Actually, the situation was intolerable. But then it was surprising how much intolerableness a man could tolerate.
A yellow-haired, near-giant entered the pilothouse. His name was Augustus Strubewell, he was John’s aide-decamp, and he had been picked up by John during his sojourn in Iyeyasujo after Hacking’s invasion. He had been born in 1971 in San Diego, California, had been an AllAmerican fullback, a captain of the U.S. Marines, decorated for bravery in the Middle East and South America and had made a career in the movies and TV. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, except that, like John, he bragged of his conquests among women. Sam did not trust him. Anybody who worked for John Lackland had to have something wrong with him.
Sam shrugged. He might as well enjoy himself for the moment. Why let anything rob him of the joy of the greatest day of his life?
He leaned out of the port and watched the marine drill team and the crowd. The sun sparkled on waves, and the breeze was cooling. If it became too warm, he could shut the ports and turn on the air conditioning. From the tall pole on the bow the flag of the Not for Hire flapped in the wind. It was square and bore a scarlet phoenix on a light-blue field. The phoenix symbolized the rebirth of mankind.
He waved at the people massed along the bank and pressed a button which set off a series of steam whistles and clanging of bells.
He drew in smoke from his fine cigar and stuck his chest out and paraded back and forth. Strubewell handed John a glass full of bourbon, and then he offered Sam another. Everybody in the pilothouse—Styles, the six other pilots, Joe Miller, von Richthofen, Firebrass, Publius Crassus, Mozart, John Lackland, Strubewell, and three other of John’s aides—took a glass.
“A toast, gentlemen,” John said in Esperanto. “To a long and happy journey and may we all get what we deserve.”
Joe Miller, standing near Sam, the top of his head almost touching the ceiling, held a glass containing about half a quart of bourbon. He sniffed at the amber liquor with his monstrous proboscis and then tasted it with the top of his tongue.
Sam was just about to toss the four-ounce drink down when he saw Joe’s apish face grimace. “What’s the matter, Joe?” he said. “Thith thtuff hath thomething in it!”
Sam sniffed and could detect nothing but the most excellent of Kentucky’s best.
But when John and Strubewell and the others reached for their weapons, he threw the liquor in John’s face. Yelling, “It’s poison!” he dived for the floor.
Strubewell’s Mark II pistol boomed. The plastic bullet shattered against the bulletproof plastic of the port above Sam’s head.
Joe roared—he sounded like a lion suddenly released from its cage—and he threw his liquor into Strubewell’s face.
The other aides fired once and then they fired again. The Mark II pistols were four-shot revolvers which electrically ignited the powder in the aluminum cartridges. They were even larger and heavier than the Mark I’s, but they could be fired much more swiftly, and cordite, not black gunpowder, propelled the plastic bullets.
The pilothouse became a fury of booming, deafening explosives, the scream of shattered plastic ricocheting, the shouts and screams of men and the bellowing of Joe.
Sam rolled over, reached up and flicked the automatic pilot switch. Rob Styles was on the floor, Ms arm almost torn off. One of John’s aides was dying in front of him. Strubewell went flying over him and banged against the glass and then fell on him. John was gone, fled down the ladder.
Sam crawled out from under Strubewell. Four of his pilots were dead. All of the aides, except for Strubewell, who was only unconscious, were dead. Their necks had been broken or their jaws shattered by Joe. Mozart was crouched quivering in a corner. Firebrass was bleeding from the many plastic fragments, and Lothar was bleeding from a gash in his arm. One of the aides had struck him with a knife just before Joe twisted his head 180 degrees.
Sam arose shakily and looked out the port. The crowd watching the marines had dispersed, but not without leaving a dozen bodies behind. The Marines on the boiler deck were firing at men shooting at them from around the sides of the main deck. Some of the fire seemed to be coming from cabin ports in the main deck.