Read Online The Icerigger Trilogy: Icerigger, Mission to Moulokin, and The Deluge Drivers by Alan Dean Foster - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alan Dean Foster
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knowledge of the local life, he doesn’t believe it’s one of your natives. He cannot be certain, of course.”
At that point, as abrupt as ship ignition, there was a ringing bong as of something heavy striking metal. It came from outside. September dropped into a crouch. Back in his corner, Walther giggled unnervingly. September hissed for him to shut up or he’d get his neck broken.
Ethan could make out a distant scuffling and rattling. It sounded a thousand miles off. Unfortunately, that was not likely. In addition, above the wind, he distinctly heard a low moaning sound. It was like the noise people make when waking suddenly from a bad dream. It went off and on, off and on, like an idling engine. Very deep it was. Occasionally it was broken by a bass cough.
There was a loud thunk. Then uninterrupted silence. The big man hadn’t moved, hadn’t shifted. Ethan watched him.
September stayed in his crouch, straining for sounds of the unimaginable.
The wind continued to carry its load of lonesome song—a lowing, an unceasing monophony that drew a cold white chalk line down Ethan’s spine. Already he was half believing there was nothing outside but wind whistling through torn metal. It might be a loose couch bouncing around in the rained hull.
He crawled slowly over to the door. Putting an ear near the open crack, he ignored the wind that bit at him. He was careful not to touch the metal, though. By now even the inside of the door was quartz-cold. Skin would stick to it.
He looked back at September and shook his head to indicate he couldn’t hear anything new. September nodded once. The hand holding the beamer remained steady.
Ethan thought he could hear a thudding sound outside, realized it was his own heart. He felt very out of place here. This was all silly, of course. If there had been anything out there it had gotten tired of snuffling around and wandered off. Though it was not pleasant to consider what could be moving around in this midnight Ragnarok.
He started to stand, straightening his half-frozen knees and wondering if the joints would stiffen solid before he made it. He desperately wanted to get back close to the fire. Slowly, easily, he came up to the level of the window. He peered out.
The porous hull admitted enough of the light from the planet’s single moon to bathe the ruined interior in ghost-light. A little more new snow had seeped in, burying a few other human symbols and gestures under virgin white. The wind had apparently carried off more of the left side of the boat’s wall and roof. That was no surprise. It was amazing that the rest of it had held together at all in this gale.
He turned to the others, let out an unconscious sigh.
“It’s okay. If there was anything out there, it’s gone now.” Tension melted, slipped out of the cabin. It wouldn’t be hard getting back to sleep, no. He turned back to the glassite port for a last glance outside.
He found himself staring into an unmoving blood-red eye not quite the size of a dinner plate. A vicious little inkblot of a pupil swam in its center.
He was too shocked to faint. But he was frozen speechless to the spot. Cold had nothing to do with it.
The horrible moaning came again, faster now, excited. The eye moved. Something hit the door like a two-ton truck. The hinges bent in alarmingly and he stumbled backward a few steps. A triangular pattern appeared in the tough glassite.
Dimly he heard someone screaming. It might have been Colette, it might have been Walther. Or maybe both. He was hit from the side and shoved out of the way. September. The big man had a look through the bent door at whatever was outside and it made even him flinch away. He shoved the beamer through the gap, pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
The door was struck again and September was jolted back, cursing at the startling rate of three curses per step. They’d been carefully hoarding a dead beamer.
A loud, nervous rasping came from both sides of the
At that point, as abrupt as ship ignition, there was a ringing bong as of something heavy striking metal. It came from outside. September dropped into a crouch. Back in his corner, Walther giggled unnervingly. September hissed for him to shut up or he’d get his neck broken.
Ethan could make out a distant scuffling and rattling. It sounded a thousand miles off. Unfortunately, that was not likely. In addition, above the wind, he distinctly heard a low moaning sound. It was like the noise people make when waking suddenly from a bad dream. It went off and on, off and on, like an idling engine. Very deep it was. Occasionally it was broken by a bass cough.
There was a loud thunk. Then uninterrupted silence. The big man hadn’t moved, hadn’t shifted. Ethan watched him.
September stayed in his crouch, straining for sounds of the unimaginable.
The wind continued to carry its load of lonesome song—a lowing, an unceasing monophony that drew a cold white chalk line down Ethan’s spine. Already he was half believing there was nothing outside but wind whistling through torn metal. It might be a loose couch bouncing around in the rained hull.
He crawled slowly over to the door. Putting an ear near the open crack, he ignored the wind that bit at him. He was careful not to touch the metal, though. By now even the inside of the door was quartz-cold. Skin would stick to it.
He looked back at September and shook his head to indicate he couldn’t hear anything new. September nodded once. The hand holding the beamer remained steady.
Ethan thought he could hear a thudding sound outside, realized it was his own heart. He felt very out of place here. This was all silly, of course. If there had been anything out there it had gotten tired of snuffling around and wandered off. Though it was not pleasant to consider what could be moving around in this midnight Ragnarok.
He started to stand, straightening his half-frozen knees and wondering if the joints would stiffen solid before he made it. He desperately wanted to get back close to the fire. Slowly, easily, he came up to the level of the window. He peered out.
The porous hull admitted enough of the light from the planet’s single moon to bathe the ruined interior in ghost-light. A little more new snow had seeped in, burying a few other human symbols and gestures under virgin white. The wind had apparently carried off more of the left side of the boat’s wall and roof. That was no surprise. It was amazing that the rest of it had held together at all in this gale.
He turned to the others, let out an unconscious sigh.
“It’s okay. If there was anything out there, it’s gone now.” Tension melted, slipped out of the cabin. It wouldn’t be hard getting back to sleep, no. He turned back to the glassite port for a last glance outside.
He found himself staring into an unmoving blood-red eye not quite the size of a dinner plate. A vicious little inkblot of a pupil swam in its center.
He was too shocked to faint. But he was frozen speechless to the spot. Cold had nothing to do with it.
The horrible moaning came again, faster now, excited. The eye moved. Something hit the door like a two-ton truck. The hinges bent in alarmingly and he stumbled backward a few steps. A triangular pattern appeared in the tough glassite.
Dimly he heard someone screaming. It might have been Colette, it might have been Walther. Or maybe both. He was hit from the side and shoved out of the way. September. The big man had a look through the bent door at whatever was outside and it made even him flinch away. He shoved the beamer through the gap, pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
The door was struck again and September was jolted back, cursing at the startling rate of three curses per step. They’d been carefully hoarding a dead beamer.
A loud, nervous rasping came from both sides of the
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