In normal operation, the missiles were fitted into the launching tubes, and an electrical charge ignited the fuse. There was no time mechanism to explode the warhead; this detonated on impact.
As Burton considered what to do with them, the illumination from the bank faded. The prow of the boat was swinging around. In a minute or so, it would be turned broadside to the current. So far, the boat had remained at about a mile from the bank. If it sank here, it would descend several thousand feet before it hit bottom. On the other hand, if it did not sink, its control systems could be repaired.
There was no chance that the crew of the Rex could take the boat over. They were too outnumbered. Most of John’s people had gone down with the Rex. They might be out there swimming in the dark lake now, but unless they could stay afloat for two or three miles, they would drown. It was only a mile in a straight line to the bank, but the current would make the swim at least two miles, and probably more.
At that moment, one of the enemy launches came around the prow of the boat. It moved under the starlight and firelight like a giant prehistoric turtle, its rounded back dark-silver. Its searchlight was a cyclopean eye probing the surface with its bright beam. It seemed to be looking for swimmers. But doubtless it would be picking up only its own. There wasn’t enough room in it for the enemy.
The light moved across the waters, then moved back and forth to illuminate a dozen or so heads scattered over an acre. The launch turned toward them.
Burton, watching it, said, “Everybody get rid of his helmet and cuirass. Anything that identifies you as from the Rex. ”
He proceeded to obey his own order, taking off and then throwing his armor into The River.
“We’ll try to pass ourselves off as Clemens’ men,” he said. “Even if we are challenged, we’ll have the advantage of surprise. They’ll be hesitant to fire on us until they know for sure we aren’t their own men. And if anybody stops us, I’ll tell them we’re a work party and we have orders to move the rockets away from the fire. That won’t fool anybody for long, but it will be long enough.”
He gave some more orders. They bent to the task of moving the rockets, four at a time, down to the stern of the boiler deck. Two men carried a missile while Burton led the way. He kept his eye out for the enemy and also for explosives. He needed these to detonate the rockets, which he hoped would blow a hole in the bottom of the boiler deck. The River would roar in, and that would be the end of the greatest example of Earth technology on The Riverworld. It was a pity. More than a pity. She was such an amazing beauty.
iv
Thorpe and his men had returned from the powder room and pitched in to help the others. All twenty of the big rockets had been placed in a storage compartment in the extreme aft of the boiler deck. Ten were placed side by side in the corner. Ingots of iron were stacked around the missiles, and then the last ten rockets were placed on top of the first ten. More ingots were put on top. When the explosion took place, the maximum effect would be directed through the hull. The thickness of this was unknown to Burton, but he supposed that it would not be more than two inches, if that. Beyond that was The River.
Cloths were brought in from another storage room and piled on top of the ingots. The whole heap was blanketed thickly except for a hole at the bottom. Here a trail of gunpowder had been laid from the opened nose of a missile between two ingots and out along the deck to the hatch.
Burton said, “Very well, men. It should be all set. Everybody out!”
He wiped the sweat from his face with a cloth. The airconditioning had failed, though the lights were still working. Carrying the rockets down the ladders and half the length of the boat, lifting and stacking heavy iron ingots, working under extreme pressure, afraid that at any moment they’d be discovered, had made them hot and sticky and very thirsty.
The men left the passageway. Burton checked everything again, then joined his troops.
“Get down to the end,” he said. “Thorpe, could you find a faucet somewhere near so we could all get a drink of water?”
Thorpe said, “Yes, sir,” and went down the corridor. Burton had a cigarette lighter which he had borrowed earlier from a marine. He knelt down by the trail of powder that led into the hatchway and into the corridor. He pressed on the button at the end of the cylinder. A thin wire slid out the other end; in a second it was glowing white-hot. He stuck the tip into the black line on the deck. Smoke shot out from almost invisible flames and traveled into the room. Burton got up quickly and slammed the hatch shut and locked it. He turned and ran down to join his men, who were around the corner. Before he got there, he was hurled to the deck. The wave of air that blew off the hatch had bounced off the bulkhead and sped howling down the passageway. Even so, most of the force of the explosion had been directed out through the hull. Burton was not hurt, though his ears did ring a little. He got up and looked back down the passageway. Through the smoke he could see the torn-off hatch leaning against the bulkhead at a forty-five degree angle. Cloths, torn or in shreds, were scattered about it. The end of an iron ingot stuck out from the hatch.
Then water poured out through the hatchway, lifted the cloths, and swirled them down toward him.
He estimated that the passageway would be filled with water from deck to overhead within three minutes. That is, it would if it had no place else to flow. It would be the business of his force to open all the hatches they could on the boiler deck.
The problem of slaking their thirst was solved. All they had to do was to drink from The River. But they could not take their time doing that. If they did, they’d drown.
From then on it was hurry, hurry, opening hatches and securing them so they would not shut again, while the water rose steadily, though slowly, to their ankles, to their calves, to their knees. By the time they had reached the entrances to the power room, they were in up to their waists.
“Isn’t this enough?” Thorpe called from the end of the passageway.
“No!” Burton shouted. “I want all the hatches to the power room open. And I want the hatches at the far end of this passageway open too!”
It was hard work with so much area to cover. The boat was enormous, and it would be impossible to open every hatch even on just the boiler deck.
There would be enough open, though.
v
Within the many-chambered vessel, little de Marbot and huge “Liver-Eating” Johnston followed the noise of battle. They found the conflict on several decks along the galleries surrounding the engine room. Johnston had picked up a waraxe dropped by a man from the Rex. The Frenchman was gripping the hilt of a cutlass in one hand and a long knife in the other, both taken from a dead man. They plunged into the fray, hewing and stabbing at the backs of their enemies. At least five fell before the attacked group were aware that they had foes both before and behind.
Johnston carried everybody before him, battering down cutlasses and axes, severing wrists and arms, chopping off heads. Then he slipped in blood he had caused an enemy to lose, and he fell heavily on his back.
Suddenly, a tall black man with an axe with a hornfish tip appeared from the strugglers. Grinning, he stabbed downward, but the tip was deflected by the redhead’s arm. The black snatched the axe back and brought it up and down. This time the edge of the blade came down. However, the press of bodies had confined the movements of the axe; the black just could not bring it up high enough. And so its downward force was slowed.
Johnston reached up with brawny arms covered with reddish hair. His great hands closed on the shaft just back of the axehead. There was a struggle, silent except for the hiss of their breaths. Then the white man’s feet kicked out, and the feet of the black went back and out. He fell face forward, but managed to keep his grip on the axe shaft. That did him no good, however, and so he quickly loosened it. His hand went to the handle of the knife in the sheath at his belt. A big hand clamped down on his wrist, and it was turned. Crying out, the black forgot about the knife and instead brought his free hand u
p to tear at the redhead’s eyes.
Umslopogaas did not know how the giant white man had done it. But he was lifted up and out, turned over, spewed as if from a waterfall or hurled as if from a catapult. His revolving body knocked down three men, and then the redhead was on his feet, and now he had the axe shaft in his hand.
Though dizzy and battered, Umslopogaas recovered quickly. He got to his feet, grabbing a cutlass as he came up. The redhead lifted the axe, not to bring the axehead edge down on him but to stab the hornfish tip into his chest. Umslopogaas parried, and the tip fell off, sliced away. The redhead bellowed with laughter then and reversed the handle, expecting to surprise him and knock him down with the butt.
The maneuver might have worked if the elbow room had not been so small. A man staggered back into Johnson, propelling him forward. Umslopogaas grabbed the shaft behind the head, just as the redhaired giant had done a moment ago. But the giant jerked backward, and Umslopogaas, refusing to let go, was drawn along with the giant.
More men stumbled into them. Umslopogaas felt something slide across his cheek. A moment later, the pain began, and he was aware of a wetness down the side of his face, seeping under the collar of his chainmail shirt.
Johnston had been wounded also. A fallen man had stabbed upward and driven a dagger into the back of the calf of his right leg.
Johnston bellowed with anguish, but he kicked back with the heel of his right leg. The man who’d stabbed him fell back dead, his neck broken. Johnston slammed the back of his hand across Umslopogaas’ jaw, momentarily stunning him. He picked up Umslopogaas and lifted him above his head at the full extent of his arms. Despite the crippling wound, he hobbled forward until he came to the railing of the gallery.
There he stood, poised for a second before he cast the struggling black out into the pit to fall thirty feet.
Umslopogaas, his senses returning, cried out. He slapped down both hands to seize a massive biceps.
Though practically standing on one leg, Johnston held his burden firmly. Then, giving a cry, he heaved outward.
Coming up from behind Johnston, yelling at Umslopogaas to hang on, Tom Mix hurled a tomahawk. It revolved, and its sharp edge buried itself in the flesh and bone of Johnston’s neck.
Screaming, Umslopogaas fell. One flailing hand almost caught the railing, but it could not keep its grasp.
Johnston fell forward, his trunk going over the railing, his legs following a second afterward as he pitched completely over.
Both landed on top of bodies that had preceded them. But these did not soften the impact enough. Besides, Johnston must have been dead before he struck the bottom. And Umslopogaas broke some ribs, his back, and his neck.
Mix had time for only a glance over the railing. Then he was fighting for his life against three men. Seeing that he could not last against so many more than a few seconds, he fled. He slammed into the back of a Clemensite partially blocking his way, thus knocking the man against the point of his foe’s blade. This happened to be Jack London, who was grateful for the interference, though not for long. Two of those who’d been chasing Tom turned on Jack. The third continued his pursuit. Mix leaned down and picked up an empty pistol and hurled it with one hand. The Clemensite ducked, allowing Tom, stepping forward, to run the point of his cutlass into the man’s eye.
He attacked one of London’s assailants from the back. That man went down with a slash across his neck. London kept the survivor of the trio busy, though outmatched, until Tom had half-severed the man’s sword arm.
Breathing hard, covered with blood, they leaned against the railing for a moment. It was apparent, however, that they could rest only a short time and they would be better off if they did not rest at all. They were seriously outnumbered.
Tom straightened up and, yelling orders, attacked. Jack followed him. They cut down two men, then, ranged with the six of their crew left standing, fought back out into the passageway. Here they ran for it, coming out onto the walkway into the midst of another fight. Once more, they were outnumbered, and their pursuers would make the match even more disadvantageous.
Suddenly, their opponents retreated swiftly from them, leaving ten of the Rexites between two forces. Their chief, a little bright-blue-eyed man with a wounded cheek, yelled, “You from the Rex! Surrender, and we’ll spare you! There’s no use any more of us getting killed! You can’t win!” Tom Mix waited until he had caught his wind.
“How do we know we can trust you to keep your word?” he said. “And what would you do, lock us up and give us a trial later? Or just hang us out of hand?”
The little man almost jumped with indignation. At least, he was quivering.
“Sacré nom d’un con!” and he spat French so swiftly that Tom could not follow him.
“Speak Esperanto,” Tom said.
“The name of de Marbot is an ancient and honored one in France!” the little man said. “It was respected even by the great Napoleon himself! And it has been honored in The Rivervalley too! I give you my word that you will be locked up until this affair is settled. And then, sometime later, you will be released. What is this, anyway? You would demand conditions of surrender, you who are in no position to demand anything? I am offering you your lives so that some of ours may be saved, too. But if you do not care to accept my magnanimity…?”
“Could we have a minute, your esteemed frogginess?” Tom drawled.
“Frogginess, what does that mean?” de Marbot sputtered. “Is it that you are insulting me?”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Tom Mix said. “What about it? Could we discuss your offer?”
“Don’t you have a leader, a man with supreme authority?”
“Yes,” Mix said. “But this is something every man should have to decide for himself.”
“Pah!” de Marbot said. “What kind of naval organization is this? You are merely fighting for time? You will get your breath back and then renew the fighting, yes?”
Tom muttered, “That Frenchy is shrewd.” He spoke to the others, “Okay, men. What’ll it be? I think we can trust this guy. But I sure hate to quit.”
“I do, too,” London said. “But facts is facts. They’re thirty or more to our ten. However…”
“Yeah?” Tom said.
“We could jump over the side. Once on the main deck, we could get away into another part of the boat.”
“We’d bust our ankles and pancake our feet,” a man said. “That’s a hell of a drop.”
Tom looked up and saw several people peering over the edge of the gallery above. He said, “There may be help. From above. No, I don’t mean from God.”
De Marbot said, “Well! Give me an answer at once, or we’ll attack!”
Tom grinned and said softly, “Don’t look, but Aphra Behn and Nur are up there.”
A man yelled, and then he fell backward with an arrow sticking out from the top of his shoulder. Immediately after, another man, standing beside de Marbot, crumpled, a boomerang bouncing off his head. Then four more arrows plunged into flesh, followed by spears, empty pistols, aces, and chairs.
The enemy were reduced to twelve.
Tom, yelling, led four men against de Marbot and five near him. London led four against the other six. Before they reached their foes, they saw more missiles drop two more. De Marbot stayed to fight. The others fled. Tom thought that the little Frenchman had all the courage, but the others had a more desirable quality, considering the situation. They had good sense.
Tom called, “Okay, mon ami. My turn to offer you a chance to save your life. Give me your sword, and I’ll let you swim for it.”
De Marbot looked behind him. His fellows were still fleeing along the walkway. Between him and flight were several of the enemy, these having come down the ladder.
The shrug was one hundred percent Gallic. He said, “Merde!” and he dropped his cutlass and swung sidewise over the railing. For a moment, one hand clutched the bar. A man raised his cutlass to swing down on the fingers. Tom, yelling, “No!”, kn
ocked the man’s blade aside. The hand disappeared.
Tom looked over the railing. The little fellow had survived the drop of twenty-five feet. He was up on his feet and bending over to pick up a cutlass.
Tom shouted at him. “You better swim for it, fellow! We’ll be after you in a moment.”
The Frenchman looked up. His teeth gleamed palely in the starlight. He bowed, and said, “Thank you for stopping that man from cutting off my fingers. It was you, was it not?”
He turned and started to walk, but he had to stop. It was evident that he had hurt his ankle in the fall.
“Better surrender!” Tom yelled at him.
“De Marbot does not surrender!” the little man said. Hobbling, he disappeared through a hatch.
“You’ll drown!” Tom called. He said to London, “He probably won’t make it with that bad ankle.”
“What do you care?” London said.
“I admire him. He’s sure got guts. Too bad he wasn’t on our side.”
“Too bad they all weren’t,” London said. “Well, what do we do now? We were lucky that the others came along. Otherwise, we’d be dead or locked up. There’s still too many of them and too few of us.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Tom said.
“We’ll look for King John,” Tom said. “If we don’t find him or if he’s dead, we’ll get off the boat. No use keeping on fighting if he’s gone.”
“And if he’s alive?” a man said.
“Then we battle on. If it looks like we got a fighting chance. The way things is, we don’t know what’s going on elsewhere on the boat or who’s winning.”
“We need a program,” London said.
Tom Mix called up to Nur. “Thanks for the helping hand! Wait there, and we’ll join you.”
On the way up, they passed Loghu’s body at the head of the ladder. She still clutched a pistol. Lying crossed over her was a big blond hairy man whose heavy bones identified him as an early paleolithic. A dagger was sticking from the back of his neck.
Riverworld Short Stories Page 13
