Icerigger Page 4

  As he came closer the bloated feet explained themselves. Apparently September had ripped up one or two of the acceleration couches. The luron upholstery had been shaped into a pair of fat pads and strapped to his big dogs. It seemed the luron was sufficiently rough to give some purchase on the ice. Tough and long-lasting, the artificial material would not wear off no matter how rugged the surface. And the padding did more than just cushion his feet: it also put some crucial distance between them and the heat-sucking ice.

  The improvised snow-shoes looked awkward, but as a method of temporary transportation it far exceeded sliding on one's fundament.

  Ethan took a closer look at the personage who'd saved or condemned them. Not exactly a giant, but damned large, bigger even than the recently deceased Kotabit. A good two meters up, broad in proportion.

  He tried to take the other's measure, failed and was upset without immediately knowing why. After all, he wasn't going to try and sell this guy anything. He took in the white hair, predator beak of a nose, and the incongruous gold earring. There was a deal of the old English lord about him, with a lot of Terran-Arabic. Bedouin stock, maybe.

  September stopped, his breath coming in short heaves. A miniature fog-bank, swirled about that scimitar proboscis. He extended a hand and grinned down at Ethan. The hand was sandwiched in between layers of torn seat-foam. Ethan stared at it.

  “Not as good as those survival gloves you've got on, maybe, but it keeps a body warm ... after a fashion. It's hard to handle things, but then, I don't expect to be doing much watch-making for a while.”

  “That's for sure.” Ethan grinned back and shook the hand. Or rather, allowed himself to be shaken by it. “You must be Skua September.”

  “Better be,” the other replied, “or else someone badly fooled Mrs. September. Although she preferred a climate more on the toasty side.”

  He stared over Ethan's head into the distance. Slapping both hands together a couple of times, he blew intently between the layers of foam. His eyes never left the horizon while he spoke.

  “How are you getting on, young feller? That was quite a swack you took. Couple of minutes there, I was afraid you weren't going to come out of it. Be hard enough to rouse yourself here without piling a coma into the bargain.”

  “Perchance to dream? No, a prolonged sleep certainly wouldn't be a good idea, here,” Ethan agreed. “You'd never know quite when you finally froze. And I don't want to miss that when it happens.”

  September nodded. “Ought to be interesting at that. Wonder how a body'd freeze here. From the top down or the inside out?” He crossed arms and slapped opposite shoulders. “What do you know about this refrigerated habitat? I only took the standard general tourist mestape — language, highlights, so forth. So did the little fellow — Williams. I think he'll be okay. Quiet. Not taciturn, just likes to keep to himself. And that unspeakable fermentation, Walther, can surely manage the local patois. Although I'd sooner remove his tongue before I'd let him do any translating. You?”

  “Well I'm a salesman, and—”

  September didn't let him continue. “And so you've stuffed yourself as full of verbs and prepositional phrases and epiglottal stops as a grilled pepper! Excellent, young feller.”

  Ethan shrugged. “It's no more than anyone else in my position would have done. I also had a few general planetary tapes on native conditions — cultural stuff, flora and fauna, the like. Just business.”

  “Or survival.” He gave Ethan a friendly pat on the back that made him cough even with thick padding to insulate the blow. “Fine foresight, lad. Exemplary! As of now, you're in charge.”

  “Huh?” Somehow Ethan got the feeling he'd missed an important paragraph or two in amongst the praise. “In charge of what?”

  “Why, in charge of seeing our little party return safely to civilization, of course. Expedition's got to have a leader. I hereby appoint myself your faithful deputy. When can we expect to come in sight of the nearest bar, commander?” Under the brows, there was a twinkle.

  “Now wait a minute,” put in Ethan hastily, “I think you've formed some wrong ideas about me. I'm not the leader type. Anyway, what about you? You seem, plenty competent. The way you handled that chap Kotabit—”

  “Yes, well, that's a nice ability to have at certain times,” September agreed, studying his clumsy mittens, “but rather limited. Besides, he's dead. That particular problem will not require further attention. Now, I have this tendency to get impatient with people and break heads when patting them would be more practical. Darned if I can figure out why, but they seem to feel threatened by me when I've but the kindest of intentions in mind.

  “What is needed is a cool, reasonable hand experienced at working with people and changing quickly in unfamiliar situations without making folks feel threatened. Doesn't it take all that to change in mid-pitch from one sales talk to another? Presence of mind and quick thought, lad.”

  “Sure, but—”

  “Persuasive without being overbearing. A diplomat.”

  Ethan finally succeeded in stalling the unending enumeration of his virtues.

  “Look, I'm not sure selling Poupee-de-Oui Scent No. 7 exactly qualifies me as a combination of Metternich and Amundsen.”

  “But it's helped you convince people that white is black and good for 'em. Here all you have do to is convince 'em white is white. Duck soup.”

  “All right, all right. I accept.”

  “Thought you would.”

  “Only because you think it's necessary. And only temporarily, mind.” He started fumbling with the catches on his jacket. “Now as leader of this expedition, my first order, effective now, is that you put this suit on. It's obviously built for someone constructed more along your lines. If there's anything I despise, it's waste, and I'm swimming in it.”

  “Sorry, lad.” September put out a hand and halted the unsnapping. “You're in charge, agreed. But this is still a free society, not a dictatorship. That means any decision ought to be ratified by a majority vote. Since you and I are the only ones present, it's up to us. Well?”

  “I vote for you to put this coat on.”

  “And I vote for you to keep it. How much do you weigh?”

  “Huh?” That was Ethan's second use of that brilliant expletive in a few minutes. Ah, the dazzle of a rapier-sharp wit! He murmured a reply.

  “I thought about that much,” said September. “You lose.”

  “Look, you'll make better use of it,” Ethan argued. “You're more the explorer type than I am. I can manage without it.”

  “No, you cannot manage without it,” September said sharply, not grinning. “And if this wind gets much worse,” he continued, turning into the rising breeze, “we're all going to wish for a damn sight more in the way of clothes. Besides, if I am more the ‘explorer type,’ as you claim, I should be able to stand the cold better than you.”

  “You're contradicting yourself,” Ethan pointed out.

  “Don't be obtuse when I'm being illogical. Anyhow, that Kotabit fella was wearing special thermal underwear. It's a mite snug in a few wrong places, but it keeps me fairly comfortable with this double layer of top gear. That Walther has it on also, no doubt. He's not as cold as he makes out to be.

  “Maybe it's not as cozy as those special jackets, but I won't freeze, feller-me-lad. A glass of good brandy, now, but...” He licked chapped lips wistfully. “You worry about yourself and not old Skua.”

  “Just how old are you, anyway?” asked Ethan curiously, eyeing the long ropes of muscle that bulged the fabric. He hoped the other wouldn't be offended.

  He wasn't. If the broad smile that creased his face was any indication, he was more tickled than anything else.

  “I'm older than that pudgy pullet du Kane has for a daughter, and a bit younger than the moon. But about garments, again. All your survival suits are a dark brown. My own outer clothing is white. You stand out against this landscape like an old raisin in lemon cake frosting. Me, I'd just as soon be a littl
e chillier and a mite less conspicuous. Old habit.

  “Those tapes give you any way to judge how cold it's likely to get tonight?”

  Ethan squinted up to where the sun hung like a failed flare in one corner of the sky.

  “If we came down anywhere on a line with the settlement, meaning on the equatorial belt, it will probably only drop to minus 30 or 40 tonight. You can add to that a steady wind of anything from 80 to 100 kph. We seem to have come down in a positive calm.”

  “Absolutely sybaritic, hmmm?” September murmured. “Remind me to stay out of drafts.” He kicked at the scruffy thin snow. “Wonder if the du Kanes know anything?”

  “I dunno,” replied Ethan. “They're a funny pair. The old man seems pretty shaky for someone holding the reins of empire. And the girl...” Ethan's expression wrinkled in confusion when he thought about Colette. “She seems competent enough ... maybe even more than that. But she's so full of bitterness and bile...”

  “About her looks?” prompted September. Ethan nodded. “Too bad ... all that credit and built like a marshmallow. Sinful, positively sinful.

  “But she won't be a burden on us, I don't think, and on this world I wouldn't mind a few extra kilos of insulation myself.” His thought changed abruptly. “Might be an idea to mount a watch tonight.” He put both hands on either side of the hole and heaved himself up into the boat. Turning, he knelt and gave Ethan a hand up.

  Ethan noticed a flash of dark brown forward as he was hauled aboard. He gestured toward the pilot's compartment.

  “What exactly happened? As we were coming down, I mean.”

  “Ummm? Oh, that.” September gave a shrug. “It was bloody peculiar. See, I'd been drinking a tinge ... not that I was drunk you understand!”

  “Perish the thought,” said Ethan placatingly.

  “Yeah, well, I'd been sipping a little. And while it's difficult to believe, it's not entirely inconceivable that I might have gone just a teensy bit over my limit. Anyway, an assortment of misbegotten crewmen of indeterminate ancestry got it into their lighter-than-air skulls that I was acting in a manner not conducive to the general well-being of your usual milksop passenger. So they jumped me.

  ”Next thing I know, I'm thrown out of a sound sleep into near total darkness and zero-gee while a bunch of dwarf miners are using my skull for sinking an exploratory mine shaft. And to top it, I'm all tied up.

  “Well, there were several possibilities. One, I was having the DT's, which I haven't run across in a long age, lad. Or maybe I was paddling through the great-grandfather of all hallucinatory hangovers. When it finally dawned on me that my misery had purely human causes, I was pretty upset.”

  “I see,” said Ethan. “The crew tied you up and dumped you into the lifeboat to sleep it off.”

  “Sure!” agreed September. “If they'd taken me to the brig, or whatever they use for a brig on those big luxury ships, they'd have had to get formal about things. Swear out affidavits, make out forms in triplicate. Much easier to chuck me into an empty lifeboat.

  “At first I thought all the tumbling and jolting was a gag. But knocking about in freefall back in those seats hurt, dammit! Wasn't a bit funny, no. Then it occurred to me that the boat had separated from the ship and was diving on an unscheduled jaunt dirtward. I don't like kidnapping on principle. It's worse when I'm the kidnappee.

  ”Pretty soon the boat is skipping through atmosphere like a rock on water. And none too gently, as you know. I wasn't sure what was going on, but I hadn't been consulted. So I broke loose and went forward to find out. Most of you had been slung around pretty bad. I don't remember who was conscious and who wasn't, but no one offered any advice.

  “That fella in there,” he jerked a thumb in the direction of the pilot's cubby, “was awful surprised to see me. First thing, he goes to pull a beamer on me. Now right away I know I'm not going to be able to reason with this bloke. So we had a bit of a tussle. Meanwhile that punk Walther can't make up his mind whether to stick by his controls for the landing or pull his own beamer and help his partner.

  “He ended up trying to do both and did neither very well. He did get his beamer out and he did get us down. The ship got broke and so did his arm. As for the other chap, I didn't intend to kill him. It just happened. He was sure trying to kill me, though.”

  He dug into a pocket, showed Ethan the other beamer. “Want it?”

  “No thanks. I'd probably shoot myself in the foot. You keep it.”

  “Okay.” September shoved it back into a fold of clothing. “If it really gets rough tonight we can heat one of the walls. I'd rather not do that, however. I don't know how much of a charge is left in these things and we've no way of re-priming them.”

  Ethan had handled beamers before, despite his refusal of this one. Business occasionally made it necessary. There were planets where the natives would decide in a stroke of primitive brilliance that the best bargain was to do away with the trader and confiscate his goods, thus apparently proving the old adage about getting something for nothing.

  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 tapes 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 conte
nt 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.”