Now began the terrible chase. He fled through the boat, through every room of the three-tiered pilothouse, across the flight deck, down the ladder into the hangar deck and through every one of its rooms, down a ladder and through every room of the hurricane deck, down a ladder and through every room of the main deck, down a ladder and into the vast boiler deck.
Here, aware of the waters pressing against the hull, aware that he was below the surface of The River, he ran through the many rooms, large and small. He passed between the giant electric motors turning the paddlewheels which were driving the vessel toward destruction. Desperately, he tried to get into the large compartment holding the two launches. He would rip the wires out of the motor of one and take the other out into The River and so leave his sinister pursuer behind. But someone had locked the door.
Now he was crouching in a tiny compartment, trying to slow his rasping breath. Then, the hatch opened. Erik Bloodaxe's figure loomed in the greyness. It moved slowly toward him, the great axe held in both hands.
"I told you,'' Erik said, and he lifted the axe. Sam was powerless to move, to protest. After all, this was his own fault. He deserved it.
50
He awoke moaning. The cabin lights were on, and Gwenafra's beautiful face and long honey-blonde hair were above him.
"Sam! Wake up! You've been having another nightmare!"
"He almost got me that time," he mumbled.
He sat up. Whistles were shrilling on the decks. A minute later, the intercom unit shrilled. The boat would soon be heading for a grailstone and breakfast. Sam liked to sleep late, and he would just as soon have missed breakfast. But as captain it was his duty to rise with the others.
He got out of bed and shambled into the head. After a shower and tooth-brushing, he came out. Gwenafra was already in her early-morning outfit, looking like an eskimo who had traded her furs for towels. Sam got into a similar suit but left his hood down to put on his captain's cap. He lit a corona and blew smoke while he paced back and forth.
Gwenafra said, "Did you have another nightmare about Bloodaxe?"
"Yes," he said. "Give me some coffee, will you?"
Gwenafra dropped a teaspoonful of dark crystals into a grey metal cup. The water boiled as the crystals released both heat and caffeine. He took the cup, saying, "Thanks."
She sipped her coffee, then said,' "There's no reason to feel guilty about him."
"That's what I've told myself a thousand times," Sam said. "It's irrational, but when did knowing that ever make a fellow feel better? It's the irrational in us that drives us. The Master of Dreams has about as much brains as a hedgehog. But he's a great artist, witless though he is, like many an artist I've known. Perhaps including yours truly."
"There isn't a chance that Bloodaxe will ever find you."
"I know that. Try telling the Dream Master that."
A light flashed; a whistle blew from a panel on a bulkhead. Sam flicked its switch.
"Captain? Detweiller here. Arrival time at designated grailstone will be five minutes from now."
"Okay, Hank," Sam said. "I'll be right out."
Followed by Gwenafra, be left the stateroom. They passed down a narrow corridor and went through a hatch into the control room or bridge. This was on the top deck of the pilothouse; the other senior officers were quartered in the cabins on the second and third decks.
There were three persons in the control room: Detweiller, who had once been a river pilot, then a captain, then owner of an Illinois-Mississippi River steamboat company; the chief executive officer, John Byron, ex-admiral, Royal Navy; the brigadier of the boat's Marines, Jean Baptiste Antoine Marcellin de Marbot, ex-general for Napoleon.
The latter was a short, slim, merry-looking fellow with dark-brown hair, snub nose, and bright blue eyes. He saluted Clemens and reported in Esperanto.
"All ready for duty, my captain."
Sam said, "Fine, Marc. You can take your post now."
The little Frenchman saluted and left the pilothouse, sliding down the pole behind it to the flight deck. Lights flooded this, showing the Marines in battle array lined up in its middle. The standard bearer held a pole on top of which was the boat's flag, a light-blue square bearing a scarlet phoenix. Near him were rows of pistoleers, men and women in grey duraluminum coal-scuttle helmets topped by roaches of human hair stiff with grease, plastic cuirasses, knee-length leather boots, their broad belts holding bolstered Mark IV revolvers.
Behind them were the spearmen; behind them, the archers. To one side was a group of bazookateers.
Off to one side stood a colossus clad in armor, holding an oaken club which Sam could lift with two hands only with difficulty. Officially, Joe Miller was Sam's bodyguard, but he always accompanied the Marines at these times. His chief function was to awe the locals.
"But as usual," Sam often said, "Joe goes too far. He scares the hell out of them just by standing around."
This day started out like every other day. It was destined to be, however, quite different. Some time during the day, the Minerva would attack the Rex Grandissimus. Sam should have felt jubilant. He wasn't. He hated the idea of destroying such a beautiful boat, one he had designed and built. Moreover, he'd been deprived of the joy of wreaking a personal revenge on John.
On the other hand, it was a lot safer this way.
There was a bonfire on the right side about half a kilometer away. It revealed a mushroom-shaped grailstone and gleamed on white cloths covering bodies. The fog over The River was lower and thinner here than that usually encountered. It would clear away quickly once the sun got over the peaks. The sky was brightening, washing out the flaming giant stars and gas clouds.
Per usual procedure, the Firedragon III, an armored amphibian launch, preceded the mother boat. When it got to an area where the boat would have to recharge its batacitor, its commander parleyed with the locals for the use of two grailstones. Most areas were pleased to do this, their remuneration being the thrill of observing the mammoth vessel at close range.
Those locals who objected found their grailstones temporarily confiscated. They could do nothing about it except to protest. The boat had overwhelming firepower, though Clemens was always reluctant to use it. When forced to resort to violence, Clemens refrained from massacre. A few spurts of .80-caliber plastic bullets from the big steam machine guns on the boat and from the armored steam-spurting amphibian tearing around on shore, usually sufficed. It wasn't even necessary to kill anybody in most cases.
After all, what did the locals lose if two grailstones were used by somebody else for one time only? Nobody had to miss a meal. There were always enough unused spots on nearby stones to take up the slack. In fact, most of those who surrendered their meal did not even bother to travel to the next stone. They preferred to stay there so they could ooh and ah at the magnificent beauty of the boat.
The four enormous electrical motors of the boat required tremendous energy. Once a day, a giant metal cap was placed over the grailstone by which the boat was stationed. A launch would carry the boat's grails to the next stone for filling. A crane extended from another launch would lift the cap and place it over the head of the stone. When the stone discharged, its energy flashed via thick cables into the batacitor. This was a huge metal box which rose from the boiler deck into the main deck. It stored the energy instantly in its function of capacitor. As demanded, it would release the energy in its function of battery.
Sam Clemens went ashore and talked briefly with the local chief officials, who understood Esperanto. This universal language had degraded here into a form which was difficult but not impossible for Sam to understand. He gravely thanked them for their courtesy, and he returned to the boat on his small private launch. Ten minutes later, Firedragon IV returned with a cargo of full grails.