“There was a belief for a long time that you were insane by the time you had written The Voyage to the Moon and The Voyage to the Sun. That was because your books were so heavily censored. By the time the churchly Grundies had slashed your texts, much of it made no sense. But the text was eventually restored as much as possible, and by the time I was born, an unexpurgated text had been published in English.”
“I am happy to hear that! I knew from what Clemens and others said that I had become a literary Olympian, if not a Zeus at least a Ganymede, a cupbearer in the ranks of the exalted. But your sneering remark that I was superstitious hurt me very much, mademoiselle. It is true, as you observed, that I believed that the waning moon did suck up the marrow from the bones of animals. Now you say that that is sheer rot. Very well, I accept that. And I was wrong, along with millions of others of my time and God knows how many before my time.
“But this was a minuscule, a harmless error. What did it matter, what injury did it do to anyone, to have this misconception? The superstition, the grave error, that really harmed people, many millions of human beings, I assure you, was the stupid, barbarous belief in sorcery, in the ability of human beings to wreak evil through spells, chants, black cats, and the enlistment of devils as allies. I wrote a letter against that ignorant and vicious belief, that social system, rather. I contended that the grotesque legal sentences and the savagely cruel tortures and executions inflicted upon insane or innocent people in the name of God and the battle against Evil were themselves the essence of evil.
“Now, it is true that this letter I speak of, Against Sorcerers, was not published while I was alive. With good reason. I would have been tortured and burned alive. It was, however, circulated among my friends. It did show that I was not as you made me out to be. I was ahead of my time in many respects, though I was not, of course, the only person in that unhappy situation.”
“I know this,” she said. “And I apologized once. Would you have me do it again?”
“It is not necessary,” he said. His broad smile made him look handsome, or at least attractive, despite his large nose.
Jill picked up her grail by its handle and said, “Just about dinnertime.”
Jill knew something about the man called Odysseus, having heard occasional references. He had appeared without notice, seemingly from nowhere, when Clemens’ and King John’s forces were battling invaders who wanted to seize the meteorite ore. He had killed the enemy leader with a well-placed arrow, worked havoc among the other officers, and so had given the defenders the advantage they needed for victory.
Odysseus of Ithaca claimed to be the historical Odysseus on whom Homer’s mythical character was based. He was one of the host who had fought before the walls of Troy, though he stated that the real Troy was not where the scholars said it was. Its location was elsewhere, much farther south on the coast of Asia Minor.
Jill, first hearing about this, had not known whether to believe that the man was truly Odysseus or not. There were so many impostors on the Riverworld. But there was one thing that made her think that he might actually be the historical Ithacan. Why should he say that Troy VIIa, which even the archaeologists and Hellenists of her day had said was the true Ilion, was not the genuine site? Why would he claim that the historical Troy was someplace else?
Whatever the reason, he was no longer around. He had disappeared as mysteriously as he had appeared. Agents sent to track him down had failed. Firebrass had continued to search for him after Clemens left on the Mark Twain. One of the searchers, Jim Sorley, had finally found some trace of the Greek, though it showed only that he had not been murdered by John’s men.
Jill had wondered several times why Odysseus had volunteered to fight for Clemens’ side. Why would a stranger who had seemingly blundered onto the battle pick out one force and risk his life for it? What had he to gain, especially since it seemed that he had known none of the participants on either force? She had once asked Firebrass about this, and he had said that he just did not know. Sam Clemens might be able to enlighten her, but he had never volunteered a word on the subject.
Firebrass had added, “However, Odysseus may have been here for the same reason that Cyrano and I were. We wanted to get on the paddle wheeler so we could get to the polar sea.”
She thought it was strange that no one had thought of building a dirigible until shortly before the second Riverboat was completed. Why take decades traveling to the arctic region on a surface vessel when an airship could get there in a few days?
Firebrass said, grinning, “Just one of those mysteries of life. Man, pardon me, humanity, sometimes can’t see the nose on his own face. Then somebody comes along and holds up a mirror to him.”
“If mankind had a nose like mine,” Cyrano said, “he would never have that trouble.”
In this case the person with the mirror had been August von Parseval. On Earth he had been a major in the German Army, and he had also designed airships for a German company. His type of dirigible was used by both the German and the British governments between 1906 and 1914.
Shortly before the Mark Twain was ready to leave Parolando, von Parseval had come along. He was amazed that no one had suggested that a Luftschiff would be a faster means of transportation than a boat.
After Firebrass had mentally kicked himself for this oversight, he had hastened to Clemens, taking the German with him.
Surprisingly, Clemens said that he had long ago considered building a dirigible. After all, had he not written Tom Sawyer Abroad? Had not Tom, Jim, and Huckleberry traveled from Missouri to the Sahara in a balloon?
Amazed, Firebrass asked him why he had not mentioned this.
“Because I knew some all-fired fool would want to drop all the work on the boat faster than a burglar drops his tools when he sees a policeman! He’d want to abandon the Riverboat and put all work and materials into a flying machine!
“No, siree! This boat takes precedence over everything else, as Noah said when his wife wanted to knock off work to go to a rain dance.
“By the blazing balls of the Bull of Bashan, there’ll be no dirigible! It’s a chancy thing, a dangerous device. Why, I wouldn’t even be allowed to smoke a cigar on it, and if I can’t do that, what’s the use of living?”
Clemens gave additional objections, most of them more serious. Firebrass, however, perceived that Clemens was not going to voice his main reason. Getting to the tower was not genuinely important to Clemens. It was the voyage itself that mattered to him. To build the greatest Riverboat that had ever been built, to be its captain, its lord, to voyage for millions of kilometers in the splendid vessel, to be admired and adored and wondered at by billions, that was what Sam Clemens desired.
Moreover, he wanted revenge. He wanted to track and then to catch up with and destroy King John for having robbed him of his first boat, his first love, the Not For Hire.
It might take forty years to get from Parolando to the mountains that ringed the polar sea. Sam did not care. Not only would he be the revered owner and operator of the biggest and most beautiful Riverboat mankind had ever seen, he would be going on the longest voyage any vessel, bar none, had ever taken. Forty years? Put that in your pipe, Columbus, Magellan, and smoke it!
Also, he would be seeing and talking to hundreds of thousands. This delighted Sam, who was as curious about human beings as a housewife was about new neighbors.
If he went in an airship he would have no strangers to talk to.
Though Firebrass was as gregarious as a flock of ducks, he did not understand this attitude. He himself was too eager to solve the mystery of the tower. The key to all that puzzled humanity might be there.
He did not point out to Clemens what he believed to be his real reason for his objections to the airship. It would do no good. Sam would look him straight in the eye and deny everything.
However, Sam did know that he was in the wrong. And so, sixty days before the Mark Twain was to depart, he called Firebrass in.
“A
fter I leave, you can build your highly inflammable folly, if you insist on it. Of course, that means you’ll have to resign as chief engineer of the most magnificent creation of man. But you must use the dirigible for observation only, as a scout.”
“Why?”
“Now how by the brass balls of burning Baal could it be used for anything else but that? It can’t land on the tower or anyplace else, can it? According to Joe Miller, the mountains are sheer and there’s no beach. And…”
“How would Joe know there’s no beach? The sea was covered by fog. All he saw was the upper part of the tower.”
Sam had puffed smoke that looked like angry dragons. “It stands to reason the people that made that sea wouldn’t make a beach. Would they make a place from which invaders could launch a boat? Of course not.
“Anyway, what I want you to do is to find out the lay of the land. See if there’s a passage through the mountains other than what Joe described. Find out if the tower can be entered otherwise than by the roof.”
Firebrass had not argued. He would do what he wished to do when he got to the pole. Clemens would have no control of him then.
“I took off then, happy as a dog that’s rid of his fleas. I told von Parseval about Sam’s decision, and we had a big celebration. But two months later poor old August was swallowed by a dragonfish. I barely missed going down its gullet with him.”
At this point in his story, Firebrass revealed a secret to Jill.
“You must swear by your honor not to tell anyone else. I wouldn’t be telling you, except that the boat is long gone, and there’s no way you could get the information to King John. Not that you would, of course.”
“I promise to keep it to myself—whatever it is.”
“Well… one of our engineers was a California scientist. He knew how to make a laser with a range of 404 meters. Within that distance, it could slice the Rex in two. And we had just enough materials to make one. So Sam had it done.
“It was a highly secret project, so secret that there are only six men on the Mark Twain who know of its existence. The laser is concealed in a compartment known only to these six, of whom Sam is one, of course. Even his buddy, Joey, doesn’t know about it.
“When the Mark Twain catches up with the Rex, the laser will be brought out and mounted on a tripod. The battle ought to be short and sweet. Sweet for Sam, bitterly short for John. It’ll also cut down the casualties tremendously for both sides.
“I was in on the secret because I was one of the engineers on the project. Before it was completed, I asked Sam if it could be left behind. I wanted to take it on the airship and use it to burn an entrance into the tower if we could not get in otherwise.
“But Sam flat out refused. He said that if anything happened to the airship, the laser would be lost. I wouldn’t be able to return it to the Mark Twain. I argued like mad, but I lost. And Sam did have a strong point. There’s no way of knowing what dangers we’ll run into, meteorological or otherwise.
“However, it was very frustrating.”
Jill was about to ask him if he had not sent scouts out to look for materials to make another laser. At that moment Firebrass’ secretary knocked at the door. Would Mr. Firebrass see Piscator?
Firebrass said he would. The Japanese entered and, after inquiring about their health, said that he had good news. The engineers making the synthetic diesel-oil fuel would be able to deliver the first supply a week ahead of time.
“That’s great!” Firebrass said. He grinned at Jill. “That means you can take the Minerva up tomorrow! Start the training seven days ahead of schedule! Fabulous!”
Jill felt even happier.
Firebrass proposed a drink to celebrate. The skull-bloom had no sooner been poured, however, than the secretary entered again.
Smiling broadly, she said, “I wouldn’t interrupt if it weren’t so important. I think we’ve got a new airshipman for you, one with much experience. He just got here a few minutes ago.”
Jill’s near-ecstasy whistled out of her, like gas from a ruptured cell. Her chest seemed to be caving in on her. So far, she had seemed to have the post of first mate secured. But here was a person who might have as much, or even more, experience than she. A male, of course. He might even be an officer of the Graf Zeppelin or the Hindenburg. A veteran of the large rigid dirigibles would have more clout, in Firebrass’ estimation, than one with only blimp experience.
Her heart beating hard, she looked at the man who followed the secretary into the office. She did not recognize him, but that meant little. There were scores of airship personnel of her day and of the pre-Hindenburg era whose photographs she had not seen. Besides, those pictures had been of middle-aged men who wore civilian clothes or uniforms. And many of them had facial hair.
“Chief Firebrass,” Agatha Rennick said. “Barry Thorn.”
The newcomer wore fish-skin sandals, a bright red-, white-, and blue-striped kilt, and a long black cloth fastened at the throat. The handle of his grail was in one hand and the neck of a large fish-skin bag in the other.
He stood about 1.7 meters tall, and his shoulders seemed to be almost half that wide. His physique was massive, irresistibly evoking to Jill the image of a bull. Yet his legs, though thickly muscled, were long in proportion to his trunk. His chest and arms were gorillalike, but he had almost no pectoral hair.
Short, curly yellow hair framed a broad face. The eyebrows were straw colored; the eyes, a dark blue. His nose was long and straight. The lips were full. Smiling, he revealed very white teeth. The jaw was thick, ending in a prominent rounded, deeply cleft chin. The ears were small and close to his head.
At Firebrass’ invitation he put down the grail and bag. He flexed his fingers as if they had been carrying a load for a long time. Probably, though, he had been paddling a canoe for a long distance. Despite the broadness of his hands, the fingers were long and slim.
He seemed very much at ease despite being with strangers and facing an interview on his qualifications. In fact, he radiated a well-being and a magnetism that inevitably made Jill think of that much overused and often inappropriate word “charisma.”
Later, she would find that he had a curious gift of being able to shut that off as if it were light from a lamp. Then, despite his obvious physical qualities, he seemed almost to become one with his background. A psychic chameleon.
Jill, glancing at Piscator, saw that he was intensely curious about the stranger. His black eyes were narrowed, and his head was cocked slightly to one side, as if he were listening to some soft, faraway sound.
Firebrass shook hands with Thorn.
“Wow! What a grip! Glad to have you aboard, sir, if you are what Agatha claims you are. Sit down, take a load off your feet. Have you traveled a long way? You have? Forty thousand stones? Would you care for food? Coffee? Tea? Booze or beer?”
Thorn declined everything except the chair. He spoke in a very pleasant baritone without the usual pauses, hesitations, and incomplete phrases that distinguished the speech of most people.
Finding that Thorn was a Canadian, Firebrass switched from Esperanto to English. In a few minutes of questioning, he got a capsule biography of the newcomer.
Barry Thorn was born in 1920 on his parents’ farm outside Regina, Saskatchewan. After getting a degree in electromechanical engineering in 1938, he enlisted in the British Navy while in England. During the war, he was the commander of a naval blimp. He married an American girl and after the war went to the States to live because his wife, an Ohioan who wanted to be close to her parents, had insisted. Besides, the opportunities were better there for blimp pilots.
He picked up a commercial pilot’s license also, intending to work for the American airlines. But after his divorce he quit Goodyear and became a bush pilot for several years in the Yukon. Then he had returned to Goodyear and married again. After his second wife died, he had gotten a job with a newly formed British–West German airship company. For some years he had captained a great blimp-tug which towe
d floating containers of natural gas from the Middle East to Europe.
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 downRiver, 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.”