YOU HAVE THE WHEEL.
“But-but where are we going?”
WHO KNOWS?
The captain gripped the spokes helplessly. “But . . . there's no stars that I recognize! No charts! What are the winds here? Where are the currents?”
Death shrugged.
The captain turned the wheel aimlessly. The ship glided on through the ghost of a sea.
Then he brightened up. The worst had already happened. It was amazing how good it felt to know that. And if the worst had already happened . . .
“Where's Vorbis?” he growled.
HE SURVIVED.
“Did he? There's no justice!”
THERE'S JUST ME.
Death vanished.
The captain turned the wheel a bit, for the look of the thing. After all, he was still captain and this was still, in a way, a ship.
“Mr. Mate?”
The mate saluted. Sir!"
“Um. Where shall we go now?”
The mate scratched his head.
“Well, cap'n, I did hear as the heathen Klatch have got this paradise place where there's drinking and singing and young women with bells on and . . . you know . . . regardless.”
The mate looked hopefully at his captain.
“Regardless, eh?” said the captain thoughtfully.
“So I did hear.”
The captain felt that he might be due some regardless.
“Any idea how you get there?”
“I think you get given instructions when you're alive,” said the mate.
“Oh.”
“And there're some barbarians up toward the Hub,” said the mate, relishing the word, “who reckon they go to a big hall where there's all sorts to eat and drink.”
“And women?”
“Bound to be.”
The captain frowned. “It's a funny thing,” he said, “but why is it that the heathens and the barbarians seem to have the best places to go when they die?”
“A bit of a poser, that,” agreed the mate. “I s'pose it makes up for 'em . . . enjoying themselves all the time when they're alive, too?” He looked puzzled. Now that he was dead, the whole thing sounded suspicious.