THE MAGIC LABYRINTH

Joe kept on talking, but Sam didn't hear him. He crouched by the railing, unable to decide what to do. Though the ru

He raised the pistol in his left hand, keeping the cutlass in his right. He could aim with either hand, though not well. At this range, though, he could not miss. But did he have to shoot?

The decision never had to be made. As he waited, eyes straining, finger tight on the trigger, he was lifted up and hurled over the railing.

For a minute or so, he was so stu

He bumped into something. His hands felt cold flesh. A corpse. He shoved it away and slipped off the heavy bandolier.

Before him, but now about sixty feet away, was the vast boat. How had he gotten so far away from it? Had he been swimming? Or floating? It didn't matter. He was here, and the boat was there. He would swim back to it. This was the second time he'd been in The River. What I dip you in three times is true.

As he thrashed toward the vessel, he saw that the railing of the boiler deck was closer to the water than it should be. The boat was sinking!

Now he knew what had tossed him off the deck like a fly shrugged off by a horse. Except that he had no wings. It had been an explosion below the water line. In the boiler deck where ammunition was stored. And it would have been set off, of course, by John's men.

He had gone through too much. Even the imminent loss of his beautiful Not For Hire, which should have brought tearing pain and tears, did not affect him much. He was too tired and too desperate. Almost, he told himself, too tired to be desperate.

He swam toward the boat. His right hand came down hard on something. He cried out with pain, then reached out again. Wet slippery wood curved under his hand. Gasping with joy, he seized it and pulled himself forward. He didn't know what it was, a piece of canoe or dugout, but it was enough to buoy him.

Where was Joe?

He called out. There was no answer. He tried again and got the same silence.

Had the explosion gotten Joe? The detonation would have hurled a strong pressure wave through the water. Anyone near it would probably have been killed. But Joe wasn't close enough. Or was he? It must have been a hell of a blast.

Or perhaps Joe had just lost consciousness from the pain of his broken bone and slipped off into The River.

He called twice more. Someone shrieked from far away, a woman's voice. Some other poor soul floating in The River.

The boat was visibly settling down. There would be many compartments, large and small, with closed doors and hatches. There might even be enough enclosed air to keep the Riverboat afloat. Eventually, she would drift into shore; she could even be towed in by sailing ships or rowboats or both.

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.

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.