OVER THIRTY-THREE YEARS AGO, HE HAD ARRIVED IN VlROlando. It was his intention to stay only long enough to talk a few times to La Viro, if he were permitted to do so. Then he would go wherever the Church sent him. But La Viro had asked him to settle there, though he had not said why or how long he could remain. After a year there, Goring had adopted the Esperanto name of Fenikso (Phoenix).
Those had been the happiest years of his lives. Nor was there any reason to think he would not spend many more here.
This day would be much like the others, but its sameness was enjoyable and little varieties would garnish it.
After breakfast, he climbed up to a large building built on top of a rock spire on the left bank. Here he lectured his seminary students until a half-hour before noon. He went down swiftly to the ground and joined Kren at a grailstone. Afterward, they went up to another spire and strapped themselves into hang-gliders and launched themselves from the edge of the spire, six hundred feet above the ground.
The air above Virolando glittered with thousands of gliders which slanted up and down, turned, dipped, rose, swooped, danced. Hermann felt like a bird, no, a free spirit. It was an illusion of freedom, all freedom was illusion, but it was the best.
His glider was bright-red, painted so in memory of the squadron he had led after Manfred von Richthofen had died.
Scarlet was also the symbol for the blood of the martyrs of the Church. There were many such in the skies, mingling their color with white, black, yellow, orange, green, blue, and purple craft. This land was blessed in having hematite and other ores from which pigments could be made. It was blessed in many things.
Hermann sped above and below the bridges holding houses, spanning the gap between the spires. He passed closely to the wooden and stone pylons, sometimes too closely. It was sinful to risk his life, but he could not resist it. The old thrill of flight on Earth had returned, doubling in ecstasy. There was no motor roaring in his ears, no fumes of oil in his nostrils, no sensation of being enclosed.
Sometimes he sailed by a balloon and waved at the people in the wickerwork baskets beneath them. During his holidays, he and Kren would board a balloon, rise to a height of a thousand meters, and let the wind carry them down The Valley. On long holidays, they would float for a whole day, talking, eating, making love in the cramped quarters while they rode without a bump, without a touch of the wind, since the balloon rode at the same speed as it did.
Venting the hydrogen at dusk, they would land on the bank, pack the collapsed envelope in the basket, and take a boat back upstream next day.
After half an hour, Hermann swooped down along The River, veered, and came down running on the bank. With hundreds of others, he disassembled the glider, and then walked with a cumbersome bundle on his back to the spire from which he had jumped.
A messenger wearing a chaplet of red and yellow blooms stopped him. “Brother Fenikso, La Viro wishes to see you.”
“Thank you,” Hermann said, but a small shock traveled through him. Had the chief bishop decided that the time had come to send him out?
The Man waited for him in his private quarters in the red-and-black-stone temple. Hermann was ushered through the high-ceilinged rooms to a small chamber, and the oaken door was closed behind him. The room was simply furnished: a big flat-topped desk; several large chairs of fishskin leather; some small ones of bamboo; two cots; a table with pitchers of water and some flavored alcohol, cups, boxes of cigars, cigarettes, lighters, and matches; a chamberpot; two grails; pegs in the walls from which hung cloths; a table beside a mica mirror on the wall; another table holding the lipsticks, small scissors, and combs which the grails occasionally provided. There were several rugs of bamboo fiber and one star-shaped fishskin on the floor. Four torches burned, their ends thrust into wall-holders. The private door in the outside wall was open now, letting in the air and sunlight. Vents in the ceiling gave additional ventilation.
La Viro rose as Hermann entered. He was huge, about six feet six inches high, and very dark. His nose was the beak of a giant eagle.
“Welcome, Fenikso,” he said in a deep voice. “Sit down. Would you like a drink, a cigar?”
“No, thank you, Jacques,” Hermann said. He sat down in the easy chair indicated.
The chief bishop resumed his seat. “You’ve heard about this giant metal boat coming up-River, of course? The drums say it’s about eight hundred kilometers from the southern border. That means it will reach our border in about two days.
“You have told me all you know about this man Clemens and his partner, John Lackland. You did not know what happened after you were killed, of course. But apparently those two succeeded in repelling their enemies and in building their boat. They are going to pass through our territory soon. From what I hear, they are not warlike, and so we need fear no trouble. After all, they are dependent upon cooperation from those who own the grailstones along The River. They have the power to take what they want, but they don’t use it unless they have to. However, I have heard some disturbing reports about the behavior of some of the crew when the boat has stopped for—what is it called?—shore leave. There have been some ugly incidents, mostly to do with drunkenness and women.”
“Pardon me, Jacques. That does not sound like the type of people Clemens would have on board. He was obsessed, and he did some things which he should not have done to get that boat built. But he isn’t, or at least wasn’t, one to condone such behavior.”
“In all these years, who knows how he’s changed? For one thing, the name of this boat is not what you told me it would be. Instead of the Not For Hire it is Rex Grandissimus.”
“That is strange. That sounds more like a name which King John would pick.”
“From what you tell me of this John, he may have killed Clemens and taken over the boat. Whatever the truth, I want you to meet the boat at the border.”
“Me?”
“You knew the men who built the boat. I want you to get aboard it at the border. You will find out what the situation is, what kind of people live on it. Also, you will estimate its military potential.”
Hermann looked surprised.
“Now, Fenikso, you have told me of the story which this giant long-nosed man—Joe Miller?—told Clemens and which Clemens told others. If it be true, there is a great tower in the middle of the sea at the north pole. These men mean to enter it if they can. I think their intent is evil.”
“Evil?”
“Because that tower is obviously the work of the Ethicals. These boat people wish to penetrate that tower, to discover its secrets, perhaps to take captive or even kill the Ethicals.”
“You do not know that,” Hermann said.
“No, but it is reasonable to suppose that.”
“I never heard Clemens say that he wanted power. He just wanted to get to the headwaters.”
“What he says publicly and what privately may be two different things.”
“Really, Jacques,” Hermann said. “What do we care what they do even if they should manage to get to the tower? Surely you do not think that their puny machines and weapons can do anything to harm the Ethicals? Humans would be as worms to them. Anyway, what can we do about them? We may not use force to stop them.”
The bishop leaned forward, his huge brown hands gripping the edge of the desk. He stared at Hermann as if to peel him, layer by layer, and see what formed the center.
“There is something wrong in this world, grievously wrong! First, the little resurrections have stopped. This seems to have happened shortly after your last resurrection. You remember the consternation that this news caused?”
Hermann nodded and said, “I suffered much from anxiety myself. I was in a panic of doubt and despair.”
“So was I. But, as archbishop, I had to reassure my flock. However, I had no facts to use as a basis for hope. It was possible that we had been given the time we needed. All who were going to achieve Going On had done so. The rest would also die, and their kas would roam the universe, forever beyond redemption.
“But I did not think so. For one thing, I knew that I was not ready to Go On. I have a way to go, perhaps a long one, before I have done that.
“Yet, would the Ethical have picked me to found the Church if I were not a strong candidate for Going On?
“Or, and you can imagine my agony at this thought, had I failed? Had I been appointed to show others the way to salvation and yet I had to remain behind? Like Moses who led the Hebrews to the promised land but was forbidden to go down into it himself?”
“Oh, no!” Hermann murmured. “That could not be!”
“It could be,” Viro said. “I am only a man, not a god. For a while, I even thought about resigning. Perhaps I had allowed myself to ignore my own ethical progress because I was too busy running the affairs of the Church. I had become arrogant; my power had corrupted me in a subtle way. I would let the bishops elect a new chief. I would change my name and go down The River as a missionary.
“No, do not protest. I was seriously considering that. But then I told myself that I would be betraying the trust given by the Ethicals. And perhaps there was another explanation for this terrible event.
“Meanwhile, I had to make some sort of public explanation. You know what it was; you were among the first to hear it.”
Hermann nodded. He had been entrusted to carry the message for two thousand miles below Virolando. That had meant being absent from his beloved country for over a year. But he had been glad to do it for La Viro and the Church. The message was: Be not afraid. Have faith. The last days are not here. The trial is not over. We are in an interim which will not last forever. Someday, the dead will arise again. That is promised. Those who made this world and gave you the chance to be immortal cannot fail you. The interim is a test. Be not afraid. Believe.
Many had asked Hermann what the “test” was. He could only reply that he did not know. Perhaps La Viro had learned what it was from the Ethicals. Perhaps to reveal the purpose of the test would be to defeat its end.
Some had not accepted this. Bitterly denouncing the Church, they had left it. The majority, however, had remained. Surprisingly, many new converts had been made. These had come in through fear, fear that perhaps there really was a second chance to attain immortality and now their time to do it was short. This was not a rational attitude, since La Viro had said that the resurrections would come again. But they were taking no chances of losing their chance.
Though fear did not make a long-term believer, it caused a step toward the right direction. Perhaps true faith would follow.
“The only statement in my message which was not strictly true,” La Viro said, “was that about the interim being a test. I had no direct authority, that is, no direct message from the visitor, that such was the case. But, in a sense, my statement was not a pious lie. The stopping of the resurrections is a test. A test of courage and belief. It does indeed try all of us.
“At that time, I thought that it was being done for some good purpose by the Ethicals. And it may well be that that is so. But the visitor did tell me that he and his fellows were no more than human despite the superpowers available to them. They could make mistakes and errors. Which means that they are not invulnerable. Accidents can happen to them. And enemies could do harm to them.”
Hermann sat straight up. “What enemies?”
“I cannot know their identity—if indeed there are any. Consider this. This subhuman, no, I will not call him that, since he is human, despite his strange appearance. This giant, Joe Miller, and the Egyptians got to the polar sea despite great odds. Also, others had preceded them. For all we know, others may have followed the Egyptians. How do we know that some of these may not have gotten into the tower? And there did something terrible, perhaps without meaning to do so?”
“I find it hard to believe that the Ethicals would not have invulnerable defenses,” Goring said.
“Ah!” La Viro said, holding up a finger. “You forget the ominous significance of the tunnel and the rope which Miller’s party found. Somebody bored the hole in the mountains and set the rope there. The question is, who and why?”
“Perhaps it was one of the second-order Ethicals, a renegade agent,” Hermann said. “After all, the visitor told you that regression was possible even to him. If it is possible to his kind, think how much more likely it is for an agent.”
La Viro was horrified. “I... I should have thought of that! But it is so... unthinkable... so perilous!”
“Perilous?”
“Yes. The agents have to be more advanced than we, yet even they... wait.”
La Viro closed his eyes, holding up his right hand with the thumb and index finger forming an O. Hermann said nothing. La Viro was mentally reciting the acceptance formula, a technique used by the Church, invented by La Viro himself. At the end of two minutes, La Viro opened his eyes and smiled.
“If it should be, we must face all its implications and be ready,” he said. “Reality be Thine... and ours.
“However, back to the main reason I sent for you. I want you to get on that boat and observe everything you can. Find out the disposition of the captain, this King John, and his crew. Determine if they are a threat to the Ethicals. By this, I mean, do they have devices and weapons which might conceivably allow them to get into the Tower.”
La Viro frowned and said, “It is time that we took a hand in this matter.”
“You surely do not mean that we may use violence?”
“No, not to people. But nonviolence and passive resistance apply only to persons. Hermann, if necessary, we will sink that boat! But we will only do it as a last and regrettable measure. And we will do it only if we can be sure that no one will be harmed.”
“I.. .I don’t know,” Hermann said. “It seems to me that, if we do that, we lack faith in the Ethicals. They should be able to handle anything that mere men can bring against them.”
“You have fallen into the trap the Church continually warns against, the trap of which you have warned many yourself. The Ethicals are not gods. There is only one God.”
Hermann stood up. “Very well. I will leave immediately.”
“You are pale, Fenikso. Don’t be so frightened. It may not be necessary to destroy that boat. In any event, we will do it only if we are one hundred percent sure that no one will be injured or killed.”
“It is not that which frightens me,” Hermann said. “What does is that a part of me is eager to get into the intrigue, thrilled with the idea of sinking that boat. It’s the old Hermann Goring, still alive down there, though I thought I had put him away forever.”
THE REX GRANDISSIMUS WAS INDEED A BEAUTIFUL AND AWING vessel. She plowed speedily in the middle of The River, towering whitely, her great black smokestacks lofty, her two giant paddlewheels churning. From atop the pole above the pilothouse, her flag whipped, showing wavily three golden lions on a scarlet field.
Hermann Goring, waiting on the deck of a three-masted schooner, raised his eyebrows. The banner was certainly not the scarlet phoenix on blue which Clemens had planned.
The sky was freckled with hang-gliders swooping above the great riverboat. The River itself was crowded with vessels of all kinds, officials, and sightseers.
Now the boat was slowing, its captain having interpreted correctly the meaning of the rockets fired from Goring’s schooner. Besides, the other craft were forming an obstacle beyond which he could not go without smashing them.
Finally, it stopped, its wheels turning just enough to match the current.
As the schooner came alongside, its captain yelled through a riverdragon-fish horn at the Rex. A man on the lowest deck hurried to a phone on a bulkhead and talked to the pilothouse. In a moment, a man leaned out of the pilothouse, holding an instrument with a horn. His voice blared from it, startling Hermann. The device must amplify sounds electrically, he thought.
“Come aboard!” the man said in Esperanto.
Though the captain was at least fifty-five feet above the water, and a hundred feet away horizontally, Hermann recognized him. The tawny hair, broad shoulders, and oval face were those of John Lackland, ex-King of England, Lord of Ireland, etc., etc. In a few minutes Hermann had boarded the Rex and was accompanied by two heavily armed officers via a small elevator to the top deck of the pilothouse. On the way he said, “What happened to Sam Clemens?”
The men looked surprised. One said, “How did you know about him?”
“Gossip travels faster than your boat,” Hermann said. This was true, and if he had not exactly told the truth, he also had not lied.
They entered the control room. John was standing by the pilot’s chair and looking outward. He turned at the sound of the elevator closing. He was five feet five inches tall, a good-looking virile-seeming man with wide-set blue eyes. He wore a black uniform which he probably never put on except to impress locals. The black jacket, trousers, and boots were of riverdragon-leather. Gold buttons adorned the jacket, and a golden lion’s head roared soundlessly from above the visor of the cap. Hermann wondered where he had gotten the gold, an extremely rare item. Probably, he’d taken it from some poor wretch.
His chest was bare. Tawny hair, a shade or two darker than that on his head, curled thickly over the V of the jacket top.
One of the officers who’d escorted him snapped a salute. “The emissary of Virolando, Sire!”
So, Hermann thought, it was sire, not sir.
It was evident that John did not recognize his visitor. He surprised Hermann by walking to him, smiling, and holding out his hand. Hermann took it. Why not? He was not here to revenge himself. He had a duty to perform.
“Welcome aboard,” John said. “I am the captain, John Lackland. Though, as you see, I have no land I do have something even more valuable, this vessel.”
He laughed and added, “I was once the King of England and Ireland, if that means anything to you.”
“I am Brother Fenikso, a sub-bishop in the Church of the Second Chance and a secretary to La Viro. In his name I welcome you to Virolando. And, yes, Your Majesty, I have read about you. I was born in the twentieth century in Bavaria.”
John’s thick tawny eyebrows went up. “I’ve heard much of La Viro, of course, and we were told that he lived not too far up-River.”
John introduced the others, none of whom Hermann knew except the first mate, Augustus Strubewell. He was an American, very large, blond, and handsome. He crushed Hermann’s hand and said, “Welcome, Bishop.” He didn’t seem to recognize him either. Goring shrugged mental shoulders. After all, he hadn’t been in Parolando long, and that was over thirty-three years ago. ^
“Would you like a drink?” John said.
Hermann said, “No, thank you. I hope you will let me stay aboard, Captain. I am here to escort you to our capital. We welcome you in peace and love and hope that you come in the same spirit. La Viro wishes to meet you and to extend his blessing. Perhaps you would like to stay awhile and stretch your legs on shore. In fact, you may stay here as long as you wish.”
“I am not, as you see, a member of your congregation,” John said, accepting a cup of bourbon from an orderly. “But I have a high regard for the Church. It’s had a highly civilizing influence along The River. Which is more than I can say for the church to which I once belonged. It has made our voyage much easier, since it has reduced militancy. However, not many people would care to attack us anyway.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” Hermann said. He decided it would be best not to mention what John had done in Parolando. Perhaps the man had changed. He would give him the benefit of the doubt.
The captain made arrangements for Goring’s quarters. His cabin would be in the texas, a long structure which was an extension of the room just below the pilothouse and which was on the extreme forward starboard side of the landing deck. The top officers were cabined in this.
John asked about his Terrestrial life. Goring replied that the past wasn’t worth talking about. What mattered was the present.
John said, “Well, perhaps, but the present is the sum of the past. If you won’t talk about yourself, would you tell me of Virolando?”
It was a legitimate question, though Goring wondered if John wished to find out the state’s military potential. He wouldn’t tell him that it did not have any. Let him find out for himself. He did make it clear, however, that no one of the Rex would be allowed to bring arms ashore.
“If this were any other place, I wouldn’t abide by that rule,” John said, smiling. “But I’m sure we’ll be safe in the heart of the Church.”
“This land is, as far as I know, unique,” Hermann said. “It’s topography and its citizens are remarkable. The first you can see for yourself,” and he waved at the rock spires.
“It’s a columnar country indeed,” John said. “But what makes the citizens so different?”
“The great majority of them are Rivertads. When the first resurrection occurred, this area was filled with children who had died between the ages of five and seven. There were about twenty to every adult. Nowhere else that I’ve heard of has had that proportion. The children seemed to be from many places and times, of many nations and races. They had one thing in common, though. They were frightened. But, fortunately, the adults were mostly from peaceful and progressive countries, Scandinavia, Iceland, and Switzerland of the twentieth century. The area wasn’t subjected to the vicious struggles for power that occurred elsewhere. The strait to the west cuts off the titanthrops who lived there. The peoples immediately westward down-River were of the same kind as those here. Thus, the adults could give full time to taking care of the children.
“Then La Viro announced that he had spoken to one of the mysterious beings who had made this world. He would have been received as all prophets have been in the beginning of their careers. With rejection by all but a few. But La Viro had something substantial, something beyond words and his conviction. He had solid visible proof. It was something which no one else had, which had to be the product of the Ethicals.
“This was The Gift, as it’s generally called. You’ll see it in the Temple. A golden helix. And so he made his home here.
“The children were brought up with discipline and love, and it was they who built this culture you see all about you.”
John said, “If the citizens are as beautiful in spirit as their country is to the sight, then they must be angels.”
“They’re human,” Goring said, “and so this is no Utopia, no Paradise. I believe, however, that you will not find any other place which has so many truly friendly, open, generous, and loving persons. It is a very pleasant place to live in, if you have a kindred spirit.”
“Perhaps this would be a good place for a long shore leave,” John said. “Besides, the motors need rewiring, and that takes time.”
“How long you stay here depends upon you,” Goring said.
John looked sharply at him.
Goring smiled, Was John considering how he could take advantage of the Virolanders? Or was he merely thinking that he could relax here, not have to worry about his boat being seized?
At this moment, a man entered the control room. He was about six feet high, deeply sun-bronzed, wide-shouldered, and barrel-chested. His straight hair was very black. Thick black eyebrows shaded large fierce black eyes. His face was as strong as any Goring had ever seen. The man radiated an aura which in Goring’s childhood would have been called “animal magnetism.”
John, catching sight of him said, “Ah, Gwalchgwynn, the captain of my marines. You must meet him. He is a capital fellow, a superb swordsman and pistol shot, a great poker player. He is a Welshman descended from kings on both sides of his family, if what he says is true.”
Goring felt as if his blood had deserted his heart.
He murmured, “Burton!”
NO ONE SEEMED TO HAVE HEARD HIM.
From Burton’s shocked expression, quickly masked, Goring knew that he had recognized him. When Goring was introduced to him as Brother Fenikso, La Viro’s emissary and a subbishop, Burton bowed. He drawled, “Your Reverence,” and he smiled mockingly.
“The Church has no such titles, Captain,” Goring said. Burton knew that, of course. He was just being sarcastic.
That didn’t matter. What did matter was that Burton seemed to have no desire to reveal that Fenikso was in reality Goring. He wasn’t doing it to help Goring because he liked him, however. If he gave Goring’s natal name, then Goring would reveal Burton’s. And Burton must have much more at stake than he, Goring had. Actually, Goring had no strong reason to be pseudonymous. He just wanted to avoid having to explain why he was now a member of the Church. It was a long story and took much time, and many just refused to believe that his conversion had been sincere.
King John was charming to his visitor. He must have completely failed to recognize the man whose head he’d once savagely struck with a pistol butt. Goring wanted it to stay that way. If John still believed that he could rape and rob the locals, he would be on guard if he knew that a victim of the past was present. If he thought Fenikso was just a simple innocent bishop, he might not be so careful to hide his intentions.
Of course, it might be that John’s nature had changed for the better. Would Burton serve him if it hadn’t?
Yes, he might if he wanted strongly to get to the headwaters.
But perhaps John was no longer a human hyena. Not that Goring meant to give the hyenas a bad name.
Wait and find out.
John invited the bishop to tour the boat. Goring accepted gladly. He’d been through it in Parolando before it was quite finished and so, even after so many years, knew its layout well. But now he could see it fully furnished and armed. He’d give a complete report to La Viro. His chief could then determine if it would be possible to sink the boat if it was necessary to do so. Goring didn’t really take La Viro’s statements about this seriously. He was sure that it couldn’t be done without some bloodshed. However, he’d keep his counsel until asked for it.
Burton disappeared shortly after the tour began. He reappeared behind them ten minutes later and quietly rejoined them. This was just before they went into the grand salon. On entering, Goring saw the American, Peter Jairus Frigate, and the Englishwoman, Alice Hargreaves, playing billiards. He was shocked, and he stuttered for a moment replying to one of John’s questions. The memory of what he’d done to them, especially to the woman, smote him with guilt.
Now his identity would be out. John would remember him. Strubewell would, too. And John would be deeply distrustful of him.
Goring wished now that he’d given his old name as soon as he met John. But who would have thought that, out of over thirty-five or -six billion people, one whom he’d known too well would be on this boat? And who would have imagined that not one but three such would be aboard?
Gott! Were there others? Where was that Neanderthal, Kazz, who worshipped Burton? The Arcturan who also claimed to be from Tau Ceti? The Tokharian, Loghu? The Jew, Ruach?
Like most of the many people in the salon, they looked up when the party entered. Even the black man playing the ragtime piece, “Kitten on the Keys,” on the piano stopped, his fingers poised.
Strubewell loudly asked for silence and attention and got it. He introduced Brother Fenikso, La Viro’s emissary, and said that Fenikso would be traveling with them to Aglejo. He was to be treated with every courtesy but at this time was not to be approached. His Majesty was taking him for a tour of the Rex.
The piano playing and the conversation started up again. Frigate and Hargreaves stared at him for a minute longer, then returned to their game. They did not seem to recognize him. Well, Goring thought, it has been nearly sixty years since we last saw each other. They didn’t have his near-perfect recall. Still, their experiences with him had been so harrowing that he would have thought they’d never forget his face. Besides, Frigate, on Earth, had seen many photographs of him as a young man, which should reinforce his memory.
No, they wouldn’t have forgotten. What had happened was that Burton had gotten to them during his absence from the tour. He’d told them to act as if they’d never seen him before.
Why?
To spare him guilt, their silence saying, in effect, “We forgive you now that you’ve changed. Let it be as if we’re meeting for the first time”?
That didn’t seem likely unless Burton’s character had also changed. The true reason probably was that Goring, if revealed, would then reveal Burton. And for all he knew, Frigate and Hargreaves were under false names.
He didn’t have much time to think about this matter. King John, playing the gracious host, insisted on showing him almost everything in the Rex. He also introduced him to many people, a large number of whom had been famous, infamous, or well known in their time. John, during the many years of travel up The River, had had a chance to pick up such notables. Which meant that he must have had to kick off those not so famous to make room for the famous.
Goring was not as impressed as John had expected him to be. As one who’d been the second-in-command of the German empire and thus had met many of the world’s greats, Goring was not easily awed or bamboozled. Even more, his experiences with the greats and the near-greats on both worlds had made him well aware that the public image and-the person behind the facade were often pathetically or disgustingly dissimilar.
The one who’d impressed him most on the Riverworld was a man who, on Earth, would have been thought a complete nonentity and failure by almost anybody. That was Jacques Gillot, La Viro, La Fondinto.
During his Terrestrial existence, however, the person who’d awed him the most, in fact, overpowered him, enslaved him by force of personality alone, had been Adolf Hitler. Only once had he stood up to his Fuhrer during the many times he’d known the Fuhrer was wrong, and then he’d quickly backed down. Now, in the retrospect of many years on the Riverworld and the knowledge he’d gained as a Second Chancer, he had no respect at all for the madman. Nor did he have any respect for the Goring of that time. Indeed, he loathed him.
But, he wasn’t so full of self-hatred that he considered himself past salvation. To think thus was to put himself into a special class, to be criminally proud, to be full of hubris, to possess a peculiar form of self-righteousness.
However, there was also the danger of having all these prides because you didn’t have them. To be proud because you were humble.
This was a Christian sin, though also counted as such in some other religions. La Viro, who’d been a stoutly devout Catholic all his Terrestrial life, had never even heard of such a sin then. His priest had never mentioned it during his long sleep-inducing sermons. Gillot had conceived of this old but little-publicized sin himself after he’d come to this planet.
Though Goring recognized before the end of the war that Hitler was crazy, he’d still remained loyal to him. Loyalty was one of Goring’s virtues, though in him it was so resistant to reason that it became a fault. Unlike most of the others at the Nuremberg trial, Goring had refused to renounce and denounce his chief.
Now, he wished he’d had the courage to stand up to his leader even though it might have meant his downfall much earlier than it occurred and perhaps even his death. If only he could do it all over...
But as La Viro had told him, “You are doing it all over again now, every day. The circumstances differ, that’s all.”
The third person who’d made the greatest impression on him was Richard Francis Burton. Goring didn’t doubt that Burton, if he’d been in Goring’s place, would not have hesitated in saying to Hitler, “No!” or “You are wrong!” How then, had Burton managed to keep from being thrown off the Rex in all these years? King John was a tyrant, arrogant, intolerant of those who argued with him.
Had John changed? Had Burton also changed? And then the changes had been enough so that each man could get along with the other?
John said, “Over there, playing draw poker, are the seven pilots of my air force. Come, I’ll introduce you.”
Goring was startled when Werner Voss stood up to shake hands with him. He had met him once, but Voss obviously didn’t recognize him.
Goring was a fine pilot, but he would readily admit that he could never equal Voss. Voss had scored his first victories, two Allied planes, in November 1916. On September 23, 1917, shortly after his twentieth birthday, Voss was shot down after a lone-wolf battle against seven of Britain’s best fighter pilots. In less than a year, during which he’d flown against the enemy, he’d scored forty-eight kills, enough to make him the fourth-ranking ace of the Imperial German Air Service. And in that short time he’d been removed several times from the front for administrative or other duties. It was not a coincidence that this happened when he was getting close to the score of Manfred von Richthofen. The baron had great influence, nor was Voss the only one whom von Richthofen had managed to withdraw from action for a while. Karl Schaefer and Karl Allmenroder, hotshot pilots, had been similarly manipulated.
Voss was a first lieutenant of the air force, the second-ranker, John explained. The captain was Kenji Okabe, one of Japan’s great aces. The grinning little brown man bowed to Goring, who bowed back. Goring had never heard of him because Germany had not gotten much news from its ally during World War II. His record must have been impressive, though, for John to give him a higher rank than the great Voss. Or perhaps Okabe had joined the airmen before Voss and therefore had greater seniority.
The other aviators, the two fighter-plane replacement pilots, the pilots of the torpedo bomber and of the helicopter, were unknown to Goring.
Goring would have loved to have talked with Voss about the old days of World War I. Sighing, he followed John up a staircase to the C or hurricane deck. At the end of the tour, they went back to the grand salon for iced drinks. Goring took only one drink. John, he noted, downed two in a short time. His face got red, but his speech remained unslurred. He asked Goring many questions about La Viro. Goring answered truthfully. What was there to hide?
Could the bishop give John any indication about whether or not La Viro would give permission for the boat to put in for extended repairs?
“I can’t speak for La Viro,” Goring said. “But I believe that he’ll say yes. After all, you are potential converts to the Church.”
King John grinned and said, “By God’s teeth, I don’t care how many of my crew you hook after we sink Clemens’ boat! Perhaps you don’t know that Clemens tried to slaughter me and my good men so that he could have the boat for himself and his swinish followers. May God strike the polecat with lightning! But I and my brave men foiled him and almost succeeded in killing him! And we took the boat up The River while he stood on the bank raving and ranting and shaking his fist at us. I laughed then, thinking that that was the last time I’d ever see him. I was mistaken.”
Goring said, “Do you have any idea how close Clemens is to you?”
“I’d estimate that it will be only a few days behind,” John said, “after we get our motor rewinding done. We were also delayed for a long time because of the damage done by the raiders.”
“Then that means... ?”
Goring did not like to put his thought into words.
John grinned savagely. “Yes, that means that we will fight!”
It was evident to Goring that John meant to use this wide and long lake for his stand. It would give him plenty of room for maneuvering. He didn’t think it would be wise to mention this at this time.
John began cursing out Clemens as a lying, traitorous, bloodthirsty, rapacious monster. He was a hellbent criminal, and John was his innocent victim.
Goring wasn’t fooled. Having known both Clemens and John, he was sure that John was the liar, the traitor, and the rapacious. He wondered how those who’d been in on the hijacking had managed to keep the truth from those who joined the crew afterward.
Goring said, “Your Majesty, it’s been a very long, arduous, and dangerous voyage. Your casualty rate must have been high. How many of your original crew are left?”
John narrowed his eyes. “That’s a strange question. Why do you ask it?”
Goring shrugged and said, “It’s not important. It’s just that I was curious. There are so many savage peoples on The River, and I’m sure that many have tried to take the boat away from you. After all, it...”
“Is a treasure worth far more than its weight in diamonds?” John said, smiling. “Yes. It is. By God’s backside, I could tell you tales of the mighty battles we’ve had to keep the Rex from falling into enemy hands. The truth is that, of the fifty who left Parolando, only two are still on the boat. Myself and Augustus Strubewell.”
Which might mean, Goring thought, that John had managed that no loosemouth would tell new recruits the truth. A push in the dark of a rainstorm, a splash no one could hear. A quarrel provoked by John or Strubewell and the discharge of the crewman for incompetence or insubordination. There were many ways to kill and many excuses for throwing a man or woman off the boat. And accident and warfare and desertion would take care of the others.
Now Goring realized another reason why Burton might have kept silent about his identity. If John recognized Goring, he’d know that Goring would know that he was lying. And he just might cause an “accident” to Goring before the boat got to Aglejo. Thus, no bad report about John would get to La Viro. Perhaps, Goring thought, he was being too suspicious. He didn’t really think so.
THEY HAD LEFT THE GRAND SALON AND GONE TO THE ROOM AT the bow end of the texas. This was semicircular and walled with shatterproof glass. The elevator shaft that went through the room above and to the pilothouse formed part of the rear wall. Here there were chairs and tables, several sofas, and a small bar. As in most places on the boat, music was piped in from a central station. But it could be turned off. After some conversation about the rewinding, which would take two months at least, Goring steered the talk toward the forthcoming battle. He wanted to say, “What good will it do to fight? What purpose could it serve? Why must all these people on your boat and Clemens’ risk death and mutilation and terrible pain just because of something that happened many decades ago?
“I think that you and Clemens are both mad. Why don’t you two call this off? After all, Clemens has his own boat now. What could he do with two boats? Which he isn’t going to have, anyway, because one boat is going to be destroyed, and I suspect it’ll be yours, Your Majesty. Knowing the size and potentiality of Clemens’ boat, there’s little doubt.”
What he said was, “Perhaps it won’t be necessary to fight Clemens. After all these years, could he still thirst for revenge? Do you want vengeance because he tried to kill you? Can’t you forgive him? The passage of time often cools hot passions and allows cool reason to reign. Perhaps...”
John shrugged broad heavy shoulders and raised his hands, palms upward.
“Believe me, Brother Fenikso, I would thank God if Clemens had regained his mind and become a man of peace. I am not warlike. All I want is fellowship for everyone. I would lift my hand against none if none would lift their hand against me.”
“I am indeed happy to hear that,” Goring said. “And I know that La Viro will be very happy to act as intermediary so that any disputes between you two may be settled amicably. La Viro, all of us here, are eager to avoid bloodshed and to establish good will, love, if possible, between you and Clemens.”
John frowned.
“I doubt that that demon-possessed bloody-minded creature will agree even to a meeting... unless it is to kill me.”
“We can only do our best to arrange a meeting.”
“What troubles me, what makes me think that Clemens will always hate me, is that his wife, his ex-wife rather, was accidentally killed during the battle for the boat. Though they’d parted, he still loved her. And he will hold me responsible for her death.”
“But this happened before the resurrections stopped,” Goring said. “She would have been translated elsewhere.”
“That doesn’t matter. He’ll probably never see her again, so she is as good as dead to him. Anyway, she was dead to him before she died. As you may know, she was in love with that big-nosed Frenchman, de Bergerac.”
John laughed loudly.
“The Frenchman was one of the raiders. I kicked him in the back of the head when I escaped from the chopper. It was also de Bergerac who ran his epee through the thigh of Captain Gwalchgwynn. He’s the only man who’s ever defeated Gwalchgwynn in swordplay. Gwalchgwynn claims that he was distracted, otherwise de Bergerac never would have gotten through his guard. Gwalchgwynn would not like it if Clemens and I made peace. He too thirsts for revenge.”
Hermann wondered if Gwalchgwynn—Burton—did indeed feel this way, but when he looked around, the Englishman was gone.
At that moment, two crewmen entered carrying small kegs of watered alcohol. Goring recognized one of the men. Was this boat loaded with old acquaintances?
He was good-looking, of medium height, and with a slim but wiry physique. His short hair was almost sandy, and his eyes were hazel. His name was James McParlan, and he’d * entered Parolando the day after Hermann’s arrival. Hermann had talked to him about the Church of the Second Chance and found him polite but resistant.
What strengthened Hermann’s memory of him was that McParlan had been the Pinkerton detective who’d infiltrated and eventually destroyed the Molly Maguires in the early 1870s. The Molly Maguires was a secret terrorist organization of Irish coal_ miners in the Pennsylvania counties of Schuylkill, Carbon, Columbia, and Luzerne. Goring, a twentieth-century German, would probably never have heard of it if he hadn’t been an ardent student of the Sherlock Holmes stories. He’d read that the fictional Scowrers, Vermissa, and McMurdo of A. Conan Doyle’s Holmes novel, The Valley of Fear, were based, respectively, on the real Molly Maguires, the Pennsylvania coal counties, and McParlan. That had led him to read Alan Pinkerton’s book on McParlan’s exploits, The Molly Maguires.
In October 1873 McParlan, under the name of James McKenna, succeeded in insinuating himself into the secret society. The young detective was in grave danger many times, but he slipped through safely by his courage, aggressiveness, and quick wits. After three years in this perilous disguise, he exposed the inner workings of the Maguires and the identities of its members. The chief terrorists were hanged; the power of the Molly Maguires was broken. And the mine owners continued for many decades to treat the miners as if they were serfs.
McParlan, going by Hermann on the way out, glanced at him. His face was expressionless. Yet Hermann believed that McParlan had recognized him. The eyes had flicked away too quickly. Moreover, the fellow was a trained detective, and he’d once told Goring that he never forgot a face.
Was it the discipline of a marine on duty which had prevented McParlan from reintroducing himself? Or was it for another reason?
Burton entered and joined the party. After a few minutes he went into the toilet by the elevator. Hermann excused himself and followed him in. Burton was at the far end of the urinal, and no one was near him. Hermann came up to his side and, while urinating, spoke in German in a low voice.
“Thanks for not telling your commander my natal name.”
“I didn’t do it for love of you,” Burton said. Burton dropped his kilt, turned, and went to a washbasin. Hermann quickly followed him. Under cover of the gushing faucets, he said, “I am not the Goring you knew.”
“P’raps not. I fancy I don’t like either of you.” Hermann burned to explain the difference of the two, but he dared not take the time. He hurried back to the observation room.
John was waiting to tell him the party was going to step out onto the deck. They would have a more open view of the lake, which the boat was just entering.
Ahead, for as far as they could see, rock spires of various heights and many shapes rose from the surface of the water. These were mostly rosecolored, but there were also black, brown, purple, green, scarlet, orange, and blue rocks. About one in twenty was striped horizontally in red, green, white, and blue, the stripes being of different widths.
Hermann told them then that at the western end of the lake the mountains curved in and formed a narrow strait about two hundred feet wide and between smooth vertical walls seven thousand feet high. The force of the current was so strong that no manual- or wind-driven vessel could go against it. The traffic by boat was all one-way, down-River, and there was little of that.
However, some travelers had long ago cut out a narrow path on the southern cliff. This was about five hundred feet above the strait and went a mile and a half to the end of the strait. So there was some foot traffic.
“Just beyond the strait is a rather narrow valley, though The River there is a mile wide. There are grailstones there, but no one lives there. I suppose because of the current, which is so strong it precludes fishing or sailing anywhere but through the straits. Then, too, The Valley gets little sunshine. There is, though, a sort of bay about a half-mile up where boats may anchor.
“A few miles above the bay, The Valley widens considerably. There begins the land of the enormous-nosed hairy giants, the titanthrops or orgres. From what I’ve heard, so many of these have been killed that half the population is now your ordinary-sized human.”
Goring paused, knowing that what he would say would, or should, be vastly interesting to the others.
“It’s estimated that it’s only twenty thousand miles from the strait to the headwaters of The River.”
He was trying to give John the idea that it might be better to keep on going. If the headwaters were so close, why should he stop here to fight? Especially, since he was likely to be defeated. Why not go to the headwaters and from there launch the expedition toward the misty tower?
John said, “Indeed.”
If he had taken the bait, he gave no sign of having done so. He seemed interested only in the strait and the immediate area beyond it.
After some questions from John about these, Hermann understood what John was considering. The bay would be an excellent place for the rewinding. The strait would be near ideal for waiting for the Not For Hire. If the Rex could catch it while it was coming through the strait, it could loose some torpedoes in the passage. These would have to be remotely controlled, though, since the strait curved at least three times.
Also, if John docked in the bay, he would keep his crew from the pacifistic influence of the Second Chancers.
Goring’s speculations on John’s thinking was right. After a day’s visit with La Viro, John up-anchored the Rex and took it through the strait. It anchored again at the bay, and a floating anchored dock was built from the shore to the vessel. From time to time, King John and some of his officers, or just his officers, would come in a launch to Aglejo. Though invited to stay overnight or longer, they never did so.
John assured La Viro that he was not going to venture out onto the lake for a battle.
La Viro pleaded with him to negotiate for an honorable peace with La Viro as intermediary.
John refused during the first two meetings with La Viro. Then, on the third, he surprised La Viro and Goring by agreeing.
“But I think it will be a waste of time and effort,” John said. “Clemens is a monomaniac. I’m sure he thinks of only two things. Getting his boat back and killing me.”
La Viro was happy that John was at least willing to make the effort. Hermann was not so happy. What John said and what John did were often not the same.
Despite La Viro’s urgings, John refused to permit missionaries to talk to his crew about the Church. He had set up armed guards at the end of the cliff-path to insure that the missionaries didn’t come over it. His excuse, of course, was that he didn’t want to be attacked by Clemens’ marines. La Viro told John that he had no right to prevent nonhostiles from crossing over. John replied that he had signed no agreement with anyone concerning passage on the path. He held it, and that made him the determiner of the rights.
Three months passed. Hermann waited for his chance to get Burton and Frigate to one side when they came to Aglejo. Their visits were very infrequent and when they did come in he could never get them alone.
One morning, Hermann was summoned to the Temple. La Viro gave him the news, which had just come via the relay drums. The Not For Hire would be at Aglejo in two weeks. Goring was to meet it at the same place he’d boarded the Rex.
Even though Clemens had not been friendly when Hermann had known him in Parolando, he hadn’t been murderous. When Goring went up to the pilothouse, he was surprised to feel happy at seeing Clemens and the gigantic titanthrop, Joe Miller. Moreover, the American recognized him within four seconds of their introduction. Miller claimed to have known him within a second by his odor.
“Although,” Miller said, “you don’t thmell ekthactly as you uthed to. You thmell better than then.”
“Perhaps it’s the odor of sanctity,” Hermann said and laughed.
Clemens grinned, and said. “Virtue and vice have their own chemistries? Well, why not? How do I smell after these forty years of travel, Joe?”
“Thomething like old panther pithth,” Joe said.
It wasn’t quite like old friends meeting after a long absence. But Goring felt that, for some reason, they were as pleased to see him as he was them. Perhaps/it was a perverted kind of nostalgia. Or guilt may have played some part in it. They may have felt responsible for what had happened to him at Parolando. They shouldn’t, of course, since Clemens had done his best to make him leave the state before something violent happened to him.
They told him in brief outline what had occurred since they’d last seen him. And he described his experiences since then.
They went down to the grand salon to get a drink and to introduce him to various notables. Cyrano de Bergerac was called down from the flight deck, where he’d been fencing.
The Frenchman remembered him, though not well. Clemens described again what Hermann had been doing, and then de Bergerac recalled the lecture Goring had given.
Time had certainly worked some changes with Clemens and de Bergerac, Hermann thought. The American seemed to have shed his great dislike for the Frenchman, to have forgiven him because he had taken Olivia Clemens as his mate. The two now were on easy terms, chatting, joking, laughing.
There came a time when the good time had to end. Hermann said, “I suppose you’ve heard that King John’s boat came to Aglejo three months ago? And that it’s waiting for you just beyond the strait at the western end of the lake?”
Clemens swore and said, “We’ve known that we were closing the gap between us fast. But no, we didn’t know that he’d stopped running!”
Hermann described what had happened since he’d boarded the Rex.
“La Viro still hopes that you and John will be able to forgive each other. He says that after this long a time, it doesn’t matter whose fault it was in the beginning. He says...”
Clemens’ face was red and grim.
“It’s easy enough for him to talk of forgiveness!” he said loudly. “Well, let him talk from now until doomsday about forgiveness, and I won’t stop him! A sermon never hurt anybody, and it’s often beneficial—if you need a nap.
“But I haven’t come this far after all the hardships and heartaches and treacheries and griefs just to pat John on the head and tell him what a good boy he is beneath all that rottenness and then kiss and make up.
“ ‘Here, John, you worked hard to get my boat and to keep it from all those thieving rascals that tried to take your hard-earned Riverboat away from you. What the hell, John, I loathed, despised, and detested you, but that was a long time ago. I don’t carry a grudge long; I’m a good-hearted sap.’
“The hell I am!” Clemens roared. “I’m going to sink his boat, the boat I once loved so much! I wouldn’t have it now! He’s dishonored it, made it into crap, stunk it up! I’ll sink it, get it out of sight. And one way or another, I’m ridding this world of John Lackland. When I’m done with him, his name’ll be John Lacklife!”
“We were hoping,” Hermann said, “that after all these years, two generations as they used to be counted, that your hatred had cooled, perhaps entirely died. That...”
“Well, sure, it did,” Clemens said, with a sarcastic tone. “There were minutes, days, weeks, even months, even a year now and then, that I didn’t think of John. But when I tired of this eternal travel on The River, when I longed to go ashore and stay ashore and get the racket of the paddlewheels out of my ears and the never-ending routine, the three-times-a-day stop to recharge grails and batacitor, the always-going-on arguments to settle and the ever-recurring administrative details to manage and my heart stopping every once in a while when I saw a face that looked like my beloved Livy or Susy or Jean or Clara only to find out that she was none of them.... Well, then when I tired and almost gave up, almost said, ‘Here, Cyrano, you take over the captainship. I’m going ashore and get some rest and have a good time, and forget about this monstrous beauty and you take it on up The River and don’t bring it back,’ then I remembered John and what he’d done to me and what I was going to do to him. And then I’d gather my forces together, and I’d cry, ‘Forward, onward, excelsior! Keep going until we’ve caught up with Evil John and sent him to the bottom of The River!’ And that, the thought of my duty and my dearest desire, to make John squeal before I wrung his neck, is what’s kept me going for, as you describe it, two generations!”
Hermann could only say, “It grieves me to hear that.”
It was useless to say any more about that subject.
BURTON, SUFFERING AGAIN FROM HIS CURSED INSOMNIA, LEFT his cabin quietly. Alice slept undisturbed. He went down the dimly lit corridor, out of the texas, and onto the landing deck of the Rex. The fog was building up below the railing of the B deck. The A deck was entirely shrouded. Directly above, the sky blazed brightly, but to the west clouds were swiftly moving toward the boat. On both sides of The Valley the mountains cut off much of the sky. Though the Rex was anchored in a small bay two miles up from the strait, The Valley had broadened only a little here. It was a cold place, gloomy, despondency-making. John had had a difficult time keeping up morale here.
Burton yawned, stretched, and thought about lighting up a cigarette or perhaps a cigar. Damn his sleeplessness! In sixty years on this world, he should have learned how to overcome the affliction which had lasted fifty years on Earth. (He’d been nineteen when the terrible affliction had struck him.)
Techniques to combat it had been offered aplenty to him. The Hindus had a dozen; the Moslems, another dozen. Several of the savage tribes of Tanganyika had their sure-fire remedies. And on this world, he’d tried a score or more. Nur el-Musafir, the Sufi, had taught him a technique which had seemed more efficacious than any he’d ever learned. But after three years, slowly, inching in night by night, Old Devil Insomnia had secured a good beachhead again. For some time, he’d been lucky if he got a good sleep two out of seven nights.
Nur had said, “You could conquer insomnia if you knew what was causing it. You could strike at the source.”
“Yaas,” Burton had replied. “If I knew what and where the source was, I could get my hands on it. I’d be able to conquer more than insomnia. I could conquer the world.”
“First, you’d have to conquer yourself,” the Moor had said. “But when you did that, you’d find out that it wasn’t worthwhile ruling the world.”
The two guards by the rear entrance to the texas were walking in the semidarkness of the landing deck, wheeling, marching to the middle of the deck, each solemnly presenting his rifle to the other’s, wheeling, then striding back to the edge of the landing deck, wheeling, and so on.
During this four-hour watch, Tom Mix and Grapshink were on guard duty. Burton didn’t hesitate to talk to them, since there were two guards at the front of the texas, two in the pilothouse, and many more at different parts of the boat. Ever since the raid by Clemens’ men, John had set up night sentinels all over the boat.
Burton chatted for a while with Grapshink, a native Amerind, in his own tongue, Burton having taken the trouble to learn it. Tom Mix joined them, and he told them a dirty joke. They laughed, but afterward Burton said he’d heard a different version of it in the Ethiopian city of Harar. Grapshink confessed that he’d heard another version, too, when he was on Earth. This would have been about 30,000 B.C.
Burton told the two he’d be going on to check the other guards. He walked down the stairs to the B or main deck and went toward the stern. As he passed a diffused light in the fog, he saw something moving out of the corner of his left eye. Before he could turn toward it, he was struck on the head.
Some time later, he awoke on his back, staring upward into the fog. Sirens were wailing, some very near him. The back of his head hurt him very much. He felt the bump, winced, and his fingers came away sticky. When he struggled to his feet, swaying, dizzy, he saw that the lights were on all over the boat. People ran past him calling out. One stopped by him. Alice.
She cried out, “What happened?”
“I don’t know,” he said, “except that someone coshed me.”
He started toward the bow but had to stop to steady himself with a hand against the wall.
“Here,” she said, “I’ll help you get to the sick bay.”
“Sick bay be damned! Help me to the pilothouse. I have to report to the king.”
“You’re crazy,” she said. “You may have a concussion or a fractured skull. You shouldn’t even be walking. You should be on a stretcher.”
He growled, “Nonsense,” and started to walk. She made him put his arm around her shoulder so she could half-support him. They started again toward the bow. He heard the anchors being pulled up, the chains rattling in the holes. They passed people manning the steam machine guns and the rocket tubes.
Alice called out to a man, “What happened?”
“I don’t know! Somebody said the big launch was stolen. The thieves took it up The River.”
Burton thought that if that was true, he’d been slugged by someone posted to insure that the thieves weren’t surprised.
The “thieves,” he was sure, had been crew members. He didn’t think that anybody could slip aboard unnoticed. The sonars, radar, and infrared detectors were operating at night and had been ever since the raid. Their operators dared not fall asleep. The last one who’d done that, ten years ago, had been thrown off the boat into The River two minutes after being caught.
Arriving at the pilothouse, Burton had to wait a few minutes before the busy king could speak to him. Burton reported what had happened to him. John wasn’t at all sympathetic; he was beside himself with rage, cursing, giving orders, stomping around.
Finally, he said, “Go to sick bay, Gwalchgwynn. If the doctor says you’re unfit for duty, Demugts will take over. There isn’t much the marines can do now, anyway.”
Burton said, “Yes, Sire,” and he went to the C deck hospital.
Doctor Doyle x-rayed his skull, cleansed the wound on his head, bandaged it, and ordered him to lie down for a while.
“There’s neither concussion or fracture. All you need is some rest.”
Burton did so. Shortly thereafter, Strubewell’s voice came over the loudspeaker. Twelve people were missing, seven men, five women.
John took over then, apparently too enraged to allow his first mate to call out the names of the missing. His voice shaking, he denounced the twelve as “treacherous dogs, mutinous swine, scurvy stinking polecats, cowardly jackals, yellow-bellied hyenas.”
“Quite a menagerie,” Burton said to Alice.
He listened to the roll call. All were suspected agents, all having claimed to have lived past 1983.
John thought they had deserted because they were afraid to fight.
If he weren’t too furious to think straight, John would have remembered that the twelve had shown their courage in many battles.
Burton knew why they had fled. They wanted to get to the tower as quickly as possible, and they didn’t want to be in~ a fight which they regarded as totally unnecessary. So they had stolen the launch and were now racing up-River as fast as possible. Undoubtedly, they were hoping that John wouldn’t go after them, that he’d be too concerned with Clemens.
In fact, John had been worried that the Not For Hire might come up through the strait while the Rex was chasing after the launch. However, the guards on the path above the strait had a transceiver, and they would report instantly if the Hire moved toward the channel. Still, if the Rex was too far up The River, it couldn’t get back in time to block the Hire.
Despite this, John was taking his chances. He was not going to allow the deserters to get away with the launch. He needed it for the coming battle. And he wanted desperately to catch and punish the twelve.
In the old days on Earth, he would have tortured them. He probably would like to put them to rack and wheel and fire now, but he knew that his crew, most of them anyway, wouldn’t tolerate such barbarisms. They would permit the twelve to be shot, though they wouldn’t relish the deed, because discipline did have to be maintained. Moreover, stealing the launch had compounded the felony.
Suddenly, Burton groaned. Alice said. “What’s the matter, dear?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Just a twinge.”
Since there were other nurses around, he couldn’t tell her that it had just occurred to him that Strubewell had stayed aboard. Why? Why hadn’t he gone with the other agents?
And Podebrad! Podebrad, the Czech engineer, the chief suspect. His name wasn’t on the list.
One more question to add to the dozens he would ask an agent someday. Perhaps he should not wait until someday. Why not go to John now and tell him the truth? John would have Strubewell and Podebrad into the brig and put them to the question with a speed unhampered by legalities and red tape.
No. It couldn’t be done now. John wouldn’t have the time to do this. He’d have to wait until after the battle. Besides, the two would just commit suicide.
Or would they?
Now that there were no resurrections, would an agent kill himself?
He might, Burton thought. Just because the Valleydwellers weren’t resurrected was no proof that agents weren’t. They could rise again somewhere else, in the vast underground chambers or in the tower.
Burton didn’t believe this. If the agents were resurrected elsewhere, they wouldn’t have hesitated to board the suicide express. They wouldn’t now be traveling via paddlewheeler to get to the tower.
If he and Strubewell and Podebrad survived the battle, he was going to catch them unawares, knock them out before they could transmit the mental code which would release the poison in the little black balls in their forebrains, and then hypnotize them as they came out of unconsciousness.
That was satisfying to visualize. But in the meantime, why had the twelve taken off and the two stayed?
Had Strubewell and Podebrad remained on the boat so they could sabotage it if it looked as if John were going to catch the twelve?
That seemed the only explanation. In which case, Burton must go to John to expose them.
But would John believe him? Wouldn’t he think that the blow on Burton’s head had deranged him?
He might, but he’d have to be convinced when Burton brought in Alice, Kazz, Loghu, Frigate, Nur, Mix, London, and Umslopogaas as witnesses.
By then, however, Strubewell and Podebrad might find out about what was going on and flee. Worse, they might blow up the boat or whatever they were planning on doing.
Burton wiggled his finger at Alice. When she came, he told her softly to take a message to Nur el-Musafir. Nur was to station one or more of their group with Podebrad in the boiler room and Strubewell in the pilothouse. If either did something suspicious, something which could threaten the boat, he was to be clubbed on the head at once. If that wasn’t possible, he was to be shot or stabbed. Alice’s eyes widened. “Why?”
“I’ll explain later!” he said fiercely. “Go while there’s still time!”
Nur would figure out what the orders meant. And he’d see that they were somehow carried out. It wasn’t going to be easy to get someone into the boiler room and the pilothouse. At the moment, everybody had his or her station. To leave it for any reason without authorization was a serious crime. Nur would have to think fast and cleverly to send somebody to watch the two.
And then Burton said, “I’ve got it!”
He picked up the sick-bay phone and called the pilothouse. The phone operator there was going to call Strubewell, but Burton insisted that he speak to the king instead. John was very annoyed, but he did as Burton requested and went down to the observation room. There he flicked a switch which made it impossible for their conversation to be listened to on the pilothouse line unless the line had been bugged.
“Sire,” Burton said, “I’ve been thinking. How do we know that the deserters haven’t planted a bomb on the boat? Then, if it looks as if we’re going to catch them, they transmit a coded message to the receiver, and the explosives are set off.”
After a short silence, John said, his voice a trifle high, “Do you think that’s a possibility?”
“If I can think of it, then why shouldn’t the deserters?”
“I’ll start a search at once. If you’re up to it, you join it.”
John hung up. A minute later, Strubewell’s voice bellowed over the loudspeakers. He gave orders that every inch of the vessel was to be examined for bombs. The officers were to organize parties at once. Strubewell laid out who was responsible for which area and told them to get going.
Burton smiled. It hadn’t been necessary to reveal anything to John, and Podebrad and Strubewell would find themselves directing a search for the very bombs they may have hidden.
BURTON STARTED OUT THE DOOR. SINCE HE HADN-T BEEN ORdered to any area, he considered himself a free agent. He’d go to the boiler or A deck and inspect the engine room and the ammunition rooms.
Just as he started down the steps to B deck, he heard pistol shots and shouting. They seemed to come from below, so he hurried down, wincing with pain every time his foot hit a step. When he got to A deck he saw a crowd halfway down the boat by the railing. He walked to it, made his way through the people, and looked down at the object of attention.
It was an oiler named James McKenna. He was lying on his side, a pistol near his open hand. A tomahawk was firmly wedged in the side of his skull.
A huge Iroquoian, Dojiji, stepped forward, stooped, and wrenched the tomahawk loose.
“He shot at me and missed,” he said.
King John should have issued orders by word of mouth, not by the loudspeaker system. Then McKenna might have been caught while in the act of pressing the ten pounds of plastic explosive against the hull in a dark corner of the engine room. It really made no difference, however. McKenna had walked away from the alcove the moment he’d heard the search order. He had been cool, and his bearing was nonchalant. But an electrician’s mate had seen him and challenged him, and McKenna had shot him. He had run then and shot and killed a man and a woman on his way to the railing deck outside. A search party, running toward him, had shot at him and failed to hit him. He’d wounded one of them but had missed Dqjiji. Now McKenna lay dead, unable to tell them why he had tried to blow up the boat.
King John came down to look at the bomb. The clock was attached by wires to the fuse and the shapeless mass of plastic. Its hand indicated 10.20 minutes to go.
“There’s enough to blow a hole in the hull bigger than the starboard side itself,” a bomb expert said cheerfully. “Shall I remove it, Sire?”
“Yes. At once,” King John said coolly. “One thing, though. This doesn’t have a receiver radio, too, does it?”
“No, Your Majesty.”
John had frowned. He said, “Very strange. I just don’t understand this. Why should the deserters leave one of their number behind to set the time clock when they could far easier have blown it with a wireless frequency? McKenna could have been with them. They’d not have to, put one of their own in danger. It doesn’t make sense.”
Burton was with the group of officers accompanying John. He said nothing. Why bother to enlighten him, if indeed what he had to offer was enlightening?
McKenna had shown up immediately after the raid from the Parseval, and he’d volunteered to replace one of the men killed In it. It seemed evident to Burton, or at least a strong possibility, that McKenna had been dropped off from a plane or via parachute or glider from the airship Parseval. What did the twentieth-century call such people? The... “fifth column”... that was it. Clemens had planted this man for the day when the Not For Hire caught up with the Rex. He’d been ordered to blow up the boat when that day came.
What Burton didn’t understand was why Clemens had told McKenna to wait until then. Why hadn’t McKenna blown the boat at the first opportunity? Why wait for forty years? Especially since it was very likely that McKenna, after living with the Rexites for so many years, might have found himself sympathetic with them? He’d be isolated from his fellows on the Not For Hire and almost inevitably, and subtly, his loyalties would transfer from those who’d Become a distant memory to those he lived intimately with for a long time.
Or had Clemens not considered that?
That wasn’t probable. As anyone who’d read his works knew, Clemens was a master psychologist.
It was possible that Clemens had given McKenna orders not to destroy the Rex unless it was absolutely necessary.
King John gestured at the corpse and said, “Throw that filth into The River.”
It was done. Burton would have liked to find an excuse to have the body taken to the morgue. There he could open up the skull and inspect the cerebrum for a tiny black ball. Too late. McKenna would be opened up only by the fish.
Whatever had happened, it was over for McKenna. And though the one bomb had been found, the search continued for more. At last, it was called off. There was no secretly planted explosive device in the vessel or outside it. Divers had gone over every inch of the exterior of the hull.
Burton thought that the deserters, if they’d had their wits about them, would have made provisions to sink the craft before leaving. Then neither it nor the airplanes could have pursued them. But they were agents, loathing violence though able to deal with it if the situation required.
There had been only one way to make sure that McKenna was an agent of the Ethicals or an agent of Clemens’.
One thing was certain. Podebrad and Strubewell were not saboteurs.
But why had they stayed aboard?
He thought about the problem, puzzling over it a while, then said, “Hah!”
They were volunteers. They’d elected to remain with the boat because there was someone or someones on the Not For Hire whom they wanted to make contact with. He or she or they might be enemies or friends, but the two had their reasons for wanting to get hold of the person or persons. So, they’d made the very risky decision to stay with the Rex through the battle. If the Rex won, which it might, though the odds now seemed against it, then the two, if they survived, would be able to get to whoever it was that was on Clemens’ boat.
But... how would the two know that the whoever was on the Not For Hire?
They might have some secret method of communication. Just what, Burton couldn’t imagine.
He got to thinking about the agents who’d deserted. Did they know about the boats in the cave on the shore of the polar sea and the door at the base of the tower?
He hoped that they hadn’t heard Paheri’s tale. As far as he knew, only he and Alice, Frigate, Loghu, Nur, London, Mix, Kazz, and Umslopogaas knew about the ancient Egyptian’s discovery. That is, they were the only ones On the boat who had. There would be others, perhaps many many people, who had heard Paheri’s tale first-hand and then second-, third- and fourth-hand.
However, for all he knew, X was among the deserters. Which meant that the agents would know about the hidden entrance, too.
Not necessarily. X might be posing as a friendly agent. He’d fled with them but planned to use them to get him to the tower. And then he’d see that they, like Akhenaton and the other Egyptians of his party, were rendered unconscious or dead.
Or perhaps... Podebrad and Strubewell somehow knew that
X was on the Not For Hire.
But... either one of the two could be X.
Burton shrugged. He’d just have to let events take their course until he saw a chance to influence them. Then he’d pounce like an owl on a mouse.
That wasn’t a good simile. The agents and the Ethicals were potentially more like tigers.
It didn’t make any difference to him. He was going to attack when he had to.
Again, he considered telling King John everything. Thus, he’d insure that the captured agents would not be executed on the spot. Of course, the agent would have to be knocked out before he could commit suicide. But with twelve to seize, fourteen if Strubewell and Podebrad were included, surely at least one would be unconscious... well, he’d wait a little more. He might not have to divulge anything to John.
The boat had stopped to anchor again while the scuba divers had inspected the hull. It had then resumed its up-River course at top speed. But it put into shore again to hook up the metal cap to a grailstone. Dawn came; the stones thundered and lightninged. The cap was swung back into the boat, and it sped after the deserters once more. Shortly after breakfast, the motors of three planes were warmed’ up. Then Voss and Okabe took off in their biplane fighters and the torpedo-bomber roared out of the swung-open stern section from the launch dock.
The pilots would be able to spot the launch within an hour or two. What would happen after that was up to them, within the limits of John’s orders. He did not want the launch sunk or badly damaged because he needed it in the expected battle. The planes could fire on the launch and keep if from continuing up-River, if possible. They must delay it until the Rex could catch up with it.
An hour and twenty-two minutes after flyoff, Okabe reported in. The launch was sighted, and he’d tried to talk to the deserters by radio. He’d gotten no reply. The three planes would swing down over the boat in single file and fire machine guns at it. Not for long, however, since the lead bullets were too valuable, too needed for the fight against the Not For Hire. If a few bursts didn’t make the deserters surrender or turn down-River or abandon the launch, then bombs would be dropped near the vessel.
Okabe also reported that the launch was several miles past the point where The Valley suddenly widened out. This was the area to which the launch had gone two months ago during the rewinding. Its crew had talked to many of the titanthrops, in Esperanto, of course, in an effort to recruit about forty as marines. King John had envisioned closing in with the Not For Hire and sending the forty ogres over in the van of the boarders. Two score like Joe Miller would wipe the decks of Clemens’ boat clean in short order. Nor would the mighty.Miller be able to withstand the onslaught of so many of his fellows.
Much to John’s disgust and disappointment, his men had discovered that every titanthrop interviewed was a member of the Church of the Second Chance. They refused to fight and in fact tried to convert the crew.
It was probable that there were titanthrops who had not succumbed to the preachings of the missionaries. But there” wasn’t time to look for them.
Now the airplanes lowered toward the launch while the people on shore, part of them average-sized Homo sapiens, part veritable Brobdingnags, lined the banks to watch these machines.
Suddenly, Okabe said, “The launch is heading for the right bank!”
He dived but not to fire. He couldn’t have hit the launch without also hitting many locals, and he was under orders not to anger them in any way if he could help it. John didn’t want to go through a hostile area after the Rex had sunk the Not For Hire.
“The deserters are jumping out of the launch and wading to the bank!” Okabe said. “The launch is drifting with the current!”
John cursed and then ordered the torpedo-bomber to land on The River. Its gunner must board the launch and bring it back to the Rex. And he must do it quickly before some local decided to swim out and appropriate the launch for himself.
“The deserters are mingled with the crowds,” Okabe said. “I imagine they’ll head for the hills after we’ve left.”
“God’s teeth!” John said. “We’ll never be able to find them!”
Burton, in the pilothouse at this time, made no comment. He knew that the agents would later steal a sailboat and continue up-River. The Rex would overtake it, if the Rex wasn’t sunk or too damaged to continue.
A few minutes after the launch was reberthed in the Rex and the two fighters had landed, a light on the pilothouse radio glowed orange. The operator’s eyes widened, and he was so astonished he couldn’t speak for a moment. For thirty years he and his fellow operators had waited for this to happen, though they’d not really expected it would.
At last the operator got the words out.
“Sire, Sire! The Clemens frequency!”
The frequency which the Not For Hire used was, of course, known. It could have been changed by Clemens, though even then the radio of the Rex would have scanned the spectrum until it had located it. But apparently Clemens had never seen any reason to shift to another wavelength. The few times that the Rex had received transmission from the Not For Hire, the message had been scrambled.
Not now. The message was not for the Parseval or the airplanes or launches of the Not For Hire. It was in nonscrambled Esperanto and meant for the Rex.
The speaker was not Sam Clemens himself. He was John Byron, Clemens’ chief executive officer. And he wished to talk to, not King John, but his chief officer.
John, who’d gone down to his quarters for sleep or dalliance with his current cabinmate, or both, was summoned. Strubewell did not dare to talk to Byron until his commander authorized it. John was at first determined to talk directly to Clemens. But Clemens, through Byron, refused to do that nor would he say why.
John replied, through his first mate, that there would be no communication at all then. But, after a minute, while the radio hissed and crackled, Byron said that he had a message to deliver, a “proposition.” His commander dared not speak to John face to face, as it were. Clemens was afraid that he’d lose his temper and cuss out King John as no one else in the universe had ever been cussed out before. And that included Jehovah’s denunciation of Satan before He hurled him headlong from Heaven.
Clemens had a sporting offer to make John. However, it was necessary, as John should now understand, that it be transmitted via intermediaries. After waiting half an hour to make Clemens swear and fume and fret, John replied via Strubewell.
Burton was again in the pilothouse and heard everything from the beginning. He was staggered when Clemens’ “proposition” was put forth.
John heard it all out, then replied that he’d have to talk about this to Werner Voss and Kenji Okabe, his top fighter pilots. He couldn’t order them to accept these conditions. And, by the way, who were Clemens’ two pilots?
Byron said that they were William Barker, a Canadian, and Georges Guynemer, a Frenchman. Both were famous aces of World War I.
There was more identification of the pilots. Their histories were expanded upon. John called Voss and Okabe to the pilothouse, and he told them what had happened.
They were astounded. But after they’d recovered, they talked to each other.
And then Okabe said, “Sire, we have been flying for twenty years for you. It’s mostly been dull work though occasionally dangerous. We’ve been waiting for this moment; we’ve known that it would happen. We won’t be facing fellow nationals or former allies, though I understand that my country was an ally of England and France in World War I.
“We will do this. We look forward to it.”
Burton thought, what are we? King Arthur’s knights? Idiots? Or both?
Nevertheless, part of him approved deeply and was very excited.
THE NOT FOR HIRE HAD BEEN ANCHORED NEAR THE RIGHT BANK a few miles up from the entrance to the lake. Goring was taken to Aglejo by the launch Post No Bills. Clemens sent his apologies to La Viro for not coming to meet him at once. Unfortunately, he said, a previous engagement had held him up. But late tomorrow or possibly the day after, he would come to the temple.
Goring had begged Clemens to make overtures of peace to King John. Clemens, as Hermann had expected, had refused to do so.
“The final act of this drama has been too long delayed. The damn intermission was forty years long. Now nothing is going to stop its being staged.”
“This isn’t a theater,” Hermann said, “Real blood will be shed. Real pain will be felt. The deaths won’t be faked. And for what?”
“For what matters,” Clemens said. “I don’t want to talk about it any more.”
He puffed angrily on his big green cigar. Goring silently blessed him with the three-fingered gesture of the Church and left the pilothouse.
All day long the boat had been readied. The thick duraluminum plates with the small portholes were secured over the windows. Thick duraluminum doors were secured to the exterior entrances of the corridors and passageways. The ammunition was checked. The steam machine guns were fired for a few rounds. The elevation and vertical and horizontal movement machines of the 88-millimeter cannons were tested. Rockets were placed in the launching tubes, and the machinery for bringing more from the bowels of the A deck was checked. The one cannon using compressed air was tested. The airplanes were taken up for a wringout after being fully armed. The launches were also armed. The radar, sonar, and infrared detectors were given a checkout. The boarding bridges were extended and withdrawn.
Every station conducted a dozen drills.
After the batacitor and the grails were charged at evening, the Not For Hire went for a five-mile circular cruise, and more drills were conducted. Radar swept the lake and reported that the Rex was not within its range.
Before the crew went to bed, Clemens talked to almost all the crew in the grand salon. His short almost entirely serious speech went out over the loudspeakers to those on duty.
“We’ve had a fantastically long ride up The River, the longest river in the universe, perhaps. We’ve had ups and downs, our tragedies, our pains, our boredoms, our comedies, our cowardly deeds, our heroic. We’ve faced death many times. We’ve seen those we loved die, though we’ve been somewhat recompensed for this by also seeing those we hated die.
“It’s been a long long ride. We’ve gone 7,200,020 miles. That’s about half of the estimated 14,500,000 miles of The River. It’s been a long voyage. But if we’d walked it, we’d still be walking. We would’ve walked only about 127,500 miles, leaving more than 7,000,000 miles to go.
“Everybody who signed on knew before signing what the ride on the greatest and most luxurious vessel in the world would cost him. He and she were made aware of the price of the ticket. This ride is paid for at the end, not the beginning.
“I know each of you well, as well as one human being can know another. You were all hand-picked, and you’ve all justified my judgment. You’ve gone through many tests and passed them with flying marks. So I have complete confidence that you’ll pass the final, the hardest, test tomorrow.
“I’m making this sound like an arithmetic examination in high school or like the speech a football coach gives before his team goes out to play. I’m sorry about that. This test, this game, is deadly, and some of you alive today won’t be by tomorrow’s end. But you knew the price when you signed up, and none should think of welshing.
“But after tomorrow is over...”
He paused to look around. Joe Miller, sitting on a huge chair on the podium, looked sad, and tears were trickling down his craggy cheeks.
Little de Marbot leaped up then and raised his glass of liquor and cried, “Three cheers for our commander and a toast to him!”
Everybody huzzaed loudly. After they had drunk, tall big-nosed rapier-thin de Bergerac stood up and said, “And a toast to victory! Not to mention death and damnation to John Lackland!”
Sam stayed up late that night. He paced back and forth for a while in the pilothouse. Though the boat was anchored, there was a full watch in the room. The Not For Hire could up-anchor and paddlewheel into the lake at top speed within three minutes. If John should try a night attack despite his promises not to, Sam’s vessel would be ready for it.
The pilothouse watch said little. Sam left them with a good night and walked for a few minutes on top of the flight deck. Ashore, many fires blazed. The Virolanders knew what was coming tomorrow, and they were too excited, too apprehensive, to get to sleep at their customary time. Earlier, La Viro himself had appeared on the bank in a fishing boat and requested permission to board. Clemens had told him, through a bullhorn, that he was certainly glad to meet him. But he could not discuss anything until after tomorrow. Sorry. That was the way it had to be.
The big dark man with the lugubrious features had departed, though not before blessing Sam. Sam felt ashamed.
Now Sam walked the length of every deck on both sides to test the alertness of the sentries. He was happy with the results, and he decided it was foolish to spend any more time prowling the boat. Besides, Gwenafra would be expecting him to come to bed. She’d probably want to make love, too, because one or both of them might not be alive after tomorrow. He didn’t feel like it at the moment, but she had some irresistible ways of arousing his spirits, among other things.
He was right. She did insist on it, but when his lack of enthusiasm became obvious, and she couldn’t generate any, she quit. Nor did she reproach him. She only asked that he hold her tight and that he talk to her. It was seldom that Sam didn’t have time to talk, so they spent at least two hours in conversation.
Shortly before they drifted into sleep, Gwenafra said, “I wonder if Burton could be on the Rex! Wouldn’t that be funny if he were? I mean, peculiar, not laughable. It would also be horrible.”
“You’ve never gotten over your little-girl crush on him, have you?” Sam said. “He must have been something. To you, anyway.”
“No, I haven’t,” she said, “though I couldn’t be sure, of course, that I’d like him now. Still, what if he were one of King John’s men, and we killed him? I’d feel terrible. Or what if someone you loved were on the Rex?”
“It’s just not very probable,” he said. “I’m not going to worry about it.”
But he did. Long after Gwenafra was breathing the easy breath of the deep sleeper, he lay awake. What if Livy were on the Rex! No, she wouldn’t be. After all, it was one of John’s men who’d killed her in Parolando. She’d never come aboard his boat. Not, that is, unless she wanted to kill him for revenge. No, she wouldn’t do that. She was too gentle for that, even though she’d fight fiercely in defense of her loved ones. But revenge? No.
Clara? Jean? Susy? Could one of them be on the Rex! The chances were very very low that they could be. Yet... the mathematically improbable sometimes happened. And a missile fired from his boat might kill her. And she’d be lost forever to him since there were no more resurrections.
Almost, almost, he rose from bed and went to the pilothouse and had the radio operator send a message to the Rex. A message that he would like to make peace, to call off the battle and the hatred and lust for revenge.
Almost.
John would never agree anyway.
How did he, Sam, know that he wouldn’t unless he tested him?
No. John was incorrigible. As stubborn as his enemy, Sam Clemens.
“I’m sick,” Sam said.
After a while, he slid into sleep.
Erik Bloodaxe pursued him with his double-headed axe. Sam ran as he had run in so many nightmares about this terrible Norseman. Behind him, Erik screamed, “Bikkja! Droppings of Ratatosk! I told you I’d wait for you near the headwaters of The River! Die, you rotten backstabber! Die!”
Sam awoke moaning, sweating, his heart pounding.
What irony, what poetic justice, what retribution if Erik should happen to be on the Rex.
Gwenafra murmured something. Sam patted her bare back and said, softly, “Sleep, little innocent. You never had to murder anyone, and I hope you never will.”
But, in a way, wasn’t she being called on to commit murder tomorrow?
“This is too much,” he said. “I must sleep. I must be in top physical and mental condition tomorrow. Otherwise... an error on my part... fatigue... who knows?”
But the Not For Hire was too much larger than the Rex, too much more heavily armored and armed, not to win.
He must sleep.
He sat up suddenly, staring. Sirens were wailing. And from the intercom on the wall, Third Mate Cregar shouted, “Captain! Captain! Wake up! Wake up!”
Clemens rolled out of bed and crossed to the intercom. He said, “Yes, what is it?”
John was making a sneak attack? The rotten son of a bitch!
“The infrared operators report that seven people have gone overboard, Captain! Deserters, it looks like!”
So... his little speech about everybody having passed the test, about their proven courage, had been wrong. Some men and women had lost their bravery. Or, he thought, had come to their senses. And they’d taken off. Just as he had when the War Between the States had started. After two weeks in the Confederate volunteer irregulars in Missouri, after that innocent passerby had been shot by one of his comrades, he had deserted and gone west.
He didn’t really blame the seven. He couldn’t allow anyone to know that he felt that way, of course. He’d have to put on a stern face, rave and rant a little, curse the rats and so on. For the sake of discipline and morale, he must.
He had no sooner stepped into the elevator to go up to the pilothouse than the revelation came.
The seven were not cowards. They were agents.
They had no reason to stay aboard and perhaps be killed. They had a higher duty than to Clemens and the Not For Hire.
He walked into the pilothouse. The lights were on all over the vessel. Several searchlights showed some men and women carrying grails on the bank. They were running as if their deepest fears had been embodied and were about to seize them.
“Shall we fire on them?” Cregar said.
“No,” Sam said. “We might hit some of the locals. Let them go. We can always pick them up after the battle.”
The seven would undoubtedly take sanctuary in the temple. La Viro wouldn’t turn them over to Clemens.
Sam ordered Cregar to make a roll call. When the missing seven were identified, Sam looked at the list of names on the message screen. Four men and three women. All had claimed to have lived after 1983. His suspicions about this claim were valid. But it was too late to do anything about it.
No. Just now he couldn’t act. But after the battle he would find some way to abduct the seven and to question them. They knew enough to clear up at least half of the mysteries that perplexed him. Perhaps they knew enough to clear up all.
He spoke to Cregar.
“Turn off the sirens. Tell the crew that it’s a false alarm, to go back to sleep. Good night.”
It wasn’t a good night, though. He woke up many times, and he had some frightening nightmares.