The Dark Design (40 page)

Whatever the truth was, it would soon be found. The tower didn’t look like their picture of the Double Hall of Justice, but perhaps the gods had changed things. The Riverworld was a place of constant change, a reflection of the state of mind of the gods themselves.

Akhenaten turned the wheel so that the orange tower was bisected by the vertical line splitting the screen. At times, just to reassure himself that he had control of the speed, he would squeeze the bulb fixed to the right side of the steering wheel. The boat’s speed would increase or decrease according to the force of the squeezing.

The boat headed straight through the choppy, fog-shrouded sea for the tower at a speed frightening to its passengers. Within two hours the image on the screen had become enormous. Then the image burst into a flame which covered the entire screen, and Akhenaten let the boat proceed very slowly. He punched a button, and they all cried out in fright and wonder as two round objects on the prow of the boat shot forth two bright beams of light.

Ahead lay a vast bulk—the tower.

Akhenaten punched a button indicated by the diagram. Slowly, a large, round door, a port, swung open from what had been a smooth, seamless surface. Light sprang into being. Inside was a wide hall, its walls of the same gray metal.

Akehnaten brought the boat alongside the entrance. Some of the crew grabbed the threshold. The Pharaoh pressed the button which shut off the invisible power that moved the boat. He stepped onto the side of the boat, which was just below the threshold. After jumping inside the hall, he took the ropes attached to the inside of the hull and secured them around hooks set into the hall. Apprehensively, silently, the others followed him.

All, that is, except for Paheri. The terror was now almost unendurable. His teeth clicked uncontrollably. His knees shook. His heart beat in his frozen flesh like a frightened bird’s wings. His mind moved sluggishly, like winter mud flowing down a hillside warmed by the sun.

He was too weak to get up from the seat and step into the corridor. He was sure that if he could go on, he’d face his judge and be found wanting.

I’ll say one thing for Paheri. Two. He did have a conscience, and he wasn’t afraid to admit to Tom Rider that he’d been a coward. That takes courage.

Akhenaten, as if he had nothing to fear from The One God, walked steadily toward the end of the corridor. The others were bunched behind him at a dozen paces. One looked back and was surprised that Paheri was still in the boat. He gestured for him to come on. Paheri shook his head and hung on to the gunwale.

Then, without a single cry from anyone, those in the corridor slumped to their knees, fell forward on their hands, tried to rise, failed, and sagged onto their faces. They lay as still and limp as putty models.

The door swung slowly shut. It closed silently, leaving no evidence that there was a door, not even a thin seamline, and Paheri was alone in the dark fog and the cold sea.

Paheri wasted no time in getting the boat turned around. It moved at its former speed, but now there was no signal on the scope, no bright image, to direct it. He could not find the cave, and so he went up and down the base of the cliff until he gave up trying to locate the cave. Finally, he directed it alongside the cliff until he came to the archway through which the sea rams into the mountains. He got through the long and giant cave there, but when he came to the great cataract, he could find no place to beach the boat. It was carried over the falls. Paheri remembered the bellowing of the waters, being turned over and over, and then… unconsciousness.

When he awoke from his translation, he was lying naked in the dark fog under the overhang of a grailstone. His grail—a new one, of course—and a pile of cloths lay by him. Presently he heard voices. The dim figures of people coming to place their grails on the stone approached. He was safe and sound—except for the terrible memory of the hall of the gods.

Tom Rider was translated to Paheri’s area after he’d been killed by some fanatical medieval Christians. He became a soldier, met Paheri, who was in the same squad, and heard his story. Rider worked up to a captaincy and then he was killed again. He awoke the next day in an area where Farrington lived.

Several months later they went upRiver together in a dugout. Then they settled down for a while to build the
Razzle Dazzle.

What’s my reaction to all this? Well, Paheri’s story makes me want to go see for myself if it’s true or not. If he wasn’t making it up, and Tom says Paheri was as stolid and as unimaginative as a wooden cigar-store Indian, then this world, unlike Earth, may have answers to the Big Questions, a mirror to the Ultimate Reality.

Towerward ho!

There’s more to the story than what Rider told me. I chanced to overhear Frisco and Tex several days ago. They were in the main cabin, and the hatch was open. I had sat down, my back against the cabin, and had lit up a cigar. (Yes, for the nonce, I’ve fallen into the clutches of Ole Devil Nicotine.) I really wasn’t paying much attention to their voices, since I was occupied with thoughts resulting from a conversation with Nur el-Musafir.

Then I heard the captain, who has a loud voice, say, “Yes, but how do we know he isn’t using us for some reason of his own? Some reason beneficial to him but not so good for us? And how do we know we can get into the tower? That Egyptian couldn’t. Is there another entrance? If there is, why didn’t he tell us? He did say he’d tell us more about the tower later on. But that was sixteen years ago! Sixteen! We ain’t seen him since!

“I mean, you ain’t seen him. Of course, I never did see him. Anyway, maybe something happened to him. Maybe he got caught. Or maybe he doesn’t need us anymore!”

Rider said something I couldn’t catch. Farrington said, “Sure, but you know what I think? I think he didn’t have the slightest idea those Egyptians got to the tower. Or that one got away. At least, not when he talked to you.”

Rider said something. Farrington replied, “The tunnel and the rope and the boats and probably the path must have been prepared for us. But others got there first.”

The wind strengthened then, and I couldn’t hear anything for a minute or two. I moved closer to the companionway well. Farrington said, “You really think some of them, one, anyway, might be on this ship? Well, it’s possible, Tex, but so what if it is?

“Why weren’t we told who the others were so we could recognize each other and get together? When are we going to be told? Where do we all meet? At River’s end? What if we get there and nobody shows up? Do we wait a hundred years or so there? What if…”

Rider broke in once more. He must have talked a long time. I was straining my ears, so lit up with curiosity that I almost shone with a sort of St. Elmo’s fire. Mustafa, at the wheel, was looking at me with a strange expression. He must have known, or guessed, that I was eavesdropping. This made me uneasy. I wanted desperately to hear the rest. But if the Turk told those two I’d been listening to them, I might get tossed off the ship. On the other hand, he couldn’t know that they were discussing anything I shouldn’t be hearing. So I puffed on my cigar, and when it was out, I pretended to fall asleep.

The situation reminded me of Jim Hawkins’ experience in the apple barrel in
Treasure Island,
when he overheard Long John Silver plotting with his pirate cronies to take over the
Hispaniola
after the treasure was found. Only, in this case, Farrington and Rider weren’t planning anything evil against anybody at all. They seemed to be more plotted against.

Farrington said, “What I’d like to know is why he needs us? Here’s a man with more power than a dozen gods, and if he’s going against his buddies, what help can he get from mere mortals like us? And if he wants us in the tower, why doesn’t he just ferry us to it?”

There was another interruption, followed by the clink of grail cups against each other. Then Rider spoke loudly. “… must have damn good reasons. Anyway, we’ll find out in time. And what else do we have to do?”

Farrington bellowed laughter, then said, “That’s right! What else? Might as well use our time for some end, good or bad. But I still feel like we’re being exploited, and I’m fed up with that. I was exploited by the rich and the middle class when I was young, and then when I became famous and rich, I was exploited by editors and publishers and then by my relatives and friends. I ain’t going to let anybody exploit me here on this world, use me like I was a dumb beast fit for nothing but shoveling coal or canning fish!”

“You did some self-exploiting, too,” Rider said. “Didn’t we all? I made plenty of money and so did you. And what happened? We spent more’n we made on big houses and fast cars and bad investments and booze and whores and putting on a big front. We could’ve played it smart and tight and saved our money and taken it easy and lived to ripe old ages in ease and plenty. But…”

Farrington exploded into laughter again. “But we didn’t, did we? That wasn’t our nature, Tex, and it ain’t now. Live it up, burn the candle at both ends, spin off fire and beauty like a St. Catherine’s wheel instead of trudging along like a steer turning a mill wheel! So the deballed beast gets turned out to pasture instead of going to the glue factory? So what? What does he have to think about while he’s munching grass? A long, gray life and a short, gray future?”

More clinking. Then Farrington started to tell Rider about a train trip he’d taken from San Francisco to Chicago. He had introduced himself to a beautiful woman who was accompanied by her child and a maid. It wasn’t more than an hour after meeting her that he and the woman went to his compartment, where they coupled like crazed minks for three days and nights.

I decided that then was a good time to leave. I got up and strolled to the foremast where Abigail Rice and Nur were talking. Mustafa apparently never suspected me of eavesdropping.

Since then, I’ve been wondering. Who was the
he
referred to? It’s obvious that he must be one of Those who have made this world for us and then raised us from the dead. Could it really be? The idea seemed so tremendous, so difficult to grasp. Yet—Somebody has to have done this, Somebodies, I should say. And they are truly gods, in many senses, anyway.

If Rider is telling the truth, there is a tower in the north polar sea. And by implication it’s a base for Whomever made this world, our secret masters. Yes, I know this sounds paranoid. Or like a science fiction tale, most of which were paranoid, anyway. But, except for the very few who got rich, science fiction writers were convinced that their secret (or not so secret) masters were the publishers. Even the rich ones questioned their royalty statements. Maybe the tower is inhabited by the cabal of super-publishers. (Just kidding, Bob. I think.)

Maybe Rider is lying. Or his informant, Paheri, was lying. I don’t believe so. It’s obvious that Rider and Farrington have been approached by one of these Whomevers. They weren’t just making up this story to fool an eavesdropper.

Or were they?

How paranoid can you get?

No, they were discussing something that had really happened. If they were careless, left the hatch open, didn’t talk subduedly, it was only natural. After all those years, who wouldn’t get careless? As far as that goes, why shouldn’t they tell everybody?

Somebody might be looking for them. Who? Why?

My mind yaws, pitches, and rolls. So many speculations, so many possibilities. And I think, wow! What a story! Too bad I hadn’t thought of something like this when I was writing science fiction. But the concept of a planet consisting of a many-millions-kilometer-long river along which all of humanity that ever lived had been resurrected (a good part of it, anyway) would have been too big to put in one book. It would have taken at least twelve books to do it anywhere near justice. No, I’m glad I didn’t think of it.

In light of those developments, what do I do now? Should I mail this letter or tear it up? It won’t fall into your hands, of course, not a chance of that. Into whose, then?

Probably it’ll be picked up by someone who can’t even read English.

Why am I afraid it might fall into the wrong hands? I really don’t know. But there is a dark, secret struggle going on under the seemingly simple life of this Valley. I intend to find out just what it is. I’ll have to proceed cautiously though. A small voice tells me that I might be better off if I don’t know anything about this.

Anyway, to whom am I really writing these missives? To myself, probably, though I hope hopelessly that just possibly impossibly one might drift into the hands of someone I knew and loved or at least was fond of.

And yet, this very moment, as I stare across the water at the many people on the bank, I might be looking directly at the person to whom I’ve written one of these letters. But the ship is in the middle of The River just now, and I’m too far away to recognize anyone recognizable.

Great God, the faces I’ve seen in twenty years! Millions, far more than I ever saw on Earth. Some of the faces came into being three hundred thousand years ago or more. Undoubtedly, the faces of many of my ancestors, some of them Neanderthals. A certain number of
Homo neanderthalis
was absorbed by miscegenation into
Homo sapiens,
you know. And considering the flux and reflux of large groups through prehistory and history, migrations, invasions, slavery, individual travel, some, maybe many, of the Mongolian, Amerindian, Australoid, and Negro faces I’ve seen belong to my ancestors.