Icerigger
Page 34
“You don't understand! The lava will melt the ice. And that fissure may have cracked the whole island. If the cold sea water beneath the ice reaches the core ... the pressure ... incalculable...” He subsided, out of breath.
“What does the small wizard mean?” asked Hunnar uncertainly. September rubbed the full crop of whiskers that now coated that jutting chin under his face shield.
“He says the mountain's going to blow up, I think.”
“Blow-up?” Ta-hoding's fat face was comical. His anxiety was not. “Blow-up?” he repeated stupidly. Then he whirled and began rattling off hysterical orders and commands. The deck of the Slanderscree became a madhouse.
The crew strove to mount every square centimeter of sail left in the lockers. They were even stringing it from rigging to hatch covers. Green-brown pika-pina sailcloth went everywhere, until the Slanderscree resembled a moving island.
Nothing happened all the rest of that day, nor all night. They were still running rapidly to the southwest the next morning when it happened. The volcano was far astern and long out of sight. But they heard the rumble. There was a crackling.
The whole sky northeast of them lit up in a titanic eruption of fire and flaming gases. Lightning smashed every section of unbruised sky. A pillar of red-black smoke and ash sown with lightning billowed into the stratosphere. This time it was September who grabbed the megaphone and roared for everyone to hug the deck. A second later he was imitating a termite.
Nothing happened. The eruptions continued. An ominous lowing breeze swept over the ship, challenging the westwind. Then the full force of displaced air struck them as the giant volcano began to tear itself to pieces.
The maelstrom that came down on the raft made the Rifs seem like a spring zephyr. The Slanderscree exploded forward across the ice. But most of the super-tough sails held. Most of the rigging held. And the lashings on the great wheel held.
The borean monster fell to a simple cyclone. September crawled to the rail and raised his head into that sky-tearing gale. Then he rose to his full height, somehow keeping his balance in the gale.
“Sonuvabitch!” he howled, “what a ride!” Then his feet were blown out from under him and he had to wrap his arms around a shroud to keep from being swept off the deck.
Pity the lad couldn't see this, he thought. Or mayhap better he doesn't. The ozmidine? Melted, or pulverized to green dust, perhaps. Immortality was short. He looked across the planking. Colette was using her bulk to shield Ethan from some of the wind. On the other hand, he reflected, smiling, mining is work. A soft touch of a friend, now ... that was much more civilized!
The Slanderscree shot southwestward at close to three hundred kilometers an hour.
The prop-jet hummed smoothly on the two-man ice-skimmer as it curved in its daily patrol out from the humanx settlement of Brass Monkey and headed up the frozen fjord.
The two men inside had grown accustomed to the icelocked world and its gruff, somber native populace. But they were completely unprepared for the gigantic raft, dozens of sails billowing, which rounded the entrance to the fjord and shot past them before they could waken to challenge it.
“Mother, did you see that?” exclaimed the pilot.
“How could I miss it, Marcel,” replied his copilot, “seeing as how it practically ran us down.” He was doing things to dashboard controls. “Take over your stick before we pile into a cliffside, will you?”
Abashed, Marcel did so. “Thought I'd seen every size and shape of ice-craft this backwater had to offer,” he mumbled.
“Moving like the proverbial bat out of hell,” the copilot agreed admiringly. “Somebody did a helluva job on that baby.” They swung the tiny skimmer around. The prop groaned at the strain.
“You'd better get on the comm, tell Docking and Receiving to expect that thing or someone's liable to have a fit and take a shot at it. I want to meet the natives who built that.”
Marcel goosed the engine to a high whine. “I'll have to call. For sure we're not going to overhaul it.” He leaned to hit the comm switch and chuckled.
“You know ... it's funny, this glare and all ... but that damn thing went by so fast I thought I saw a set of broad's underwear flying astern in place of the usual native banner. Biggest pair I ever saw. Ain't that a kick?” He hit another button and the screen over the angled windshield began to brighten.
“Aw, you're batty.”
“Sure ... all in the mind,” the pilot agreed.
The copilot looked thoughtful. “Then it's all in mine, too, because I could swear I saw the same damn thing.”
The glance they exchanged was profound.
The End
About the Author
Born in New York City in 1946, Alan Dean Foster was raised in Los Angeles, California. After receiving a bachelor's degree in political science and a Master of Fine Arts in motion pictures from UCLA in 1968–69, he worked for two years as a public relations copywriter in a small Studio City, California, firm.
His writing career began in 1968 when August Derleth bought a long letter of Foster's and published it as a short story in his biannual Arkham Collector Magazine. Sales of short fiction to other magazines followed. His first try at a novel, The Tar-Aiym Krang, was published by Ballantine Books in 1972.
Foster has toured extensively through Asia and the isles of the Pacific. Besides traveling, he enjoys classical and rock music, old films, basketball, body surfing, and karate. He has taught screenwriting, literature, and film history at UCLA and Los Angeles City College.
Currently, he resides in Arizona with his wife, JoAnn (who is reputed to have the only extant recipe for Barbarian Cream Pie).
By Alan Dean Foster
Published by Ballantine Books:
The Icerigger Trilogy
ICERIGGER
MISSION TO MOULOKIN
THE DELUGE DRIVERS
The Adventures of Flinx of the Commonwealth
FOR LOVE OF MOTHER-NOT
THE TAR-AIYM KRANG
ORPHAN STAR
THE END OF THE MATTER
FLINX IN FLUX
MID-FLINX
BLOODHYPE
THE HOWLING STONES
The Damned
Book One: A CALL TO ARMS
Book Two: THE FALSE MIRROR
Book Three: THE SPOILS OF WAR
The Black Hole
Cachalot
Dark Star
The Metrognome And Other Stories
Midworld
Nor Crystaltears
Sentenced To Prism
Splinter Of The Mind's Eye
Star Trek: Logs One-Ten
Voyage To The City Of The Dead
With Friends Like These...
...Who Needs Enemies?
Mad Amos
Parallelities
Phylogenesis
Dirge