Muffled mowers and muzzled blowers ... these are ideas for which the time has come ... Snapper, John Deere and town councils everywhere need to take note ... and to take action. Evan had just missed a call from Mina because the ring of his cell that sat next to his wine on the arm of his porch chair was drowned in the roar from the nearby yard crew hardware which was as loud as that of a small plane ... as loud, in fact, as that of a Twin Otter circling an iceflow looking for a refrozen lead in a blow.

Evan put down the copy of A Season for the Dead by David Hewson which he had just begun reading, took a drink of Sutter Home Merlot, one of Mina’s favorites, and thought about that trip to the Arctic almost 20 years ago, thought about when he had first met Mina, and thought about Dr. Allen Garrison’s still completely unbelievable story.

When the black icy water soaked through the wool of his trousers at his crotch Allen nearly forgot about the princess. This whole thing hadn't been a lot of fun to begin with and it was suddenly a great deal less pleasant. The cold squeezed at him with its cruel sharp talons. Squeezed him hard. He stumbled, nearly pitching over face first then saved himself. He slowly sucked in a painfully harsh gasp of the dank cold miasma that swirled just above the water surface. Losing his balance and falling in would be fatal and if he fell the princess would fall too. Allen pushed off against a nearby gray block of knife sharp ice to keep himself upright. He ignored the dull pain in the dead flesh that was his wrist, ignored the blood that smeared so easily on the dirty ice where it had cut his naked hand and keeping his head low moved on. It was only twenty yards to where he might be able to pull himself and the princess up out of the water onto the floe and find shelter behind a small ice ridge.

Shelter. What he desperately needed right now was a place where the two of them could be out of sight. If he had almost forgotten the princess even as he dragged her along he wasn't likely to forget the bullets. As this thought floated in his cold-fogged mind there was a sharp spitting sound in the water three feet to his left. A second slug sung by his right ear so close that he heard it's hot whine even through the heavy cloth of his parka. Maybe the Mosin Nagent that the filthy Bolsheviks were using wasn't such a great rifle. Maybe they were all just bad shots or drunk. Maybe if he was lucky he would make it. Just maybe.

He didn't let the cry that suddenly rang out distract him from his efforts. Somebody else hadn’t been so lucky.

The water was already waist deep, his legs were numb and there were still ten more yards to go. Allen shook his head and, forcing himself to ignore the possibility that he would be hit next, concentrated on picking his way across the uneven bottom to where he hoped safety lay. One misstep and they would be down. If he fell and the parka he wore were soaked Allen knew he'd be finished. It would be hard enough to get up onto the ice even now.

He wondered how the princess was doing. He was weak and nearly exhausted from the long chase. She had to be exhausted as well. A quick glance at her face told him she was tough enough to make it if he could. He staggered as his foot hit an unexpected large rock but righted himself once more and plunged on. Somehow he reached the ice edge without falling and without getting shot but with his last steps the rock strewn bottom beneath had dropped off leaving him almost chest deep in the grip of the cold dark water. So much for keeping his parka dry. Convinced that he was a sufficiently small target, that he couldn't get much wetter and that he needed a moment to gather his strength Allen risked a peek back at the beach. Three soldiers stood boldly on the sand just this side of a dirty bluff. They were firing wildly out onto the ice floe and at least for the moment seemed to have lost interest in him. Looking to his right and then left Allen could see none of his own companions among the blocks of ice at the edge of the floe. Though he could already feel the numbing grip of the cold in his chest Allen knew he would have to risk a few more moments in the water. After three deep steady breaths Allen let go of the princess's hand, pulled his rifle carefully to his shoulder and sighted back across to the enemy on the bleak beach. He leaned back against the floe and squeezed the trigger with the careful control of a trained killer. Clenching his teeth, he nodded in satisfaction when the nearest of the uniformed figures on the squalid sand crumbled in a rough heap.

When no fire was returned by any of the other Reds as they scattered, Allen turned back to the ice. He tossed his rifle up onto the floe, peeled off his parka, tossed that onto the ice with a heavy wet flop, pushed the princess onto the floe and leaning on the nearby edge with his elbows, kicked violently upward. With his muscles straining against the dead weight of his waterlogged clothing Allen pulled himself forward. With each passing second he waited for the slam of a bullet in his back. None came and suddenly he was on the ice. Grappling for his rifle he crawled quickly to the safety of a ridge. The wool of his pant legs and shirt began to stiffen as they froze in the Arctic chill. Allen crawled on. As he tucked himself into the shelter of this dubious haven, pulled the princess in with him and then dragged his parka back over his head Allen felt a sharp tug at his left leg. Peering down he saw that a slug had ripped the heel from his boot. Close, but not a real problem. Not anywhere near the problem his frozen clothing was going to be. Shaking his head at this near miss Allen began a methodical survey of the situation.

The Bolsheviks were once more ranging recklessly along the length of the shore. Now there were seven of them in sight and Allen was determined that he would take down another before he moved on to a rendezvous. He squeezed off two quick shots, grinned savagely when he saw one of the Reds fall and the others once more ran back behind the bluff. He waited. This time the soldiers seemed less eager to risk exposure. Allen anxiously turned his attention to a quick survey of the nearby ice floe. His eyes tightened grimly. From where he lay he could see Peter and Lars behind another small ridge just a few hundred yards away. He studied the two huddled figures. When he was satisfied that they seemed to be in no worse shape then he, Allen swung his gaze back towards the beach and pulled his big rifle back to his shoulder. This wasn't going to be easy.

Evan smiled and took another drink. Maybe there would be time some day to write the whole story down. And maybe not.