* * *
South of Albany, the Hudson River Valley opens up. Farms replace forests. Small villages sit high on rolling hills. The most noticeable difference to Joe is the river’s traffic.
Hoverrafts carry passengers up and down the Hudson from Albany to New York. Dozens of ag-barges, laden with the harvest of the area’s famous mesclun and chard farms, make their way south to feed the millions of mouths in the New York-Newton-Screwton nexus.
As he tows Joe south, Bob Tom yells out the sights like a tour director. Aqua farms holding acres upon acres of bags filled with fresh water oysters. He tells Joe not to miss the stationary barges that provided the platforms to grow cold water hydroponic lettuces.
Joe takes some time to look at the changing scene along the riverbank, but most of his attention is directed to keeping the canoe out of trouble. Being in a hurry to rescue a girl he doesn’t even know, Bob Tom is flying much faster than he had before. The increased speed causes a surge as its bow which continually threatens to swamp the canoe. As brown and green swells of water roll up the sides of the canoe, Joe wonders how much longer the riverman can keep up the pace. Less than an hour later, Joe gets his answer. After ten minutes of jerks and sloughs as the old man tires, Bob Tom pulls out of the center of the river. He slows his speed as he angles toward a tied-up barge piled five meters high with pallets filled with badboard crates. Joe lands the canoe just down river from the barge. The boy notices the riverman staggers when he lands. When he looks at Bob Tom’s face, Joe is surprised at how florid it is. Purple veins bulge from the old man’s forehead like a low mountain range. Instantly, Joe feels guilty about how hard the Damall man is working for him and fearful of the toll that effort might be taking.
While the runaway ties up, Bob Tom tromps off toward the gangplank and crane where a handful of workers are darting back and forth. Less than ten minutes later, Bob Tom flopes his way through back toward Joe. “Hop lively, Noby, we got us a ride.”
When Joe looks back at the canoe, Bob Tom shakes his head, “Forget that old thing. She’s hardly sea-worthy. And I never liked her anyway cuz she was stolen. There’s plenty of boats worth stealin, but any boat worth takin ain’t all that easy to steal and this here boat come awful easy. C’mon, shake a leg. We’re on easy street.”
The adventurers haven’t been on the barge for more than twenty minutes before a tug, towing three barges behind it, sweeps in and grabs them. Within ten minutes, they are floating down the middle of the river. Within an hour after they begin their ride, the riverman is antsy. He paces around the deck of the barge testing lines and strapping to see if they meet his standards. When that job is done, he assembles his pole and starts casting into the river even though, as he tells Joe, the wake of the convoy is bound to scare off anything smarter than a flat worm. After a quarter hour of fishing, a disgusted Bob Tom puts his pole in its case and flies off to the tug to talk to the captain.
Joe takes advantage of the respite to think about what Nancy has told him. He can imagine his grandfather or even his uncle taking some gray-area actions, but certainly not murder, to get something they wanted. The same is true for Jack. Joe has thought his cousin was a Sleek Wheedly ever since he can remember. But, that is a far cry from doing anything to harm Prissi. Joe knows his family can’t be involved. He knows it. But…. Joe isn’t sure what the but is, but something keeps his fingers off the mypod screen. Instead of k-necting with his parents or uncle or cousin, Joe sits atop a mesa of mesclun crates and thinks about how, or if, he might be able to find and help Prissi.