Sam was young and vigorous again, but he still did not like to exercise. As he walked, he thought of the little railway he would like to build from his house to the edge of The River. But that would be too restrictive. Why not build an automobile with a motor that burned wood alcohol?
People began joining him; he was kept busy with “Saluton!” and “Bonan matenon!” At the end of his walk, he gave his grail to a man to put on a depression on the top of the gray granite mushroom-shaped rock. About six hundred of the gray cylinders were placed in the depression, and the crowd retreated to a respectful distance. Fifteen minutes later, the rock erupted with a roar. Blue flames soared twenty-five feet high and thunder echoed from the mountain. The appointed grail keepers for the day got onto the rock and passed the cylinders around. Sam took his back to the pilothouse, wondering on the way why he did not delegate someone to carry his grail down for him. The truth was, a man was so dependent on the grail, he just could not trust it out of his sight.
Back in the house, he opened the lid. In six containers in snapdown racks were breakfast and various goodies.
The grail had a false bottom in which was concealed an energy-matter converter and programmed menus. This morning he got bacon and eggs, toast with butter and jam, a glass of milk, a slice of cantaloupe, ten cigarettes, a marijuana stick, a cube of dreamgum, a cigar, and a cup of some delicious liqueur.
He settled down to eat with gusto and got, instead, a bad taste. Looking out through the starboard port (so he wouldn’t see into Cyrano’s door), he saw a youth on his knees before his hut. The fellow was praying, his eyes closed, his hands church-steepled. He wore only a kilt and a spiral bone from a Riverfish suspended by a leather string around his neck. His hair was dark blond, his face was broad, and his body was muscular. But his ribs were beginning to show.
The praying man was Hermann Göring.
Sam swore and reared up from his chair, knocking it backward, picked it up, and moved his breakfast from his desk to the big round table in the center of the room. The fellow had spoiled his appetite more than once. If there was one thing Sam could not stand, it was an ex-sinner, and Hermann Göring had sinned more than most and was now, by way of compensation, holier than most. Or so it seemed to Sam, though Göring claimed that he was the lowliest of the low—in a sense.
Take your damned arrogant humility away, Sam had said. Or at least take it downwind…
If it had not been for the Magna Carta which Sam had drawn up (over King John’s protests, thus repeating history), Sam would have kicked Göring and his followers out long ago. Well, at least a week ago. But the Carta, the constitution of the state of Parolando, the most democratic constitution in the history of mankind, gave total religious freedom and total freedom of speech. Almost total, anyway. There had to be some limitations.
But his own document forbade Sam to stop the missionaries of the Church of the Second Chance from preaching.
Yet if Göring continued to protest, to make speeches, to convert more to his doctrine of pacifist resistance, Sam Clemens would never get his Riverboat. Hermann Göring had made a symbol of the boat; he said that it represented man’s vanity, greed, lust for violence, and disregard of the Creator’s designs for the world of man.
Man should not build Riverboats. He should build more stately mansions of the soul. All man needed now was a roof over his head to keep off the rain and thin walls for a little privacy now and then. Man no longer had to earn his bread by the sweat of his brow. His food and drink were given to him with nothing expected in return, not even gratitude. Man had time to determine his destiny. But man must not transgress on others, not rob them of their possessions, their love, or their dignity. He must respect others and himself. But he could not do this through thievery, robbery, violence, contempt. He must…
SAM turned away. Göring had some fine sentiments to which Sam subscribed. But Göring was wrong if he thought that licking the boots of the people who had put them here was going to lead to any Utopia or salvation for their souls. Humanity had been tricked again; it was being used, misused, and abused. Everything, the resurrection, the rejuvenation, freedom from disease, free food and liquor and smokes, freedom from hard work or economic necessity, everything was an illusion, a candy bar to lead baby-mankind into some dark alley where…Where? Sam did not know. But the Mysterious Stranger had said that mankind was being tricked in the cruelest hoax of all, even crueler than the first hoax, that of life on Earth. Man had been resurrected and put on this planet as the subject of a tremendous scholarly study. That was all. And when the studies were completed, Man would go down into darkness and oblivion once more. Cheated again.
But what did the Stranger have to gain by telling this to certain selected men? Why had he chosen a small number to help him defeat his fellow Ethicals? What was the Stranger really after? Was he lying to Sam and Cyrano and Odysseus and the others whom Sam had not yet met?
Sam Clemens did not know. He was as much in The Great Dark as he had been on Earth. But he did know one thing for certain. He wanted that Riverboat.
The mists had cleared away; breakfast time was over. He checked the water clock and rang the big bell on the pilothouse. As soon as it had ceased tolling, the wooden whistles of the sergeants began shrilling. Up and down the ten-mile stretch of the Rivervalley known as Parolando the whistles shrilled. Then the drums began to beat, and Parolando went to work.
17
There were seventeen thousand people in Parolando, but the Riverboat would be taking only one hundred and twenty. Twenty of these already knew for sure they would be going. Sam and Joe Miller, Lothar von Richthofen, van Boom, de Bergerac, Odysseus, three engineers, King John, and their hutmates had been promised. The rest would know whether or not they had worked for nothing a few days before the boat sailed. At that time, the names would be written on slips of paper and placed inside a big wire cage. The cage would be whirled around and around, and then Sam would stop it, and, blindfolded, would reach in and pull out, one after the other, one hundred names. And these lucky ones would be the crew of the Not For Hire.
The Not For Hire had about five million miles to travel, if the Stranger could be believed. Averaging about 335 miles every twenty-four hours, it would take over forty-one years to reach the end of The River. But it would not average that much, of course. The crew would have to put into shore for extensive vacations on land and repairs would have to be made. In fact, the Riverboat might wear out, although Sam planned on taking many spare parts. Once the boat was on its way it could not put back for parts or pick them up anywhere else. There would be no metal of any consequence from this place on.
It was strange to think that he would be about one hundred and forty years old when he got to the headwaters of The River.
But what was that when he had thousands of years of youth to go?
He looked through the bow ports. The plain was full of people streaming down from the hills to the factories. Behind him the hills would be alive with others on their way to the factories in the hills. A small army would be working on the big dam to the northwest, near the base of the mountains. A concrete wall was being constructed between two steep hills to dam up the water flowing from a spring near the top of the mountain. When the lake behind the dam was full, its overflow would drive the electrical generators to power the mills.
At present, the electrical energy needed came from a grailstone. A giant step-down transformer of aluminum took the energy three times a day, sent it through Brobdingnagian aluminum wires to a two-story device known as the batacitor. This was a late-twentieth-century electronic discovery that could accept hundreds of kilovolts in a hundredth of a microsecond and could discharge it at any rate from a tenth of a volt to one hundred kilovolts. It was the prototype of the batacitor that would be put on the Riverboat. At present the energy was chiefly used in a cutting device made by van Boom that sliced through the pieces of nickel-iron dug up on the plain. The energy could also be moderated to melt the metal. The alum
inum for the wires and the batacitor had been laboriously and expensively made from aluminum silicate derived from the clay under the grass along the base of the mountains. But that supply had run out and now the only economically feasible source was in Soul City.
Sam sat down at his desk, pulled out a drawer, and removed a tall book bound in fish-bladder leather and with pages of bamboo-fiber paper. It was his diary, The Memoirs of a Lazarus. For the time being he was using ink made of water and tannic acid from oak bark and of carbon from finely ground charcoal-in-suspension to write down day-by-day happenings and his reflections. When the technology of Parolando was improved enough, he would use the electronic recorder that van Boom had promised him.
He had no sooner started writing than the drums began beating. The big bass drums represented dashes; the small soprano drums, dots. The code was Morse; the language, Esperanto.
Von Richthofen would be landing in a few minutes.
SAM stood up to look out again. A half a mile away was the bamboo catamaran on which Lothar von Richthofen had sailed downRiver only ten days ago. Through the starboard ports Sam saw a squat figure with tawny hair coming out of the gateway of King John’s log palace. Behind him came bodyguards and sycophants.
King John was making sure that von Richthofen did not give Sam Clemens any secret messages from Elwood Hacking.
The ex-monarch of England, present coruler of Parolando, wore a kilt with red and black checks, a poncholike arrangement of towels, and knee-length, red-leather Riverdragon boots. Around his thick waist was a wide belt with a number of sheaths containing steel daggers, a short sword, and a steel ax. One hand held a steel rod coronet, one of many sources of contention between Sam and King John. Sam did not want to waste metal on such useless anachronisms, but John had insisted and Sam had given in.
Sam found some satisfaction now in thinking about the name of his little nation. Parolando in Esperanto meant pair land and was so called because two men governed it. But Sam had not mentioned to John that another translation could be Twain Land.
John followed a hard-dirt path around a long, low factory building, and then he was at the foot of the staircase of Sam’s quarters. His bodyguard, a big thug named Sharkey, pulled the bell rope and the little bell tinkled.
Sam stuck his head out and shouted, “Come aboard, John!”
John looked up at him from pale blue eyes and motioned to Sharkey to precede him. John was cautious about assassins, and he had reason to be. He was also resentful about having to come to Sam, but he had known that von Richthofen would report to Sam first.
Sharkey entered, inspected Sam’s pilothouse, and looked through the three rooms of the texas. Sam heard a growl, as low and powerful as a lion’s, from the rear bedroom. Sharkey came back swiftly and closed the door.
Sam smiled and said, “Joe Miller may be sick, but he can still eat ten Polish prizefighters for breakfast and call for a second helping.”
Sharkey did not reply. He signaled through the port that John could come up without fear of being ambushed.
The catamaran was beached now, and the tiny figure of von Richthofen was coming across the plain, holding his grail in one hand and the wooden winged ambassadorial staff in the other. Through the other port Sam could see the lanky figure of de Bergerac leading a platoon toward the south wall. Livy was not in sight.
John entered.
Sam said, “Bonan matenon, Johano!”
It galled John that Sam refused to address him as Via Reĝa Moŝ—Your Majesty—in private. La Konsulo—the Consul—was their correct title and even that came reluctantly from Sam’s lips. Sam encouraged others to call him La Estro, The Boss, because that angered John even more.
John grunted and sat down at the round table. Another bodyguard, a big dark proto-Mongolian with massive bones and immensely powerful muscles, Zaksksromb, who presumably had died about 30,000 B.C., lit up a huge brown cigar for John. Zak, as he was known, was the strongest man in Parolando, with the exception of Joe Miller. And it could be argued that Joe Miller was not a man—or, at least, certainly not Homo sapiens.
SAM wished Joe would get out of bed. Zak made him nervous. But Joe was sedating himself with dreamgum. Two days ago a chunk of siderite had slipped from a crane’s tongs as Joe was passing beneath it. The operator swore it had been an accident, but Sam had his suspicions.
Sam puffed on his cigar and said, “Hear anything about your nephew lately?”
John did not start, but his eyes did widen a trifle. He looked at Sam across the table.
“No, should I?”
“I just wondered. I’ve been thinking about asking Arthur down for a conference. There’s no reason why you two should be trying to kill each other. This isn’t Earth, you know. Why can’t we call off old feuds? What if you did drop him off in a sack into the estuary? Let bygones be bygones. We could use his wood, and we need more limestone for calcium carbonate and magnesium. He’s got plenty.”
John glared, then hooded his eyes and smiled.
Tricky John, Sam thought. Smooth John. Despicable John.
“To get wood and limestone we’d have to pay with steel arms,” John said. “I’m not about to permit my dear nephew to get his hands on more steel.”
“Just thought I’d broach the subject to you,” Sam said, “because at noon—”
John stiffened. “Yes?”
“Well, I thought I’d bring up the subject to the Council. We might have a vote on it.”
John relaxed. “Oh?”
Sam thought, You think you’re safe. You’ve got Pedro Ansúrez and Frederick Rolfe on your side and a five-to-three vote in the Council is a nay vote…
Once again he contemplated suspending the Magna Carta so that things could be done that needed to be done. But that might mean civil war and that could mean the end of the dream.
He paced back and forth while John described in a loud voice and sickening detail his latest conquest of his latest blonde. Sam tried to ignore the words; he still got mad because the man boasted, although by now any woman who accepted John had only herself to blame.
THE little bell tinkled. Lothar von Richthofen entered. He was now wearing his hair long and so, with his handsome, somewhat Slavic features, he looked like a less stocky and better-looking Göring. The two had known each other well during World War I, since both had served under Baron Manfred von Richthofen, Lothar’s older brother. Lothar was a wild, brash and essentially likable person, but this morning his smiles and his debonair bearing were gone.
“What’s the bad news?” Sam said.
Lothar took the cup of bourbon that Sam offered, downed it, and said, “Sinjoro Hacking has just about finished putting up fortifications. Soul City has walls twelve feet high and ten thick on all fronts. Hacking was nasty to me, very nasty. He called me an ofejo and a honkio, words new to me. I did not care to ask him for an explanation.”
“Ofejo might be from the English ofay,” Sam said, “but I never heard the other word. Honkio?”
“You’ll hear those words a lot in the future,” Lothar said, “if you deal with Hacking. And you will. Hacking finally got down to business after spewing out a torrent of abuse, mostly about my Nazi ancestors. I never heard of the Nazis on Earth, you know, since I died in a plane crash in 1922. He seemed to be angry about something—maybe his anger had nothing to do with me originally. But the essence of his speech was that he might cut off the bauxite and other minerals.”
Sam leaned on the table until things came back into focus. Then he said, “I’ll take a shot of Kentucky courage myself.”
Von Richthofen continued, “It seems that Hacking isn’t too happy with the makeup of his state. It’s one-fourth Harlem blacks who died between 1960 and 1980, you know, and one-eighth eighteenth-century Dahomean blacks. But he has a one-fourth nonblack population of nineteenth-century Wahhabi Arabs, fanatics who still claim that Mohammed is their prophet and they’re here just for a short trial period. Then there is the one-fourth composed of thirteenth
-century Asiatic-Indian, Dravidian, black-skinned Caucasians, and one-eighth of people from anywhere and anytime. A slight majority of the one-eighth is twentieth-century.”
Sam nodded. Though resurrected humanity consisted of persons who lived from 2,000,000 B.C. to A.D. 2008, one-fourth had been born after A.D. 1899—if estimates were correct.
“Hacking wants his Soul City to be almost entirely black. He said that he had believed that integration was possible when he lived on Earth. The young whites of his day were free of the racial prejudices of their elders and he had known hope. But there aren’t too many of his former white contemporaries in his land. And the Wahhabi Arabs are driving him out of his mind. Hacking became a Moslem on Earth, did you know that? First, he was a Black Muslim, an American home-grown variety. Then he became a real Moslem, made a pilgrimage to Mecca, and was quite certain that the Arabs, even if they were white, were not racists.
“But the massacre of the Sudanese blacks by the Sudanese Arabs and the history of Arabic enslavement of blacks disturbed him. Anyway, these nineteenth-century Wahhabi are not racist—they’re just religious fanatics and too much trouble. He didn’t say so, but I was there ten days and I saw enough. The Wahhabis want to convert Soul City to their brand of Moslemism, and if they can’t do it peacefully, they’ll do it bloodily. Hacking wants to get rid of them and the Dravidians, who seem to regard themselves as superior to Africans of any color. Anyway, Hacking will continue to furnish us bauxite if we will send him all our black citizens in return for his Wahhabi and Dravidian citizens. Plus an increased amount of steel arms. Plus a larger share in the raw siderite.”