“You’re planning on having a good time forever?” Nur said.
“Maybe not forever,” Tom said. “Just as long as it lasts.”
Nur’s expression made him uneasy, though he did not know why.
“It’ll be a jumping world,” he told Nur, and from then on, when he referred to his private universe, he called it “the Jumpin’ Planet.”
“You’ve come a long way, baby,” he told himself.
“What?” Nur said.
“I’ve come a long way. I was born in an old run-down shack in Savannah, Georgia, but my father was a big man, big in many ways. He made good money, and we moved into a big fancy house—I don’t mean a whorehouse—I mean a beautiful house like the rich white folks lived in. But then the Ku Klux Klan started making trouble, and my pa decided we’d go to Mississippi. There was a street in Savannah named Turpin Hill after my father and his brothers. That shows you what a big man my pa was.”
There was even more trouble with the white folks in Mississippi, so they moved on to St. Louis. There they settled down in the black tenderloin district, and “Honest John” Turpin made a fortune with his Silver Dollar Saloon and his livery stable.
“My pa said he’d never done a day’s work for another man after the slaves was freed, and he’d never fought with his fists. He was a fighting man, though. He’d grab his man by the wrist, bend them wrist bones together, and butt his head against the man’s. Pa had the thickest skull west of the Mississippi, east, too. He always knocked his man out. The man staggered around blind and seeing shooting stars for a week. Nobody fucked around with my pa.”
Like so many Negro musicians, Tom taught himself, but, unlike many, he could read music.
“When I was eighteen, me and my brother Charlie went West just to see the country. We was looking for gold, too, lots of it around then, though it wasn’t easy getting it out of the ground. We spent a year in Nevada, but that gold just up and hid when we was around.
“I died August 13, 1922. Old Man Death, he had a harder head than Pa’s, and I couldn’t pay him off. Old Man Death, the only honest man in St. Louis. No bribes, no money under the counter. This is it, I got a job to do, and I always do it. I didn’t have no children, but they called me the father of St. Louis ragtime.”
“Your wife was more than well-off, and your brother Charlie did all right, too,” Frigate said. “He was a constable, the first black elected to public office in Missouri. When he died, I think it was Christmas Day, 1935, he left a hundred and five thousand dollars in a trust fund for his family. Big money in those days.”
“Even bigger money for a nigger,” Tom said. “Nineteen thirty-five, you say?”
“I’ll ask the Computer if it’s got a book titled
They All Played Ragtime,
” Frigate said. “You’ll like to read it. Lots about you. It’ll make you proud.”
“I don’t need no book for that, but I’ll get it.”
The day after the Computer told him that his Jumpin’ Planet was finished, Tom Turpin entered it. It was ten in the morning; the sky was blue except for a few high-seeming, thin, cotton-white clouds. Tom went down the steps leading into it and found, as he had ordered, his chauffeur and his pink 1920 convertible Mercedes-Benz waiting for him. The android chauffeur was six feet three inches tall, pale-skinned, blue-eyed, and yellow-haired. He also was the ugliest white man Tom had ever seen, because his face had been designed by Tom himself. He wore a typical chauffeur’s uniform except it was pink. “To go with the car,” Tom had told the others.
He got in the back seat and said, “Home, James.” The beauty started up fine, its motor purring, and they began the long winding drive through the tunnel formed by trees with interlocking branches.
“Shouldn’t of made the road so narrow,” Tom muttered. “But, what the hell, there won’t be any oncoming traffic.”
After a while the woods thinned out, and they passed along the edge of a lake. Its surface was brilliantly colored with ducks and geese and herons and cranes in the shallows dipping to catch fish. It was also noisy with honks and screeches and weird loon cries.
The road took them away from Turpinville near the edge of the vast chamber. “Wouldn’t know it if I didn’t know it,” Tom said. “Looks like more forest and hills there. I ain’t gonna touch the wall. I want to keep the illusion.”
From the entrance, a straight path to Turpinville was only two and seven-tenths miles. The road designed by Turpin took up almost ten miles, however, to the town, and he could have taken a branch road and made his trip twenty-two miles. Now and then he glimpsed the roof of his town, and his heart surged with pride. “Mine, all mine.”
When they drove from the dark forest into Turpinville, he wished that he had arranged for a big band and a crowd to greet him. The place was so empty, so silent. “A ghost town before its time,” he said. “Well, it’ll be leaping with sound and people before long.”
The car pulled up in front of the Rosebud, and Tom got out. He walked across the town square to the central fountain, took a silver cup from a hook on the fountain, dipped it into the strong-smelling liquid, and drank.
“Man, that’s the best! But I need the old crowd, the music, the smoke, the laughs, the … friends. No fun drinking by yourself, talking to yourself.”
He went into the Rosebud, took the ornate elevator to the third floor, entered his suite, went into the room where a huge console stood, and began the search.
Three weeks later, he had not just the forty or so people he had intended, but two thousand.
“It’s nigger heaven,” he told his former companions during one of the rare times he attended their soirees. “It’s like a flea circus. Everybody’s jumping.”
Tom was amused when Frigate winced at “nigger heaven.” Frigate was a liberal who found such terms repulsive. Tom would not tolerate these from others, unless they were black, but he had no hesitation using them himself. When Frigate asked him why he did so, Tom replied that it was just his way. He hadn’t been able to break his old Earth habit.
“You’ve lived long enough on the Riverworld to get over that,” Nur said.
“It takes away the hurt.”
“Whipping yourself is a curious method of salving wounds,” Frigate said.
There seemed to be no answer to that. Aphra said, “When are we going to see your world?”
“How about next Friday?” Tom said. “You’ll be all right. You’ll have a good time. I told my friends about you, and they don’t mind you coming.” He laughed. “Long as you know your place.”
After Turpin had left, Frigate said, “After sixty-seven years here, the old evils of Earth still fester.”
“He’ll never Go On until that evil no longer exists in him,” Nur said. “I mean, its effects.”
What had been born on Earth had not necessarily died on the Riverworld. Yet as Nur said, humankind in general had made ethical and psychic progress.
“To put it in plain English,” Burton said, “you mean that many have become better human beings.”
“Yes. The Riverworld is a rough reshaper, but change seldom comes without pain.”
Nur was silent for a while, then said, “Tom has many good qualities. He’s usually cheerful, always courageous, easy to get along with if you don’t step on his toes, which is as it should be. But he has never said he regretted his whoremongering. A man who deals in whores is himself a whore, and he is in a violent and dirty business. He has to be rough and ruthless and bloody his hands from time to time. He lacks a certain empathy.’
There was another silence, broken when Frigate said, “Yes?”
“It’s not just Tom I’m thinking of. You have sealed yourself up in your little worlds. Can a person grow in a vacuum?”
“Of course we can,” Frigate said.
“We’ll see,” Nur said.
He alone had changed his mind about moving. He had decided to stay in his apartment. “Which is world enough for me.”
“And that means trouble,” Burton said. “Some among the newly resurrected are going to want those empty worlds for themselves and they’ll be shedding blood to get them.”
Burton, Frigate, and Behn were talking about the standards for resurrecting people in the tower.
“Don’t pick any actors, any stage, movie, or TV actors,” Frigate said. “They’re all swollen egotists, selfish, opportunistic, and untrustworthy. They may be amusing companions for a while, but they’re all self-centered.”
“All?” Burton said.
“All,” Behn said. “I should know. I wrote plays; I had a lot to do with them.”
“There might be some exceptions,” Frigate said. “However, there are no exceptions among the producers, and they are even more ruthless and cold-blooded than the actors. Don’t resurrect producers, especially the Hollywood kind. They’re not entirely human.”
“I would class them, then, with politicians,” Burton said.
“Oh, yes. No politicians or statesmen need apply. Liars, opportunists all.”
“All?” Behn said.
“You should know,” Burton said.
“I didn’t know all of them, so I can’t really judge them fairly.”
“Take my word for it,” Burton said. “No politicians here. What about priests?”
“Men of the cloth, priests, ministers, rabbis, mullahs, witch doctors, bones, whatever; they’re all brothers under the uniform. But … not all alike. There are some real human beings there, now and then, here and there,” Frigate said. “But you have to be suspicious of anyone who thinks well enough of himself to become a spiritual leader. What’s his real motive?”
“Popes are out,” Burton said. “They’re politicians, liars, cold-bloodedly manipulate people, pervert Christianity for the good of the Church. No popes.”
“No chief rabbis or chief mullahs or archbishops of Canterbury and their kind,” Frigate said. “What applies to the popes applies to them.”
“Mother superiors?”
“Out!” Burton said, jerking a thumb at the ceiling.
“Surely, there are exceptions?”
“Not enough to make it worthwhile to spend time on them,” Burton said.
“What about used-car salesmen? Used-car saleswomen, too?” Frigate said.
Burton and Behn looked blank.
“A twentieth-century phenomenon,” Frigate said. “Forget it. I’ll keep an eye out for them and warn you if I have to. I doubt that I’ll have to.”
“Doctors?”
“No blanket rule can be applied to them. But most are lost souls in this world where there is little need for them and they have no authority. Be careful.”
“Lawyers?”
“Some of them are the best people in the world; some, the worst. Be careful. Oh, by the way, I located Buddha,” Frigate said. “Siddhartha, the historical Buddha.”
“What’s that got to do with lawyers?” Burton said.
“Nothing. But Buddha … ah … he’s noted in the records, plenty of film on him, if you want to see the living Buddha, Gautama, just ask the Computer. That is, he was living on Earth. He was never resurrected on the Riverworld. When he died on Earth, he Went On.”
“Ah!” Burton said, as if he suddenly understood much that had been hidden before.
“Ah?”
“Yes. I located the file of the historical Jesus Christ several days ago,” Burton said.
“Me, too!” Frigate said.
“Then you know that he was resurrected on the River, died several times, the last time twenty years ago. And he, too, has Gone On now. But, apparently, Buddha was more ethically advanced than Jesus.”
“Buddha had a much longer life on Earth than Jesus,” Frigate said.
“I am attacking no one, only pointing out a fact.”
“I located St. Francis of Assisi,” Frigate said. “He was raised on the River, but when he died ten years ago, he Went On.”
“How many popes and cardinals, how many high churchmen of any faith have Gone On?” Aphra Behn said.
“None,” Frigate said. “None so far as I’ve determined, I mean. I haven’t located all. Rather, the Computer hasn’t. I put it on a scan. It’s located all but twelve of the popes…”
“Including the first one, St. Peter?” Burton said.
“He wasn’t the first pope, he was the first bishop of Rome. Technically speaking, that is.”
“Ah, then he really was in Rome?”
“Yes, he was executed by the Romans there. But … he’s still on The River. He’s died three times and still has not Gone On.”
“So,” Burton said, “we could resurrect him and get the truth about Jesus and Christianity. That is, the truth as he knows it, which may not be the objective truth.”
“Jesus’ records are still on tap,” Frigate said. “His
wathan
is gone, but his life is still there to be run off.”
“St. Paul?”
“Ah, St. Paul!” Frigate cried, smiling. “First, he was a fanatical Orthodox Judaist, then a fanatical Christian, probably did more to pervert the course of the founder’s teachings than anyone, and now he is a fanatical member of the Church of the Second Chance. Rather, I should say, he was. The Church wants zealots but not fanatics, and so it recently kicked him out. He is now interested in the teachings of the Dowists.”
“The Dowists?”
“Tell you about them some other time. Paul is alive on The River. I located him and I watched him for a while. Ugly little fellow, but a powerful speaker. He’s no longer celibate; he decided that he
is
burning and wants a woman to quench the flame.”
Frigate showed them three men he had located because of their undeniable evil and vast prominence in his time. Burton had heard of them while in The Valley but had known little about them until now. Adolf Hitler was born the year before Burton had died, Joseph Dzhugashvili, better known as Stalin, was born eleven years before Burton’s death, and Mao Tsetung was born three years after 1890.
“They’re locked up in the files now,” Frigate said. “I’ve not had much time to look at their post-Earth lives, but I’ve seen enough to be sure that they did not change for the better. Their natures are still essentially like Ivan the Terrible’s. Whom, by the way, I’ve also located.”
Nur said, “You believe that there is no hope for them, that they will never change for the better?”
“Yes. It looks that way, anyway. They were and are evil, sadistic, and cold-blooded killers, mass butchers, without love. Psychopathic.”
“But Loga said that there were no true psychopaths on the Riverworld. He said that true psychopaths were so because of chemical imbalances in their bodies. These imbalances, these deficiencies, were eliminated when the bodies were resurrected.”