The Dark Design (33 page)

“And so, when I knew for sure that I was dying from a combination of that filthy disease with the lovely bucolic name of syphilis and a blow on the head from that beam, fallen accidentally or dropped by an enemy of mine, and I who only wanted to love all mankind, and womankind, too… where was I?

“Ah, yes, knowing for sure that I was to die, and with the terrors of the devils and of eternal tortures swarming around me, I gave in to my sister, the toothless bitch and withered nun, and my good, too-good friend, Le Bret, and I said, yes, I repent, I will save my soul, and you may rejoice, dear sister, dear friend, I will probably go to purgatory, but you will pray me out of it, won’t you?

“Why not? I was frightened as I had never been in all my life, and yet, and yet, I did not wholly believe that I was destined for damnation. I had some reservations, believe me. But then, it could not hurt to repent. If Christ was indeed available for salvation, not costing a centime, mind you, and there was a heaven and a hell, then I would be a fool not to save my worthless skin and invaluable soul.

“On the other hand, if all was emptiness, nothingness, once one had died, what had I to lose? I would make my sister and that superstitious but kindhearted Le Bret happy.”

“He wrote a glowing panegyric of you after you died,” she said. “It was his preface to your
Voyage to the Moon,
which he edited two years after you died.”

“Ah! I hope he did not make me out to be a saint!” Cyrano cried.

“No, but he did give you a fine character, a noble if not quite saintly one. However, other writers… well, you must have had many enemies.”

“Who attempted to blacken my name and reputation after I was dead and couldn’t defend myself, the cowards, the pigs!”

“I don’t remember,” she said. “And it doesn’t actually matter now, does it? Besides, only scholars know the names of your detractors. Unfortunately, most people only know you as the romantic, bombastic, witty, pathetic, somewhat Don-Quixotish hero of a play by a Frenchman written in the late nineteenth century.

“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.

“After 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.”