"I have come," he shouted, "to free this city from tyranny! Look around you-you are surrounded by my men! Lay down your weapons or you will all be killed!"

For the first time, Capone's men began to look around the meeting hall. Robin's archers had been waiting motionlessly up against the walls. Now forty-five of them stepped forward, arrows nocked.

A sudden, confused babble of voices rose from the guards. Bewildered questions-puzzled demands-angry threats.277.Robin shouted them down. "Drop your weapons and put your hands on your heads!" he instructed. "This is your last warning!"

One by one swords began to thud against the floorboards. Two of Robin's men moved forward and began collecting them, while the others kept the guards covered.

Chuckling, Robin descended to take charge.

Outside, he could already hear scattered gunshots, as the smiths and their apprentices took care of what other guards remained. It would only be a matter of mopping up after this.

The city had completely fallen to Robin and his men. By noon the last of the fighting had ended, as the few holdouts among Capone's men were disarmed and locked into the meeting hall with the others. All told, three hundred and forty-four of Capone's guards and lieutenants had been rounded up. Another sixteen lay dead, and eighteen more were wounded and not expected to live through the night... mostly due to New Chicagoans settling old grudges with their former captors. The whole city had joined in the revolt at the end. Robin hadn't lost a single man.

Of Capone, though, there was no sign. Robin a.s.sumed he'd somehow made his way from the city and fled. With such complete victory in hand, though, it seemed a minor detail. They'd send out patrols to try to find him later. Considering all he'd done to the land and people, Robin thought Capone would have few friends willing to aid his escape.

That afternoon, as the Belle Dame sailed close under its skeleton crew, Robin's men raised a red flag over the278.council building as a signal that all was well. A long whistle blared from the Belle Dame in reply.

Musicians were already playing in the streets, and men and women were dancing in the plaza with joyous abandon. The gates to the city had been thrown wide; most of the population of New Chicago and p.i.s.stown had come in to join the celebration.

Emile van Deskol and the other gunsmiths and their apprentices had organised themselves into a police force, and the threat of their guns kept order. Truly, a new age had come to New Chicago.

"Look!" Mutch said, grabbing Robin's arm and pointing toward the River.

It took Robin a minute to see what he meant. Two outriggers had cast off from sh.o.r.e and were sailing toward the Belle Dame. In the lead boat... was Al Capone!

Robin counted quickly. The outriggers held a total of twelve men... all armed killers. The Belle Dame had a crew of eight at the moment, and two were little more than boys. They wouldn't stand a chance against Capone and his men.

"They must have been waiting near the water," Mutch said. "We weren't guarding anything but the city. They saw their chance to escape and took it... and the Belle Dame just happened along at the wrong time."

Robin felt an electric shock run through his body. "We've got to stop them!" he cried. "If they gain control of the riverboat-"

"Get two boats ready," Little John said. "I'll fetch some of our boys with guns. It's not too late. We can still stop Capone."

Robin and Mutch raced for the water.279.Ten minutes had pa.s.sed by the time twenty armed men made it to the outriggers from New Chicago. Robin had to stand helplessly and watch as Verne and his men scurried across the Belle Dame, shutting hatches, fastening wooden shutters over the windows, doing anything and everything they could to protect themselves before Capone and his men could board. At last Verne ushered everyone into the pilothouse, slammed the hatch, and (Robin a.s.sumed) bolted it closed from the inside. Perhaps Verne would be able to hold out long enough for Robin to save him.

As Capone's outriggers pulled even with the Belle Dame and the gangster and his men began to climb aboard, a curious thing began to happen. Robin had to blink and rub his eyes to make sure he wasn't seeing things.

The riverboat was sinking.

Or perhaps submerging was the appropriate word, since it didn't seem to be happening in any way like a disaster: there were no explosions as cold water hit the steam boilers, and the craft was descending evenly, prow and stern simultaneously. The newsreels Robin had seen of ships sinking had always shown them turning tail-up and then vanishing into the depths.

"It's a submarine, too," Mutch breathed.

"But the smokestacks..." Robin said.

"Perhaps they stick out of the water at all times," Mutch said.

"I don't understand," Little John said. "Is it sinking or not?"

"It's not!" Robin let out a relieved laugh. "He's brilliant! That's how he knew his ship could never be280.taken by force-he can submerge it whenever he's attacked!"

"Keep us clear of the riverboat," Mutch said. "When she goes down, the sudden undertow might be enough to capsize us."

They circled the Belle Dame from a hundred yards away, watching as she continued to sink. Capone and his men had abandoned their outriggers when they boarded; now they could only climb higher and higher as first one deck, then another fell awash.

At last they stood on the pilothouse's roof, pounding futilely on the wood with their swords, screaming obscenities at Verne and his infernal riverboat. Then the water covered even the pilothouse, and they found themselves floundering in the river.

"Riverfish..." Little John murmured. "The riverboat has stirred them up."

"Where?" Mutch asked.

He pointed, and Robin saw them too: four or five dark shapes moving swiftly through the water. In seconds they reached Capone and his men and pulled them under. The water turned bright red.

Robin swallowed and found a lump in his throat. He found he'd been unconsciously rooting for Capone to make it to sh.o.r.e. Devoured by riverfish... that wasn't a fate he would have wished on anyone, even Al Capone.

Over the next few weeks, things gradually returned to normal in New Chicago. The people went back to their jobs, trials were held for Capone's men (all were sentenced to five years at hard labour in the mining camps), and Jules Verne himself restored the scientific council, to281.continue the press toward new research and the reinvention of all mankind had lost.

Robin and his men were declared Heroes of the City and awarded every honour Jules Verne could think of. Verne himself pinned the Nemo Medal on Robin's chest in a holiday to celebrate ten days of liberty for the city.

At the end of the evening, as Robin and his men returned to their temporary quarters, Robin found his thoughts wandering toward the River and what lay ahead once more. He knew it was time to leave, to continue his journey.

"I've been thinking," he said at last, "that it's time we were moving on. What say you, men?"

They all cheered mightily. The merry men had increased to thirty-eight during their stay in New Chicago: it seemed many were sick of the city and longed for freedom and the open road to adventure.

At dawn the next morning Robin and his men gathered at the gate to the city. Jules Verne and most of the people of New Chicago had come to see them off. There were more than a few sad farewells.

"Robin," Little John said solemnly, "I don't know how to say this, so I'll put it plainly."

Robin turned. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"I've decided to remain here," Little John said.

Robin stared. "What?" he cried.

Abraham Lincoln took off his cap. "I'm sorry, Robin," he said in his low, powerful voice. "I've been looking for my place in this world, and I think I've found it here. Jules Verne and his scientists need people like me. Their problems came from their system of government. They never planned for the common man. If their quest for282.scientific enlightenment had paid more attention to people instead of machines, Capone never could have taken over from them."

"But what could you do?" Robin asked.

"I've already spoken to Mr. Verne. He has agreed to let me draft a const.i.tution to govern this city and its people. Democracy must be kept alive, and New Chicago will be its headquarters. Do you understand now why I must stay?"

"I think I do," Robin said solemnly. He put his hand on Lincoln's shoulder. "I wish you all the best, my friend." The two embraced briefly. "Good-bye, Abraham."

"Good-bye, Robin."

Robin swallowed, took a step back, and looked over the rest of his merry men. One of the newest additions, a tall, thin youth with straight black hair and a ready smile, stood at the back. "Little John," Robin told him. "Henceforth you will be our new Little John."

"Pardon, Monsieur Robin?" Little John said, looking confused. One of the other merry men translated for him, and a slow smile spread across his face as he understood. "Merci!" he cried. "Merci bien, Robin!"

Robin sighed mentally, but didn't let it show. He'd work on it. After all, how bad could a Frenchman playing Little John be? It couldn't be worse than the first Little John, who'd tried to introduce the merry men to something he called "the Ministry of Funny Walks."

And so, his band stronger than ever, Robin Hood headed from New Chicago, continuing his quest for justice and King Richard the Lionhearted.

UNFINISHED BUSINESS.

Robert Weinberg

"Company's coming," shouted Jim Bowie, spotting a shimmering in the air a few feet from where he stood. Along with nearly five hundred other citizens of New Athens, he was waiting by the town grailstone for lunch to appear. Translations, though fairly commonplace, always caused a ripple among the villagers when they took place. No one ever adjusted to people materialising out of thin air.

The crowd, equally divided between men and women all looking approximately twenty-five years old, hastily backed away from the huge stone mushroom. Barely five seconds after Bowie's warning, a man's nude and hairless body materialised next to the ma.s.sive grailstone. Attached to his wrist was the ever-present lunch bucket, while close at hand appeared a half-dozen towels. As his form hardened into reality, the grailstone roared like thunder, blue fire streaking a score of feet up into the air.

"Luncheon is served," announced Bill Mason cheerfully. Carefully circling around the unconscious newcomer, he283.

284.scrambled onto the grailstone and retrieved his bucket. Opening it, he peered carefully inside. "Hey, Bowie, I got a bottle of bourbon. I'll trade it to you for some of that chocolate you've been h.o.a.rding."

The stranger momentarily forgotten, the villagers hurried to their grails. Bowie followed suit. There would be plenty of time to talk to the new arrival later. On Riverworld, there was always time. Lunch came first.

Groaning, the translated man rubbed his head and sat up. Bowie, checking the contents of his lunch bucket, kept one eye on the stranger. A few months earlier, a new arrival went berserk seconds after his arrival. He slaughtered three citizens of New Athens before finally being dispatched. Ever since, Bowie made sure he had his knife handy after a resurrection.

Meanwhile, his friend Socrates, always the Good Samaritan, knelt by the stranger. The philosopher's small, ugly face creased with concern. "Would you like something to eat?" Bowie heard the Greek inquire in Esperanto, the lingua franca of the River. "Resurrection gives one an appet.i.te. Or so I have been told."

The newcomer, a tall, lanky man with pleasant features and blue-grey eyes, groggily shook his head. "No, thanks," he replied in the same language. "The last thing I remember is a bunch of cannibals hacking at me with knives. Best I could tell, they wanted me to stay for dinner." The man laughed out loud. "Actually, I guess they wanted me for dinner. Kinda put me off eating for a while."

"Cannibals!" gasped a nearby woman, her features turning a delicate shade of green. "But the food from the grailstones..."285."Each to his own nature," said Socrates with a shrug. "Some people are harder to please than others."

Opening his grail, the philosopher pulled out a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. Taking a deep bite, he waved the food at the other man. "Are you firm in your resolve? Or perhaps a cup of coffee would suit you better?"

"Maybe in a few minutes," replied the stranger, his gaze sweeping the crowd. It came to rest on Bowie, unmistakable with his fair skin and wavy red hair. "I thought I heard your name," the man muttered in amazement.

Bowie frowned. That voice sounded familiar.

"Don't you recognise me, Jim?" the man cried out, his voice thick with emotion. "You old son of a b.i.t.c.h."

Bowie gasped in amazement. Everyone on Riverworld had been reborn at age twenty-five and without any facial hair. The man whose voice he heard had been fifty the last time they had been together. He stared at the new arrival, trying to fit his image to the one he remembered. It was the stranger's eyes, blue-grey like his own-"killer's eyes," the Mexicans had called them-that decided him. His mouth curved in a huge grin. "I'll be a ring-tailed alligator!" he exclaimed. "Davy Crockett."

Tears in both their eyes, they embraced. "Long time since the Alamo," said Bowie.

"Not long enough," replied Crockett grimly. "But we can talk about that later. How you been?"

Before Bowie could answer, Crockett turned to Socrates. "I'll take that coffee now, friend. And maybe a bite or two from that sandwich. Running into old buddies always makes me hungry."

"Back on Earth," said Bowie a few minutes later,286.watching his old friend wolf down anything offered him by the generous villagers, "everything made you hungry. Can't say you've changed very much."

"Been eating a lot better since Resurrection Day," said Crockett between bites. "Life's a mite easier when you don't gotta hunt for your grub."

He waved a hand about, taking in the whole area. "Who lives in these parts?" he asked, eyeing several of the better-looking women. Around their waists, they wore their towels like loincloths, leaving their b.r.e.a.s.t.s bare. Crockett grinned. "Foreigners, I take it. Not that I mind their style of clothing."

Bowie chuckled. "To them, we're the outsiders. Most of the folks are ancient Greeks like my buddy, Socrates. Some from Athens, the others from Sparta. The rest are a scattering of Texans from our era, some fifteenth-century Frenchies, and a few dozen others drawn from all periods and places. That Bill Mason over there comes from the twentieth century. He told me that we became famous after we died. Got our names in all the history books and stuff like that."

"They wrote a song about me," said Crockett smugly. "Learned some of the lyrics from a pretty young lady back down the River a-pace. You want to hear the words?"

Without waiting for an answer, he started singing. Bowie grimaced. Resurrection had not improved Crockett's voice. He still sounded like a bullfrog in pain.

"Enough torture," he said after the frontiersman finished the first verse. "Time to head back to our cabin. Me an' Socrates and Mason share a place. There's plenty of room. You want to stay with us?"287."Others won't mind?" asked Crockett. "Don't want to impose none."

"It's fine with me," said Mason, wandering over and hearing the question. He shook Crockett's hand. A short, stocky man with light-blond hair, he was dwarfed by both of the six-foot Westerners. "I taught history back on Earth. Getting to talk with people like you is a dream come true."

"I also have no objection," added Socrates. He smiled. A st.u.r.dily built man with small face and round eyes, he was grotesquely ugly. "Our home is yours."

"Mighty kind of you fellas," said Crockett. He smiled and nodded at an attractive woman walking past. "No women problems or stuff like that?"

"I've been seeing a few ladies," said Bowie, his blue eyes twinkling, "but nothing serious. I don't like being tied down. Same applies to Bill. Socrates is on the run from his wife."

"All men should marry," declared the philosopher solemnly. "If you get a good wife, you become happy and content. If you get a bad one, you become a philosopher." Ruefully, he shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "I am a notorious philosopher."

Crockett chuckled. "I'm convinced. Your place easy to find?"

"It's up the slope about a hundred yards from town," answered Bowie. "Why? Where you going?"

"That little lady over there has been givin' me the eye while you gents have been jawing away," said Crockett, scooping up his grail and towels. "Thought I'd spend a little time getting to know her better. I'll be around by evenin'."

Then, for an instant, all of the good humour departed288.from his face and his voice grew ice cold. "That's when we'll talk about the Alamo, Jim. And our buddy, Santy Anna."

Five men gathered around a roaring campfire late that night. Crockett had shown up at Bowie's cabin at sundown, grinning broadly but refusing to say anything about his day's activities. "I'm too much of a gentleman to do any bragging," he replied to their questions.

None of the others saw any reason to mention to the frontiersman that his lady fair was Clio of Athens, notorious in the community for her voracious s.e.xual appet.i.tes. He would learn soon enough, as had both Bowie and Mason. And many others.

The fifth member of their group was a soft-spoken man who answered to the name of Isaac. A tall, well-built man with distinguished features and dark-brown hair, he had the saddest eyes Bowie had ever seen. Solitary by nature, he lived by himself at the edge of the forest. Though not a dreamgum addict, he was haunted by terrible nightmares that he refused to discuss with anyone. Oftentimes, in the midnight hours, his screams would drift down into the village, causing all those who heard them to shiver in fear. Many of the Greeks considered him cursed by the G.o.ds.

A few nights each week, Isaac would drift over to Bowie's cabin to sit silently at their fire. Though he was fluent in Latin, Greek and Esperanto, the man rarely spoke unless addressed directly, and even then his an-289.swers were short and to the point. Socrates theorised that Isaac hungered for the warmth of human companionship but not the responsibilities of friendship. Bowie, who had encountered similar men on the frontier, always made their visitor welcome.

"Do you remember dying?" asked Crockett, casually stirring the raging fire with a bamboo stick. "Not here and now, but the first time. On Earth?"

Though he addressed them all, he obviously aimed the question at Bowie. And the Texan was the one who answered.

"I was pretty well gone by the time the Mexicans came huntin' me. What with pneumonia and my broken ribs and all, my cards were laid out on the table. Not that it mattered much to those troopers. They had blood in their eyes, if you know what I mean." Bowie paused, as if sorting out details in his mind. "Propped myself up against the back wall when I heard them coming. Better than dyin' in bed, I figured. When they finally stumbled on me, I shot the lead man in the chest, then gutted a second with my knife. That's when my legs gave out and I crashed to the floor. I must've died right then, 'cause the next thing I remember is waking up naked on the gra.s.s down by the River, like everyone else, four years ago."

"They dragged your body into the courtyard and tossed it into the air on their bayonets," said Crockett. Shuddering, he stared directly into the fire. "The soldiers mutilated your corpse pretty bad. Did the same with several of the others. It was pretty gruesome stuff. I saw the whole thing."

"You saw it?" said Bowie, amazed. "Then you didn't die when the Mexe's overran the fort."290."Nope. Me and three others surrendered once we saw things were hopeless. It seemed the best thing to do."

"But all the history books say you perished at the Alamo," interrupted Bill Mason.