He had no sooner started writing than the drums began beating. The big bass drums represented dashes; the small soprano drums, dots. The code was Morse; the language, Esperanto. Von Richthofen would be landing in a few minutes.
Sam stood up to look out again. A half a mile away was the bamboo catamaran on which Lothar von Richthofen had sailed downRiver only ten days ago. Through the starboard ports Sam saw a squat figure with tawny hair coming out of the gateway of King John’s log palace. Behind him came bodyguards and sycophants.
King John was making sure that von Richthofen did not give Sam Clemens any secret messages from Elwood Hacking.
The ex-monarch of England, present coruler of Parolando, wore a kilt with red and black checks, a poncholike arrangement of towels, and knee-length, redleather Riverdragon boots. Around his thick waist was a wide belt with a number of sheaths containing steel daggers, a short sword, and a steel ax. One hand held a steel rod coronet, one of many sources of contention between Sam and King John. Sam did not want to waste metal on such useless anachronisms, but John had insisted and Sam had given in.
Sam found some satisfaction now in thinking about the name of his little nation. Parolando in Esperanto meant pair land and was so called because two men governed it. But Sam had not mentioned to John that another translation could be Twain Land.
John followed a hard-dirt path around a long, low factory building, and then he was at the foot of the staircase of Sam’s quarters. His bodyguard, a big thug named Sharkey, pulled the bell rope and the little bell tinkled.
Sam stuck his head out and shouted, “Come aboard, John!”
John looked up at him from pale blue eyes and motioned to Sharkey to precede him. John was cautious about assassins, and he had reason to be. He was also resentful about having had to come to Sam, but he had known that von Richthofen would report to Sam first.
Sharkey entered, inspected Sam’s pilothouse and looked through the three rooms of the texas. Sam heard a growl, as low and powerful as a lion’s, from the rear bedroom. Sharkey came back swiftly and closed the door. Sam smiled and said, “Joe Miller may be sick, but he
an still eat ten Polish prizefighters for breakfast and call for a second helping.”
Sharkey did not reply. He signaled through the port that John could come up without fear of being ambushed.
The catamaran was beached now, and the tiny figure of von Richthofen was coming across the plain, holding his grail in one hand and the wooden winged ambassadorial staff in the other. Through the other port Sam could see the lanky figure of de Bergerac leading a platoon toward the south wall. Livy was not in sight. John entered. Sam said, “Bonan matenon, Johano!”
It galled John that Sam refused to address him as Via Rega Mosto—Your Majesty—in private. La Konsulo—the Consul—was their correct title and even that came reluctantly from Sam’s lips. Sam encouraged others to call him La Estro, The Boss, because that angered John even more.
John grunted and sat down at the round table. Another bodyguard, a big dark proto-Mongolian with massive bones and immensely powerful muscles, Zaksksromb, who presumably had died about 30,000 B.C., lit up a huge brown cigar for John. Zak, as he was known, was the strongest man in Parolando, with the exception of Joe Miller. And it could be argued that Joe Miller was not a man—or, at least, certainly not Homo sapiens.
Sam wished Joe would get out of bed. Zak made him nervous. But Joe was sedating himself with dreamgum. Two days ago a chunk of siderite had slipped from a crane’s tongs as Joe was passing beneath it. The operator swore it had been an accident, but Sam had his suspicions.
Sam puffed on his cigar and said, “Hear anything about your nephew lately?”
John did not start, but his eyes did widen a trifle. He looked at Sam across the table. “No, should I?”
“I just wondered. I’ve been thinking about asking Arthur down for a conference. There’s no reason why you two should be trying to kill each other. This isn’t Earth, you know. Why can’t we call off old feuds? What if you did drop him off in a sack into the estuary? Let bygones be bygones. We could use his wood, and we need more limestone for calcium carbonate and magnesium. He’s got plenty.” John glared, then hooded his eyes and smiled.