The Black Tower

by Phlip Jose Farmer

"I haven't finished my say yet," Goode insisted. "I don't know why that damned purser Fennely put me to table with a pair of pallid petunias like these two. And you're not that much better, you lobster-backed fop! My granddaddy whipped your old King George and sent your soldiers packing, and I'm ready to give you the same lesson if you can't remember what it was!"

  "Please, sir!" Clive rose to his feet. "Miss Ransome is present. If you wish to settle your differences with me, there is a proper way. A vulgar brawl at the dinner table is not that way."

  The Ransomes were still in their seats. Miss Ransome was staring, alarmed, from Goode to Folliot. The Reverend Ransome had folded his hands and lowered his eyes. Now he murmured a soft amen and looked up at Folliot and Goode. "I have prayed for guidance," Ransome said.

  "Oh yeah?" Goode jeered. "You must have sent your message by telegraph. What kind of answer did you get? Or haven't they answered you yet?"

  "Come," the Reverend Ransome said, "let us retire to the ship's lounge, where we may continue our discussion in calmer circumstances."

  Clive expected Goode either to punch Ransome then and there, or to stamp out of the dining salon in disgust and rage. Instead, the American said, "All right, preacher. We'll do that."

  They found a private corner in the ship's lounge and seated themselves. A steward approached and offered them beverages. "We do not take strong spirits," Ransome explained for himself and Lorena. "But a cooling fruit juice would be welcomed."

  Goode ordered a brandy and Folliot agreed to join him. When the steward started to turn away, Goode said, "Just bring the bottle and a couple of glasses, sonny. We don't want to bother you with running back and forth all the time." He laughed at his own words.

  There were half-a-dozen tables in the lounge. Most of the ship's passengers were male, but a few ladies were accompanied by their husbands. An upright piano stood in one corner of the room. Card games were in progress at several tables, as travelers whiled away the Empress's slow progress southward.

  Clive's attention was captured by a most remarkable sight in the far corner. A man had seated himself at the piano, and from the back he appeared to be a Chinese gentleman.

  A mere matter of days had passed, and yet the world of the Empress Philippa seemed as isolated from England as must George du Maurier's fabled planet Mars. Stranger yet, the mandarin, clad in his Oriental gown, was rendering with perfection a difficult composition by the late German composer Felix Mendelssohn!

  Clive shook his head in wonderment.

  The steward returned bearing a tray with a glass of nectar for each of the Ransomes and with two empty glasses and a bottle of golden-colored liquid for Mr. Goode and himself.

  When the steward left, Goode lifted his glass. "I apologize, Reverend. I'm a hot-tempered man and I react when people tread on my toes. I guess you mean well, if nothing more."

  "Half an apology is better than none, I suppose," Ransome said.

  "And as for you, Major," Goode snapped a nod at Clive, "we threw out your King George but look what we have now—that fool Andy Johnson! We may yet have to do the same thing to him, hey? Drink up, drink up!"

  Clive emptied his glass and Goode refilled it.

  "Tell you what, Reverend," Goode went on. "About that tithing business. Never believed in it and don't believe in it now. Let 'em get out and earn their own way, says I. I've never given anything to any damned preacher, but in the spirit of friendship, I'll make you an offer."

  Ransome looked mildly at the American. "An offer, Mr. Goode?"

  "Let's have a little game of poker. Look at all the fun they're having." He indicated the nearby tables where card games were in progress.

  Ransome grew paler than ever.

  "Just a friendly little game," Goode repeated. He slapped himself on the chest as he had earlier, but this time he kept his hand pressed against his jacket so that Clive could see the rectangular outline of a deck of playing cards.

  "I could never—I am a Christian, Mr. Goode. A Methodist. Gambling is most unchristian."

  "Can't do it, hey?" Goode lowered his glass from his lips, added a bit to it from the bottle, filled Clive's glass, and returned his attention to Ransome.

  "I'll tell you what, Rev. If I win, anything I win I'll donate to your mission, how's that? And if you win, you can do the same. So it isn't gambling, see? It's just my way of tithing. Got to salvage a little American pride, eh?"

  Ransome looked at his sister. He bent his head, spoke a few words to her, then straightened. He reached into his pocket and withdrew his prayer book and his glasses, fixed the glasses on his nose, and studied the book.

  After a few minutes he closed the book and slipped it back into his pocket.

  He cleared his throat. "Playing cards is still a frivolous and unseemly activity. But the greater sin would be gambling, and as you say, this is merely a device whereby you may contribute to the good works of our mission. So I have decided that it is permissible— although hardly behavior in which I would care to indulge more than this once, Mr. Goode."

  Goode turned to Clive. "What about you, Folliot? You in the game? I'll even forgive your damned redcoats for burning Washington back in fourteen."

  "Ah—I could hardly keep my winnings, Mr. Goode."

  "Philo," Goode said. "Call me Philo, and I'll call you Clive, all right?"

  "You may call me Amos, then," the Reverend Ransome added.

  "And you may call me Lorena," his sister said. She leaned toward Clive as she said it, and as the bodice of her dress touched his arm he could detect the warmth and pleasant softness of her bosom.

  "Why don't you throw in with us, then?" Goode said. "All winnings to the reverend's mission. What could be better than that, Clive?"

  Folliot agreed.

  Goode reached inside his garment and extracted a package of playing cards. He said, "Plain American poker all right?"

  Ransome said, "I fear that my sister and I are not acquainted with the rules of the game. Of any card game."

  Goode shot a look at Folliot. "Let's play a couple of dummy hands, to teach Amos the game, okay, Clive? Amos and Miss Ransome, of course."

  Clive agreed and Goode dealt an open hand. Clive won with a pair of jacks. The deal moved to Clive and he dealt an open hand and won again with a feeble ace high.

  Next it was Lorena Ransome's turn to deal, and under Goode's guidance she distributed the cards correctly, and won the hand as well, with a heart flush. When Clive explained to her that her hand beat both her brother's two pairs and Philo Goode's three tens, she squealed delightedly and hugged his arm.

  Clive blushed, and, seeing him do so, Lorena did also.

  Soon they started playing in earnest. The ship's purser provided chips, and the steward replenished Amos's and Lorena's glasses and replaced Clive and Philo's bottle.

  Amos Ransome was the only one of the four who hadn't won a hand during the dummy play, and for the first half hour of serious play he managed to continue his miserable performance.

  Philo Goode lost a few pounds; Amos Ransome, far more; Clive Folliot and Lorena Ransome won in roughly equal amounts.

  Every time Lorena won a pot she would squeal and hug a nearby arm—at first alternating between her brother and Clive, then turning to Clive more and more often.

  The steward returned again, with fruit juice for the Ransomes and brandy for Folliot and Goode. The luck of the table swung from Clive and Lorena to Philo and Amos. Then Lorena did a little better. Then Philo, Amos, and Clive bid up a huge pot.

  Clive held a full house with three acres.

  Philo was sweating. He opened his collar, lifted his brandy glass, and set it down again. The betting was furious. Lorena had dropped out early but the three men refused to quit.

  Several of the other games had ended, and passengers had moved from their tables and assembled near this one. Even the silken-robed mandarin had ceased his performance of Mendelssohn and joined the crowd of Europeans surrounding the table.

  Finally Goode thre
w his cards face down on the cloth.

  Clive had gone deeply into the funds provided by Maurice Carstairs. He looked into the envelope. He'd been drinking brandy and become intoxicated both by it and by the proximity of Lorena Ransome. She had abandoned her practice of squealing and hugging his arm every time she won a pot, but there was now a pressure of her leg against his own, beneath the table, that he found both distracting and exciting.

  He laid his last fifty-pound note on the table.

  Amos Ransome, his ecclesiastical garb soaked with perspiration, said, "I'll call you, Clive. Is that the right term?"

  Suddenly Clive realized that he had gambled away most of his treasury. The friendly game, all for the good of the mission, had turned into his ruin. If he lost this hand, he would be unable to finance his search for Neville. He would never write his dispatches for Carstairs's rag, would never write his book, would never make his fortune—would never marry Annabella.

  He laid down his full house.

  The Reverend Amos Ransome laid down a straight flush. He reached for the chips and the pile of cash that spelled the doom of Clive Folliot's mission.

  A long hand ending in a jade fingernail protector emerged from the sleeve of a silken robe. The carved jade touched the back of Ransome's hand. It appeared to be the gentlest of contacts but Ransome froze into immobility.

  "Major Clive Folliot," the mandarin intoned in perfect and unaccented English. "You have been taken in by a trio of brilliant cheats. I suggest that you retrieve all of your money and retire to your cabin. These three will remain where they are while a steward summons Purser Fennely. He will deal with them or turn the matter over to Captain Wingate, as he deems proper."

  Lorena Ransome screamed.

  Philo Goode shoved back his chair and leaped to his feet. "How dare you, you yellow heathen!" He fumbled at his waistband and drew a hogleg revolver. He pointed it at the mandarin.

  The Oriental raised his fingernail protector from the back of Amos Ransome's hand and tapped gently on the barrel of Goode's revolver. The revolver landed on the table with a crash.

  Goode stared, dumbfounded. His eyes bulged, and he strained, but he appeared unable to retrieve the weapon.

  The mandarin lifted the revolver and emptied the bullets from its cylinder. He dropped them, one after another, into the brandy bottle. As each bullet landed in the liquor it made a distinct sound, as if a small, heavy stone had been dropped into a half-frozen pond, where the resulting ripples remained as evidence of the event.

  Beads of perspiration dripped from Philo Goode's ruddy face. He shouted at the crowd surrounding the table, "You're white men. Are you going to let this yellow devil accuse the reverend of cheating? Stop him!"

  The Chinese reached for Amos Ransome's thick-lensed spectacles. He removed them from the preacher's nose and extended them toward Clive, bowing.

  Clive looked curiously at the glasses. He held them in front of his eyes and looked at the cards lying on the table. Each was clearly marked with its suit and denomination. No wonder the Reverend Ransome had won so much money! His earlier poor play had been a ruse to lure Clive into betting more heavily. Philo Goode's job had been to set up the game with his studied insults of the preacher. Goode had provided the marked cards. And Lorena Ransome had added to Clive's distraction.

  Clive passed the preacher's glasses around to half-a-dozen spectators. Each of them looked through them at the cards and muttered before passing them on to another. Finally they came back to the mandarin.

  If it hadn't been for the Chinese, Clive would have been cleaned out and left with hardly a pound to his name, while the preacher—come to think of it, he was almost certainly a phony preacher at that—divided the loot with his female confederate and his other fellow American.

  At this point the purser, Mr. Fennely, arrived, summoned by a steward.

  Clive explained briefly what had happened. Fennely said, "Reverend, Miss Ransome, and Mr. Goode. You are confined to your quarters. You will go there directly from the salon, and wait for a summons from Captain Wingate. You will consider yourselves under captain's arrest."

  He asked Clive if he wished to prefer charges against the three.

  Clive said, "What will happen to them?"

  "If you prefer charges, Major Folliot, they will be arraigned for attempted criminal fraud, tried by a ship's tribunal, and, if convicted, bound over to the authorities at the first British port."

  "And if I don't?" Clive asked.

  "Captain Wingate will probably keep them under confinement in their cabins until we reach our first port of call, then put them ashore and wash his hands of them."

  Clive considered. The Ransomes and Philo Goode all watched him. Finally he said, "I will not prefer charges."

  The purser nodded. "Word will pass throughout the maritime fleet, you may rest assured of that, Major Folliot." Shoving Amos Goode's revolver into his own waistband, he ushered the three cheats from the salon.

  Clive looked around for the mandarin, but he had disappeared.

  CHAPTER 4

  The Celestial Guest

  Folliot slumped in the sole chair with which his cabin was furnished. He held his head in his hands, trying to calm his racing thoughts.

  At a gentle scratching at the door he called, "Come in."

  Bowing, the mandarin entered. He closed the door carefully behind him, bowed again, and removed his headdress.

  Clive stared up in amazement.

  "Quartermaster Sergeant Horace Hamilton Smythe reporting, sah!"

  The Chinese braced to attention and snapped a quivering right-hand salute. But he was no longer a Chinese. He still wore the elaborately embroidered, brightly colored silk robes of the Oriental, but his facial features had altered subtly.

  The shape of his eyes seemed to have changed, and the tips of his long, silken, ebony mustache had been curled and waxed.

  The color of his skin had not changed, but what had seemed, in the ship's salon, an Oriental yellow could now be seen instead as the healthy tan of an Englishman who has spent years beneath the tropical sun.

  Clive sat flabbergasted, staring up at the sergeant.

  "I'll beg you not to give me away while we're aboard the Empress," Sergeant Smythe said.

  "But—but—" Clive stammered.

  "With your permission, sah." Smythe indicated the foot of Clive's bunk. With Folliot occupying the cabin's sole chair, his visitor made a seat for himself on the end of the bunk.

  "You were on detached duty from the Horse Guards. Brigadier Leicester—"

  "Yes, sah," Smythe assented. "Technically, I am still in the Guards. Although I imagine they've got themselves a new regimental quartermaster sergeant by now."

  "Yes, they have." Clive nodded. "And a sorry job he is. We miss you, Smythe. Where did you go? The brigadier was mightily close-lipped about the whole thing, as well as about when you might return to duty."

  "With the major's permission, sah, I'm not at liberty to say. But the major might observe my accouterment and draw certain conclusions, if I might so suggest, sah."

  Clive said, "I'd like to do something to show my appreciation, Smythe. At least offer you a bit of refreshment. But I'm afraid that I'm traveling light, as they say."

  "Quite all right, sah. An enlisted bloke doesn't expect an officer to entertain 'im like no visiting lord, does he?"

  Clive nodded. "But you're no ordinary enlisted soldier, Sergeant Smythe. You've been with me from my first days in the regiment. Ah, what a bewildered youngster I was back then. A junior lieutenant may be considered an officer by the Crown, but in matters real he's about as competent as a newborn kitten."

  "Yes, sah."

  "Smythe, why didn't you just give up on me back then? I know I'm not a great military man, never have been and probably never will be. But back then in fifty-seven, I must have appeared totally hopeless. I was frightened to death, did you know that, Sergeant?"

  "Speaking frankly, sah, and off the record?"

 
"Of course, Sergeant."

  "If the truth be known, Major, I could see you was shaking like a leaf. That's normal in new lieutenants. Every experienced soldier knows what a green lieutenant is like. But, Major Folliot, a smart soldier learns real quick like, to tell two things about any officer he has to deal with."

  Clive watched Smythe's gestures.

  "You learn to tell whether an officer's got it here." He tapped himself on the forehead with his thumb. "And you learn to tell if he's got it here." And with the same thumb he tapped himself over the heart.

  "If an officer's got it in those two places, Major, why, a good smart soldier can shape 'im up. Stiffen 'is spine for 'im a bit, sharpen up his skills at square-bashin', teach 'im a little bit o' this and a little bit o' that, and first thing you know you've got yourself a pretty good little officer. But if he ain't got it here and here, then there's nothing a soldier can do with 'im, except try and stay out of 'is way, and not depend on 'im in no battle."

  "And you saw me through ten years, Smythe, and I never understood what was happening." Clive sagged.

  "Don't feel bad, sah. I had many a good time with the Guards. And you done right by me, as well. Many an officer as holds back on his batman 'cause he don't want to have to train a new one. You never 'eld me back a day!"

  Clive uttered a rueful chuckle. "You ought to see the chap I've got now, Smythe. Not a bad soldier, but he'll never hold a candle to good old Private Smythe." He shook his head. "No, I never could have held back on you, Smythe. I was as proud as I could be when you made corporal, then sergeant. You're a legend in the regiment now, you know. They talk about Quartermaster Sergeant Smythe as of some departed titan. Which brings me back to you, Sergeant."

  "Sah? I don't quite take your meaning, I'm afraid."

  "Clearly you intend to remain reticent about your travels since you left the Guards."

  "I've no choice, sah."

  "I quite understand. But as much as you feel you can tell me—and where you learned to play Mendelssohn."

  Smythe laughed. "Now that, sah, I can tell the major. There was a young lady, sah, a most talented musical performer and instructor, who claimed to have known the late composer in Germany. Well, sah, she was a lovely young lass but somewhat inexperienced in some of life's more delicate matters. She offered to teach me something of music if I would teach her something of other things. By the end of our exchange, I was very pleased with what I had learned from the young lady. And I have reason to believe that she was equally pleased with what she had learned from yours truly, sah."