Philip Jose Farmer - Riverworld 3 - The Dark Design

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THE DARK DESIGNTHE DARK DESIGN

Though some of the names in The Riverworld Series are fictional, the

characters

are or were real. You may not be mentioned, but you're here.

To Sam Long and my godson David, son of Doctor Doctor

And still the Weaver plies his loom, whose warp

and woof is wretched Man Weaving th' unpattern'd dark design, so dark we

doubt it owns a plan.

-The Kasidah of Haji Abdu al- Yazdi

"Sentence first-verdict afterwards."

-Alice in Wonderland

Foreword

THE BOOK AT HAND IS VOLUME III OF THE RIVERWORLD SERIES.

Originally, it was to be the conclusion of a trilogy. However, the Ms. was

than 400,000 words long. Published under one cover, it would be too heavy and

unwieldy for the reader.

Therefore, the publisher and myself decided to cut it into two. Volume TV, The

Magic Labyrinth, will follow this book. It will definitely conclude this phase

of the series, explain all the mysteries set forth in the first three volumes,

tie up all ends in a knot, Gordian or otherwise.

Any novels about the Riverworld after volume IV are not to be considered as

part

of the mainstream of the series. These will be the "sidestream," stories not

directly concerned with mystery and the quests of the first three. My decision

to write these is based on my belief-and that of many others-that the

Riverworld

concept is too big to compress within four volumes. After all, we have a

planet

on which a single river, or a very long and narrow sea, runs for 16,090,000

kilometers, or about 10,000,000 miles. More than thirty-six billion people

live

along its banks, human beings who existed from the Old Stone Age through the

first part of the Elec-tronic Age.

There is not room in the first four volumes to chronicle many events which

might

interest the reader. For instance, the resurrectees were not distributed along

The River according to the chronological sequence in which they had been born

Earth. There was a considerable mixture of races and nationalities from

different centuries. Take as an example one of the many thousands of blocs

along

the banks. This would be in an area ten kilometers long, and the people

comprising it would be 60 percent 3rd-century A.D. Chinese, 39 percent

17th-century A.D. Russians, and 1 percent men and women from anywhere and

anytime.

How would these people manage to form a viable state from anarchy? How would

they succeed, or fail, in their efforts to get along with each other and to

form

a body which could defend itself against hostile states? What problems would

they have?

In the book at hand, Jack London, Tom Mix, Nur ed-din el-Musaf ir, and Peter

Jairus Frigate sail on the Razzle Dazzle II up The River. There is

considerable

characterization of Frigate and Nur in volumes III and IV. However, there was

not enough space to fully develop the characters of the others. So, the

"sidestream" stories will give me scope to do this.

These will also relate how the crew of the Razzle Dazzle meet some major and

minor representatives of various fields of human endeavor. These should

include

da Vinci, Rousseau, Karl Marx, Rameses II, Nietzsche, Bakunin, Alcibiades,

Eddy,

Ben Jonson, Li Po, Nichiren Daishonin, Asoka, an Ice Age cavewife, Joan of

Arc,

Gilgamesh, Edwin Booth, Faust et al.

It's been apparent to some that Peter Jairus Frigate remarkably resembles the

author. It is true that I am the basis for that character, but Frigate has

approximately the similarity to me that David Copperfield has to Charles

Dickens. The author's physical and psychic features are only a springboard for

propelling reality into that parareality-fiction.

I apologize to the readers for the cliffhanger endings of the first three

volumes. The structure of the series was such that I could not emulate that of

Isaac Asimov's Foundation series. In these each volume seemed to have a

definite

conclusion, the mystery seeming-ly solved, only to reveal in the sequel that

the

previous ending was false or misleading.

I hope to finish the series, volumes I through V (or possibly VI), before it's

my time to lie down and rest while waiting to board the fabulous riverboat.

-Philip Jose Farmer

Dreams haunted the Riverworld.

Sleep, night's Pandora, was even more generous than on Earth. There, it had

been

this for you and that for your neighbor. Tomor-row, that for you and this for

next door.

Here in this endless valley, along these unceasing Riverbanks, she dumped her

treasure chest, showering everybody with all gifts: terror and pleasure,

memory

and anticipation, mystery and revela-tion.

Billions stirred, muttered, groaned, whimpered, laughed, cried out, swam to

wakefullness, sank back again.

Mighty engines battered the walls, and things wriggled out through the holes.

Often, they did not retreat but stayed, phantoms who refused to fade at

cockcrow.

Also, for some reason, dreams recurred more frequently than on the mother

planet. The actors of the nocturnal Theater of the Absurd insisted on return

engagements, performances which they, not the patrons, commanded. The

attendees

were powerless to jeer or applaud, to throw eggs and cabbages or walk out, to

chatter with their seatmates or doze.

Among this captive audience was Richard Francis Burton.

FOG, GREY AND SWIRLING, FORMED THE STAGE AND THE BACKDROP.

Burton stood in the pit like an Elizabethan too poor to afford a seat. Above

him

were thirteen figures, all in chairs which floated in the mist. One of them

faced the others, who were arranged in a semicir-cle. That man was the

protagonist-himself.

There was a fourteenth person mere, though it stood in the wings and could be

seen only by the Burton in the pit. It was a black, menacing shape which, now

and then, chuckled hollowly.

A not quite similar scene had happened before, once in reality and many times

dreams, though who could be sure which was which? There he was, the man who'd

died seven hundred and seventy times in a vain effort to elude his pursuers.

And

there sat the twelve who called themselves the Ethicals.

Six were men; six, women. Except for two, all had deeply tanned or heavily

pigmented skins and black or dark brown hair. The eyes of two men and a woman

had slight epicanthic folds, which made him think that they were Eurasians.

That

is, they were if they had originated on Earth.

Only two of the twelve had been named during the brief inquisi-tion-Loga and

Thanabur. Neither name seemed to be of any language he knew, and he knew at

least a hundred. However, languages change, and it was possible that they

might

be from the fifty-second century A.D. One of their agents had told them that

came from that time. But Spruce had been under threat of torture and might

have

been lying.

Loga was one of the few with comparatively pale skins. Since he was sitting

and

there was (and had been) nothing material to mea-sure him against, he could be

short or tall. His body was thick and muscular, and his chest was matted with

red hair. The hair on his head was fox-red. He had irregular and strong

features: a promi-nent, deeply clefted chin; a massive jaw; a large and

aquiline

nose; thick pale-yellow eyebrows; wide, full lips; and dark green eyes.

The other light-skinned man, Thanabur, was obviously the lead-er. His physique

and face were so much like Loga's that they could be brothers. His hair,

however, was dark brown. One eye was green, though a rare leaf-green.

The other eye had startled Burton when Thanabur had first turned his face

toward

him. Instead of the green mate he had expected, he saw a jewel. It looked like

an enormous blue diamond, a flashing, multifaceted precious stone set in his

eye

socket.

He felt uneasy whenever that jewel was turned on him. What was its purpose?

What

did it see in him that a living eye could not see?

Of the twelve, only three had spoken: Loga, Thanabur, and a slim but

full-breasted blonde with large blue eyes. From the manner in which she and

Loga

spoke to each other, Burton thought that they could be husband and wife.

Watching them offstage, Burton noted again that just above the heads of each,

his other self included, was a globe. They whirled, were of many changing

colors, and extended six-sided arms, green, blue, black, and white. Then the

arms would shrink into the globe, only to be replaced by others.

Burton tried to correlate the rotating spheres and the mutation in the arms

with

the personalities of the three and of himself, with their physical

appearances,

with the tones of their voices, with the meanings of their words, with their

emotional attitudes. He failed to find any significant linkages.

When the first, the real, scene had taken place, he had not seen his own aura.

The spoken lines were not quite the same as during the actual event. It was as

if the Dream-Maker had rewritten the scene.

Loga, the red-haired man, said, "We had a number of agents looking for you.

They

were a pitifully small number, considering the thirty-six billion, six

million,

nine thousand, six hundred and thirty-seven candidates that are living along

The

River."

"Candidates for what?" the Burton on the stage said.

In the first performance, he had not uttered that line.

"That's for us to know and you to find out," Loga said.

Loga flashed teeth that seemed inhumanly white. He said, "We had no idea that

you were escaping us by suicide. The years went by. There were other things

for

us to do, so we pulled all agents from the Burton Case, as we called it,

except

for some stationed at both ends of The River. Somehow, you had knowledge of

the

polar tower. We found out how later."

Burton, the watcher, thought, But you didn't find out from X.

He tried to get nearer to the actors so he could look at them more closely.

Which one was the Ethical who had awakened him in the preressurection place?

Which one had visited him during a stormy, lightning-racked night? Who was it

that had told him that he must help him? Who was the renegade whom Burton knew

only as X?

He struggled against the wet, cold mists, as ethereal yet as strong as the

magic

chains which had bound the monster wolf Fenrir until Ragnarok, the doom of the

gods.

Loga said, "We would have caught you, anyway. You see,every space in the

restoration bubble-the place where you unaccountably awakened during the

preresurrection phase-has an automatic counter. Any candidate who has a higher

than average number of deaths is a subject for study sooner or later. Usually

later, since we're short-handed.

"We had no idea it was you who had racked up the staggering number of seven

hundred and seventy-seven deaths. Your space in the PR bubble was empty when

looked at it during our statistical investigation. The two technicians who had

seen you when you woke up in the PR chamber identified you by your . . .

photograph.

"We set the resurrector so that the next time your body was to be recreated,

alarm would notify us, and we would bring you here to this place."

But Burton had not died again. Somehow, they had located him while he was

alive.

Though he had run away again, he had been caught. Or had he? Perhaps, as he

ran

through the night, he had been killed by lightning. And they were waiting for

him in the PR bubble. That vast chamber which he supposed was somewhere deep

under the surface of this planet or in the tower of the polar sea.

Loga said, "We've made a thorough search of your body. We have also screened

every component of your . . . psychomorph. Or aura, whichever word you

prefer."

He pointed at the flashing, whirling globe above the Burton who sat in the

chair

facing him.

Then the Ethical did a strange thing.

He turned and looked out into the mists and pointed at Burton, the watcher.

"We found no clues whatsoever."

The dark figure in the wings chuckled.

The Burton in the pit called out, "You think there are only twelve of you!

There

are thirteen! An unlucky number!"

"It's quality, not quantity, that matters," the thing off-stage said.

"You won't remember a thing that occurs down here after we send you back to

the

Rivervalley," Loga said.

The Burton in the chair said something that he had not said in the original

inquisition.

"How can you make me forget?"

"We have run off your memory as if it were a tape recording," Thanabur said.

talked as if he were lecturing. Or was he warning Burton because he was X?

"Of course, it took a long time to run your memory track for the seven years

since you've been here. And it required an enormous amount of energy and

materials. But the computer Loga monitored was set to run your memory at

high-speed and stop only when you were visited by that filthy renegade. So, we

know what happened then exactly as you knew what happened. We saw what you

saw,

heard what you heard, felt what you touched, what you smelled. We even

experienced your emotions.

"Unfortunately, you were visited at night, and the traitor was effectively

disguised. Even his voice was filtered through a distorter which prevented the

computer from analyzing his-or her-voice-prints. I say his or her because all

you saw was a pale thing without identifiable features, sexual or otherwise.

The

voice seemed to be masculine, but a female could have used a transmitter to

make

it seem a man's.

"The body odor was also false. The computer analyzed it, and it's obvious that

chemical complex altered that.

"In short, Burton, we have no idea which of us is the renegade, nor do we have

any idea why he or she would be working against us. It is almost inconceivable

that anyone who knew the truth would try to betray us. The only explanation is

that the person is insane. And that, too, is inconceivable."

The Burton in the pit knew, somehow, that Thanabur had not spoken those words

during the first performance, the real drama. He also knew that he was

dreaming,

that he was sometimes putting words in Thanabur's mouth. The man's speech was

made up of Burton's own thoughts, speculations, and fantasies which were

afterthoughts.

The Burton in the chair now voiced some of these.

"If you can read a person's mind-tape it, as it were-why don't you read your

own

minds? Surely you have done that? And just as surely, you would have found

your

traitor."

Loga, looking uncomfortable, said, "We submitted to a reading, of course. But

..."

He raised his shoulders and spread out his palms upward.

Thanabur said, "So, the person you call X must have been lying to you. He is

not

one of us but one of the second-order, an agent. We are calling them in for

memory scanning. That takes time, however. We have plenty of that. The

renegade

will be caught."

The Burton in the chair said, "And what if none of the agents is guilty?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Loga said. "In any event your memory of awakening in

the

preressurection bubble will be erased. Also, your memory of the renegade's

visit

and all events from that time on will be a blank space. We are truly sorry to

have to do this violent act. But it is necessary, and the time will come, we

hope, when we can make amends."

The Burton in the chair said, "But... I will have many recollections of the

preressurection place. You forget that I often thought of that between the

time

I awoke on the banks and X's visit. Also, I told many people about it."

Thanabur said, "Ah, but do they really believe you? And if they do, what can

they do about it? No, we do not want to remove your entire memory of your life

here. It would cause you great distress; it would remove you from your

friends.

And"-here Thanabur paused-"it might slow down your progress."

"Progress?"

"There is time for you to find out what that means. The insane person who

claims

to be aiding you was using you for his own purposes. He did not tell you that

you were throwing away your opportunity for eternal life by carrying out his

designs. He or she, whoever the traitor is, is evil. Evil, evil!"

"Now, now,'' Loga said. "We all feel strongly about this but we must not

forget.

The . . . unknown is sick."

The jewel-eyed man said, "To be sick is, in a sense, to be evil."

The Burton in the chair threw back his head and laughed loudly and long.

"So you bastards don't know everything?"

He stood up, the gray fog supporting him as if it were solid, and he shouted,

"You don't want me to get to the headwaters of The River! Why? Why?"

Loga said, "Au revoir. Forgive us for this violence."

A woman pointed a short, slim blue cylinder at the Burton on the stage, and he

crumpled. Two men, wearing only white kilts, emerged from the fog. They picked

up the senseless body and carried it into the mists.

Burton tried again to get at the people on the stage. Failing, he shook his

fist

at them, and he cried, "You'll never get me, you monsters!"

The dark figure in the wings applauded, but his hands made no noise.

Burton had expected to be placed in the area where he had been picked up by

the

Ethicals. Instead, he awoke in Theleme, the little state which he had founded.

Even more unexpected was that he had not been deprived of his memory. He

remembered everything, even the inquisition with the twelve Ethicals.

Somehow, X had managed to fool the others.

Later, he got to wondering if they had lied to him and had not intended to

tamper with his memory. That made no sense, but then he did not know what

their

intentions were.

At one time, Burton had been able to play two games of chess at the same time

while blindfolded. That, however, only required skill, a knowledge of the

rules,

and familiarity with the board and the pieces. He did not know the rules of

this

game, nor did he know the powers of all the chessmen. The dark design had no

pattern.

groaning, burton half-awoke.

For a moment, he didn't know where he was. Darkness surround-ed him, darkness

thick as that which he felt filled him.

Familiar sounds reassured him. The ship was rubbing up against the dock, and

water lapped against the hull. Alice was breathing softly by him. He touched

her

soft, warm back. Light footsteps came from above, Peter Frigate on night

watch.

Perhaps he was getting ready to wake up his captain. Burton had no idea what

time it was.

There were other well-known sounds. Through the wooden parti-tion the snores

Kazz and his woman, Besst, gurgled. And then, from the compartment behind

theirs, the voice of Monat issued. He spoke in his native language, but Burton

could not distinguish the words.

Doubtless, Monat was dreaming of far-off Athaklu. Of that planet with its

"wild,

weird clime" which circled the giant orange star, Arcturus.

He lay for a while, rigid as a corpse, thinking, Here I am, a

one-hundred-and-one-year-old man in the body of a twenty-five-year-old.

The Ethicals had softened the hardened arteries of the candidates. But they

had

not been able to do anything about atherosclerosis of the soul. That repair

was

apparently left up to the candidate.

The dreams were going backward in time. The inquisition by the Ethicals had

come

last. But now he was dreaming that he was experiencing again the dream he'd

had

just before he awoke to the Last Trump. However, he was watching himself in

the

dream; he was both participant and spectator.

God was standing over him as he lay on the grass, as weak as a newly born

baby.

This time, He lacked the long, black, forked beard, and He was not dressed

an English gentleman of the fifty-third year of Queen Victoria's reign. His

only

garment was a blue towel wrapped around his waist. His body was not tall, as

the original dream, but was short and broad and heavily muscled. The hairs on

His chest were thick and curly and red.

The first time, Burton had looked into God's face and seen his own. God had

had

the same black straight hair, the same Arabic face with the deep, dark eyes

spearpoints thrusting from a cave, the high cheekbones, the heavy lips, and

the

thrust-out, deeply cleft chin. However, His face no longer bore the scars of

the

Somali spear that had sliced through Burton's cheek, knocking out teeth, its

edge jammed into his palate, its point sticking out the other cheek.

The face looked familiar, but he couldn't name its owner. It certainly was not

that of Richard Francis Burton.

God still had the iron cane. Now He was poking Burton in the ribs.

"You're late. Long past due for the payment of your debt, you know."

"What debt?" the man on the grass said.

The Burton who was watching suddenly realized that fog was swirling around

him,

casting veils between the two before him. And a grey wall, expanding and

contracting as if it were the chest of a breathing animal, was behind them.

"You owe for the flesh,'' God said. He poked the ribs of the man on the grass.

Somehow, the standing Burton felt the pain.

"You owe for the flesh and the spirit, which are one and the same thing."

The man on the grass struggled to get onto his feet. He said, gasping, "Nobody

can strike me and get away without a fight."

Somebody snickered, and the standing Burton became aware of a dim, tall figure

in the fog beyond.

God said, "Pay up, sir. Otherwise, I'll be forced to foreclose."

"Damned money lender!" the man on the grass said. "I ran into your kind in

Damascus."

"This is the road to Damascus. Or it should be."

The dark figure snickered again. The fog enclosed all. Burton awoke, sweating,

hearing the last of his whimperings.

Alice turned and said sleepily, "Are you having a nightmare, Dick?"

"I'm all right. Go back to sleep."

"You've been having many nightmares lately."

"No more than on Earth."

"Would you like to talk?"

"When I dream, I am talking."

"But to yourself."

"Who knows me better?" He laughed softly.

"And who can deceive you better," she said a little tartly.

He did not reply. After a few seconds, she was breathing with the gentle

rhythm

of the untroubled. But she would not forget what had been said. He hoped that

morning would not bring another quarrel.

He liked arguing; it enabled him to explode. Lately, however, their fights had

left him unsatisfied, ready at once for another.

It was so difficult to blaze away at her without being overheard on this small

vessel. Alice had changed much during their years togeth-er, but she still

retained a ladylike abhorrence of, as she put it, washing their dirty linen in

public. Knowing this, he pressed her too hard, shouted, roared, getting

pleasure

out of seeing her shrink. Afterward, he felt ashamed because he had taken

advantage of her, because he had caused her shame.

All of which made him even more angry.

Frigate's footsteps sounded on the deck. Burton thought of re-lieving Frigate

early. He would not be able to get back to sleep; he'd suffered from insomnia

most of his adult life on Earth and much here, too. Frigate would be grateful

get to bed. He had trouble staying awake when on watch.

He closed his eyes. Darkness was replaced by grey ness. Now he saw himself in

that colossal chamber without walls, floor, or ceil-ing. Naked, he was

floating

in a horizontal position in the abyss. As if suspended on an invisible, unfelt

spit, he was turning slowly. Rotating, he saw that there were naked bodies

above, to the sides, and below. Like him, their heads and pubic regions were

shaven. Some were incomplete. A man nearby had a right arm which was skinless

from the elbow down. Turning, he saw another body that had no skin at all and

muscles in the face.

At a distance was a skeleton with a mess of organs floating inside it.

Everywhere, the bodies were bounded at head and foot by red metallic-looking

rods. They rose from the unseen floor and ascend-ed to the unseen ceiling.

They

stood in rows as far as he could see, and in a vertical line between each pair

hovered the wheeling bodies, rank on rank of sleepers, bodies as far down,

bodies as far up, as the eye could encompass.

They formed vertical and horizontal lines stretching into grey infinity.

This time, watching, he felt some of the bewilderment and the terror of the

first moment of awakening.

He, Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton, Her Majesty's consul at the city of

Trieste in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, had died on Sunday, October 19, 1890.

Now he was alive in a place that was like no heaven or hell he had ever heard

of.

Of all the millions of bodies he could see, he was the only one alive. Or

awake.

The rotating Burton would be wondering why he was singled out for this

unsought

honor.

The watching Burton now knew why.

It was that Ethical whom Burton called X, the unknown quality, who had roused

him. The renegade.

Now the suspended man had touched one of the rods. And that had broken some

kind

of circuit, and all the bodies between the rods had started to fall, Burton

among them.

The watcher felt almost as much terror as when it had first occurred. This was

primal dream, the universal human dream of falling. Doubtless, it originated

from the first man, the half-ape half-sentient, for whom the fall was a dread

reality, not just a nightmare. The half-ape had leaped from one branch to

another, thinking in his pride that he could span the gulf. And he had fallen

because of his pride, which distorted his judgment.

Just as Lucifer's fall had been caused by his pride.

Now that other Burton had grabbed a rod and was hanging on while the bodies,

still turning slowly, hurtled past him, a cataract of flesh.

Now he looked up and saw an aerial machine, a green canoe shape, sinking down

through the space between nearby rods. It was wingless, propellerless,

apparently buoyed up by some kind of device unknown to the science of his day.

On its bow was a symbol: a white spiral which ended pointing to the right and

from which point white threads flared.

In the reality, two men had looked over the side of the flying machine. And

then, suddenly, the falling bodies slowed in their fall, and an invisible

force

seized him and brought his legs up and tore him loose from the rod. He floated

upward, revolving, went past and above the canoe, and stopped. One of the men

pointed a pencil-sized metal object at him.

Screaming with rage and hate and frustration, that Burton shouted, "I'll kill!

I'll kill!"

The threat was an empty one, as empty as the darkness that stilled his fury.

Now, only one face looked over the edge of the machine. Though he could not

see

the man's face, Burton thought it looked familiar. Whatever the features, they

belonged to X.

The Ethical chuckled.

Burton sat upright and grabbed for the throat of X.

"For God's sake, Dick! It's me, Pete!"

Burton opened his hands from around Frigate's throat. Starlight as bright as

Earth's full moon beamed in through the open doorway and silhouetted Frigate.

"It's your watch, Dick."

"Please be less noisy," Alice murmured.

Burton rolled off the bed and felt the suit hanging from a peg. Though he was

sweating, he shivered. The little cabin, hot from the night-long radiation of

two bodies, was cooling now. The cold fog was pressing in.

Alice said, "Brrr!" and sounds indicated she was pulling the thick towels over

her. Burton caught a glimpse of her white body before it was covered. He

glanced

at Frigate, but the American had turned and was heading up the ladder.

Whatever

his faults, he was not a Peeping Tom. Not that he could really blame the

fellow

if he had taken a look. He was more than half in love with Alice. He had never

said so, but it was obvious to Burton, to Alice, and to Loghu, Frigate's

bunkmate.

If anybody was to blame, it was Alice. She had long ago lost her Victorian

modesty. Though she would deny it, she may have, subconsciously, of course,

teased Frigate with a quick flash of herself.

Burton decided not to bring that subject up. Though he was angry at both

Frigate

and Alice, he'd look like a fool if he said anything about this. Alice, like

most people, bathed in The River in the nude, seemingly indifferent to the

passersby. Frigate had seen her hun-dreds of-times without clothing.

The night suit was composed of a number of thick towels held together by

magnetic tabs underneath the cloth. Burton opened it and fitted the cloths to

make a hooded garment around legs and body. He buckled on a belt of hornfish

skin holding scabbards containing a flint knife, a chert axe, and a wooden

sword. The edges of the latter were lined with tiny flint chips and its end

held

a sharp hornfish's horn. He removed from a rack a heavy ash spear tipped with

horn and went up the ladder.

Gaining the deck, he found that his head was above the fog. Frigate was his

same

height, and his head seemed to float bodiless above the swirling wool of the

mists. The sky was bright, though The Riverworld had no moon. It blazed with

stars and with vast, shining gas clouds. Frigate believed that this planet was

near the center of Earth's galaxy. But it could be inside some other galaxy,

for

all anybody knew.

Burton and his friends had built a vessel and had sailed from Theleme. The

Hadji

II, unlike its predecessor, was a cutter, a fore-and-aft rigged single-master.

Aboard it were Burton, Hargreaves, Frigate, Loghu, Kazz, Besst, Monat

Grrautut,

and Owenone. The latter was a woman of ancient pre-Hellenic Pelasgia who did

not

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THEDARKDESIGNTHEDARKDESIGNCopyright©1977byPhilipJoseFarmer.ThoughsomeofthenamesinTheRiverworldSeriesarefictional,thecharactersareorwerereal.Youmaynotbementioned,butyou'rehere.ToSamLongandmygodsonDavid,sonofDoctorDoctorAndstilltheWeaverplieshisloom,whosewarpandwoofiswretchedManWeavingth'unpattern'dda...

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Philip Jose Farmer - Riverworld 3 - The Dark Design.pdf

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Philip Jose Farmer - Riverworld 3 - The Dark Design

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