R.W. III - The Dark Design

  Greystock swore in Norman French. He hadn't been quick enough. But the torpedoes would surely hit the boat, and if they did, King John's orders would have been carried out.

  But he did not want to die. He had his own mission.

  Perhaps he should have dropped the bombs while he was passing over the boat. She had veered off when he had tried to get directly over her, and be had not wanted to change course too abruptly. He should have neutralized the crew earlier and then told Clemens he was bringing the airship in close so everybody could have a good look at her.

  During these thoughts, he had automatically punched the button which released all his rockets. They headed toward the boats' missiles, their heat detectors locked into the tail-flames of the boat's, just as the boats' rockets were locked into the tailflames of his missiles.

  The explosions from rockets meeting rockets shook the airship. Smoke spread before him, veiling the boat. Then he was through the dark clouds and almost on the Mark Twain.

  By God's wounds! One torpedo had just missed the starboard corner of the stern, and the second was going to hit it! No, it wasn't! Its side had touched the corner, and it had veered off! The boat had somehow escaped both!

  Now Clemens' voice, yammering, told him that no more rockets would be released. Clemens was afraid that the airship would explode and, carried by the wind, would fall flaming onto the boat.

  The balloon, trailing its plastic cable, was floating down-River, rising at the same time.

  Clemens had forgotten that the airship's bombs had not yet been released.

  The second airplane, a two-seater amphibian, shot below him. Its pilot looked upward in frustration at him. They were too close to each other and he was going too fast to swing up to the right and shoot the nose machine guns. But the gunner in the cockpit behind the pilot was swinging his twin machine guns around. Every tenth bullet would be a tracer, phosphorous coated. Only one in a gas cell was needed to ignite the hydrogen. The Minerva was only 152 meters from the Mark Twain and was closing fast. Its motors were going at top speed. This, plus a 16-km/ph tailwind, meant that the boat could not possibly get away in time.

  If only he could drop the bombs before the tracer bullets struck. Perhaps the gunner would miss. By the time he got his guns around, the airplane would be past the airship.

  The side of the boat loomed up. Even if the dirigible wasn't hit by the tracers, she was so near the boat that the bombs would blow up both vessels.

  Estimating the arrival tune of the. Minerva over the paddlewheeler, he set the release mechanism of the bombs with a twist of his wrist. Then he got out of the seat and dived through the open port. no time to put on a parachute. Besides, he was too near the water for it to open in time. As he fell, he was struck by a wave of air like a colossal winnowing fan. He spun, unconscious, unable even to think fleetingly of how he had lost his second-in-command under John Lackland. Or his plans to get rid of John and take over the captainship of the Rex Grandissimus for himself.

  Chapter 52

  * * *

  Peter Frigate had boarded the Razzle Dazzle a week after New Year's Day of year 7 A.R.D. Twenty-six years later, he was still on the schooner. But he was getting sailweary and discouraged. Would the ship ever arrive at the headwaters?

  Since he had first stepped aboard, he had passed, to starboard, 810,000 grailstones. That meant he'd traveled about 1,303,390 kilometers or 810,000 miles.

  He had started in the equatorial zone, and it had taken a year and a half to get into the arctic regions, going not as the crow flies but as the snake wriggles. If The River had been as straight as a ruler, it would have taken the ship there in less than six months, maybe five. Instead, it was as twisted as a politician's campaign promises after election.

  The first time the ship was in the arctic, just after The River had definitely turned for its southward journey, Frigate had proposed that they proceed northward on foot. The polar mountains could not be sees, yet they must be relatively near. Tantalizingly so.

  Farrington had said, "And just how in blue blazes can we get over those?"

  He had gestured at the unbroken stone verticality to the north. Here it rose to an estimated 3650 meters or a little less than 12,000 feet.

  "In a balloon."

  "Are you nuts? The wind blows south here. It'd take us away from the polar mountains."

  "The surface wind would. But if the meteorological patterns are the same here as on Earth, the upper polar winds should be flowing northeastward. Once the balloon got high enough to get in their stream, it'd reverse direction, get blown toward the pole.

  "Then, when we got near mountains that're supposed to ring the supposed sea, we'd come down. We'd have no chance of getting over those mountains in the balloon, if they're as high as they are said to be."

  Farrington had actually turned pale when he'd heard Frigate's proposal.

  Rider, grinning, said, "Didn't you know that the Frisco Kid doesn't even like the idea of air travel?"

  "That isn't it!" Martin said, glaring. "If a balloon could get us there, I'd be the first to board it. But it won't! Anyway, how by the high muckamuck are we going to make a balloon even if we could travel on one?"

  Frigate had to admit that it couldn't be done. At least, not in this area. To make a balloon and fill it with hydrogen was impossible. There were no necessary materials here. Or anywhere else, as far as he knew.

  However, there was another method they might consider. How about a hot-air balloon to carry a rope up to the top of the mountain?

  Even as he spoke, he had to laugh. How could they make a rope 3650 meters long, one strong enough not to break under its own weight? What size of balloon would be needed to lift the enormous weight of the rope? One as big as the Hindenburg?

  And how could they anchor the rope at the top of the mountain?

  Grinning, Frigate proposed sending a man up in the rope-carrying aerostat. He could get off at the top and secure the balloon.

  "Forget it!" Farrington said.

  Frigate was happy to do this.

  The Razzle Dazzle continued to sail southward, the wind behind it, its crew glad to get away from this gloomy, chilly area. There were some Old Stone Age people living here, but they had dwelt in the arctic regions on Earth. They did not know any better.

  Since men, the schooner had crossed the equator and entered the south polar region nine times. At the moment, they were in the equatorial zone again.

  Peter Frigate was sick of shipboard life. Nor was he the only one. Shore leave had been getting longer and longer for some time.

  One day, while eating lunch on the bank, Frigate experienced two thrills in rapid sequence. One was the offering of his grail. For years he had been hoping to get peanut butter and a banana at the same time. Now, as he opened the lid of his grail, he saw the realization of his dream. '

  A grey metal cup in a rack was filled with smooth, delicious-odored peanut butter. Across another rack was the yellow-brown-spotted form of a banana.

  Grinning, slavering, chortling, he unpeeled the fruit and smeared one end with the peanut butter. Close to crooning with delight, he bit off the combination.

  It was worth being resurrected if only for the food.

  A moment later, he saw a woman walking by. She was very attractive, but it was what she wore that widened his eyes. He got to his feet and, speaking Esperanto, approached her.

  "Pardonu min, sinjorino. I couldn't help observing that unusual armlet. It looks like brass!"

  She looked down, smiling, and said, "Estas brazo."

  She accepted his proffered cigarette with a murmured, "Dank-on," and lit it. She seemed to be very amiable. Too much so, one person thought. Scowling, a tall, dark man strode up to them.

  Frigate hastily assured him that his interest was not in her but in the armlet. The man looked relieved; the woman, disappointed. But she shrugged and made the best of it.

  "It comes from up-River," she said. "It cost one hundred cigarettes and two horn
fish horns."

  "Not to mention some personal favors on her part," the man said.

  The woman said, "Oh, Emil, that was before I moved in with you."

  "Do you know where it came from?" Frigate said. "I mean, where it was made?"

  "The man who sold it to me came from Nova Bohemujo."

  Frigate gave the man a cigarette, and this seemed to ease the tension. Emil said that New Bohemia was a rather large state about nine hundred grailstones up The River. Twentieth-century Czechs made up its majority. The minority was composed of some ancient Gaulish tribe with, of course, the usual one or two percent of peoples from everywhere and every time.

  Until three years ago New Bohemia had been small, just one of the mingled Slavic-Gaulish peoples in this area.

  "But its chief, a man named Ladislas Podebrad, launched a project about six years ago. He thought there might be mineral treasures, especially iron, buried deep under the soil. His people started digging at the base of the mountain, and they made an enormous and deep hole. They wore out much flint and bone. You know how tough the grass is."

  Frigate nodded. The grass seemed designed to resist erosion. Its roots were very deep and intertwined. In fact, he wasn't sure that it was not one plant, a single organism extending on both sides of The River and perhaps beneath it. And its roots were tough silicon bearers.

  "It took a long time to get below the grass, and when it was done, there was nothing but dirt beneath that. They kept on, and after going sixty meters, they came to rock. I believe it was limestone. They almost gave up then. But Podebrad, who's something of a mystic, told them he'd had a dream that there were great quantities of iron below the rock."

  "Of course," the woman said, "I can't see you working like that."

  "You're not so dedicated yourself."

  Frigate did not give them long to stay together, but he said nothing. He could be wrong. He'd known couples like this on Earth who had verbally stung and stabbed each other from marriage to death. For some sick reason, they needed each other.

  Three years ago, Podebrad's dream and the hard work of his people had paid off.

  They had come across an immense store of minerals: iron ore, zinc sulfide, sand, coal, salt, lead, sulfur, and even some platinum and vanadium.

  Frigate blinked and said, "You mean, in layers, strata? But they wouldn't occur naturally in that fashion."

  "No," Emil said. "At least, the man told Marie that they shouldn't. What he said, and I've heard others from New Bohemia say this, too, it looked as if a gigantic truck had just dumped the ores there.

  "Whoever made this world had pushed the stuff there, you know, as if by a gigantic bulldozer. Then the rock had been put over it, then the soil, then the grass."

  Podebrad had gotten the minerals out, was, in fact, still bringing them up. All his people were armed with steel weapons now. And New Bohemia had expanded from its 12-kilometer-long boundaries to 60 kilometers on both sides of The River.

  However, this had not been done by conquest. Neighboring states had asked to be absorbed, and Podebrad had welcomed them. There was wealth enough for all.

  Meanwhile, other states along here had launched their own digging projects. They had been at it about three years but had gained only sweat, worn-out tools, and disappointment.

  Podebrad's original site seemed to be the only one to contain minerals. Or else other dumpheaps – as Emil called them – were buried even deeper.

  Emil pointed at the hills.

  "Our own country has a hole sixty meters deep. But it's being filled up now. The caprock is dolomite. Podebrad was lucky. His was soft limestone."

  Frigate thanked them and excitedly hurried off. As a result, the Razzle Dazzle anchored off the bank of Podebrad's capital eleven days later.

  The crew smelled New Bohemia half a day before arriving at its southern limits. The fumes of sulfur and coal stank throughout the area.

  High earth walls had been erected along the banks. Steel weapons, including flintlock firearms, were everywhere. The River was patrolled by four large, steam-powered paddlewheeled boats, each carrying two cannons, and a large number of smaller boats with machine guns.

  The crew of the Razzle Dazzle were astonished. Also, somewhat depressed. The fair valley was blighted. For too long, they had taken the clean air and pure blue skies, the green plains and hills, for granted.

  Nur asked a local why it was necessary to foul the land and make all those weapons.

  "We had to do so," the man said. "If we hadn't, then other states would have tried to take our ores away from us. And they would have embarked on conquest by arms. We made the weapons for self-defense.

  "Of course, we make other artifacts, too. We trade these, and we get more tobacco, liquor, food, and ornaments than we can use."

  The man patted his fat paunch.

  Nur smiled and said, "The grails provide enough for any person's needs and some luxuries, too. Why tear up the land and make a stench to get far more than you need?"

  "I just told you why."

  "It would have been best to have filled up the hole again,'' Nur said. "Or never to have dug it in the first place."

  The man shrugged. Then, looking surprised, he walked up to Rider.

  "Say, aren't you the movie star Tom Mix?"

  Tom smiled and said, "Not me, amiko. People have told me I look a little like him, though."

  "I saw you . . . him . . . when he came to Paris during his European tour. I was on a business trip then, and I stood in the crowds and cheered you . . . him . . . as he rode along on Tony. It was a great thrill for me. He was my favorite cowboy actor."

  "Mine, too," Tom said, and he turned away.

  Frigate called the captain and first mate to one side.

  "You look excited, Pete," Martin Farrington said. "You must be thinking of the same thing Tom and I were discussing just a minute ago."

  Frigate said, "Now, how could you do that? What is it?"

  Martin looked sidewise at Tom and smiled. "Sure, what else could it be? We were talking about, just speculating, mind you, about how nice it would be if we had one of those small steamboats."

  Frigate was astonished. "That wasn't what I was thinking of! What do you mean, you'd steal it?"

  "Sort of," Tom drawled. "They could always make another one. We were thinking of how much faster we could get up-River on one of those handy-dandy paddle wheelers."

  "Aside from the ethics of the thing," Frigate said, "it'd be dangerous. I assume they guard them at night."

  "Look who's talking of ethics," Martin said. "You stole your spear and bow and arrows, remember?"

  Frigate's face became red.

  "Not really. I had made them myself. They were mine."

  "It was stealing," Martin said. He gave one of his wonderfully charming smiles and slapped Frigate on the shoulder. "No need to get huffy. Your need was greater than the state's, and you took something that could be easily replaced. We're in the same situation. We need to get up-River a lot faster."

  "Not to mention a lot more comfortably," Tom said.

  "You want us to risk getting killed?"

  "Would you volunteer? I wouldn't order anybody to do this. If you don't care to do it, you won't peach on us, will you?"

  "Of course not!'' Frigate said, getting red in the face again. "I'm not objecting because I'm afraid! Listen, I'd do it, if it was necessary. But what I have in mind is not that. It's something that would get us far north a hell of a lot faster than a steamboat."

  "You mean have this Podebrad build us a speedboat?" Martin said. "A steam yacht?"

  "No, I don't. I mean something that won't go up The River. It'll go over it!"

  "Rub me for a saddlesore," Tom said. "You mean an airplane?"

  Tom looked eager. Martin turned pale.

  "No, that wouldn't work. I mean, a plane could get us a lot farther faster. But we'd have to land several times and make more fuel, and there's no way of making more.

  "No, I'm thinking ab
out another type of air travel?'

  "You can't be thinking of a balloon?"

  "Sure, why not? A balloon, or, better yet, a blimp."

  Chapter 53

  * * *

  Tom Rider liked the idea.

  Farrington said, "No! It's too dangerous! I don't trust those fragile gasbags. Besides, you'd have to use hydrogen, right? Hydrogen can catch fire like that!"

  He snapped his fingers.

  "In addition, they're easy prey for strong winds and storms. Also, where are you going to dredge up a blimp pilot? Airplane pilots should be easy to find, though personally I've only run into two. Furthermore, we'd have to be its crew, and that means we'd have to be trained. What if we don't have the knack for it? There's another reason . . ."

  "A yellow streak?" Tom said, smiling.

  Martin reddened, and his hands balled. "How'd you like a few teeth knocked out?"

  "It wouldn't be the first time," Tom Rider said. "But take it easy, Frisco, I was just trying to think of more reasons why we can't do it. Help you along, sort of."

  Frigate knew that Jack London had never taken any interest in flying. Yet a man who had lived so adventurously, who had always been pugnaciously courageous, and who was also very curious, should have been eager to go up in the newfangled machine.

  Was it possible that he was afraid of the air?

  It could be. Many a person who seemed to be afraid of nothing on earth was scared of leaving it. It was one of those quirks of human character, nothing to be ashamed of.

  Nevertheless, Martin might be ashamed to show fear.

  Frigate admitted to himself that he had some of that brand of shame. He had gotten rid of some, but there was too much residue left. He was not afraid to admit a fear if there was a rational reason to do so. To reveal fear if it had an irrational basis was still difficult for him.