The Dark Design by Phillip Jose Farmer

Jill snorted feebly and walked away. Before she reached her hut, she passed Thorn’s. Loud, angry voices were issuing from it. Thorn’s and Obrenova’s.

So, the two had finally gotten together. But they did not seem happy about it.

Jill hesitated a moment, almost overcome with the desire to eavesdrop. Then she plunged on ahead, but she could not help hearing Thorn shout in a language unknown to her. So-it would have done her no good to listen in. But what was that language? It certainly did not sound like Russian to her.

Obrenova, in a softer voice, but still loud enough for Jill to hear her, said something in the same language. Evidently, it was a request to lower his voice.

Silence followed. Jill walked away swiftly, hoping they would not look outside and think she had been doing what she had almost done. Now she had something to think about. As far as she knew, Thorn could speak only English, French, German, and Esperanto. Of course, he could have picked up a score of languages during his wanderings along The River. Even the least proficient of linguists could not avoid doing that.

Still, why would the two talk in anything but their native lan­guages or in Esperanto? Did both know a language which they used while quarreling so that nobody would understand them?

She would mention this to Piscator. He might have an illuminat­ing viewpoint on the matter.

As it turned out, however, she had no chance to do so, and by the time the Parseval took off, she had forgotten about the matter.

38

Discoveries in Dis

Jan. 26, 20 a.r.d.

Peter Jairus Frigate

Aboard the Razzle Dazzle

South Temperate Zone

Riverworld

Robert F. Rohrig Down-River (hopefully)

dear bob:

In thirteen years on this ship I’ve sent out twenty-one of these missives. Letter from a Lazarus. Cable from Charon. Missive from Mictlan. Palaver in Po. Tirades from Tir na nOc. Tunes from Tuonela. Allegories from al-Sirat. Sticklers from the Styx. Issues from Issus. Etc. All that sophomoric alliterative jazz.

Three years ago I dropped into the water my Telegram from Tartarus. I wrote just about everything significant that’d happened to me since you died in St. Louis of too much living. Of course, you won’t get either letter except by the wildest chance.

Here I am today in the bright afternoon, sitting on the deck of a two-masted schooner, writing with a fishbone pen and carbonblack ink on bamboo paper. When I’m done, I’ll roll the pages up, wrap them in fish membrane, insert them in a bamboo cylinder. I’ll hammer down a disc of bamboo into the open end. I’ll say a prayer to whatever gods there be. And I’ll toss the container over the side. May it reach you via Rivermail.

The captain, Martin Farrington, the Frisco Kid, is at the tiller right now. His reddish-brown hair shines in the sun and whips with the wind. He looks half-Polynesian, helf-Celtic, but is neither. He’s an American of English and Welsh descent, born in Oakland, California in 1876. He hasn’t told me that, but I know that because I know who he really is. I’ve seen too many pictures of him not to recognize him. I can’t name him because he has some reason for going under a pseudonym. (Which, by the way, is taken from two of his fictional characters.) Yes, he was a famous writer. Maybe you’ll be able to figure it out, though I doubt it. You once told me that you had read only one of his works, Tales of the Fish Patrol, and you thought it was lousy. I was distressed that you’d refuse to read his major works, many of which were classics.

He and his first mate, Tom Rider, “Tex,” and an Arab named Nur are the only members of the original crew left. The others dropped out for one reason or another: death, ennui, incompatibili­ty, etc. Tex and the Kid are the only two people I’ve met on The River who could come anywhere near being famous people. I did come close to meeting Georg Simon Ohm (you’ve heard of “ohms”) and James Nasmyth, inventor of the steamhammer. And lo and behold! Rider and Farrington are near the top of the list of the twenty people I’d most like to meet. It’s a peculiar list, but, being human, I’m peculiar.