Farmer, Philip Jose – Riverworld 06 – ( Shorts) Tales of Riverworld

Oh, he could go on if he wanted. The old talent was still there, the line of language that he could unreel, turn out there to fend for itself in that nest of the world. Every man a king, and me their president, he reflected. Even Beethoven seemed awed, seemed to shut up at last, and backed away from him.

Huey smiled a secret smile. Going on and on in the Senate, opening up, filibustering from the Constitution of the United States, his favorite document, the greatest document hi the history of the world, something that could make Huey cry with its coiled language and beauty of intention if he thought about it, going on and on like that with the can strapped to his thigh so that he could piss right in the middle of a speech without having to leave the floor, break the filibuster—that was finding a new dimension for the meaning of the word “talk.” If he

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Mike Resnick and Baity N. Malzberg

considered the truth of it, it was much more difficult and challenging than anything that had happened to him here. This little bit of carrying on he had done on the Riverworld was for nothing, was little more than a practice shot in a small hall. The real stuff had been what he had managed hi the Senate and on the campaign trail. Yes, he had been a wonder in his age, that was for goddamned sure. Then he had gotten gut-shot on the floor of the capitol, and now here he was.

Except now there was no one to listen or give a damn. Everyone here, even the pretty women, the models and the fifty-dollar-a-night hookers whom he could tell right away, all of them had troubles, big troubles, and pretty much the same ones at that.

For one thing, they were all dead. They had closed their eyes and given up the ghost gently or in some violent manner, and the next thing they knew they had come to consciousness in this stinking place with a million other troops. That was a hell of a trauma, and it seemed to be pretty much the general condition of the place—and you had to understand that, grant everybody a little weight on that basis alone. Apparently the only way you made it here was to die, which was one hell of a thing.

“You know I’m right,” said Beethoven. He was back to talking again. He produced one of his filmy handkerchiefs from some inner pocket, wiped his streaming forehead in the style of his period, and offered it to Huey in a friendly way.

Huey shook his head disgustedly. Pfui was the word, all right, it pretty well summed it up.

“Forget it,” he said. “I don’t want it. It’s not necessary.”

Nothing like this, nothing, never in the history of the

EVERY MAN A GOD

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world, that was what he thought now. He remembered standing on the shoulders of the bayou, battling his fear of alligators while half expecting the beasts to crawl from the swamp and swallow his ankles, all the time trying to keep the crowds at bay. That was one thing—but this, this was infinitely another. It was amazing how you could feel that your experience had prepared you to deal with a whole range of activity, and then it turned out that the experience was of no use whatsoever. In actual point of fact, he was counting on Beethoven more than the composer was relying on him. None of this made it any easier to take when the German seized his elbow, dragged him to a halt, and fixed him with shining eyes. “Listen!” said Beethoven. “Do you hear them?”

“All right,” said Selous, cutting the pale blond man down. “Why have you been following me?”

“I owe you no answer, mortal,” said the man, rubbing some life back into his leg.

“What makes you think you’re a god?”

“Think I’m a god?” was the reply. “I am & god. I have proclaimed it.”

“That’s all it takes?” asked Selous with an amused smile.

“Enough of your insolence!” snapped the man. “I’ve slaughtered whole cities for less!”