The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers (6 page)

This time, however, the gun would prove more useful for warming his own backside instead of some ignorant savage’s. Better that September kept charge of it.

The latter broke into his reverie. “How about food?”

“You mean local? I don’t know. Don’t you think there’s enough in the ship?”

“A shuttle of this size is built to hold about twenty people,” informed September. “There are only six of us. But it’s presumed by the powers that be in their infinite wisdom that such ships as these will only be used to get from an uninhabitable ship to an inhabitable planet. Whereas we seem to have gone vice versa, what? So I wouldn’t count on finding more than a couple of weeks concentrated survival rations back in there, with plenty of vitamin pills.

“That ought to give us enough food for about four terran-length months. Longer, if we husband the stuff. That’s assuming,” he added, “that everything came through the landing in edible condition. At least we don’t have to worry much about spoilage. Not in this climate.”

There was a question Ethan had put off asking long enough.

“What do you think of our chances?”

September looked thoughtful. “Two weeks plus concentrated food for twenty people will mass a fair amount. We’ve got to find a way to transport it. And also a better way to get around on this frozen cue-ball than this.” He indicated the makeshift ice-shoes. “That would be a beginning.

“Then we’d have to find a way to keep warm during really cold nights, and to block off this damnable wind. We have to figure a method of determining where we are now, where Brass Monkey is, and how to draw a straight line between the two we can stay glued to.

“Assuming we can do all that, we might make it in four months. But I wouldn’t lay a tenth-credit on it. Could take a year, too. That’s why I’m curious about local foods.”

“Well,” Ethan tried to remember details from the recordings that were not pertinent to salesmanship, “there’s that.”

He hopped onto the ice and walked over to the island. There he stooped, plucked a few blades of the “grass” from the frozen surface. He had to pull hard, several times. Even then it came up with the greatest reluctance.

The thick stem, or leaf, or whatever it was, grew no longer than ten centimeters. The further out onto the ice it grew, the shorter the stems. It wasn’t a sharp-edged blade, like terran grass, but thick, fat, and substantial. Rather a bit like a pointy triangular sausage. Even the coloring was different.

There was a large proportion of red mixed into the green. Other stalks varied in color from a bright emerald to a deep rust In form it probably came closest to resembling terran iceplant, another incongruity. It was taller, straighter, and did not form clumps nearly as thick as the familiar
Mesembryanthemum crystallinum.

“If I remember the tape correctly, this stuff grows wild all over the planet,” Ethan said. “It’s called pika-pina and is edible, although nutritional value is still uncertain. But it’s high in mineral content and bulks a fair amount of raw protein. It’s not a true grass, but lies somewhere midway between them and the mushrooms. Even grows on bare ice. Very complex root system.

“Needless to say, it’s not a flowering plant.”

“I can believe that,” asserted September. “No self-respecting bee would be caught dead on this world.” He took one of the thick sprigs awkwardly in one mittened hand, stared at it with interest.

“High in protein, you say? That’s good. We’re going to need all the rough fuel we can manage if and when we run out of supplies.” He bit off the stalk halfway down, chewed reflectively.

“Not as bad as some,” he said after a moment. “Long way from spinach salad, but better than dandelions.”

“Dandelions?”

“Never mind, feller-me-lad. We’re not likely to run across any.” He swallowed, popped the remaining half in his mouth and finished that also.

“Tough skinned, and it’s got a consistency like old shoe. But the taste is kind of interesting. Sweetish, but bland. Parsley and not celery. If we had the fixings, a good dressing might make this stuff almost civilized. I don’t suppose we’ve got any vinegar?”

“No, unless you count du Kane’s daughter.” Ethan snorted, “I think some of those other plants on the island are supposed to be edible too, but I don’t recall for sure. It’s hard to trust mestaped information on only a single sitting. I was more concerned with the local monetary system and rules of barter, I’m afraid. But pika-pina, I remember that.”

“How about animals? I’d be willing to try a steak.”

“I can’t seem to remember the section on fauna at all.” Ethan’s forehead wrinkled as he poked at his memory. ‘There are animals, though. And fish, of a sort. I do remember that the fish are edible. Supposed to be extremely tasty, too. They’ve evolved a low-oxygen metabolism that enables them to survive beneath the surface.”

“Fish, hummm? I’d even prefer that to a steak.”

“There is the problem,” Ethan reminded him, “of getting at them through eight or nine meters of ice, at the minimum.”

“Oh,” said September, the great beak dipping a little. He looked crestfallen. “I’d forgotten that little detail.”

“What do you suggest we do now?” asked Ethan. It was all very well and good to be able to dish out interesting facts about the planet, quite another to propose immediate application.

“First thing, we’ve got to start preparing for the night as best we can. I’m not afraid of getting to sleep here. But I want to do it with some assurance I’m going to wake up. If we can get through the night without too much trouble, maybe tomorrow we can see about rigging up some sort of sled and improvising navigational gear.

“Our friendly kidnappers might have had local charts, though I doubt it. Depends where we came down. I got a look at the beacon lock just before we hit and we were so far off it barely registered. No, the settlement’s definitely not around the corner. But charts are a possibility. Remember to ask our surviving poorslip about ’em.”

“Think he’ll cooperate?”

“Why not, young feller-me-lad? He’s a candidate for the big deep-freeze, too. Meanwhile, dig into that mestaped knowledge of yours and see if you can position Arsudun with respect to any major landmarks or outstanding surface features.

“Me, I’m going to think about keeping warm tonight. I’d rather not build a fire inside our compartment. Close quarters. But I don’t see a way around it. I suppose we should be thankful we ran up against a wood supply, of sorts. If we’d come to rest in the middle of this,” he indicated the endless ice-ocean, “we’d really be in trouble.”

It occurred to Ethan that nothing on the shuttle was burnable. Naturally not. Nor was the packaging for the self-heating meals, nor the padding in the acceleration couches. Patrick O’Morion himself couldn’t have made a fire with the materials available on the shuttle. You might start a fire with the heater from some of the emergency rations, but you still had to have something to burn.

A man would be better off back on old Terra, in the days when transportation was made of organic wood and burned organic residue for fuel, too.

September gestured at the island. “We can cut trees with the beamer. I hope they’re not too full of sap or we’ll never get ’em to burn. Wonder what they use to keep it from freezing?”

The mention of freezing made Ethan take another look at the sun. He was alarmed to see how far it had dropped. With it went a good deal of the day-heat—no, you couldn’t rightly call it heat—of the more manageable cold. He recalled that the day here was about two hours shorter than Terra’s, or ship-time.

The door to the storage compartment opened with a squeaky protest Colette du Kane stuck her head out into the wind. A big badger or woodchuck checking out of hibernation, Ethan thought. He was angry at himself—what had she done to him? But he couldn’t keep thinking along those lines.

I can’t help myself!, he thought in silent apology. She wasn’t psychic, and didn’t look over at him. Instead, her gaze seemed intent on the drowsing sky.

“Find anything?” she asked. The question was directed past Ethan’s right ear. He shouldn’t have resented it, but he did.

“Some trees. But it’d be rough cutting ’em now.”

“Come on, Skua,” blurted Ethan unthinkingly. “Let’s take a whack at those trees. Give me the beamer.”

“Thought you didn’t want to bother with it,” said the big man, surprised.

“I changed my mind. I’ll cut and you carry … and don’t do that!” September’s hand paused in mid-air. “Another friendly pat on the back from you and I won’t even be in condition to lift
this
.” He took the beamer and held it tightly in one gloved hand.

“All right, Ethan. I’d like to get a decent cord cut soon as possible. Before it gets much darker, anyway. Or windier,” he concluded, hiking multiple collars higher on his neck.

They turned to leave the ruined boat. Colette watched them thoughtfully until they disappeared. Then she shook her head and smiled ever so slightly before closing the door behind her.

The sun had vanished into a frozen grave and exchanged itself for a baleful icy eye of a moon by the time they pushed into the small metal room. Ethan was concentrating completely on not shaking himself to pieces. He was shivering so violently he could visualize bits and pieces of himself flying off and bouncing across the duralloy floor. A finger here, an eyeball there. At least they were out of that infernal wind. Only the protective face heaters set in the hood of his survival suit had kept his skin from freezing. How September had stood it he couldn’t imagine.

And it was going to get worse. Much worse.

Something bumped from behind and he managed to stumble out of the way as September staggered in behind him. The big man was buried under a huge load of wood, cut cleaner than the finest axe could manage.

Ethan shifted to one side, away from the door, and sank slowly to the floor. If he got out of this with all his component parts intact, he was going to take a nice, peaceful,
warm
desk job somewhere within the bureaucratic bowels of the organization and toast his tootsies in peace. The beamer he slung into a far corner.

Walther, who by now bore some resemblance to a trapdoor spider, pounced on the weapon in much that fashion. Immediately he whirled and made stabbing motions with it in September’s direction. That worthy was unconcernedly stacking the cut wood next to several empty food crates—all nonflammable plastic, of course.

“That wasn’t very bright of you, buddy,” the kidnapper said to Ethan, not taking his eyes off September. “Don’t you try anything either, sourpuss!” he warned Williams. The schoolteacher, however, hadn’t budged. Nor had Colette, nor her father.

Ethan edged back into the cartons, trying to find a warm spot and failing miserably. September had arranged some of the wood and smaller twigs on a pile of greenish-brown needles in the center of the floor. There were also a few clumps of what looked like dried lichen but probably weren’t.

Colette sat up thoughtfully, turned to her father.

“Father … your lighter.”

“Eh?” The old man looked confused, then brightened. “Why, of course!”

He reached into a pocket inside his jacket and tossed something small and shiny to September.

“That should help, Mr. September. It’s not full, I’m afraid. No point in hoarding it. I can do without a smoke for awhile.” He smiled hopefully.

September flipped on the tiny, solid-fuel lighter—solid iridium filigree plating, Ethan noted.

“Thanks, du Kane.” The old man looked pleased. “This is better than using the heater from one of the food parcels, and easier.”

The small needles caught almost instantly, and Ethan reflected that there would be little need for much fire-proofing on this world. The wood spat and crackled like a Chinese holiday at first, but it was going to catch.

It would have been easier to gather pika-pina than cut trees, but that tough ground cover held far too much moisture to burn very well. It would have been like trying to light a wet sponge.

“You!” Walther began, having had about enough of this byplay. He was supposed to be in control of the situation, but no one was acting like it. It made him nervous. At first he listened to them all with puzzlement. Now he was mad.

“I’m going to blow your head off,” he grinned at September. “Drill a nice little hole right through your skull.”

September prodded the fire a little more, making sparks jump. He looked over at the door, shifted the blaze with his foot so that it drew on the breeze seeping in past the bent edges. Then he looked idly over at Walther.

“Not with that, you aren’t.”

“If you think you can bluff me …” the kidnapper quavered.

“Dry up, runt. Crawl back in your hole. Can’t you see I’m busy trying to keep you alive?”

Walther shook. His eyes widened and he clenched his teeth. His finger tensed on the hooked trigger.

“He’s going to shoot you,” said Colette calmly, “the poor sap.”

There was a tiny flicker of green at the tip of the beamer. Then nothing.

Walther glanced at it in disbelief, pulled the trigger again. This time the glow was hardly visible. On the third attempt, not even a hint of light came from the barrel.

With a little gasp that might have been fear or anguish, he dropped the useless weapon and scuttled back into the shadows, favoring his bad arm. The wide, now frightened eyes never left September.

It was quiet for a few minutes. Then September stirred the fire again.

“Calm down, Walther. While I’d cheerfully wring your chicken-neck and toss you next to your rigid compadre up forward, I’ve no intention of doing it just now. I’m tired and cold. I might feel differently tomorrow, or the next day. Fact is, I’d’ve done it earlier, but you’re such a pitiable excuse for a man it hardly seemed worth the exertion. So I only broke your arm. Now don’t bother me anymore.”

He settled himself next to the door and concentrated on stuffing several narrow strips of shredded seat-padding into the crack on the hinged side. The other crack he left unblocked, to circulate air both for them and the fire.

“Maybe we can keep a little of the wind out, anyhow,” he muttered half to himself.