R.W. III - The Dark Design

by Philip José Farmer

  Arduino relates that he perished of the cold after the Italia fell for the second and last time on the ice. His complete account of this horrendous experience will be printed in next Thursday's issue. After this blood-chilling event, no reasonable person could expect Ettore to volunteer again for airship travel. But he is undaunted by this and expresses eagerness for another polar expedition. We don't care what people say about Italians, and we have nothing but contempt for the attitude prevalent in Tombstone, where it was stated as a fact that all wops were yellow. We personally know that they have more guts than brains, and we are sure that Ettore will be a shining adornment to the crew.

  . . . last seen paddling desperately toward the middle of The River while Mr. Arduino fired shots at him with the new Mark IV pistol. Either this weapon is not what it's cracked up to be, or Mr. Arduino's marksmanship was below normal that day.

  . . . your new editor accepts the suggestion of President Firebrass that this journal temper the privilege of free speech with discretion.

  . . . Mr. Arduino was released after promising that he would no longer settle grievances, justified or unjustified, by violent means. The newly created Board of Civil Disputes will handle such matters from now on with President Firebrass as the court of last appeal. Though we will miss S.C. Bagg, we must confess that . . .

  . . . Metzing had been chief of the Naval Airship Division of Imperial Germany in 1913. He was Korvettenkapitan of the Zeppelin L-l when it went down on September 9, 1913, during maneuvers. This was the first naval Zeppelin to be lost. The crash was not due to any deficiency on the part of crew or vessel but to the ignorance at that time of meteorological conditions in the upper air. In other words, weather forecasting was then a primitive science. A violent line squall lifted the L-1 up past her pressure height and then dashed her down. With propellers still spinning and ballast ejecting, the ship smashed into the sea off Heligoland. Metzing died with most of his crew . . . We welcome this experienced officer and likable gentleman to Parolando but hope he brings no bad luck with him.

  . . . Flash! Just arrived! Another airship veteran, Anna Karlovna Obrenova from up-River some 40,000 kilometers. In the brief interview allowed before Ms. Obrenova was taken to President Firebrass' HQ, we learned that she had been captain of the USSR freighter-dirigible Lermontov, logging 8584 hours of flight time in this and other airships. This exceeds Ms. Gulbirra's 8342 hours and Mr. Thorn's 8452 hours. A complete account of Obrenova should be in tomorrow's issue. All we can say at the moment is that she is a peach, a real pipperoo!

  Chapter 37

  * * *

  It was funny, though not laughing-funny.

  She had been worried that a man with more airtime than herself would show up. One had, but he had not been aggressive. His only ambition was to be on the ship, and he did not seem to care what rank he got.

  Somehow, she had never thought of being displaced by a woman. There were so few female airship officers in her time. And so few people who had lived past 1983 had come by – only one, in fact – that she had not worried about dirigibilists of that era. From what Firebrass said, post-1983 had been the great age of the large rigid airships. But the odds against aeronauts of that era showing were high.

  Chance had thrown its dice, and so here was Obrenova, a woman who had 860 hours flight time as captain of a giant Soviet airship.

  So far, the officers' positions had not been announced. No matter. Jill knew that the little blonde newcomer would be first mate. Realistically, she should be. If Jill were in Firebrass' place, she would have had to appoint Obrenova as first mate.

  On the other hand, there were only two months left before the Parseval took off for the polar voyage. The Russian might need more retraining than that. After thirty-four years of ground life, she would be rusty. She would have a month reacquainting herself with gasbags in the Minerva. Then she would have a month of training in the big ship with everybody else.

  Could she do it? Of course, she could. Jill would have been able to do it in that time.

  She had been in the conference, room with the officer candidates when Anna Obrenova was brought in by Agatha. On seeing her, Jill's heart had seemed to turn over like a sluggish motor. Before she heard Agatha's excited announcement of the newcomer's identity, she had known what it would be.

  Anna Obrenova was short and slim but long legged and full breasted. She had long, shining yellow hair and large, dark blue eyes, a heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, a cupid's bow mouth, and a deep tan. She was, to quote another newspaper article, a "beaut."

  Disgustingly delicate and feminine. Unfairly so. Just the type that men simultaneously wanted to protect and to bed.

  Firebrass was on his feet, advancing toward her, his face aglow, his eyes seeming to drip male hormones.

  But it was Thorn's reaction that surprised Jill. On seeing Obrenova enter, he had jumped to his feet and opened his mouth, closed it, opened it, then closed it again. His ruddy skin was pale.

  "Do you know her?" Jill said softly.

  He sat down and covered his face with his hands for a moment.

  When he took them away, he said, "No! For a second I thought I did! She looks so much like my first wife! I still can't believe it."

  Thorn remained shaking in his chair while others crowded around Obrenova. Not until the others had been introduced did he get up and shake her hand. He told her then how remarkably she resembled his wife. She smiled – "dazzlingly" was a cliché, but it was the only adverb appropriate – and she said, in heavily accented English, "Did you love your wife?"

  That was a strange thing to say. Thorn stepped back a pace and said, "Yes, very much. But she left me."

  " I am sorry,'' Obrenova said, and they did not exchange another word while in the room.

  Firebrass sat her down and offered her food, cigarettes, and liquor. She accepted the former but declined the rest.

  "Does that mean you have no vices?" Firebrass said. "I was hoping you'd have at least one."

  Obrenova ignored this. Firebrass shrugged and began questioning her. Jill got depressed while listening to the account of her experience. She had been born in Smolensk in 1970, had been educated as an aeronautical engineer, and in 1984 had become an airship trainee. In 2001 she had been made captain of the passenger freighter Lermontov.

  Finally, Firebrass said that she must be tired. She should go with Agatha, who'd find quarters for her.

  "Preferably in this building," he said.

  Agatha replied that no rooms were available. She would have to be satisfied with a hut near those of Ms. Gulbirra and Mr. Thorn.

  Firebrass, looking disappointed, said, "Well, maybe we can find a place here for her later. Meantime, I'll go with you, Anna, and make sure you're not given a dump."

  Jill felt even lower. How could she expect objectivity from him, when he was so obviously smitten by the Russian?

  For a while, she indulged in some fantasies. How about abducting the little Russian and tying her up in a hidden place just before the Parseval was to take off? Firebrass would not hold up the flight until she was found. Jill Gulbirra would then become first mate.

  If she could do that to Obrenova, why not to Firebrass? Then she would be the captain.

  The images evoked were pleasing, but she could not do that to anyone, no matter how strongly she felt. To violate their human rights and dignities would be to violate, to destroy herself.

  During the week that followed she sometimes beat her fists on the table or wept. Or both. The next week she told herself that she was being immature. Accept what was unavoidable and enjoy what was left. Was it so important that she should finally be captain of an airship?

  To her, yes. To anyone else in the world, no.

  So she swallowed her resentment and disgust.

  Piscator must have known how she felt. Frequently, she caught him looking at her. He would smile or else just look away. But he knew, he knew!

  Six months passed. Firebrass gave up trying to get Obrenov
a to move into his apartment. He made no secret of his desire nor did he hide the fact that she had finally rejected him.

  ''You win some, you lose some," he said to Jill with a wry smile. "Maybe she doesn't go for men. I know a score or more who've been panting for her, and she's as cool to them as if she were the Venus de Milo."

  "I'm sure she isn't a lesbian," Jill said.

  "Takes one to know one, heh? Haw, haw!"

  "Damn it, you know I'm ambivalent," she said angrily, and she walked away.

  "Indecisive is the right word!" he had shouted after her.

  At that time Jill was living with Abel Park, a tall, muscular, handsome, and intelligent man. He was a Rivertad, one of the many millions of children who had died on Earth after the age of five. Abel did not remember what country he had been born in or what his native language had been. Though resurrected in an area the majority of whom were medieval Hindus, he had been adopted and raised by a Scots couple. These were eighteenth-century Lowlanders of peasant origin. Despite his poverty, the foster father had managed to become a medical doctor in Edinburgh.

  Abel had left his area after his parents had been killed and had wandered down-River until he came to Parolando. Jill had liked him very much and had asked him to be her hutmate. The big fellow had gladly moved in, and they had had some idyllic months. But, though he was intelligent, he was ignorant. Jill taught him everything she could; history, philosophy, poetry, and even some arithmetic. He was eager to learn, but eventually he accused her of patronizing him.

  Shocked, Jill had denied this.

  "I just want to educate you, to give you knowledge denied you because you died so early."

  "Yes, but you get so impatient. You keep forgetting that I don't have your background. Things which seem simple to you, because you were raised among them, are bewildering to me. I don't have your referents."

  He had paused, then said, "You're a knowledge-chauvinist. In short, a . . . what's the word? . . . a snob."

  Jill was even more shocked. She denied this, too, though reflection showed her that he was perhaps right. By then it was too late to make reparations. He had left her for another woman.

  She consoled herself by telling herself that he was too used to the idea of the man being the boss. He found it difficult to accept her as an equal.

  Later, she realized that that was only partly true. Actually, she had, deep down, contempt for him because he was not, and never would be, her mental equal. That had been an unconscious attitude, and now that she was aware of it, she regretted having it. In fact, she felt ashamed of it.

  After that, she made no effort to have anything but the most impermanent liaisons. Her partners were men and women who, like her, wanted only sexual satisfaction. Usually, she and they got it, but she always felt frustrated afterward. She needed a genuine affection and companionship.

  Obrenova and Thorn, she observed, must be doing the same thing as she. At least, no one moved into their huts. For that matter, though, she never observed them taking any interest in anybody which could be interpreted as sexual. As far as she knew, they were not even having one-night stands.

  Thorn did, however, seem to like Obrenova's company. Jill often saw them talking earnestly together. Perhaps Thorn was trying to get her to be his lover. And perhaps the Russian refused because she thought she would only be a substitute for his first wife.

  Three days before the final liftoff, a holiday was declared. Jill left the plains area because it was so crowded and noisy with people from up and down The River. She estimated that there were already several hundred thousands camping in Parolando and that there would be over twice that number by the time the Parseval left. She retired to her hut, leaving it only for a little fishing. The second day, as she was sitting on the edge of the little lake, looking emptily into the water, she heard someone approaching.

  Her irritation at the invasion died when she saw Piscator. He was carrying a fishing pole and a wickerwork basket. Silently, he sat down beside her and offered her a cigarette. She shook her head. For some time they stared at the surface, rippled by the wind, broken now and then by a leaping fish.

  Finally, he said, "It won't be long before I must reluctantly say goodbye to my disciples and to my piscatorial pursuits."

  "Is it worth it to you?"

  "You mean, giving up this pleasant life for an expedition that may end in death? I won't know until it happens, will I?"

  After another silence, he said, "How have you been? Any more experiences such as that night?"

  "No, I'm fine." "But you have been carrying a knife in your heart.''

  "What do you mean?" she said, turning her head to look at him. She hoped her puzzlement did not look as faked as it felt to her.

  ''I should have said three knives. The captaincy, the Russian, and most of all, yourself."

  "Yes, I have problems. Don't we all? Or are you an exception? Are you even human?"

  He smiled and said, "Very much so. More than most, I can say with seeming immodesty. Why is that? Because I have realized my human potentiality almost to its fullest. I can't expect you to credit that. Nor will you, unless, some day . . . but that day may never come.

  "However, regarding your question of my humanity, I have sometimes wondered if some people we have met are human. I mean, do they belong to Homo sapiens?

  "Isn't it possible, even highly probable, that the Whoevers responsible for all this have agents among us? For what purpose, I don't know. But they could be catalysts to cause some kind of action among us. By action, I do not mean physical action, such as the building of the Riverboats and airships, though that may be part of it. I refer to psychic action. To a, shall we say, channeling of humanity? Toward what? Perhaps toward a goal somewhat similar to that which the Church of the Second Chance postulates. A spiritual goal of refinement of the human spirit. Or perhaps, to use a Christian-Muslim metaphor, to separate the sheep from the goats."

  He paused and drew on his cigarette.

  "To continue the religious metaphor, there may be two forces at work here, one for evil, one for good. One is working against the fulfillment of that goal."

  "What?" she said. Then, "Do you have any evidence for that?"

  "No, only speculation. Don't get me wrong. I don't think that Shaitan, Lucifer if you will, is actually conducting a cold war against Allah, or God, whom we Sufis prefer to name The Real .But I sometimes wonder if there isn't a parallel to that in some sense . . . well, it is all speculation. If there are agents, then they look like human beings."

  "Do you know something I don't?"

  "I have 'probably observed certain things. You have, too, the difference being that you have not put them into a pattern. A rather dark pattern it is. Though it is possible that I am looking at the wrong side of the pattern. If it were turned over, the other side might be blazing with light."

  "I wish I knew what you were talking about. Would you mind letting me in on this . . . pattern?"

  He rose and tossed the cigarette stub into the lake. A fish rose, swallowed it, and splashed back.

  "There are all sorts of activity going on beneath that mirror of water," he said, pointing to the lake. "We can't see them because water is a different element from the air. The fish know what's going on down there, but that doesn't do us much good. All we can do is to lower our hooks into the darkness and hope we catch something.

  "I read a story once in which a fish sat down on the bottom of a deep, dark lake and extended his fishing pole into the air over the bank. And he caught men with his bait."

  "Is that all you're going to say about that?"

  He nodded, and said, "I presume you are coming to Firebrass' farewell party tonight."

  "It's a command invitation. But I hate going. It'll be a drunken brawl."

  "You don't have to soil yourself by joining the pigs in their swinishness. Be with but not of them. That will enable you to enjoy the thought of how superior you are to them."

  "You're an ass," she said. Th
en, quickly, "I'm sorry, Piscator. I'm the ass. You read me correctly, of course."

  "I think that Firebrass is going to announce tonight the ranking of the officers and pilots."

  She held her breath for a moment. "I think so, too, but I am not looking forward with pleasure to that."

  "You prize rank too highly. What is worse, you know it but will do nothing about it. In any event, I think you have an excellent chance."

  "I hope so."

  "Meanwhile, would you care to go out in the boat with me and participate in the angling?"

  "No, thanks."

  She rose stiffly and pulled in the line. The bait was gone off the hook.

  "I think I'll go home and brood a while."

  "Don't lay any eggs," he said, grinning.

  Jill snorted feebly and walked away. Before she reached her hut, she passed Thorn's. Loud, angry voices were issuing from it. Thorn's and Obrenova's.

  So, the two had finally gotten together. But they did not seem happy about it.

  Jill hesitated a moment, almost overcome with the desire to eavesdrop. Then she plunged on ahead, but she could not help hearing Thorn shout in a language unknown to her. So – it would have done her no good to listen in. But what was that language? It certainly did not sound like Russian to her.

  Obrenova, in a softer voice, but still loud enough for Jill to hear her, said something in the same language. Evidently, it was a request to lower his voice.

  Silence followed. Jill walked away swiftly, hoping they would not look outside and think she had been doing what she had almost done. Now she had something to think about. As far as she knew, Thorn could speak only English, French, German, and Esperanto. Of course, he could have picked up a score of languages during his wanderings along The River. Even the least proficient of linguists could not avoid doing that.

  Still, why would the two talk in anything but their native languages or in Esperanto? Did both know a language which they used while quarreling so that nobody would understand them?