He nodded, and said, "I presume you are coming to Firebrass' farewell party tonight."
"It's a command invitation. But I hate going. It'll be a drunken brawl."
"You don't have to soil yourself by joining the pigs in their swinishness. Be with but not of them. That will enable you to enjoy the thought of how superior you are to them."
"You're an ass," she said. Then, quickly, "I'm sorry, Piscator. I'm the ass. You read me correctly, of course."
"I think that Firebrass is going to announce tonight the ranking of the officers and pilots."
She held her breath for a moment. "I think so, too, but I am not looking forward with pleasure to that."
"You prize rank too highly. What is worse, you know it but will do nothing about it. In any event, I think you have an excellent chance."
"I hope so."
"Meanwhile, would you care to go out in the boat with me and participate in the angling?"
"No, thanks."
She rose stiffly and pulled in the line. The bait was gone off the hook.
"I think I'll go home and brood a while."
"Don't lay any eggs," he said, grinning.
Jill snorted feebly and walked away. Before she reached her hut, she passed Thorn's. Loud, angry voices were issuing from it. Thorn's and Obrenova's.
So, the two had finally gotten together. But they did not seem happy about it.
Jill hesitated a moment, almost overcome with the desire to eavesdrop. Then she plunged on ahead, but she could not help hearing Thorn shout in a language unknown to her. So-it would have done her no good to listen in. But what was that language? It certainly did not sound like Russian to her.
Obrenova, in a softer voice, but still loud enough for Jill to hear her, said something in the same language. Evidently, it was a request to lower his voice.
Silence followed. Jill walked away swiftly, hoping they would not look outside and think she had been doing what she had almost done. Now she had something to think about. As far as she knew, Thorn could speak only English, French, German, and Esperanto. Of course, he could have picked up a score of languages during his wanderings along The River. Even the least proficient of linguists could not avoid doing that.
Still, why would the two talk in anything but their native languages or in Esperanto? Did both know a language which they used while quarreling so that nobody would understand them?
She would mention this to Piscator. He might have an illuminating viewpoint on the matter.
As it turned out, however, she had no chance to do so, and by the time the Parseval took off, she had forgotten about the matter.
38
Discoveries in Dis
Jan. 26, 20 a.r.d.
Peter Jairus Frigate
Aboard the Razzle Dazzle
South Temperate Zone
Riverworld
Robert F. Rohrig Down-River (hopefully)
dear bob:
In thirteen years on this ship I've sent out twenty-one of these missives. Letter from a Lazarus. Cable from Charon. Missive from Mictlan. Palaver in Po. Tirades from Tir na nOc. Tunes from Tuonela. Allegories from al-Sirat. Sticklers from the Styx. Issues from Issus. Etc. All that sophomoric alliterative jazz.
Three years ago I dropped into the water my Telegram from Tartarus. I wrote just about everything significant that'd happened to me since you died in St. Louis of too much living. Of course, you won't get either letter except by the wildest chance.
Here I am today in the bright afternoon, sitting on the deck of a two-masted schooner, writing with a fishbone pen and carbonblack ink on bamboo paper. When I'm done, I'll roll the pages up, wrap them in fish membrane, insert them in a bamboo cylinder. I'll hammer down a disc of bamboo into the open end. I'll say a prayer to whatever gods there be. And I'll toss the container over the side. May it reach you via Rivermail.
The captain, Martin Farrington, the Frisco Kid, is at the tiller right now. His reddish-brown hair shines in the sun and whips with the wind. He looks half-Polynesian, helf-Celtic, but is neither. He's an American of English and Welsh descent, born in Oakland, California in 1876. He hasn't told me that, but I know that because I know who he really is. I've seen too many pictures of him not to recognize him. I can't name him because he has some reason for going under a pseudonym. (Which, by the way, is taken from two of his fictional characters.) Yes, he was a famous writer. Maybe you'll be able to figure it out, though I doubt it. You once told me that you had read only one of his works, Tales of the Fish Patrol, and you thought it was lousy. I was distressed that you'd refuse to read his major works, many of which were classics.
He and his first mate, Tom Rider, "Tex," and an Arab named Nur are the only members of the original crew left. The others dropped out for one reason or another: death, ennui, incompatibility, etc. Tex and the Kid are the only two people I've met on The River who could come anywhere near being famous people. I did come close to meeting Georg Simon Ohm (you've heard of "ohms") and James Nasmyth, inventor of the steamhammer. And lo and behold! Rider and Farrington are near the top of the list of the twenty people I'd most like to meet. It's a peculiar list, but, being human, I'm peculiar.
The first mate's real surname isn't Rider. His face isn't one I'd forget, though the absence of the white ten-gallon hat makes it seem less familiar. He was the great film hero of my childhood, right up there with my book heroes: Tarzan, John Carter of Barsoom, Sherlock Holmes, Dorothy of Oz, and Odysseus. Out of the 260 western movies he made, I saw at least forty. These were second or third runs in the second-class Grand, Princess, Columbia, and Apollo theaters in Peoria. (All vanished long before I was fifty.) His movies gave me some of my most golden hours. I don't remember the details or the scenes of a single one-they all blur into a sort of glittering montage with Rider as a giant figure in the center.
When I was about fifty-two years old, I became interested in writing biographies. You know that I had planned for many years to write a massive life of Sir Richard Francis Burton, the famous or infamous nineteenth-century explorer, author, translator, swordsman, anthropologist, etc.
But financial exigencies kept me too busy to do much on A Rough Knight for the Queen. Finally, just as I was ready to start full time on Knight, Byron Farwell came out with an excellent biography of Burton. So I decided to wait a few years, until the market could take another Burton bio. And just as I was about to start again, Fawn Brodie's life of Burton- probably the best-was published.
So I put off the project for ten years. Meanwhile, I decided to write a biography of my favorite childhood film hero (though I ranked Douglas Fairbanks, Senior, as my other top favorite).
I'd read a lot of articles about my hero in movie and western magazines and newspaper clippings. These depicted him as having led a life more adventurous and flamboyant than those of the heroes he played in films.
But I still did not have the money to quit writing fiction long enough to travel around the country interviewing people who'd known him-even if I could have found them. There were some who could have given me details of his careers as a Texas Ranger, a U.S. Marshal in New Mexico, a deputy sheriff in the Oklahoma Territory, a Rough Rider with Roosevelt at San Juan Hill, a soldier in the Philippine Insurrection and the Boxer Rebellion, a horse breaker for the British and possibly as a mercenary for both sides in the Boer War, as a mercenary for Madero in Mexico, as a Wild West show performer, and as the highest-paid movie actor of his time.