A massively built Negro leaped over the body with his ax raised in both hands and Cyrano, withdrawing the blade from the first man before he hit the ground, ran the axman through the adam’s apple.
Then the enemy retreated down the hill again. But now they waited while the big dark-gray amphibian, like a Merrimac on wheels, huffed toward them. Lothar von Richthofen pushed against Sam, who stepped aside when he saw the aluminum-alloy tube and the rocket with its ten-pound warhead. A man knelt while Lothar loaded the rocket into the bazooka and then aimed it. Lothar was very good at this, and the rocket sailed down, its fiery arc ending against the front of the amphibian, its bull’s eye the single beam of light in its nose. Smoke covered it, and then the wind carried that away. The amphibian had stopped, but it came on now, its turrets turning and the steam guns lifting.
“Well, that was the last one,” Lothar said. “We might as well get the hell out of here. We can’t fight that. Who should know better than we, heh?”
The enemy was re-forming behind the armored vehicle. Many of them were uttering the ululating cries which the Ulmaks, the pre-Amerindians across The River, made during charges. Apparently, Hacking had enlisted those Ulmaks not yet conquered by Iyeyasu.
Suddenly, Sam could not see as well. Only the fires from the burning houses and from the open hearths and smelters, which were still operating, enabled him to see anything at all. The rain clouds had come as swiftly as they always did, like wolves chasing the stars, and within a few minutes it would rain savagely.
He looked around him. Every attack had thinned them out. He doubted that they could have withstood the next one, even if the amphibian had not come.
There was still fighting going on to the north and the south on the plains and the hills along the plains. But the shooting and the cries had lessened.
The plains seemed to be darker than ever with the enemy.
He wondered if Publiujo and Tifonujo had joined the invasion.
He took a last look at the giant hull of the Riverboat with its two paddle wheels, half hidden beneath the scaffolding and behind the colossal cranes. Then he turned. He felt like weeping, but he was too numbed. It would be some time before the tears would come.
It was more likely that his blood would run out before then, after which there would be no tears. Not in this body, anyway.
Guided by the fires of a dozen scattered huts, he stumbled down the other side. Then the rains smashed down. And, at the same time, a tentacle of the enemy ran toward them from the left. Sam turned and pulled the trigger of his flintlock, and the rain, of course, drowned out the spark. But the enemy’s pistols were also rendered useless, except as clubs.
They came at the Parolandanoj with their swords and spears and axes. Joe Miller lunged forward, growling with a voice as deep as a cave bear’s. Though wounded, he was still a formidable and terrifying fighter. By the flashes of lightning and the rumbling of thunder, his ax cut them down. The others jumped in to help him, and in a few seconds the Soul Citizen survivors decided they had had enough. They would run off and wait for reinforcements. Why get killed now when victory was theirs?
Sam climbed two more hills. The enemy attacked from the right. A wing had broken through and raced on ahead to cut down the men and take the women captive. Joe Miller and Cyrano met them, and the attackers ran away, slipping and sliding through the wet roots of the cutaway grass.
Sam counted the survivors. He was shaken. There were about fifteen. Where had they all gone? He would have sworn that at least a hundred had been with him when he ordered them to cut and run for it.
Livy was still close behind Cyrano. Since the guns were no good now, she kept at Cyrano’s back and helped him with a spear thrust when she could.
Sam was cold and wet. And he was as miserable as Napoleon must have been on the retreat from Russia. All, all gone! His proud little nation and its nickel-iron mines and its factories and its invulnerable amphibians with their steam guns and its two airplanes and the fabulous Riverboat! All gone! The technological triumphs and marvels and the Magna Carta with the most democratic constitution any country had ever known and the goal of the greatest journey ever to be made! All gone!
And how? Through treachery, base treachery!
At least, King John had not been part of the betrayal. His palace had been demolished and he along with it, in all probability. The Great Betrayer had been betrayed.
Sam quit grieving then. He was still too frozen with the terror of battle to think much about anything except survival. When they got to the base of the mountains, he led them north along it until they were opposite the dam. A lake about a quarter of a mile long and a half mile wide was before them. They cut down along it, coming after a while to a thick concrete wall across the top of which they walked. Then they were on top of the dam itself.
Sam walked back and forth a few paces until he found a sunken symbol, a diagonal cross, in the concrete. He called, “Here it is! Now, if only nobody squeals on us or some spy hasn’t found out about it!”
He let himself down into the cold water while the lightning streaked and the thunder bellowed far away. He shivered but he kept on going down, and when the water was up to his armpits his foot struck the first rung. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and sank down, his hand running along the concrete until it encountered the first rung. After that he pulled himself down by other rungs and at the sixth knew that the entrance was a few inches below it. He went under it and then up, and his head popped up into air and light. A platform a few inches higher than the water was in front of him. Overhead was a dome the highest point of which was ten feet. Beyond the platform was an entrance. Six big electric lightbulbs lit the chamber harshly.
Shivering, gasping, he climbed onto the platform and went to the entranceway. Joe followed him a moment later. He called weakly, and Sam had to turn back and help him crawl onto the platform. He was bleeding from a dozen places.
The others came after him, one by one. They helped him get the titanthrop through the entrance and down an incline into a large chamber. There were beds, towels, food, liquor, weapons, and medicine. Sam had prepared this place for just such an emergency, but he had thought he was being foolishly cautious. Only the heads of the state and the few workers who had built this place knew about it.
Another entrance, at the bottom of the dam, was hidden beneath the flow which powered the wheels connected to the generators. This led to a shaft up which a man could climb only to come to a seemingly blank wall. But the man who knew how could open that wall.
The whole project was, he knew, a product of the romantic foolishness of which he had not entirely rid himself. The idea of secret doors under a waterfall and under the lake and of hidden apartments where he could rest and plan his revenge while his enemies hunted in vain for him was irresistible. He had laughed at himself at times for having built the refuge. Now he was glad. Romanticism did have its uses.
Also hidden was a detonator. To set off the tons of dynamite inside the base of the dam he had only to connect two wires, and the dam would go up and the water of the lake would roar out and carry the central part of Parolando out into The River.
Sam Clemens and his Riverboat would also be destroyed, but that was the price to be paid.
The wounded were treated and put under the sedation of dreamgum or liquor. Sometimes, chewing the gum deadened the pain and other times it seemed to increase it. The only way to neutralize the pain-expanding effects then was to pour liquor down the patient.
They ate and slept while the guard watched at both entrances. Joe Miller was half unconscious most of the time, and Sam sat beside him and nursed him as best he could. Cyrano came back from his vigil at the door under the waterfall to report that it was night again outside. That was all he knew about the conditions outside. He had seen or heard no one through the waterfall.
Lothar and Sam were the least wounded. Sam decided that they should sneak out past the waterfall exit and spy. Cyrano protested that he shou
ld go, too, but Sam refused. Livy did not say anything, but she looked gratefully at Sam. He turned away; he did not want any thanks for sparing her mate.
He wondered if Gwenafra were dead or if she had been captured. Lothar said that she had disappeared during the last attack and that he had tried to get to her but had been driven back. He now felt ashamed of himself for not having done more, even though it had not been possible.
The two applied a dark stain all over their bodies and then went down the steel rungs of the shaft. The walls were damp here, and the rungs were slippery with moisture. Electric lights illuminated the shaft.
They went out behind the waterfall, which roared and splashed at them. The ledge curved around, following the lower half of the dam, until it ran out about twenty yards from the end. Here they climbed down steel rungs to the junction of the dam wall and the earth. From there, they walked cautiously along the channel which had been cut out of the earth. The roots of the grass still stuck out of the walls of the channel. The roots went deeper than any cuts made so far; it seemed impossible to kill the grass.
The sky was bright with the jampack of huge stars and the extensive glowing gas clouds. They were able to proceed swiftly in the pale darkness. After a half a mile, they went at right angles to the canal, heading toward John’s ruined palace. Crouching in the shadows beneath the outflung branches of an irontree, they looked down on the plains below. There were men and women in the huts around them. The men were the victors, and the women were the victims. Sam quivered when he heard the screams and the calls for help, but he tried to push them out of his mind. To rush into any hut and try to rescue one woman was to throw away their chances of doing any good for Parolando. And it would certainly result in their being captured or killed.
Yet, if he heard Gwenafra’s voice, he knew that he would go to her rescue. Or would he?
The fires in the open hearths and the smelters were still blazing, and men and women were working in them. Evidently, Hacking had already put his slaves to work. Many guards stood around the buildings, but they were drinking liquor and ethyl alcohol.
The plains were well lit for as far as he could see with huge bonfires. Around them were many men and women, drinking and laughing. Occasionally a struggling and screaming woman was carried off into the shadows. Sometimes, she was not taken away.
Sam and Lothar walked down the hill as if they owned it, but they did not go near the buildings or the fires.
Nobody had challenged them, though they had come within twenty yards of a number of patrols. Most of the enemy seemed to be celebrating the victory with purple passion or any other liquor they had been able to get from the supplies of their prisoners. The exceptions were the Wahhabi Arabs, whose religion forbade drinking alcohol. And there were a few blacks who were not on duty but who were abstemious. These were disciples of Hacking, who did not drink.
Whatever the laxity now, discipline had been maintained during the day. The corpses had been taken away, and a big stockade of poles removed from other buildings had been set up on the plain just beside the first of the hills. Though Sam could not see within it, he surmised from the guard towers around it that prisoners were within it.
The two strolled along, staggering now and then as if they were drunk. They passed within twenty feet of three short dark men who spoke a strange language. Sam could not identify it, though it sounded “African.” He wondered if these were not eighteenth-century Dahomeans.
They walked boldly between a nitric acid factory and an excrement-treatment building and out onto the plain. And they stopped. Twenty yards ahead, Firebrass was in a bamboo cage so narrow that he could not sit down in it. His hands were tied behind him.
On a big X-frame of wood, upside down, his legs tied to the upper parts of the X and his arms to the lower members, was Göring.
Sam looked around. A number of men, talking and drinking, stood in the big doorway of the excrement plant. Sam decided not to go any closer or to try to talk to Firebrass. He longed to know why he was in the cage, but he did not dare to ask him. It was necessary to find out all he could and then get back to the hideout inside the dam. So far, the situation looked hopeless. It was best to sneak out during the rains and leave the country. He could blow up the dam and wash out everything, including the forces of Soul City, but he did not want to lose the boat. As long as he had a chance to get that back, he would let the dam alone.
They went on by Firebrass’ cage, hoping he would not see them and call to them. But he stood bent over, leaning his head against the bamboo bars. Göring groaned once. They kept on going and soon were around the corner of the building.
Their slow and seemingly drunken wanderings took them near a big building that had been occupied by Fred Rolfe, King John’s supporter on the Council. The number of armed men on guard around it convinced Sam that Hacking was inside it.
It was a one-story house of lodgepole-pine logs and bamboo. Its windows were unblinded, and the light from within showed people inside. Suddenly, Lothar gripped Sam’s arm and said, “There she is! Gwenafra!”
The torchlight shone on her long honey-colored hair and very white skin. She was standing by the window and talking to someone. After a minute, she moved away, and the bushy hair and black face of Elwood Hacking moved across the bright square. Sam felt sick. Hacking had taken her for his woman for the night.
Gwenafra had not looked frightened. She had seemed relaxed, but Gwenafra, though volatile and uninhibited most of the time, could be self-restrained when the occasion demanded.
He pulled Lothar away.
“There’s nothing we can do now, and you’d be throwing away any chance she might have at all.”
They drifted around for a while, observing the other factories and noting that the bonfires stretched both ways along the walls as far as their eye could detect. In addition to the Soul Citizens, there were the Ulmaks and a number of Orientals. Sam wondered if these could be the Burmese, Thai, and Ceylonese New Stone Age peoples living across The River from Selinujo.
To get out of Parolando, they would have to go over the wall. And they would have to steal several small boats if they were to get down The River to Selinujo. They had no idea about what had happened to Publiujo or Tifonujo, but they suspected that these countries would be next on Hacking’s list. To escape just to the north to Chernsky’s Land was foolish. Iyeyasu would be moving on that as soon as he found out about the invasion here, if he had not already done that.
It was ironic that they would flee to the very country the citizens of which had been forbidden entrance to Parolando.
They decided they would return to the dam now, tell what they had seen, and make plans. The best chance to get away would be when it rained.
They rose and started to walk about, skirting the huts which housed the enemy and the captive women.
They had just passed into the shade of a gigantic irontree when Sam felt something tighten around his neck from behind. He tried to yell, to turn around, to struggle, but the big hand squeezed, and he became unconscious.
26
He awoke gasping and coughing, still under the irontree. He started to get up, but a deep voice growled, “None o’ that! Sit still, or I’ll split yer skull with this ax!”
Sam looked around, Lothar, his hands tied behind him and a gag in his mouth, was sitting propped up under a half-grown fir tree sixty feet away. The man who had spoken was a very big man with excessively broad shoulders, a deep chest, and brawny arms. He wore a black kilt and black cape, and he held the handle of a medium-sized ax. Sheaths at his belt held a steel tomahawk and a steel knife, and a Mark I pistol was stuck in his belt.
He said, “You be Sam Clemens?”
“That’s right,” Sam said, his voice low, also. “What does this mean? Who are you?”
The big man jerked a head full of thick hair at Lothar. “I moved him away so he couldn’t hear what we have to say. A man we both know sent me.”
Sam was silent for a minute and then h
e said, “The Mysterious Stranger?”
The big man grunted. “Yes. That’s what he said you called him. Stranger’s good enough. I guess you know what it’s all about, so there’s not much use us jawing too long about it. You satisfied that I’ve talked with him?”
“I’d have to be,” Sam said. “It’s obvious that you’ve met him. You’re one of the Twelve he’s picked. It was a he, wasn’t it?”
“I didn’t jump him to find out,” the man said. “I tell you, this child ain’t ever run up against a human, red, black, or white, that ever threw a scare-fit into me. But that Stranger, he’s the one that’d make a grizzly scoot just by looking at him. Not that I’m afraid of him, you understand, it’s just that he makes me feel…strange. Like I was a feather-plucked bluejay.
“Enough of that. My handle’s Johnston. Might as well give you my history, since it’ll save a lot of jawing later. John Johnston. I was born in New Jersey about 1827, I reckon, and died in Los Angeles in the veterans’ hospital in 1900. Between times, I was a trapper in the Rocky Mountains. Up to when I came to this River, I killed me hundreds of Injuns, but I ain’t never had to kill a white man, not even a Frenchman. Not till I got here. Since then, well, I collected quite a few white scalps.”
The man stood up and moved out into the starlight. His hair was dark but looked as if it would be a bright red in the noonday sun.
“I talk a hell of a lot more’n I used to,” he said. “You can’t get away from people in this valley. People give a child bad habits.”
They went over to Lothar. On the way, Sam said, “How’d you happen to get here? And at this time?”
“The Stranger told me where to find you, told me about you and your big boat, the Misty Tower and all that. Why hash it all over? You know. I agreed to find you and go with you on your boat. Why not? I don’t like being set down here. There ain’t no elbow room; you can’t turn around without knocking noses. I was about thirty thousand miles upRiver when I wake up one night, and there’s that man sitting in the shadows. We had a long talk with him doing most of it. Then I got up and set out. I heard about some of what was going on here way up The River. I snuck into here while the fighting was still going on, and I been looking for you ever since. I listened to them blacks talking; they said they couldn’t find your body. So I been skulking around, seeing what I could see. Once, I had to kill me one a those Ayrabs cause he stumbled across me. I was hungry, anyway.”
To Your Scattered Bodies Go/The Fabulous Riverboat Page 45
