The Dark Design by Phillip Jose Farmer

“Which I have heard from many preachers of your Church many times!” Greystock said. “And which I believe no more than I do the stinking falsehoods the stinking priests offered me as God’s own truths in my own time!”

“That is your privilege, though not your right,” Samuelo said.

Grey stock looked puzzled. Jill did not understand what he meant either.

Greystock said loudly, “All you priests talk mumbo-jumbo!” and he walked away scowling.

Piscator, watching him, smiled. “A dangerous man. But inter­esting. You should get him to tell the story of his journey with an Arcturan.”

Jill’s eyebrows went up.

“Yes, he knew a being who came to Earth from a planet of the star Arcturus. Apparently, this being came with some others in a spaceship in 2002 A.D. But he was forced to kill almost all human beings. He died, too, though. It’s a horrible story, but true.

“Firebrass can give you the details. He was on Earth when it happened.”

16

Eager to talk to Greystock, Jill made her way through the crowd toward him. But she was stopped by Firebrass before she could reach the Englishman.

“A messenger just told me that radio contact’s been made with the Mark Twain. Want to come along and get in on the pow-wow? You might get to talk to the great Sam Clemens himself.”

“Too right I would!” she said. “And thanks for the invitation.”

Jill followed Firebrass to the jeep, which was near the foot of the staircase. It was made of steel and aluminum and had pneumatic nylon tires. Its six-cylinder motor was fueled by wood alcohol.

There were five passengers: Firebrass, Gulbirra, de Bergerac, Schwartz, and Hardy. The jeep took off swiftly, following the narrow valleys among the hills. Its bright beams showed the grass, closely cut by machines, huts here and there, stands of the incred­ibly quick-growing bamboo, some 31 meters or over 100 feet high. Leaving the hills, it sped over the plain gently sloping to The River.

Jill could see the lights of the aluminum-processing factory, the steel mill, the distillery, the welding shop, the armory, the arms factory, the cement mill, and the government building. The latter housed the newspaper and radio station offices, and the top govern­ment officials had residences there.

The colossal hangar was down-River and hence downwind of the other buildings. Up in the mountains to the west were strings of lights. These were on the dam constructed to replace the one that Clemens had blown up.

The jeep passed the hangar. A steam locomotive, burning al­cohol, chuff chuffed by, hauling three flatbed cars piled with aluminum girders. It entered the blazing interior of the hangar, stopped, and a crane hook swung down to the rear car. Workers gathered around it to connect hooks to the steel cables around the girders.

“City Hall” was the northernmost building. The jeep stopped before its porch. The riders got out and went between two massive Doric columns. Jill thought that the building was an abomination, architecturally speaking. Nor did it fit in with the surroundings. Seen from a distance, this area looked as if both the Parthenon and a section of the Ruhr had been teleported to a remote section of Tahiti.

Firebrass’ suite of offices was to the left of the entrance to the immense lobby. Six men stood guard before its entrance, each armed with a single-shot rifle firing .80-caliber plastic bullets. They also carried cutlasses and daggers. The radio “shack” was a large room next to the conference hall and Firebrass’ sanctum sanctorum. They entered the former to find several men standing around the operator. He was adjusting dials on the big panel before him. On hearing the door slam open under his commander’s overvigorous shove, he looked up.

“I’ve been talking to Sam,” he said. “But I lost him about thirty seconds ago. Hold on. I think I got him.”

A series of squeals and crackles issued from the loudspeaker. Suddenly, the interference eased off, and a voice could be heard above the noise. The operator made a final adjustment and gave up his chair to Firebrass.

“Firebrass speaking. Is that you, Sam?”

“No. Just a moment.”

“Sam here,” a pleasant drawling voice said. “Is that you, Milt?”