THE MAGIC LABYRINTH by Philip Jose Farmer

For such a deep-shaded pessimist, he was incredibly optimistic.

He wasn’t going to make it. The prow of the vessel—it was drifting backward—slid by him. And now he saw the launch, the Post No Bills. It was moving very slowly, apparently looking for swimmers. Its searchlight probed across the waters, stopped, moved back, and centered on something. It was too far away for him even to see whatever the beam was on. The launch was also too distant to hear his cries.

Suddenly, he remembered King John. The man was bound and helpless in a locked cabin. He was doomed unless someone got to him. He couldn’t cry out, and it was doubtful that anyone would be near enough to hear him, if he could be heard. And even then there was no key available. The lock could be shot off, but.. .why speculate? John was doomed. He would sit there not even knowing that the boat was going down. The water would flood the main deck, and he still wouldn’t know. Those cabins were watertight. Not until the air suddenly became stuffy would he guess what had happened. Then he would struggle desperately, squirm, twist, writhe, calling out for help through the gag. The air would get fouler and fouler, and he would slowly choke to death.

His last moments would be horrible.

It was a scene which Sam would once have projected on his mind’s screen with great pleasure.

Now he could only wish that he could get to the boat and rescue John. Not that he’d let him go scot-free. He’d see that he got that promised trial. But he did not wish John to suffer so or to die so terribly. He did not want anybody to go through that.

. Yes, he was soft, John would have enjoyed thinking of him if he were in such a situation. No matter. He wasn’t John, and he was glad of it.

He forgot about John as the launch started up again. It .headed for the other side of the Riverboat and then had disappeared. Was Anderson now about to pick up the survivors from the stricken vessel? If he was, he’d have to help finish the last hold-outs from the Rex, the jackasses who didn’t know when to quit. Maybe they would have sense enough now to surrender.

“Tham!”

The bellow came from behind him. He turned, keeping one arm halfway around the curving wood. “Joe! Where are you?”

“Over here, Tham! I paththed out! I chutht came to, Tham, but I don’t think I can make it!”

“Hang on, Joe!” Clemens shouted. “I’ll get to you! Keep yelling! I’ll be there soon! Keep yelling so I’ll know where you are!”

It wasn’t easy to turn the big piece of flotsam and get going straight toward the bank. He had to hang on with one arm and paddle with the other. He kicked his feet, too. Now and then he had to stop to catch his breath. Then he would shout, “Joe! Where are you? Joe! Yell so I can hear you!”

Silence. Had Joe fainted again? If so, had he strapped himself to whatever was holding him up? He must have. Otherwise, he would have sunk when he passed out the first time. But maybe he’d been lying on something. Maybe…

Since he had to rest for a moment, anyway, he looked behind him. The boat had slid even further downstream. The River was creeping up along the walls of the main deck. In a short time, John’s cabin would be under water.

He began pushing the wood toward the bank. The fires on shore illuminated the surface somewhat. Though he could see plenty of debris, he couldn’t distinguish any as Joe Miller.

Now he could see that the people on shore were putting out in boats and canoes. Their torches burned brightly by the hundreds. Coming to the rescue, though why they should want to help the people who’d burned down a quarter of their buildings was incomprehensible.

No. They were doing for the destroyers what he would have done for John if he could have. And, actually, the Virolanders did not have cause to hate the Riverboat people as he had to hate John.