Icerigger

by Foster, Alan Dean;

  After an hour's hike Hunnar finally declared a halt. The wizards gave no sign of tiring and the tunnel no signs of ending.

  "Scientific exploration is all very well and good," the knight said, crouching against the cold gray wall, "but we've brought no provisions with us. I do not believe further exploration of this hole, which could run clear through the mountain, is worth missing the midday meal."

  This opinion was seconded immediately by September, Ethan, and both squires. Outvoted, the two scholars capitulated gracefully.

  "I, too, confess to being somewhat wearied and hungered," admitted Eer-Meesach. "And we seem to have learned all that we might. Yet it would be interesting to know if this tube opens nearr the central vent itself."

  "I'm cold," September quipped, "but not that cold." He sat down across from Hunnar and began flipping pebbles against the far wall.

  Ethan took a few steps forward and prepared to rest also. He squinted hard down the tunnel.

  "Hey ... it does seem to get a little brighter ahead."

  "Your eyes are tired from straining in this light, lad." The big man glanced down the tunnel without getting up. "Looks the same to me."

  "No, really, it does," Ethan continued. He took another couple of steps forward. "It does." He started to walk down the tunnel.

  "Don't go too far," September warned him. "Don't go out of voice range. I don't want you making a wrong turn into some endless maze. If you do, I'm not coming after you, what?"

  "Don't worry, Skua. I'm not going to go far." The tunnel made a sharp turn to the right, just ahead. That would be far enough.

  He turned and stepped into the chamber.

  It was larger than the tunnel, perhaps three or four times as wide as the passageway and equally as high. There were no more phosphorescent plants here than behind him, but the light was blinding. Blinding, dazzling, overpowering-and green.

  Now he remembered where he'd read of green clay in volcanic vents.

  Ozmidine was mined in only two places in the known uni­verse. One was on a tiny island in the middle of a lake on the thranx world of Drax IV. Drax IV was a hell world, a steam­ing, sweltering moldy ball of corruption that would drive a man insane if the Po'pione or Turabisi Delphius didn't get him first. The thranx could survive the heat and humidity, but the local flora and fauna made no species distinctions when it came to dinner.

  But there was ozmidine there, so they stayed.

  The other lode had been found on Mantis, one of the first worlds settled by humanity after the discovery of the KK-drive. It had been discovered, not by lonely prospector, nor by mining combine, nor by official survey. A driller pushing a new subway tunnel through the heart of downtown Locust had come on the first deposits. Now there was an ugly, dark, smoky hole in the middle of the planet's capital city. But the inhabitants didn't mind. It made them rich.

  On the scale of comparative hardness for minerals, dia­mond is the hardest at. 10. Or rather, it was until ozmidine was found to have a hardness rating of about 14. And the crystals of the raw mineral were of a deep green shading to violet that made the finest emeralds look like soapstone.

  Ozmidine was only found in igneous rocks, in vents of greenish clay.

  Ethan stumbled forward, his eyes adjusting to the light thrown back at hire from an endless hall of green hexagonal crystal. Ozmidine hang from the ceiling like stalactites. It grew outward from the walls like decorative swords, filled the floor with spikes and crushed crystals from the ceiling.

  He'd once seen a picture of the Green Nova. The Green Nova was a piece of pure ozmidine from the Drax IV mine. It was as big as a man's fist and had taken thirteen months to cut and facet by the finest stonecutter on Terra, using laser and ozmidine cutting tools. It had no price.

  He stumbled, wincing at the pain in his toe. He'd tripped over a chunk of clear ozmidine the size of a basketball.

  This wasn't wealth-there was no way, no means of com­paring this to normal human pursuits.' The ownership of whole worlds lay in this tunnel. Power to alter the structure of governments, even enough to shake the Church itself.

  "Hey, young fella! ... " came September's voice. "It's time to ... "

  Dimly, Ethan recognized the voice of September and the others behind him. But he didn't turn. He knew what _they_ looked like.

  Something shook underfoot. He felt it, ignored it.

  "My dear Eer-Meesach, this is wonderful!" Williams whis­pered. "Such symmetry of forge, such amazing variety ... " He frowned. "Was that a tremor?"

  "EEYAHQO!" bellowed September. He grabbed Ethan and danced in a circle while Ethan hung on for dear life, his feet centimeters off the floor. "Gods and Devils arid broken hearts, and broken names, and all the lost promises down the trail of time!" -He stopped, let Ethan down. Ethan felt himself to make sure no bones were broken.

  He grinned up at the other. "My sentiments exactly."

  September bent to pick up a flawless piece of crystal as big as his thumb. He landed on his rump.

  The earth shook.

  Shards of priceless gemstone, any one worth a king's life, pelted Ethan's unprotected face. When the shaking stopped, he felt himself gingerly. Ha received some very expensive scratches.

  Below, a steady rumbling had begun. There were demons afoot in the mountain.

  Williams was backing toward the tunnel proper, a little of his scientific detachment gone. He watched the walls warily.

  "I ... I do believe it would be best if we returned to the ship. I think something may happen."

  His words penetrated the green haze surrounding Ethan. He was dimly aware that September was shaking him.

  "Better do what he says, young feller. We can come back tomorrow ... maybe. Time to leave."

  "Leave ... ?" Ethan stuttered. "Return ... ?" He looked up at the big man, blinked. "Leave this ... no, ab­solutely no!"

  "Now young feller ... " began September.

  "No, I won't ... I found it, dammit ... I'm staying ... you go!"

  September chuckled. "All right, lad, have it your way." He turned and walked past Ethan ... and clipped him neatly on the jaw as he passed. He knelt, scooped up the slumping body, and threw it over his shoulder.

  "Let's go." He took a last glance over his shoulder, mut­tered so low no one could rear him, "Shana ... forgive me," and started out of the tunnel.

  The run back to the raft turned into a nightmare, with groanings and heavings and cyclopean creakings alternating with distant detonations. One was powerful enough to throw them off their feet. It bloodied. September's nose. He uttered a few choice curses, hefted Ethan higher on his shoulder, and continued forward at a jog.

  If anything, their emergence from the cavern into clean daylight inspired them to move faster. They were met at the shoreline by Balavere and a party from the ship.

  "All be thanked!" said the old General. clasping Hunnar by the shoulders. "We thought the mountain had got you." Then be noticed the scrapes and bruises and Ethan's unmov­ing form. "What _did_ happen in there?"

  "I shall tell you later, honored General," replied Hunnar, "if I still believe in it myself, then."

  There was an awesome roar behind them and they were nearly thrown again.

  "But if that interesting talk is to take place, we must depart this accursed island now. Quickly!"

  They hurried to the ice. Two of the soldiers carried Ethan between them. They moved much faster on the ice than Sep­tember could have.

  "Put your men aloft, captain!" Hunnar bellowed as they boarded the raft. But it wasn't needed. Ta-hoding had heard the explosions and was moving over the deck like a frightened k'nith, swearing tearfully that though he lived a thousand years he'd never see this befouled ship fully repaired.

  The ice-anchors were brought in. Wind caught the sails* *and the. _Slanderscree_ moved.

  Drawn by the noise, the du Kanes emerged on deck. Colette looked at the volcano and turned to question September. Then she saw Ethan's unconscious form.

  "What happened
to him?" she asked casually-a little too casually, September thought. He squinted down at her as an­other explosion-they were growing more frequent- drowned out all possibility of communication.

  When it had died slightly, he shouted, "He ... ah ... bumped his head coming out of the tunnel." He shoved the limp form at her. "Why don't you take care of him?"

  Colette backed. away a step. "Me? I'm not a damned nurse. Let Williams or Eer-Meesach look after him."

  "Oh, just watch him for a minute, hey?"

  She considered, chewing her lower lip. "Oh, all right, give him here." September bent and passed the dead weight to Colette. She handled it easily and sat down next to the roast with him, studying his face. September grunted appreciatively.

  They'd rounded the last spur of black earth and were leav­ing the volcano astern. The smoke now billowing from the cone was tinged with crimson and seemed to have grown greatly in volume.

  There was a tremendous ear-shattering explosion, coupled with a moaning, ripping sound. The _Skanderscree_ was lifted off the ice and slammed down a dozen meters on. A. few spars cracked. Somehow, the runners held.

  Tran were picking themselves up off the deck, some of them very slowly. One had been thrown from the rigging and was now a grotesque tangle of arms and legs near one hatch.

  "Bedamned!" sputtered September, shaking the wrist he'd fallen on as he pulled himself off the planking. Ethan had come around just in time to get thrown into Colette. Ire bounced off.

  "Green clay," he mumbled, then looked confused. "There was something about green clay ... but I've forgotten."

  "What happened to me?"

  " You hit your head coming out of the tunnel," supplied Colette. She gently but firmly moved him off her legs. "And I don't know anything about any green clay."

  Ethan rubbed his jaw . . funny place to fall on ... and thought hard. He looked up at her and she was staring down at him strangely.

  "Oh well ... couldn't have been very important," he said.

  "How would you like to be rich beyond your wildest dreams?"

  "Huh?"

  "Marry me."

  "I beg your pardon, Miss du Kane?"

  "Under the circumstances, you may call me Colette. Well?"

  "Wait a minute, Wait a minute." He must still be dazed. "I didn't even think you _liked_ me ... let alone loved me."

  Those startling green (green?) eyes stared down at him. "Who said anything about love? I'm asking you to marry me! You're reasonably attractive, reasonably intelligent- and kinder than most. The only people who ask me to marry them are money-hunters. I can read the contempt in their eyes. There's no contempt in yours. A little pity, but I'm used to that. Well?"

  Ethan thought. "This is too fast and I'm still dazed. Let me ... let me think it over. What would your father say?"

  She gave him a twisted smile. "Father? Father's been in­termittently insane for the past four years." She stood up and stared down at him. from a great height. "Who do you think's been running du Kane Enterprises for the last four years, Ethan Fortune?"

  "Look to the mountain!" yelled a voice. Those who could staggered to the rail.

  A kilometer or so up the side of the volcano, a huge fissure dozens of meters wide had cleft the mountainside like an ax-blow. A broad river of fiery* *red and yellow spilled from the gaping fissure, overflowing the edges of the break.

  The amber stream gained the ice. Immediately a jet of super­heated steam roared skywards, obscuring much of the peak from view.

  "Quite a sight," said September appreciatively. There was a loud yelp behind him.

  Williams was absolutely terrified. He was flailing and gesturing as though he'd lost control of his arts.

  "Easy, schoolmaster. What's the matter? Spirits?"

  "We've got to put on more sail!" he piped frantically. "Tell the crew to blow into them, if we must! We've got to ... to get away from here!"

  "Why?" September glanced behind them. "We've got a little wind with us now. At this rate we'll be out of sight of the island before dark."

  "Not ... not good enough!" panted the out-of-breath Williams.

  "Now look, surely we're in no danger from the lava. I'm no geologist, but ... "

  "Not the lava. Not the lava!" Williams was pleading. Ta­hoding had walked over and was now an interested listener. So was Hunnar.

  "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 amount every square centimeter of sail left in the lockers. They were even stringing it from rigging to hatch covers. Green-brown pike-gins 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 mumble. 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 unbruisedd 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 then as the giant volcano began to tear itself to pieces.

  The maelstrom that came down on the; raft anode 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 ski.-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 ford.

  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 s
kimmer 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.

  *******************************************************

  Note: Map of the Commonwealth and its Chronology Published in 05: Flinx in Flux

  *******************************************************

  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).