The big three-place amphibian monoplane came out of the opening in the stern, too, and its wings were straightened out and locked, and then it took off. Firebrass was at the controls with his woman and Gwenafra as passengers.
A moment later, the tiny, one-seater open-cockpit scout-fighter was shot off the top of the texas by a steam catapult. Lothar von Richtofen took it up, the wood-alcohol-burning motor buzzing, and raced ahead until he was out of sight. Then he returned, climbed, and entertained with the first aerial acrobatics that the Riverworld had ever seen—to the best of Sam’s knowledge.
Lothar concluded with a dive at the end of which he fired four rockets into the water and then the twin machine guns. These were .80 caliber and shot aluminum bullets from aluminum cartridges. There were one hundred thousand of these stored on the boat, and when they were all gone, they would not be replaced.
Lothar landed the tiny monoplane on the landing deck, the top of the texas, and the devices caught the hook trailed out by the plane. Even so, the whirling propeller stopped only ten feet from the smokestacks. Lothar took the plane up again and again landed. Then Firebrass returned in the amphibian, and he later took the wheeled plane up for one flight.
Sam looked down through the port front at the marines drilling on the fore part of the broad boiler deck. Under the midnoon sun, which heated the air to an estimated eighty degrees Fahrenheit, they marched back and forth and performed intricate maneuvers under Cyrano’s orders. Their silvery duralumin plumed helmets were like those of the ancient Romans. They wore gray-and-red-striped chainmail shirts which fell halfway down their thighs. Their legs were cased in leather boots. They carried rapiers and long knives and the Mark II pistols. They were the pistoleers only, however. The main part of the marines were watching the show; these were the bowmen and the rocketeers.
Seeing Gwenafra’s honey-colored head in the crowd on the main deck made him happy.
He saw Livy’s dark head near her, and he was unhappy.
Gwenafra, after another six months of jealousy-ridden life with von Richthofen, had accepted Sam’s offer and moved in with him. But Sam still could not see Livy without some pain of loss.
If it were not for Livy, and for John’s presence, he would have been as happy as he could be. But she would be with them throughout the possible forty years of the journey. And John, well, John made him uneasy and prowled through his nightmares.
John had been so willing to let Sam be the captain and so unhesitant about accepting the first mate’s position that Sam knew he was up to no good. But when would The Mutiny, as Sam thought of it, take place? It was inevitable that John would try to take over the full command of the Riverboat, and any intelligent man, knowing this, would have dumped him, one way or the other.
But Sam had been too conscience-stricken by his killing of Bloodaxe. He could not commit another assassination, not even if he knew that John would not be permanently dead. A corpse was a corpse, and a double cross was a double cross.
The question was, when would John strike? At the beginning, or much later during the voyage, when Sam’s suspicions had been lulled?
Actually, the situation was intolerable. But then it was surprising how much intolerableness a man could tolerate.
A yellow-haired, near-giant entered the pilothouse. His name was Augustus Strubewell, he was John’s aide-de-camp, and he had been picked up by John during his sojourn in Iyeyasujo after Hacking’s invasion. He had been born in 1971 in San Diego, California, had been an All-American fullback, a captain of the U.S. Marines, decorated for bravery in the Middle East and South America, and had made a career in the movies and TV. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, except that, like John, he bragged of his conquests among women. Sam did not trust him. Anybody who worked for John Lackland had to have something wrong with him.
Sam shrugged. He might as well enjoy himself for the moment. Why let anything rob him of the joy of the greatest day of his life?
He leaned out of the port and watched the marine drill team and the crowd. The sun sparkled on waves, and the breeze was cooling. If it became too warm, he could shut the ports and turn on the air conditioning. From the tall pole on the bow the flag of the Not For Hire flapped in the wind. It was square and bore a scarlet phoenix on a light-blue field. The phoenix symbolized the rebirth of mankind.
He waved at the people massed along the bank and pressed a button which set off a series of steam whistles and clanging of bells.
He drew in smoke from his fine cigar and stuck his chest out and paraded back and forth. Strubewell handed John a glass full of bourbon, and then he offered Sam another. Everybody in the pilothouse—Styles, the six other pilots, Joe Miller, von Richthofen, Firebrass, Publius Crassus, Mozart, Strubewell, and three other of John’s aides—took a glass.
“A toast, gentlemen,” John said in Esperanto. “To a long and happy journey and may we all get what we deserve.”
Joe Miller, standing near Sam, the top of his head almost touching the ceiling, held a glass containing about half a quart of bourbon. He sniffed at the amber liquor with his monstrous proboscis and then tasted it with the tip of his tongue.
Sam was just about to toss the four-ounce drink down when he saw Joe’s apish face grimace.
“What’s the matter, Joe?” he said.
“Thith thtuff hath thomething in it!”
Sam sniffed and could detect nothing but the most excellent of Kentucky’s best.
But when John and Strubewell and the others reached for their weapons, he threw the liquor in John’s face. Yelling, “It’s poison!” he dived for the floor.
Strubewell’s Mark II pistol boomed. The plastic bullet shattered against the bulletproof plastic of the port above Sam’s head.
Joe roared—he sounded like a lion suddenly released from its cage—and he threw his liquor into Strubewell’s face.
The other aides fired once and then they fired again. The Mark II pistols were four-shot revolvers which electrically ignited the powder in the aluminum cartridges. They were even larger and heavier than the Mark I’s, but they could be fired much more swiftly, and cordite, not black gunpowder, propelled the plastic bullets.
The pilothouse became a fury of booming, deafening explosives, the scream of shattered plastic ricocheting, the shouts and screams of men, and the bellowing of Joe.
Sam rolled over, reached up, and flicked the automatic pilot switch. Rob Styles was on the floor, his arm almost torn off. One of John’s aides was dying in front of him. Strubewell went flying over him and banged against the glass and then fell on him. John was gone, fled down the ladder.
Sam crawled out from under Strubewell. Four of his pilots were dead. All of the aides, except for Strubewell, who was only unconscious, were dead. Their necks had been broken or their jaws shattered by Joe. Mozart was crouched quivering in a corner. Firebrass was bleeding from the many plastic fragments, and Lothar was bleeding from a gash in his arm. One of the aides had struck him with a knife just before Joe twisted his head 180 degrees.
Sam arose shakily and looked out the port. The crowd watching the marines had dispersed, but not without leaving a dozen bodies behind. The marines on the boiler deck were firing at men shooting at them from around the sides of the main deck. Some of the fire seemed to be coming from the cabin ports in the main deck.
Cyrano stood with his rapidly dwindling crew of marines, shouting orders. Then John’s men charged, firing, and Cyrano went down. But he was up again, his sword silvery and then red. The enemy broke and ran away, and Cyrano ran after them. Sam shouted, “You fool! Go back!” but he was not heard, of course.
He tried to struggle out of his shock. John had slipped something into their drinks, poison or a sedative, and only Joe’s sub-humanly sensitive nose had saved them from drinking and then keeling over and allowing John to take over the pilothouse with little trouble.
He looked out the starboard port. Only a half mile ahead was the huge breakwater behind which the boat was to anchor for the
night. Tomorrow, the long journey would officially begin. Would have begun, he thought.
He flicked off the automatic pilot toggle switch and took the control sticks in his hands.
“Joe,” he said, “I’m going to run this right up alongside the bank. I may even ground us. Get out the bullhorn. I’ll tell the people ashore what’s happened, and we’ll get help.”
He pulled back on the starboard stick and advanced the port stick.
“What’s wrong?” he yelled.
The boat was proceeding straight on its course up The River, holding to a distance of about a hundred yards off the shore.
He moved the sticks back and forth, frantically, but the boat did not deviate.
John’s voice came from the intercom.
“It’s no use, Samuel, Boss, Captain, swine! I have control of the boat. My engineer, the man who will be chief engineer, put in a duplicate set of controls…never mind where. I have cut off your controls, and the boat will go where I want it to. So you don’t have any advantage at all. Now my men will storm the pilothouse and take you. But I would prefer that there be as little damage as possible. So, if you will just get off the boat, I will let you go unharmed. Provided, that is, that you can swim a hundred yards.”
Sam raged and swore and pounded his fists on the instrument panel. But the boat continued on past the dock, while the crowds gathered there waved and cheered and wondered why the boat did not stop.
Lothar, looking out of the stern port, said, “They’re trying to sneak up on us!” and he fired at a man who had appeared around the far end of the texas on the hurricane deck.
“We can’t hold out long!” Firebrass said. “We don’t have much ammunition!”
Sam looked at the fore ports. Some men and women had run out onto the boiler deck and then turned for a stand.
Livy was among them.
There was another charge. A man thrust at Cyrano, who was engaged in running his rapier through the man next to him. Livy tried to knock the blade aside with her pistol, which must have been empty, but the sword went into her stomach. She fell backward with the sword still sticking out of her. The man who had killed her died a second later, when Cyrano’s rapier went through his throat.
Sam cried, “Livy! Livy!” and he was out through the door of the pilothouse and running down the ladder. Bullets screamed by him and smashed against the bulkheads and the ladder. He felt a stinging and then heard a shouting behind him, but he did not stop. He was vaguely aware that Joe Miller and the others had run out after him. Perhaps they were trying to rescue him or perhaps they knew that they might as well get out now before they were overwhelmed in the trap of the pilothouse.
There were corpses and wounded everywhere. John’s men had not been numerous; he had depended upon surprise, and it had not failed him. Dozens had been shot down in the first volleys, and dozens more had been shot during the panic. Many more had jumped into the water, seeing that there was no way of escape, no place to hide, and they were not armed.
Now the boat was turning into shore, its paddle wheels operating at full speed, the water flying, the wheels chuff-chuffing, the deck trembling. John was turning the boat into shore, where a number of heavily armed men and women awaited him.
These would be the disaffected, the people who were angered because the lottery had cut them out of a place on the crew. Once they got aboard, they would sweep away the few left in Sam’s party.
Sam had run along the hurricane deck after leaving the pilothouse ladder. He held a pistol with two shots left in it and his rapier in the other hand. He did not know how they had gotten into his hands; he had no memory of having removed them from his holster and sheath.
A face appeared at the edge of the deck on the ladder just ahead. He fired at it, and the face dropped back. He was on the edge of the deck then and shooting even as he leaned over to look down the ladder. The plastic bullet did not miss this time. The man’s chest erupted red, and he fell back down the ladder, taking two men with him. But others on the deck below raised their pistols, and he had to jump back. The volley missed him, though some bullets striking the edge blew apart and the fragments stung him on the legs.
Joe Miller, behind him, said, “Tham! Tham! There’th nothing to do but jump for it! They got uth thurrounded!”
Below, Cyrano, still wielding his rapier, holding off three men at one time, backed to the railing. Then his blade pierced a throat, the man fell, and Cyrano whirled and leaped over the railing. When he came up he began to swim strongly to get away from the starboard paddle wheel thrashing toward him.
Bullets struck the sides of the cabins behind Sam, and Lothar cried, “Jump, Sam! Jump!”
But they could not jump yet. They could not have cleared the main deck below, let alone the boiler deck.
Joe had already turned and was running with his great ax toward the men firing from behind the rear of the cabins along the hurricane deck. The bullets streaked toward him, wobbling, leaving a thin trail of smoke, but he was too far away to worry about their accuracy. And he was depending upon his terrifying aspect and his prowess, which they well knew, to panic them.
The others ran behind him until they came to the great paddle-wheel housing. This was about ten feet from the edge of the hurricane deck, and if they stood up on the railing and leaped out, they could grab hold of the big iron eyes through which cables had been secured when the housing had been lifted and then placed over the wheel by the crane.
They jumped, one after the other, while bullets screamed by. They grabbed the eye, their bodies banging into the side of the hard metal housing. But they pulled themselves up and onto the top of the housing and crawled over, stood up, and jumped out. The water was thirty feet below, a height which would have made Sam hesitate under different conditions. This time, he went out, fell straight, holding his nose, and plunged into the water feet first.
He came up in time to see Joe jump off, not from the housing but from the main deck. He had fought down the ladder and out across the deck, scattering the pygmies before him. Even so, his hairy skin was splotched with blood. He went over the side in a dive with pistols booming and arrows streaking after him.
Sam dived then, because several of the steam machine guns had been depressed and the .80 caliber bullets were probing for him.
The boat turned back about two minutes later. John must have discovered that his chief enemy had escaped. By then, Sam was ashore and running, though he thought his legs would fold under him. The firing was not renewed. Perhaps John had changed his mind about killing him. He would want Sam to suffer, and Sam would suffer most if he were still at the site of his defeat.
John’s voice boomed out from a bullhorn. “Farewell, Samuel! You fool! Thanks for building the Riverboat for me! And I will change its name to one which will suit me better! I go now to enjoy the fruits of your labors! Think of me as much as you please! Farewell!”
His bullhorn-amplified laughter blasted Sam’s ears.
Sam came out of his hiding place in a hut and climbed the wall on the edge of the water. The boat had stopped and let down a long gangplank on cables to permit the traitors to come aboard. He heard a voice below him and looked down. There was Joe, his reddish hairs black with water except where the blood was starting to appear again.
“Lothar and Firebrath and Thyrano and Johnthton made it,” he said. “How you feel, Tham?”
Sam sat down on the hard-packed dirt and said, “If it would do any good, I’d kill myself. But this world is hell, Joe, genuine hell. You can’t even commit a decent suicide. You wake up the next day, and there you are with your problems stuck on you with glue or stuck…well, never mind.”
“Vhat do ve do now, Tham?”
Sam did not reply for a long time. If he couldn’t have Livy, Cyrano could not have her, either. He could endure the thought of having lost her if she were not where he could see her.
Later, the shame at exulting in Cyrano’s loss would come.
Not now. He was
too stunned. The loss of the boat had been even a greater shock than seeing Livy killed.
After all these years of hard work, of grief, of betrayal, of planning, of hurting, of…of…
It was too much to bear.
Joe was grieved to see him cry, but he sat patiently by until Sam’s tears had quit flowing. Then he said, “Do ve thtart building another boat, Tham?”
Sam Clemens rose to his feet. The gangplank was being drawn up by the electromechanical machinery of his fabulous Riverboat. Whistles were shrilling exultantly, and bells were clanging. John would still be laughing. He might even be watching Sam through a telescope.
Sam shook his fist, hoping that John was watching him.
“I’ll get you yet, traitor John!” he howled. “I’ll build another boat, and I’ll catch up with you! I don’t care what obstacles I encounter or who gets in my way! I’ll run you down, John, and I’ll blast your stolen boat out of The River with my new boat! And nobody, absolutely nobody, the Stranger, the Devil, God, nobody, no matter what his powers, is going to stop me!
“Some day, John! Some day!”
EPILOGUE
Volume III of the Riverworld series will take Sam Clemens all the way up The River with Richard Francis Burton and the rest of The Twelve to the Misty Tower and the secret of the Ethicals.
Technological note: Potassium nitrate is prepared on the Riverworld by feeding a certain type of earthworm human excrement. The end product of this diet is crystallized potassium nitrate, which, mixed with charcoal and sulfur, makes black gunpowder.
Philip José Farmer, To Your Scattered Bodies Go/The Fabulous Riverboat
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