"Monsieur Verne?" he asked.

Jules Verne nodded. Despite his sickness, his blue eyes held a fire Robin could not deny. Verne held the note Robin had attached to the arrow.

"You claim to be Sir Robin of Locksley?" he asked in nearly unaccented English.

"I am he," Robin said. "I am delighted to meet you, sir."

"Draw up that chair and we will talk," Verne said.

Robin did so. "You have a nineteenth-century British accent, I would say. How do you explain that?"

Robin shrugged. "Would you understand Saxon?"

"Toucht."

"And it's a twentieth-century accent, by the way." Almost before he knew it, Robin found himself telling how he'd adopted the role of Robin Hood, of his adventures and misadventures along the River as he and his men sought to right the wrongs of this new world. Verne nodded now and then, an avid listener.

"Life is indeed mostly a series of curious events," he said. "I needed someone such as you a week ago. Indeed, I nearly died because of it."

"What do you mean?" Robin asked.

Verne sighed and sank back on his bed, closing his eyes. Suddenly he looked tired, frail. When he spoke again it was with the voice of an old man.

"When I awakened on the River and found myself young," he said, "it seemed almost as though God had created this world for me alone...."

Now (Verne said) I could do those things of which I had only dreamed throughout my life. All my research, all my books and writings, they had led me inexorably toward this moment.

I vowed to create a perfect society. This new civilization would be modeled on mankind's old one, but with all its various flaws and imperfections cured. Mankind had been given a fresh chance here, I felt, and it would be up to us to make the best of it.

I was fortunate enough to be resurrected among a group consisting primarily of Frenchmen from the late nineteenth century. Also among us were Russians from

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some twenty or thirty years in our future, Chinese from yet another age (I could not pinpoint their place in history; alas, my schooling in matters Oriental was somewhat lacking), and a few others from what seemed random periods in our world's history.

The Chinese immediately banded together and left, seeking whatever it is Chinamen seek; to my regret, we never circumvented the language barrier. The Russians, on the other hand, stayed with us. One among them, a fiery youth with an unpronounceable name who had us call him Lenin, began preaching socialism to the masses, but his voice fell on deaf ears. Most people were content to live natural lives, eating food from the metal Providers; sunning themselves on the riverbanks, eating the dreamsticks, and fornicating in a hedonistic frenzy.

Lenin was murdered his second week there. But what he'd said interested me. The idea of all men being equal is, of course, ridiculous; but the organizational system he outlined seemed workable, even practical in our current circumstances.

I combined his thoughts with my own. As I talked to my fellows, I found among them a number of engineers who were sympathetic to my new ideas. Their names would be meaningless to you, for they were in no way famous, but they were sturdy men, well schooled in their fields and not afraid of hard work.

First we moved away from the general population, to a more remote Provider in the hills. Here we began a systematic analysis of the land and its raw potential. There were deposits of iron, tin, and copper within easy reach. Trees could provide wood for fires and tools. And, I must admit, we made use of whatever human corpses came our way—bones were our first tools.

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Over the next few months, we set about creating a community based on scientific planning. As we discussed matters, we reached a general consensus that our resurrection was a test of some kind, and that to prove our species worthy we must strive to create a more perfect society from the materials available.

Needless to say, it was difficult. But as more people joined us, we found strength in numbers. Houses were erected; a stockade was built to protect us from our neighbors and whatever marauding animals this world might harbor. Soon we were smelting bronze, then iron. Sand, with some refinement, proved suitable for the crude glass you see in the Belle Dame's windows. In three months we had a prosperous town, with every man and woman working ten hours a day toward the common good. My dream was coming true, shaping itself before my very eyes.

Of course, our society was a technocracy. Our Technocrat Council of Engineers ruled, with me at its head. When it occurred to us that we should try to bring all the best elements of this new world together in one place, we sent out emissaries. Our scientific ambassadors ranged for a thousand miles up and down the River, persuading whatever engineers and scientists they found to join our cause.

Again, the plan worked. People from all ages flocked to our incipient city. The vast laboratories we set up were something to see! We had mills, running water, and even a number of working clocks and watches within a year. Every success fueled our drive forward. A railway was begun to link the Providers. Hot-air balloons scouted the air. Cartographers began to chart our new world. And, finally, we began to build this riverboat.

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No, don't interrupt—let me finish my tale. I am near the end now.

Perhaps we were too giddy with our successes. We allowed anyone to join us who wanted to—anyone. That was the mistake. We woke up one morning to find our little society drowning in an unskilled "proletariat," to borrow Lenin's word.

Among those who had joined us was a man called Capone. He came with a group of followers. He was small, quiet, a smooth talker. He offered to set up a bureaucracy to deal with our population as a whole. Indeed, we had already seen the need for administration and police... but none on the Council truly wanted to oversee such mundane matters. We were all scientists, visionaries, men looking toward the future. Each of us had pet projects to oversee. Letting Capone handle such matters seemed the ideal solution, as it would allow us to concentrate on our work.

Capone gave us all bodyguards. At the time it seemed like a good idea, since there were grumblings from the masses, but I understood his plan now. He wanted to isolate us from the population so he could control us. I'd heard of many twentieth-century inventions by this point— men walking on the moon, satellites, computers, television— and I wanted all these scientific miracles and more. Perhaps that's what blinded me. I wanted to leap centuries in months, to claw my way to the highest point of mankind's technological achievement in the span of a few years.

Perhaps it truly was punishment for my hubris. Perhaps it was blind stupidity. I awakened one morning to find myself a prisoner. My bodyguards had become prison guards. I—and the other technocrats—were no

longer in control. In the space of a single night, our government fell in a bloodless coup. Al Capone had taken over.

He was a clever man, I admit. When we met with him in the Technocrat Council's chambers—we on the floor, he on a low throne—he made it clear who was in charge. When Leonardo da Vinci dared speak against him, Capone bludgeoned him to death with a wooden club. The blood, the blood! It was horrible... the most horrible moment of my life.

I longed to see Capone dead, but there was nothing any of us could do but agree to whatever he demanded. Perhaps we should have spoken against him, should have joined Leonardo in death. That would have been the proper thing to do. Even though I knew I would be resurrected somewhere else along the River, I could not stand up against him. I'm ashamed to say I was afraid of death, and of the pain he would administer before it.

Capone kept us on tight leashes after that. We never appeared alone in public, never spoke to anyone except on scientific projects, and then always under the close scrutiny of our guards. Capone wanted my pet project, the riverboat, completed as quickly as possible; I assume that's why I had what little freedom I did. Most of the other technocrats were locked in their rooms, forced to work on blueprints for machines that others would fully execute in their absence.

The greater body of engineers and working scientists, I found out later, had deduced most of what had happened. Capone was a greedy pig. He renamed our little city New Chicago and began taxing everyone on their tobacco, marijuana, and dreamgum. Anyone who didn't have a useful skill suddenly found himself drafted into a labor

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gang and sent into the hills to mine metal or cut lumber to fuel New Chicago's technological machinery.

The next year was, indeed, a grim one. But the riverboat was nearing completion, and though Capone had decided to turn it into a floating brothel and casino, its presence offered hope to many of our scientists.

On the night before the Belle Dame's test voyage, they staged a revolt. Using crossbows they had made in their spare time, they shot the guards on the building where I and the other technocrats were quartered and set us free.

It took seconds for them to explain their mad plan. We would seize the riverboat and set off to start a new technocratic state. This time we would not repeat the mistakes that had brought Capone to power. This time we really would create a perfect world.

To make things short, Capone somehow found out about the rescue attempt. He sent the bulk of his men to stop us—to kill us, rather, since the riverboat was finished. If none of the scientists could be trusted, our usefulness to him was ended.

It came down to hand-to-hand fighting. I had written about it, had studied fisticuffs, but still found myself little prepared for true mortal combat. One of Capone's lieutenants slashed my belly open with a sword. I fell, unconscious.

I awakened here, aboard the Belle Dame. A handful of men had rallied around my fallen body, fought their way free to the riverboat, and launched. We were searching the river for another suitable site for our technocracy when you encountered us.

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Robin sat in thought when Jules Verne finished his tale. Every word of it rang true; he had no doubts about its veracity.

"What you are looking for," Robin said at last, "is a place like the last one, with abundant metals and wood, with easy access to the River, and a Provider—what we call a grail."

"That is correct." Veme leaned forward again, wincing a bit from pain. "Do you know of such a place?"

"We've traveled thousands of miles along the River, always heading upstream," Robin said. "I've kept an eye out for metal along the way, and I know of places where lead and copper have been found. But iron ore? No, there's none."

Verne sank back, face ashen. "Then perhaps we truly are lost," he said. "Providence led us to that spot, and in our pride we failed to see the dangers we courted."

"Providence may be brought us together for a reason. Don't you wonder at the convenience of it all?"

"What do you mean?"

Robin stood and began to pace. "You have been driven from your town by a thug and his men. After that you meet me, a man with a band of loyal followers who are looking to fix the wrongs of the world. Can you think of a more appropriate partnership?"

"Are you thinking what I am, sir?"

"If you're thinking we might be able to wrest control of New Chicago from Capone—then yes."

"I must think on it," Verne said. "Violence has never been the answer to the world's problems."

"But sometimes it is the only solution," Robin said.

Verne closed his eyes. "Find Claude," he said. "I will have him bring your men aboard. We will talk again later."

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*    *

That afternoon Will Scarlet, who had spent a year training as a medic before dropping out of the program, went to see Jules Verne. Robin hoped he'd be able to help the technocrat. Will was the closest thing to a doctor on board.

While they waiting for the prognosis, Robin met with Little John in the salon. It was a beautifully decorated room; the tables all had floral designs inlaid with ivory taken from the bones of the giant fish that lived at the bottom of the River. Robin had seen such fish only twice... once when a twenty-foot-long corpse had washed ashore; another time when a fisherman had been devoured whole while Robin and his men were passing through his town. Robin wondered how Verne had gotten so many of their bones that he could afford to waste them on decorations. Perhaps the riverfish were more numerous around New Chicago.

Robin and Little John drew up chairs and sat facing each other. The two always conferred on major decisions; the former president was a wise man, brilliant in many ways, and his advice carried a great deal of weight with Robin.

"I'm not sure I like the sound of this Capone fellow," Little John said.

"We'll handle him easily enough."

"Edmond—listen to what you're saying."

"I heard myself."

"You're an actor, not a hero. I admit it's been fun to play this game with you, to romp through the hills as Robin Hood and his men would have done. It's been grand, a chance to live out my childhood daydreams. But perhaps the time has come to end this charade. We aren't

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bandits from the greenwood, we're civilized men. And Capone will not be easy to scare off."

"I don't want to scare him. I want him locked up—or, lacking that, dead and resurrected a million miles away." "I doubt we are capable of doing it." "Have you forgotten all we've accomplished?" Lincoln's bushy brows knit together. "We've scared a few peasants into giving up grail-slavery. We've broken up a few drunken brawls. We've explored a thousand miles of this damned endless River. That's all. We aren't an avenging army, and we're not the fist of God. This man Capone is a dangerous criminal. He has surrounded himself with a private army, if what Verne told you is true. Twenty against two hundred is suicide."

"So you're saying we should leave him there, building the biggest criminal empire in the history of mankind?" "I'm not saying that, either. I'm saying we can't recapture a city by treating it like a romp. It will take planning, strategy, and a lot of patience." "What about luck?" "You're impossible!" "Little John—" "Call me Abraham!"

"Little Abraham, then. I've always felt I should have a calling. My life was more or less forced on me—first by my parents, then by my acting troupe, then by a string of agents. I've always known I was meant for something greater. Since our resurrection, that feeling has come over me stronger than ever. My assuming the role of Robin Hood, our finding Verne and this riverboat, everything—it's all been leading up to this moment. It's destiny. The dice are rolling, and I can hear them." Lincoln stood. "It's time to put away your childish

John Gregory Betancourt

dreams," he said. "If we are going to take New Chicago from Capone, we will need a man to lead us, not a character from storybooks."

"Are you sure?"

"That I am." Abraham Lincoln turned and stalked from the room.

Robin Hood, n6 Edmond Bryor, sat alone for a long time, deep in thought.

Will Scarlet's prognosis was promising: he had cleaned and dressed Jules Verne's wound, then sewed it up properly, and now felt certain his patient would recover completely in time. "His problem was loss of blood and a bad infection," he reported. "Luckily no vital organs were damaged."

It was welcome news to Robin. "Is there anything else you can do?" he asked.

"Let him sleep. It's the best thing for him right now."

"Good," Robin said, nodding. "Stay with him. Let me know if you need anything."

Two days later Jules Verne sent word that he wished to see Robin again. Verne looked vastly improved, Robin thought when he entered the cabin. The color had returned to his cheeks, and his voice was stronger and more authoritative.

"I have decided to agree to your plan," Verne said with no preamble. "We will return and try to win back New Chicago. I will leave the details to you—I am a man of science, not violence, as recent events have shown. Whatever you need, I will arrange it. Now, what are your plans?"

"I have none as yet," Robin said. "Little John and I

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must study the town, count our resources, and estimate the enemy's strength before committing to anything."

"Very wise." Verne nodded slowly. "I have instructed Claude de Ves to give you any help you need. Our diverse talents stand at your disposal, sir."

"Thank you," Robin said. "Your trust in me is not misplaced. You won't be disappointed."

Robin held no false illusions about himself or the task at hand: he knew it would be difficult, that the fighting would probably be bloody and violent, that some of his men—perhaps even he himself—would die as a result. But he also knew Capone needed to be removed from power, and that he was the one man capable of carrying it off successfully.

The next day, Claude de Ves gave Robin and his men a tour of the riverboat. They saw the steam engines driving the paddlewheels and the huge bins where they kept wood for fuel; they saw the pilothouse and the luxurious salons; they saw the cabins and the empty cargo holds.

The riverboat had tremendous potential, Robin decided, but they wouldn't be able to use it in then' attack. It was too large and too obvious—Capone would have too much time to prepare for a fight if he saw it coming. Besides, Verne and his men would be easily overwhelmed by Capone's superior forces. No, Robin decided, given the odds against them, they would have to rely on then* wits to gain the upper hand.

The riverboat paddled up-River for three weeks, crossing hundreds of miles, passing thousands of different cultures. Aztecs, Minoans, modern Japanese, seventeenth-century Indians... the sheer volume of people was staggering.

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During that time Robin drilled his men and Verne's mercilessly in the art of the longbow. They made straw targets in the shape of men and shot them again and again behind the pilothouse. The pilothouse's back wall became filled with chips and holes from being hit by countless arrowheads.

In the evenings Robin and his men worked on making more bows and arrows, aided by Verne's crew. Eventually every man and woman on board had two longbows and two dozen arrows. Robin felt certain—and Little John tended to agree—that they would need everyone aboard to retake New Chicago.

When they were a week's walk from New Chicago, the Belle Dame slowed and once again put in to shore. This time Robin was the only one to leave. The riverboat would return in three weeks' time to pick him up; in the meantime it would wait far down-River, where Little John and Will Scarlet and the others would continue to drill Verne's men in archery.

Robin's mission was simple: he would scout the land, see New Chicago, get an estimate of Capone's strength, and return.

The trip to New Chicago proved disappointingly uneventful. The native populations along the River were sparse—most, Robin learned, had migrated to New Chicago during its early days. Since Al Capone's rise to power, the remaining people had migrated down-River ... rumors of slave camps, spread by a few escapees, did the trick.

As he walked, every possible plan for taking Chicago ran through Robin's head. Storming the walls... poisoning

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Capone's food... leading a slave revolt... all seemed equally mad, and equally improbable.

One day out from the New Chicago, he blundered into a patrol of Capone's thugs: six men, all armed with swords and shields. They ringed Robin at once, weapons drawn.

"Throw down your weapons," their leader said with a cruel sneer, "and we may let you live."

Robin stood with his back to a tree, his bow drawn, an arrow nocked and ready to fire.

"Not a chance," Robin said. "Another step and you're a dead man." His arrow targeted the man's chest. "An arrow will go through that shield you're holding like a hot knife through butter."

The man shifted a bit uneasily. "Here now," he began. "You can't—"

"I heard there's a city ahead where men with certain skills can find a good life," Robin went on. "Is that true, or not?"

"What skills do you have?"

"I make weapons."

"What sort?"

"Everything from bows to guns."

"Guns, you say?"

"That's right."

Grinning, the man stepped back and sheathed his sword. "Why didn't you say so, friend? We've had problems with the natives around here, so we can't be too careful. You'll be welcome in New Chicago, all right— the boss always has a place for another man with useful skills."

Robin lowered his bow. "I should think so," he said.

*    *    *

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That New Chicago was a pearl buried in a pigsty was Robin's first impression. The original town, surrounded by a stockade, was exactly as Verne had described it. The streets were wide, the houses laid out along tree-lined avenues radiating from a large central plaza. The huge council building—now Capone's palace—stood at the exact center of town.

Around the stockade, though, lay a huge slum. Gaunt-faced men and women stared as Robin and Capone's men strode past. Thousands of hovels, flimsy constructions of logs, clay from the River, and bamboo, had been built between New Chicago and the River with no concern for order or sanitation. The reek of human waste was nauseating.

Robin covered his mouth and nose with a bit of cloth. Is there no degradation to which man will not fall? he wondered.

"Don't worry," the man to his right whispered, as though in answer to his unspoken thought. "You can't smell Pisstown from the city most days."

"Good," Robin said.

At the stockade's gate, guards took Robin's longbow and quiver of arrows. Robin didn't protest; he knew it was a small price to pay for the information he would gain.

To his surprise, he was taken almost at once to a small whitewashed building fronting the central plaza. Two guards escorted him to an office. An engraved brass plaque beside the door said A. EICHMANN.

"Come in," a young man with sandy hair said in a heavy German accent. "Please, sit."

Robin lowered himself into a straight-backed wooden

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chair. It creaked faintly under his weight. He allowed his gaze to travel leisurely around the room—it was bare except for the desk—then back to Eichmann's thin, unsmiling face.

Eichmann had a paper in front of him. He dipped a pen into a clay inkwell, then asked, "Name?"

"Robin Huntington," Robin said, and spelled it. Eichmann's pen made scritch-scratch sounds.

"Date of death?"

"The year of our Lord eighteen hundred and forty-six."

Eichmann noted it down, then paused to study him. "Skills?"

"I was a master gunsmith."

"Excellent, excellent." Eichmann wrote that down, too, then deposited the form in a small tray on the corner of his desk. Opening a drawer, he removed a card. The paper looked thick and coarse, but words had been printed on it with a printing press of some sort. Eichmann wrote Robin's name on the card, along with a series of numbers.

"This is your identification card," he explained. "Carry it with you at all times. You will need it to enter and leave buildings, use the Provider for your meals, and requisition tools and equipment for your work." He smiled. "You're lucky you're a gunsmith—the boss is big on weapons. He wants pistols as quickly as possible, and if you work hard to keep him happy, you'll find the benefits and privileges are enormous. As it is, you'll be among the elite of the scientific teams."

"That sounds good to me," Robin said.

Eichmann gestured to the guards. "Find him a room in the dormitories," he said.

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The next morning, in the gunshop, Robin met the three other gunsmiths working for Capone. The head of the gun project, a Dutchman named Emile van Deskol who had died in 1865, gave Robin a tour of their shop. A dozen apprentices, varying in age from about seventeen to twenty or twenty-one, were hand-carving rifle stocks and pistol grips, and chipping flint for flintlocks. A few pistol barrels had been cast in iron, and their bores were being smoothed and polished.

"As you can see," Emile said, "our progress is slow. The iron is poor, our casting methods worse, and the work is tedious and time-consuming. It will be months if not years before we have a single working pistol."

Robin frowned. He was no expert, but progress on the weapons seemed far more rapid than that. He made no mention of his suspicions, though.

"This will be your area," Emile said, indicating an empty table and bench at the back of the shop. "Each of us works on weapons of our own design. Any tools you need will be requisitioned, as well as assistants. Life is cheap; the more people we put to gainful employment, the better, if you understand me."

"I believe I do." Robin began to smile. Emile had a pretty good racket of his own going on... as long as he looked busy and useful, he would be immune to Capone's bullying. In the meantime he'd pull as many people up from the slum of Pisstown as he could.

Robin knew, then, that he'd found an ally. He just had to convince Emile of that fact.

After the ten-hour workday, as the others hurried out to place their grails in the grailstone, the Dutchman took Robin's arm and held him back. Robin paused, curious.

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Emile said, "You're no gunsmith."

"I don't know what you mean," Robin said.

"I've been watching you, and you don't have the faintest idea of what you're doing. If you are here to spy on us—" Emile began.

"Actually, I am." Robin lowered his voice. "I was sent here by Jules Verne."

Emile took a step back as if struck. "Verne—he is still alive?"

"Yes. He wants to capture Capone and free New Chicago."

"I would welcome the day!" There were tears on Emile's face. "Verne was a good friend of mine. Where is he? I want to know all that has happened to him!"

Quickly Robin gave him a summary of Verne's life since he'd escaped on the riverboat. The Dutchman kept nodding happily.

"I have something to show you," Emile said when Robin finished. He led the way into the back room. Several of the floorboards were loose; he pulled them up, revealing a crawlway. Inside were dozens of pistols and muskets.

"These are oar rejects," he said proudly. "They all work perfectly, so of course we cannot give them to Capone. When he comes to see our progress, we fire the defective guns for him. When they explode, we tell him it is a problem with the forging process. When it is refined further, we say, the guns will work." He chuckled. "He is a fool. One of Capone's men even lost an eye to a bit of flying metal."

"How many guns do you have?" Robin asked.

"Thirteen flintlock pistols, eight rifles."

"I need to leave here in five days to rejoin Verne and

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his men. We'll return ten days after that. Will you be

ready to help us?"

"Yes," Emile breathed. "All we need is a signal." "A flaming arrow at dawn," Robin said. "Watch for

it. Two minutes after it crosses the sky, join us in the

attack.."

Emile and the other two gunsmiths covered for Robin over the next few days. As a gunsmith—even a new one—Robin found he had rights and privileges denied most other residents of New Chicago. He found he could move freely through the city, poking into its darker corners, mapping the streets in his mind. He even visited the roofs of several buildings, "for stargazing is my hobby," as he put it.

There were countless places from which his men might strike. One of the smaller gates on the northern side of New Chicago seemed to offer the best possibilities for invasion: it was barred from the inside each night, with a single guard posted to watch over it.

Robin also learned that Al Capone left his palace early each morning to look over pet projects, accompanied by Eichmann and a few other trusted lieutenants. Such a routine begged closer examination, so Robin visited the city library one morning (several dozen authors were re-creating famous works from memory, and interested readers could inspect new drafts of Moby Dick, War and Peace, Ubik, and Little House on the Prairie). Since the library faced out on the central plaza, he had a clear view as Capone—a small, round-faced man with powerful arms and shoulders—crossed the square. The gangster smoked constantly, his words interspersed with short, sharp hand motions. It took maybe three minutes for

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Capone and his men to cross from the palace to Eichmann's office building.

Robin stared up at the rooftops surrounding the square and thought about ambushes. Yes, he thought, the more he studied the matter, the higher he believed their chance of success.

On his fifth night in New Chicago, Emile drew him aside again. "I have it arranged for you to leave tomorrow," he said. "We need more flint. You will be going to a high-quality outcropping you spotted some weeks ago in your wanderings, and two of our apprentices will accompany you to carry it back."

"What about guards?"

"Seven men will accompany you for the first day. When you reach the edge of Capone's territory, six of them will turn back. Capone has an entire city to watch over, and cannot spare guards for such minor missions as this." Emile winked. "Besides, in my confidential reports to Eichmann, I have told him how happy you are here, and how hard you are working. They like loyalty in men such as us, eh?" He gave a hearty laugh.

Dawn the next morning found Robin and two seventeen-year-old apprentice gunsmiths standing at the main gates. As Emile had promised, everything was arranged: the guards were waiting, and they even returned Robin's bow.

"You'll be standing double duty," said the guard who was to accompany them the whole time, a grizzled, tough-looking mercenary named O'Brien. "Keep the kiddies m line, keep yourself in line, and we won't have no trouble."

"Sounds good to me," Robin said.

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Their fourth night out, Robin put an arrow in O'Brien's back as the man lay sleeping. Fast, quick, and painless by this world's standards: Robin felt not a moment's remorse. It wasn't like death here was permanent, he thought. O'Brien would awaken the following day, naked and confused, next to a grail hundreds or even thousands of miles away.

The two apprentices stared at Robin, clearly terrified. They tensed to run.

"Relax," Robin told them. "I'm not going to kill you. I'm on a secret mission and had to get rid of our guard. You can either stick with me for the next few weeks... and you'll be richly rewarded when we're through... or you can return to New Chicago. If you go back, though, be warned that Emile will have naught to do with you. He knows about what's going on, and even arranged this whole trip. You'll be stuck in Pisstown or sent to a labor camp for the rest of your lives."

"We will go with you," they both said at once.

Robin nodded; he'd expected that answer. "Search O'Brien's body and split whatever valuables he has. The sword and shield are mine. Then hide the body where it won't be found."

Both boys hurried to obey. Robin sat back and watched. He didn't know if they'd stick with him, hightail it back for New Chicago at their first chance, or just flee to another settlement somewhere down-River. It didn't really matter, he thought; he'd be back aboard the Belle Dame the next day. Even if the boys tried to warn Capone, he'd beat them to New Chicago on the riverboat.

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The Belle Dame was anchored in the middle of the River exactly as they had agreed it would be. Little John and the others were practicing on deck. Arrows were nocked, fired, nocked, and fired again at the straw targets. Verne's men had improved vastly in the ten days he'd been away, Robin noticed.

The apprentices merely gaped. Robin clapped them on their backs. "What do you think now?" he asked.

"But this is Monsieur Verne's boat!" Jacques, the younger of the two, finally said.

"And there is Monsieur Verne!" cried Pierre. He gazed at Robbin in awe. "You are a spy for Monsieur Verne!"

"That's right." Robin cupped hands to his mouth and hallooed to the Belle Dame. Everyone on the deck dropped what they were doing and crowded to the rails, waving excitedly.

A boat was rapidly dispatched, and in twenty minutes Robin and the boys had been transported safely aboard.

Jules Verne was the first to shake Robin's hand. "Congratulations!" he boomed. He looked completely well, his cheeks ruddy, his long brown hair whipping wildly in the breeze. "I knew you would return safely!"

"And I have good news," Robin said. "It will be easier than we thought to capture the city."

"Do not keep us in suspense! What have you discovered?"

Robin climbed two of the steps toward the second deck and turned. His men and the Belle Dame's crew all stared at him avidly. Taking a deep breath, he began to tell, in simple language, exactly what had transpired, and exactly how he planned to take the city back. Claude de Ves gave a running translation for the members of Verne's crew who didn't speak English well enough to follow.

There were startled gasps when he told of the flintlocks and the ally he had found in Emile van Deskol. "And

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so," Robin said, "I think we stand more than a chance of taking New Chicago from Capone. I know we can do it. It will be hard, it will be brutal, and some of us will undoubtedly die. But in this world where death is but an inconvenience, we have nothing to fear. Come, let's drink to our success!"

To the cheers of the men, he led the way into the salon, where enough liquor had been stored for everyone aboard to share a toast. When it was done, Jules Verne led everyone in three cheers for Robin.

And Robin himself, riding high on the crest of their emotion, felt as though he were flying, as though he would never come down.

"I will need a few things," Robin said.

It was the next afternoon; he and Jules Verne were in the riverboat's salon. The Belle Dame was headed up-River for New Chicago at full speed.

"If it's within my power, you know I will get them for you," Verne said.

"First," Robin said, "I need something like a portable periscope, to watch Capone and his men from cover."

"We have mirrors on board," Verne said. "It is simple enough to mount two of them in a box, arranged so you can look over walls or around corners."

"Second, I need a thin sheet of metal, perhaps an inch wide and eight inches long—but it must be strong at the same time."

"We have extra brass railings aboard. One can be cut to that size."

"And I need something flammable—an oil-soaked rag would be ideal—and matches to ignite it quickly."

"Will flint and steel suffice?"

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"If that's all you have, it must."

"It is; we have found no sulfur deposits yet. What else?"

"Nothing but luck."

"That, my friend," Jules Verne said, "must rest with Providence."

When they neared New Chicago, the crew doused all lights and ran the riverboat in darkness. Robin moved forward, studying the shoreline. Here and there fires from human settlements glimmered faintly through the trees. Overhead, alien constellations shone palely down, providing a wan sort of light that made the River's waves shimmer ever so faintly silver.

Several crewmen sat silently in the prow, dangling their feet overboard, calling instructions back to the pilothouse. The pilot avoided sandbanks as best he could. Twice Robin heard the Belle Dame's keel scrape sand.

At last they rounded a bend in the River and New Chicago, some three or four miles distant as yet, came into view. Its thousands of lights and campfires gave the sky a glow visible for leagues in every direction.

"I think we should land here," Robin said. "We're about an hour's walk away. We can be there well before dawn."

"Good," said Verne. He hefted his longbow. "This time I am ready for Capone."

"No," Robin said. "I want you to stay aboard. You're too valuable to risk in the fighting."

"I did not journey all this way—" Verne began.

Mutch said, "Think of your wounds, sir. They're not fully healed. If you rip out the stitches..."

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CJaude de Ves whispered something in French in Verne's ear. Jules Verne frowned, but finally nodded and turned to Robin.

"You all seem united against me in this matter," he

said. "So be it. Take all the men you require; I will

remain aboard the Belle Dame until success is assured."

"What if you're attacked?" Robin asked. "Surely you

need some crew to protect the. riverboat."

"The Belle Dame carries a few surprises for anyone foolish enough to attack her," Veme said with a wink. "As for my crew, I need five strong men, no more."

"Very well," Robin said, "though I would gladly leave twice that number."

Verne rose with sudden determination. "Let us see to the boats," he said. "The sooner New Chicago is freed, the happier I will be."

On deck, Verne gave the orders and the riverboat put in as close to shore as it could. The crew broke out four boats this time. Robin and his men went ashore first, then Verne's men followed. The Belle Dame pulled back and began to drift down-River with the current, away from New Chicago. Veme would hide around the River's bend until dawn.

Robin found himself in command of no fewer than fifty-two archers. A skeleton crew of eight—including Jacques, Pierre, and Verne—had remained aboard the Belle Dame.

As the men gathered together for the march to New Chicago, Robin quietly asked Claude de Ves what he'd said to Verne in the salon.

"Eh?" De Ves chuckled. "Merely that he is too valuable to chance in such an attack as this. We will need his mind to restore the city and the technocracy to its

I    former glory. How can he do that if he is dead—from old wounds, or from new ones?"

"Very logical."

"Indeed, it is logic to which Monsieur Verne listens best."

Robin divided the party into three groups, one led by Claude de Ves, one by Little John, and one by himself. "We stand less chance of being spotted if we move quickly and in small groups," he told them. "Little John, follow me in five minutes. Claude, follow five minutes after Little John."

They nodded their understanding. De Ves translated for the Frenchmen.

"Remember," Robin told his group, "we will be the first ones to run into any trouble. Should guards challenge us, shoot first and ask questions later. We have plenty of arrows; don't be afraid to waste them."

He looked his men over one last time, making eye contact with each and every one. They all hefted their bows, shifting impatiently, like hounds eager for the hunt. At last Robin nodded, convinced they were ready. With a sharp whistle, he turned and padded softly into the darkness. They followed right on his heels.

The journey took one of the longest hours of Robin's life.

Every noise in the night, every creaking branch, every rustle of leaves grated on his nerves. He would pause, motioning his men to silence, and listen. Usually it was the wind, or a passing animal. Twice patrols of Capone's men passed within yards of where they crouched; Capone's men talked loudly to one another, their swords and shields making occasional metallic clangs. They were

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arrogant in their strength, convinced they were invulnerable here, Robin thought. He let them pass unharmed to maintain the night's fa§ade of normality.

They circled the stinking mire of Pisstown, keeping upwind as much as possible. The northern side of the stockade faced out on a sea of tree stumps sprinkled with little copses of saplings; the forest had been cleared for hundreds of yards around New Chicago for its wood. Like phantoms they drifted from hiding place to hiding place until they were twenty yards from the stockade walls.

While the others waited under cover, Robin and Will Scarlet jogged over to the side gate Robin had scouted during his time in the city. Robin pressed his ear to the wood and heard deep snoring from the other side. The lone guard had fallen asleep at his post.

He mimed it to Will, who had taken out the long, thin strip of brass Verne's men had prepared. Nodding, Will inserted the strip between the door and frame, working it carefully upward. It caught on the bar. Will shifted left, then right, then up again, and the bar lifted out of place.

Using his fingertips, Robin pushed the door back. Will reached inside, caught the bar, and lowered it silently. They both slipped inside.

Next to the gate they found a guard sprawled in a high-backed wooden chair, his mouth open. He was snoring softly. Robin nocked an arrow and leaned forward until its tip pricked the man's throat. He came awake with a frightened mew.

"One more sound and you're dead," Robin said. "Will, tie him up."

Will Scarlet did as instructed. In minutes the guard was firmly bound and gagged with strips cut from his

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own clothing. He could do nothing but stare at them with wide eyes.

Turning, Robin pushed the gate completely open and motioned toward the saplings. In groups of three and four, the rest of his band crossed into the stockade.

As they entered, Robin reminded everyone where to go and what to do. "Watch for a flaming arrow," he said. "That will be our sign that the attack has begun."

His men dispersed, melting into the dark streets and alleyways like a fine mist.

Dawn brought a cool gray sky, with a brisk wind that held the promise of rain. Robin, Little John, and five others sprawled on the roof of a building that overlooked the central plaza. Their bows were strung; arrows lay close at hand.

"He'll come from the central doorway," Robin was saying. He passed the little periscope Verne had made to each man in turn; they looked over the roofs peak with it, down into the plaza. "He'll have at least four others with him, possibly more. The best time to strike is when they're in the center of the plaza. I'll give the signal. Agreed?"

"I'm not sure assassination is the answer," Little John said.

Robin turned to look at his friend. "Abe, he's a criminal and a murderer."

Lincoln bit his lip.

"If I thought we could safely take him prisoner," Robin went on, "I'd try it. You know I don't want Capone free to raise another criminal empire somewhere else along the River. But I also have to balance our possible losses against his. This is the best way."

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Little John shook his head sadly. "Perhaps you are right. Even so, I find the idea of assassinating him distasteful."

"It's not murder," Mutch pointed out. "He won't die."

"But he'll feel it nevertheless."

"True," Robin said. He retrieved the periscope from Mutch and took up watch. A second later, the palace's main doors opened.

Robin let his voice drop to a whisper. "Get ready. They're coming out!" He selected his arrow and prepared to stand and fire. Around him, his men did the same.

"On the count of three," he said. "Everyone aim for Capone. He's the short, round-faced man in the center. One...two. ..three!"

And on three, all seven rose and fired.

Either the whistle of arrows in flight or the sudden movement on the rooftop gave Capone the warning he needed. The gangster jerked one of his men around, and that man rather than Capone took two arrows in the chest and one in the leg. It was Eichmann, Robin saw. The German staggered, a startled look on his face, then collapsed.

"Guards!" Capone was shouting. He grabbed another man as a shield. "Bring out da guards! Archers on da roofs! Guards!"

Robin fired a second time, just missing Capone's head by a hand's breadth. The gangster continued his retreat, still bellowing for help.

Meantime, Robin's men had killed the rest of Capone's lieutenants. Their bodies lay in the plaza, surrounded by growing pools of blood, arrows protruding at odd angles from their bodies.

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Robin calmly nocked a third arrow, took careful aim, and let it fly. This time he hit the lieutenant Capone was using as a shield, killing him instantly. The gangster continued to drag the corpse in front of him, though, and made it up the palace steps and through the doors unscathed.

"Get down!" Robin said. His men crouched out of sight once more. "Damn, damn, damn," he said, pounding his leg with his fist. "I should have had him!"

"It wasn't meant to be," Little John said.

Robin grimaced. "We'll take him later, if we can," he said. "It's time to start the second phase of our attack. Mutch?"

Mutch produced flint and steel. Robin pulled an arrow with an oil-soaked rag bound tightly around its shaft. Mutch struck sparks until the rag caught fire, then Robin rose and fired. It arched across the sky, bright as a flare, a clear signal for everyone else involved in the plan.

"Let's hope the others succeed in their tasks better than we did," he said grimly. "I'll lead the guards away. Little John, you stay here and keep watch, in case Capone comes back out. The rest of you, scatter and keep an eye out for danger. If you can, rally the people to our cause."

With a cry of, "God save the king!" Robin rose and ran across the top of the roof. With an Indian war-whoop, he leaped to the next building's roof. Shouts came from below as the guards spotted him and gave chase.

Robin grinned and sprinted toward the next building, ten feet away and six feet lower. He'd lead them a merry chase, all right. He reached the edge, leaped, and hung over thirty feet of emptiness. Then, with a grunt, he hit

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the other building's roof and scrambled for purchase. His feet slipped on the wood shingles and he fell forward, grasping for a handhold. He slid six feet before he found one.

Pulling himself up, he glanced over the edge. Twenty or thirty guards were watching for him, swords drawn. A cry went up, and Robin began to run again.

He led them from rooftop to rooftop. Over the next ten minutes, he found the number of guards had grown alarmingly—there were at least a hundred men following him below, waiting for him to slip or get himself trapped.

At last he reached the end of his chase, as he found himself on the roof of a meeting hall. He stood on the top of the roof, looking around in seeming confusion, as if he didn't know where to go from there. Then he climbed down to an open window in the second story and climbed inside.

The guards rushed the building en masse. As they entered, Robin dashed across the balcony that overlooked the ground floor, drawing their attention.

Then in the center of the balcony, Robin held up his hands and shouted for their silence. A bit to his surprise, the guards paused and stared at him.

"I have come," he shouted, "to free this city from tyranny! Look around you—you are surrounded by my men! Lay down your weapons or you will all be killed!"

For the first time, Capone's men began to look around the meeting hall. Robin's archers had been waiting motionlessly up against the walls. Now forty-five of them stepped forward, arrows nocked.

A sudden, confused babble of voices rose from the guards. Bewildered questions—puzzled demands—angry threats.

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Robin shouted them down. "Drop your weapons and put your hands on your heads!" he instructed. "This is your last warning!"

One by one swords began to thud against the floorboards. Two of Robin's men moved forward and began collecting them, while the others kept the guards covered.

Chuckling, Robin descended to take charge.

Outside, he could already hear scattered gunshots, as the smiths and their apprentices took care of what other guards remained. It would only be a matter of mopping up after this.

The city had completely fallen to Robin and his men. By noon the last of the fighting had ended, as the few holdouts among Capone's men were disarmed and locked into the meeting hall with the others. All told, three hundred and forty-four of Capone's guards and lieutenants had been rounded up. Another sixteen lay dead, and eighteen more were wounded and not expected to live through the night... mostly due to New Chicagoans settling old grudges with their former captors. The whole city had joined in the revolt at the end. Robin hadn't lost a single man.

Of Capone, though, there was no sign. Robin assumed he'd somehow made his way from the city and fled. With such complete victory in hand, though, it seemed a minor detail. They'd send out patrols to try to find him later. Considering all he'd done to the land and people, Robin thought Capone would have few friends willing to aid his escape.

That afternoon, as the Belle Dame sailed close under its skeleton crew, Robin's men raised a red flag over the

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council building as a signal that all was well. A long whistle blared from the Belle Dame in reply.

Musicians were already playing in the streets, and men and women were dancing in the plaza with joyous abandon. The gates to the city had been thrown wide; most of the population of New Chicago and Pisstown had come in to join the celebration.

Emile van Deskol and the other gunsmiths and their apprentices had organized themselves into a police force, and the threat of their guns kept order. Truly, a new age had come to New Chicago.

"Look!" Mutch said, grabbing Robin's arm and pointing toward the River.

It took Robin a minute to see what he meant. Two outriggers had cast off from shore and were sailing toward the Belle Dame. In the lead boat... was Al Capone!

Robin counted quickly. The outriggers held a total of twelve men... all armed killers. The Belle Dame had a crew of eight at the moment, and two were little more than boys. They wouldn't stand a chance against Capone and his men.

"They must have been waiting near the water," Mutch said. "We weren't guarding anything but the city. They saw their chance to escape and took it... and the Belle Dame just happened along at the wrong time."

Robin felt an electric shock run through his body. "We've got to stop them!" he cried. "If they gain control of the riverboat—"

"Get two boats ready," Little John said. "I'll fetch some of our boys with guns. It's not too late. We can still stop Capone."

Robin and Mutch raced for the water.

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Ten minutes had passed by the time twenty armed men made it to the outriggers from New Chicago. Robin had to stand helplessly and watch as Verne and his men scurried across the Belle Dame, shutting hatches, fastening wooden shutters over the windows, doing anything and everything they could to protect themselves before Capone and his men could board. At last Verne ushered everyone into the pilothouse, slammed the hatch, and (Robin assumed) bolted it closed from the inside. Perhaps Verne would be able to hold out long enough for Robin to save him.

As Capone's outriggers pulled even with the Belle Dame and the gangster and his men began to climb aboard, a curious thing began to happen. Robin had to blink and rub his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

The riverboat was sinking.

Or perhaps submerging was the appropriate word, since it didn't seem to be happening in any way like a disaster: there were no explosions as cold water hit the steam boilers, and the craft was descending evenly, prow and stern simultaneously. The newsreels Robin had seen of ships sinking had always shown them turning tail-up and then vanishing into the depths.

"It's a submarine, too," Mutch breathed.

"But the smokestacks..." Robin said.

"Perhaps they stick out of the water at all times," Mutch said.

"I don't understand," Little John said. "Is it sinking or not?"

"It's not!" Robin let out a relieved laugh. "He's brilliant! That's how he knew his ship could never be

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taken by force—he can submerge it whenever he's attacked!"

"Keep us clear of the riverboat," Mutch said. "When she goes down, the sudden undertow might be enough to capsize us."

They circled the Belle Dame from a hundred yards away, watching as she continued to sink. Capone and his men had abandoned their outriggers when they boarded; now they could only climb higher and higher as first one deck, then another fell awash.

At last they stood on the pilothouse's roof, pounding futilely on the wood with their swords, screaming obscenities at Verne and his infernal riverboat. Then the water covered even the pilothouse, and they found themselves floundering in the river.

"Riverfish..." Little John murmured. "The riverboat has stirred them up."

"Where?" Mutch asked.

He pointed, and Robin saw them too: four or five dark shapes moving swiftly through the water. In seconds they reached Capone and his men and pulled them under. The water turned bright red.

Robin swallowed and found a lump in his throat. He found he'd been unconsciously rooting for Capone to make it to shore. Devoured by riverfish... that wasn't a fate he would have wished on anyone, even Al Capone.

Over the next few weeks, things gradually returned to normal in New Chicago. The people went back to their jobs, trials were held for Capone's men (all were sentenced to five years at hard labor in the mining camps), and Jules Verne himself restored the scientific council, to

continue the press toward new research and the reinvention of all mankind had lost.

Robin and his men were declared Heroes of the City and awarded every honor Jules Verne could think of. Verne himself pinned the Nemo Medal on Robin's chest in a holiday to celebrate ten days of liberty for the city.

At the end of the evening, as Robin and his men returned to their temporary quarters, Robin found his thoughts wandering toward the River and what lay ahead once more. He knew it was time to leave, to continue his journey.

"I've been thinking," he said at last, "that it's time we were moving on. What say you, men?"

They all cheered mightily. The merry men had increased to thirty-eight during their stay in New Chicago: it seemed many were sick of the city and longed for freedom and the open road to adventure.

At dawn the next morning Robin and his men gathered at the gate to the city. Jules Verne and most of the people of New Chicago had come to see them off. There were more than a few sad farewells.

"Robin," Little John said solemnly, "I don't know how to say this, so I'll put it plainly."

Robin turned. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"I've decided to remain here," Little John said.

Robin stared. "What?" he cried.

Abraham Lincoln took off his cap. "I'm sorry, Robin," he said in his low, powerful voice. "I've been looking for my place in this world, and I think I've found it here. Jules Verne and his scientists need people like me. Their problems came from their system of government. They never planned for the common man. If their quest for

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scientific enlightenment had paid more attention to people instead of machines, Capone never could have taken over from them."

"But what could you do?" Robin asked.

"I've already spoken to Mr. Verne. He has agreed to let me draft a constitution to govern this city and its people. Democracy must be kept alive, and New Chicago will be its headquarters. Do you understand now why I must stay?"

"I think I do," Robin said solemnly. He put his hand on Lincoln's shoulder. "I wish you all the best, my friend." The two embraced briefly. "Good-bye, Abraham."

"Good-bye, Robin."

Robin swallowed, took a step back, and looked over the rest of his merry men. One of the newest additions, a tall, thin youth with straight black hair and a ready smile, stood at the back. "Little John," Robin told him. "Henceforth you will be our new Little John."

"Pardon, Monsieur Robin?" Little John said, looking confused. One of the other merry men translated for him, and a slow smile spread across his face as he understood. "Merci!" he cried. "Merci bien, Robin!"

Robin sighed mentally, but didn't let it show. He'd work on it. After all, how bad could a Frenchman playing Little John be? It couldn't be worse than the first Little John, who'd tried to introduce the merry men to something he called "the Ministry of Funny Walks."

And so, his band stronger than ever, Robin Hood headed from New Chicago, continuing his quest for justice and King Richard the Lionhearted.

Unfinished Business

Robert Weinberg

"Company's coming," shouted Jim Bowie, spotting a shimmering in the air a few feet from where he stood. Along with nearly five hundred other citizens of New Athens, he was waiting by the town grailstone for lunch to appear. Translations, though fairly commonplace, always caused a ripple among the villagers when they took place. No one ever adjusted to people materializing out of thin air.

The crowd, equally divided between men and women all looking approximately twenty-five years old, hastily backed away from the huge stone mushroom. Barely five seconds after Bowie's warning, a man's nude and hairless body materialized next to the massive grailstone. Attached to his wrist was the ever-present lunch bucket, while close at hand appeared a half-dozen towels. As his form hardened into reality, the grailstone roared like thunder, blue fire streaking a score of feet up into the air.

"Luncheon is served," announced Bill Mason cheerfully. Carefully circling around the unconscious newcomer, he

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scrambled onto the grailstone and retrieved his bucket. Opening it, he peered carefully inside. "Hey, Bowie, I got a bottle of bourbon. I'll trade it to you for some of that chocolate you've been hoarding."

The stranger momentarily forgotten, the villagers hurried to their grails. Bowie followed suit. There would be plenty of time to talk to the new arrival later. On Riverworld, there was always time. Lunch came first.

Groaning, the translated man rubbed his head and sat up. Bowie, checking the contents of his lunch bucket, kept one eye on the stranger. A few months earlier, a new arrival went berserk seconds after his arrival. He slaughtered three citizens of New Athens before finally being dispatched. Ever since, Bowie made sure he had his knife handy after a resurrection.

Meanwhile, his friend Socrates, always the Good Samaritan, knelt by the stranger. The philosopher's small, ugly face creased with concern. "Would you like something to eat?" Bowie heard the Greek inquire in Esperanto, the lingua franca of the River. "Resurrection gives one an appetite. Or so I have been told."

The newcomer, a tall, lanky man with pleasant features and blue-gray eyes, groggily shook his head. "No, thanks," he replied in the same language. "The last thing I remember is a bunch of cannibals hacking at me with knives. Best I could tell, they wanted me to stay for dinner." The man laughed out loud. "Actually, I guess they wanted me for dinner. Kinda put me off eating for a while."

"Cannibals!" gasped a nearby woman, her features turning a delicate shade of green. "But the food from the grailstones..."

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"Each to his own nature," said Socrates with a shrug. "Some people are harder to please than others."

Opening his grail, the philosopher pulled out a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. Taking a deep bite, he waved the food at the other man. "Are you firm in your resolve? Or perhaps a cup of coffee would suit you better?"

"Maybe in a few minutes," replied the stranger, his gaze sweeping the crowd. It came to rest on Bowie, unmistakable with his fair skin and wavy red hair. "I thought I heard your name," the man muttered in amazement.

Bowie frowned. That voice sounded familiar.

"Don't you recognize me, Jim?" the man cried out, his voice thick with emotion. "You old son of a bitch."

Bowie gasped in amazement. Everyone on Riverworld had been reborn at age twenty-five and without any facial hair. The man whose voice he heard had been fifty the last time they had been together. He stared at the new arrival, trying to fit his image to the one he remembered. It was the stranger's eyes, blue-gray like his own—"killer's eyes," the Mexicans had called them—that decided him. His mouth curved in a huge grin. "I'll be a ring-tailed alligator!" he exclaimed. "Davy Crockett."

Tears in both their eyes, they embraced. "Long time since the Alamo," said Bowie.

"Not long enough," replied Crockett grimly. "But we can talk about that later. How you been?"

Before Bowie could answer, Crockett turned to Socrates. "I'll take that coffee now, friend. And maybe a bite or two from that sandwich. Running into old buddies always makes me hungry."

"Back on Earth," said Bowie a few minutes later,

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watching his old friend wolf down anything offered him by the generous villagers, "everything made you hungry. Can't say you've changed very much."

"Been eating a lot better since Resurrection Day," said Crockett between bites. "Life's a mite easier when you don't gotta hunt for your grub."

He waved a hand about, taking in the whole area. "Who lives in these parts?" he asked, eyeing several of the better-looking women. Around their waists, they wore their towels like loincloths, leaving their breasts bare. Crockett grinned. "Foreigners, I take it. Not that I mind their style of clothing."

Bowie chuckled. "To them, we're the outsiders. Most of the folks are ancient Greeks like my buddy, Socrates. Some from Athens, the others from Sparta. The rest are a scattering of Texans from our era, some fifteenth-century Frenchies, and a few dozen others drawn from all periods and places. That Bill Mason over there comes from the twentieth century. He told me that we became famous after we died. Got our names in all the history books and stuff like that."

"They wrote a song about me," said Crockett smugly. "Learned some of the lyrics from a pretty young lady back down the River a-pace. You want to hear the words?"

Without waiting for an answer, he started singing. Bowie grimaced. Resurrection had not improved Crockett's voice. He still sounded like a bullfrog in pain.

"Enough torture," he said after the frontiersman finished the first verse. "Time to head back to our cabin. Me an' Socrates and Mason share a place. There's plenty of room. You want to stay with us?"

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"Others won't mind?" asked Crockett. "Don't want to impose none."

"It's fine with me," said Mason, wandering over and hearing the question. He shook Crockett's hand. A short, stocky man with light-blond hair, he was dwarfed by both of the six-foot Westerners. "I taught history back on Earth. Getting to talk with people like you is a dream come true."

"I also have no objection," added Socrates. He smiled. A sturdily built man with small face and round eyes, he was grotesquely ugly. "Our home is yours."

"Mighty kind of you fellas," said Crockett. He smiled and nodded at an attractive woman walking past. "No women problems or stuff like that?"

"I've been seeing a few ladies," said Bowie, his blue eyes twinkling, "but nothing serious. I don't like being tied down. Same applies to Bill. Socrates is on the run from his wife."

"All men should marry," declared the philosopher solemnly. "If you get a good wife, you become happy and content. If you get a bad one, you become a philosopher." Ruefully, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "I am a notorious philosopher."

Crockett chuckled. "I'm convinced. Your place easy to find?"

"It's up the slope about a hundred yards from town," answered Bowie. "Why? Where you going?"

"That little lady over there has been givin' me the eye while you gents have been jawing away," said Crockett, scooping up his grail and towels. "Thought I'd spend a little time getting to know her better. I'll be around by evenin'."

Then, for an instant, all of the good humor departed

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from his face and his voice grew ice cold. "That's when we'll talk about the Alamo, Jim. And our buddy, Santy Anna."

Five men gathered around a roaring campfire late that night. Crockett had shown up at Bowie's cabin at sundown, grinning broadly but refusing to say anything about his day's activities. "I'm too much of a gentleman to do any bragging," he replied to their questions.

None of the others saw any reason to mention to the frontiersman that his lady fair was Clio of Athens, notorious in the community for her voracious sexual appetites. He would learn soon enough, as had both Bowie and Mason. And many others.

The fifth member of their group was a soft-spoken man who answered to the name of Isaac. A tall, well-built man with distinguished features and dark-brown hair, he had the saddest eyes Bowie had ever seen. Solitary by nature, he lived by himself at the edge of the forest. Though not a dreamgum addict, he was haunted by terrible nightmares that he refused to discuss with anyone. Oftentimes, in the midnight hours, his screams would drift down into the village, causing all those who heard them to shiver in fear. Many of the Greeks considered him cursed by the gods.

A few nights each week, Isaac would drift over to Bowie's cabin to sit silently at their fire. Though he was fluent in Latin, Greek and Esperanto, the man rarely spoke unless addressed directly, and even then his an-

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swers were short and to the point. Socrates theorized that Isaac hungered for the warmth of human companionship but not the responsibilities of friendship. Bowie, who had encountered similar men on the frontier, always made their visitor welcome.

"Do you remember dying?" asked Crockett, casually stirring the raging fire with a bamboo stick. "Not here and now, but the first time. On Earth?"

Though he addressed them all, he obviously aimed the question at Bowie. And the Texan was the one who answered.

"I was pretty well gone by the time the Mexicans came huntin' me. What with pneumonia and my broken ribs and all, my cards were laid out on the table. Not that it mattered much to those troopers. They had blood in their eyes, if you know what I mean." Bowie paused, as if sorting out details in his mind. "Propped myself up against the back wall when I heard them coming. Better than dyin' in bed, I figured. When they finally stumbled on me, I shot the lead man in the chest, then gutted a second with my knife. That's when my legs gave out and I crashed to the floor. I must've died right then, 'cause the next thing I remember is waking up naked on the grass down by the River, like everyone else, four years ago."

"They dragged your body into the courtyard and tossed it into the air on their bayonets," said Crockett. Shuddering, he stared directly into the fire. "The soldiers mutilated your corpse pretty bad. Did the same with several of the others. It was pretty gruesome stuff. I saw the whole thing."

"You saw it?" said Bowie, amazed. "Then you didn't die when the Mexe's overran the fort."

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"Nope. Me and three others surrendered once we saw things were hopeless. It seemed the best thing to do."

"But all the history books say you perished at the Alamo," interrupted Bill Mason.

"Goes to show you can't believe everything you read," said Crockett with a faint smile. Then his features turned grim. "For all practical purposes, I died there. Santy Anna wasn't in a forgiving mood that day. His men murdered us quick enough."

"What?" exclaimed Bill. "Why?"

"Before they attacked, the General told his soldiers, 'No prisoners.' He meant what he said. So when we were brought before him, Santy Anna didn't even look up. He just repeated his command. Damned Mex troopers bayoneted us right there. With my dyin' breath, I swore I'd get even with that coldhearted bastard. And ever since Resurrection Day, I've been a-huntin' for him."

"What do you plan to do if you find him?" asked Mason. "The logistics of this place takes a lot of the sting out of revenge. Kill a man, and he's reborn elsewhere. Cut oflF his hand and it grows back."

"I've got me some ideas about that," said Crockett, his teeth flashing in a nasty grin. "Locating the General is the problem. Hell of a lot of people living on this River."

"All of mankind up to around the year two thousand," said Bill Mason. "At least, that's what some people claim. Thirty or forty billion, give or take a few."

"Bigger numbers than I can handle," said Crockett. "Still, I'm a patient man. If it takes a thousand years of searching, I'll find him. That's a promise."

"Why bother?" asked Bowie, a bitter edge to his

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voice. "Bill's right. Revenge don't mean much anymore. It ain't worth the trouble."

Crockett sighed deeply and shook his head. "That don't sound like the Jim Bowie I knew. Folks said he killt six, seven men in duels back in Louisiana before heading west. Same man believed in rightin' wrongs and makin' the guilty pay for their misdeeds. He never worried whether they was headin' to heaven or hell. Or if it was too much trouble."

Bowie shrugged. "Life is different now. The edge is gone. First time around, life meant something, 'cause you knew death lurked in the background. It kept you on your toes, if you catch my drift. I'm not complaining, but this sure ain't what I expected from the great Hereafter. Damned place is boring."

"Is the problem with this world?" asked Socrates unexpectedly, "or perhaps with ourselves?"

"Huh?" said Bowie, scowling. "What do you mean by that?"

"Are you a man who makes things happen?" replied the philosopher, "or one who is satisfied to sit back and let events and circumstances manipulate him?"

Bowie hesitated, pondering his reply. "I always thought of myself as master of my own destiny," he finally stated. "No one ever told Jim Bowie what he could or couldn't do."

"Yet you find yourself bored on this world of endless opportunity," said Socrates with a mere glimmer of sarcasm in his voice. "How very strange."

"Endless opportunity?" repeated Isaac, catching them all by surprise. It was the first time anyone could remember the mystery man speaking other than in answer to a direct question. "I don't understand."

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"For what reason has all mankind been re-created on this great River?" asked Socrates, his eyes glowing with excitement. "To strive toward perfection as we are told by the disciples of the Church of the Second Chance? A noble goal, but one I suspect out of the reach of most of us.

"Or are we here to finish that which we left undone when we died? Can any of us truly say that we perished with all of our dreams, our goals, our ambitions satisfied? Who among us has not some business left unfinished? Perhaps Crockett's quest for vengeance is not the most noble of enterprises, but it gives his life purpose."

"Carpe diem," said Bill Mason. "Seize the day."

"Exactly," said Socrates. "An excellent thought. We must be true to our own nature. The shortest way to live with honor is to be in reality what we appear to be." |

"That's the way I figure it," said Crockett. "Come    | on, Jim. You can sit around here growing fat or help me find Santy Anna and give him what he deserves."

Bowie sat for a moment, mulling over Socrates' words. The Greek philosopher had an uncanny knack of ferreting out the truth with a few simple questions. For months, Bowie had been feeling restless. Life in New Athens offered no challenge for a frontiersman. Crockett's appearance only served to underscore the emptiness of his own existence.

Searching for Santa Anna meant nothing to him. Unlike Crockett, he had no personal score to settle with the Mexican. His past had died at the Alamo. He was free of old grudges, old hates. Yet, thinking that, he suddenly realized he wanted to leave anyway.

In an instant of epiphany, Bowie realized that the reason for his departure didn't matter. It was the trip

itself that counted, not the final destination. The meaning of life was in the living, not the ending. Perhaps that was why all mankind had been reborn on the banks of a seemingly endless river.

"Well," he said, a smile slowly forming on his lips, "I guess I could use a change of scenery."

With a whoop of excitement, Crockett grabbed Bowie by the shoulders. "Now that's more like it! The two of us, together again, lookin' for trouble."

"Hey," said Bill Mason. "Count me in. I'm no adventurer, but there's a few people on the River I'd like to find. Jack Ruby and Lee Harvey Oswald, for starters."

"Why not," said Crockett. "No reason we can't hunt for those fellas too. Whoever the hell they are."

"I, too, would like to join your party," said Isaac unexpectedly. For the first time since Bowie met the man, there was a glimmer of hope in his haunted eyes. "My nightmares are driving me mad. Only one man can put those dreams to rest. He, too, must live somewhere along the River."

Bowie glanced over at Socrates. "What about you, my friend? Want to come along? Or are you satisfied to remain here?"

"In my old age," said the philosopher, a sarcastic edge to his voice, ' 'the good citizens of Athens voted to put me to death for corrupting the youth of that city. Too many of those same people were resurrected in this community.

"Lately they again grumble about my endless questions. They think I mock the gods. Unfortunately, they are right. One taste of hemlock is enough. Better that I travel with you than risk a second sentence. If I die, let it be because of my own stupidity, not another's.

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"Besides," he added. "I have asked many people, 'What is justice?' In all my years, I have yet to receive a satisfactory reply. Perhaps somewhere on the River is an answer to my question."

"Then it's settled," said Crockett. "Tomorrow we'll build us a canoe and head out."

"Wait a minute," said Bowie, raising his hands for silence. "I agreed to help you find the General, but I ain't planning to commit suicide. How many times you die already, searchin' on your own?"

"Seven," answered Crockett. "Or maybe eight. I lost count a while back."

"I figured as much," said Bowie, his mind racing. Crockett hadn't changed much since his days on the frontier. He had grand ideas but little patience for details. "Only way we'll accomplish anything is by staying alive. Maybe death ain't permanent anymore, but it'll scatter our party to the four winds. So we gotta make plans, big plans. Traveling by canoe ain't the answer. We'll need a boat, a good one, and a crew to sail her."

"A boat?" said Crockett. "And crew? Why?"

"I've learned quite a bit from some of the other folk translated here during the past few years. Not all the people on the River are as friendly as the citizens of New Athens. Take those cannibal friends of yours, for example. The five of us don't stand much of a chance on our own. There's strength in numbers. That's why a crew is important."

"The Spartans," interrupted Bill Mason excitedly. "Ever since they defeated those Viking raiders last year, they've been looking for new worlds to conquer."

"My thoughts exactly," said Bowie. "I watched them in action. They're tough, disciplined fighters who know

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how to fight as a unit. Precisely the type of men we want."

"And anxious for adventure," said Socrates. "Let me talk to Lysander of Sparta tomorrow. He was the admiral of their fleet and knows the finest sailors. Though I suspect that insufferable bore will insist we take him along as well."

"What about a ship?" asked Crockett. "Or you got that all planned too."

"Maybe," said Bowie, smiling. "Just maybe I do."

The next morning, Bowie, Crockett, and Mason walked down-River a mile to the next grailstone. "That's where Thorberg Scafhogg lives," said Bowie, as they strolled along the beach. "We sometimes get together for a few drinks."

Seeing the disapproving look that crossed Crockett's face, Bowie raised his hands in protest. "I know what you're thinking, and it ain't like that. No more drunken binges for me. I learned my lesson at the Alamo. Damned near broke all my ribs when I fell off the ramparts. Ended doin' more damage to myself than the Mexicans."

Bowie's face grew solemn. "Besides, in those days I didn't care much if I lived or died. Not after the cholera took my wife and baby girl. Liquor helped me forget. All that's changed since the resurrection. Life's different knowing that Maria is alive somewhere out there. I've mended my ways." The Texan smiled. "Maybe I should think about joining the Church of the Second Chance."

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"Yeah," said Crockett, arching his eyebrows. "What do you think of those preacher folks? Hold much to their theory of us being re-created so we can all strive toward sainthood?" Davy laughed. "Hard to imagine old Andy Jackson, the devil himself, with a halo."

"Having a second chance at life strikes me as a fine idea," said Bowie. "Not to mention a third, fourth, and who knows how many more tries. But, people is people. No matter how many times they're reborn, they ain't gonna change much. At least, that's the way I see it."

"Who's this Thorberg you mentioned?" asked Crockett, changing the subject. "And what's he to us?"

"Around twelve months ago," replied Bill Mason, "a fleet of six Viking ships came sailing down the River. Commanded by Olaf Tryggvason, a Norwegian king from the tenth century, they were looking to establish an empire in this territory. The raiders had conquered two other valleys, and they figured we'd be no more trouble. None of them counted on the Spartans."

"Must have been about a thousand Norsemen looking for plunder on those boats," said Bowie, continuing the tale. "They never encountered any organized opposition before. Stormed ashore, not expecting any resistance. Three thousand Greeks, combat-hardened veterans of years of intercity warfare, met them on the beaches. The sands ran red with blood."

"The Vikings fought heroically," said Mason, "but without much discipline. They battled as individuals. The Spartans, raised and trained in groups, worked in unison. Individually, they didn't match up against their opponents. But collectively they overwhelmed them.

"By the time King Olaf fell, most of his followers were dead. The remaining few, mostly artisans and

craftsmen who kept the ships in good condition, surrendered. Lysander of Sparta offered them a choice. Join our community, freely sharing their knowledge of science and engineering, or perish by the sword. In a world where death means nothing, mercy no longer exists. The Norwegians, to a man, chose to live. Thorberg Scafhogg was one of that bunch."

"Their boats?" asked Crockett.

"Burned during the battle," replied Mason. "Fortunately, afterward, we were able to save most of the rivets and bolts."

On Riverworld, where minerals were almost nonexistent, iron was more valued than gold. Without it, modern technology could not exist. Wars were fought for metal.

"Where'd they get the ore?" asked Crockett. "Can't dig for it. Grass is too darned tough."

"You know those firestarters that sometimes appear in the grails? Rumor has it that an American named Edison tried all sorts of experiments to discover their secrets. Got killed a couple of times, but he kept on trying. Never did find out how they worked. But what he did learn was equally important.

"Edison discovered that if you place a bumed-out firestarter in a grail, most of the housing gets cooked off, leaving a small amount of iron and copper. Not much, but considering that everyone in the valley started out with one firestarter and usually got another every six months or so, that accounted for a good amount of material in a few years.

"The Vikings used the metal to make rivets and bolts, along with a few axes. Those went to the best fighters and a few shipwrights. Scafhogg, their most famous craftsman, got one. He uses it still.

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"Norsemen dislike saws, preferring axes for cutting wood. Wait till you see Thorberg use his blade. The man's a genius with it."

"Ain't his only talent," said Bowie. The Texan pulled a long knife out of a dragonfish scabbard. The burnished steel blade blazed in the morning sunshine.

"He made it for me usin' a picture I drew," Bowie continued. "Same way Rezin designed the original. Not perfectly balanced, but it's sure better than a hornfish sword. Only Bowie knife on the whole river, I suspect."

"I'll say," replied Crockett. "You think maybe this Thorberg could make me a rifle?"

"Probably," said Bowie. "We even cooked up some gunpowder for explosives a while back. But what you planning to use for ammunition? Wooden bullets?"

"Damn," said Crockett. "Ain't proper for a man to be without a gun. I miss my Betsy."

"There's Scafhogg now," interrupted Mason, pointing to a figure in the distance. "That's a title given him by King Olaf in the tenth century," he added as an afterthought. "It means, 'Smoothing Stroke,' referring to his shipbuilding skills."

A hundred feet away, a squat, heavyset man stood beside a long wood workbench, busily chopping into a slab of oak with a glittering steel ax. Powerful muscles rippled in his arms and shoulders as he worked. A long blond braid tossed to and fro across his back with each motion.

"Ho, Thorberg," cried Bowie as they drew closer.

The Norseman paused and looked up. The harsh, angular lines of his face softened when he spotted the Texan. "Ho, Bowie," he called in return. "Welcome to you and your friends."

They spent the next ten minutes on introductions and idle

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gossip. Thorberg spoke Esperanto with a thick accent, and oftentimes it was difficult to make out what he said. However, the master builder possessed a keen mind and quick wit. He expressed pleasure in meeting Crockett, and even submitted to listening to a verse of the sharpshooter's theme song. Bowie agonized through the rendition. He wondered idly if this miracle picture device called television ever featured a show on his life. Mentally, he promised to put that question to Bill Mason once they were alone.

The serenade over, Thorberg showed them his latest project, a massive oak chair he was constructing for one of the villagers. As he spoke, he slashed at the wood backboard with his ax, trimming it away with the precision of a fine surgeon.

"And what brings you to my humble home?" he asked, brushing a tiny sliver of wood from his hair. "Not merely the desire to show Crockett examples of my work, I suspect."

"We want you to build a boat," said Bowie, seeing no reason to equivocate. "A longboat, like the ones you constructed for King Olaf and his men. We're planning a trip downstream."

The Norseman didn't seem the least bit surprised. "Follow me," he said.

Turning, he headed away from the River and into the forest. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. Five minutes of brisk walking brought them to the base of a huge oak tree, towering well over a hundred feet into the air.

"Here is the keel for your ship," he declared proudly. "I knew from the day we met that someday you would ask this task from me. It was in your eyes. Sooner or later, all true men must challenge the great River."

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"Mighty big tree," said Davy Crockett. "Gonna be an awfully long boat."

"On Earth, for King Olaf, I built one twice the size," said Thorberg. "A mighty dragon ship he named Long Serpent."

The Viking waved his hands at the surrounding forest. "The gods sensed your plans long ago. They provided us with many fine oaks for the planks and arches of the vessel."

Bowie nodded. Not that he believed in the Norse deities, but he found it highly unusual that both bamboo and oak thrived in the valleys. It was as if the unseen masters of this world challenged men to build boats and explore the River. The Texan wondered if he would ever know the truth. Or if he really wanted to.

"And what do you require in return?" he asked Thorberg, pushing the speculation from his mind. No use contemplating questions without answers.

"To sail with you," answered Thorberg immediately, not surprising any of them. "You need a master helmsman to steer your ship. I am that man.

"After all," he added, "none of you has any experience guiding a longboat on this River. I already piloted such a vessel for King Olaf's fleet."

"You're hired," said Bowie with a laugh. "How long will it take to construct this marvel?"

"With the help of the other shipwrights," said Thorberg after a.short pause, "three months. Add to that another two weeks to train the crew. In a little more than a hundred days, we can set sail."

Bowie turned to Crockett. "Your revenge hold till then?"

"You betcha," replied the frontiersman., "I don't mind setting a spell, knowing the reward is waiting at the end."

"Then it's decided," declared Bowie. "Thorberg, you

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assemble your friends and start working. Any assistance you need, let me know. In the meanwhile, we'll recruit a crew and gather our supplies."

Enthusiasm for the project welled up within the Texan, filling him with excitement. For the first time since Resurrection Day, he felt truly alive. It was good to be working for a cause again. Any cause.

"You picked out a name for this ship already?" asked Crockett, grinning.

"I think so," said Bowie. "Unless you gents object, I plan on callin' the boat Unfinished Business. Because that's what it's all about—unfinished business."

Exactly one hundred and ten days later, they set sail. Along with Bowie and his friends, the crew consisted of sixty Greek sailors under the command of Lysander of Sparta. Most of the men had served for the Greek Admiral on Earth and were hardened veterans of the long war between Sparta and Athens.

It was agreed upon by all concerned that Bowie would serve as leader of the expedition. A true man of the people, the Texan was one of the few men in New Athens without enemies. He, in turn, appointed Lysander as his second-in-command. The Greek soldier was a tough, capable sailor who hungered for action and adventure. A sixty-year-old man resurrected in a twenty-five-year-old body, his optimistic expectations provided an interesting contrast to Socrates' cynical views of the human condition.

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The two men often engaged in long, heated debates contrasting Athenian democracy and Spartan militarism.

Thorberg's ship proved to be a marvel of Viking engineering. A hundred feet long and twenty feet at the beam, the longboat had ports for twenty-five oars per side. There was a solitary mast fitted between two heavy oak blocks, the leeson and the mast partner. Sail raised, the speedy, maneuverable ship made ten knots with a following wind.

Like all such ships, it was built from the outside in. The T-shaped keel, cut from the giant oak Thorberg had shown Bowie, was bowed in the middle so that in a battle the ship could be spun around on its axis. Attached to it was a thin shell of oak planks, each one cut from a single tree, bark to core. The boards were affixed to the stempost and sternpost by roundhead nails and bolts, then joined to one another in an overlap fashion with twisted and tarred ironwood vines. The resulting hull was incredibly light but remained watertight no matter how rough the going.

The boat weighed less than thirty tons when fully loaded with crew and supplies, and it drew less than three feet of water. To Bowie and his friends, the ship appeared to almost fly over the river. Thorberg even constructed wooden rollers, kept in the rear cargo area, on which the longboat could be dragged onto the beach when necessary.

At the stern was a rudder, some ten feet long, cut from a solid piece of oak. On the nearby poop deck stood a powerful ballista. The mast was only thirty feet high, but the sail, made from dragonfish membrane, stretched forty feet across.

The Spartans adjusted easily to the new ship. With its single sail and bank of oars, it resembled the triremes that they had sailed for Sparta. After several trial runs

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with the new crew, Thorberg pronounced them worthy of his vessel. A hundred and nine days after starting work, the Viking shipwright informed Bowie that all was ready.

Anxious to get going, the Texan immediately ordered their supplies loaded onto the t>oat. Not believing in long good-byes, he decided to set sail the following morning.

The whole population of New Athens turned out to see them off. The faces of the crowd reflected a mix of emotions, ranging from anger to joy, envy to disdain. Bowie no longer cared. Never a patient man, he was happy to be on his way.

Finally, the last of the supplies were loaded, the crew were at their oars, Thorberg at his rudder. All that remained was to lift anchor and set sail. Bowie lifted a hand in farewell.

"Speech," called a voice from the shore. "Speech, speech," echoed many others.

Momentarily taken aback, Bowie hesitated, not sure what to say. Socrates, standing next to him on the poop deck, suffered no such modesty. He stepped forward immediately.

"My friends, good countrymen," his voice rang out, silencing the cries of the crowd, "today the bravest sons of New Athens set sail on a great adventure. We go in search of the gods, those magical beings whom many of you foolishly insist resurrected us on the banks of this mighty river. Personally, I cannot imagine we will find them, for as you well know, I strongly doubt that they exist."

Most of the crowd nodded politely, not listening in the least to what the philosopher said. A few even applauded politely. However, Bowie noticed a number of unhappy faces. "Make ready to cast off," he muttered to Thorberg as the boos started.

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"Once before, I stood before such a noble assembly," Socrates continued. "On that particular afternoon, you graciously condemned me to death for corrupting the youth of Athens." The boos were growing louder, but the philosopher ignored them. "A model citizen, I obeyed your command. In my heart, though, I knew that if hemlock was given to all those in Athens guilty of a similar crime, the city would stand empty of life!"

By now, the crowd had turned ugly. En masse, the citizens surged forward, seeking to pull the boat back to shore and rip Socrates to pieces. Pieces of debris tossed by the angry Greeks pelted the ship. "Up anchor," commanded Bowie hurriedly, as a stone whizzed by his head. "Fast."

The longship darted into the current like an arrow taking flight. In seconds, it sped out into the center of the River. "If I encounter the gods," shouted Socrates in derision, "I will surely warn them of your hospitality."

"Nice and diplomatic," said Bowie with a heavy sigh, as the banks of New Athens slipped far behind. "From now on, do me one favor. Clear any speeches with me first."

"I could not bear to leave them without a few words of wisdom," said Socrates, sounding not the least bit contrite. "At least our departure will be remembered for years to come."

"You can say that again, frogface," declared Davy Crockett, joining them. He had been at the front of the boat during the speech. In a drink match with the frontiersman a month before, Socrates had let slip his nickname on Earth. Ever since, Crockett insisted on using it all the time.

"Reminds me of the time when the good people of Tennessee voted me out of office," Davy continued.

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"For my concession speech, I told the ungrateful scum to go to hell. Then I gathered up some friends and rode off for Texas."

"Another diplomat," said Bowie, smiling. "No wonder you got killed so often since Resurrection Day. Telling the truth ain't the way to win many friends."

"I won't argue with that," said Crockett. "But that's one of the joys of living on this river. You can be as honest as you like and not worry about the consequences." He paused for an instant, then continued. "Though you make a good point about wakin' up naked and hairless more often than not. Maybe a course of moderation is best."

"Nothing to excess," added Socrates.

"Amen to that," said Bowie, and then addressed his attention to the River. The great voyage had begun.

The first few weeks passed swiftly. They made good time, stopping at several villages each day. Bronze Age civilizations dominated this section of the River, and the travelers found courteous welcomes from the numerous Chinese settlements encountered on their journey.

Whenever possible, Bowie and his men made use of the woodland grailstones for their meals. It cut down on their dependence on supplies and provided a meeting ground with the inhabitants of the region. For safety, they slept on the boat beneath dragonfish leather tents.

Socrates spent his time ashore debating philosophy with anyone willing to argue. That rarely proved to be a prob-

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lem. He usually attracted a crowd. One of the mainstays of the human condition anywhere on the River seemed to be a willingness to speculate on the meaning of life and the whys and wherefores of the great Resurrection.

Always he asked, "What is justice?" Nowhere did he find an answer that satisfied him.

Davy Crockett roamed through each new town looking for his nemesis, Santa Anna. Isaac accompanied the frontiersman, his sad eyes searching the throngs of people they met for a man only he could identify. Neither of them reported any success.

Bowie enforced only one rule: No passengers without good reason. He knew otherwise the boat would quickly fill with prostitutes and camp followers. The Texan made it quite clear to all involved that he had no objections to sex, but that it belonged on shore, not on their ship. Anyone who found the rules too restrictive could leave. No one did.

Actually, the Spartans thrived on tight discipline. Raised in a communistic state that placed duty above all else, the crew prided themselves in their mental as well as physical toughness. Lysander lost no opportunity in reminding his men of their heritage. "Remember," he lectured them whenever someone complained about short rations or the nightly downpour. "We are not rabble. We are Spartans."

As often as he was able, Bowie conferred with the town elders on what lay ahead on their journey. Oftentimes, the leaders of the community knew conditions five or ten villages farther on. While their voyage so far had been peaceful, Bowie knew that sooner or later they would encounter trouble. He wanted to be prepared for danger before it occurred.

Unfortunately, not everyone knew what loomed past

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the beach's end. On the twentieth day of their voyage, they left a friendly Chinese village with no knowledge of what lay beyond the next bend in the River. Content in their own lives, the townspeople had never attempted to explore any farther than the natural boundaries of their village. Other expeditions that had passed through then-valley from locations up-River never returned.

Nervously, Bowie watched as the huge mountain walls narrowed as they came to the end of the Chinese enclave. Thorberg, aware of the uncertainty of their situation, kept the longboat at the center of the river. He hoped their position would give them a few extra seconds to prepare for any attack from either shore. The Norseman kept both hands tight on the rudder. The narrower the River became, the faster the current. Even without sails or oars, they were moving at better than fifteen knots.

"Keep alert," Lysander warned his men, walking up and down the boat. "Remember. We are Spartans."

They sped into the next valley, their boat riding high on the whitecapped waves. "Watch for rapids," said Thorberg, wrestling with the steering paddle. "Shout if you see any rocks."

Mountains crowded in on them from both sides. The cliflfs towered up so high that they seemed to meet many thousands of feet above their heads. Only a thin line of sunlight trickled down into the ravine, casting a twilight glow across the land.

The entire valley was little more than thin strips of beach, with the inevitable grailstones spaced a mile apart. There were no signs of people, or of human habitation.

"Empty," declared Bowie, beads of sweat trickling down his back. The Unfinished Business skipped along the water, heading for the next break in the mountains.

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"Nobody's here," said Crockett. "But what's ahead?"

They found out in less than an hour. Though powerful currents and strong waves buffeted their ship, the longboat had been built to withstand major storms at sea. They made it through the narrow gorge at the end of the uninhabited valley with nothing more than a light soaking to mark their passage. And discovered themselves in a huge, placid lake, some ten miles long and four miles wide.

"Out oars," commanded Lysander immediately. His Spartans, ever ready, were rowing in seconds.

"Not much of a current here," said Thorberg, relaxing his grip on the rudder. "The worst is past."

"Maybe, maybe not," said Bill Mason, his gaze fixed on the nearer shore. A massive wooden palisade ran along much of the beach, cutting if off completely from the water. Patrolling the walls were leather-clad men, armed with spears and swords. The soldiers watched their passing silently, making no move in response. From somewhere behind the fortifications, a horn sounded. A hundred feet farther down-River, a second responded. And then another a hundred feet beyond that.

"Signaling our approach," said Bowie. "Lysander, pick up the tempo."

"I'm headin' for the crow's nest," said Crockett, and scrambled up handholds in the short mast to the lookout perch at its top. The frontiersman had the keenest vision on board.

"Walls across the lake as well," he called down a few seconds later. "Pretty much the same construction as here. Looks like the same people rule both sides of the River."

The waterway curved to the right a half-mile ahead. "Keep to the middle of the stream," Bowie said to Thorberg, the sound of many horns echoing on the beach.

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"Ships up ahead," cried Crockett. "Two of them, 'bout the same size as ours. Heading out from shore pretty fast."

"They look friendly?" asked Bowie, already knowing the answer.

"Not likely. They're loaded with armed men. Lots of them. Plenty of folks on the beach cheering them on. Looks like they know what they're doin'. We ain't the first ones passed this way, Jim."

"Pirates," said Bowie, disgusted.

"Or worse," said Socrates, pulling on a dragonleather buckler and helmet. He slashed the air a few times with a hornfish sword, accustoming himself to the weight of the blade. "They could be grail-slavers."

Bowie cursed. Born in the American South during the late eighteenth century, he considered slavery perfectly acceptable when applied to others. Faced with the same prospect for himself, he exploded with rage.

"Load the ballista," he bellowed. "Ready the grenades. If these bastards want a fight, we'll teach them a thing or two about warfare!"

"Spartans, prepare for battle," ordered Lysander, pulling on his armor and unsheathing his sword. Half the crew stopped rowing and donned their gear while the others kept up the pace. As soon as the first group finished, they took over the oars as their fellows made ready. The entire process took only a few minutes, and without any noticeable reduction in the boat's speed.

The Unfinished Business rounded the River bend into war. Huge stones, thrown by catapults on the beach, splashed in the water nearby. Giant arrows roared overhead. Propelled by three banks of oarsmen, the two

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enemy vessels bore down on them from both sides. On shore, thousands screamed in excitement.

"Roman triremes," said Isaac, anger clouding his usually despondent features. Clad in dragonfish leather and armed with two short swords, he no longer looked the man of peace. "Their ships are much heavier than ours. And legionnaires are no sailors. If we can steer free, they won't catch us. Beware, though," he said ominously, "if they get close enough to send on boarding parties. On land or sea, the soldiers of Rome fight like cornered tigers."

"Sounds like you admire them," said Bowie, his gaze fixed on the approaching warships.

"I spent most of my life with the legions," answered Isaac, pride ringing in his words. Then his voice grew harsh. "But then, one day, I recognized the error of my ways."

The big man turned away before Bowie could follow with another question. After that, it was time for action.

"Surrender!" bellowed the captain of one of the triremes, now less than a hundred yards away. "Surrender and you won't be harmed."

"The hell we won't," said Bowie with a snort. He looked over at Bill Mason, waiting for orders by the ballista. The history teacher, to everyone's surprise, was an excellent shot with the giant crossbow. He attributed his skill to a cryptic organization named the SCA. Bowie assumed the group was related in some way to TV, the AM A, and IRS, all mentioned in passing by the often unintelligible man from the future.

"You ready, Bill?" he asked, a terrible calmness descending upon him. Bowie recognized the feeling. It was the same icy madness that possessed him back on Earth during his many duels. Rezin, his brother, called it a killing rage. "Let's burn those bastards out of the water. Fire!"

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Mason fired. With a shriek, a fiery crossbow bolt hurtled across the water at the nearest boat. The historian had added several unique touches to the giant arrow. Hollow chambers made it scream, while a mixture of grease, mulch, and gunpowder set it ablaze with an explosive fire. Mason called his special arrows "Molotov cocktails," and he promised deadly results.

The first arrow missed. It flew over the nearer trireme's sail and landed harmlessly in the water. Still, it alerted the ship's captain of the potential deadly danger to his ship. On the deck of the Unfinished Business, they could see the Roman sailors scrambling to the mast. But not in time.

With a roar, the second ballista bolt slammed into the pirate's sail. Instantly, a dozen tongues of fire licked at the wood frame and dragonfish membrane. Black smoke billowed as the ship's deck ignited.

Screaming in fear, the Roman sailors dove off the burning boat and into the River. Valiantly, a few men remained and tried to fight the fire, but with little success. The trireme drifted helplessly out of control, no longer a threat.

" 'Ware the second ship!" yelled Crockett, clambering down from the mast. "It's moving up fast."

Masked by the black smoke from the first trireme, the other ship hurtled forward over the water like a shark sensing blood. It was less than a hundred feet from the Unfinished Business and closing fast, its bow headed directly at theirs. They were on a collision course that would destroy both boats. •

"Pull in your oars!" Lysander shouted to the Spartans. "Before they are snapped to kindling!"

Grunting with effort, Thorberg wrenched at the rudder with all of his strength. Shuddering, the longboat swerved

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to the right. At the same time, the captain of the trireme angled his boat to the left.

With a crunch of colliding wood, the bows of the two ships met, sending the crews of both tumbling to the deck. But the force of the blow had been muted by the sudden shifts in direction. Neither boat was badly damaged. Instead, they floated only yards away from each other, as the sailors on board scrambled for their weapons.

The Romans recovered first. With a roar of triumph, they slammed a portable bridge onto the deck of the Unfinished Business. A metal spike embedded in the far end of the gangplank held the ships together. In seconds, troops poured over the plank and onto the longboat.

The first two soldiers died as their feet touched the deck. Socrates, his face devoid of emotion, thrust his sword into one man's eye, killing him instantly. Without pausing, the Greek whirled about and caught the second boarder with a backhand blow to the head. The man staggered off balance, letting down his guard. Socrates' blade caught him in the throat, ripping it to shreds. For all of his reputation as a philosopher, the Athenian had served in three campaigns and was known throughout Greece as a ruthless, deadly fighter.

Other attackers fared little better. By now, Lysander had rallied his warriors with the cry of "Spartans, forward!" The Greeks responded with a flurry of action that cleared the deck of invaders. But there were hundreds more Romans, ready to take their place. They crowded onto the portable gangplank linking the two ships. Unless that bridge was destroyed, the Unfinished Business was doomed.

Two swords flashing, Isaac leapt onto the narrow platform. Eyes wild, features contorted with anger, he made no effort to protect himself from his enemy's

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attacks. Instead he fought with an insane rage to match that of a Norse Berserker. Slashing left and right, he killed a man with each blow. The narrow width of the gangplank made it impossible for more than one to confront him at one time. And no one man could stop him.

Soldiers tried, and soldiers died. Others, seeing their death in his eyes, scrambled back to the safety of their own ship. Single-handed, Isaac cleared the boarding ramp and held it. Blood spurting from a dozen wounds, he glared at the crew of the trireme, as if daring them to do their worst. Then, before any could respond, he leaped back onto the deck of the Unfinished Business.

"Pull us free," yelled Bowie unnecessarily. Already, a dozen Spartans struggled with the grappling hook that held the boarding ramp in place. Oak panels shrieked in protest as the metal claws tore free. Cheering wildly, the Greeks shoved the platform off the longboat and into the River.

"Spartans, to your oars," commanded Lysander. It was time for a quick getaway.

Casually, Davy Crockett lifted a small bag made of leaves and dried clay from a storage box on the poop deck. A short vine fuse dangled from its side. Balancing the object in one hand, he lit the fuse with the firestarter he held in the other. Shrugging his shoulders, he tossed it over the gap separating the two boats. It exploded a second later. Surprised Romans screamed in pain as hundreds of small fragments of quartz and flint filled the air.

"Darned things work pretty good," commented Crockett, lighting a second grenade. Unconcerned, he watched the fuse sputter. "Short fuses, though."

With a flick of the wrist, he lobbed it at the trireme. Bowie sighed in relief as the bomb exploded among their

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enemies. Crockett was a bit too casual about death and destruction.

"Let's get out of here," said Bowie as the Spartans started rowing, "before Crockett blows us to hell and gone."

6

Two weeks and a thousand miles later, they learned more than they wanted to know about revenge. Anxious for several days of shore leave, they anchored the Unfinished Business at a peaceful Egyptian village. While the crew relaxed in town, Bowie questioned the town elders on the route ahead. Nearby, Socrates coached Davy Crockett on the finer points of swordplay.

Bowie had just concluded his meeting when Bill Mason appeared in the doorway of the council chambers. The historian's face was white as a sheet, and there was a haunted look in his eyes that Bowie found disturbing.

"You free for a little while?" Mason asked, his voice trembling.

"Sure," answered Bowie. "What's up?"

"There's two women I want you to meet," replied Mason mysteriously. He beckoned to Socrates and Crockett. "Can you two come with me? It's important."

Mason refused to say anything more. The four of them walked swiftly through the small town and entered the ever-present forest that stretched from the end of the beach to the mountains approximately a mile from the water. It took them about twenty minutes to reach their destination.

"The villagers told me about these women and their captive," said Mason as they closed in on a rough cabin

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sheltered among the huge trees. "Not willing to believe what I heard, I came here this morning. And soon wished I hadn't."

"Care to explain what you mean by that, Bill?" asked Davy Crockett, his gaze jumping from place to place. The veteran Indian fighter always stayed alert in the woods.

"Just listen to the women's story," said Mason. "You'll understand my meaning quick enough."

The shelter appeared deserted. A crude shack constructed out of untrimmed logs, its most prominent feature was a large wooden cage a few feet from the door. There was no sign of anyone about.

Something moved inside the cage. "Never heard of no animals on the River," said Crockett, his eyes narrowing. He peered between the bars. "Damn it," he said, shock and horror mixing equally in his voice, "there's a man inside. Blinded, with his fingers and toes hacked off!"

"That's so the bugger can't escape." The speaker was a well-built woman, with curly long brunette hair that fell past her shoulders. She stood in the doorway of the cabin, holding a loaded crossbow in her hands. She appeared quite capable of using it.

"I don't mean you gents no harm," she continued, speaking Esperanto with a thick Cockney accent, "but too many men come round planning to set our friend here go free. Can't allow that either. So I stay ready for trouble."

"If we want to free that poor soul," said Bowie, anger welling up within him, "one crossbow will not stop us."

"That's why my friend in the woods got you covered with another, guv'nor," said the woman, with a smile. "Say hello to the nice gentlemen, Cathy," she called to her unseen ally behind them.

"No tricks, kind sirs," replied a second woman out of

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their line of sight. "I could take all four of you in less time than you could reach dear Mary."

"None of your heroics, please," said the woman named Mary. "I recognize our visitor from this morning. These, I take it, must be the friends of yours you wanted us to meet? Well, then, gentlemen, have a seat. Listen to my story, and afterward tell me if you want to set this bastard free."

"Please, do as she asks," said Bill Mason. "It's important that you hear their tale."

"All right," said Davy Crockett, settling down on the grass. "But I don't holds with keepin' a man caged like a wild animal. No matter what he's done."

"Depends on your point of view," said Mary. "Me, I was never much for violence either. Me and Cathy there, we made our living on our backs." She chuckled. "Plenty of times we did it standin' up, as well."

"As long as the gents paid us," added Cathy, "that's all that mattered."

"Wasn't a good life, but weren't as bad as some in those days," said Mary. "At least we never went 'ungry."

"England, 1888," added Mason softly.

"Anyhows, Cathy's life was cut short on September thirtieth. One of her gentlemen friends cut her throat. Same as happened to me in my flat on November sixth."

"Leather Apron they called him in the papers after the first murder," said Cathy, her voice shrill. "I 'card all about it from one of the girls who could read. Never gave the story much attention. Not my concern, I thought."

"He cooked and ate one of Cathy's kidneys," said Mary, her tone matter-of-fact mentioning the atrocity. "Bugger wrote letters to the news agency all about it. Called himself Jack the Ripper."

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Bowie shivered in spite of himself. What madman ate parts of his victims and chose a title like "the Ripper"?

"The crimes became famous in England," said Mason, ever the historian. "Jack the Ripper killed five women, Mary being the last of them, terribly mutilating the bodies, in the space of a few months. Then he vanished, leaving no clues to his identity. Many people speculated on who he was, but no one ever learned the truth."

"I never saws him," said Mary. "Bugger cut my throat from behind. Don't remember a thing. Like the rest of you, I died then woke up naked on the beach, here.

"First day was strange. Wasn't many of us Brits around. Mostly these Egyptian gents and ladies. Weird, with everybody naked and all that. I wandered about a bit, trying to find somebody who understood English. That's when I stumbled upon Cathy. Even without hair, we recognized each other right away. Rememberin' how she died made me realize that Red Jack probably did me in as well. Seemed awfully strange, the two of us brought back to life in the same spot. Imagine our surprise when, with a little searching, we discovered that all five of the Ripper's victims had been resurrected in this location."

"I don't like the sounds of this nohow," said Crockett.

"Nothing happened the first month," continued Mary, "other than us trying to adjust to this new world. Egyptians turned out to be right nice to us. We got along fine. And then the killings started."

"The Ripper?" asked Bowie.

"One and the same," said Mary. "The five of us recognized his handiwork right off. Not only the victims got resurrected here, but their murderer as well. The bastard killed his prey from behind, slashing open their throats with his knife. Afterward, he mutilated the bod-

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ies. Cut them to shreds, tearing their insides apart. And, of course, his victims were always women."

"It took us six weeks to catch "im," said Cathy. "Six long weeks of watching and waiting for the bugger to make a mistake. He finally did, and we bagged 'im. Caught the bastard red-handed." The woman laughed at her grisly pun. "Bloody mess it was, too."

"Who was he?" asked Mason.

"Some middle-class prig whose father died from the clap," said Mary. "He blamed the old man's death on whores in general and figured he'd eliminate the problem with a knife."

"I thought the mentally ill were cured before their resurrection," said Bowie.

"He weren't insane," replied Mary, "at least not by his own standards. The Ripper felt he was doing society a favor. Thought the same when he returned to life. Damned maniac considered women to be servants of the devil. He felt it his sacred obligation to punish immoral behavior."

"Lots of that goin' round," said Davy Crockett. "Must have kept him busy."

"He killed twelve women in those six weeks," said Mary, her voice grim. "Soon as we had him, the bastard tried to commit suicide. He might be mad, but he weren't crazy. Ripper knew that death wasn't final on the River. Instead, he'd be born somewhere else, without anyone knowing a thing about him. What more could a murderer ask? This resurrection business meant he could kill all he liked, without ever being punished."

"Death offered him a perfect method of escape," added Cathy. "That's why we couldn't let him die. Pharaoh gave the Ripper to us to do what we wanted. According to him, we that suffered from the Ripper's

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crimes on Earth deserved to set his punishment in the afterlife. It was Mary who came up with the plan."

"You decided to keep him alive," said Bowie, comprehension growing within him. "So he couldn't harm anyone else."

"Right you are, guv," said Mary. "Weren't even plannin' to hurt him. We might be lowborn, but we ain't savages. Then the Ripper tried killin' Annie Chapman during an escape attempt. That's when we cut off his fingers and toes and put out his eyes. And put him in that cage there. Haven't had any problems since then.

"The five of us take turns guarding him. Mostly makin' sure he don't succeed in killing himself. It ain't much fun, but somebody's got to do it."

The woman lowered her crossbow. "You've heard my story. Still want to set the Ripper free?"

Slowly, Bowie shook his head. "No. But there must be a better way to handle—"

"I'm waiting to hear one," interrupted Mary. "Whatever gods resurrected us all, they didn't provide any easy answers. Your friend told me the name of your boat. Well, that's the way I see our problem. If we let the Ripper die, he's reborn to kill again. And keeping him alive ain't much better. Either way, he's unfinished business."

Silently, Davy Crockett stared at the mutilated man huddled at the far side of the cage. The Ripper chewed his dreamgum, lost in the mad world of his own mind. The frontiersman shook his head and turned away from the bars. "What do you do when his fingers and toes grow back?" he asked.

"We cut them off again," said Mary. "And again and again and again."

On the way back to the boat, Socrates, who had not

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said a word during their entire confrontation, voiced the thought that was in all of their minds. "That," he declared sadly, "whatever it may be, is not justice."

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After the encounter with the Ripper and his captors, Davy Crockett quit talking about Santa Anna and revenge. Evidently, the frontiersman started having second thoughts about his mission. A number of times during the next week, Bowie spotted his friend engaged in deep conversation with Socrates. Crockett never smiled during those talks.

The whole purpose of their adventure came into question a thousand miles farther down the River. The Unfinished Business was docked in a Chinese village for the usual reasons. The Spartans, under Lysander, had marched off down the beach to compete in athletic contests. Crockett and Mason, Socrates and Thorberg remained on board, playing bridge with a deck of handmade cards. The historian had taught the others the game a few weeks back, and ever since they played whenever possible. Isaac, silent as ever, watched.

As usual, Bowie spent most of his time meeting with the village elders. Each stop on the River fueled his desire to discover what lay farther on. For all of the dangers and uncertainties of the trip, he was no longer bored. And, on Riverworld, that meant a great deal.

Returning back to the ship late that afternoon, Bowie found himself in the company of a short, slender male Caucasian. "M'sieur Bowie, I am led to believe?" the

stranger asked. Though he spoke Esperanto, there was no question he was a Frenchman.

"That's me," the Texan answered. "Do I know you?"

"Not in the least," the Frenchman replied. "I am Maurice LeBlanc, formerly a mathematician from Tours, France, circa 1900."

"Interesting enough," said Bowie, continuing toward the boat. "But what's it to me?"

"This morning I saw your vessel arrive. Later, from a friend on the high council, I learned your story. You and your friends are engaged on a noble enterprise, to be sure! It would be a great honor if you would allow me to join on this voyage."

"Sorry," said Bowie. "No hitchhikers." He had learned the phrase from Mason and used it frequently. Half the people they met wanted to sail on the Unfinished Business. "We don't have the room."

"Of course, of course," said LeBlanc. "But I have, as you say, unfinished business along the River. And, to that end, I am willing to pay for my passage."

Bowie smiled, impressed in spite of himself with the Frenchman's pluck. "Only thing worth much on the River is metal," he declared, looking LeBlanc up and down with a critical eye. "Which you don't got."

"A-ha," said LeBlanc with a sly smile of triumph. "Your materialism betrays you, mon ami. On this strange new world of ours, one thing is worth more than iron and steel. Information."

"Keep talkin'," said Bowie. They were in sight of the ship now, but he was in no hurry to get there. "What do you know that I want to hear?"

"According to my friend on the council, you require news of a certain Mexican politician named Santa Anna.

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I am acquainted with the whereabouts of the General. In trade for transportation, I will gladly tell you all I know about him. Including his present location."

Bowie laughed. "Who you lookin' for on the River, Frenchie?"

"Another mathematician," replied LeBlanc, "by the name of Pierre de Fermat. I would like to discuss with him a certain theorem, his last theorem, which perplexed Earthly mathematicians, myself included, for centuries. I must know the truth."

"Odd sort of reason to head off down the River," said Bowie, shaking his head. "But I was never one much for numbers. Come with me and let's see what the others think."

No one objected to LeBlanc's terms. On a planet with thirty-five billion people, searching for one man was akin to looking for a single grain of sand on the beach. The Frenchman was right. Knowledge was worth more than anything else on the Riverworld, even iron. They unanimously voted him a member of the expedition in return for his cooperation.

"Six times I have died since Resurrection Day," LeBlanc declared, making himself comfortable on the poop deck. "By nature, I am the quiet, retiring type. I dislike fighting and violence of any kind. However, I am also a Frenchman, and from time to time, I find myself forced to make a stand against the barbarism of my fellow man. Above all, I believe in liberty, fraternity, equality."

"Why do I have a difficult time imaginin' you a mild-mannered sort of guy?" asked Crockett, grinning. "You sure about that, LeBlanc?"

"Perhaps my years with the Foreign Legion betray me more than I care to admit," said the Frenchman, a

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twinkle in his eyes. "I assure you, I only lose my temper in good cause."

"You're my type of fella, LeBlanc," said Crockett. "Betcha keep that temper in control a coupla hours every week."

"About that," admitted the Frenchman. "Which has led to my violent demise several times on this uncivilized world. What concerns us today is my most recent death, only a few weeks ago."

LeBlanc's cheerful features turned serious. "If, as many have surmised, the civilizations on the River follow a somewhat historical order, I translated here from a valley several million miles away. It was the home of a nation of seventeenth-century Indians from South America. During my sojourn there, these normally peaceful natives were fighting for their lives against a horde of invaders from the north who had already overrun a dozen nearby valleys. At the time of my death, in a minor skirmish with the enemy, a large party of reinforcements had just arrived from the south. In my humble opinion, a major war was brewing.

"One of probably hundreds taking place along the River," said Bowie. "Resurrection sure didn't change mankind's basic nature. We sure the hell were an ornery bunch."

"Not that I ain't interested in your adventures, LeBlanc," said Crockett, "but how does Santa Anna fit in the picture?"

"I am coming to that," said the Frenchman. "The invading armada, and that term was singularly appropriate, consisted of a fleet of ships carrying sixteenth-century Spaniards under the leadership of Philip II of Spain. Their terms to the Indians were quite explicit: convert to Catholicism or die. Aiding the King in his mission was the infamous leader of the Inquisition, Torquemada."

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Socrates sighed. "How many tears the gods must shed over the crimes committed in their names."

"My native friends were helpless against the invaders. Only the timely arrival of the southern forces saved them from annihilation. Can you guess who led that rescue force?"

Crockett groaned. "Santy Anna. He always claimed to be a man of the people. Even the Indians."

"Three men commanded the relief troops. You guessed correctly about Santa Anna. The other two were Simon Bolivar, whose name I recognized, and a man unknown to me, Che Guevara. All of them seemed dedicated to saving the Indians from Philip and Torquemada."

"Great news," said Crockett bitterly. "How can I kill that son of a bitch if he's a hero? Besides, killing him wouldn't serve much purpose if he's just born again somewhere else."

The frontiersman rose to his feet. "Maybe this trip wasn't such a great idea after all. Maybe whatever business we left unfinished on Earth deserved to be forgotten."

"You suggesting we abandon the voyage?" asked Bowie.

"I don't know," replied Crockett. "Suddenly, though, I'm not so sure we should continue. Besides, if LeBlanc's right, Santa Anna's five million miles away. That's a mighty long trip."

"We must continue," said Isaac softly. His gaze swept the group and came to rest on Bowie. "You understand why."

"I think so," admitted the Texan, sorrow filling his voice. "You were there, weren't you?"

Isaac nodded. "/ was there."

A minute passed before he continued. "A captain of the Roman legions, I served in Judea under Pontius

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Pilate. The squadron I commanded handled the execution of Rome's enemies. On that fateful day in Jerusalem, we were commanded to execute three men—two thieves and a rabble-rouser. A good soldier, I followed my orders. The three were crucified."

Isaac drew in a deep breath, his voice crackling with emotion as he continued. "I personally drove the nails into his hands, the man called Yeshua. As I had done with many others over the years. Only this time, instead of cursing or shrieking in pain, he whispered words of absolution to me. 'I forgive you, my son,' he said. 'You only do God's will.' " Tears trickled down Isaac's face. "And, then afterward, when we raised the cross, the look in his eyes... the look in his eyes..."

The Roman stopped for a moment, unable to continue. No one made a sound. There was nothing that anyone could say to lessen the pain.

"I must find him," said Isaac. "He lives again somewhere on this world. Only he can grant me peace. That is why I cannot stop searching. Why I will not stop searching."

"Well," said Bill Mason, groping for the right words, "I still never found Jack Ruby. And, I'd like to ask King Richard III a few questions about the Tower of London."

"Do not forget Fermat," added LeBlanc. "Mathematics demands I continue the hunt."

"Maybe revenge ain't the answer," said Crockett. "But who knows? Maybe by the time we caught up with Santy Anna, the General might be up to his old tricks again. Forget everything I said before. What's a few million miles to Davy Crockett, king of the Wild Frontier?"

Bowie grinned. "For a minute there, I almost worried that you boys might make the wrong decision. Glad to see you woke up in time. Life without challenges ain't worth

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living. And, since dyin' is out of the question, I figure we might as well live the best we can. Now, enough of this jawing. Let's round up those Spartans and get going."

Socrates, as always, had to have the last word. "Can it be," he asked solemnly, the barest trace of a smile betraying his true feelings, "that we humans misunderstand the whole reason for our resurrection? Perhaps whatever Powers exist created this entke Riverworld not for our redemption but for theirs. Our meanderings and wanderings may be reflections on the true purpose of a much greater drama. At times, I suspect that the Lords of the River are manipulating us for their own devices. I wonder if we are not merely actors seeking to complete the gods'... unfinished business?"

"A FEAST FOR THE IMAGINATION."

—LOS ANGELES TIMES

Death is dead. Now everyone who has ever lived, from Karl Marx to Joan of Arc to Tom Mix, awakens in Riverworld. Here, on the banks of a ten-million-mile river, history meets the future in one of literature's grandest and most fabulous inventions. And here the saga of Riverworld continues with new stories by award-winning authors, as well as by the creator of Riverworld, Philip Jose Farmer himself.

"SOMEWHERE BETWEEN GULLIVERS

TRAVELS AND THE LORD OF

THE RINGS!"-TIME

36269

'o "I70993II0049911 "6 ISBN

Q WARNER BOOKS

A Time Warner Company

COVER PRINTED IN U.S.A. © 1992 WARNER BOOKS