The Dark Design (37 page)

If she could do that to Obrenova, why not to Firebrass? Then she would be the captain.

The images evoked were pleasing, but she could not do that to anyone, no matter how strongly she felt. To violate their human rights and dignities would be to violate, to destroy herself.

During the week that followed she sometimes beat her fists on the table or wept. Or both. The next week she told herself that she was being immature. Accept what was unavoidable and enjoy what was left. Was it so important that she should finally be captain of an airship?

To her, yes. To anyone else in the world, no.

So she swallowed her resentment and disgust.

Piscator must have known how she felt. Frequently, she caught him looking at her. He would smile or else just look away. But he knew, he knew!

Six months passed. Firebrass gave up trying to get Obrenova to move into his apartment. He made no secret of his desire nor did he hide the fact that she had finally rejected him.

“You win some, you lose some,” he said to Jill with a wry smile. “Maybe she doesn’t go for men. I know a score or more who’ve been panting for her, and she’s as cool to them as if she were the Venus de Milo.”

“I’m sure she isn’t a lesbian,” Jill said.

“Takes one to know one, heh? Haw, haw!”

“Damn it, you know I’m ambivalent,” she said angrily, and she walked away.

“Indecisive is the right word!” he had shouted after her.

At that time Jill was living with Abel Park, a tall, muscular, handsome, and intelligent man. He was a Rivertad, one of the many millions of children who had died on Earth after the age of five. Abel did not remember what country he had been born in or what his native language had been. Though resurrected in an area the majority of whom were medieval Hindus, he had been adopted and raised by a Scots couple. These were eighteenth-century Lowlanders of peasant origin. Despite his poverty, the foster father had managed to become a medical doctor in Edinburgh.

Abel had left his area after his parents had been killed and had wandered downRiver until he came to Parolando. Jill had liked him very much and had asked him to be her hutmate. The big fellow had gladly moved in, and they had had some idyllic months. But, though he was intelligent, he was ignorant. Jill taught him everything she could; history, philosophy, poetry, and even some arithmetic. He was eager to learn, but eventually he accused her of patronizing him.

Shocked, Jill had denied this.

“I just want to educate you, to give you knowledge denied you because you died so early.”

“Yes, but you get so impatient. You keep forgetting that I don’t have your background. Things which seem simple to you, because you were raised among them, are bewildering to me. I don’t have your referents.”

He had paused, then said, “You’re a knowledge-chauvinist. In short, a… what’s the word?… a snob.”

Jill was even more shocked. She denied this, too, though reflection showed her that he was perhaps right. By then it was too late to make reparations. He had left her for another woman.

She consoled herself by telling herself that he was too used to the idea of the man being the boss. He found it difficult to accept her as an equal.

Later, she realized that that was only partly true. Actually, she had, deep down, a contempt for him because he was not, and never would be, her mental equal. That had been an unconscious attitude, and now that she was aware of it, she regretted having it. In fact, she felt ashamed of it.

After that, she made no effort to have anything but the most impermanent liaisons. Her partners were men and women who, like her, wanted only sexual satisfaction. Usually, she and they got it, but she always felt frustrated afterward. She needed a genuine affection and companionship.

Obrenova and Thorn, she observed, must be doing the same thing as she. At least, no one moved into their huts. For that matter, though, she never observed them taking any interest in anybody which could be interpreted as sexual. As far as she knew, they were not even having one-night stands.

Thorn did, however, seem to like Obrenova’s company. Jill often saw them talking earnestly together. Perhaps Thorn was trying to get her to be his lover. And perhaps the Russian refused because she thought she would only be a substitute for his first wife.

Three days before the final liftoff, a holiday was declared. Jill left the plains area because it was so crowded and noisy with people from up and down The River. She estimated that there were already several hundred thousands camping in Parolando and that there would be over twice that number by the time the
Parseval
left. She retired to her hut, leaving it only for a little fishing. The second day, as she was sitting on the edge of the little lake, looking emptily into the water, she heard someone approaching.

Her irritation at the invasion died when she saw Piscator. He was carrying a fishing pole and a wickerwork basket. Silently, he sat down beside her and offered her a cigarette. She shook her head. For some time they stared at the surface, rippled by the wind, broken now and then by a leaping fish.

Finally, he said, “It won’t be long before I must reluctantly say good-bye to my disciples and to my piscatorial pursuits.”

“Is it worth it to you?”

“You mean, giving up this pleasant life for an expedition that may end in death? I won’t know until it happens, will I?”

After another silence, he said, “How have you been? Any more experiences such as
that
night?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“But you have been carrying a knife in your heart.”

“What do you mean?” she said, turning her head to look at him. She hoped her puzzlement did not look as faked as it felt to her.

“I should have said three knives. The captaincy, the Russian, and most of all, yourself.”

“Yes, I have problems. Don’t we all? Or are you an exception? Are you even human?”

He smiled and said, “Very much so. More than most, I can say with seeming immodesty. Why is that? Because I have realized my human potentiality almost to its fullest. I can’t expect you to credit that. Nor will you, unless, someday… but that day may never come.

“However, regarding your question of my humanity. I have sometimes wondered if some people we have met are human. I mean, do they belong to
Homo sapiens?

“Isn’t it possible, even highly probable, that the Whoevers responsible for all this have agents among us? For what purpose, I don’t know. But they could be catalysts to cause some kind of action among us. By action, I do not mean physical action, such as the building of the Riverboats and airships, though that may be part of it. I refer to psychic action. To a, shall we say, channeling of humanity? Toward what? Perhaps toward a goal somewhat similar to that which the Church of the Second Chance postulates. A spiritual goal, of refinement of the human spirit. Or perhaps, to use a Christian-Muslim metaphor, to separate the sheep from the goats.”

He paused and drew on his cigarette.

“To continue the religious metaphor, there may be two forces at work here, one for evil, one for good. One is working against the fulfillment of that goal.”

“What?” she said. Then, “Do you have any evidence for that?”

“No, only speculation. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think that Shaitan, Lucifer if you will, is actually conducting a cold war against Allah, or God, whom we Sufis prefer to name The Real. But I sometimes wonder if there isn’t a parallel to that in some sense… well, it is all speculation. If there are agents, then they look like human beings.”

“Do you know something I don’t?”

“I have probably observed certain things. You have, too, the difference being that you have not put them into a pattern. A rather dark pattern it is. Though it is possible that I am looking at the wrong side of the pattern. If it were turned over, the other side might be blazing with light.”

“I wish I knew what you were talking about. Would you mind letting me in on this… pattern?”

He rose and tossed the cigarette stub into the lake. A fish rose, swallowed it, and splashed back.

“There are all sorts of activity going on beneath that mirror of water,” he said, pointing to the lake. “We can’t see them because water is a different element from the air. The fish know what’s going on down there, but that doesn’t do us much good. All we can do is lower our hooks into the darkness and hope we catch something.

“I read a story once in which a fish sat down on the bottom of a deep, dark lake and extended his fishing pole into the air over the bank. And he caught men with his bait.”

“Is that all you’re going to say about that?”

He nodded, and said, “I presume you are coming to Firebrass’ farewell party tonight.”

“It’s a command invitation. But I hate going. It’ll be a drunken brawl.”

“You don’t have to soil yourself by joining the pigs in their swinishness. Be
with
but not
of
them. That will enable you to enjoy the thought of how superior you are to them.”

“You’re an ass,” she said. Then, quickly, “I’m sorry, Piscator. I’m the ass. You read me correctly, of course.”

“I think that Firebrass is going to announce tonight the ranking of the officers and pilots.”

She held her breath for a moment. “I think so, too, but I am not looking forward with pleasure to that.”

“You prize rank too highly. What is worse, you know it but will do nothing about it. In any event, I think you have an excellent chance.”

“I hope so.”

“Meanwhile, would you care to go out in the boat with me and participate in the angling?”

“No, thanks.”

She rose stiffly and pulled in the line. The bait was gone off the hook.

“I think I’ll go home and brood a while.”

“Don’t lay any eggs,” he said, grinning.

Jill snorted feebly and walked away. Before she reached her hut, she passed Thorn’s. Loud, angry voices were issuing from it. Thorn’s and Obrenova’s.

So, the two had finally gotten together. But they did not seem happy about it.

Jill hesitated a moment, almost overcome with the desire to eavesdrop. Then she plunged on ahead, but she could not help hearing Thorn shout in a language unknown to her. So—it would have done her no good to listen in. But what was that language? It certainly did not sound like Russian to her.

Obrenova, in a softer voice, but still loud enough for Jill to hear her, said something in the same language. Evidently, it was a request to lower his voice.

Silence followed. Jill walked away swiftly, hoping they would not look outside and think she had been doing what she had almost done. Now she had something to think about. As far as she knew, Thorn could speak only English, French, German, and Esperanto. Of course, he could have picked up a score of languages during his wanderings along The River. Even the least proficient of linguists could not avoid doing that.

Still, why would the two talk in anything but their native languages or in Esperanto? Did both know a language which they used while quarreling so that nobody would understand them?

She would mention this to Piscator. He might have an illuminating viewpoint on the matter.

As it turned out, however, she had no chance to do so, and by the time the
Parseval
took off, she had forgotten about the matter.

Jan. 26, 20
A.R.D.

Peter Jairus Frigate

Aboard the
Razzle Dazzle

South Temperate Zone

Riverworld

Robert F. Rohrig

DownRiver (hopefully)

D
EAR
B
OB
:

In thirteen years on this ship I’ve sent out twenty-one of these missives. Letter from a Lazarus. Cable from Charon. Missive from Mictlan. Palaver in Po. Tirades from Tír na nOc. Tunes from Tuonela. Allegories from al-Sirat. Sticklers from the Styx. Issues from Issus. Etc.

All that sophomoric alliterative jazz.

Three years ago I dropped into the water my Telegram from Tartarus. I wrote just about everything significant that’d happened to me since you died in St. Louis of too much living. Of course, you won’t get either letter except by the wildest chance.

Here I am today in the bright afternoon, sitting on the deck of a two-masted schooner, writing with a fishbone pen and carbonblack ink on bamboo paper. When I’m done, I’ll roll the pages up, wrap them in fish membrane, insert them in a bamboo cylinder. I’ll hammer down a disk of bamboo into the open end. I’ll say a prayer to whatever gods there be. And I’ll toss the container over the side. May it reach you via Rivermail.

The captain, Martin Farrington, the Frisco Kid, is at the tiller right now. His reddish-brown hair shines in the sun and whips with the wind. He looks half-Polynesian, half-Celtic, but is neither. He’s an American of English and Welsh descent, born in Oakland, California, in 1876. He hasn’t told me that, but I know that because I know who he really is. I’ve seen too many pictures of him not to recognize him. I can’t name him because he has some reason for going under a pseudonym. (Which, by the way, is taken from two of his fictional characters.) Yes, he was a famous writer. Maybe you’ll be able to figure it out, though I doubt it. You once told me that you had read only one of his works,
Tales of the Fish Patrol,
and you thought it was lousy. I was distressed that you’d refuse to read his major works, many of which were classics.