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

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.
    Colette was rummaging among the other food cartons. She pulled one out and looked down at the label.
    “Escalloped chicken.” She grunted. “Nice for us, but damned unprofitable. Give the condemned a hearty last meal. Somebody on this shipping line has a sense of humor.”
    Ethan looked up in surprise. It was the closest thing she’d said to a joke since this’d happened to them. If it had a deeper meaning, it escaped him.
    She started passing out the self-heating rations and he was so hungry he finished the first before he thought to look at the label.
    September grunted as he continued to jam and press the recalcitrant material into the fissure. He looked over at Williams, huddled quietly to one side of the fire.
    “You handled yourself very well there, schoolmaster. I was kind of interested to see what you’d do.”
    Williams acknowledged the compliment with a barely perceptible nod.
    “I did not expect that Mr. Fortune would be so tired or foolish as to throw a useable weapon in the direction of that person. Therefore I assumed it must have burnt out or otherwise been rendered useless. This is a very nice fire you’ve made here.”
    “Enjoy it and welcome, while it lasts,” September answered. “I think we’ve got enough wood to last the night, anyway. You did say the nights were shorter, young feller-me-lad?” Ethan nodded.
    Ethan rolled over, trying to set himself as close to the flames as possible barring sudden immolation. He hadn’t found that warm spot. And if there was a soft piece of duralloy, that had escaped his notice as well.
    Trouble was, there were six of them to crowd around the energetic but tiny fire. That meant you couldn’t get too much of you next to it. It was impossible to remain both polite and warm. So when one end of you was partly defrosted, the other was still in the figurative freezer. It was most disconcerting.

III
    T HEY DISPOSED OF THE packages by stacking them in the empty shipping carton and shoving it into a far corner. September was for taking all the garbage outside and tossing it to the winds. He wanted to keep their hideaway neat, as long as they were stuck in it.
    By now, though, the gale outside had risen to brobdingnagian proportions. That wind carried quick, freezing death, despite the protection of their suits and face heaters. Outvoted four to one, the big man assented.
    “Wish I knew more about these natives,” he muttered. Another log was sacrificed to the greedy flames. Huddled in their survival suits around the orange-red kinetic sculpture, they looked like so many frozen carcasses awaiting the butcher’s saw. But the wood continued to burn comfortingly, although sometimes the fire took on an eerie purple halo. A nice little pile of coals was growing beneath. Even the supporting duralloy seemed to be taking on a reddish tinge under the steady throb of flame.
    “It’s not surprising we haven’t encountered any yet,” said Ethan. “For all we know, we might have come down in the middle of the biggest desert on the planet.”
    “It’s all right, father,” Colette was murmuring to her sire. “Your flowers are being well taken care of … and International Lubricants of Goldin IV was up six points, last I looked.”
    “You’d think they would have noticed the boat coming down,” September grunted. “As clear as this air is, we ought to have been visible for hundreds of kilometers.”
    “We might have been seen,” Ethan conceded. “Even so, it might take days or weeks for the locals to organize an expedition to reach us. Assuming they are so inclined.”
    “Still, we should post a watch,” said the big man.
    “I haven’t taken anything but the basic mestapes,” Williams