The Dark Design by Philip José Farmer

them eventually,” Firebrass was saying.
    She stepped closer, sliding her feet over the short grass.
    “I’m the one you’re looking for,” she said loudly.
    The four whirled, one almost falling and grabbing another. They stared, their mouths and eyes dark holes in paleness. Like her, they were covered with cloths but theirs were brightly colored. If she had been an enemy, she could have put an arrow into each one before they could grab their weapons—if they had such. Then she saw that they did have guns, placed on the edge of the mushroom top of the grailstone.
    Pistols! Made of iron! So, it was true!
    Now she suddenly saw a rapier, a long, steel sharp-pointed blade, in the hand of the tallest man there. His other hand brushed his hood back and revealed a long, dark face with a big nose. He had to be the fabled Cyrano de Bergerac.
    Cyrano reverted to seventeenth-century French, of which she could understand only a few words.
    Firebrass pushed his hood back, too.
    “I almost crapped in my britches! Why didn’t you warn us you were coming?”
    She lowered her hood.
    Firebrass stepped closer and looked keenly at her. “It’s a woman!”
    “Nevertheless, I’m your man,” Jill said.
    “What’d you say?”
    “Don’t you understand English!” she said angrily.
    Her displeasure was more at herself. She had been so excited, though pretending to be composed, that she’d reverted to her Toowoomba dialect. She might as well have spoken in Shakespearean English for all they understood. She repeated, in the standard Midwestern American she’d learned so painstakingly, “Nevertheless, I’m your man. My name, by the way, is Jill Gulbirra.”
    Firebrass introduced himself and the others, then said, “I need another drink.”
    “I could use one myself,” Jill said. “It’s a fallacy that alcohol warms you up, but it does make you think you’re warmed up.”
    Firebrass stopped and picked up a bottle—the first glass Jill had seen for years. He handed it to her and she drank the scotch without wiping the mouth of the bottle. After all, there were no disease germs on The River. And she had no prejudices about drinking from a bottle that had been in the mouth of a half-black. Wasn’t her grandmother an aborigine? Of course, abos were not Negroes. They were black-skinned archaic Caucasians.
    Why was she thinking such thoughts?
    Cyrano, his head stuck forward, his back bent, walked up to her. He looked her over, shook his head, and said, “
Mordioux,
the hair is shorter than mine! And there is no makeup! Are you sure she is a woman?”
    Jill moved the scotch around in her mouth and swallowed it. It was delicious, and it warmed all the way down.
    “We shall see,” the Frenchman said. He put his hand on her left breast and squeezed gently.
    Jill sank a fist into his hard belly. He bent over, and Jill brought her knee up against his chin. He fell heavily.
    Firebrass said, “What the hell?” and stared at her.
    “How would you react if he felt your crotch to see if you were a man?”
    “Simply thrilled, honey,” Firebrass said. He whooped with laughter and danced around while the other two men looked at him as if they thought he was crazy.
    Cyrano got onto his hands and knees and then onto his feet. His face was red, and he was snarling. Jill wanted to back away, especially after he picked up the rapier. But she did not move, and she said, her voice steady, “Do you always take such familiarities with strange women?”
    A shudder went over him. The redness faded away, and the snarl became a smile. He bowed. “No, madame, and my apologies for such inexcusable manners. I do not usually drink, since I do not like to cloud my mind, to become bestial. But tonight we were celebrating the anniversary of the departure of the Riverboat.”
    “No sweat,” Jill said. “Just don’t let it happen again.”
    Though she smiled, she was cursing herself for having begun in such a bad way with a man for whom she had a great