To Your Scattered Bodies Go/The Fabulous Riverboat

by Philip José Farmer

  “You’re close enough,” Göring said. “Crudely put but satisfactory.”

  “So far,” Sam said, expelling a big cloud of green smoke, “we have—you have, not I—the postulated soul of the Christians and the Moslems and others ad nauseam. But you claim that the soul does not go to a hell or a heaven. It flits around in some sort of fourth-dimensional limbo. It would do so forever if it were not for the interference of other beings. These are extraterrestrials who came into existence long before humanity did. These superbeings came to Earth when mankind did not yet exist—in fact, they visited every planet in the universe that might have sentient life some day.”

  “You’re not phrasing it exactly as we do,” Göring said. “We maintain that every galaxy has one—or perhaps many—ancient species inhabiting certain planets. These beings may have arisen in our galaxy or they may have originated in an earlier, now dead, galaxy or universe. In any event, they are wise and knew long ago that sentient life would arise on Earth, and they set up devices which started recording these sentients from the moment they appeared. These devices are undetectable by the sentients.

  “At some time which these Ancients, as we call them, have determined, the recordings are sent to a special place. There the dead are fleshed out from the recordings by energy-matter converters, made whole and young again, and then recordings are made of these bodies—which are destroyed and the dead are raised on a new world, such as this, again through e-m conversion.

  “The psychomorphs, or kas, have an affinity to their protoplasmic twins. The moment a duplicate of the dead body is made, the ka attaches itself and begins recording. So that, if the body is killed and duplicated a hundred times, the ka still retains the identity, the mind, and the memories of all the bodies. So that it is not just one duplicate after another being created. It is a matter of preservation of the pristine individual with a recording of everything that ever occurred to the immediate environment of all the protoplasmic bodies of the ka.”

  “But!” Sam said, waving his cigar and then stabbing its glowing end close to Göring’s cheek. “But! You maintain that a man cannot be killed an indefinite number of times. You say that, after a couple of hundred times, death does have a final effect. Continued dying weakens the link between body and ka and eventually the duplication of the body does not cause the ka to merge with it. The ka wanders off, haunts the spooky corridors of the fourth dimension, or whatever. It becomes, in effect, a ghost, a lost soul. It is done for.”

  “That is the essence of our faith,” Göring said. “Or I should say our knowledge, since we know this to be true.”

  Sam raised his bushy eyebrows. “Indeed? Know?”

  “Yes. Our founder heard The Truth a year after Resurrection, a year to the day after all of humanity rose from the dead. A man came to him at night as he prayed for a revelation on a high ledge up in the mountains. This man told him certain things, showed him certain things, that no terrestrial mortal could tell or show. This man was an agent of The Ancients and he revealed The Truth, and he told our founder to go out and preach the doctrine of the Second Chance.

  “Actually, the term Second Chance is a misnomer. It is really our First Chance, because we never had a chance for salvation and eternal life while we were on Earth. But life on Earth was a necessary prelude to this Riverworld. The Creator made the universe and then The Ancients preserved humankind—indeed, all sentients throughout the universe. They preserved! But salvation is up to mankind only!

  “It is up to each man to save himself, now that he has been given the chance!”

  “Through the Church of the Second Chance and that only, I suppose,” Sam said. He did not want to sneer but he could not help himself.

  “That is what we believe,” Göring said.

  “WHAT were the credentials of this mysterious stranger?” Sam said. He thought of his Mysterious Stranger, and he felt panic. Could the two be the same? Or could both be from the same beings who called themselves the Ethicals? His Stranger, the man who sent the nickel-iron meteorite here and who had enabled Joe Miller to see the Tower in the far-off misty North Polar Sea, was a renegade of the Ethicals. If he were to be believed.

  “Credentials?” Göring said. “Papers from God?”

  He laughed.

  “The founder knew that his visitor could not be just a man because he knew things that only a god, or a superior being, could know about him. And he showed him some things that he had to believe. And he told him how we were brought back to life and why. He did not tell him everything. Some things will be revealed later. Some things we must find out for ourselves.”

  “What is the name of this founder?” Sam said. “Or don’t you know? Is that one of the hidden things?”

  “No one knows,” Göring said. “It is not necessary to know. What is a name? He only called himself Viro. That is, in Esperanto, a man. From the Latin vir. We call him La Fondinto, The Founder, or La Viro, The Man.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “No, but I have met two who knew him well. One was there when La Viro preached the first time, seven days after the Stranger had talked to him.”

  “La Viro is definitely male? Not a woman?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  Sam sighed deeply and said, “That’s a great weight off my mind. If the founder had turned out to be Mary Baker Eddy, I would have curled up and died.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind,” Sam said, grinning. “I wrote a book about her once. I wouldn’t want to meet her; she’d scalp me alive. But some of the wild mystical things you told me reminded me of her.”

  “Except for the ka, everything in our explanation is based on the physical. And the ka is physical, but at right angles, you might say, to our reality. We believe that it is science, the science of The Ancients, which has given us a physical resurrection. There’s nothing supernatural about anything, except our belief in The Creator, of course. The rest is all science.”

  “Like Mary Baker Eddy’s religion?” Sam asked.

  “I do not know of her.”

  “So how do we attain this salvation?”

  “By becoming love. And that implies, of course, that we do not offer violence, even in self-defense. We believe that we can become love only by attaining a certain transcendent state and that comes through self-knowledge. So far most of mankind has not learned how to use dreamgum; man has abused the drug, just as he abuses everything.”

  “And you think you have become love, whatever that phrase means?”

  “Not yet. But I am on the way.”

  “Through dreamgum?”

  “Not just with it. It helps. But you have to act, too, you have to preach and suffer for your belief. And learn not to hate. Learn to love.”

  “So that is why you oppose my Riverboat? You think that we are wasting our time by building it?”

  “It’s a goal that will bring no one any good. So far it has resulted in the devastation of the land, in greed and pain and bloodshed, in anxiety and treachery. In hate, hate, hate! And for what? So you can have what nobody else has, a giant boat of metal propelled by electricity, the apex of the technology this planet offers, a ship of fools. So you can journey to the headwaters of The River. When you get there, then what? You should be journeying to the headwaters of the soul!”

  “There are some things you don’t know,” Sam said. His smugness was soured by a vision. There was a devil, crouching in the darkness, whispering in his ear. But someone had crouched in the darkness and whispered in the ear of the founder of the Church, too. Was the Church’s Stranger the devil? The being who had come to Samuel Clemens had said that the others were the devils and he wanted to save mankind.

  The devil would say something like that, of course.

  “Don’t my words touch your heart at all?” Göring said.

  Sam rapped his chest with his fist and said, “Yes, I do believe I have a touch of indigestion.”

  Göring made a fist and clamped his lips.

&
nbsp; “Watch out, you’ll lose your love,” Sam said and walked away. But he did not feel particularly triumphant. It was a fact that he did have a little stomach upset. Invincible ignorance always upset him, even though he knew he should just laugh at it.

  21

  The afternoon of the next day arrived. Sam Clemens and John Lackland had been arguing all morning. Finally Sam, exasperated past caution and reasonableness, said, “We can’t afford to have the bauxite cut off by Hacking! We can’t afford anything that will put a stop to building the Riverboat! Maybe you’re doing this to force a war between us and Soul City! It isn’t going to work, Your Majesty!”

  Sam had been walking back and forth, waving a panatela as he spoke. John sprawled before the oaken round table in Sam’s pilothouse. Joe Miller sat in a corner on a big chair specially built for him. The massive paleolithic Mongolian, Zaksksromb, stood behind John.

  Suddenly, Sam whirled and planked both fists on the table. Leaning on the table, his cigar in one corner of his mouth, the reddish tangle of his eyebrows drawn down, he snarled at John.

  “You gave in once, at Runnymede, when you signed the Magna Carta. It was about the only decent thing you ever did during your reign—and there are some who say you had your fingers crossed then. Well, this is another showdown, John, Your Majesty. You apologize to Abdullah, who has a right to an apology—or I’ll call a special session of the Council and we’ll determine your fitness to continue as co-Consul!”

  John glowered at him for a full minute at the least. Then he said, “Your threats don’t scare me. But it’s evident that you would sooner plunge our land into civil war than go to war with Soul City. I do not understand this madness, but then a rational man always has trouble understanding irrationality. So I will apologize. Why not! A king can afford to be gracious to a commoner. It costs him nothing and enhances his graciousness.”

  John rose and swaggered out, his huge bodyguard behind him.

  Ten minutes later, Sam heard that John had appeared at the state guest house and offered his apology. Abdullah X accepted it, though sullenly. It was evident that he had been ordered to do so.

  Just before the factory whistles announced the end of lunch hour, Cawber entered. He sat down without waiting for Sam to invite him. Sam raised his eyebrows, because this was the first time that this had happened. There was something indefinable in Cawber’s attitude. Sam, watching him carefully, listening to every inflection of his voice, decided that his attitude was that of a slave who has decided to be a slave no more.

  CAWBER knew that he would be the emissary to Soul City. He sat leaning forward, huge black arms resting on the oak, his hands spread out. He spoke in Esperanto and, like many people, mostly in the present tense, using an adverb of time to indicate future or past if he wanted to clarify.

  Cawber’s team had talked to every one of the approximately three thousand undoubted Negroes (there was some confusion of classification about some of the prehistorics). A third of these were willing, though not eager, to go to Soul City in exchange for Hacking’s unwanted citizens. Most were late-twentieth-century blacks. The others maintained that they had work that gave them prestige, that they liked being on an equal footing with the whites, and that they did not want to give up their chance to be on the Riverboat.

  The latter was probably the biggest determinant, Sam thought. He was not the only one who dreamed of the Riverboat. It drove through the minds of many during sleep, gleaming like a jewel with a firefly trapped inside.

  Firebrass and his people were requested to come to the conference room. Firebrass was late because he had been inspecting the airplane. He was laughing about its quaintness, fragility, and slowness, and yet he was envious that von Richthofen would be the one to fly it.

  “You’ll certainly get a chance to fly it, too,” Sam said. “Provided that you are still here, of course, when—”

  Firebrass became serious. “What is your decision, gentlemen, regarding my government’s proposals?”

  Sam looked at John, who gestured that Sam had the floor. John intended that any possible ill feelings should first be directed at Sam.

  “This is a democracy,” Sam said. “And we can’t tell our citizens to get out unless they’ve been guilty of illegal behavior. So, as I see it—as we see it—any citizen of Parolando may go to Soul City if he wishes. I think we actually reached basic agreement on this when we last met. It will be up to your government to negotiate with each citizen. As for taking in your Arabs and Dravidians and so forth—we’ll give them a chance to come with us if they want to. But we reserve the right to get rid of them if they don’t work out. Where they’ll go then is up to them.”

  “Well,” Firebrass said, “I don’t suppose Hacking wants anybody who isn’t willing to live in Soul City, no matter how black that person is.”

  “What about the shipments of minerals?” Sam said. “Will those be discontinued during the negotiations?”

  “I really couldn’t say,” Firebrass replied. “I doubt it, but I’d have to confer with Hacking. Of course, you’ll have to keep up your present rate of ore and weapons to us before the price is raised.”

  “I notice you said is, not might be,” Sam said.

  “Anything I say is subject to confirmation or negation from Soul City,” Firebrass said, smiling.

  It was then agreed that Cawber would go to Soul City as Parolando’s ambassador if the Carta could be changed to arrange it. Everything else was still up in the air. Sam Clemens received the impression that Firebrass did not intend to speed things up. Quite the contrary. He was willing to let things drag on or even to put his own foot on the brake if things showed signs of accelerating. He wanted to remain in Parolando, and Sam could only think that he wished to do so in order to spy. Perhaps, he also wanted to stir up trouble.

  Later, he discussed the meeting with John. John agreed that Firebrass was a spy, but he could not see why Firebrass would stir up trouble.

  “He would want the boat to be built as swiftly as possible. The sooner it’s completed, the sooner Hacking will try to seize it. Do you think for one moment that Hacking doesn’t intend to get the boat? Do you think for one moment that we have a single neighbor who doesn’t intend to try for the boat? Arthur made the abortive attempt to take us over because of his hatred for me. He should have waited until the boat was nearly completed and then, with Kleomenes and the Ulmaks, launched all the force they could mount in an all-out attack. As things worked out, he and Kleomenes were killed and Iyeyasu has invaded their countries while their successors are fighting among themselves.”

  “According to our spies, he’s winning, too,” Sam said.

  “If he consolidates his state with the other two, then he’ll be a very formidable enemy.”

  And so will you be, John Lackland, Sam thought. Of all the people I’ll have to watch after the boat is built, you’ll bear the closest watching.…

  FIREBRASS announced that he and his delegation would remain as Soul City’s embassy while the negotiations went on.

  “It’s nice to have you,” Sam said. “But Soul City has its own industries. I know it’s been using our ore to make weapons and several things our spies can’t find out about.”

  Firebrass looked surprised and then he laughed uproariously. “You twist my stick, stymate!” he said in English. Then, in Esperanto, “Well, why shouldn’t we be frank? I like that. Yes, we know you have spies among us—just as you know we have ours here. Who doesn’t have his spies in his neighbors’ lands? But what are you getting at?”

  “You’re the most technically trained man Hacking has. You’re a Ph.D. You’re in charge of the factories and of research and development. So why does Hacking send you here when he needs you there?”

  “I’ve set everything up to run smoothly. Soul City doesn’t need me right now, and I was bored. I wanted to come here, where it’s at.”

  “So you can see what we’ve got, like our Mark I handguns and our airplane and the amphibian and its steam can
non?”

  Firebrass grinned and nodded. “Yes. Why not? If I don’t see these things, someone else will.”

  Sam relaxed. He said, “Have a cigar. You can look all you want. We’re not doing anything you wouldn’t have figured out for yourself, except for the steam cannon maybe. That, by the way, is my invention. Come along with me. I’m very proud of it and want you to see it. It’s almost finished.”

  Firedragon I rested inside its supporting framework of timbers. It was silvery gray and shaped like a flat-bottomed boat but had seven huge metal wheels with plastic tires on each side. Twin screws protected by a screen protruded from its rear. Its length was thirty feet, its beam was ten feet, and its height was twelve feet. Three turrets stuck out from the upper deck. One held the pilot, captain, and radio operator, though at the moment Parolando had no radios. The center turret was higher than the others, and the barrel of a short stubby weapon encased in wood projected from it. The rear turret was designed for gunners who would be armed with Mark I handguns and perhaps rifles.

  “The amphibian burns wood alcohol to generate steam,” Sam said. “Let’s go inside, through this hatch in the side here. You’ll notice that the boiler takes up about a third of the interior. There’s a good reason for that, as you’ll see.”

  They climbed up a ladder into the inside of the center turret, which was lit by a single lightbulb. Firebrass exclaimed at this. It was the only electric lightbulb he had ever seen on The River. Sam explained that it was powered by a fuel cell.

  “And here is the Super-duper Steam Machine Cannon,” he said. He pointed at the cylinder sticking out of the gray bulkhead of the turret. Underneath it were a pistollike butt and a trigger. Firebrass got behind it, put his finger on the trigger, and looked out through the opening above the barrel. He raised and lowered the weapon.