“Here’s to you, boatman,” Smith said.

“Hoa binh,” said Hayduke.

Smith built a fire of charcoal, peeled the butcher paper from the standard first-night entree—huge floppy steaks—and stacked them near the grill. Hayduke prepared the salad and, as he did so, chased the rum with his tenth can of beer since lunch.

“That stuff’ll give you kidney stones,” Smith said.

“Bullshit.”

“Kidney stones. I oughta know.”

“I been drinking beer all my life.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Kidney stones,” Smith said. “In about ten more years.”

“Bullshit.”

The passengers, dry and refurbished, came straggling in one at a time, the doctor first. He placed his tin cup on the bar, installed one miniature iceberg and poured himself a double shot from his bottle of Wild Turkey.

“It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,” he announced.

“That’s true,” Smith said.

“The holy time is quiet as a nun.”

“You said a mouthful, Doctor.”

“Call me Doc.”

“Okay, Doc.”

“Cheers.”

“Same to you, Doc.”

There was some further discussion of the ambience. Then of other matters. The girl came up, Abbzug, wearing long pants and a shaggy sweater. She had shed the big hat but even in twilight still wore the sunglasses. She gave a touch of tone to Marble Gorge.

Meanwhile the doctor was saying, “The reason there are so many people on the river these days is because there are too many people everywhere else.”

Bonnie shivered, slipping into the crook of his left arm. “Why don’t we build a fire?” she said.

“The wilderness once offered men a plausible way of life,” the doctor said. “Now it functions as a psychiatric refuge. Soon there will be no wilderness.” He sipped at his bourbon and ice. “Soon there will be no place to go. Then the madness becomes universal.” Another thought. “And the universe goes mad.”

“We will,” Smith said to Abbzug. “After supper.”

“Call me Bonnie.”

“Miss Bonnie.”

“Miz Bonnie,” she corrected him.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” muttered Hayduke nearby, overhearing, and he snapped the cap from another can of Coors.

Abbzug cast a cold eye on Hayduke’s face, or what could be seen of it behind the black bangs and the bushy beard. An oaf, she thought. All hairiness is bestial, Arthur Schopenhauer thought. Hayduke caught her look, scowled. She turned back to the others.

“We are caught,” continued the good doctor, “in the iron treads of a technological juggernaut. A mindless machine. With a breeder reactor for a heart.”

“You said a mouthful, Doc,” says Seldom Seen Smith. He started on the steaks, laying them tenderly on the grill, above the glowing coals.

“A planetary industrialism”—the doctor ranted on—“growing like a cancer. Growth for the sake of growth. Power for the sake of power. I think I’ll have another bit of ice here.” (Clank!) “Have a touch of this, Captain Smith, it’ll gladden your heart, gild your liver and flower like a rose down in the compost of your bowels.”

“Don’t mind if I do, Doc.” But Smith wanted to know how a machine could “grow.” Doc explained; it wasn’t easy.