The Dark Design (49 page)

“All ready for duty, my captain.”

Sam said, “Fine, Marc. You can take your post now.”

The little Frenchman saluted and left the pilothouse, sliding down the pole behind it to the flight deck. Lights flooded this, showing the Marines in battle array lined up in its middle. The standard bearer held a pole on top of which was the boat’s flag, a light-blue square bearing a scarlet phoenix. Near him were rows of pistoleers, men and women in gray duraluminum coal-scuttle helmets topped by roaches of human hair stiff with grease, plastic cuirasses, knee-length leather boots, their broad belts holding holstered Mark IV revolvers.

Behind them were the spearmen; behind them, the archers. To one side was a group of bazookateers.

Off to one side stood a colossus clad in armor, holding an oaken club which Sam could lift with two hands only with difficulty. Officially, Joe Miller was Sam’s bodyguard, but he always accompanied the Marines at these times. His chief function was to awe the locals.

“But as usual,” Sam often said, “Joe goes too far. He scares the hell out of them just by standing around.”

This day started out like every other day. It was destined to be, however, quite different. Sometime during the day, the
Minerva
would attack the
Rex Grandissimus
. Sam should have felt jubilant. He wasn’t. He hated the idea of destroying such a beautiful boat, one he had designed and built. Moreover, he’d been deprived of the joy of wreaking a personal revenge on John.

On the other hand, it was a lot safer this way.

There was a bonfire on the right side about half a kilometer away. It revealed a mushroom-shaped grailstone and gleamed on white cloths covering bodies. The fog over The River was lower and thinner here than that usually encountered. It would clear away quickly once the sun got over the peaks. The sky was brightening, washing out the flaming giant stars and gas clouds.

Per usual procedure, the
Firedragon III,
an armored amphibian launch, preceded the mother boat. When it got to an area where the boat would have to recharge its batacitor, its commander parleyed with the locals for the use of two grailstones. Most areas were pleased to do this, their remuneration being the thrill of observing the mammoth vessel at close range.

Those locals who objected found their grailstones temporarily confiscated. They could do nothing about it except to protest. The boat had overwhelming firepower, though Clemens was always reluctant to use it. When forced to resort to violence, Clemens refrained from massacre. A few spurts of .80-caliber plastic bullets from the big steam machine guns on the boat and from the armored steam-spurting amphibian tearing around on shore, usually sufficed. It wasn’t even necessary to kill anybody in most cases.

After all, what did the locals lose if two grailstones were used by somebody else for one time only? Nobody had to miss a meal. There were always enough unused spots on nearby stones to take up the slack. In fact, most of those who surrendered their meal did not even bother to travel to the next stone. They preferred to stay there so they could ooh and ah at the magnificent beauty of the boat.

The four enormous electrical motors of the boat required tremendous energy. Once a day, a giant metal cap was placed over the grailstone by which the boat was stationed. A launch would carry the boat’s grails to the next stone for filling. A crane extended from another launch would lift the cap and place it over the head of the stone. When the stone discharged, its energy flashed via thick cables into the batacitor. This was a huge metal box which rose from the boiler deck into the main deck. It stored the energy instantly in its function of capacitor. As demanded, it would release the energy in its function of battery.

Sam Clemens went ashore and talked briefly with the local chief officials, who understood Esperanto. This universal language had degraded here into a form which was difficult but not impossible for Sam to understand. He gravely thanked them for their courtesy, and he returned to the boat on his small private launch. Ten minutes later,
Firedragon IV
returned with a cargo of full grails.

Whistles blowing and bells clanging to give the locals a thrill, the boat headed on upRiver. Sam and Gwenafra sat at the head of the great nine-sided table in the dining room in the main deck salon. The chief officers, except those on duty, sat with him. After some orders for the day, Sam retired to the billiards table, where he played against the titanthrop. Joe was not very good with a cue or with cards because of his huge hands. Sam almost always beat him. Then Sam would play against a more skilled person.

At 07:00, Sam would make an inspection of the boat. He hated to walk, but he insisted on this because he needed the exercise. Also, it helped keep up the appearance of a naval vessel. Without the drills and the inspections, the crew were likely to become sloppy civilians. They would get too off-hand, too familiar with their superiors when on duty.

“I run a tight boat,” Sam had often boasted. “At least, the crew is tight, though no one has ever been found drunk on duty.”

The inspection did not take place that morning. Sam was called to the pilothouse because the radio operator had gotten a message from the
Minerva
. Before Sam could get off the elevator, the radar scope had blipped an object coming over the mountain to portside.

The blimp came down out of the brightness as if it were a silver egg just laid by the sun. To the startled people on the ground, few of whom had ever seen or even heard of an airship before, it was a frightening monster. No doubt some believed that it was a vessel carrying the mysterious beings who had raised them from the dead. A few may even have hailed it with a mixture of dread and joy, sure that a revelation was at hand.

How had the
Minerva
found the
Mark Twain
so easily? The great boat was towing a large kite-shaped balloon which was above the top of the mountains and which carried a transmitter sending powerful dots and dashes. Hardy, the
Minerva
’s navigator, knew the boat’s general location from the map of The River on his table. During the years of its voyaging, the
Mark Twain
had sent out data by radio which had enabled the Parolanders to trace its route. Furthermore, on spotting the boat, the navigator of the
Parseval
had sent a message which gave the
Minerva
a rough location.

Having also been given the location of the
Rex,
the captain of the
Minerva
knew that John Lackland’s boat was almost on a straight line with Sam’s due east. The
Rex
was only 140 kilometers away if a line as straight as a Prussian officer’s back was followed. To follow The River, however, Sam’s boat would have to go perhaps 571,195 kilometers or 355,000 miles before it arrived where the
Rex
was now.

Greystock, speaking over the transceiver in the control nacelle, asked permission to pass over the
Mark Twain
.

Sam’s voice was flat over the transceiver. “Why?”

“To salute you,” the Englishman said. “Also, I think that you and your crew might like to get a close look at the vessel that is going to destroy King John. And, to tell the truth, my men and I would like to see your splendid boat at close range.”

He paused, and then said, “It may be our last chance.”

It was Sam who paused this time. Then, sounding as if he were choking back tears, he said, “Okay, Greystock. You may pass by us, but not over us. Call me paranoid. But it makes me uneasy to have an airship carrying four big bombs directly over me. What if they were accidentally released?”

Greystock rolled his eyes in disgust and grinned savagely at the other men in the nacelle.

“Nothing could possibly go wrong,” he said.

“Yeah? That’s what the commander of the
Maine
said just before he went to bed. No, Greystock, you do as I say.”

Greystock, obviously unhappy, replied that he would obey. “We’ll circle you once and then get to the job.”

“Good luck on that,” Sam’s voice said. “I know that you fine fellows might not be…”

He seemed unable to complete his sentence.

“We know we might not get back,” Greystock said. “But I think we have an excellent chance of taking the
Rex
by surprise.”

“I hope so. But remember that the
Rex
has two airplanes. You’ll have to hit the flight deck first so they can’t get off.”

“I don’t need advice,” Greystock said coldly.

There was another pause, longer than the others.

Sam’s voice came over the speaker loudly. “Lothar von Richthofen is coming up to greet you. He wants to fly alongside and give you his personal blessing. That’s the least I can do for him. I’ve had a hell of a time keeping him from convoying you. He’d like to be in on the attack, too.

“But our planes have a flight ceiling of only 3660 meters. That makes them too susceptible to downdrafts over those mountains. Anyway, they’d have to carry an extra fuel tank to get back.”

Lothar’s voice cut in. “I told him you could spare enough fuel from your ship, Greystock. We could fly back.”

“Nothing doing!”

Greystock looked down through the forward port. The balloon was being reeled in, but it would be twenty minutes before it was landed.

The giant boat was a beauty, a fourth longer than the
Rex
and much taller. Jill Gulbirra had claimed that the
Parseval
was the most beautiful and the grandest artifact on The Riverworld. Earth had never had anything to equal it. But Greystock thought that this vessel, to use Clemens’ phrase, “won the blue ribbon by a mile.”

As Greystock watched, an airplane rose on an elevator to the landing deck while a crew readied a catapult.

The stocky man looked with arctic-gray eyes around the control gondola. The pilot, Newton, a World War II aviator, was at his post. Hardy, the navigator, and Samhradh, the Irish first mate, were at the port screen. Six others were aboard, stationed in the three engine gondolas.

Greystock walked to the weapons cabin, opened it, and took out two of the heavy Mark IV pistols. These were steel four-shooter revolvers using duraluminum cartridges holding .69-caliber plastic bullets. He held one by the grip in his left hand; the other, he reversed. Keeping an eye on the two at the port screen, he walked over to a position behind Newton. He brought the butt end of the gun in his right hand against the top of Newton’s head. The pilot fell off his chair onto the floor.

He quickly reached over with his left hand and flicked the transceiver switch off with his thumb. The two men turned at the crack of the impact of metal against bone. They froze, staring at a totally unexpected scene.

Greystock said, “Don’t move. Now… put your hands up behind your neck.”

Hardy, goggling, said, “What be this, man?”

“Just keep quiet.”

He waved a pistol at a cabinet. “Put on your parachutes. And don’t try to jump me. I can shoot both of you easily.”

Samhradh stuttered, his face going from pale to red. “Y… y… you bastard! You’re a traitor!”

“No,” Greystock said, “a loyal subject of King John of England.” He smiled. “Though I have been promised that I will be second-in-command of the
Rex
when I bring this airship to His Majesty. That ensured my loyalty.”

Samhradh looked out the stern port. The action in the control gondola was visible from the engine gondolas.

Greystock said, “I was gone for half an hour, checking with the engineers, remember? They’re all tied up, so they won’t be of any help to you.”

The two men crossed the gondola, opened the cabinet and began to put on their parachutes. Hardy said, “What about him?”

“You can put Newton’s chute on and throw him out before you go.”

“And what about the engineers?”

“They’ll have to take their chances.”

“They’ll die if you’re shot down!” Samhradh said.

“Too bad.”

When the two men had strapped on their packs, they dragged Newton to the middle of the gondola. Greystock, holding pistols on them, backed away while they did this. He then pushed the button which lowered the port Plexiglas screen. Newton, groaning, half-conscious, was pushed over the ledge. Samhradh pulled Newton’s rip cord as he fell out. A moment later, the Irishman leaped. Hardy paused with one leg outside the port.

“If I ever run across you, Greystock, I’ll kill you.”

“No, you won’t,” Greystock said. “Jump before I decide to make sure you won’t ever have a chance.”

He turned the transceiver on.

Clemens bellowed, “What in blue blazes is going on?”

“Three of my men drew lots to see who leaves the ship,” Greystock said smoothly. “We decided that the ship should be lightened. It’s better that way; we need all the speed we can get.”

“Why in hell didn’t you tell me?” Clemens said. “Now I’ll have to put about and fish them out of the water.”

“I know,” Greystock said under his breath.

He looked out the port screen. The
Minerva
was past the
Mark Twain
now. Its decks were crowded with people looking up at the dirigible. The airplane, a low-wing single-seater monoplane, was on the catapult, which was being swung around to face the wind. The balloon was still being reeled in.