posted on Aug, 14 2004 @ 04:53 PM
"Resurrection, like politics, makes strange bedfellows," Sam Clemens said. "I can't say that the sleeping is very restful."
Telescope under one arm, he puffed on a long, green cigar while he paced back and forth on the poop deck of the Dreyrugr (Bloodstained). Ari
Grimolfsson, the helmsman, not understanding English, looked bleakly at Clemens. Clemens translated for him in wretched Old Norse. The helmsman still
Clemens loudly cursed him in English for a dunderheaded barbarian. For three years, Clemens had been practicing tenth-century Norse night and day. And
he was still only half intelligible to most of the men and women aboard the Dreyrugr.
"A ninety-five-year-old Huck Finn, give or take a few thousand years," Clemens said. "I start out down The River on a raft. Now I'm on this idiot
Viking ship, going upRiver. What next? When will I realize my dream?"
Keeping the upper part of his right arm close to his body so he would not drop the precious telescope, he pounded his right fist into his open left
"Iron! I need iron! But where on this people-rich, metal-poor planet is iron? There has to be some! Otherwise, where did Erik's ax come from? And
how much is there? Enough? Probably not. Probably there's just a very small meteorite. But maybe there's enough for what I want. But where? My God,
The River may be twenty million miles long! The iron, if any, may be at the other end.
"No, that can't be! It has to be somewhere not too far away, within 100,000 miles of here. But we may be going in the wrong direction. Ignorance,
the mother of hysteria, or is it vice versa?"