The Dark Design by Phillip Jose Farmer

“I say that because I’ve run into two Mycenaeans who were actually at the siege of Troy. At least, they claimed to have been. There are so many phonies on The River, you know. Both said that Troy wasn’t where Odysseus said it was. He had told me that Troy was much further down in Asia Minor than the archaeologists said it was. The two Greeks said that it was where everybody had always said it was. Near Hissarlik, Turkey. Well, they didn’t identify the town and country under those names, of course. Neither was in existence in their day.

“But they did say that Troy was near the Hellespont, where Hissarlik was later built. Now, how about that mess?”

“If that Greek feller was an agent,” Johnston said, “why would he make up a lie like that?”

“Maybe to convince me that he was the real stuff. That he was the dyed-in-the-wool original. He wasn’t likely to encounter anyone who could call him a bald-faced liar. For one thing, he didn’t stick around long enough to be challenged.

“Here’s another thing. The scholars of my time had all said that the wooden horse of Troy was a myth. The story was about as credible as a politician’s campaign promises. But Odysseus said that there was a wooden horse, and he himself proposed it, just as Homer said he did, and it did get the Greek soldiers into the city.

“But then maybe it was a double-ply lie. By telling me that the scholars were all wrong, he made it sound as if he’d really been there. Anybody who could stand there and look you in the eye and tell you the scholars were full of sawdust and mouse droppings, because he had been there and they hadn’t, would convince me. The scholars are always sailing out, looking for a textural Northwest Passage, trying to navigate with a sextant in a snowstorm, not sure whether the bowsprit is on the fore or the stem.”

“At least, they tried,” Johnston said.

“So did the eunuch in the sheik’s harem. I wish I had some idea of what’s going on. We are in deep waters, as Holmes said to Watson.”

“Who’re thothe guyth?” Joe said.

The giant mountaineer growled. Sam said, “Okay, John, sorry. I was hoping we could follow at least one thread through in this tangled warp and woof. Hell, we can’t even find the end of one thread!”

“Maybe Gwenafra thyould be in thith,” Joe said. “Thyee’th a voman, vhich you may have notithed, Tham. You thaid vomen can pertheive thingth men can’t becauthe they got female intuithyon. Anyvay, thye doethn’t like being left out in the cold. Thye ain’t no dummy. Thye knowth there’th been thomething going on for a long time that you’ve been hiding from her. Right now, thye’th thulking in the main lounge. Thye hath the red athth every time you run her out tho ve can have a conferenthe about thith thubchect.”

“I don’t believe in women’s intuition,” Sam said. “They’re just culturally conditioned to observe different patterns of action and speech, different gestures and inflections from those men observe. They’re more sensitive to certain subtleties because of this condi­tioning.”

“It’th the thame thing in the end,” Joe said. “Vhat do ve care vhat ith’th called? I thay, ve been beating out our brainth on thith. It’th about time ve had a new dealer in on thith poker game.”

“Squaws talk too much,” Johnston said.

“According to you, everybody talks too much,” Sam said. “Anyway, Gwen is as smart as anyone here, maybe smarter.”

“It’ll end up with the whole world knowing about it,” Johnston said.

“Well, if you think on it,” Sam said, “why shouldn’t everybody know? Ain’t it everybody’s business?”

“The Stranger must have his reasons for wanting us to keep quiet.”

“But are they good reasons?” Sam said. “On the other hand, if we did blabber about this there’d be a mob trying to get to the North Pole. The ’49 Gold Rush couldn’t hold a candle to it. There’d be hundreds of thousands wanting to get to the tower. And a million hanging around to exploit them.”

“Let’th take a vote on Gven.”