She threw up her hands. “Trifling?”
“I have an itch to travel. So what? Would you taunt me if I had a physical itch, say athlete’s foot?”
She smiled slightly. “No, I’d tell you to get rid of it. But this isn’t just an itch, Dick. It’s a compulsion.”
She got up and lit a cigarette. Waving it under his nose, she said, “Look at this. In my time on Earth I would never have dared smoke, wouldn’t even have considered it. A lady did not do such things. Especially a lady whose husband was of the landed gentry, whose father was a bishop of the Anglican church. Nor did she ever drink strong liquor to excess or curse. And she would never have considered bathing nude in public!
“But here I am, Alice Pleasance Liddell Hargreaves of the estate of Cuffnells, a most proper Victorian female aristocrat, doing all that and much more. By much more, well, I’m doing things in bed that even the French novels my husband was so fond of reading would not even have hinted at.
“I’ve changed. So why can’t you?
“To tell the truth, Dick, I’m sick of traveling, always moving on, cooped up inside a small vessel, never knowing what tomorrow will bring. I’m no coward, you know that. But I would like to find a place where they speak English, where the people are of my own kind, where there is peace, where I can settle down, put down roots. I’m so tired of this eternal voyaging!”
Burton was moved by her tears. He put his hand on her shoulder and said, “What can we do about it? I must keep going on. Now, my …”
“Isabel? I’m not she. I’m Alice. I do love you, Dick, but I’m not your, shadow, trailing you wherever you go, present when there’s light, gone when there’s darkness, a mere appendage.”
She got up to put out the half-smoked cigarette in a baked-clay ashtray. Turning to him, she said, “But there’s more! There’s something else that bothers me-very much. It hurts me that you don’t fully confide in me. You have a secret, Dick, a very deep, very dark secret.”
“Perhaps you can tell me what it is. I certainly don’t know.”
“Don’t lie! I’ve heard you talking in your sleep. It has something to do with those Ethicals, doesn’t it? Something happened to you you didn’t tell anyone about when you were gone all those years.
“I’ve heard you muttering about bubbles, about killing yourself seven hundred and seventy-seven times. And I’ve heard names you never mention when you’re awake. Loga. Thanabur. And you speak of Ecks and the mysterious stranger. Who are these people?”
“Only the man who sleeps alone can keep a secret,” Burton said.
“Why can’t you tell me? Don’t you trust me-after all these years?”
“I would if I could. But it would be too dangerous for you. Believe me, Alice, I have said nothing because I must say nothing. It is for your own good. No arguments now. I won’t give in, and I’ll get very angry if you persist in questioning me.”
“Very well then. But keep your hands to yourself tonight.”
It was a long time before he fell asleep. Some time in the night he awoke, aware that he had been talking. Alice was sitting up, staring at him.
22
Oskas, half-drunk as usual, visited Burton during lunch hour. Burton did not mind, especially since the chief gave him a skin containing at least two liters of bourbon.
“Have you heard the rumors of this great white boat which is said to be coming from down-River?” the Indian said.
“Only a deaf man would not have heard,” Burton said, and he took a long pull of the whiskey. It had a winey odor and went down smoothly, needing no dilution with water. But then the grails never delivered anything but the best.
He said, “Aah!” and then, “I find it hard to believe the stories. From the description, the vessel is propelled by paddlewheels. That would mean that its engines are of iron. I doubt that anyone could gather enough ore to make engines of any size. Also, I have heard that the hull of the boat is made of metal. There’s not enough iron in the whole planet to make a vessel that big. If it is as big as the rumors say.”