The Magic Labyrinth

by Philip José Farmer

  De Marbot gave a groan. Clemens looked at his pale face and said, "What is it?"

  "I don't know," de Marbot said. "I heard something that sounded like an explosion! The line's dead! Nobody answers!"

  Sam could feel himself turning gray. "Oh, my God! An explosion! Get down there, find out what's going on!"

  Byron was by another intercom on the bulkhead. He said, "Station 25 reports an explosion in Station 26."

  The Frenchman stepped into the elevator and was gone.

  "Sir, there's the enemy plane!" the radar operator said. "On the port bank, just above the structures, coming in between those two rock spires."

  Sam ran to the window and looked out. The sun flashed on the silver-and-blue-streaked nose of an aircraft.

  "Coming like a bat out of hell!"

  He gripped the ledge, forced himself to be calm, and turned. But Byron had sent word down. It wasn't needed, since the attacker was visible.

  "Hold your fire until the attacker is five hundred yards distant," Byron said. "Then fire the rockets. Cannons and small arms, wait until it's within two hundred and fifty yards."

  "I shouldn't have waited," Sam muttered. "I should have brought the laser out as soon as those boys took off. It could slice that plane in half before it launched the torpedo."

  One more regret in a lifetime of regrets.

  And just what in blue blazes happened down there?

  "Here it cometh!" Joe Miller said.

  The torpedo plane had dipped down past the bridges running along the edge of the hills. Now it was skimming the grass of the plains. Whoever the pilot was, he was handling his big heavy machine as if it were a one-seater fighter.

  Events happened fast after that. The plane was going at least 150 miles per hour. Once it reached The River, it would have a mile to go to its target. But it would release the torpedo within six hundred feet. Closer, if the pilot was daring. The nearer the release, the less chance for the Not For Hire to evade the missile.

  It would have been better if the boat were to turn prow-on and so present a smaller target. But to do this would cut the defense fire to a minimum.

  Sam waited. The moment that the silvery weapon of destruction was loosed from its carrier, he would give the order to Detweiller to swing the boat around. The plane would be a lesser menace then. In any event, if it survived the hail of fire, it would be getting to hell out.

  "Five hundred yards," Byron said, reading the radarscope over its operator's shoulder. He spoke into the intercom linked with the batteries. "Fire the rockets!"

  Twenty silvery cone-tipped cylinders, spouting flame from their tails, sprang like cats at a feline convention after a lone mouse.

  The pilot had the reflexes of a cat, too. Twelve rockets, smaller than those hurled at him, sprang from below his wings. The two flights met in three battings of an eye and went up in flame surrounded by smoke. Immediately after, the plane bored through the clouds. Now it was so close to The River that it seemed the waves would snap its bottom.

  "Fire the second battery of rockets!" Byron yelled. "Fire cannons and small arms!"

  Another flight of missiles arced out. The steam machine guns hosed a stream of ,80-caliber plastic bullets. The 88-millimeter cannon on the port side bellowed, spouting flame and gray clouds. The marines, stationed between the heavy platforms, fired their rifles.

  The long sharkish-looking torpedo dropped from the airplane at an altitude of a hundred feet, hit the water, skipped, sank. Now all that could be seen of it was its wake, boiling white.

  "Hard aport!" Sam said.

  Detweiller yanked back on the port stick. The monster wheels on the left side slowed, stopped, began churning water in the opposite direction. Slowly, the boat swung around.

  Taishi, feeling the plane suddenly relieved of the weight of the torpedo, pulled back on the stick. Up rose the nose as the twin motors, on full power, lifted her to pass over the boat. Taishi leaned over the side of the cockpit, the wind hitting him full in the face. He could not see the torpedo, even though the water was clear, because he had passed it.

  Ahead, the sun shone briefly on rockets, trailing smoke. Another launching! Heat-seekers, too.

  If things had 'gone otherwise, Taishi would have skimmed, the edge of the boat's flight deck, passed beyond it, swung around, and come back to strafe. O'Herlihy was standing up now, bracing himself with one hand against the edge of his cockpit, waiting until the plane assumed a level to swing his guns around. But O'Herlihy would never get a chance to use his twin .50-calibers.

  The plane, Taishi, and O'Herlihy disappeared in a great cloud, pieces flying out of it almost immediately, metal, flesh, bone, and blood.

  One of the motors fell in an arc, smashing into the flight deck near a cannon. It rolled across and dropped over the edge and fell onto the hurricane deck, crushing two men.

  A crewman called for a fire-fighting squad.

  Sam Clemens, looking out the port window, saw the explosion, saw a dark object out of the corner of his eye, felt the vibrations of the impact.

  "What in hell was that?"

  But he kept his eyes on-the torpedo's wake, sinister as a shark's approach and even more swift.

  If only the boat could spin around faster, spin around on a dime and give five cents' change.

  This was a strange geometry, a deadly one. The torpedo was describing a straight line, the shortest distance between two points – in this case, anyway. The boat was describing a circle in order to avoid being at the end of the line drawn.

  Sam gripped the ledge, bit through his cigar so savagely that its outer part fell off, but, not totally severed, swung down. Its glowing end burned his chin, causing him to yell with pain. But that was a few seconds later. While the torpedo scraped against the hull, he felt nothing except extreme anxiety.

  Then it had gone on, headed toward the shore, and he clapped his hand to his neck, burned his hand, and dashed the cigar away.

  "Straighten her out," he told Detweiller. "Resume former course, full speed ahead."

  Byron, looking out of the starboard window, said, "The torpedo's half-submerged against the bank, Captain. Its motor is still pushing it, but it's stuck in the mud, tilting up."

  "Let them worry about it," Sam said, referring to the people on the bank. "Oh! Oh!"

  He stopped. For several minutes, he'd forgotten about the explosion near the SW room.

  "Byron! Has Marbot reported yet?"

  "No, sir."

  The bulkhead intercom tootled. Byron answered it with Clemens close behind him.

  "De Marbot here. Is the captain occupied?"

  "I'm listening, Marc!" Sam said. "What's happened?"

  "The laser has been blown up! It's totally destroyed! The entire guard, including Fermor, was killed, and so were four crewmen who came upon the scene. The guards were blown up; the crewmen were gunned down! Captain, there's a saboteur or saboteurs aboard!"

  Sam groaned. For a moment, he thought he was going to faint. He steadied himself with a hand against the bulkhead.

  Byron said, "Are you all right, sir?"

  Byron looked as pale as Sam felt. But he showed no evidence of hysteria. Sam straightened up, took a deep breath, and said, "I'm okay. Son of a blazing bitch! I should have had twenty men guarding that! I should have brought it up sooner! Now our ace in the hole is gone! And John didn't have a chance with it! Never overlook the human factor, Byron!"

  Byron said, "No, sir. I suggest . . ."

  "That we send search parties looking for the bastard? Or bastards? They'll be back at their posts by now. Maybe. Maybe they're planning on wrecking the generators. Send some men down to the engine room to stand guard.

  "And start checking the stations. See if anybody left his post for any reason whatever. There may be some innocents there, but we can't take any chances. Anybody who left his post, throw him into the brig! I don't care if it's an officer and he seems to have a good excuse. We can't fight John and worry about being stabbed in the back a
t the same time!"

  "Aye, aye, sir!" Byron said, and he began calling the stations by number.

  "Enemy vessel is five miles away, Captain," the chief radar operator called. "Traveling at fifty-five miles per hour."

  The Rex had a top speed of forty-five miles per hour in still water and no headwinds. Aided by the current and the wind, it was going at a speed equal to the Not For Hire's.

  "Any indication of the Goose!" Sam said.

  "Nothing sir."

  Sam looked at the chronometer. The big plane should still be flying alongside the mountains, hugging the top of the trees, down below the forest whenever possible. But it would not be attacking the Rex by itself. Its orders were to wait until the Rex was engaged with the motherboat. Then, while John's crew was occupied with firing upon the enemy; the Goose would come roaring out across the trees, swoop down to The River, and make a run for the broadside of the Rex. If John had had any sense, he would have held back his own torpedo plane until the full-scale battle started.

  But then John had hoped that the people on the Not For Hire would be so busy watching the aerial fight that they would be taken by surprise.

  "Enemy vessel four miles away, Captain. Dead ahead."

  Sam lit another cigar and asked the medic to put some salve on his chin-burn. Smollett did so, and then Clemens stood by the starboard port, watching the smoke clouds rising from the fires on the left bank about a quarter of a mile ahead. Flames were eating the bamboo, pine, and yew structures. Pieces lifted off the blaze, carried by the wind, and landed on the bridges and houses. People were scurrying around, carrying belongings out of burning houses or climbing down ladders before the fire got to them. Others had formed lines, dipping their grails and fired-clay buckets into The River, passing the containers along to the other end, where the water was thrown onto the fires at the bases. That was a hopeless procedure; there was nothing to do but let the fire go. Apparently half of the sightseers had decided to do that. They thronged to the plains, where there were a few buildings and continued to wait for the meeting of the boats.

  "Before we're done, we'll have leveled Virolando," Sam said to no one in particular. "We won't be very popular here."

  "Enemy is three miles away, sir."

  Sam walked to the intercom, where Byron was still talking to the stations. Joe's huge bulk came up behind him, and Sam could smell the bourbon emanating from the enormous nose. The titanthrop always liked to take several belts before a fight. It wasn't that he needed Dutch courage, he explained. It was just for his stomach's sake. It quieted the "butterflies."

  "Bethideth, Tham, I need lotth of enerchy. You thaid alcohol giveth enerchy. My body burnth it up like a motor burnth fuel. And I got a big body."'

  "Yeah, but a whole fifth?"

  Byron looked at him. "So far, nobody's been away from his post."

  "Vhat if they had to take a pithth?" Joe said. "I alvayth have to pithth a lot chutht before a fight. No matter how brave I am, and I am, I get tenthe. It ain't nervouthneth. Chutht tenthion."

  "And of course all that booze doesn't have a thing to do with it," Sam said. "If I had a fifth in me, I wouldn't be able to get out of the toilet. In fact, I'd be lucky if I could find it."

  "The vhiskey dearth my kidneyth. Clear kidneyth; clear head. My head, I mean, not the boat'th head."

  "Both heads have a lot in common," Sam said. "The toilet's got pipes full of water, and you have water on the brain."

  "You're chuth talking nathty becauthe you're nervouth," Joe said. He patted Sam on the shoulder with fingers the size of bananas.

  "Don't get familiar with the captain," Sam said: But he felt better. Joe loved him, and he would always be at his side. Could anything bad happen to him while that monster was guarding him? Yes. The boat could be destroyed, Joe or no Joe.

  31

  * * *

  The Rex Grandissimus was visible by now, a white indistinct mass moving toward him. As minutes passed, it became sharper. For a moment, Sam Clemens felt a pain in his breast. The Rex had been his first boat, his first love. He had fought to get the metal for it, killed, even slain one of his colleagues for it – where was Erik Bloodaxe now? – helped plan it down to the least bolt, and all that killing and battling and struggle had been negated when King John had stolen it. Now it was his greatest adversary. It was a pity to have to destroy that craft, one of the only two of its kind on the whole planet.

  He hated John even more because he was forcing him to sink the beauty. Maybe, though, just maybe the Rex could be boarded and taken. Then both boats could sail on up The River to its headwaters.

  Sam had always seesawed from deepest pessimism to wildest optimism.

  "Two and a half miles now," the radar operator said.

  "Any blips on the Goose?"

  "No . . . yes, sir! Got some! It's three miles to the starboard, just above the hills!"

  "Sir, the enemy vessel is turning to starboard," the radarman said.

  Sam looked out the fore port. Sure enough, the Rex was swinging around. And as the Not For Hire plowed toward it, the Rex presented its stern.

  "Vhat in hell'th he doing?"

  "He can't be running away!" Sam said. "Whatever else the sneaky bastard is, he's not a coward. Besides, his men wouldn't let him. No, he's up to something devious."

  "Perhaps," Detweiller said, "the Rex has some mechanical difficulty?"

  "If it does, we can catch it," Sam said. "Radar, check its speed."

  "Enemy vessel is making thirty-five miles per hour, due west, sir."

  "Against the current and wind, that's top speed," Sam said. "There's nothing wrong with it. Nothing I can see, anyway. Why in blue jumping blazes are they running? They haven't got any place to hide."

  Sam paused, rolling his eyes as if they were looking for an idea. He said, "Sonar! Do you pick up any foreign object! Say, something that could be a mine?"

  "No, sir. All clear underwater except for some schools of fish."

  "It'd be just like John to make some mines and scatter them in our path," Sam said. "I'd do it myself if the situations were reversed."

  "Yeth, but he knowth ve have thonar."

  "I'd try it anyway. Sparks, tell Anderson to hold off until we're engaged or until further orders."

  The radio operator transmitted the message to the pilot of the Goose, Ian Anderson. He was a Scot who had flown a British torpedo-bomber during World War II. His gunner, Theodore Zaimis, was a Greek who had been a tail-gunner in an RAF Handley Page Halifax on its night raids over France and Germany in the same war.

  Anderson reported that he understood. Radar followed the Goose as it maintained a more or less level course eastward.

  As the sun slowly arced downward, the Not For Hire decreased the gap between it and the Rex.

  "Maybe John doesn't know how fast this boat can go," Sam muttered as he paced back and forth. He looked at the crowds on both banks and on the spires and bridges. "Why do they stand around gawking? Don't they know rockets and shells are likely to be landing among them? That's the least John could have done, warn them!"

  The great red-and-black stone temple came into view, loomed, then dwindled. Now the pursuer was only half a mile behind the pursued. Sam gave Detweiller orders to ease up on the speed.

  "I don't know what he's up to. But I'm not going to run full speed into any trap."

  "It looks as if he's heading for the strait," Detweiller said.

  "I might have known that," Sam said.

  The mountains were curving in, their arcs on both sides almost meeting a mile ahead. Here the black, white, and red-streaked walls formed straight-up-and-down precipices out of which The River boiled. The Rex, though it must be under full power, was only making twenty miles an hour. Its rate of progress would be even less if it entered the towering and dark passage.

  "Do you really suppose John's going to take her to the other side?" Sam said. He pounded his left palm with his fist. "By thunder, that's it! He's going to wait for us on the other
side, catch us when we come out!"

  "You vouldn't be that thtupid, vould you?" Joe Miller said.

  Sam ignored him. He strode to the radio operator. "Get me Anderson!"

  The pilot of the Goose spoke with a broad Lowland Scots brogue. "Aye, we'll go over and see what this skurlie is doing, Captain. But it'll take some time to climb over the pass."

  "Don't climb over the mountains; go through the pass," Sam said. "If you see your chance, attack!" Then to Byron, "Heard anything?"

  A slight annoyance passed over Byron's face. "I'll tell you as soon as I do."

  Sam laughed and said, "Sorry, John. But the idea of somebody planting explosives down there . . . well, it concerns me. Carry on."

  "Here it is," Byron said as the warrant officer of Station 26 spoke. Sam swung around to stand by Byron.

  "Ensign Santiago left about half an hour ago, sir," Schindler said. "He put me in charge, said he was suffering from nervous diarrhea and he wanted to clean himself out so he wouldn't disgrace himself. He said he'd be right back. He didn't show up until ten minutes later, but I didn't think much about it, sir, since he said he just couldn't stop.

  "He looked like he'd just had a shower, sir, was dripping wet. He said he'd fouled himself and so had to take a quick shower. Then, just after we heard the general call to report by the numbers, he excused himself again. But he hasn't been back."

  "Station 27, report!" Byron said. He turned his head to Sam. "He might not be the only one."

  All thirty-five stations reported that no one else had been missing even for a minute.

  "Well, he's either hiding some place or went overboard," Sam said.

  "I doubt he could leave the boat without someone seeing him," Byron said.

  Sam called de Marbot. "Get all your marines, all, to search for Santiago. If he resists, shoot him. But I would like to talk to him if possible."

  Sam turned to Byron. "Santiago's been with us from the beginning. John must have planted him, though how John knew about the laser I don't know. We didn't even think of it until after he stole the boat. And how in God's name did Santiago find out about the .laser? Even Queen Victoria's sex life wasn't a better secret."