The Dark Design (14 page)

The colossal hangar was downRiver and hence downwind of the other buildings. Up in the mountains to the west were strings of lights. These were on the dam constructed to replace the one that Clemens had blown up.

The jeep passed the hangar. A steam locomotive, burning alcohol, chuffchuffed by, hauling three flatbed cars piled with aluminum girders. It entered the blazing interior of the hangar, stopped, and a crane hook swung down to the rear car. Workers gathered around it to connect hooks to the steel cables around the girders.

“City Hall” was the northernmost building. The jeep stopped before its porch. The riders got out and went between two massive Doric columns. Jill thought that the building was an abomination, architecturally speaking. Nor did it fit in with the surroundings. Seen from a distance, this area looked as if both the Parthenon and a section of the Ruhr had been teleported to a remote section of Tahiti.

Firebrass’ suite of offices was to the left of the entrance to the immense lobby. Six men stood guard before its entrance, each armed with a single-shot rifle firing .80-caliber plastic bullets. They also carried cutlasses and daggers. The radio “shack” was a large room next to the conference hall and Firebrass’ sanctum sanctorum. They entered the former to find several men standing around the operator. He was adjusting dials on the big panel before him. On hearing the door slam open under his commander’s overvigorous shove, he looked up.

“I’ve been talking to Sam,” he said. “But I lost him about thirty seconds ago. Hold on. I think I got him.”

A series of squeals and crackles issued from the loudspeaker. Suddenly, the interference eased off, and a voice could be heard above the noise. The operator made a final adjustment and gave up his chair to Firebrass.

“Firebrass speaking. Is that you, Sam?”

“No. Just a moment.”

“Sam here,” a pleasant drawling voice said. “Is that you, Milt?”

“Sure is. How are you, Sam? And what’s doing?”

“As of today, Milt, the electronic log says we’ve traveled 792,014 miles. You can convert that into kilometers if you wish. I prefer the old system, and that’s what we’re… well, you know that. Not bad for three years’ travel, heh? But downright aggravating. A snail could go to the North Pole faster than we can, if it could go on a straight line. Or, pardon me, a great curve. It would have time to build a hotel for us and make an enormous fortune renting rooms to the walruses until we arrived. Even if the snail was traveling only a mile every twenty-four hours and we’re averaging about eight hundred miles a day.

“As of…” sputter, crackle, “… little trouble.”

Firebrass waited until reception was clear before speaking again. “Is everything all-go, Sam?”

“Copacetic,” Sam said. “Nothing unusual has happened. Which means that there are always emergencies, always trouble, but not mutinies, among the crew. I’ve had to boot a few out now and then. If this keeps up, by the time we get to our million-mile mark, I’ll be the only person who was on the boat when it left Parolando.”

More crackles. Then Jill heard a voice that was so deep, so bottom-of-the-well, that cold ran over her neck.

Sam said, “Yeah? Oh, all right, I forgot you, though that’s not easy with you breathing booze down my neck. Joe says he’ll still be here, too. He wants to say hello to you. Joe, say hello.”

“Hello, Milt.”

Thunder in a barrel.

“How’re thingth going? Thwell, I hope. Tham here, he’th kinda thad becauthe hith girlfriend left him. Thye’ll be back, though, I think. He’th been havingk bad dreamth about that Erik Bloodakthe again. I told him if he’d lay off the boothe, he’d be okay. He hathn’t got any ekthcyuthe to drink, thinthe he hath me ath a thyining ekthample of thobriety.”

Jill looked at Hardy, saying, “What the…”

Hardy grinned and said, “Yeth, he lithpth. Joe Miller is as big as two Goliaths put together but he lisps. Joe belongs to a species of subhuman which Sam named
Titanthropus clemensi,
though actually I think Joe’s kind is really just a giant variant of
Homo sapiens.
Anyway, it became extinct an estimated fifty thousand to one hundred thousand years ago. He and Sam met many years ago, and they’ve been real pals since. Damon and Pythias. Roland and Oliver.”

“More like Mutt and Jeff or Laurel and Hardy,” someone muttered.

Hardy said, “Hardy?”

Firebrass said, “Mute it. Okay, Sam. Everything’s in orbit. We got a great new candidate, real first-class officer material. Australian, named Jill Gulbirra. She’s got over eight thousand hours dirigible experience and she has an engineering degree. How do you like that?”

Crackle. Then, “A woman?”

“Yeah, Sam, I know they didn’t have female riverboat pilots or railroad engineers in your day. But in my day we had women airplane pilots and horse jockeys and even astronauts!”

Jill unfroze and started forward. “Let me talk to him,” she said. “I’ll tell that son of a bitch…”

“He isn’t objecting. He’s just surprised,” Firebrass said, looking up at her. “Take it easy. What do you care? He’s all right. Even if he wasn’t, he couldn’t do anything. I’m
Numero Uno
here.

“Sam, she said she’s pleased to meet you.”

“I heard her,” Sam said, and he chuckled. “Listen…” Crackle, hiss, sputter. “… when?”

“Static shot that all to hell,” Firebrass said. “And you’re drifting off. I don’t think we can keep contact much longer. So here goes, fast. I’m a long way from having a full crew, but it’ll be a year before the big ship’s finished. By then I might have enough. If not, what the hell? Airplane pilots and mechanics are a dime a dozen and they can be trained for dirigible operation.

“Listen.”

He paused, looked around—though why Jill did not know—and said, “Heard from X? Have…”

Static rolled over his voice, chewed it up, and wouldn’t let go of the pieces. After trying for several minutes to get hold of Clemens again, Firebrass gave up.

Jill said to Hardy, “What is this about hearing from X?”

“I don’t know,” the New Englander said. “Firebrass says it’s a private joke between Sam and him.”

Firebrass turned off the radio and got up from his chair. “It’s getting late, and we have a lot to do tomorrow. Do you want Willy to drive you home, Jill?”

“I don’t need anyone to protect me,” she said. “And I don’t mind walking. No thanks.”

Covered with the magnetically attached towels, she walked across the plain. Before she had reached the first hill, she saw clouds racing across the blazing sky. She took a stick of dreamgum from her shoulderbag, tore off half of it, and thrust it into her mouth. It had been years since she had chewed it.

Now, as she moved the coffee-tasting chicloid around in her mouth, she wondered why she had suddenly, almost involuntarily, decided to try it again. What secret motive did she have? It had been almost an unconscious act. If she had not gotten into the habit of closely observing herself, she might not even have been aware of what she was doing.

Lightning flashed to the north. Then the rain fell as if dumped from a ballast bag. She put her head down under her hood and hunched her shoulders. Her bare feet were wet, but the cloth over her body repelled the drops.

She unlatched the door of her hut. Inside, she put down the bag, opened it, and removed the heavy metal lighter provided twice a year by her grail. She groped toward the table which held an alcohol lamp, a gift from Firebrass. The lightning came nearer, and by its increasing brightness, she could see the lamp.

Something touched her shoulder.

She screamed and whirled, dropping the lighter. Her right fist struck out. A hand gripped her right wrist. Her knee came up, aiming at the groin she hoped was in its path. It slid by a hip, and another hand caught her other wrist. She sagged, and the attacker was deceived. He chuckled and pulled her close. She could see him vaguely now as flashes of light dimly illumined the interior of the hut. His nose was in front of her and close, though below her, since he was short.

She bent her head swiftly, bit down on the end of the nose, and jerked her head savagely. The man screamed and released her. He staggered backward holding his nose. She followed him, and this time her foot shot up between his legs. Though she had no shoes, her hard-driven toes sent him writhing to the ground, clutching his genitals.

Jill came up and leaped up and down, landing on his side. His ribs snapped loudly. Stepping off him, she bent down and grabbed both ears. He tried to reach up then, but she yanked outward. The ears came loose with a ripping sound.

The man, ignoring his injured genitals and broken ribs, came up off the floor. Jill caught the side of his neck with the edge of her palm. He fell, and she went to the table and lit the lamp with a lighter in a shaking hand. The wick took hold, and then the flame brightened as she turned the knob on the side of the lamp. After trimming it, she turned, and she yelled again.

He had risen and had seized a spear from its wall brackets and was thrusting it at her.

The lamp flew from her hand in unthinking but deadly reaction. It struck him in the face, shattered, and the alcohol spilled out.

Flames exploded. He screamed and ran blindly—his eyes were on fire—toward her. She screamed. Only now did she recognize him.

She shrieked, “Jack!” and then he was on her, had wrapped his burning arms around her, knocked her upon her back, the breath coming out of her in a whoof. Unable to breathe for a moment, but in a frenzy to escape his fiery arms, she tore herself loose and rolled away. Her fireproof clothing had kept her from being burned.

Before she could get up, however, he had grabbed her garment hem and yanked on it. The magnetic tabs separated. Naked, she leaped to her feet and ran for the spear, lying where he had dropped it. She bent down to get it, and Jack was on her from behind, blazing hands grabbing her breasts, his blazing erection driving into her. Their screams bounced around the walls of the hut, seeming to mount in intensity with each echo. She was being fried, seared, inside her, on her buttocks, on her breasts, and in her ears—as if the echoes were flames, too. She could only roll over and over until brought up short against the wall.

Jack was on his hands and knees now, his hair burned off, his scalp black, crinkled, and ridged, his skin broken open to reveal reddish-black blood and gray-black bone. The only illumination was the fire still consuming his face and chest and belly and the penis—which was swollen as if with the passion of hate—and the lightning cracking into the earth outside.

She was up and running toward the door to get to the outside, where the blessed rain would put out the fire and soothe her external burns. Somehow, he grabbed hold of her ankle. She fell heavily, knocking her breath out again. Jack was on top of her again, muttering strange croaking sounds—his tongue was burned, too?—and both were enfolded in fire.

She slid down a scream of pure agony toward a hole far below, a hole which expanded swiftly and received her as she fell toward the center of this world and toward the heart of all things.

Jack’s face was hanging above her. It was unconnected to a body, floating freely like a balloon. The curly reddish hair, the broad handsome face, the bright blue eyes, the strong chin, the full lips, smiling…

“Jack!” she murmured, and then the face dissolved and became another, attached to a body.

The face was broad and handsome, the cheekbones high, the eyes black, slanted by epicanthic folds, the hair straight and black.

“Piscator!”

“I heard you screaming.” He leaned down and took her hands. “Can you get up?”

“I think so,” she said shakily. She came up easily enough with his help. She became aware that the thunder and lightning had ceased. Nor was it raining, though water was still dripping from the eaves. The door was open, showing only darkness. The clouds had not yet disappeared. No, there was the silhouette of a hill suddenly rising. Beyond was a break in the skycover and the white flare of a great gas sheet in which thousands of giant stars were embedded.

She also became aware that she was naked. She looked down and saw her breasts were reddened, as if they had been too near a fire. The red slowly faded away as she watched.

Piscator said, “I thought you had been slightly burned. Your breasts and your pubic area were inflamed, swollen, reddened. But there was no evidence of a fire.”

“The fire was from within,
inside
me,” she said. “Dreamgum.”

His eyebrows arose. He said, “Ah, so!”

She laughed.

He helped her to the cot, and she lay down on it with a sigh. The slight warmth inside her vagina had subsided now. Piscator busied himself, placing towels over her, getting her a drink of rainwater from the bamboo barrel placed outside the door. She drank the water, holding the cup with one hand, leaning on the elbow of the other arm.

“Thanks,” she said. “I should have known better than to chew the gum. I was depressed, and when I’m in that kind of a mood, I get strange effects from it. It all seemed so real, so horrible. I never questioned its reality, though it was clearly impossible.”

He said, “The Second Chancers use dreamgum in their therapy, but it’s done under supervision. It seems to have some beneficial results. But we do not use it except in the initial stages of education with some people.”