The Dark Design

  Finally, he ran down.

  “I’ve discharged most of my bile, for the moment, anyway. Say, why are you talking to me? Where’s Firebrass?”

  “I didn’t have a chance to say more than two words,” she said. And she described in detail the events from the moment the airship had entered the hole in the mountain.

  It was his turn to be shocked. Except, however, for some explosive curses, he did not comment until she had finished.

  “So Firebrass is dead, and you think he was one of Them? Maybe he wasn’t, Jill. Did it occur to you that the black sphere might have been implanted in a small number of us for some scientific purpose? That perhaps only one in a thousand or ten thousand has it? I don’t know what its purpose could be. Maybe it transmits brain waves which They record for use in some sort of scientific experiment. Or it could be used by Them to keep tabs on certain preselected subjects.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said. “I’d like to think that you’re right, because I hate to think that Firebrass could be one of Them.”

  “Me, too. However, the important thing just now is that a ground expedition is useless. I built those two boats for nothing. Well, not actually for nothing. There’s something to be said for life on the boat. It affords luxuries you can’t get elsewhere—except on the Rex—and it’s the fastest way to travel, although I really have no definite place to go to anymore. But I haven’t forgotten King John. I’m going to catch up with him and fix him for what he did to me.”

  “You’re wrong about one thing, Sam,” she said. “I think we can get into the tower. All I need is the laser.”

  It sounded to her as if Clemens was strangling.

  “You mean that… that Firebrass told you about it? Why, that unjudicious, ungrateful, unprincipled… garrh! I told him not to say a word! He knew how important it was to keep it a secret! Now everybody in the wheelhouse knows it. They’ve heard every word you said. I’ll have to get them to swear not to reveal it, and just how much chance is there they’ll not let it slip? If Firebrass were here, I’d choke him with one hand and stick my cigar up his ass with the other!”

  Sam went on, “Besides, you should have waited until you got here before you said anything. For all I know, John’s radiomen have been listening in to us for years! They might have figured out how our scramblers work and be taking in every word now, pleased as a hog that’s just found a fresh pile of cow flop!”

  “I’m sorry about that,” she said. “But it was necessary to mention it. We have to make arrangements for picking the laser up without landing.”

  Jill added, “I need the laser. It’s the only means we have of getting into the tower. Without it all our long labors and the deaths of several people have been in vain.”

  “And I need it to slice up John and his boat. It’s a surefire thing, double-guaranteed to get a quick victory.”

  Trying to keep the anger out of her voice, she said, “Think on it, Sam. Which is more important, revenge on King John or solving the mystery of this world, finding out why we’re here and who did this?

  “Besides, there’s no reason you can’t have both. We’ll return the laser to you after we use it.”

  “Both be damned to hell and back! How do I know you will come back? The next time you may get caught by those people. They can sit inside, smug as mice behind a wall laughing at the cat, if you can’t get to them. But when you start cutting with that laser, you think they’ll just sit on their hands and allow you to waltz on in?

  “They’ll grab you, just as they did Piscator. And then what? Besides, for all you know, the metal of the tower could be resistant to a laser beam.”

  “Too right. But we have to try. That’s the only way we can find out.”

  “All right, all right! You’ve got logic and right on your side, as if that ever won an argument! But I’m a reasonable man. So, you can have the laser!

  “But, and this is a big but, as the queen of Spain said to Dan Sickles, you’ve got to get Rotten John for me first!”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean that I want you to make a raid on the Rex. Send in a party in the chopper at night and grab John. I’d rather see him here alive, but if you can’t get him alive and kicking, kill him!”

  “That’s stupid and vicious!” Jill said. “We could lose the chopper and all the raiding party in a useless, vainglorious venture. Not to mention risking lives, we can’t afford to lose the chopper. It’s the only one we have.”

  Sam had been breathing heavily, but he waited until he had regained his wind. Now he spoke smoothly, icily.

  “It’s you that’s being stupid now. If John is gotten rid of, I won’t have any reason to pit my boat against the Rex. Think of the lives that’ll be saved. For all I care, his second-in-command, whoever he is, can take over and I’ll wish him good luck. All I want is that John doesn’t get away with all the crimes he committed and that he doesn’t get to keep the beautiful boat I toiled and sweated and plotted and suffered agonies for. And don’t forget that he tried to sink this boat, too!

  “I want that miserable excuse for a human being standing in front of me so I can tell him exactly what he is. That’s all. I promise I won’t kill him or mistreat him, if that’s bothering you. Thunderation! Why should it?

  “And when I’m done chewing him out, the most glorious verbal reaming ever given anybody since the dawn of time—it’ll make Jeremiah look tongue-tied—then I’ll put him ashore and steam away. Of course, I may maroon him among cannibals or grail slavers.

  “I promise you that, Jill.”

  “What if he has to be killed?”

  “I’ll just have to endure my disappointment.”

  “But I can’t order my men to go on such a dangerous mission.”

  “I won’t ask you to. Just ask for volunteers. If you can’t get enough, too bad. You can’t have the laser. However, I don’t anticipate any dearth of heroes. If there’s one thing I know, Jill, it’s human nature.”

  Cyrano shouted, “I will be honored to enlist, Sam!”

  “Is that you, Cyrano? Well, I have to admit you’ve not been one of my dearest friends. But if you do go, I wish you good luck. I mean it.”

  Jill was so surprised she could not speak for a moment.

  Here was the man who’d said he regarded Mars, the deity of war, as the most stupid of gods.

  When she regained her voice, she said, “Why are you doing this, Cyrano?”

  “Why? But you forget that I, too, was on the Not For Hire when John and his pirates seized it. I was almost killed. I would like to have my revenge, to see the expression on his face when he realizes that the trap is sprung on the trapper, the pirate pirated.

  “This is not your vast, impersonal war initiated by greedy, glory-mad imbeciles who do not care how many thousands are slaughtered, mutilated, driven insane, frozen, starved, dying of disease; how many children and women blown up; how many women raped or left husbandless or sonless.

  “No, this is personal. I know the man whom I would make my small, wholly justified war upon. So does Clemens, who abhors war as much as myself.”

  Jill did not argue with him. At that moment, he seemed like a little child to her. An idiot child. He still wanted to play at war, yet he had seen its miseries and horrors.

  There was nothing for her to do but go along with Sam’s proposal. She did not have to obey him, since he had no way of enforcing his orders. But if she wanted the laser, and she did, she could only carry out the raid.

  Her last hope that there would not be enough volunteers died as soon as she called for them. There were enough to get into three helicopters if they had been available.

  Perhaps, she thought, they had been so frustrated at the tower that they wanted violent action against a foe who could be seen, who would fight. But she did not really believe that.

  Clemens was right. He did know human nature. Male nature, anyway. No, that wasn’t fair. The nature of some males.

  An
hour’s discussion followed. During this Cyrano said that he could draw accurate sketches of the layout of the Rex. Clemens finally signed off, but not before making sure that he would be notified of the results of the raid the moment the helicopter returned.

  “If it returns,” she said.

  The torpedoes seemed to be dead-on, but Sam ordered the boat swung away and full power applied. A minute later, an observer at the stern reported that the torpedoes had just missed. The dirigible loomed before him, coming swiftly, seeming about to collide with the pilothouse itself. Sam yelled an order to fire a second volley away. Before that order could be obeyed, the airship exploded.

  Four bombs going off simultaneously should have blown in every port, should have caved in the hull of the boat. As it was, many ports were shattered or driven whole into the interior and people were knocked down. The boat, immense and heavy though it was, rocked. Sam was hurled to the deck along with everybody except the pilot, who was strapped in his chair. Byron was knocked unconscious as a windscreen slammed into his face.

  Sam got to his feet as smoke roiled into the control room, blinding him, making him cough violently. An acrid stink surrounded him. He could not hear anything; he was totally deafened for a minute. He groped through the cloud and felt along the control panel. Knowing the location of every dial, gauge, and button, he ascertained that the ship was still on course—if the steering mechanism was still operating. Then he unstrapped Detweiller’s bloody, unconscious form and eased him to the floor. By the time he had slipped into the chair, he could see again. The airship, or what was left of it, was in the water. Pieces were scattered over hundreds of square meters, burning. Smoke billowed out from them, but by then the boat was out of the clouds. He straightened her out and headed her upRiver. After putting the automatic pilot on, and making sure that it still operated, he went to the starboard to survey the damage.

  Joe was saying something, his mouth wide open and working furiously. Sam stabbed a finger at his ear, indicating that he couldn’t hear. Joe kept on yelling. His skin was cut in a hundred places.

  Later, after everybody had calmed down, Sam decided that just one of the bombs must have gone off. The force of its explosion should have set off the other three, but it surely had not done so.

  Nobody had been killed, but several score had been severely wounded. Luckily, the explosion had failed to set off the rockets aboard.

  Detweiller was the worst casualty, but by the third day he was up and walking. The boat was still close to shore, anchored next to the stone that had provided breakfast. A wide gangplank was built so the crew could walk ashore. The damage was repaired, and the crew took turns on shore leave. Sam decided that now would be a good time to make more alcohol and gunpowder. Arrangements were made to trade tobacco and some of the whiskey and wine provided by the crew’s grails for wood and lichen from the area.

  Von Richthofen was dead. The only survivors of the Minerva were Samhradh and Hardy, Newton having drowned while still unconscious. Sam wept when the German’s body, wrapped in a weighted bag, was dropped into The River. He had been very fond of the ebullient, happy-go-lucky fellow.

  “I know why Greystock did this,” Sam said. “John Lackland made him an offer he couldn’t resist. And the double-dealing swine almost did the job, too. I thought Greystock was a cruel man, like all of his kind, but I didn’t think he’d be disloyal. Still, if you’ve read your history—you, Marc, not you, Joe—then you’ll know that the medieval noblemen were notorious for treachery. Their god was Opportunity, no matter how many churches they built for the glory of Church and God. They all had the morals of a hyena.”

  “Not all of them,” de Marbot said. “There was William Marshal of England. He never switched sides.”

  “Didn’t he serve under King John?” Sam said. “He must’ve had a strong stomach to stick with him. Anyway, John has tried once and almost got away with it. What bothers me is, how many other saboteurs has he planted? You see now why I’ve insisted on double guards at every vulnerable point. And four outside the armory and ammunition hold.

  “That’s also why I’ve ordered that every man jack aboard, and jill, too, report any suspicious conduct they see. I know it’s made some people jumpy. But I’ve had to be realistic.”

  “No vonder you got nightmareth. Me, I don’t vorry about thuch thingth.”

  “That’s why I’m captain and you’re only a bodyguard. Say, don’t you worry about protecting me?”

  “I chutht do my duty and vorry only about the long time betveen mealth.”

  A few minutes later, the chief radio officer reported that she was in contact with the Parseval. By the time Sam was through talking to Gulbirra, he felt as if he were walking through a minefield. Treachery, lies, frustration, uncertainty, confusion, and misdirection were waiting to explode under his feet.

  Smoking like a dragon though the cigar tasted bitter, he paced back and forth. So far, there were only two on the boat who shared the secret of X with him—Joe Miller and John Johnston. There were, or had been, eight who to his knowledge knew about the Stranger: Miller, Johnston, himself, Firebrass (now dead), de Bergerac, Odysseus (who’d disappeared long ago), von Richthofen (now dead), and Richard Francis Burton. The being whom Clemens called X or the Mysterious Stranger (when it wasn’t son of a bitch or bastard) had said he’d elected twelve to get to the polar tower. X was supposed to return in a few years and give Sam more information. So far he had not shown.

  Perhaps the other Ethicals had finally caught him, and he was—where?

  Sam had told Miller and von Richthofen about the Stranger. So that left six of those informed by X unknown to him. Though it was possible that they were all on this boat. Why had X not given each one a sign or a code word of recognition? Maybe he meant to do so but had been delayed. X’s schedule was about as uncertain as that of a Mexican railroad.

  Cyrano had told him about Burton. Sam didn’t know where Burton was, but he knew who he was. The newspapers had been full of his exploits during Sam’s lifetime. And Sam had read his Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to El-Medinah, First Footsteps in East Africa, The Lake Regions of Central Africa, and his translation of the Arabian Nights.

  Also, Gwenafra had known him personally, and she had told Sam all she remembered about him. She had been only seven or thereabouts when she had first been resurrected. Richard Burton had taken her under his wing, and she had traveled with him on a boat upRiver for a year. Then she had been drowned, but she had never forgotten the fierce, dark man.

  Greystock had also been with them. But neither he nor Gwen were aware of the Stranger. Or was Greystock an agent?

  That fellow Burton. On Earth he’d led an expedition to find the source of the Nile. Here, he was as passionately involved in getting to the headwaters of The River, though for a different reason. De Bergerac had said that the Ethical had told him that, if he found Burton, Burton would pretend to have lost his memory of anything related to the Ethicals. Clemens should tell him that he knew better, and Burton would then explain why he was pretending to have amnesia. Very curious.

  Then there were Stern, Obrenova, and Thorn. And Firebrass. Their roles were as clandestine as those of X and his colleagues. On which side were they?

  He needed help in untangling the warp and woof of this crazy tapestry. Time for a conference.

  Within five minutes, he was closeted in his cabin with Joe and John Johnston. Johnston was a huge man, massively boned and muscled. His face was handsome though craggy; his eyes, a startling blue; his hair, bright red. Though he towered above other humans, he looked small beside the titanthrop.

  Sam Clemens gave them the news. Johnston did not speak at first, but then the mountaineer was not one to talk unless there was extreme occasion to do so. Joe said, “Vhat doeth it all mean? I mean, the gateway through vich only Pithcator could pathth?”

  “We’ll find out from Thorn,” Sam said. “For the time being, what worries me is Thorn and the rest of that filthy crew.”
>
  Johnston said, “Ye don’t think Greystock was an agent for them Ethicals, do ye? I think the polecat was just one of King John’s men.”

  “He could have been that and also an agent,” Sam said.

  “How?” Joe Miller rumbled.

  “How do I know? Anyway, you mean why. That was really what the thief said to Jesus while he was being nailed to the cross. Why? That’s what we should be asking. Why? Yes, I think Greystock could have been an agent. He just fell in with King John’s purpose because it suited his own purpose.”

  “But them agents don’t use violence,” Johnston said. “At least, that’s what ye told me X told ye. They not only hate violence, they don’t even like to touch human beings.”

  “No, I didn’t say that. I said violence was unethical for the Ethicals. At least, according to X. But I don’t know that he wasn’t lying. For all I know, he may be the Prince of Darkness, who was, if you remember your Bible, the Prince of Liars.”

  “Then what’re we doing?” Johnston said. “Why’re we following his orders?”

  “Because I don’t know he’s lying. And his colleagues haven’t had the courtesy or decency to speak to me. He’s all I have to go on. Also, I said that X seemed rather reluctant to have me get too close. Like the abolitionist who aired out his house after he’d had a black to dinner. But I didn’t say that the agents were Brahmins, too. Thorn and Firebrass certainly weren’t. I don’t know. Anyway, Joe has a nose for X. He came into my hut once right after X had left. And he said he smelled somebody not human.”

  “Hith thtink vath different from Tham’th,” Joe said, grinning. “I didn’t thay that Tham thmelled any better, though.”

  “You’re a thly one, ain’t you?” Sam said. “Anyway, Joe has never smelled anyone else like that. So I presumed that the agents are of human origin.”

  “Tham thmoketh thigarth all the time,” Joe said. “I couldn’t thmell a thkunk around thothe weedth.”