Riverworld03- The Dark Design (1977)

by Philip José Farmer

  "But their wild exultation was suddenly checked

  When the jailor informed them with tears,

  Such a sentence would not have the slightest effect,

  As the pig had been dead for some years.''

  They all laughed, and Monat said, "Somehow, that verse squeezes out the essence of Terrestrial justice, its letter if not its spirit."

  "I am amazed," Burton said, "that in your short time on Earth you managed not only to read so much but to remember it so well.''

  "The Hunting of the Snark was a poem. I believe that you can understand human beings better through poetry and fiction man through so-called fact – literature. That is why I took the trouble to memorize it.

  "Anyway, an Earth friend gave it to me. He said that it was one of the greatest works of metaphysics that humanity could boast of. He asked me if Arcturans had anything to equal it."

  Alice said, "Surely he was pulling your leg?"

  "I don't think so."

  Burton shook his head. He had been a voracious reader, and he had an almost photographic memory. But he had been on Earth sixty-nine years, whereas Monat had lived there only from 2002 to 2008 A.D. Yet, during the years they had voyaged together, Monat had betrayed a knowledge that no human could have accumulated in a century.

  The conversation ended since it was time to go back to work on the boat. Burton had not forgotten Alice's seeming barb, however. He brought it up as they got ready to go to bed.

  She looked at him with large, dark eyes, eyes that were already retreating into another world. She almost always withdrew when he attacked, and it was this that heated his anger from red to white-hot.

  "No, Dick, I wasn't insulting you. At least, I wasn't doing so consciously."

  "But you were doing it unconsciously, is that it? That's no excuse. You can't plead that you have no control of that part of you. What your unconscious thinks is just as much you as the conscious is. It's even worse. You can dismiss your conscious thoughts, but what you really believe is what that shadowy thing believes."

  He began pacing back and forth, his face looking like a demon's in the faint light cast by the small fire on the stone hearth.

  "Isabel worshipped me, yet she was not afraid to argue violently with me, to tell me when she thought I was doing something wrong. But you . . . you harbor resentment until it makes an absolute bitch of you, yet you won't come out with it. And that makes things even worse.

  "There's nothing evil about a hammer-and-tongs, screaming, throwing argument. It's like a thunderstorm, frightening when it happens; but it clears the air after it's over.

  "The trouble with you is that you were raised to be a lady. You must never lift your voice in anger; you must always be calm and cool and collected. But that shadowy entity, that hindbrain, that inheritance from your ape ancestors, is tearing at the bars of its cage. And, incidentally, tearing at you. But you, you won't admit it."

  Alice lost her dreamy look, and she shouted at him.

  "You're a liar! And don't throw up your wife to me! We agreed never to compare each other's spouse, but you do it every time you wish to get me angry! It isn't true that I lack passion. You of all people should know that, and I don't just mean in bed.

  "But I won't go into a rage over every petty word and incident. When I get mad it's because the situation demands it. It's worth getting angry about. You . . . you're in a perpetual state of rage."

  "That's a lie!"

  "I don't lie!"

  "Let us get back to the point," he said. "What is there about my capacity as commander that you don't like?"

  She bit her lip, then said, "It's not how you run the boat or how you treat your crew. That's such an obvious matter, and you do fine at it. No, what troubles me is the command, or lack of it, over yourself."

  Burton sat down, saying, "Let's have it. Just what are you talking about?"

  She hitched forward on the chair and leaned over so that her face was close to his.

  "For one thing, you can't stand to stay in one place more than a week. Before three days are up, you get uneasy. By the seventh day you're like a tiger pacing back and forth in his cage, a lion throwing himself against the bars."

  "Spare me the zoological analogies," he said. "Besides, you know that I have stayed in one place for as much as a year."

  "Yes, when you were building a boat. When you had a project going, one which would enable you to travel even more swiftly. Even then, you took short trips, leaving the rest of us to work on the boat. You had to go see this and that, investigate rumors, study strange customs, track down a language you didn't know. Never mind what the excuse was. You had to get away.

  "You have a blight of the soul, Dick. That's the only way I can describe it. You can't endure to stay long in one place. But it's not because of the place. Never! It's you yourself that you can't tolerate. You must run so you can get away from yourself!"

  He stood up and began pacing again.

  "You say then that I can't endure myself! What a pitiable fellow! He doesn't love himself, which means that no one else can love him!"

  "Nonsense!"

  "Yes, all you're saying is pure rot!"

  "The rot is in you, not in what I say."

  "If you can't stand me, why don't you leave?"

  Tears slid down her cheeks, and she said, "I love you, Dick!"

  "But not enough to put up with my trifling eccentricities, is that it?"

  She threw up her hands. "Trifling?"

  "I have an itch to travel. So what? Would you taunt me if I had a physical itch, say athlete's foot?"

  She smiled slightly. "No, I'd tell you to get rid of it. But this isn't just an itch, Dick. It's a compulsion."

  She got up and lit a cigarette. Waving it under his nose, she said, "Look at this. In my time on Earth I would never have dared smoke, wouldn't even have considered it. A lady did not do such things. Especially a lady whose husband was of the landed gentry, whose father was a bishop of the Anglican church. Nor did she ever drink strong liquor to excess or curse. And she would never have considered bathing nude in public!

  "But here I am, Alice Pleasance Liddell Hargreaves of the estate of Cuffnells, a most proper Victorian female aristocrat, doing all that and much more. By much more, well, I'm doing things in bed that even the French novels my husband was so fond of reading would not even have hinted at.

  "I've changed. So why can't you?

  "To tell the truth, Dick, I'm sick of traveling, always moving on, cooped up inside a small vessel, never knowing what tomorrow will bring. I'm no coward, you know that. But I would like to find a place where they speak English, where the people are of my own kind, where there is peace, where I can settle down, put down roots. I'm so tired of this eternal voyaging!"

  Burton was moved by her tears. He put his hand on her shoulder and said, "What can we do about it? I must keep going on. Now, my . . ."

  "Isabel? I'm not she. I'm Alice. I do love you, Dick, but I'm not your, shadow, trailing you wherever you go, present when there's light, gone when there's darkness, a mere appendage."

  She got up to put out the half-smoked cigarette in a baked-clay ashtray. Turning to him, she said, "But there's more! There's something else that bothers me – very much. It hurts me that you don't fully confide in me. You have a secret, Dick, a very deep, very dark secret."

  "Perhaps you can tell me what it is. I certainly don't know."

  "Don't lie! I've heard you talking in your sleep. It has something to do with those Ethicals, doesn't it? Something happened to you you didn't tell anyone about when you were gone all those years.

  "I've heard you muttering about bubbles, about killing yourself seven hundred and seventy-seven times. And I've heard names you never mention when you're awake. Loga. Thanabur. And you speak of Ecks and the mysterious stranger. Who are these people?"

  "Only the man who sleeps alone can keep a secret,'' Burton said.

  "Why can't you tell me? Don't you trust me – after all these year
s?"

  "I would if I could. But it would be too dangerous for you. Believe me, Alice, I have said nothing because I must say nothing. It is for your own good. No arguments now. I won't give in, and I'll get very angry if you persist in questioning me."

  "Very well then. But keep your hands to yourself tonight."

  It was a long time before he fell asleep. Some time in the night he awoke, aware that he had been talking. Alice was sitting up, staring at him.

  Chapter 22

  * * *

  Oskas, half-drunk as usual, visited Burton during lunch hour. Burton did not mind, especially since the chief gave him a skin containing at least two liters of bourbon.

  "Have you heard the rumors of this great white boat which is said to be coming from down-River?" the Indian said.

  "Only a deaf man would not have heard," Burton said, and he took a long pull of the whiskey. It had a winey odor and went down smoothly, needing no dilution with water. But then the grails never delivered anything but the best.

  He said, "Aah!" and then, "I find it hard to believe the stories. From the description, the vessel is propelled by paddlewheels. That would mean that its engines are of iron. I doubt that anyone could gather enough ore to make engines of any size. Also, I have heard that the hull of the boat is made of metal. There's not enough iron in the whole planet to make a vessel that big. If it is as big as the rumors say."

  "You are full of doubts," Oskas said. "That is bad for the liver. However, if the stories are true, then the great boat will be coming along some day. I would like to have such a boat."

  "You and millions more. But if such a boat can be made, then its maker could have iron weapons, perhaps firearms. You have never seen these though you do have some gunpowder bombs. Firearms, however, are metal tubes which can shoot metal projectiles to a great distance. Some of these can fire so fast that a man could not shoot one arrow before he was hit ten times. And then there are cannons. These are giant tubes which shoot large bombs farther than, the mountains."

  "So, you can assume that others have tried to take this boat away from its owners and have died before they could get within arrow range. Besides, what would you do with it if you did get it? It takes highly trained people to operate such a boat."

  "Those could be gotten," Oskas said. "You, for instance. Could you operate it?"

  "Probably."

  "Would you be interested in helping me take it? I would be grateful. You would be first among my subchiefs."

  "I am not a warlike man," Burton said. "Nor am I greedy. However, just for the sake of conversation, let us say that I was interested. Here is what I would do."

  Oskas was fascinated by the intricate but fantastic plan that Burton proposed. When he left he said that he would send Burton more whiskey. They must talk about this some more. Smiling broadly, Oskas staggered away.

  Burton thought the chief was very gullible. He did not mind stringing him along, however. It would keep him happy.

  The truth was that Burton had some plans of his own.

  If the stories were true, then the boat was a means for traveling much faster than by sail. Somehow, he was going to get on it. Not by force but by cunning. The main trouble was that he had no idea as yet how he could accomplish that.

  For one thing, the boat might not, probably would not, stop at this area. For another, it might not have room for more people. Also, why should its captain want to take him and his crew on?

  The rest of the day, he was silent, absorbed in his thoughts. After he had gone to bed, he lay a long time considering every possibility. One of the things he considered was that of going along with Oskas' plan. Then, at the last moment, he could betray him. That might get him into the good graces of the boat's captain.

  He rejected that almost instantly. In the first place, even if Oskas was rapacious and treacherous, he, Burton, would feel dishonored if he deceived him. Secondly, it was inevitable that many of Oskas' people would be killed and wounded. He did not wish to be responsible for that.

  No, there had to be another way.

  Finally, he found it. Its success depended upon stopping the boat or at least getting the attention of those aboard it. How he would do it if it passed during the night, he did not know. Somehow, he would.

  Smiling, he fell asleep.

  Two months passed. In another week, the Snark would be launched. In the meantime, details about the approaching paddle-wheeler had come in piecemeal. These had arrived by drum, smoke, fire, and mica-mirror signals. Putting the items together, Burton had built a picture of the vessel. It was probably larger than any Mississippi riverboat of his time. It was undoubtedly of metal, and it traveled at least 15 miles an hour or a little over 24 kilometers per hour. Sometimes, it had been seen going twice as fast. The calculations were crude, of course, since none of the observers had a stopwatch. But seconds could be counted as it passed from one grailstone to the next.

  Burton had presumed from the first reports that the boat was a steamer. However, later messages said that the vessel seldom took in wood. This was for a boiler which heated water for showers and made steam for machine guns. Burton could not understand how steam propelled bullets. Monat suggested that the weapon used a synchronizing system to drop projectiles into the barrel, through which steam at considerable pressure was shot at regular intervals.

  The motors of the boat used electricity, drawn from a grailstone when it discharged.

  "Then they not only have steel, they have copper for the windings of the electrical motors," Burton said. "Where did they get all that metal?"

  Frigate said, "The boat could be mainly aluminum. And aluminum could be used for the windings, though it's not as efficient as copper."

  More data came in. The vessel bore its name on its sides in big black Roman letters. Rex Grandissimus. Latin for "The Greatest King," that is, greatest in manner or style of life. Its commander, according to informants, was none other than the son of Henry II of England and Eleanor, divorced wife of Louis VII of France, daughter of the Duke of Aquitaine. King John, surnamed Lackland, was the captain. After his famous brother, Richard the Lion-Hearted, had died, John had become Joannes Rex Angliae et Dominus Hiberniae, etc. He had also gained such a bad reputation that there was an unwritten law in the British royalty that no heir to the throne should ever be named John.

  On first learning the captain's name, Burton had gone to Alice. "One of your ancestors commands the paddle wheeler. Perhaps we could appeal to his family affections to get him to take us aboard. Though, from what history said, he did not seem to have much family loyalty. He led a rebellion against his father, and he is said to have murdered his nephew, Arthur, whom Richard had made heir to the crown."

  "He was no worse than any other king of that time," Alice said. "And he did do some good things, despite what people think. He reformed the coinage, he supported development of the Navy, he did all he could to develop trade, he urged the completion of LondonBridge. He was also unusual among the monarchs of his time in that he was an intellectual. He read Latin books and French histories in the vernacular, and wherever he went he took his library with him.

  "As for his opposition to the Magna Carta, that has been misrepresented. The barons' revolt was not in the interests of the common people; it was no democratic movement. The barons wanted special privileges for themselves. The freedom for which they fought was the freedom to exploit their subjects without opposition from the king.

  "He fought hard against the barons, and he battled to keep the French provinces under the English crown. But there was no way he could get out of that; he had inherited old conflicts from his father and brother."

  "Well!" Burton said. "You make him sound like a saint."

  "He was far from that. He was also far more interested in England itself, the welfare of its people, than any previous Anglo-Norman king."

  "You must have done much reading and thinking about him. Your opinions go against the grain of everything I've read."

  "
I had much time to read when I lived in Cuffnells. And I form my own opinions."

  "Bully for you. Nevertheless, the fact remains that somehow this medieval monarch has gotten control of the greatest artifact, the most superb machine, on this world. I can deal with him when I get to him. The problem is, how do I do it?"

  "You mean, how do we do it?"

  "Right. My apologies. Well, we shall see."

  The Snark was let down the ways into The River amid much cheering and drinking. Burton was not as happy as he should have been. He had lost interest in it.

  During the festivities, Oskas took him aside.

  "You don't intend to leave soon, I hope? I am counting on you to help me take the great boat."

  Burton felt like telling him to go to hell. That would, however, not be diplomatic, since the chief might decide to confiscate the Snark for himself. Worse, he might quit resisting the temptation to take Loghu to his bed. During the year he had given her some trouble, though he had made no violent moves. Whenever he got very drunk, which was often, he had openly asked her to move in with him.

  There had been many uneasy moments when it looked as if he was going to take her by force. Frigate, whose nature was anything but belligerent, had intended to challenge him to a duel, though he thought that it was a stupid way to solve a problem. But honor demanded it, manhood demanded it, there was no other way out unless he and Loghu sneaked away some night. He would not leave the people with whom he had been so intimate so many years.

  Loghu had told him, "No, you will not get killed or kill that savage and so arouse his people to kill you. Leave it to me."

  Loghu had men astonished everybody, Oskas most of all, by challenging him to a fight to the death.

  After recovering from the shock, Oskas had roared with laughter. "What? I should fight a woman? I beat my wives when they anger me, but I would not fight one. If I were to do this, it would not matter that I would kill you easily. I would be laughed at; I would no longer be Oskas, The Bear Claw, I would be The Man Who Fought a Woman."

  "What will it be?" Loghu had said. "Tomahawk? Spear? Knife? Or bare hands? You have seen me in the contests. You know how good I am with all weapons. It is true that you are bigger and stronger, but I know many tricks you don't. I've had some of the best instructors in the world."