Sam was disappointed that the plane wasn’t a two-seater. He looked forward to flying for the first time in his life—his second life, that is. But von Richthofen said the next prototype would be a two-seater and Sam would be his first passenger.
“After you’ve tested it out,” Sam said. He expected John to protest about this and to insist that he be taken up first. But evidently John was not too eager to leave the ground.
The last stop was at the boatyard, located halfway between the hangar and Sam’s house. The craft within the pine-log enclosure would be completed within a week. The Firedragon I was the amphibious prototype of the boat that would be the launch for the big boat. It was a beautiful machine, made of thick magnalium, about thirty-two feet long, shaped like a U.S. Navy cruiser with wheels, with three turrets on its sleek top deck. It was powered by steam, burned wood alcohol, could operate in water or on land, carried a crew of eleven, and was, so Sam declared, invincible.
He patted the cold gray hull and said, “Why should we worry about having bowmen? Or having anything but this? This juggernaut could crush a kingdom all by itself. It has a steam-powered cannon the like of which the world, Earth or this planet, has never seen. That is why it is steam-driven and why it has such a huge boiler.”
All in all, the tour had made him happy. It was true that the plans for the great Riverboat had barely been started. But those took time. It was vital that the state be well protected at first, and just making the preparations was fun. He rubbed his hands and puffed on a new cigar, drawing the green smoke deeply into his lungs.
And then he saw Livy.
His beloved Livy, sick for so many years, and dead, finally, in Italy, in 1904.
Restored to life and youth and beauty, but not, alas, to him.
SHE was walking toward him, carrying her grail by its handle, wearing a white scarlet-edged kilt that came halfway down her thighs and a thin white scarf for a bra. She had a fine figure, good legs, handsome features. Her forehead was broad and satiny white. Her eyes were large and luminous. Her lips were full and shapely; her smile, attractive; her teeth, small and very white. She customarily wore her dark hair parted, combed down smooth in front but twisted into a figure eight in the back. Behind an ear she wore one of the giant crimson roselike blooms that grew from the vines on the irontrees. Her necklace was made of the convoluted red vertebrae of the hornfish.
Sam’s heart felt as if it were being licked by a cat.
She swayed as she walked toward him, and her breasts bounced beneath the semiopaque fabric. Here was his Livy, who had always been so modest, had worn heavy clothes from the neck down to the ankle, and had never undressed before him in the light. Now she reminded him of the half-naked women of the Sandwich Islands. He felt uneasy, and he knew why. His queasiness among the natives had been as much due to their unwanted attraction for him as repulsion, each feeling depending on the other and having nothing to do with the natives per se.
Livy had had a Puritanical upbringing, but she had not been ruined by it. On Earth she had learned to drink and to like beer, had even smoked a few times, and had become an infidel or, at least, a great doubter. She had even tolerated his constant swearing and had let loose with a few blisterers herself if the girls were not around. The accusations that she had censored his books and thus emasculated them were off the target. He had done most of the censoring himself.
Yes, Livy had always shown adaptability.
Too much. Now, after twenty years of absence from him, she had fallen in love with Cyrano de Bergerac. And Sam had the uneasy feeling that that wild Frenchman had awakened in her something that Sam might have awakened if he had not been so inhibited himself. But after these years on The River and the chewing of a certain amount of dreamgum, he had lost many of his own inhibitions.
It was too late for him.
Unless Cyrano left the scene…
“Hello, Sam,” she said in English. “How are you on this fine day?”
“Every day is fine here,” he said. “You can’t even talk about the weather, let alone do anything about it!”
She had a beautiful laugh. “Come along with me to the grailstone,” she said. “It’s almost time for lunch.”
Every day he swore not to come near her because to do so hurt too much. And every day he took advantage of the smallest chance to get as close to her as he could.
“How’s Cyrano?” he said.
“Oh, very happy because he’s finally getting a rapier. Bildron, the swordsmith, promised that he’d have the first one—after yours and the other Councilmen’s, of course. Cyrano had taken so long to reconcile himself to the fact that he would never hold a metal sword in his hand again. Then he heard about the meteorite and came here—and now the greatest swordsman in the world will have a chance to show everybody that his reputation wasn’t a lie, which some liars say it was.”
“Now, Livy,” he said. “I didn’t say people lied about his reputation. I said that maybe they exaggerated some. I still don’t believe that story about his holding off two hundred swordsmen all by himself.”
“The fight at the Porte de Nesle was authentic! And it wasn’t two hundred! You’re the one pumping it up, Sam, just as you always do. There was a crowd of hired thugs that could have been a hundred or might just as well have been. Even if there had been only twenty-five, the fact is that Cyrano attacked them all single-handed to save his friend, the Chevalier de Lignières.
“He killed two and wounded seven and ran the rest of them off. That is God’s truth!”
“I don’t want to get into an argument about the merits of your man,” he said. “Or about anything. Let’s just talk like we used to when we had so much fun—before you got sick.”
She stopped. Her face set grimly.
“I always knew you resented my illness, Sam.”
“No, that wasn’t it,” he said. “I think I felt guilty that you were sick, as if somehow I were to blame. But I never hated you for it. I hated myself if I hated anyone.”
“I didn’t say you hated me,” she said. “I said you resented my illness and you showed it in many ways. Oh, you may have thought you were always noble and gentle and loving—and most of the time you were—you really were. But there were enough times when you looked, you spoke, you muttered, you gestured—how can I describe exactly how you were? I can’t, but I knew you resented me, sometimes loathed me, because I was sick.”
“I didn’t!” he cried so loudly that a number of people stared.
“Why argue about it? Whether you did or not doesn’t matter now. I loved you then and I still do, in a way. But not as I did.”
He was silent during the rest of the walk across the plain to the big mushroom-shaped stone. The cigar tasted like burning skunk cabbage.
Cyrano was not present. He was superintending the building of a section of the wall which would eventually guard the shore of The River. Sam was glad. It was difficult enough for him to see Livy alone, but when she was with the Frenchman, he could not endure his thoughts.
In silence, he and Livy parted.
…
A beautiful woman with lovely, honey-colored hair approached him, and he was able to set aside his feelings about Livy for a while. The woman’s name was Gwenafra. She had died at about the age of seven in a country that must have been Cornwall about the time the Phoenicians came there to exploit the tin mines. She had been resurrected among people of whom none spoke her ancient Celtic language and had been adopted by a group that spoke English. From her description, one of them had been that Sir Richard Francis Burton whom Sam had thought he’d seen on the shore just before the meteorite struck. Burton and his friends had built a small sailboat and set out for the headwaters of The River—as might have been expected of a man who had spent half his life exploring in the wildernesses of Africa and the other continents. On Earth Burton had sought the headwaters of the Nile and had found, instead, Lake Tanganyika. But on this world he had again been seeking the source of a river—the gre
atest River of them all—undaunted by the prospect that it might be ten million miles long or even twenty.
After little more than a year, his boat had been attacked by evil men, and one had stuck a stone knife into little Gwenafra and thrown her into The River, where she had drowned. She had awakened the next day on the banks somewhere far up in the northern hemisphere. The weather was colder, the sun weaker, and the people there said that you did not have to go more than twenty thousand grailstones before you were in an area where the sun was always half above, half below the mountains. And there lived hairy, ape-faced men ten feet tall and weighing seven to eight hundred pounds.
(This was true, Joe Miller had been one of the titanthrops there.)
The people upRiver who adopted her spoke Suomenkieltä, which in English meant Finnish. DownRiver a little way were Swedes, twentieth-century people who lived a peaceful life. Gwenafra grew up relatively happy with her loving foster parents. She learned Finnish, Swedish, English, a Chinese dialect of the fourth century B.C., and Esperanto.
She drowned again by accident one day and woke up in this area. She still remembered Burton; she cherished a childhood crush she had had for him. But, being a realist, she was ready to love other men. And she had—and had just split with one, Sam had heard. She wanted a man who would be faithful to her, and these were not easy to find in this world.
Sam was very much attracted to her. The only thing that had kept him from asking her to move in with him had been the fear of angering Livy. That fear was ridiculous—she had no claim on him as long as she was living with Cyrano. And she had made it plain that she did not care what he did in his private life or his public life. Nevertheless, against all logic, he was afraid to take another woman as his hutmate. He did not want to snap the last thin link.
He chatted with Gwenafra awhile and confirmed that she was still unattached.
19
Lunch was upsetting. The “roulette wheel” concealed somewhere in the false bottom of the grail, the wild caster of dice, came up with a meal that only a Goshute Indian could have swallowed and even he might have gagged a little. Sam threw out all the food but was able to console himself with two cigars, cigarettes, and six ounces of an unfamiliar but delicious liqueur. Just smelling it sent his taste buds into a dance.
The meeting with John and the Council took three hours. After much wrangling and a number of votes, it was decided to put to the people the question of amending the Carta so that a pro tem Councilman could be elected. John held up things for an hour, arguing that a vote wasn’t needed. Why couldn’t the Council simply say that the amendment was passed and that would be the end of it? No amount of explaining ever seemed to clarify such matters in John’s head. It was not that he was unintelligent. It was just that he was not emotionally able to comprehend democracy.
The vote was unanimous to accept Firebrass as Hacking’s official visiting fireman. But he would have a close eye kept on him.
After all this John rose and made a speech, occasionally lapsing from Esperanto into Norman French when he was overpowered by emotion. He thought that Parolando should invade Soul City before Soul City invaded Parolando. The invasion should be launched as soon as the handguns and the armored amphibian, Firedragon I, were ready. However, it might be best to test the mettle of their iron and the troops on New Brittany first. His spies were certain that Arthur planned to attack them soon.
John’s two toadies backed him, but the others, including Sam, voted them down. John’s face became red, and he swore and beat his fists on the oak table, but nobody decided to change his mind.
After supper the drums relayed a message from Hacking. Firebrass would be arriving tomorrow, sometime before noon.
Sam retired to his office. By the light of lamps burning fish oil—soon they would have electricity—he and van Boom and Tanya Velitsky and John Wesley O’Brien, the engineers, discussed their ideas about the Riverboat and drew rough sketches on paper. Paper was still scarce, but they would need enormous amounts for their blueprints. Van Boom said that they should wait until they were able to make a certain kind of plastic. Lines could be drawn on this with magnetized “pens” and corrections could easily be made by demagnetizing. Sam replied that that was fine. But he wanted to start building the Riverboat the moment the amphibian was completed. Van Boom said that he could not agree to that. Too many things were in the way.
Before the meeting broke up van Boom pulled a Mark I gun out of a large bag. “We have ten of these now,” he said. “This one is yours, compliments of Parolando’s Engineering Corps. And here are twenty packages of powder and twenty plastic bullets. You can sleep with them under your pillow.”
Sam thanked him, the engineers left, and Sam barred the door. Then he went into the back room to talk to Joe Miller awhile. Joe was still awake, but he said he was taking no sedation that night. He would be getting up in the morning. Sam bade the giant good-night and went into his bedroom, next to the pilothouse. He drank two shots of bourbon and lay down. After a while he managed to doze, though he was afraid that the three o’clock rain would wake him as usual and he would have trouble getting back to sleep.
HE awoke, but the rain was long past. Shouts came from somewhere and then an explosion that rattled the pilothouse. Sam leaped out of bed, wrapped a kilt around his waist, seized an ax, and ran into the pilothouse. He suddenly remembered his pistol, but he decided he would go back for it when he found out what was going on.
The River was still smothered in fog, but hundreds of dark figures were spilling out of it, and the tops of tall masts were sticking out above it. Torches were flaring all over the plains and in the hills. Drums were beating.
There was another explosion. A brightness in the night with bodies flying in all directions.
He looked through the starboard port. The gates of the log wall around King John’s palace were open, and men were streaming out. Among them was the stocky figure of John.
By then more men had appeared out of the mists over The River. Bright starlight showed them lining up and moving out, rank after rank. The first of the invaders were by now in the great factories and advancing swiftly across the plain toward the foothills. Some explosions occurred inside factories as bombs were thrown to dislodge the defenders. And then a red tail flared out, disappeared, and something black shot toward him. Sam threw himself to the floor. A roar came beneath him, the floor heaved, and the glass ports blew in. A whiff of acrid smoke came to him and was gone.
He should get up and run, but he couldn’t. He was deafened and frozen. Another rocket would be coming his way, and that one might be closer.
A giant hand gripped his shoulder and pulled him up. Another hand slid under his legs and he was being carried out. The arms and the chest of the giant were very hairy and as hard-muscled and as warm as a gorilla’s. A voice as deep as if it were at the end of a railroad tunnel rumbled, “Take it eathy, Bothth.”
“Put me down, Joe,” Sam said. “I’m all right, except for my shame. And that’s all right, too, I ought to feel ashamed.”
His shock was fading, and a sense of relative calm flowed in to fill the vacuum. The appearance of the massive titanthrop had steadied him. Good old Joe—he might be a dumb subhuman and sick at the moment, but he was still worth a battalion.
Joe had put on his suit of leather armor. In one hand was the haft of an enormous double-headed ax of steel.
“Who are they?” he rumbled. “They from Thoul Thity?”
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “Do you feel up to fighting? How’s the head?”
“It hurtth. Yeah, I can fight okay. Vhere do ve go from here?”
Sam led him downhill toward the men collecting around John. He heard his name called and turned to see the tall lanky figure of de Bergerac, Livy by his side. She carried a small round shield of leather-covered oak and a steel-tipped spear. Cyrano held a long, dully shining blade. Sam’s eyes widened. It was a rapier.
Cyrano said, “Morbleu!” He switched to Esperan
to. “Your smith gave this to me just after supper—he said there was no sense in waiting.”
Cyrano whipped the rapier, cutting the air with a sharp sound.
“I’ve come alive again. Steel—sharp steel!”
A nearby explosion made them all dive for the ground. Sam waited until he was sure that another rocket was not coming and then looked at his pilothouse. It had received a direct hit; its front was blown open; a fire was racing through it and would soon be in the texas. His diary was gone, but he could retrieve his grail later. It was indestructible.
In the next few minutes the wooden missiles, tails flaming, arched out, wobbling, from wooden bazookas held on the shoulders of the Parolandoj rocketeers. The missiles landed near and sometimes among the enemy and exploded with gouts of fire and much black smoke, quickly carried away by the wind.
Three runners reported. The attack had been launched from three places, all from The River. The main body was concentrated here, apparently to seize the Parolandoj leaders, the larger factories and amphibian. The other two armies were about a mile away on each side. The invaders were composed of men from New Brittany and Kleomenujo and the Ulmaks from across The River. The Ulmaks were savages who had lived in Siberia circa 30,000 B.C. and whose descendants had migrated across the Bering Straits to become Amerindians.
So much for King John’s spy service, Sam thought. Unless—unless he is in on the attack. But if he were he wouldn’t be standing out here where he’s likely to get killed any moment…
Anyway, Arthur of New Brittany would never make a deal with the uncle who had murdered him.
The rockets continued to arc down from both sides, the five-pound warheads with their rock-fragment shrapnel taking a toll. The Parolandoj had the advantage; they could lie flat while their rockets exploded among upright targets. The invaders had to keep moving, otherwise they might just as well go home.
Nevertheless, it was frightening to lie on the ground and wait for the next noisy blast and hope that it would not come closer than the last one. There were screams from the wounded that were not, however, as heartrending as they would have been if Sam had not been so deafened that he could barely hear them and if he also had not been too worried about himself to think of others. Then, suddenly, the rockets had quit blowing up the world. A huge hand shook Sam’s shoulder. He looked up to see that many around him were getting to their feet. The sergeants were yelling into the stunned ears of their men to form a battle array. The enemy was so close now that neither side was using the missiles or else they had all been launched.
To Your Scattered Bodies Go/The Fabulous Riverboat Page 36
