The Dark Design by Phillip Jose Farmer

Loghu was taken into a hut, and the guards left. Not, however, before their captain cautioned Burton that he and his crew must stay away from the raft.

“And if we don’t?” Burton said loudly.

“Then you will be thrown into The River. Perhaps with a stone tied to your legs. Almighty Rushhub has told us not to spill blood except in self-defense. But he said nothing about drowning our enemies.”

Shortly before the midday grailstone discharge, a store of dried fish and acorn bread was delivered to Burton.

“Metusael says that this will keep you from starving until you can catch more fish and make more bread.”

“I’ll save my thanks to deliver in person to him,” Burton said to the captain. “He may not like its form, though.”

Monat said, “Was that empty bluster or do you plan on some sort of revenge?”

“Revenge isn’t my dish,” Burton said. “I do intend, however, to see that we do not go grailless.”

Two days passed. The front part of the raft was still beached. The log jam had been cleared away, and the raft had been pushed back toward the water several meters. This was a tedious, back-breaking job. The entire population of the raft, their leader excepted, pried away at the front end with small thin logs as levers. From sunup until sunset, the Babylonian words for “Heave! One, two three, heave!” bellowed from hundreds of mouths.

Every mass effort only succeeded in pushing back the immensely heavy raft a millimeter or so. Often, the stones wedged between the rock of the beach and the front edge of the raft would slip a little, and the raft, urged by the current, would move back onto the beach. Several times, the wedges were knocked out, and all gains were lost.

Since the wind blew from down-River, the sails on the masts were unfurled. Metusael hoped that the upstream wind would give the heavers an advantage. The theory would have worked if it had not been that the rock spire blocked off most of the breeze.

By the morning of the third day, the raft had been pushed back about a meter. At this rate, it would take seven more days to free it.

The Ganopo were busy meanwhile. Unable to borrow a boat from Metusael, they sent four strong swimmers out. These got to the right bank, where they explained the situation and were loaned a small sailboat. They returned with a fleet of twenty boats manned by the chiefs of the local state and the best fighting men. The head chief, a tall Shawnee, looked around and then conferred with the Ganopo. Burton and Monat sat in on the meeting.

There was. a lot of talking, complaints from the Ganopo, various counsels offered, and a speech by Burton. He told them of the large store of goods on the raft, omitting mention of the free-grails, and suggested that perhaps the Babylonians would part with some of their stores if the locals loaned enough men to help free the raft.

The Shawnee thought this was a good idea. He talked to Metusael, who was polite but said he did not need any help.

Disgruntled, the Shawnee returned to the island.

“Those eagle-noses do not have much sense,” he said: “Don’t they know that we can take everything they have without giving anything in return? They have wrecked the boats and the docks of the Ganopo and offered nothing in restitution. They have wrecked the strangers’ vessel, which took a year to build and cost them much tobacco and booze in trade for the wood with which to build it. They have caused a crewman to die. They have also caused the loss of the strangers’ grails. A person might as well be dead as not have a grail.

“And what do they offer as payment? Nothing! They mock the Ganopo and the strangers. These are evil people, and they should be punished as such.”

“Not to mention the valuable goods the chief and his chums will obtain,” Burton murmured in English to Monat.

“What did you say?” the chief said.

“I was telling my friend, the man from the stars, that you have great wisdom and know what is right and wrong. That what you do to the eagle-noses will be right and just, and the great spirit will smile upon you.”