Sam groaned. King John spat on the floor. Sam scowled and said, “Merdo, Johano! Not even a Plantagenet gobs on my floor! Use the spittoon or get out!”
He forced himself to push down his rage and frustration as King John bristled. Now was not a time to bring about a confrontation. The vainglorious ex-monarch would never back down on the spitting issue, which was, in reality, trifling.
Sam gestured self-deprecatingly and said, “Forget about it, John. Spit all you want to!” But he could not resist adding: “As long as I have the same privilege in your house, of course.”
John growled and popped a chocolate into his mouth. He used the growling, grinding voice that indicated that he, too, was very angry but was imposing great self-control. “This Saracen, Hacking, gets too much. I say we have issed his black hand long enough. His demands have slowed down the building of the ship—”
“Boat, John,” Sam said. “It’s a boat, not a ship.”
“Boato, smoato. I say, let us conquer Soul City, put the citizens to the sword, and seize the minerals. Then we will be able to make aluminum on the spot. In fact, we could build the boat there. And, to make sure that we were not interfered with, we should conquer all the states between us and Soul City.” Powermad John.
Yet, Sam was inclined to think that he might, for once, be right. In a month or so Parolando would have the weapons that would enable it to do just what John was proposing. Except that Publia was friendly and its bills were not high, and Tifonujo, though it demanded much, had permitted itself to be stripped of trees. It was, however, possible that both states planned to use the nickel-iron they got for their wood to make weapons so that they could attack Parolando.
The savages across The River were probably planning the same thing.
“I’m not through,” von Richthofen said. “Hacking made his demands about the trading of citizens on a oneto-one basis. But he won’t come to any agreement unless we send a black to deal with him. He says he was insulted when you sent me, since I’m a Prussian and a Junkers to boot. “But he’ll overlook that, since we don’t know any better, if we send him a member of the Council the next time. One who’s black.” Sam’s cigar almost fell out. “We don’t have a black Councilman!”
“Exactly. What Hacking is saying is that we had better elect one.”
John passed both hands through his shoulder-length tawny hair and then stood up. His pale blue eyes were fiery under the lion-colored eyebrows.
“This Saracen thinks he can tell us how to conduct our internal affairs. I say, War!”
Sam said, “Now, just a minute, Your Majesty. You have good reason to be mad, as the old farmer said when he fell in, but the truth is, we can defend ourselves quite well—but we cannot invade and occupy any large territory.”
“Occupy?” John shouted. “We will slaughter half and chain the other half!”
“The world changed much after you died, John—uh, Your Majesty. Admittedly there are other forms of slavery than the outright form, but I don’t want to get into an argument about definitions. There is no use making a fuss, as the fox said to the hens. We just appoint another Councilman, pro tem. And we send him to Hacking.”
“There is no provision in the Magna Carta for a pro tern Councilman,” Lothar said. “We change the Carta,” Sam said. “That’ll take a popular election.”
John snorted disgust. He and Sam Clemens had gone through too many blazing arguments about the rights of the people.
“There’s one other thing,” Lothar said, still smiling but with an exasperated note in his voice. “Hacking asks that Firebrass be allowed to visit here for a tour of inspection. Firebrass is especially interested in seeing our airplane.” John sputtered. “He asks if we care if he sends a spy!”
“I don’t know,” Sam said. “Firebrass is Hacking’s chief of staff. He might get a different idea of us. He’s an engineer—I think he had a PhD, too, in physics. I’ve heard about him. What did you find out, Lothar?”