Eternity Road

27

Knobby was right. Of the half-dozen captains they were able to locate, only one showed any interest in making the voyage north. This was the commander of the Irika, a listing, battered, foul-smelling cattle hauler. The description, Chaka thought, also fit the captain, an overbearing female with red-lit eyes and crooked teeth. But Quait surprised her by breaking off negotiations after an amicable price had been reached. “That one smelled gold,” he explained later. “She’d have hit us all on the head, taken her fee plus whatever else she could find, and dropped us overboard.”

But they were weary of land travel. If Knobby’s map was accurate, they were still over five hundred miles from their destination. Straight line. Thirty days travel at a minimum. Possibly with the requirement to build another boat at the end of it.

“I’m almost tempted to try our luck with the Irika,” said Flojian. “If they were to prove untrustworthy, we could disarm them easily enough. In fact, it would give us an excuse to seize the boat.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Chaka with sarcasm. “Then we can take it up the coast. Do we even know how to turn on the engine?”

“Yes,” said Flojian. “Actually, I think we do.”

“It’s too complicated,” said Quait. “They will try to jump us. We’d have to keep watch over half a dozen people for a couple of weeks. We need a better idea.”

“I might have one,” said Chaka. “There’s a town about thirty miles northeast. Bennington. I think we should ride out that way.”

“To what purpose?” asked Flojian. “It’s where Orin Claver lives.”

“Claver?” Quait needed a moment to recall where he’d heard the name. “The inventor of the steam engine.” Flojian smiled uneasily. “The rider in the balloon.”

Like Oriskany, Bennington consisted of a cluster of farms surrounding a fortified manor house. But Bennington was not on the frontier, and the continuing battles being waged against marauders by the Judge were a very occasional thing here. Visitors could feel the sense of tranquility that overlay the countryside. There was no sign of patrols along the approach roads, and children played unsupervised in the fields. Pennants fluttered from the stockade walls, and the gates were unguarded. This was open country, about equally divided between forest and cultivated plots.

Claver lived in a cottage on the main road about an hour east of the manor house. “It’s easy to find,” a cart driver told them. “Just look for the obelisk. You can’t miss it.”

It would indeed have been difficult. The obelisk was visible for miles. It soared into the bright afternoon sky, by far the highest structure in Brocket! and its attendant territories. A town had once lived on this site, but it lay buried now beneath low rolling hills, its presence marked only by the monument. There was a plate, carefully preserved, before which they lingered:

Claver’s cottage was one of several occupying nearby hilltops. But his was easy to identify: The fields surrounding it were unworked, and in its rear a wooden frame rose higher than the trees. An enormous bag had been draped across the frame. It was the balloon.

There were several sheds, a barn, and a silo. They dismounted, knocked on the front door, and, receiving no answer, walked around back. The sheds were filled with engines and vats and tubs. Every building had a workbench.

and the floors were often covered with shavings, the walls discolored with gray-brown splotches. At one wooden table, a row of beakers held liquids of various colors.

They paused before a wicker basket strung with cables. “I think that’s what you ride in,” said Chaka. Flojian inspected it with obvious reluctance. An orange-colored shed was filled with a stench that was still in their nostrils twenty minutes later when an elderly man, covered with sweat, burst out of the woods, “Hello,” he said, waving and barely pausing before disappearing into the barn. They followed him.

“Warm day.” He mopped his brow with a towel. He was wiry and muscular, with long silver hair kept in check by a headband. “You come to see me?”

He was not the frowning, academic type Quait had expected. But there was something vaguely unkempt about the man’s expression, a kind of easy smile operating at cross purposes with intense green eyes. “Are you Orin Claver?”

“I am. And who are you?”

Quait did the introductions. Claver peered at them closely. It was apparent he didn’t see well. “You talk funny,” he said. “Where are you from?”

“The Mississippi Valley.”

“You’ve come a long way.” The remark was a surprise. Quait had expected the usual shrug. “Surely you haven’t traveled all this distance just to see me.”

“We understand you take people for rides.”

“In the balloon? Yes, I do. Where did you want to go?” He kicked off his shoes and was peeling his garments without apparent regard to social niceties.

“We have a map.” Quait showed him.

Claver threw a quick glance in its direction, nodded as if he’d taken everything in, and flexed his forearms. “Hard to believe I’m eighty-seven, isn’t it?” He grinned. “Well, let’s go inside.”

He was down to a pair of white shorts. They paraded across a spotty grass lawn into the cottage. A bag of walnuts hung just inside the front door. He offered them around. “Good for your digestion,” he said.

Chaka accepted a couple. Claver took one for himself and tossed two more onto the grass. Within seconds a pair of squirrels appeared and seized them.

The interior was bright and comfortable, furnished with hickory furniture and off-white muslin curtains. Claver asked what kind of wine they liked, removed a couple of bottles from a cabinet, and filled three glasses. “There’s cold water in the kitchen if you’d like some,” he said. He indicated a short hallway. “Through there. Make yourselves at home. I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

He swept out of the room.

“I’m not so sure this is a good idea,” said Flojian, when they could hear the Shower running. “We’re going to trust this guy to take us up in one of those baskets? What if he has a heart attack up there?”

“If somebody has a heart attack,” smiled Chaka, “I don’t think it’s going to be him.”

Claver returned dressed in black trousers and a white shirt with fluffy sleeves, the sort of clothing that would have looked dashing on a twenty-five-year-old. He was barefoot, and he carried a glass of wine. “Now.” He seated himself beside Chaka. “Tell me why you want to go so far.”

Quait crossed one leg over the other. “Does the name Haven mean anything to you?”

“Of course.”

“We think we know where it is.”

Claver’s eyes narrowed. “Endine,” he said, switching his gaze to Flojian. “I should have recognized the name. So you’ve come back. After all this time.”

“That was my father,” said Flojian.

“Ah. Yes. Certainly. And you’ve returned in his place to— do what?”

“To find Haven.”

“They didn’t do so well last time. What makes you think you can do better?”

“They did find it,” said Flojian. “We’ve no doubt of that.”

“It surprises me to hear it. Most of them died out there and the only thing that came back were stories about goblins.”

“They brought back a copy of A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.”

“Really? How is it I never heard about that?”

“Don’t know,” said Quait. “But we have the book.”

“Listen,” said Chaka. “None of this matters that much anyhow.” She produced a gold coin and handed it to Claver. “We’ll pay you ten of these to take us where we want to go.”

He held the coin to the light. “That’s generous. But the flight’s a fool’s errand. There’s nothing up there to be found, and I don’t care to risk my life and my equipment. Not for ten gold coins, nor for a hundred. I really have no need for the money.”

“How do you know there’s nothing?” asked Quait.

“If there had been something, your father would have recovered it when he had the chance. He came back empty-handed.”

“We have the Mark Twain.”

“You have the Mark Twain. I have only your assurances.”

“We wouldn’t lie to you,” said Flojian, his voice rising.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t. But your interpretation of events could be mistaken.” He sat back and relaxed. “I’m sorry to say this, but I see no compelling reason to go.”

“You see no compelling reason?” Quait felt anger rise in his throat.

“The place is a myth,” said Claver.

Quait got up and started for the door.

“I was impressed with your steam engine,” said Chaka, not moving.

“Thank you.” Claver flashed another of those smiles compromised by his eyes. His teeth looked strong and sharp. “I’m working on an improved model. The wood-burners aren’t as efficient as they might be.”

“Coal,”said Flojian.

“Very good, Endine. Yes, it should improve output.”

“Tell me,” continued Flojian, “have you thought about the possibility of designing a power plant that could take a ship across the sea?”

He laughed. “Of course. It’s coming.”

Chaka could see the framework and the balloon through the window. “Orin,” she said, “if that really is Haven up there, we’d have a chance of finding the Quebec.”

Claver stopped breathing.

“Think about it,” she said. “Think what it would mean to find out how to build a propulsion system for an undersea ship. Or do you think it was a coal-burner?”

This time the smile was complete. “It would be nice to find.”

“But the Quebec is only a myth,” said Flojian. “Right?”

“Take us where we want to go,” said Chaka. “The worst that can happen is that you’ll come back with ten gold coins. Who knows what the real payoff might be?”