In that moment, Sam Clemens was, if not one with the universe, at least integral with it. And for a moment he believed in God.

And at the moment Samuel Celmens and Mark Twain inhabited the same flesh, merged, became one.

Then the thrilling vision exploded, contracted, dwindled, shot back into him.

He laughed. For several seconds he had known an ecstasy that surpassed even sexual, intercourse, up to that moment the supreme feeling in his, and humanity's lot, disappointing as it often was.

Now he was within himself again, and the universe was outside.

He returned to the control room. Erin, the black pilot, looking up at him, said, "You have been visited by the spirits."

"Do I look that peculiar?" Sam said. "Yes, I have."

"What did they say?"

"That I am nothing and everything. I once heard the village idiot say the same thing."

Burton's Soliloquy

LATE AT NIGHT, WHILE THE EXCEPTIONALLY THICK AND HIGH fog shrouded even the pilothouse, Burton prowled.

Unable to sleep, he roamed here and there with no place to go in mind—except that of getting away from himself.

"Damn me! Always trying to outrun my own self! If I had the wits of a cow, I'd stay and wrestle with him. But he can outrun, outwrestle me, the Jacob to my angel. Yet.. .1 am Jacob also. I have a broken cog, not a broken thigh, I am an automaton Jacob, a mechanical angel, a robot devil. The ladder to heaven still leans against its window, but I can't find it again.

"Destiny is happenchance. No, not that. I make my own. Not I, though. That thing which drives me, the devil that rides me. It waits grinning in the dark corner, and when I've reached my hand out to grab the prize, it leaps out and snatches it away from me.

"My ungovernable temper. The thing that cheats me and laughs and gibbers and runs away to hide and to emerge another day.

"Ay, Richard Francis Burton, Ruffian Dick, Nigger Dick, as they used to call me in India. They! The mediocrities, the robots running on the tracks of Victoria's railrpad... they had no interest in the native except to lay the women and eat good food and drink good drink and make a fortune if they could. They couldn't even speak the native language after thirty years in the greatest gem in the queen's crown. A gem, hah! A stinking pesthole! Cholera and its sisters! The black plague and its brothers! Hindus and Moslems laughing behind pukka Sahib's back! The English couldn't even fuck well. The women laughed at them and went to their black lovers for satisfaction after Sahib had gone home.

"I warned the government two years before it happened, the Sepoy Mutiny, and they laughed at me! Me, the only man in India who knew the Hindu, the Moslem!"

He paused on the top landing of the grand staircase. Light blazed out, and the sound of revelry tore through the mists without moving them. No curtain there to be moved by a breath.

"Arrgh! Damn them! They laugh and flirt, and doom waits for them. The world is falling apart. The rider on the black camel waits for them around the next bend of The River. Fools! And I, a fool also.

"And on this Narrboot, this great vessel of fools, men and women sleep who in their waking hours plot against me, plot against all natives of Earth. No. We're all native to this universe. Citizens of the cosmos. I spit over the railing. Into the mists. The River flows below. It receives that part of me which will never return except in another form of water. H2O. Hell doubled over. That's a strange thought. But aren't all thoughts strangers? Don't they drift along like bottles enclosing messages cast away by that Great Castaway into the sea. And if they chance to lodge in the mind, my mind, I think that I originated them. Or is there a magnetism between certain souls and certain thoughts, and only those with the peculiar field of the thinkers are drawn to the thinkers? And then the individual reshapes them to fit his own character and thinks proudly—if he thinks at all in any sense more than a cow does—that he originated them? Flotsam and jetsam, my thoughts, and I the reef.

"Podebrad! What are you dreaming of? That tower? Your home? Or are you a secret one or just a Czech engineer? Or both?

"Fourteen years I've been on this riverboat, and the boat has been driving its paddlewheels up-River for thirty-three. Now I'm captain of the marines of that exalted bastard and regal asshole, King John. Living proof that I can govern my temper.

"Another year and we arrive at Virolando. There the Rex stops for a while, and we talk to La Viro, La Fondinto, the pope of the poopery of the Church of the Second Chance. Second chance, my sainted aunt's arse! Those who gave it to us don't have a chance now. Caught in their own trap! Hoisted by their own petard, which is French for ‘little fart.' As Mix says, we don't have the chance of a fart in a windstorm.

"Out there on the banks. The sleeping billions. Where is Edward, my beloved brother? A brilliant man, and that gang of thugs beat his brains in, and he never spoke another word for forty years. You shouldn't have gone tiger hunting that day, Edward. The tiger was the Hindu who saw his chance to beat and rob a hated Englishman. Though they'd been doing it to their own people, too.

"But does it matter now, Edward? You've had your terrible injury healed, and you've been talking as of yore. Perhaps not now, though. Lazarus! Your body rots. No Jesus for you. No ‘Arise!'

"And mother! Where is she! The silly woman who talked my grandfather into willing her vicious brother, his son, a good part of his fortune. Grandpa changed his mind and was on his way to see his solicitor to arrange that I get that money. And he dropped dead before he got to the solicitor, and my uncle threw the fortune away in French gambling halls. And so I could not buy myself a decent commission in the regular army, and I could not finance my explorations as they should have been and so I never became what I should have been.

"Speke! The unspeakable Speke! You cheated me out of finding the true source of the Nile, you incompetent sneak, you piece of dung from a sick camel! You sneaked back to England after promising you'd not announce our discoveries until I got there, and you lied about me. You paid; you put a bullet into yourself. Your conscience finally got to you. How I wept. I loved you Speke, .though I hated you. How I wept!

"But if I chance across you now—what? Would you run? Surely you'd not have the perverted courage to hold out your hand for me to shake. Judas! Would I kiss you as Jesus kissed the traitor? Judas! No, I'd kick your arse halfway up a mountains!

"Sickness, the iron talons of African-disease, gripped me. But I'd have recovered, and I'd have discovered the headwaters of the Nile! Not Speke, not hyena, not jackal Speke! My apologies, Brother Hyena and Sister Jackal. You're only animals and useful in the scheme of things. Speke wasn't worthy to kiss your foul arseholes.

"But how I wept!

"The headwaters of the Nile. The headwaters of The River. Having failed to get to one, will I fail to get to the other?

"My mother never showed any of us, me, Edward, Maria, any affection. She might as well have been our governess. No. Our nannies showed us more love, gave us more time, than she did.

"A man is what his mother makes him.

"No! There is something in the soul that rises above the lack of love, that drives me on and on toward... what?

"Father, if I may call you that. No. Not father. Begetter. You wheezing selfish humorless hypochondriac. You forever self-exile and traveler. Where was our home? A dozen foreign lands. You went here and there seeking the health which you thought you didn't have. And we dragged along in your wake. Ignorant women our nannies and drunken Irish clergymen our tutors. Wheeze away, damn you! But no more. You've been cured by the unknowns who made this world. Have you? Haven't you found some excuse to cozen yourself into hypochondria? It's your soul, not your lungs, that has asthma.