The Dark Design by Phillip Jose Farmer

“But our planes have a flight ceiling of only 3660 meters. That makes them too susceptible to downdrafts over those mountains. Anyway, they’d have to carry an extra fuel tank to get back.”

Lothar’s voice cut in. “I told him you could spare enough fuel from your ship, Greystock. We could fly back.”

“Nothing’ doing!”

Greystock looked down through the forward port. The balloon was being reeled in, but it would be twenty minutes before it was landed.

The giant boat was a beauty, a fourth longer than the Rex and much taller. Jill Gutturra had claimed that the Parseval was the most beautiful and the grandest artifact on The Riverworld. Earth had never had anything to equal it. But Greystock thought that this vessel, to use Clemens’ phrase, “won the blue ribbon by a mile.”

As Greystock watched, an airplane rose on an elevator to the landing deck while a crew readied a catapult.

The stocky man looked with arctic-grey eyes around the control gondola. The pilot, Newton, a World War II aviator, was at his post. Hardy, the navigator, and Sarnhradh, the Irish first mate, were at the port screen. Six others were aboard, stationed in the three engine gondolas.

Greystock walked to the weapons cabin, opened it, and took out two of the heavy Mark IV pistols. These were steel four-shooter revolvers using duraluminum cartridges holding .69-caliber plastic bullets. He held one by the grip in his left hand; the other, he reversed. Keeping an eye on the two at the port screen, he walked over to a position behind Newton. He brought the butt end of the gun in his right hand against the top of Newton’s head. The pilot fell off his chair onto the floor.

He quickly reached over with his left hand and flicked the transceiver switch off with his thumb. The two men turned at the crack of the impact of metal against bone. They froze, staring at a totally unexpected scene.

Greystock said, “Don’t move. Now … put your hands up be­hind your neck.”

Hardy, goggling, said, “What be this, man?”

“Just keep quiet.”

He waved a pistol at a cabinet. “Put on your parachutes. And don’t try to jump me. I can shoot both of you easily.”

Samhradh stuttered, his face going from pale to red. “Y . . . y … you bastard! You’re a traitor!”

“No,” Greystock said, “a loyal subject of King John of En­gland.” He smiled. “Though I have been promised that I will be second-in-command of the Rex when I bring this airship to His Majesty. That ensured my loyalty.”

Samhradh looked out the stern port. The action in the control gondola was visible from the engine gondolas.

Greystock said, “I was gone for half an hour, checking with the engineers, remember? They’re all tied up, so they won’t be of any help to you.”

The two men crossed the gondola, opened the cabinet and began to put on their parachutes. Hardy said, “What about him?”

“You can put Newton’s chute on and throw him out before you

go-”

“And what about the engineers?”

“They’ll have to take their chances.”

“They’ll die if you’re shot down!” Samhradh said.

“Too bad.”

When the two men had strapped on their packs, they dragged Newton to the middle of the gondola. Greystock, holding pistols on them, backed away while they did this. He then pushed the button which lowered the port plexiglas screen. Newton, groaning, half-conscious, was pushed over the ledge. Samhradh pulled Newton’s ripcord as he fell out. A moment later, the Irishman leaped. Hardy paused with one leg outside the port.

“If I ever run across you, Greystock, I’ll kill you.”

“No, you won’t,” Greystock said. “Jump before I decide to make sure you won’t ever have a chance.”

He turned the transceiver on.

Clemens bellowed, “What in blue blazes is going on?”

“Three of my men drew lots to see who leaves the ship,” Greystock said smoothly. “We decided that the ship should be lightened. It’s better that way; we need all the speed we can get.”

“Why in hell didn’t you tell me?” Clemens said. “Now I’ll have to put about and fish them out of the water.”