The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers by Alan Dean Foster Page A

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