Philip Farmer - The Green Odyssey

The first webby drops struck his face, and he wondered if perhaps that wouldn't be what the two would wait for. They'd probably taken the first step up the rigging, but he mustn't expect her whistle for some time yet. If they were clever they wouldn't climb up directly beneath him, but would go aft, ascend to the top, then climb over to him. It was true that they'd have to pass others who, like Green, were also stationed aloft on watch. But Ezkr and Grazoot knew the locations of these. So dark was it they could pass within touching distance and not be seen or heard. The wind in the rigging, the creak of masts, the rumble of the great wheels would drown out any slight noise they might make.

The 'roller did not stop sailing just because the helmsmen could not see. The Bird followed a well-charted route; every permanent obstacle along here had been memorized by helmsmen and officers alike. If anything formidable was expected in their path during the dark period, a course would be set to avoid it. The officers on duty would advise the helmsmen on their steering by means of an ingenious dial on a notched plate. His sensitive fingers, following its flickerings back and forth, and comparing them with the directional notches, would tell him how close to the course they were keeping. The dial itself was fixed to the needle of a compass beneath it.

Green hunched his shoulders beneath his coat and walked around the walls of his nest. He strained his eyes to make out something in the blackness that wrapped him around like a shroud. There was nothing, nothing at all…. No, wait! What was that? A vague outline of a white face?

He stared hard until it disappeared, then he sighed and realized how rigidly he'd been standing there. And of course he'd been open to attack from behind all that time.

No, not really. If he couldn't see an arm's length away, neither could the other two.

But they didn't have to see. They knew the ropes so well that they could grope blindfolded to his nest and there feel him out. A touch of a finger, followed by a thrust of steel. That would be all it would take.

He was thinking of that when he felt the finger. It poked into his back and held him like a statue for just a second, quivering, paralyzed. Then he gave a hoarse cry and jumped away. He snatched out his dagger and crouched down close to the floor, straining his eyes and ears, trying to detect them. Surely, if they were breathing as hard as he, he couldn't fail to hear them.

On the other hand, he realized with a sudden sickishness, they could hear him just as well.

«Come on! Come on!» he said soundlessly, through clenched teeth. «Do something! Make a move so I can pin you, you sons of izzots!»

Perhaps they were doing the same, waiting for him to betray himself. The best thing was to hug the floor where he was and hope they'd stumble over him.

He kept reaching out in front of him, feeling for the warm mesh of a face. His other hand held his dagger.

It was during one of his tentative explorations that he felt the basket where Grizquetr had left it. At once, seized with what he thought was an inspiration, he pulled out the flare. Why wait for them to close in on him and butcher him like a hog? He'd send up the flare now, and in the first shock of its glare he'd attack them.

The only trouble was, he'd have to put down his dagger in order to take his flint and steel and tinderbox from his pocket. He hated not to have it ready for thrusting.

Solving this problem by putting the dagger between his teeth, he took out his firebox, paused, and swiftly put them back. Now, how was he supposed to get the tinder going when it was drizzling? That was one thing Amra, with all her cleverness, hadn't thought of.

«Fool!» he whispered to himself. «I'm the fool!» And in the next moment, he was removing his coat and putting the flint and steel and box under its protecting cover. He couldn't see what he was doing, but if he held the tinder close enough a spark should fall on it. Then he'd have a flame hot enough to touch off the fuse of the flare.

Again, he froze. His enemies were waiting for him to reveal himself through noise. What better giveaway than flint scraping against steel? And what about the sound of the rocket flare's spiked support being driven into the wooden floor?

He suppressed a groan. No matter what he did he was leaving himself wide open.

It was then that the shrillness of a whistle below startled him. He rose, wondering frenziedly what he should do next. So convinced was he that Ezkr and Grazoot were poised just outside the nest, he could not believe that Amra had not misjudged the time it had taken them to climb to him or that she had not been held up for some reason and now was frantically trying to warn him.

But, he realized, he couldn't just stand there like a scared sheep. Whether Amra was right or not, whether they were within dagger's thrust or not, he had to take action.

«Do your damndest!» he growled at whatever might be in the dark, and be struck steel against flint. The materials were under his coat, blocking his view, but he lay down again so he could see between his arms and under the coat held over them. The tinder caught at once and blazed up, then began a small but steady glow in the harder wood of the box. Without waiting to look around, Green rammed the flare's spike into the deck of the nest. Swiftly he brought the punk up, still holding the coat over it for protection from the drizzle and also from any watching eyes. He held it against the fuse, saw the cord catch flame and sizzle like a frying worm. Then he had ducked around the other side of the mast that supported the nest, for he knew how unpredictable these primitive rockets were. Like as not it would go off in his face. Hardly had he rounded the big pillar of the mast when he heard a soft whooshing sound. He looked up just in time to see the rocket explode in a white glare. The moment it dispelled the darkness he jerked his head to the right and the left in an effort to see if Ezkr and Grazoot were on him, as he'd known they must be.

But they weren't. They were still half a ship's length away from him, caught by the light in the rigging, like flies in a spider's web. What he had thought was a finger poking him in the back must have been the bolt that held the support for the muskets which were to be fired from the nest during combat.

So relieved was he, he would have broken into loud laughter, but at that moment a great cry broke from the decks below. The mate and the helmsmen were shouting in alarm.

Green looked down, saw them pointing, and his gaze followed the direction of their extended fingers.

A hundred yards ahead, rushing at them on a collision course, was a towering clump of trees!

THEN THE FLARE had died and had left nothing but its afterimage on the eye-and panic on the brain.

Green did not know what to make of it. In the first instant he had thought that it was the 'roller alone that was speeding toward an uncharted forest-grown hill. Immediately after, he'd seen that his senses were deceiving him and that the mass was also moving. It had looked like a hill, or several hills, sliding across the grass toward them. But even as the darkness came back he'd seen that there were other hills behind it, and that the whole thing was actually a sort of iceberg of rocks and of soil from which grew trees.

That was all he could make out in that confusing moment. Even then he couldn't believe it, because a mountain just didn't run along of its own volition on flat land.

Credible or not, it was not being ignored by the helmsmen. They must have turned the wheel almost at once, for Green could feel the leaning of the mast to port and the shift of wind upon his face. The Bird was swinging to the southwest in an effort to avoid the «roaming island.» Unfortunately it was too dark for the men to have worked swiftly in trimming the sails even if a full crew had been aloft. And there were far too few on the top, as it was not thought necessary to have them on duty when the 'roller was running in the post-sunset drizzle.