Mildred had her arm around J.B., her braided hair glistening with the crystals of mist. “One of the first things I remember when I started schooling is learning that the writer, Mark Twain, took his pen name from working on riverboats. I never thought that I’d ever ride one and hear them calling out the depths like this.”
“I might be in error, but it seems to me that the vaporous murk is becoming thicker. I can no longer make out the line of the shore on this starboard side,” Doc stated.
“And we’re slowing down more,” Krysty said. “Paddle wheel’s hardly turning at all.”
One of the officers was passing by and heard her. “It’s the hurricane, madam. Something as bad as that can change the course and shape and depth of the Sippi and make all the charts out of date and useless. Captain has to feel his way along or risk running her aground.”
“What’s that?” Jak had his head on one side. “Thought heard powerful engine.”
Everyone listened, but the sound, if it had been there in the first place, wasn’t repeated.
The badly damaged calliope was in the middle of being repaired, and every now and again there would be a brief burst of music from the shrouding fog.
First it was a shredded version of a blaring Sousa march, followed by a melancholy, bass-heavy attempt at the predark weepy “I Will Always Love You.” Now they heard a florid half verse of “Shenandoah.”
“Away you rolling river.” Doc said mournfully. “Not that you can possibly locate the damned river with this fog. The way it progresses, you won’t be able to see a hand in front of your foot.”
“What?” Jak said.
“I said you would shortly be unable to make out your knee in front of your ears. No, I am getting fearfully confused. What an addle-brain I have become.” He closed his pale blue eyes and concentrated. “One will not see one’s hand in front of one’s face. That is it.”
The calliope had broken into a lively version of “Dixie,” steam rising from the pipes of the organ and mingling with the layers of fog.
One of the crew of the Golden Eagle had been working at the davits of a lifeboat, slung close to where Ryan and the others had been standing. Now he was almost invisible in the fog. Ryan turned and found the man was staring at him, hammer poised, starting to pound at the davit with great vigor.
Krysty sensed something wasn’t right and also turned. “What is it, lover?” she asked quietly.
“Think that man’s been put there to watch us,” he replied. “Could be in Wolfram’s pay.”
“Sure you aren’t getting paranoid?”
He managed a half smile. “Mebbe. When you’re dealing with people like the Magus and Wolfram, then a touch of paranoia isn’t a bad idea.”
THE ORNATE BOAT was barely crawling along. The banks were totally invisible, and Captain Huston was using the mournful whistle at regular intervals, warning anyone else foolish enough to be out on the Sippi that the Golden Eagle was in command of the center of the current. It hadn’t made any difference to the gamblers.
The little old ladies with gloved hands still battled endlessly with the fruit machines, the whirring of the gears interrupted occasionally by the soft tinkling of jack spilling into the winning trays, to be swept by the eager players into the waiting plastic cups.
Roulette wheels spun, the ivory balls rattling and bouncing from slot to slot, and the croupiers carried out their business with the solemn reverence of acolytes, worshiping at the shrine of the great god Chance.
The air was thick with expensive cigar smoke, reeking with the scent of brandy and whiskey. Outside, on the slippery decks, the long rows of multicolored lights that draped the vessel glowed dimly through the mist, showing the diminishing outline of the Golden Eagle.
A pair of officers loomed from the fog in front of them, both saluting smartly.
“Ryan Cawdor?”
“Yes.”
The taller of them had a long, drooping mustache that was dripping with water from the mist. “We have a problem, and Captain Huston wondered whether you and your companion, John Dix, might be able to help us.”