The Merry Men of the Riverworld Read Free

details that marked it as the product of a more primitive technology than he had at first suspected. The glass in the windows was cloudy and full of bubbles. The brass had been beaten to shape the rails; mallet marks were clearly visible. As he climbed onto the lower deck, he noted the square-headed nails in the ladder. The riverboat had been built by hand, he was sure, and represented the product of a fantastic amount of sheer physical labor.
    “Monsieur Verne is in his cabin,” Claude said. He led Robin to a hatch, then rapped sharply on its frame.
    A feeble voice answered.
    Claude undogged the hatch and stood back so Robin could enter first. Robin ducked through.
    It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom inside. When he could see, he discovered a pale man with short, wiry black hair propped up in bed. There was a sweet smell in the air, almost like meat left in the sun too long. Infection , Robin thought.
    “Monsieur Verne?” he asked.
    Jules Verne nodded. Despite his sickness, his blue eyes held a fire Robin could not deny. Verne held the note Robin had attached to the arrow.
    “You claim to be Sir Robin of Loxley?” he asked in nearly unaccented English.
    “I am he,” Robin said. “I am delighted to meet you, sir.”
    “Draw up that chair and we will talk,” Verne said. Robin did so. “You have a nineteenth century British accent, I would say. How do you explain that?”
    Robin shrugged. “Would you understand Saxon?”
    “Touché.”
    “And it's a twentieth century accent, by the way.” Almost before he knew it, Robin found himself telling how he'd adopted the role of Robin Hood, of his adventures and misadventures along the River as he and his men sought to right the wrongs of this new world. Verne nodded now and then, an avid listener.
    “Life is indeed a most series of curious events,” he said. “I needed someone such as you a week ago. Indeed, I nearly died because of it.”
    “What do you mean?” Robin asked.
    Verne sighed and sank back on his bed, closing his eyes. Suddenly he looked tired, frail. When he spoke again it was with the voice of an old man.
    “When I awakened on the River and found myself young,” he said, “it seemed almost as though God had created this world for me alone...”
    Now (Verne said) I could do those things of which I had only dreamed throughout my life. All my research, all my books and writings, they had led me inexorably toward this moment.
    I vowed to create a perfect society. This new civilization would be modeled on mankind's old one, but with all its various flaws and imperfections cured. Mankind had been given a fresh chance here, I felt, and it would be up to us to make the best of it.
    I was fortunate enough to be resurrected among a group consisting primarily of Frenchmen from late nineteenth century. Also among us were Russians from some twenty or thirty years in our future, Chinese from yet another age (I could not pinpoint their place in history; alas, my schooling in matters Oriental was somewhat lacking), and a few others from what seemed random periods in our world's history.
    The Chinese immediately banded together and left, seeking whatever it is Chinamen seek; to my regret, we never circumvented the language barrier. The Russians, on the other hand, stayed with us. One among them, a fiery youth with an unpronounceable name who had us call him Lenin, began preaching socialism to the masses, but his voice fell on deaf ears. Most people were content to live natural lives, eating food from the metal Providers, sunning themselves on the Riverbanks, eating the dreamsticks, and fornicating in a hedonistic frenzy.
    Lenin was murdered his second week there. But what he'd said interested me. The idea of all men being equal is, of course, ridiculous; but the organizational system he outlined seemed workable, even practical in our current circumstances.
    I combined his thoughts with my own. As I talked to my fellows, I found among my them a number