Riverworld03- The Dark Design (1977)

by Philip José Farmer

  Jill asked him a few questions in the hope that his answers would jog her memory. She had known a few airshipmen at Thorn's company, and some of these might have mentioned him. He replied that he remembered one of them – he thought. He wasn't sure because that had been so long ago.

  He had died in 1983 while on leave in Friedrichshafen. He did not know the cause of his death. Heart failure, probably. He had gone to sleep one night and when he had awakened he was lying naked on a bank of The River – along with everybody else.

  Since then he had been wandering up and down the Valley. One day, hearing a rumor that a giant dirigible was being built down-River, he had decided to find out for himself if the tale was true.

  Firebrass, beaming, said, "This is luck! You're more than welcome, Barry. Agatha, will you make arrangements to house Mr. Thorn?"

  Thorn shook hands with everybody and left. Firebrass almost danced with delight. "We're coming along famously."

  Jill said, "Does this change my situation?"

  Firebrass looked surprised. "No. I said you'd be the head instructor and captain of the Minerva. Firebrass always keeps his promises. Well, almost always.

  "Now, I know what you're thinking. I made no promises about who'll be the first mate of the Parseval. You're a strong contender for the post, Jill. But it's too early to decide on that. All I can say is, 'May the best man win. Or the best woman.' "

  Piscator patted her hand. At another time, she would have resented the gesture. Now, she felt warmed.

  Later, after they had left the office, Piscator said, "I am not certain that Thorn is telling the truth. Not all of it, anyway. His story may be true as far as it goes. But there's something that rings falsely in his voice. He could be concealing something."

  "Sometimes you frighten me," she said.

  "I could be wrong about him."

  Jill got the impression that he did not believe that.

  Chapter 34

  * * *

  Each day, before dawn, the Minerva lifted for a training flight. Sometimes it stayed aloft until an hour after noon. Sometimes it cruised all day, landing at evening. For the first week, Jill was its only pilot. Then she let each of the trainee pilots and the control gondola officers handle the controls.

  Barry Thorn did not enter the blimp until four weeks after aerial training started. Jill insisted that he attend ground school first. Though he was experienced, he had not been in an airship for thirty-two years and it could be presumed that he had forgotten much. Thorn did not object.

  She watched him closely while he was in the pilot's seat. Whatever Piscator's suspicions of him, Thorn handled the ship as if he had been doing it steadily for years. Nor was he any less competent at navigation or at dealing with the simulated emergencies which were part of the training.

  Jill felt disappointed. She had hoped that he was not all he claimed to be. Now she knew that he was the stuff from which captains could be made.

  Thorn was, however, a strange man. He seemed at ease with everybody and he could appreciate a joke as much as anybody. Yet he never cracked one himself, and off duty he kept to himself. Though he was given a hut only 20 meters from Jill's, he never dropped in on her or invited her to visit him. In a way, this was a relief to Jill, since she did not have to worry about advances from him. Inasmuch as he made no effort to get a woman to move in with him, he could have been homosexual. But he also did not seem interested, sexually or otherwise, in either gender. He was a loner, though, when he wished, he could open up and be very charming. Then suddenly his personality would close like a fist, and he became pale neutral, almost a living statue.

  The entire potential crew of the Parseval was under intense surveillance. Each had to undergo psychological tests for stability. Thorn passed both the observation and the tests as if he had made them up himself.

  "Just because he's a little odd in his social life doesn't mean he isn't a first-class aeronaut," Firebrass said. "It's what a man does when he's aloft that counts."

  Firebrass and de Bergerac proved to be natural dirigible pilots. This was not surprising in the American's case, since he had many thousands of hours in jetplanes, helicopters, and spacecraft. The Frenchman, however, came from a time when not even balloons had existed, though they had been envisioned. The most complicated mechanical device he had handled then were matchlock, wheel-lock, and flintlock pistols. He had been too poor to afford a watch, which, in any case, required the owner only to wind it.

  Nevertheless, he quickly absorbed the instruction in ground school and aerial flight, nor did he have much trouble with the necessary mathematics.

  Firebrass was very good, but de Bergerac was the best pilot of all. Jill reluctantly admitted that to herself. The Frenchman's reactions and judgment were almost computer-swift.

  Another surprising candidate was John de Greystock. This medieval baron had volunteered to be part of the crew that would man the semirigid Minerva when it attacked the Rex. Jill had been skeptical about his ability to adapt to aerial flight. But, after three months of flight, he was considered by both Firebrass and Gulbirra to be the best qualified to command the ship. He was combat wise, ruthless, and utterly courageous. And he hated King John. Having been wounded and thrown overboard by John's men when the Not For Hire was hijacked, he lusted for revenge.

  Jill had come to Parolando near the end of the month called Dektria (Thirteenth in English). Parolando had adopted a thirteen-month calendar since this planet had neither season nor moon. There was no reason except sentiment to keep the year at 365 days, but sentiment was good enough. Each month was made of four seven-day weeks, twenty-eight days in all. Since twelve months only made 336 days, an extra month had been added. This left one day extra, which was generally termed New Year's Eve Day, Last Day, or Blow-Your-Top Day. Jill had landed three days before this in 31 A.R.D.

  Now it was January of 33 A.R.D., and though work on the big airship had started, it would be almost another year before it was ready for the polar flight. This was partly due to the inevitable unforeseen difficulties and partly due to Firebrass' grandiose ideas. These had caused many revisions of the original plans.

  As of now, the crew had been chosen, but the appointment of the officers had not been determined. As far as she was concerned, the list was fairly definite – except for the posts of first and second mate. One would go to Thorn and the other to herself. This had not caused her much anxiety – except in her dreams – since Thorn did not seem to care which position he got.

  On this Wednesday of January or First-Month, she was happy. The work on the Parseval was going so well that she decided to quit early. She'd get her fishing pole and cast for some of the "chub" in the little lake near her hut. As she climbed the first of the hills, she saw Piscator. He was also carrying fishing tackle and a wickerwork basket.

  She called to him, and he turned but did not give her his usual smile in greeting.

  "You look as if you've got something on your mind," she said.

  "I do, but it is not my problem, except that it concerns one whom I like to think is my friend."

  "You don't have to tell me," she said.

  "I think I do. It concerns you."

  She stopped. "What's the matter?"

  "I just learned from Firebrass that the psychological evaluation tests were not finished. There is one more to go, and every one of the flight crew will have to take it."

  "Is that something I should worry about?"

  He nodded. "The test involves deep hypnosis. It's designed to probe for any residue of instability which previous tests might have overlooked."

  "Yes, but I . . ."

  She paused again.

  "I'm afraid that it might disclose these . . . ah . . . hallucinations that have disturbed you from time to time."

  She felt faint. For a moment, the world around her seemed to dim. Piscator held her elbow and her arm to support her.

  "I am sorry, but I thought it best that you be prepared."

  She pulled a
way, saying, "I'm all right."

  Then, "Godalmighty! I've had no trouble with those for eight months! I've had no dreamgum since that time you found me in the hut, and I'm sure that any residual effects are gone. Furthermore, I've never had those hallucinations except late at night when I was home. You don't really think that Firebrass would eliminate me, do you? He doesn't have enough reason to do so!"

  "I don't know," Piscator said. "Perhaps the hypnosis might not uncover these attacks. In any event, if you will forgive me for trying to influence you, I think that you should go to Firebrass and tell him about your troubles. Do so before the tests are made."

  "What good would that do?"

  "If he finds out that you have been holding back on him, he probably would discharge you immediately. But if you are candid, confess before you get official word of the test, he might listen to your side of the case. I myself do not think that you are any danger to the welfare of the ship. But my opinion doesn't count."

  "I won't beg!"

  "That wouldn't influence him anyway – except negatively."

  She breathed deeply and looked around, as if there might be an escape route to another world nearby. She had been so sure, so happy only a moment ago.

  "Very well. There's no use putting it off."

  "That's courageous," he said. "And commonsensical. I wish you luck."

  "See you later," she said, and she strode off, her jaw set.

  Nevertheless, by the time she had climbed the stairs to the second story, where Firebrass' apartment was, she was breathing hard, not from poor physical condition but from anxiety.

  Firebrass' secretary had told her that he had gone to his suite. She was surprised at this but did not ask Agatha why he had quit work so early. Perhaps he, too, felt like relaxing.

  The door to his apartment was halfway down the hall. Before it stood the bodyguard that usually accompanied him. Two assassination attempts in the last six months had made this necessary. The would-be killers had been slain themselves and thus could give no information.' No one knew for certain, but it was believed that a ruler of a hostile state down-River had sent the men. He had made no bones about his desire to get hold of Parolando's mineral wealth and marvelous machines and weapons. It was possible that he had hoped that, if he removed Firebrass, he might be able to invade Parolando. But this was all speculation by Firebrass.

  Jill walked up to the ensign in command of four heavily armed men.

  "I'd like to talk to the chief."

  The ensign, Smithers, said "Sorry. He gave orders he wasn't to be disturbed."

  "Why not?"

  Smithers looked curiously at her. "I wouldn't know, sir."

  Anger caused by her fear overcame her.

  "I suppose he has a woman in there!"

  The ensign said, "No, not that that is any of your business, sir."

  He grinned maliciously and said. "He's got a visitor. A newcomer named Fritz Stern. He just got here an hour ago. He's a German, and, from what I heard, a hotshot Zeppelin man. I heard him tell the captain he was a commander for NDELAG, whatever that means. But he's got more flight time than you."

  Jill had to restrain herself from hitting him in his teeth. She knew that Smithers had never liked her, and no doubt he enjoyed needling her.

  "NDELAG," she said, hating herself because her voice was trembling. "That could be Neue Deutsche Luftschifffahrts-Aktien-Gesellschaft."

  Now her voice seemed to be coming from far away, from someone else. "There was a Zeppelin line called DELAG in the days before World War I. It carried passengers and freight in Germany. But I never heard of an NDELAG."

  "That would be because it was formed after you died,'' Smithers said. He grinned, enjoying her obvious distress. "I did hear him tell the captain that he graduated from the Friedrichshafen academy in 1984. He said he ended his career as commander of a super-Zeppelin named Viktoria."

  She felt sick. First Thorn and now Stern.

  There was no use staying here. She squared her shoulders and said, in a firm voice, "I'll see him later."

  "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir," Smithers said, grinning.

  Jill turned away to go back down the stairs.

  She whirled around as a door banged and somebody shouted. A man had run out of Firebrass' apartment and slammed the door behind him.

  He stood for several seconds, frozen, facing the guards. These were pulling their heavy pistols from their holsters. Smithers had his sword halfway from its sheath.

  The man was as tall as she. He had a beautiful physique, broad shouldered, slim waisted, long legged. His face was handsome but rugged; his hair, wavy ash blond; his eyes, large and dark blue. But his skin was unhealthily pale and blood was flowing from a wound on the shoulder. He held a bloodied dagger in his left hand. Then the door opened, and Firebrass, a rapier in his hand, appeared. His face was twisted, and his forehead bled.

  The ensign shouted, "Stern!"

  Stern whirled and ran down the hall. There was no stairway at its end, only a tall window. Smithers cried, "Don't fire, men! He can't get away!"

  "He can if he goes through the window!" Jill screamed.

  At the end of the hall, Stern leaped with a shout, whirling so that his back would strike the plastic and holding an arm over his face.

  The window refused to give way. Stern hit it with a thud and bounced back, falling flat with another thud on his face. He lay there while Firebrass, the ensign, and the guards behind him, ran toward Stern.

  Jill followed them a second later.

  Before the group could reach him, Stern got to his feet. He stared at the men racing toward him, looked at the dagger, which he had dropped on the floor when he had hit the window. Then he closed his eyes and crumpled to the floor.

  Chapter 35

  * * *

  By the time Jill got there, Firebrass was feeling the man's pulse.

  "He's dead!"

  "What happened, sir?" the ensign said.

  Firebrass stood up.

  "I wish I could say why it happened. All I can tell you is what happened. We were getting along fine, drinking and smoking, joking, and he was giving me the details of his professional career. Everything was A-okay. And then all of a sudden he leaps up, pulls a dagger, and tries to stab me!

  "He must have gone crazy, although he seemed quite rational until the moment he attacked. Something went wrong in him. Otherwise, why would he drop dead of a heart attack?"

  Jill said, "A heart attack? I haven't ever heard of anyone having a heart attack here. Have you?"

  Firebrass shrugged and said, "There's always a first time. After all, the resurrections have stopped, too."

  "He looks bloody cyanotic for a heart attack," Jill said. "Could he have swallowed a poison? I didn't see him put anything in his mouth."

  "Where would he get cyanide or prussic acid or any poison except here in Parolando?" Firebrass said. "He hasn't been here long enough to do that."

  He looked at Smithers. "Wrap up the body and take it into one of my bedrooms. Take it out after midnight and drop it into The River. The dragonfish can have him."

  "Yes, sir," Smithers said. "What about that cut on your forehead, sir? Should I get a doctor?"

  "No, I'll patch it up myself. And not a word about this to anybody. Have you got that, all of you? You, too, Jill. Not a word. I don't want to upset the citizens."

  They all nodded. Smithers said, "Do you suppose that that bastard Burr sent this man, too?"

  "I don't know," Firebrass said. "Or care. I just want you to get rid of him, okay?"

  He turned to Jill. "What're you doing here?"

  "I had something important to talk about," she said. "But I'll do it later. You're in no condition to talk."

  "Nonsense!" he said, grinning. "Sure I am. You don't think this is going to shake me up, do you? Come on in, Jill, and we'll talk after I fix up this scratch."

  Jill sat down in an overstaffed chair in the living room of the luxurious suite. Firebrass disappeared into the bathr
oom, returning after a few minutes with a white tape slanting across his forehead.

  Smiling cheerily as if this were a typical day, he said, "What about a drink? It might settle your nerves."

  "My nerves?"

  "Okay. Both our nerves. I'll admit I'm a little shaken up. I'm no superman, no matter what people say about me."

  He poured purplish skull-bloom into two tall glasses half-filled with ice cubes. Neither the ice nor the glasses, like the band-aid, were available anywhere but in Parolando – as far as she knew.

  For a minute they sipped on the cool, tangy drink, their eyes meeting but neither saying a word. Then Firebrass said, "Okay. Enough of the social amenities. What did you want to see me about?"

  She could scarcely get the words out. They seemed to jam in her throat, then come tumbling out, broken by the pressure.

  After pausing to take a long drink, she continued more slowly and smoothly. Firebrass did not interrupt but sat immobile, his brown eyes, flecked with green, intent on hers.

  "So," she finished, "there you are. I had to tell you about this, but it's the hardest thing I ever did."

  "Why did you finally decide to spill it? Was it because you heard about the hypnosis?"

  For a second, she thought of lying. Piscator would not betray her, and she would look so much better if she had not been forced to admit the truth.

  "Yes. I heard about it. But I'd been thinking for some time that I should tell you about it. It was just . . . it was just that I couldn't bear the thought of being left behind. And I really don't think I'm a danger to the ship."

  "It would be bad if you had an attack during a crucial moment of flight. You know that, of course. Well, here's the way I look at it, Jill. Barring Thorn, you're the best airshipman – I mean, person – that we have. Unlike Thorn, who was a keen airman but doesn't make aeronauting his whole life, you're a fanatic. I honestly think you'd pass up a roll in the hay for an hour's flight. Myself, I'd try to combine both.

  "I wouldn't want to lose you, and if I had to, I'd worry about your killing yourself. No, don't protest, I really think you would. Which makes you unbalanced in that respect. However, I have to consider the welfare of ship and crew first, so I'd discharge you if I had to, no matter how much it would grieve me.