Everything was picked up and carried on out into The River. The factories crumbled as if they were made of cookies. The gigantic Riverboat was lifted up like a toy boat cast into the ocean surf. It rode out into The River, pitching, and then was sunk in darkness and turmoil. Sam threw himself on the ground and clawed at the grass. His boat was lost! Everything was lost, factories, mines, amphibians, airplanes, smithies, armories, and his crew. But worst of all, the Riverboat was lost. The dream was shattered; the great shining jewel of his dream had been smashed.
The grass was cold and wet in his face. His fingers felt as if they were fastened in the flesh of the earth and would never come free again. But Joe’s huge hand lifted him up and sat him down as if he were a dummy. Joe’s monstrous hairy body was pressed close to his, warming him. And Joe’s grotesque face with the shelving brows and the absurdly long nose was by him.
“They’re all gone!” Joe said. “Jethuth! Vhat a thight! There ain’t nothing left, Tham!”
The plain was buried under a whirl and toss of waters, but in fifteen minutes the waters had drained off. The River had resumed its normal appearance along the shores of Parolando, though it must have been swollen downstream.
The great buildings and the boat in its scaffoldings were gone. The cyclopean walls on the sides, a mile apart, were gone. There were little lakes here and there where the mines and the basements of the factories had been. The vast weight of water had gouged out part of the plain where it had been dug up. But the roots of the grasses were so deep, so tough, and so thickly intertwined that even the scrape of hundreds of thousands of tons of water had not ripped the earth out. The stone and earth walls along the banks had been swept away as if they were sand.
The skies paled, and the starlit darkness became gray. The great fleet of the invaders was gone, somewhere far down The River, or under it, broken, smashed, fragments floating or half hulls upside down. The two armies on the plain and the sailors were all dead, crushed by the weight of the water, drowned, rubbed into nothing or squeezed out like toothpaste.
But Parolando extended for ten miles along The River, and the lake had, after all, only raged across a two-mile-broad area. Its main damage had been in the middle of Parolando, where it had carried everything out that stood within a half-mile-wide area. Those on the edges had been drowned and the buildings smashed or only submerged briefly.
Dawn brought with it a thousand men in boats or over the walls of Chernsky’s Land from the north.
At their head was King John.
Sam drew up his men in battle formation with Joe Miller in the center, but King John limped forward, his hand held out in sign of peace. Sam went forward to talk to him. Even after John had explained what he had done, Sam expected to be killed. But later he realized that John needed him and Firebrass and others if he were going to get the boat rebuilt. Also, he would be taking a perverted pleasure in keeping Sam alive while Sam wondered when the dagger in the night would come.
As it turned out, not everything had to be started from scratch again. The boat, almost entirely undamaged, was found beached on a hill across The River a mile down. It had been deposited as gently as a cat’s footstep by the withdrawing waters. The work of getting the great hull back was not easy, but it took much less time than making another one.
John explained more than once to Sam what he had done, but the deviousnesses and the two times two double crosses were so complicated that Sam could never see the picture as a whole. John had made a deal to betray Sam, knowing full well that Hacking would betray him also. John would have been disappointed if Hacking had not tried to stab him in the back. He would have lost all his faith in human nature.
John had made a deal with Iyeyasu to help him invade after Hacking’s invasion. Iyeyasu liked the idea that Hacking would weaken his forces while taking Parolando. At the last moment, John had made a deal with Publius Crassus, Tai Fung, and Chernsky that they would help him mop up on Iyeyasu’s forces, which would be shattered by the waters released by the blown-up dam.
John had sent the three men to set off the explosives in the dam when the greatest number of invaders and defenders would be concentrated between the funneling secondary-defense walls. Before that happened, John had fled in his boat, hidden by the fog.
“Then you weren’t in your palace when the cannons opened up on it?” Sam said.
“No,” John replied, smiling his cat’s smile. “I was miles to the north, traveling to meet Iyeyasu. You have never thought much of me, Samuel, but you should get down on your knees now and kiss my hand in gratitude. Without me, you would have lost all.”
“If you had told me Hacking was going to invade, I could have kept everything,” Sam said. “We could have ambushed Hacking.”
The sun came up and struck the tawniness of John’s hair and the peculiar pale-blue of his eyes. “Ah, yes, but Iyeyasu would still have been a formidable problem. Now he’s gone, and there is little to keep us from ruling all the land we need, including the bauxite and platinum of Soul City and the iridium and tungsten of Selinujo. I presume you have no objections to conquering those two states?”
There was a bonanza in the aftermath. Hacking was taken prisoner, and Gwenafra was found alive. Both had been pushed during the fighting into the hills to the west. Hacking was getting ready to lead a charge back down the hills when the edge of the waters deluged his part. Gwenafra escaped, though she almost drowned. Hacking had been hurled against a tree. Both his legs and one arm were broken, and he was bleeding internally.
Sam and John hastened to where Hacking lay under an irontree. Gwenafra cried when she saw them and embraced Sam and Lothar. She seemed to have given Sam a much longer embrace than she did Lothar, which was not entirely unexpected, since she and Lothar had been quarreling violently for the last few months.
John wanted to finish Hacking off with some refined tortures, preferably as soon after breakfast as possible. Sam objected strongly. He knew that John could have his way if he insisted, since his men outnumbered Sam’s by fifty to one. But Sam was past being cautious, at that moment, anyway. And John backed away. He needed Sam and the men whose loyalty he commanded.
“You had a dream, White Sam,” Hacking said in a weak voice. “Well, I had one, too. A land where brothers and sisters could loaf and invite their souls. Where we’d be all black. You wouldn’t know what that means. No white devils, no white eyes. Just black soul brothers. It would have been as near heaven as you can get in this hell of a world. Not that we wouldn’t have had trouble, no place without trouble, man. But there wouldn’t have been any white-man trouble. It’d be all ours. But that isn’t to be.”
“You could have had your dream,” Sam said. “If you’d waited. After the boat was built, we’d have left the iron to whoever could take it. And then….”
Hacking grimaced. Sweat covered his black skin and his face was tight with pain. “Man, you must be out of your skull! You really think I believed that story about you sailing off on this quest for the Big Grail? I knew you was going to use that big boat to conquer us blacks and lock those chains around us again. An Old South whitey like you….”
He closed his eyes. Sam said, “You are wrong! If you knew me, if you’d taken the trouble to know me instead of stereotyping me….”
Hacking opened his eyes and said, “You’d lie to a nigger even when he was on his deathbed, wouldn’t you? Listen! That Nazi, Göring, he really shook me up. I didn’t tell them to torture him, just kill him, but those fanatical Arabs, you know them. Anyway, Göring gives me a message. Hail and farewell, soul brother, or something like that. I forgive you, because you know not what you do. Something like that. Ain’t that a crock? A message of love from a damn Nazi! But you know, he had changed! And he could be right. Maybe all them Second Chancers are right. Who knows? Sure seems stupid to bring us up from the dead, give us our youth back, just so some can kick and some can hurt all over again. Stupid, isn’t it?”
He stared up at Sam and then said, “Shoot
me, will you? Put me out of my pain. I’m really suffering.”
Lothar stepped up beside Sam and said, “After what you did to Gwenafra, I’ll be glad to.”
He pointed the muzzle of the big flintlock at Hacking’s head.
Hacking grinned painfully and muttered, “Rape on principle, mother! I swore off that on Earth, but that woman just brought out the devil in me! Besides, so what? What about all those black slave women you white mothers raped?”
As Sam walked away, the pistol boomed. He jumped, but he kept on walking. It was the kindest thing that Lothar could have done for Hacking. Tomorrow, he would be walking along the banks of The River somewhere far away. He and Sam might even see each other again, although Sam was not looking forward to that.
Lothar, stinking of gunpowder, caught up with him.
“I should have let him suffer. But old habits are hard to break. I wanted to kill him, so I did. That black devil just smiled at me. Then I spread his smile all over him.”
“Don’t say any more,” Sam replied. “I’m sick enough. I’m about to chuck the whole thing and settle down with a steady job of missionarying. The only ones whose suffering meant anything today were the Second Chancers.”
“You’ll get over that,” Lothar said, and he was right. But it took three years.
The land was again like a shell-pocked battlefield, stinking with fumes and black with smoke. But the great Riverboat was completed. There was nothing to do to it now except to try it out. Even the last touch, the painting of the Riverboat’s name in big black letters on the white hull, had been done. On both sides of the hull, ten feet above the waterline, were the letters NOT FOR HIRE.
“What does that mean, Sam?” he had been asked by many.
“It means just what it says, contrary to most words in print or speech,” Sam said. “The boat is no man’s to hire. It’s a free boat and its crew are free souls. No man’s.”
“And why is the boat’s launch called Post No Bills?”
“That comes from a dream I had,” Sam would say. “Somebody was trying to put up advertising on it, and I told him that the launch was built for no mercenary purpose. What do you think I am, advance agent for P. T. Barnum? I said.”
There was more to the dream, but Sam told no one except Joe about this.
“But the man who was pasting up those garish posters, advertising the coming of the greatest Riverboat of them all and the greatest Riverboat show of them all, was I!” Sam said. “I was both men in the dream!”
“I don’t get it, Tham,” Joe said.
Sam gave up on him.
28
The twenty-sixth anniversary of Resurrection Day was the day that the side-wheeler Not For Hire first turned its paddles. It was about an hour after the grailstones flamed to charge the breakfast grails. The cables and cap connected to the grailstone had been removed and the cables wound up within the hold through a port in the forward section on the starboard side. The grails had been removed from the stone a mile north and rushed to the big boat in the amphibious, armored, steam-driven launch, the Post No Bills. The fabulous Riverboat, gleaming white with red and black and green trimmings, moved out from the canal and into The River behind a huge breakwater on its starboard side. This deflected the current so that the boat would not be swung to the south as it emerged from the canal and so carried into the edge of the canal’s mouth.
Whistles blowing, iron bells clanging, the passengers cheering as they leaned over the railings, the people on the banks shouting, the magnificent paddle wheels churning, the Not For Hire moved with stately grace out into The River.
The Riverboat had an overall length of four hundred and forty feet and six inches. The beam over the paddle-wheel guards was ninety-three feet. The mean draft loaded was twelve feet. The giant electric motors driving the paddle wheels delivered ten thousand shaft horsepower and enough power left to take care of all the boat’s electrical needs, which were many. Top speed, theoretically, was forty-five miles an hour in still water. Going upstream against the fifteen-mile-an-hour current, it would be thirty. Going downstream, it would be sixty. The boat would be going up The River most of the time and cruising at fifteen miles an hour relative to the ground.
There were four decks: the so-called boiler deck, the main deck, the hurricane deck, and the landing deck. The pilothouse was at the fore edge of the hurricane deck, and the long texas, containing the captain’s and chief officers’ quarters, was behind the pilothouse. However, the pilothouse was itself double-decked. It was set forward of the two tall but thin smokestacks which rose thirty feet high. Firebrass had advised against the stacks, because the smoke from the big boilers (used only to heat water and to drive the machine guns) could be piped out on the side. But Sam had snorted and said, “What do I care about air resistance? I want beauty! And beauty is what we’ll get! Whoever heard of a Riverboat without tall, graceful, impressive smokestacks! Have you no soul, brother?”
There were sixty-five cabins, each about twelve by twelve with snap-up beds and tables and folding chairs. Each cabin had a toilet and a washbasin with hot and cold running water, and there was a shower for every six cabins.
There were three big lounges, one in the texas, one on the hurricane deck, and one on the main deck. These held pool tables, dart games, gymnastic equipment, card tables, a movie screen, and a stage for dramas or musicals, and the main deck lounge held a podium for the orchestra.
The upper deck of the pilothouse was luxuriously furnished with carved oaken chairs and tables covered with red and white and black Riverdragon-fish leather. The pilot sat in a large and comfortable swivel chair before the instrument board. On this was a bank of small closed-circuit TV screens, giving him views of the control center of the boat. Before him was a microphone which enabled him to speak to anybody on the boat. He controlled the boat with two levers on a small movable board before him. The left stick controlled the port wheel; the right, the starboard. A screen before him was a radar indicator used at night. Another screen showed him the depth of the water from the bottom of the boat as measured by sonar. A toggle on the instrument board could switch the piloting to automatic, though the rule was that a pilot had to be on duty at all times.
Sam was dressed in bleached fish-leather sandals, a white kilt, a white cape, and a white officer’s cap of plastic and leather. He wore a bleached leather belt with a bleached holster containing a ponderous Mark II .69 four-shooter pistol and a bleached sheath with a ten-inch knife.
He paced back and forth, a big green cigar in his mouth, his hands held straight down except when he removed the cigar. He watched the pilot, Robert Styles, steering the boat for the first time. Styles was an old Mississippi pilot, a handsome youth, no liar, though given to inflating facts. When he had appeared about two years before, Sam had been overcome with joy. For one of the few times in his life, he had wept. He had known Rob Styles when they were both Mississippi pilots.
Styles was nervous, as anybody would be the first time, even the steel-nerved Captain Isaiah Sellers of ancient Mississippi fame. There was nothing to piloting the boat. A one-eyed Sunday school teacher with a hangover could do it, his six-year-old child could do it, once he got the hang of the two sticks. Push forward for increased speed, put in the middle position to stop the wheels, pull back to reverse the wheels. To steer the boat to port, pull back a little on the port stick and forward a little on the starboard stick. To steer to starboard, do the reverse.
But it took some practice before the proper coordination was achieved.
Luckily, there was no memory work involved in piloting a boat on this River. There were no islands, no sandbars, and there would be few logs with snags. If the boat got too close to shallow water, sonar activated an alarm bell. If a boat was ahead at night, or a log hidden in the water, the radar or sonar would indicate it and a red light would flash.
Sam watched Styles for half an hour while the banks floated by and the thousands of people on them waved and cheered. Or cursed, sin
ce many were disappointed because they had been eliminated from the crew by the lottery. But he couldn’t hear the curses.
Then Sam took over the piloting, and, after another half hour, asked John if he would like to try. John was dressed entirely in black, as if he were determined to do just the opposite of whatever Sam did. But he took the sticks and did well for an ex-king who had never done a lick of work in his life and had always let inferiors do whatever steering was necessary.
The boat sailed up past the dead Iyeyasu’s kingdom, now split into three states again, and then Sam ordered the vessel turned back. Rob Styles got fancy and pivoted her “on a dime,” as he said, demonstrating her maneuverability. While the port wheel backed, the starboard raced at full speed and the boat rotated as if stuck on a pin. Then she headed downstream. With the current and wind behind her, and the paddle wheels turning at maximum speed, the Not For Hire raced along at sixty miles an hour. But not for too long. Sam had Styles bring her in close to the shore, where the sonar indicated about one foot of clearance between hull and bottom on the port side. Even above the slapping of the wheels and the splashing of water and the whistling and clanging of bells, they could hear the crowds. The faces whizzed by as if in a dream.
Sam opened the fore ports of the pilothouse so they could feel the wind and increase their impression of speed.
The Not For Hire raced all the way downstream to Selinujo, and then it turned again. Sam wished, almost, that there was another boat that he could race against. But it was being in heaven to have the only metal, electrically powered Riverboat in existence. A man couldn’t have everything, not even in the after-Earthlife.
During the return trip, the huge hatch in the stern was lowered, and the launch slipped out through the entrance into The River. It cut back and forth at top speed and raced ahead of the mother boat. Its steam machine guns traced lines along the water, and the thirty steam guns on the Not For Hire shot back, though not at the launch.