Farrington bellowed laughter, then said, “That’s right! What else? Might as well use our time for some end, good or bad. But I still feel like we’re being exploited, and I’m fed up with that. I was exploited by the rich and the middle class when I was young, and then when I became famous and rich, I was exploited by editors and publishers and then by my relatives and friends. I ain’t going to let anybody exploit me here on this world, use me like I was a dumb beast fit for nothing but shoveling coal or canning fish!”
“You did some self-exploiting, too,” Rider said. “Didn’t we all? I made plenty of money and so did you. And what happened? We spent more’n we made on big houses and fast cars and bad investments and booze and whores and putting on a big front. We could’ve played it smart and tight and saved our money and taken it easy and lived to ripe old ages in ease and plenty. But …”
Farrington exploded into laughter again. “But we didn’t, did we? That wasn’t our nature, Tex, and it ain’t now. Live it up, burn the candle at both ends, spin off fire and beauty like a St. Catherine’s wheel instead of trudging along like a steer turning a mill wheel! So the deballed beast gets turned out to pasture instead of going to the glue factory? So what? What does he have to think about while he’s munching grass? A long, grey life and a short, grey future?”
More clinking. Then Farrington started to tell Rider about a train trip he’d taken from San Francisco to Chicago. He had introduced himself to a beautiful woman who was accompanied by her child and a maid. It wasn’t more than an hour after meeting her that he and the woman went to his compartment, where they coupled like crazed minks for three days and nights.
I decided that then was a good time to leave. I got up and strolled to the foremast where Abigail Rice and Nur were talking. Mustafa apparently never suspected me of eavesdropping.
Since then, I’ve been wondering. Who was the he referred to? It’s obvious that he must be one of Those who have made this world for us and then raised us from the dead. Could it really be? The idea seemed so tremendous, so difficult to grasp. Yet-Somebody has to have done this, Somebodies, I should say. And they are truly gods, in many senses, anyway.
If Rider is telling the truth, there is a tower in the north polar sea. And by implication it’s a base for Whomever made this world, our secret masters. Yes, I know this sounds paranoid. Or like a science fiction tale, most of which were paranoid, anyway. But, except for the very few who got rich, science fiction writers were convinced that their secret (or not so secret) masters were the publishers. Even the rich ones questioned their royalty statements. Maybe the tower is inhabited by the cabal of super-publishers. (Just kidding, Bob. I think.)
Maybe Rider is lying. Or his informant, Paheri, was lying. I don’t believe so. It’s obvious that Rider and Farrington have been approached by one of these Whomever^ They weren’t just making up this story to fool an eavesdropper.
Or were they?
How paranoid can you get?
No, they were discussing something that had really happened. If they were careless, left the hatch open, didn’t talk subduedly, it was only natural. After all those years, who wouldn’t get careless? As far as that goes, why shouldn’t they tell everybody?
Somebody might be looking for them. Who? Why?
My mind yaws, pitches, and rolls. So many speculations, so many possibilities. And I think, wow! What a story! Too bad I hadn’t thought of something like this when I was writing science fiction. But the concept of a planet consisting of a many-millions-kilometer-long river along which all of humanity that ever lived had been resurrected (a good part of it, anyway) would have been too big to put in one book. It would have taken at least twelve books to do it anywhere near justice. No, I’m glad I didn’t think of it.