Free Spider Legs by Piers Anthony Page B

down. The airplane meandered back and forth over the patrol zone. It was now lighter by 4,000 gallons of fuel. The ensign made a final tabulation of iceberg sightings for dispatch by radio to the Coast Guard ships.
    Holland was humming to the haunting tunes of Suzanne Vega and thinking about her dinner plans. She hadn't seen any movement outside, but the jerk of the ensign's head and the look of concern on his face was warning enough.
    “What's wrong?” Holland said as she turned in her seat and looked out the left window.
    “I thought I saw something moving,” the ensign said. His eyes were small pools of light set in a field of dark flesh.

    “Where?”
    “On the iceberg.”
    “An animal?”
    “Yes.”
    “How big?” She squinted through the smeared windshield.
    “The size of a man.”
    Suddenly Holland looked down at the ocean, which was now covered by a moving crust of ice. The salt-water ice reflected the sunlight back in her eyes. Then out of the corner of her eyes she caught a movement on an iceberg. An almost-naked bleeding man was crawling on the iceberg. At least she thought he was moving. It was too far away to be sure. At first it seemed only a dream image without real substance. Something cold crawled up her back.
    “What in the world?” she said to herself. Her heart beat fast as she threw herself back against her seat. The snowflake-caked windshield wiper blades left streaks of moisture on the glass through which she was trying to see.
    She got out her field glasses and trained them on the ice below. She gasped, took the microphone from its mounting, and called to a nearby Coast Guard ship. She adjusted the focus of her field glasses. Was this possible? She had to make an accurate report.
    Below on the ice lay a body which looked as if it were very stiff with rigor mortis. She guessed that he'd been dead for at least a day. The odd angle of his arm suggested he'd died a painful death. She brought the plane lower, keeping her eye on the fuel gauge of the plane. Moisture had accumulated on the plane's window, which she wiped away with a gloved hand, and then she looked again.
    “Can't see,” she whispered to herself as tendrils of ice formed on the windows of the plane. She leaned forward and let a trickle of de-icing fluid swish the frost away from the glass. She squinted and took a last look at the unpleasant sight on the ice.
    The naked man moved. From the palms of each of his hands protruded a large bony spike.

    June Holland swallowed deeply in a mixture of horror and a little fear. She pressed her feet to the floor of the planes’ cockpit and gripped the steering lever as if she were trying to fuse her flesh with the metal alloy, because she felt as if she would fall out, straight down on the man if she did not will her body to stop trembling. She felt as if she were being dragged down a long, dark tunnel, and only now was beginning to see the horrible things at the end.
    Who could he be, and how could he have gotten there? What had happened to him on the way? She doubted that the answers would be pleasant.

CHAPTER 13
    Date
    N ATHAN SMALLWOOD TOURED Newfoundland on a rented sport-touring motorcycle. He loved the reduced nosedive and lower center of gravity. The cycle's front end transmitted braking force straight back through its massive suspension arm into a C-shaped frame near the engine. This made the bike exceptionally quiet and easy to stop, even on wet or snowy roads. As he guided the vehicle in and out of the small winding streets and coast roads, he listened to K-Newfoundland 92.1 FM from Bonavista though headphones in his helmet. He smiled, singing along with golden oldies like “California Dreaming” and “Time of the Season.” It reminded him of his days in a college rock band, when he played organ for similar songs.
    He arrived on Main Street at about 6:00 in the evening. Main Street was not too hard to find, and he soon guided the cycle to a small parking space. He was early,