Icerigger

by Foster, Alan Dean;

He looked back at September and shook his head to indi­cate he couldn't hear anything new. September nodded once. The hand holding the beamer remained steady.

  Ethan thought he could hear a thudding sound outside, realized it was his own heart. He felt very out of place here. This was all silly, of course. If there had been anything out there it had gotten tired of snuffling around and wandered off. Though it was not pleasant to consider what could be moving around in this midnight Ragnarok.

  He started to stand, straightening his half-frozen knees and wondering if the joints would stiffen solid before he made it. He desperately wanted to get back close to the fire. Slowly, easily, he came up to the level of the window. He peered out.

  The porous hull admitted enough of the light from the planet's single moon to bathe the ruined interior in ghost­light. A little more new snow had seeped in, burying a few other human symbols and gestures under virgin white. The wind had apparently carried off more of the left side of the boat's wall and roof. That was no surprise. It was amazing that the rest of it had held together at all in this gale.

  He turned to the others, let out an unconscious sigh.

  "It's okay. If there was anything out there, it's gone now." Tension melted, slipped out of the cabin. It wouldn't be hard getting back to deep, no. He turned back to the glassite port for a last glance outside.

  He found himself staring into an unmoving blood-red eye not quite the size of a dinner plate. A vicious little inkblot of a pupil swam in its center.

  He was too shocked to faint. But he was frozen speechless to the spat. Cold had nothing to do with it.

  The horrible moaning came again, faster now, excited. The eye moved. Something hit the dear like a two-ton truck. The hinges bent in alarmingly and he stumbled backward a few steps. A triangular pattern appeared in the tough glassite.

  Dimly he heard someone screaming. It might have been Colette, it might have been Walther. Or maybe both. He was hit from the side and shoved out of the way. September. The big man had a look through the bent door at whatever was outside and it made even him flinch away. He shoved the beamer through the gap, pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  The door was struck again and September was jolted back, cursing at the startling rate of three curses per step. They'd been carefully hoarding a dead beamer.

  A loud, nervous rasping came from both sides of the dan­gerously bent door, a monstrous scratching and pawing. The door took another blow. This time the top hinge snapped off like plastic and the upper half of the metal was folded in­ward. Ethan was lying on his back and had a fine view through the new opening.

  What he saw was a big rectangular head. Two horrible red eyes, like wild lanterns, stared straight at him. A mouth not quite as big as an earth-mover filled with what looked like a couple of thousand long, needle-like teeth gaped open. The teeth grew in all directions, like a jumble of jackstraws.

  It either saw him or scented him. The huge skull plunged downward. It pushed, and jammed halfway into the fresh opening. Ire could have reached up and touched one of those gnarled fangs. It was close enough for him to smell its breath -cloves and old lemon.

  Metal groaned in protest as the thing twisted and pushed against the doubled door like a staring dog, moaning wantonly. Off to one side he saw September edging right up next to the door. He jumped across, threw something in the mon­ster's searchlight eyes and ducked just as the steam-shovel bead snapped at him. The teeth clashed like a gong just above flying white hair.

  It blinked, and there was the most awful bellowing scream imaginable. The head disappeared with astounding speed. As it thrashed about in the ruined. hull it shook the entire boat. Ethan was hard-pressed to keep froth being tumbled into the fire.

  Then, all at once, it was quiet again.

  September was trying to force the strained door back into place. The weakened bracing gave a little, but a gaping hole retrained. He picked up a large chunk of torn couch padding and stuffed it into the gap, jamming it down into the cracks on either side. It stayed.

  "Somebody open some coffee. None of us are going back to sleep right away anyhow, I think." September shoved a great fist down into the padding. "I could use a mug. Woe that it's but the juice of the brown bean and not something stronger."

  "Lord!" panted Williams. It was the first time Ethan had seen the schoolteacher excited about anything. But only a robot could sit through what they'd just experienced without missing a. heartbeat or two. "What was it?"

  Surprisingly, Ethan found himself answering, after the first choke on his coffee.

  "The section on fauna comes back to me now. That was a nocturnal carnivore. The natives consider it quite dangerous ..."

  "Do tell," commented September. He was still wrestling with the padding and the door. "No single critter has a right to that many teeth ... Damn this wind!"

  "It's called a Droom," Ethan added, turning. Then he no­ticed that Colette was still sitting close to her father ... and damned if she wasn't shivering, a little. She looked frightened, too. Of course she would be-anyone would be-but it was so unlike her.

  She noticed his gaze. Defiantly, she sat straight and let the old man's arms slip away. He didn't protest. She tried to turn that overwhelming glare on him but it wasn't there this time, and she looked away awkwardly.

  "I suppose you think I was frightened of that thing."

  "`Yell, that's okay," began Ethan. "Nothing to be ash-'

  "Well I wasn't!" she shouted. Then she grew quiet again. "It's just ... I'm not afraid of anything real, anything tangible. But since I was small, I've ... I've always been afraid of the dark."

  "It's her mother, you see-" du Kane started to explain, but she cut him off.

  "Be quiet, father ... and get some sleep. I've got think­ing to do."

  Ethan rolled over and stared at a place on the floor that sent the firelight back into his eyes. He thought, too.

  The wind had dropped some but still blew steadily from the west. The sun had been up for a couple of hours already, though Ethan thought anything that put out so little decent heat unworthy of the name. He took his own good time get­ting up. After all, there was no great hurry. His first appoint­ment wasn't for half a day, yet.

  In an attempt to conserve their rapidly dwindling supply of wood, the fire had been allowed to pass on to wherever it is dead fires go. Williams was industriously arranging twigs, needles, and dried lichen-substitute for the evening blaze. The du Kanes were devouring a breakfast of hot cereal without either making a demand for eggs Benedict. Colette, he no­ticed, was apparently on her third helping. He sighed for lost dreams.

  He got off his elbows, sat up, and trapped knees to chest.

  "Moning, schoolteacher. Where's our beastmaster?"

  "Gone outside again. Ills tolerance for this weather is absolutely amazing., don't you think?" He reached across the ready pyre, tossed a cylindrical package back at than. "He told me he doesn't sleep much. Wastes time."

  "Huh." ,Ethan grunted, started to tear at the top of the package. At the last moment he noticed that the red arrow on its side was pointing down. Nastily he reversed the con­tainer. Sighing at his own clumsiness, he gripped the tab again and tugged.

  Off came the top, activating the tiny heating element in the packaging. Sixty seconds later he was sipping the hot soup he'd almost dumped into his lap.

  After finishing most of the pack, he stood up. Either he was adapting to the temperature or his nerve endings had become so numb that he was divorced now from such mun­dane concerns as knowing when he was frozen.

  Why, it was a perfectly lovely day? Couldn't be more than, oh, fourteen or fifteen below.

  He downed another swallow of the soup, which was al­ready barely lukewarm.

  "I'm going out," he announced to no one in particular, "for a breath of fresh air. It's getting positively tropic in here."

  "If that's an attempt at humor," Colette began, pausing with spoon in mid-flight, "I never ..."

&n
bsp; but ,than was already dogging the crumpled doer shut behind him.

  He flipped down his snow goggles and peered along the center aisle of the boat. He found. September examining the edges of the big gap on the port side of the vessel. It was indeed larger than it had been yesterday.

  Wishing he could shrink himself and go swimming in the cup of soup, he strolled over. The self-heating liquid was struggling manfully. But it was badly overmatched in this super-arctic climate. He gulped down the last.

  "Good morn, Skua." He had to move closer and repeat him­self before the other looked over at him.

  "Hmmm? Oh, I suppose it is, since we're all still about to see it, young Teller-me-lad. What do you think of that, eh?" He stepped away from the wall and pointed.

  Ethan didn't have to look closely, nor ask for explanation, to see what his companion was studying. The wind hadn't made those deep, curved gouges in the duralloy. There were six of them, spaced in groups of three. Others were visible high up on the plating.

  "At first I thought it was the wind done it," Skua said academically. He shook his marred head. "You think we could expect a return visit from that ... what did you call the thing?"

  "A broom," Ethan replied. He ran a gloved thumb along one of the grooves in the metal. It fit snugly.

  "The. tapes didn't go into detail on animal life. I don't know anything about its habits." He paused, staring at the rough surface of the stripped wiring running through the hull wall.

  "Look, I know I wasn't much help last night. That scream­ing and tearing, I-" A big hand came down on his shoulders comfortingly.

  "Now don't you waste another thought on it, me lad. Why, that monster would've chilled the guts of many a dozen pro­fessional soldiers I've known."

  Ethan turned to face the other. "You didn't freeze, though. Are you a soldier? Or what? We don't know much about you, do we? We know the du Kanes, and Williams and certainly Walther, and I've talked about myself. What abort you?"

  September shrugged, turned away and stared out across the bleak landscape. The wind had blown away most of the light snow. None lead fallen last night, since early evening. The endless icefield sparkled from a billion flaws, except where red-green patches of the hearty pike-ping grew. They were marooned on a diamond.

  "Let's just say I've seen worse than that thing," he muttered softly. "I might also tell you, though I don't know why I should, that I'm a wanted man. On at least four planets my head, not necessarily delivered in conjunction with the rest of my corpus, could bring you upward of a hundred thousand times ten credits." He turned and stared down at ,than with shining eyes, the thick frosted brows crashing together.

  "What do you think of that?"

  "Very interesting," replied Ethan levelly. "What did you do?"

  "That's enough for you to know, me lad ... far now. Maybe sometime I'll tell you more."

  Ethan was a good salesman. He knew when to press for a commitment and when to change the subject. He ajudged correctly this was the right time for a change.

  "What did you throw at the thing, anyway. The scream it let out was enough to chill your blood ... if it wasn't frozen already."

  "Salt," replied September, as though they'd been talking of nothing else. "From my dinner pack. There wasn't much of it left. But then I don't expect the creatures on this world have much contact with it anyway, especially in the raw state and powdered."

  "I suppose they can get all they need from licking the ice," mused Ethan, "since it's frozen sea water. But try your tongue on it and it might never come loose. I'd have tried a brand from the fire."

  "That would have come next. The salt seemed as good a bet, and safer."

  "Safer?"

  "Sure. Listen, me lad. There are worlds where fire is a lot rarer than it is on humanx-type planets. This would seem to be one. It's only a guess, but on similar wands I've seen beasties charge straight for a flame and attack it. They think it's some new kind of enemy. Iv living creature. Saw one roll over and over with a burning log in its mouth. Clawing and chewing at it. The fire, not the log. If your Droom-"

  "It's not _my_ Droom," Ethan protested.

  "- had reacted likewise, it might have charged even harder instead of backing off from that busted door: We won't know, because the salt worked. The fire might even have attracted it. On a world like this I'll bet plenty of animals can sense heat at a fair distance. Our fire might have put out as much as an­other Broom, say. Are they territorial?"

  "I don't know that, either," confessed Ethan.

  "Lard to leave much of a spoor on naked ice." September pulled a now familiar red-green stem from a jacket pocket, started munching on it. Ethan could hear it crunch.

  "Roes taste rather like parsley. How does it grow so far out onto the ice?"

  Ethan reached under the hood of his coat, rubbed his scalp. "As I remember the tape, the root system extends out to a certain distance, putting out branch roots and surface stems all the way. When it reaches that point, growth halts and the end of the main root begins to swell. Nutrients are de­livered from whatever central land mass the plant is based on. In that way it builds up a good sized food-rich node at its far end.

  "The plant puts out just enough heat to slowly melt its way through the ice. The new nodule acts as a springboard, or ad­vance base, putting out new roots in several directions. If the roots from one node encounter another they grow together, whether they're from the same parent plant or not. This broadens and strengthens the network, insuring survival of the whole if a central branch is knocked out.

  "There's a giant variety called pika-pedan that grows up to three and four meters high. Its nodes can grow to be several meters in diameter."

  "I see." September hummed to himself a moment. "Then if we follow an outcropping of this weed, we'll eventually come to land?"

  Ethan smiled. "Good thought. Trouble is, there are reports from the single Commonwealth survey of green patches grow­ing fifteen hundred kilometers and more from the nearest body of land."

  "Oh," said the other simply. He looked disappointed.

  "Look, I haven't had my breakfast. You?"

  "Just some soup. I could do with something solid." He tossed the empty cylinder out of the boat, watched it bounce and tall across the pale surface.

  "Okay, after breakfast, what do you think we ought to do, leader?"

  "Well," Ethan considered, "I definitely think we shouldn't remain here." He looked at the other for confirmation, but the big man just stared back. He continued.

  "We're not making any progress toward Brass Monkey by sitting here. A really first-class blow could send this whole boat spinning. I think the first thing we should do is look for some more substantial shelter. Maybe a cave on a big island. You circled this one the other day?" September nodded.

  "As I said then, it's not very big. Certainly saw nothing we could use as shelter, unless we dig our own. Given the likely consistency of this frozen earth, I wouldn't care to try."

  "Swell. After you eat, then, I think if you'd climb-"

  "Climb? Uh-uh, not me."

  "All right. _One_ of us ought to climb the tallest tree on the island and get a good look around. Maybe we'll see some­thing."

  "Like an ice-cream stand?"

  September guffawed, slapped Ethan on the back. "A good thought, young feller-me-lad. But first I'd better get about putting something substantial in my belly. Otherwise I won't have the strength to watch you fall."

  "Even if we should spot another body of land," asked Co­lette du Kane, "how do you propose reaching it?" September worked on his oatmeal while he considered her question.

  " You said yourself that walking on this ice is damned tough even with makeshift aids," she continued doggedly. "Since there's nothing within easy walking distance, any trek we try will measure in the kilometers. This may be swell for you, but I'm not built for cross-country hiking. And father would never make it."

  Du Kane started to protest, but she raised a hand and smiled.

>   "No, father. I know you're willing, but corporate direc­torship doesn't inure one to much physical hardship."

  "Something more corporate directors should note," said September, putting down the empty container.

  "Despite what you may think, young lady, I don't relish trying such a hike myself. We'll have to try and rig up some kind of sled. Maybe we can break loose a torn section of hull. If we could sharpen some long branches to a good point, maybe tip 'em with metal, we might kind of pole our way along. Be slow and ugly, but better than walking. Not exactly the Intercity Central on Hivehom, but we ought to be able to take along most of our supplies."

  "The weather would have to hold," said Colette thought­fully. "I don't know if I could take another night like the last, and out on the bare ice."

  September looked troubled. "I've no way of knowing that myself, Miss du Kane. It's not a pretty thought. And if an­other of those snaggle-toothed nightmares happened onto us, why, we'd be just so many cold hors d'oeuvres.

  "One thing's for sure, though. We wouldn't be any worse off than we are in sitting here. And at least we'll be making some sort of progress toward the settlement."

  "But what if someone should send over a rescue shuttle?" put in du Kane plaintively.

  Ethan surprised himself by answering.

  "It's most unlikely anyone would think to search the surface for survivors, sir. If they did, they'd have the whole planet to choose from. Not much chance of picking us out against this ice, us with no power, nothing casting. But if by some wild chance someone did come looking for us and did find the wreck, they'll assume we've started off toward Brass Monkey. They'll trace us back along, the most likely routes. We can leave silts. At least we know it's somewhere to the west."

  Well, he said to himself, a bit startled, you've just articu­lated your own probable demise, Mr. Fortune. Father a sad end for the fair-haired young sales genius of Malaika Enter­prises, hmmm? That's right, go ahead and shiver. Tell your­self it's the cold.

  "Like it or not, we're on our own, as the young fella says," September added.