port again.
But he stopped suddenly, and he said sharply, "Don't
anybody make a noise!"
They turned to stare at him. He took a few steps and
turned off the fan which sucked in carbon dioxide.
Frisco said, "What're you doing that for?"
Nur went swiftly to the vernian, saying, "I thought I
heard a hissing!"
He looked at Pogaas. "Put that cigarette out!"
Nur bent down to place his ear against the connection of
the inlet pipe to the cone inside the case.
Pogaas dropped the cigarette and raised his foot to stamp
it out.
                           69
JILL GULBIRRA HEARD THE REPORT ON THE RAID FROM CYRANO
before the helicopter arrived in the hangar bay. She was
appalled at the casualties and furious because the
mission had even been considered. Part of her anger was
at herself. Why hadn't she argued more firmly with
Clemens?
Yet. . . what could she have.done? The laser was the only
means possible to get into the tower. Clemens would not
release it unless the raid was carried out.
After the copter landed, she ordered the airship taken up
out of the Valley. It turned its nose southwest, heading
for the Mark Twain. Cyrano went to sick bay to have his
wounds bandaged, then reported to the control room. Jill
got a more complete report from him, after which she
radioed the boat.
Clemens was not as happy as she had expected him to be.
"So you think Rotten John is dead? But you're not one
hundred percent sure?
"Yes, I'm afraid so. But we did everything you asked, so
I assume you'll give us the LB."
LB was the code name for the laser.
''You can have the LB. The chopper can pick it up from
the flight deck."
The radar officer said, "UFO portside, sir. At
approximately our altitude."
Clemens must have heard her, since he said, "What's that?
A UFO?"
Jill ignored the voice. For a moment she thought the
radar-scope was showing two objects. Then recognition
came.
"It's a balloon!"
Clemens said "A balloon? Then it's not Them!"
Cyrano said softly, "Perhaps it is another expedition to
the tower. Our unknown colleagues?"
Jill gave orders to turn a searchlight toward it and use
it as a Morse code transmitter.
"This is the airship Parseval. This is the airship
Parseval. Identify yourself. Identify yourself."
She had also told the radio operator to send the same
message. There was no reply by wireless or light.
She spoke to Nikitin. "Head directly for the balloon.
We'll try to get a look at it close up."
"Jes, kapitano."
The Russian, however, started, and he pointed at a
blinking red light on the control panel.
"The hangar-bay hatch! It's opening!"
The first officer sprang to the intercom. "Hangar bay!
Hangar bay! Coppename here! Why are you opening the
hatch?"
There was no answer.
Jill pressed the general-alarm button. Sirens began
whooping throughout the ship.
"This is the captain! This is the captain! Central crew's
quarters! Central crew's quarters!"
The voice of Katamura, an electronics officer, said,
"Yes, Captain! I read you!"
"Get men down to the hangar bay fast. I think Officer
Thorn has escaped!"
Cyrano said, "Do you really think it's he?"
"I don't know, but it seems likely. Unless... someone
else ..."
She called sick bay. No answer.
"It's Thorn! Damn! Why didn't I install a belly-hatch
override switch?"
In rapid sequence, she ordered two groups to run to the
hangar bay and one to the ship's hospital.
"But, Jill," Cyrano said, "how could he escape? He has
not recovered from his wounds, he is guarded by four men,
he is shackled to the bed, the door is locked, and the
two men inside don't have the key!"
"He's no ordinary man! I should have chained his hands,
too! But it seemed unnecessarily cruel!"
"Perhaps the helicopter was not refueled?"
"If it wasn't, Szentes was neglecting his duty. No chance
of that!"
"The hatch is full-open now," Nikitin said.
Graves' voice came over the intercom. "Jill! Thorn ..."
"How'd he get out?" Jill snapped.
"I'm not sure of the details. I was sitting in my office,
sampling some of the medical alcohol. All of a sudden I
heard a hell of a brouhaha. Shouts, somebody crashing
into something. I got up, but there was Thorn at the
door. A length of broken chain was trailing from his
ankle shackle. He must have broken the links with his
bare hands!
"He charged on in, shoving me to one side so hard I was
knocked against the wall. For a minute I was stunned, I
couldn't even stand up. He ripped the intercom off the
bulkhead with his hands! His bare hands! I tried to get
up, but I couldn't. He tied my hands behind me and my
ankles together with belts he'd taken from the two
guards. He could have killed me easily enough, snapped my
neck. Man, I still hurt where he grabbed me. But he left
me alive, I'll say that for him.
"I finally got loose and staggered out to the ward. All
four guards were on the floor. Two are still alive but
badly hurt. The intercoms were all wrecked. The door was
locked, and the pistols and knives of the outside guards
were gone. I'd still be there if I wasn't so handy at
picking locks and the lock wasn't pickable. Then I ran to
the nearest bulkhead phone ..."
"How long ago was it that he broke loose?"
"Twenty-five minutes ago."
"Twenty-five?"
She was dismayed. What had Thorn been doing in all that
time?
"Take care of those men," she said and switched him off.
"He must have had a transmitter hidden somehow,
somewhere,'' she said to Cyrano.
"But how do you know that?"
"I can't be `;2:-' sure. What else would take so much of his
time? Nikitin, take her down to ground level! As fast as
possible!"
Katamura's voice came over the intercom.
"Captain, the chopper's gone."
Cyrano swore in French.
Nikitin flipped on the general address and informed the
crew that the ship would be going into dangerous
maneuver. All personnel should make themselves secure.
"Forty-five degrees, Nikitin," Jill said. "Full speed."
The radar operator reported that the helicopter was on
his scope. It was going south and downward at a maximum
velocity at a forty-five degree angle to the horizontal.
By then, the deck of the control room was tilted
downward. The others hastened to strap themselves into
chairs bolted to the deck. Jill took a seat by Nikitin.
She would like to have taken over the pilot's chair, but
even now protocol forbade that. However, it did not
matter that she was not at the controls. The wild Russian
would get the dirigible down as swiftly as she could. Her
job would be to make sure that he did not overdo it.
"If Thorn has a transmitter," Cyrano said, "he can use it
now. We'll never make it."
Though he was pale and wide-eyed, he smiled at her.
Jill looked from Cyrano to the control panel indicators.
The ship was parallel to the Valley, so there was no
problem about clearing the mountain tops. The Valley
looked narrow, but it was rapidly broadening. There were
some lights down there, bonfires around which would be
sentinels or late-night revellers. The rain clouds had
dissipated swiftly, as they almost always did. The star-
packed skies cast a pale light into the space between the
two mountains. Was anybody down there looking up at them?
If so, they must wonder what this huge object was and why
it was coming down so swiftly.
Not that it was going fast enough to suit her.
Cyrano was right. If Thorn did intend to set off a bomb,
he would be doing it now. Unless . . . unless he would be
willing to wait until the ship had landed. After all, he
had spared Graves, and he could have killed the other two
guards.
Keeping an eye on the panel radar-scopes, she called the
hangar bay.
Szentes answered.
"We were all in our quarters, "he said. "There's no guard
posted in the bay."
"I know," she said. "Just tell me ... quickly .. . what
happened?"
"Thorn stuck his head in the door. He pointed a pistol at
us. Then he ripped off the intercom, and he told us that
he was going to close the door. He said he had a bomb
rigged to explode if the door was opened. Then he shut
it. We didn't know if we should believe him, but no one
was willing to find out if he was lying or not. Then
Officer Katamura opened the door. There wasn't any bomb;
Thorn had lied. I'm sorry, Captain."
"You did what you should have done."
She told the radio operator to transmit their situation
to the Mark Twain.
At 915 meters, a little over 3000 feet, she ordered
Nikitin to tilt the propellers to give the ship an upward
thrust. Also, to raise the nose by three degrees. The
inertia would keep them diving despite the braking effect
of the propellers. In a minute she would order the nose
raised by ten degrees. This would flatten out the dive
even more.
What to do when the ship straightened out at about 915
meters or somewhat over 3000 feet? If it leveled at that
altitude. She was really cutting it close, though she
knew the capabilities of the Parseval almost as well as
she knew hers.
Should she land the ship? There was no way to moor it,
and the hydrogen would have to be valved off so that it
would not rise as the crew abandoned it. Otherwise, some
of the men would not get off in time, and they would be
carried away.
But what if Thorn had no transmitter, what if there was
no bomb? The airship would be lost for no reason.
"Too fast! Too fast!" Nikitin said.
Jill was already leaning forward to set the ballast
switch for a discharge of 1000 kilograms of water. She
punched the button, and a few seconds later the ship rose
abruptly.
"Sorry, Nikitin," .she murmured. "There wasn't any time
to waste."
Radar indicated that the helicopter was hovering north of
them at 300 meters altitude. Was Thorn waiting to see
what they would do? If so, he did not intend to set off
the bomb if they crash-landed or abandoned the ship.
What was she to do? The thought of either alternative
made her grind her teeth. She could not bear the idea of
wrecking or losing this beauty. The last airship.
The safety of the crew, however, had to come first.
"One hundred and fifty-two meters altitude," Nikitin
said.
The propellers were turned fully upward and biting into
the air at full speed. The mountains loomed on both
sides; The River sparkled in starlight on the port; the
plains ran smoothly beneath them.
There were dwellings below, frail bamboo structures
filled with people, most of whom would be sleeping. If
the dirigible landed on the plain, it would crush
hundreds. If it caught fire, it would burn many more.
Jill ordered Nikitin to steer it over The River.
What to do?
Of the people along The River who had to stay awake or
who wanted to, a few had looked into the white-and-black-
spangled sky. These saw two silhouetted objects, one much
larger than the other. The smaller one was composed of
two spheres, one below the other, the larger of the
spheres above the other. The greater object was long and
shaped like a fat cigar.
They were moving toward each other, the smaller emitting
a faint light from the lower sphere, the other sending
out bright beams. One of these beams began to go on and
off in measured lengths of time.
Suddenly, the larger object dipped its nose, and it came
down swiftly. As it neared the ground, it emitted a
strange noise.
Many did not recognize the shape of either object. They
had never seen a balloon or a dirigible. Some had lived
when balloons were not unknown, though many of these had
only seen illustrations or photographs of them. But most
of this group had never seen or heard of an airship
except in illustrations of what might be expected in the
future.
A very small minority recognized the larger, now diving,
object as a dirigible.
Whatever their knowledge, many ran to wake up their mates
and friends or to sound a general alarm.
By then some had seen the helicopter, and this caused
even more curiosity and apprehension.
Drums began to beat; people, to shout. Everybody was
awake by then, and the dwellings were emptied. All looked
up and wondered.
The questions and the shouts became one great cry as one
of the flying objects burst into flame. They screamed as
it plunged, bright orange fire trailing like the glory of
a falling angel.
                           70
Tai-Peng wore only a garment of irontree leaves and vine
blossoms. A cup of wine in his left hand, he paced back
and forth, extemporizing poems with the ease of water
flowing down a hill. A poem would tumble out in the court
speech of the Tang dynasty, sounding to non-Chinese like
dice clicking in a cup. Then he would translate it into
the local Esperanto dialect.
Much of the sublety and reference were lost in the
mutation, but enough was retained to move his listeners
to laughter and tears.
Tai-Peng's woman, Wen-Chun, softly played on a bamboo
flute. Though his voice was usually loud and screeching,
it was subdued for the occasion. In Esperanto it was
almost as melodious as the flute. He wore only a garment
made for the occasion, red-green-striped leaves and red-
white-blue-striped blossoms. These fluttered as he walked
back and forth like a great cat in a cage.
He was tall for a man of his race and time, the eighth
century a.d. , lithe yet broad shouldered and heavily
muscled. His long hair shone in the late noon sun; it
glittered like a dark jade mirror. His eyes were large
and pale green, blazing, a hungry-but wounded- tiger's.
Though he was a descendant of an emperor by a concubine,
he was nine generations removed. His immediate family had
been thieves and murderers. Some of his grandparents were
of the hill tribes, and it was these wild people who had
bequeathed him the fierce green eyes.
He and his audience were on a high hill from which the
plain, The River, and the land and the mountain wall
beyond could be seen. His listeners, even drunker than
he, though none had drunk so much, formed a crescent.
This left an opening for him to stride into and out of.
Tai-Peng did not like barriers of any kind. Walls made
him uneasy; prison bars, frenzied.
Though half of the audience was Chinese of the sixteenth
century a.d., the others were from here and there, now
and then.
Now Tai-Peng stopped composing, and he recited a poem by
Chen Tzu-Ang. First, he stated that Chen had died a few
years before he, Tai-Peng, was born. Though Chen was
wealthy, he had died in a prison at the age of forty-two.
A magistrate had put him there so he could cheat him out
of his father's inheritance.
"Men of affairs are proud of their cunning and skill, But
in the Tao they still have much to learn. They are proud
of their exploitations, But they do not know what happens
to the body. Why do they not learn from the Master of
Dark Truth, Who saw the whole world in a little jade
bottle? Whose bright soul was free of Earth and Heaven,
For riding on Change he entered into Freedom."
Tai-Peng paused to empty his cup and hold it out for a
refill.
One of the group, a black man named Tom Turpin, said,
"Ain't no more wine. What about some alky?"
"No more drink of the gods? I don't want your barbarians'
juice! It stupifies where wine enlivens!"
He looked around, smiled like a tiger in mating season,
and he lifted Wen-Chun and strode off to his hut with her
in his arms.
"When the wine stops, it's time to begin with women!"
The brightly colored leaves and blossoms fluttered to the
ground as Wen-Chun mock-struggled with him. He looked
like a being from ancient myth, a plant man carrying off
a human female.
The others laughed, and the group began to break up
before Tai-Peng had shut the door of his hut. One of them
walked around the hill to his own hut. After entering, he
barred the door and drew down bamboo-and-skin blinds over
the windows. In the twilight he sat down on a stool. He
opened the lid of his grail and sat for a while staring
at it.
A man and a woman passed near his door. They were talking
of the mysterious event that had taken place less than a
month ago down-River. A great noisy monster had flown
from over the western mountain at night and had landed on
The River. The braver, or more foolish, locals had boated
out toward it. But it had sunk into the waters before
they could get close to it, and it had not come up again.
Was it a dragon? Some people said there never had been
any dragons. These, however, were skeptics from the
degenerate nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Anybody
but a fool knew that dragons did exist. On the other
hand, it could have been a flying machine of the beings
who had made this world.
It was said that some had seen or thought they'd seen-a
manlike figure swimming away from where the dragon had
sunk.
The man in the hut smiled.
He thought of Tai-Peng. That was not his true name. Only
Tai-Peng and a few others knew what it was. His adopted
name meant "The Great Phoenix," a clue to his real name
since he had often boasted in Terrestrial life that he
was just such.
Tai-Peng had met him long ago, but he did not know this.
The man in the hut spoke a code word. Instantly, the
exterior of the grail sprang into light. The light did
not shine over the entire surface. Against the grey metal
were two large circles, one on each side of the cylinder.
Inside each circle, which represented a hemisphere of the
planet, were thousands of very thin, glowing, twisted
lines. These intersected many tiny flashing circles. All
were empty except for one. This enclosed a flashing
pentagram, a five-pointed star.
Each circle, except for that holding the star, emitted
dots and dashes of light.
The display was a chart not made to scale. The lines were
the valleys, and the circles indicated men and women. The
pulse group of each was an identity code.
Clemens and Burton, among others, had been told by X that
he had chosen only twelve to assist him. There were
twelve times twelve symbols on the lines, not counting
the circled star. One hundred and forty-four in all.
A number of circles were pulsing the same group. The man
sighed, and he spoke a code phrase. Instantly, the
symbols emitting dash-dash-dash-dots disappeared.
Another code phrase. Two glowing symbols appeared near
the top of the grail.
Only seventy recruits were still alive. Less than half of
the chosen.
How many would there be forty years from now?
Of these, how many would quit before then?
However, there were many nonrecruits who now knew about
the tower. Some of these even knew about the person whom
Clemens called the Mysterious Stranger or X. The secret
was out, and some who'd learned it second-hand were as
intensely motivated as the recruits.
Given the changed situation, it was inevitable that
others would get in on the quest polarward. And it was
possible that not one recruit would get to the tower
whereas some nonrecruits might.
He spoke another code phrase. The circles were suddenly
accompanied by other symbols. Triangles, an uncircled
pentagram, and one hexagram, a six-pointed star. The
triangles, which pulsed code groups, were the symbols of
the second-order Ethicals, the agents.
The hexagram was the Operator's.
He spoke again. A square of light appeared in the center
of the hemisphere facing him. Then the display outside
the square faded away. Immediately, the square expanded.
It was a blow-up of the area in which the three stars and
a few circles were located.
Another phrase brought forth glowing digits above the
square. So, the six-pointed star was down-River by many
thousands of kilometers. The Operator had failed to board
the Rex. But the second paddlewheeler would be coming
along, though much later.
In the neighboring valley to the east was Richard Francis
Burton. So near yet so far. Only a day's walk away-if
flesh could pass like a ghost through stone.
Burton was undoubtedly on the Rex Grandissimus. His
circle had moved too swiftly along his line for him to be
traveling by sailboat.
The Operator . . . what action would the Operator take if
he did get on the Mark Twain ? Reveal a part of the truth
to Clemens? All of it? Or keep silent?
There was no telling what would happen. The situation had
been changed too drastically. Even the computer at HQ
would not have been able to indicate more than a small
percentage of the probabilities.
So far, there was only one agent on a boat, the Rex. At
least ten could be picked up by the Mark Twain, but it
was improbable that more than one would be. If that.
Fifty were in the line between the Rex and Virolando.
Of the total of sixty, he could identify only ten. These
were upper echelon, heads of their sections.
The chances were that he would encounter none of the
sixty.
But. . . what if he failed to get aboard either boat?
He felt sick.
Somehow, he would do it. He must do it.
To be realistic, he had to admit that he could fail.
At one time he had believed that he could do anything
humanly possible and some things which no other humans
could do. But his faith in himself had been somewhat
shaken.
Perhaps this was because he had lived among the
Riverpeople too long.
There were so many journeying up-River, driven by one
great desire. By now most of them would have heard Joe
Miller's story, though it was at hundredth-hand. They'd
be expecting to find the towel rope up which they could
climb the precipice. They'd also expect the tunnel which
would permit them to detour an almost unscalable
mountain. They would expect the path along the face of
the mountain.
These were no more.
Neither was the tunnel at the end of the path, at the
base of the mountain. It had melted into lava.
He looked again at the unencircled star. Close. Far too
close by. As the situation now was, it represented the
greatest danger.
Who knew how the situation would change?
Now the loud voice of Tai-Peng entered the hut. He was
outside, having tumbled his woman, and he was shouting
something unintelligible at the world. What a noise the
man made in this world! What a blur of action!
If I cannot shake the gods on high, I will at least make
an uproar in Acheron.
Now Tai-Peng was closer, and his speech could be heard
clearly.
"I eat like a tiger! I crap like an elephant! I can drink
three hundred cups of wine at a sitting! I have married
three wives, made love to a thousand women! I outplay
anyone on the lute and the flute! I write immortal poems
by the thousands, but I throw them into the stream as
soon as they're finished and watch the water, the wind,
and the spirits carry them off to destruction!
"Water and flowers! Water and flowers! These I love the
most! "Change and impermanence! These wound, pain,
torture me!
"Yet it is change and ephemerality that make for beauty!
Without dy ng and death can there be beauty? Can there be
perfection? "Beauty is beautiful because it is doomed to
perish! "Or is it?
"I, Tai-Peng, once thought of myself as flowing water, as
a blooming flower! As a dragon!
"Rowers and dragons! Dragons are flowers of the flesh!
They live in beauty while generations of flowers bloom
and die! Bloom and become dust! Yet even dragons die;
they bloom and become dust! A white man, pale as a ghost,
blue-eyed as a demon, once told me that dragons lived for
eons! Eons, I say! For ages that make the mind turn
upside down to think of them! Yet. . . they all perished
millions of years ago, long before Nukua created men and
women from yellow mud!
"In all their pride and beauty, they died!
"Water! Flowers! Dragons!"
Tai-Peng's voice became less loud as he went down the
hill. But the man in the hut heard one especially clarion
passage.
"What evil person brought us back to life and now wishes
us to die forever again?.''
The man in the hut said, "Hah!"
Though Tai-Peng's poems spoke much of the shortness of
life of men and women and of flowers, they never
mentioned death. Nor had he ever before referred to death
in his conversation. Yet now he was speaking boldly of
it, raging at it.
Until now he had seemed to be as happy as a man could be.
He'd lived for six years in this little state and
apparently had no desire to leave it.
Was he ready now?
A man like Tai-Peng would be a good companion for the
voyage up-River. He was aggressive, quick wined, and a
great swordsman. If he could be subtly urged to resume
the course he had forsaken... What was likely to happen
in the decades to come? All he could predict-for now he
too was one of the webs in the dark design, no longer a
weaver-all he could predict was that some would get to
Virolando and some would not.
The more astute would discover a message there. Some of
these would surely decipher it. Among these would be both
recruits and agents.
Who would get to the tower first?
He must be the one who did.
And he must survive the perils of the journey. Probably
the greatest of these would be the inevitable battle
between the two great boats. Clemens was determined to
catch up with King John and kill or capture him. It was
possible, highly possible, that both vessels and their
crews would be destroyed.
Savagery! The idiocy of the tiger!
All because of this frenzied desire for vengeance which
had seized Clemens. Clemens, who was otherwise the most
pacifistic of men.
Could Clemens be talked out of this childish passion for
revenge ?
Sometimes he agreed with what the Operator, in a
depressed mood, had once said.
"Humankind sticks in the throat of God."
But. .. Evil will bless, and ice will burn.
And the Master of Dark Truth was riding on unpredictable
Change.
"What...?"
The glowing lines and symbols had disappeared.
For a few seconds he stared, his mouth open. Then he
uttered a string of code phrases. But the surface of the
grail remained grey.
He clenched his fists and his teeth.
So ... what he had feared had at last happened.
Some element in the complex of the satellite had suddenly
quit working. No wonder. After over a thousand years the
circuits were due for a checking, but no one had been
able to inspect them on schedule.
From now on, he would no longer know exactly where the
other men and women were. Now he too was in the house of
night, bounded by fog. The passing of the lights on the
grail had left a deeper gloom behind. He felt like a
tired and companionless pilgrim on a lonely shore, a
shadow among shades.
What would go amiss next? What could? For one thing, no,
surely not... But if it did, then he might not have all
the time needed.
He stood up and straightened his shoulders. Time to go.
A shadow among the shades and running out of time. Like
the recruits and the agents, like the Riverdwellers, like
all sentient creatures, he would have to make his own
light. So be it.
