The Fabulous Riverboat

by Philip José Farmer

  "Watch out, you'll lose your love," Sam said and walked away. But he did not feel particularly triumphant. It was a fact that he did have a little stomach upset. Invincible ignorance always upset him, even though he knew he should just laugh at it.

  Chapter 21

  * * *

  The afternoon of the next day arrived. Sam Clemens and John Lackland had been arguing all morning. Finally Sam, exasperated past caution and reasonableness, said, "We can't afford to have the bauxite cut off by Hacking! We can't afford anything that will put a stop to building the Riverboat! Maybe you're doing this to force a war between us and SoulCity! It isn't going to work, Your Majesty!"

  Sam had been walking back and forth, waving a panatela as he spoke. John sprawled before the oaken round table in Sam's pilothouse. Joe Miller sat in a corner on a big chair specially built for him. The massive paleolithic Mongolian, Zaksksromb, stood behind John.

  Suddenly, Sam whirled and planked both fists on the table. Leaning on the table, his cigar in one corner of his mouth, the reddish tangle of his eyebrows drawn down, he snarled at John.

  "You gave in once, at Runnymede, when you signed the Magna Carta. It was about the only decent thing you ever did during your reign – and there are some who say you had your fingers crossed then. Well, this is another showdown, John, Your Majesty. You apologize to Abdullah, who has a right to an apology – or I'll call a special session of the Council and we'll determine your fitness to continue as co-Consul!"

  John glowered at him for a full minute at the least. Then he said, "Your threats don't scare me. But it's evident that you would sooner plunge our land into civil war than go to war with SoulCity. I do not understand this madness, but then a rational man always has trouble understanding irrationality. So I will apologize. Why not? A king can afford to be gracious to a commoner. It costs him nothing and enhances his graciousness."

  John rose and swaggered out, his huge bodyguard behind him.

  •••

  Ten minutes later, Sam heard that John had appeared at the state guest house and offered his apology. Abdullah X accepted it, though sullenly. It was evident that he had been ordered to do so.

  Just before the factory whistles announced the end of lunch hour, Cawber entered. He sat down without waiting for Sam to invite him. Sam raised his eyebrows, because this was the first time that this had happened. There was something indefinable in Cawber's attitude. Sam, watching him carefully, listening to every inflection of his voice, decided that his attitude was that of a slave who has decided to be a slave no more.

  Cawber knew that he would be the emissary to SoulCity. He sat leaning forward, huge black arms resting on the oak, his hands spread out. He spoke in Esperanto and, like many people, mostly in the present tense, using an adverb of time to indicate future or past if he wanted to clarify.

  Cawber's team had talked to every one of the approximately three thousand undoubted Negroes (there was some confusion of classification about some of the pre-historics). A third of these was willing, though not eager, to go to SoulCity in exchange for Hacking's unwanted citizens. Most were late-twentieth-century blacks. The others maintained that they had work that gave them prestige, that they like being on an equal footing with the whites, and that they did not want to give up their chance to be on the Riverboat.

  The latter was probably the biggest determinant, Sara thought. He was not the only one who dreamed of the Riverboat. It drove through the minds of many during sleep, gleaming like a jewel with a firefly trapped inside it.

  Firebrass and his people were requested to come to the conference room. Firebrass was late because he had been inspecting the airplane. He was laughing about its quaintness, fragility and slowness, and yet he was envious that von Richthofen would be the one to fly it.

  "You'll certainly get a chance to fly it, too," Sam said. "Provided that you are still here, of course, when . . ."

  Firebrass became serious. "What is your decision, gentlemen, regarding my government's proposal?"

  Sam looked at John, who gestured that Sam had the floor. John intended that any possible ill feelings should first be directed at Sam.

  "This is a democracy," Sam said. "And we can't tell our citizens to get out unless they've been guilty of illegal behavior. So, as I see it – as we see it – any citizen of Parolando may go to SoulCity if he wishes. I think we actually reached .basic agreement on this when we last met. It will be up to your government to negotiate with each citizen. As for taking in your Arabs and Dravidians and so forth – we'll give them a chance to come with us if they want to. But we reserve the right to get rid of them if they don't work out. Where they'll go then is up to them."

  "Well," Firebrass said, "I don't suppose Hacking wants anybody who isn't willing to live in SoulCity, no matter how black that person is."

  "What about the shipments of minerals?" Sam said. "Will those be discontinued during the negotiations?"

  "I really couldn't say," Firebrass replied. "I doubt it, but I'd have to confer with Hacking. Of course, you'll have to keep up your present rate of ore and weapons to us before the price is raised." "I notice you said is, not might be," Sam said.

  "Anything I say is subject to confirmation or negation from SoulCity," Firebrass said, smiling.

  It was then agreed that Cawber would go to SoulCity as Parolando's ambassador of the Carta could be changed to arrange it. Everything else was still up in the air. Sam Clemens received the impression that Firebrass did not intend to speed things up. Quite the contrary. He was willing to let things drag on or even to put his own foot on the brake if things showed signs of accelerating. He wanted to remain in Parolando, and Sam could only think that he wished to do so in order to spy. Perhaps, he also wanted to stir up trouble.

  Later, he discussed the meeting with John. John agreed that Firebrass was a spy, but he could not see why Firebrass would stir up trouble.

  "He would want the boat to be built as swiftly as possible. The sooner it's completed, the sooner Hacking will try to seize it. Do you think for one moment that Hacking doesn't intend to get the boat? Do you think for one moment that we have a single neighbor who doesn't intend to try for the boat? Arthur made the abortive attempt to take us over because of his hatred for me. He should have waited until the boat was nearly completed and then, with Kleomenes and the Ulmaks, launched all the force they could mount in an all-out attack. As things worked out, he and Kleomenes were killed and Iyeyasu has invaded their countries while their successors are fighting among themselves." "According to our spies, he's winning, too," Sam said.

  "If he consolidates his state with the other two, then he'll be a very formidable enemy."

  And so will you be John Lackland, Sam thought. Of all the people I'll have to watch after the boat is built, you'll bear the closest watching . . .

  Firebrass announced that he and his delegation would remain as SoulCity's embassy while the negotiations went on.

  "It's nice to have you," Sam said. "But SoulCity has its own industries. I know it's been using our ore to make weapons and several things our spies can't find out about."

  Firebrass looked surprised and then he laughed uproariously. "You twist my stick, stymate!" he said in English. Then, in Esperanto, "Well, why shouldn't we be frank? I like that. Yes, we know you have spies among us – just as you know we have ours here. Who doesn't have his spies in his neighbors' lands? But what are you getting at?"

  "You're the most technically trained man Hacking has. You're a PhD. You're in charge of the factories and of research and development. So why does Hacking send you here when he needs you there?" "I've set everything up to run smoothly. SoulCity doesn't need me right now, and I was bored. I wanted to come here, where it's at."

  "So you can see what we've got, like our Mark I handguns and our airplane and the amphibian and its steam cannon?"

  Firebrass grinned and nodded. "Yes. Why not? If I don't see these things, someone else will."

  Sam relaxed. He said, "Have a cigar.
You can look all you want. We're not doing anything you wouldn't have figured out for yourself, except for the steam cannon maybe. That, by the way, is my invention. Come along with me. I'm very proud of it and want you to see it. It's almost finished."

  Firedragon I rested inside its supporting framework of timbers. It was silvery gray and shaped like a flat-bottomed boat but had seven huge metal wheels with plastic tires on each side. Twin screws protected by a screen protruded from its rear. Its length was thirty feet, its beam was ten feet, and its height was twelve feet. Three turrets stuck out from the upper deck. One held the pilot, captain and radio operator, though at the moment Parolando had no radios. The center turret was higher than the others, and the barrel of a short stubby weapon encased in wood projected from it. The rear turret was designed for gunners who would be armed with Mark I handguns and perhaps rifles.

  "The amphibian burns wood alcohol to generate steam," Sam said. "Let's go inside, through this hatch in the side here. You'll notice that the boiler takes up about a third of the interior. There's a good reason for that, as you'll see."

  They climbed up a ladder into the interior of the center turret, which was lit by a single light bulb. Firebrass exclaimed at this. It was the only electric light bulb he had ever seen on The River. Sam explained that it was powered by a fuel cell.

  "And here is the Super-dooper Steam Machine Cannon," he said. He pointed at the cylinder sticking out of the gray bulkhead of the turret. Underneath it were a pistol-like butt and a trigger. Firebrass got behind it, put his finger on the trigger and looked out through the opening above the barrel. He raised and lowered the weapon.

  "There'll be a chair for the operator to sit in," Sam said. "He'll be able to rotate the turret any way he wants by pushing pedals. He can depress the gun about twenty degrees up or down. The steam from the boiler is the motive power for the eighty-caliber plastic bullets. The gun is fired from an open breech – that is, there's no bullet in the barrel when the trigger is pulled. Pulling the trigger releases a catch which permits the breech block to move forward, impelled by a spring. During its forward travel, the breech block picks up a plastic bullet from the clip and pushes it into the breech. Just before the block reaches the breech, the camming lugs on either side engage in their slots and turn the breech block a quarter turn to the right, thus locking the breech. You follow me?" Firebrass nodded.

  "Good. As soon as the quarter turn is completed, the inlet channel in the breech block comes into line with the feed channel from the high-pressure steam line. This allows hot, say approximately 400° F, steam to enter the chamber in the breech block. The plastic cartridge is forced through the barrel by the expansion of steam. At the same time the steam pressure, acting against the rear of the chamber, begins to force the breech block back. Because of the greater weight of the block, however, the block doesn't begin to move until the bullet has already cleared the muzzle of the rifle.

  "As the block begins to move backward, the camming lugs move in the camming slots and turn the bolt a quarter turn to the left, thus shutting off the steam. Then the breech block returns to its original position. If the trigger is still held back, the operation is repeated indefinitely."

  Firebrass said, "I'm impressed, but won't the gun operate most efficiently if its temperature is the same as the incoming high-pressure steam? That way, less of the steam's energy would be used to heat the gun and this means more steam to propel the bullet. Ah, I see! You do have a hollow jacket around the barrel. The steam travels through that before it enters the weapon itself, right?"

  "Yes. There's an insulating jacket of plaster encased in wood. Note that bleeder valve. It permits the gun to be heated up before use – a few seconds before it's fired. If that isn't done, the gun might jam. And since the gun's maximum temperature is the same as the steam in the boiler, there's no danger of burning up the barrel. You can use the gun like a fire hose. In fact, that'll be about the only way it'll be effective. The accuracy of a light plastic bullet with such comparatively low muzzle velocity isn't high."

  Firebrass was far from being depressed because of the military superiority the amphibian would give Parolando. This probably was because he was planning on building one for SoulCity. Or, if Parolando had one, then perhaps he might build two. In which case, Parolando would have to build three.

  SoulCity could not out-build Parolando. But Parolando could not cut the supplies off, because then SoulCity would cut off the bauxite, cryolite, platinum and indium.

  The exhilaration from showing off his deadly invention whistled out almost audibly from Sam. The only solution to the problem, if SoulCity did start a weapons race, would be to smash SoulCity and take direct control of the minerals. This meant putting off the building of the Riverboat. And it also meant offending the two states, Publiujo and Tifonujo, that lay between Parolando and SoulCity. And if those two states got together, they would be formidable, what with the weapons that Parolando had to give them in exchange for their wood.

  Sam had thought that that potentiality was bad enough. But a few days later Iyeyasu completed his conquest of his neighboring states and sent a mission to Parolando. He made no demands that could not be met. In fact, in one way his proposals were helpful. He said that his nation had lost enough trees, and he would like to give them a chance to grow again – but for an increase in the number of weapons from Parolando, he was willing to provide a large quantity of wood and of excrement for their gunpowder industry. He would invade the territories across The River and take their wood from them.

  What it amounted to was that Parolando would be paying Iyeyasu to collect the wood forcibly from its neighbors. It would be cheaper and also a lot less painful for Parolandoj, who would not have to do their own killing, enslaving or raiding.

  And Sam Clemens would have one more thing to rob him of sleep.

  John Lackland thought the proposal excellent. "Our factories are turning out weapons efficiently," he said. "We can afford to export more. And we must build a fleet of Firedragons so that the swords we give these people will be easily overpowered by our machines."

  "When are we going to start building the Riverboat?" Sam asked.

  No one gave him an answer, but the next day Van Boom, Velitsky, and O'Brien, his chief engineers, brought him the first rough overall sketches. They were drawn in black on white plastic boards with a pencil connected to a fuel cell. The magnetic field at the tip of the pencil rearranged the loose and very thin covering of particles within its range. The lines remained polarized until a reverse field was passed over them. Thus, the demand for paper for drawings was greatly cut down, and the plans could be changed as desired.

  Firebrass said he would like to help build the boat. Permission was given, though John objected at first. Sam replied that the more help they had, the faster the work would move. And he did not see how any amount of knowledge on Firebrass' part would enable him to steal the boat. Though Sam did not tell John, he had an idea about Firebrass. That was to get him so involved, so "het up" about the boat that he would take an offer of a berth on the vessel.

  The machinery necessary to roll out the first plates for the hull was almost finished. The dam had been finished a week ago, and the water from the cataract was filling it up. The aluminum wires of the generators, which would be turned by the waterfall from the dam, were being wound. The prototype batacitor, which would be four stories high, would be finished in a month, if enough materials were available.

  Five hundred missionaries of the Church of the Second Chance asked for sanctuary in Parolando a few days later, Iyeyasu had kicked them out of his new state, promising various exquisite tortures if they tried to sneak back. Sam did not hear about them immediately because he was up at the dam.

  The Chancers refused to go when John sent word to them to leave immediately. John Lackland, hearing this, smiled grimly, tugged at his lion-colored hair, and swore his favorite oath, "By the teeth of God!"

  Sam was at the dam to supervise the installation of t
ons of dynamite inside the hollow walls. This was to be one more trick up his sleeve, a last-ditch operation – and perhaps a suicidal one – if ever an enemy were about to make a successful invasion.

  Von Richthofen, red-faced and blowing hard from his run up the hill, told him of the arrival of the Chancers and their refusal to move. He did not mention John.

  Sam told Lothar to tell the Chancers that he would be down in the evening. They could wait for him but were not to move outside a radius of twenty yards from the grailstone near which they had landed. For a moment, he considered ordering them to leave at once and telling the soldiers that they could pound them a little with the flats of their swords if they wished. He was hot and sweating and covered with cement dust, and he felt an especial animosity toward the Chancers. Here was a world blessed by the absence of flies and mosquitoes – and humans, the Chancers, were trying to fill the gap.

  The rumbling and splash of giant mortars pouring out concrete, the yells of the straw bosses and the scraping of shovels and clatter of iron wooden-wheeled barrows kept Sam from hearing the explosions that came a half hour later. He knew nothing of what had happened until von Richthofen came running toward him again. Sam felt as if he would come loose at the joints and

  lump into a puddle. John had tested out the new guns on the Chancers. A hundred Mark I flintlocks had killed almost five hundred men and women in three minutes. John himself had fired and loaded ten times, using the last five bullets to finish off the wounded.

  About thirty women, the most beautiful, had been spared. These had been taken to John's palace.

  Long before he reached the water's edge, Sam saw the big crowd gathered around the grailstone. He sent Lothar ahead of him to clear the way. The crowd parted before them, like the Red Sea before Moses, he thought, but the Red Sea was before him after he got through the parting. The bodies were piled against each other, covered with blood, their flesh torn, bones shattered by the big-caliber bullets. In his ninety-seven years of life Sam had never grown accustomed to the silence of the dead. It seemed to hang over them like an invisible and chilling cloud. The mouth that would not speak again, the brain that could not think . . .