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.
By then he understood that he had drifted in much closer to shore than he had thought. It was only about a half mile to the bank. The dark silhouettes of the rescue craft were coming swiftly, considering they were all being paddled or rowed. Not swiftly enough, though. He was getting cold. The water was warmer than the air, but it wasn't warm enough. About forty-five degrees Fahrenheit in this area if he remembered correctly.
The River had lost much heat while passing over the north pole, and it hadn't picked up much yet. He was suffering from intense fatigue, aided and abetted by the shock of combat and chilly water. It would be ironic if he perished before the rescuers got to him.
Just like life. Just like death.
It would have been nice to quit stroking and kicking. So easy to give up, drift, and let others do the work. But he had to find Joe. Besides, if he did quit exercising, he'd lose his body warmth that much quicker. It would be so comfortable... he shook his head, breathed deeply, and tried to urge his dead limbs into life.
Presently—or was it presently, how much time had elapsed?— there was a boat alongside him. Many torches burned on it. Strong arms were hoisting him up, and he was laid shivering on the deck. Warm thick cloths were laid over him. Hot coffee was being poured down him. He sat up and shivered as the cloths fell off and the air struck him.
"Joe!" he said. "Joe! Get Joe!"
"What's he saying?" someone said in Esperanto.
"He's speaking English," a woman said. "He says to get Joe."
A woman's face was next to his. She said, "Who's Joe?"
"My best friend," Sam said weakly. "And he's not even human. Maybe that accounts for it." He laughed tiredly. "Ho, ho, ho! Maybe that's it."
"Where is this Joe?" the woman said. She was a good-looker. The flaming torches showed a heart-shaped face, big eyes, a broad high forehead, a retrousse' nose, wide full lips, a strong chin and jaw. Long yellow wavy hair.
What was he doing admiring a woman at this time? He should be thinking of... Gwenafra.
Vaguely, he felt ashamed that not once since the action had started had he worried about Gwenafra. Where was she? And why hadn't he thought about her? He really loved her.
"This Joe?" the woman said again.
"He's a titanthrop, an ape-man. A hairy giant with a gigantic schnozzola. He's out there, somewhere close. Save him!"
The woman stood up and said something in Esperanto. A man beyond her held a torch out and looked into the darkness. There were many other torches out there, but they didn't seem to help. The sky was clouding up swiftly, the starlight was being shut out.
He looked around his immediate area. He was sitting on the raised deck of a longboat. Below him, on each side, were about a dozen paddlers.
"There's something floating out there," the man with the torch said. "It looks bulky. Maybe it's this titanthrop."
The man had his back turned to Sam. He wore an Eskimo suit of white cloths over head, body, and feet. He wasn't tall, but his shoulders were very broad. And his voice sounded vaguely familiar. Somewhere, a long time before, Sam had heard that voice.
The man called out to nearby boats and told them what to look for. Presently, there was a shout. Sam looked at the source. Some men on another longboat were attempting to haul something huge out of the water.
"Joe!" he croaked.
The man in the white suit turned then. He was holding the flaming pine so that his face was fully illumined.
Sam saw his features clearly, the broad handsome face, the thick straw-colored eyebrows, the square massive jaw, the even white teeth. His grin was evil.
"Bloodaxe!"
"Ja," the man said. "Eirikr B/0S4>x." Then, in Esperanto, "I have waited a long long time for you, Sam Clemens."
Screaming, Sam rose and leaped from the boat.
The cold dark waters closed upon him. He went down, down, then straightened out and began swimming. How far could he go before he had to surface for air? Could he get away from his nemesis long enough to get aboard another boat? Surely the Virolanders would not permit Erik to kill him? That would be against their principles. But Erik would wait until he had a chance, and then he would strike.
Joe! Joe would protect him! Joe would do more than that. He would kill the Norseman.
Gasping, sputtering, Sam's head broke through into the air. Ahead was a boat filled with people. The torches showed their faces clearly. All were looking at him.
Behind came the splashing of a swimmer.