Free The Dark Design by Philip José Farmer Page A

quote verbatim. He says a man needs only one name in this world, and he’s chosen Piscator. Latin for fisher. He’s a fish freak, as you can see. Which is why he’s in charge of the Parolando Riverdragon fishing. But today’s his day off.”
    “That’s interesting,” she said. He was, she believed, leading up to something unpleasant for her. The slight smile looked sadistic.
    “He’ll probably be the first mate of the airship,” he said. “He was a Japanese naval officer and during the first part of World War I he was attached to the British Navy as an observer and trainee on dirigibles. Later, he was a trainee-observer on an Italian Navy airship which made bombing raids on Austrian bases. So, you see, he’s had enough experience to rank him very high on the list.”
    “And he is a man.” She smiled, though seething inside. “And though my experience is much much more than his, still, he’s a man.”
    Schwartz backed away from her. “I’m sure Firebrass will appoint officers according to their merits only.”
    She did not reply.
    Schwartz waved at the man in the boat. He rose from his seat and, smiling, bowed. Then he sat down, but not before giving her a look that seemed to sweep over her like a metaphysical radar beam, locating her place in the world, identifying her psychic construction.
    Imagination, of course. But she thought that Schwartz was right when he said, “An extraordinary man, that Piscator.”
    The Japanese’s black eyes seemed to burn holes in her back as she walked away.

Blackness outside. Inside, a night writhing with snakes of pale lightning, twisty and fuzzy. Some time later, in a place where there was no time, a bright beam ahead shone as if from the lens of a movie projector. The light was a whisper in the air; in her mind, it was bellowing. The film was being shown on a cathode-ray oscilloscope; it was a series of letters, broken words, signs, and symbols, all part of an undeciphered code. Perhaps: undecipherable.
    Worse, it seemed to run backward, spun back into the reel(ity?). It was a documentary made for television, for the boobish (boobed?) viewer of the boob tube. Yet, backward was an excellent technique. Images flashed to suggest, to reverberate, to echo, to evoke, to flap intimation upon intimation with electronic quickness. Like flipping the pages of an illustrated book from back to beginning. But the text, where was the text? And what was she thinking of when she thought of images? There were no images. No plot. Yes, there was a plot, but it had to be put together from many pieces. Ah, many pieces. She almost had it, but it had slipped away.
    Moaning, she awoke. She opened her eyes and listened to the rain beating upon the thatched roof.
    Now she remembered the first part of the dream. It was a dream of a dream, or what she thought was a dream but was not sure. It was raining, and she had half-awakened or had seemed to do so. The hut was 20,000 kilometers from this one, but it was almost identical, and the world outside the hut, as seen by occasional flashes of lightning, would not have differed much. She had turned, and her hand had not felt the expected flesh.
    She had sat up and looked around. A lightning streak, close enough to make her jump, showed that Jack was not in the hut.
    She had got up and lit a fish-oil lamp. Not only was he not there, his cloths, weapons, and grail were gone.
    She had run out into the stormy night to look for him.
    She never found him. He was gone, and no one knew where or why.
    The only one who might have been able to tell her had also sneaked out that same night. He, too, had left his hutmate without saying a word about his intentions. It was apparent to Jill that the two had run off together. Yet, as far as she knew, they had been only casual acquaintances.
    Why had Jack left her, so silently and heartlessly?
    What had she done?
    Was it just that Jack had decided that he did not want to put up with a woman who wouldn’t play second