O’Brien continued, “However, you want a steamboat, and that’s not very realistic. You’d have to stop at least once a day to chop wood for fuel, which would mean a long delay even if the locals permitted you to take their limited supply of bamboo and pine trees. Moreover, your axes, the boilers and other parts would wear out long before you reached the end of your journey, and you wouldn’t have enough space to carry enough iron for replacements parts. No, what you need are electric motors.
“Now, there’s a man in this area I met shortly after translation here. I don’t know where he is just now but he must be somewhere close. I’ll find him for you. He’s an electrical wizard, a late twentieth-century engineer who knows how to build the type of motors you’ll need.”
“Hold your horses!” Sam said. “Where would you get all the tremendous amounts of electrical power you’d need? Would we have to build our own Niagara Falls to carry along with us?”
O’Brien was a short, slight youth with a plume of almost orange hair and a face with features so delicate he looked effeminate. He had a crooked smile which managed nevertheless to be charming. He said, “It’s available everywhere up and down The River.”
He pointed at the mushroom shape of the nearest grailstone. “Three times a day, those stones output an enormous electrical power. What’s to prevent us from hooking up power lines to a number of them and storing the discharges to run the boat’s motors?”
Sam goggled for a moment, then said, “Strike me dumb! No, that’s a redundant phrase. I am dumb! Right before my eyes, and I never thought of it! Of course!”
Then he slitted his eyes and lowered his thick tangled eyebrows. “How in hell could you store all that energy? I don’t know much about electricity, but I do know that you’d need a storage battery taller than the Eiffel Tower or a capacitor the size of Pike’s Peak.”
O’Brien shook his head. “I thought so, too, but this fellow, he’s a mulatto, half Afrikaans, half Zulu, Lobengula Van Boom, he said that if he had the materials, he could build a storage device—a batacitor, he called it—a ten-meter cube, that could hold ten megakilowatts and feed it out a tenth of a volt per second or all at once.
“Now, if we can mine the bauxite and make aluminum wire, and there are many problems in doing even that, we can use the aluminum in circuits and electrical motors. Aluminum isn’t as efficient as copper, but we don’t have copper, and aluminum will do the job.”
Sam’s fury and frustration disappeared. He grinned, snapped his fingers, and made a little leap into the air. “Find van Boom! I want to talk to him!”
He puffed away, the end of his cigar as glowing as the images in his mind. Already, the great white paddle-wheeler was steaming (no, electrificating?) up The River with Sam Clemens in the pilothouse, Sam Clemens wearing a Riverboat captain’s cap of Riverdragon leather on his head, Sam Clemens, captain of the fabulous, the unique paddle-wheeler, the great vessel churning on the start of its million mile-plus journey. Never such a boat, never such a River, never such a trip! Whistles blowing, bells clanging, the crew made up of the great and neargreat men and women of all time. From mammoth subhuman Joe Miller of 1,000,000 B.C. to the delicatebodied but vast-brained scientist of the late twentiethcentury.
Von Richthofen brought him back to the immediate reality.
“I’m ready to start digging for the iron. But what do you intend to do about Joe?”
Sam groaned and said, “I can’t make up my mind what to do. I’m as tense as a diamond cutter before he makes the first tap. One wrong thing, and the Kohinoor shatters. Okay, okay! I’ll send Joe. I have to take a chance. But being without him makes me feel as helpless as a honeydipper without a bucket, a banker on Black Friday. I’ll tell Bloodaxe and Joe, and you can start your crew. Only we ought to have a ceremony. We’ll all have a snort, and I’ll dig the first shovelful.”