Artemis Fowl_ The Arctic Incident - Eoin Colfer [71]
He was disturbed by an orchestral noise emanating from the titanium column. It sounded like a sustained note on a bassoon. Dwarf gas, he reasoned. The column had decent acoustics.
What he needed was a brainwave. One crystal thought that would slice through this mire he had become embroiled in, and save the day.
After eight minutes, he was interrupted again. Not gas this time. A cry for help. Mulch was in trouble, and in pain.
Artemis was about to suggest that Butler deal with it when he realized that his bodyguard wasn’t there. Off on his mission to save the Lower Elements. It was up to him.
He poked his head into the column. It was black as the inside of an old boot, and twice as pungent. Artemis decided that an LEP helmet was his first requirement. He quickly retrieved a spare from the shuttle and, after a moment’s experimentation, activated the lights and seals.
‘Mulch? Are you up there?’
No reply. Could this be a trap? Was it possible that he, Artemis Fowl, was about to fall for the oldest ruse in the book? Entirely possible, he decided. But in spite of that, he couldn’t really afford to take chances with that hairy little creature’s life. Somewhere since Los Angeles, and against his better judgement, he had bonded with Mister Diggums. Artemis shuddered. It was happening more and more since his mother’s return to sanity.
Artemis climbed into the tube, beginning his journey to the disc of light above. The smell was horrendous. His shoes were ruined, and no amount of dry-cleaning could redeem the St Bartleby’s blazer. Mulch had better be in a lot of pain.
When he reached the entrance, he found Mulch writhing on the floor, face contorted in genuine agony.
‘What is it?’ he asked, peeling off the helmet and kneeling by the dwarf’s side.
‘Blockage in my gut,’ grunted the dwarf, beads of sweat sliding down his beard hairs. ‘Something hard. Can’t break it down.’
‘What can I do?’ Artemis asked, though he dreaded the possible replies.
‘My left boot. Take it off.’
‘Your boot? Did you say boot?’
‘Yes,’ howled the dwarf, pain stiffening his entire torso. ‘Get it off!’
Artemis couldn’t stifle a relieved sigh. He’d been fearing much worse. He hefted the dwarf’s leg into his lap and pulled at the climbing boot.
‘Nice boots,’ he commented.
‘Rodeo Drive,’ gasped Mulch. ‘Now, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Sorry.’
The boot slid off, revealing a not-quite-so-designer sock, complete with toe holes and darn patches.
‘Little toe,’ said Mulch, eyes closed with pain.
‘Little toe what?’
‘Squeeze the joint. Hard.’
Squeeze the joint. Must be a reflexology thing. Every part of the body corresponds to an area of the foot. The body’s keyboard, so to speak. Practised in the Orient for centuries.
‘Very well. If you insist.’
Artemis placed his finger and thumb around Mulch’s hairy toe. It could have been his imagination, but it seemed that the hairs parted to allow him access.
‘Squeeze,’ gasped the dwarf. ‘Why aren’t you squeezing?’
Artemis wasn’t squeezing because his eyes were crossed, looking at the laser barrel in the middle of his forehead.
Lieutenant Nyle, who was holding the weapon, couldn’t believe his luck. He’d single-handedly captured two intruders, plus he’d discovered their bolt hole. Who said hanging back to avoid the fighting didn’t have advantages? This was turning out to be an exceptional revolution for him. He’d be colonel before shedding his third skin.
‘On your feet,’ he ordered, panting blue flames. Even through the translator it sounded reptilian.
Artemis stood slowly, lifting Mulch’s leg with him. The dwarf’s bum-flap flopped open.
‘What’s wrong with him anyway?’ asked Nyle, bending in for a closer look.
‘Something he ate,’ said Artemis, and squeezed the joint.
The resulting explosion knocked the goblin off his feet, sending him tumbling down the corridor. There was something you didn’t see every day.
Mulch hopped to his feet.
‘Thanks, kid. I thought I was