But why peace? he wondered.
Wasn't it peace toward which the River was bearing him?
Wasn't the only real peace the peace of oblivion?
Surely by this time he should have accepted a truism as basic as that.
"It's beginning to get dark," Jill said.
"There should be an inn soon."
Her shoes and stockings had dried, and she put them back on.
"We'll watch for it.
You keep an eye on the right bank, and I'll keep an eye on the left."
The inn was on the right bank, built almost flush with the water's edge.
A low pier protruded a dozen feet into the stream, and after securing the raft to it with the mooring line, Farrell stepped onto the heavy planking and helped Jill up beside him.
So far as he could see, the inn—on the outside, at least—was not particularly different from the two he had already stayed overnight in.
It was three-storied and square, and its tiers of windows made warm golden rectangles in the gathering dusk.
The interior proved to be virtually identical too, give or take a few modifications—Jill's work, no doubt, since she must have collaborated on the creation.
There was a small lobby, a bar, and a large dining room; a gleaming maple staircase curved upward to the second and third floors, and electric lights burned everywhere in the guise of counterfeit candles and imitation hurricane-lamps.
Farrell glanced around the dining room.
"It looks as though you and I are slaves to American Colonial tradition," he said.
Jill laughed.
"We do seem to have a lot in common, don't we?"
He pointed to a glittering juke box in the far corner of the room.
"One of us, though, was a little mixed up.
A juke box doesn't belong in an American Colonial setting."
"I'm afraid I'm the guilty party.
There was a juke box just like that one in the inn where I stayed last night and in the inn where I stayed the night before."
"Apparently our inns vanish the minute we're out of sight.
At any rate, I saw no sign of yours ... I still can't help wondering whether we're the only force that holds this whole thing together.
Maybe, the moment we're de—the moment we're gone—the whole business will disappear.
Assuming of course that it has objective existence and can disappear."
She pointed to one of the dining-room tables.
It was covered with an immaculate linen tablecloth and was set for two.
Beside each place, a real candle—real, that is, to whatever extent it was possible for objects to be real in this strange land—burned in a silver candlestick.
"I can't help wondering what we're going to have for dinner."
"The particular dish we happen to be hungry for most, I imagine.
Last night I had a yen for southern-fried chicken, and southern-fried chicken was what I found waiting for me when I sat down."
"Funny, how we can take such miracles in our stride," she said. And then, "I think I'll freshen up a bit."
"I think I will too."
They chose rooms across the hall from each other.
Farrell got back downstairs first and waited for Jill in the dining room.
During their absence, two large covered trays and a silver coffee set appeared on the linen tablecloth.
How this had been brought about, he could not fathom; nor did he try very hard.
A hot shower had relaxed him, and he was permeated with a dream-like feeling of well-being.
He even had an appetite, although he suspected that it was no more real than the food with which he would presently satisfy it would be.
No matter.
Stepping into the adjoining bar, he drew himself a short beer and drank it appreciatively.
It was cold and tangy, and hit the spot.
Returning to the dining room, he saw that Jill had come back downstairs and was waiting for him in the lobby doorway.
She had repaired her torn dress as best she could and had cleaned her shoes, and there was a trace of lipstick on her lips and a touch of rouge on her cheeks.
It dawned on him all of a sudden that she was positively stunning.
When they sat down at the table, the lights dimmed, and the juke box began to play.
In addition to the two covered trays and the silver coffee set, the magic tablecloth had also materialized a mouth-watering antipasto.