Have Space Suit—Will Travel

by Robert A. Heinlein

  Peewee explained eagerly about the space suits and I stood there like a fool, with a lump of ice in my stomach. What had been just a question of using my greater strength to force Peewee to behave was now an unsolvable dilemma. I could no more abandon the Mother Thing than I could have abandoned Peewee…and there were only two space suits.

  Even if she could wear our sort, which looked as practical as roller skates on a snake.

  The Mother Thing gently pointed out that her own vacuum gear had been destroyed. (I’m going to quit writing down all her songs; I don’t remember them exactly anyhow.)

  And so the fight began. It was an odd fight, with the Mother Thing gentle and loving and sensible and utterly firm, and Peewee throwing a tearful, bad-little-girl tantrum—and me standing miserably by, not even refereeing.

  When the Mother Thing understood the situation, she analyzed it at once to the inevitable answer. Since she had no way to go (and probably couldn’t have walked that far anyhow, even if she had had her sort of space suit) the only answer was for us two to leave at once. If we reached safety, then we would, if possible, convince our people of the danger from Wormface & Co.—in which case she might be saved as well…which would be nice but was not indispensable.

  Peewee utterly, flatly, and absolutely refused to listen to any plan which called for leaving the Mother Thing behind. If the Mother Thing couldn’t go, she wouldn’t budge. “Kip! You go get help! Hurry! I’ll stay here.”

  I stared at her. “Peewee, you know I can’t do that.”

  “You must. You will so! You’ve got to. If you don’t, I’ll… I’ll never speak to you again!”

  “If I did, I’d never speak to myself again. Look, Peewee, it won’t wash. You’ll have to go—”

  “No!”

  “Oh, shut up for a change. You go and I stay and guard the door with the shillelagh. I’ll hold ’em off while you round up the troops. But tell them to hurry!”

  “I—” She stopped and looked very sober and utterly baffled. Then she threw herself on the Mother Thing, sobbing: “Oh, you don’t love me any more!”

  Which shows how far her logic had gone to pot. The Mother Thing sang softly to her while I worried the thought that our last chance was trickling away while we argued. Wormface might come back any second—and while I hoped to slug him a final one if he got in, more likely he had resources to outmaneuver me. Either way, we would not escape.

  At last I said, “Look, we’ll all go.”

  Peewee stopped sobbing and look startled. “You know we can’t.”

  The Mother Thing sang: (“How, Kip?”)

  “Uh, I’ll have to show you. Up on your feet, Peewee.” We went where the suits were, while Peewee carried Madame Pompadour and half carried the Mother Thing. Lars Eklund, the rigger who had first worn Oscar according to his log, must have weighed about two hundred pounds; in order to wear Oscar I had to strap him tight to keep from bulging. I hadn’t considered retailoring him to my size as I was afraid I would never get him gas-tight again. Arm and leg lengths were okay; it was girth that was too big.

  There was room inside for both the Mother Thing and me.

  I explained, while Peewee looked big-eyed and the Mother Thing sang queries and approvals. Yes, she could hang on piggy-back—and she couldn’t fall off, once we were sealed up and the straps cinched.

  “All right. Peewee, get into your suit.” I went to get my socks while she started to suit up. When I came back I checked her helmet gauges, reading them backwards through her lens. “We had better give you some air. You’re only about half full.”

  I ran into a snag. The spare bottles I had filched from those ghouls had screw-thread fittings like mine—but Peewee’s bottles had bayonet-and-snap joints. Okay, I guess, for tourists, chaperoned and nursed and who might get panicky while bottles were changed unless it was done fast—but not so good for serious work. In my workshop I would have rigged an adapter in twenty minutes. Here, with no real tools—well, that spare air might as well be on Earth for all the good it did Peewee.

  For the first time, I thought seriously of leaving them behind while I made a fast forced march for help. But I didn’t mention it. I thought that Peewee would rather die on the way than fall back into his hands—and I was inclined to agree.

  “Kid,” I said slowly, “that isn’t much air. Not for forty miles.” Her gauge was scaled in time as well as pressure; it read just under five hours. Could Peewee move as fast as a trotting horse? Even at lunar gravity? Not likely.

  She looked at me soberly. “That’s calibrated for full-size people. I’m little—I don’t use much air.”

  “Uh…don’t use it faster than you have to.”

  “I won’t. Let’s go.”

  I started to close her gaskets. “Hey!” she objected.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Madame Pompadour! Hand her to me—please. On the floor by my feet.”

  I picked up that ridiculous dolly and gave it to her. “How much air does she take?”

  Peewee suddenly dimpled. “I’ll caution her not to inhale.” She stuffed it inside her shirt, I sealed her up. I sat down in my open suit, the Mother Thing crept up my back, singing reassuringly, and cuddled close. She felt good and I felt that I could hike a hundred miles, to get them both safe.

  Getting me sealed in was cumbersome, as the straps had to be let out and then tightened to allow for the Mother Thing, and neither Peewee nor I had bare hands. We managed.

  I made a sling from my clothesline for the spare bottles. With them around my neck, with Oscar’s weight and the Mother Thing as well, I scaled perhaps fifty pounds at the Moon’s one-sixth gee. It just made me fairly sure-footed for the first time.

  I retrieved my knife from the air-lock latch and snapped it to Oscar’s belt beside the nylon rope and the prospector’s hammer. Then we went inside the air lock and closed its inner door. I didn’t know how to waste its air to the outside but Peewee did. It started to hiss out.

  “You all right, Mother Thing?”

  (“Yes, Kip.”) She hugged me reassuringly.

  “Peewee to Junebug,” I heard in my phones: “radio check. Alfa, Bravo, Coca, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot—”

  “Junebug to Peewee: I read you. Golf, Hotel, India, Juliette, Kilo—”

  “I read you, Kip.”

  “Roger.”

  “Mind your pressure, Kip. You’re swelling up too fast.” I kicked the chin valve while watching the gauge—and kicking myself for letting a little girl catch me in a greenhorn trick. But she had used a space suit before, while I had merely pretended to.

  I decided this was no time to be proud. “Peewee? Give me all the tips you can. I’m new to this.”

  “I will, Kip.”

  The outer door popped silently and swung inward—and I looked out over the bleak bright surface of a lunar plain. For a homesick moment I remembered the trip-to-the-Moon games I had played as a kid and wished I were back in Centerville. Then Peewee touched her helmet to mine. “See anyone?”

  “No.”

  “We’re lucky, the door faces away from the other ships. Listen carefully. We won’t use radio until we are over the horizon—unless it’s a desperate emergency. They listen on our frequencies. I know that for sure. Now see that mountain with the saddle in it? Kip, pay attention!”

  “Yes.” I had been staring at Earth. She was beautiful even in that shadow show in the control room—but I just hadn’t realized. There she was, so close I could almost touch her…and so far away that we might never get home. You can’t believe what a lovely planet we have, until you see her from outside…with clouds girdling her waist and polar cap set jauntily, like a spring hat. “Yes. I see the saddle.”

  “We head left of there, where you see a pass. Tim and Jock brought me through it in a crawler. Once we pick up its tracks it will be easy. But first we head for those near hills just left of that—that ought to keep this ship between us and the other ships while we get out of sight. I hope.”

>   It was twelve feet or so to the ground and I was prepared to jump, since it would be nothing much in that gravity. Peewee insisted on lowering me by rope. “You’ll fall over your feet. Look, Kip, listen to old Aunt Peewee. You don’t have Moon legs yet. It’s going to be like your first time on a bicycle.”

  So I let her lower me and the Mother Thing while she snubbed the nylon rope around the side of the lock. Then she jumped with no trouble. I started to loop up the line but she stopped me and snapped the other end to her belt, then touched helmets. “I’ll lead. If I go too fast or you need me, tug on the rope. I won’t be able to see you.”

  “Aye aye, Cap’n!”

  “Don’t make fun of me, Kip. This is serious.”

  “I wasn’t making fun, Peewee. You’re boss.”

  “Let’s go. Don’t look back, it won’t do any good and you might fall. I’m heading for those hills.”

  Chapter 6

  I should have relished the weird, romantic experience, but I was as busy as Eliza crossing the ice and the things snapping at my heels were worse than bloodhounds. I wanted to look back but I was too busy trying to stay on my feet. I couldn’t see my feet; I had to watch ahead and try to pick my footing—it kept me as busy as a lumberjack in a logrolling contest. I didn’t skid as the ground was rough—dust or fine sand over raw rock—and fifty pounds weight was enough for footing. But I had three hundred pounds mass not a whit reduced by lowered weight; this does things to lifelong reflex habits. I had to lean heavily for the slightest turn, lean back and dig in to slow down, lean far forward to speed up.

  I could have drawn a force diagram, but doing it is another matter. How long does it take a baby to learn to walk? This newborn Moon-baby was having to learn while making a forced march, half blind, at the greatest speed he could manage.

  So I didn’t have time to dwell on the wonder of it all.

  Peewee moved into a brisk pace and kept stepping it up. Every little while my leash tightened and I tried still harder to speed up and not fall down.

  The Mother Thing warbled at my spine: (“Are you all right, Kip? You seem worried.”)

  “I’m…all right! How…about…you?”

  (“I’m very comfortable. Don’t wear yourself out, dear.”)

  “Okay!”

  Oscar was doing his job. I began to sweat from exertion and naked Sun, but I didn’t kick the chin valve until I saw from my blood-color gauge that I was short on air. The system worked perfectly and the joints, under a four-pound pressure, gave no trouble; hours of practice in the pasture were paying off. Presently my one worry was to keep a sharp eye for rocks and ruts. We were into those low hills maybe twenty minutes after H-hour. Peewee’s first swerve as we reached rougher ground took me by surprise; I almost fell.

  She slowed down and crept forward into a gulch. A few moments later she stopped; I joined her and she touched helmets with me. “How are you doing?”

  “Okay.”

  “Mother Thing, can you hear me?”

  (“Yes, dear.”)

  “Are you comfortable? Can you breathe all right?”

  (“Yes, indeed. Our Kip is taking good care of me.”)

  “Good. You behave yourself, Mother Thing. Hear me?”

  (“I will, dear.”) Somehow she put an indulgent chuckle into a birdsong.

  “Speaking of breathing,” I said to Peewee, “let’s check your air.” I tried to look into her helmet.

  She pulled away, then touched again. “I’m all right!”

  “So you say.” I held her helmet with both hands, found I couldn’t see the dials—with sunlight around us, trying to see in was like peering into a well. “What does it read—and don’t fib.”

  “Don’t be nosy!”

  I turned her around and read her bottle gauges. One read zero; the other was almost full.

  I touched helmets. “Peewee,” I said slowly, “how many miles have we come?”

  “About three, I think. Why?”

  “Then we’ve got more than thirty to go?”

  “At least thirty-five. Kip, quit fretting. I know I’ve got one empty bottle; I shifted to the full one before we stopped.”

  “One bottle won’t take you thirty-five miles.”

  “Yes, it will…because it’s got to.”

  “Look, we’ve got plenty of air. I’ll figure a way to get it to you.” My mind was trotting in circles, thinking what tools were on my belt, what else I had.

  “Kip, you know you can’t hook those spare bottles to my suit—so shut up!”

  (“What’s the trouble, darlings? Why are you quarreling?”)

  “We aren’t fighting, Mother Thing. Kip is a worry wart.”

  (“Now, children—”)

  I said, “Peewee, I admit I can’t hook the spares into your suit…but I’ll jigger a way to recharge your bottle.”

  “But—How, Kip?”

  “Leave it to me. I’ll touch only the empty; if it doesn’t work, we’re no worse off. If it does, we’ve got it made.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Ten minutes with luck. Thirty without.”

  “No,” she decided.

  “Now, Peewee, don’t be sil—”

  “I’m not being silly! We aren’t safe until we get into the mountains. I can get that far. Then, when we no longer show up like a bug on a plate, we can rest and recharge my empty bottle.”

  It made sense. “All right.”

  “Can you go faster? If we reach the mountains before they miss us, I don’t think they’ll ever find us. If we don’t—”

  “I can go faster. Except for these pesky bottles.”

  “Oh.” She hesitated. “Do you want to throw one away?”

  “Huh? Oh, no, no! But they throw me off balance. I’ve just missed a tumble a dozen times. Peewee, can you retie them so they don’t swing?”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  I had them hung around my neck and down my front—not smart but I had been hurried. Now Peewee lashed them firmly, still in front as my own bottles and the Mother Thing were on my back—no doubt she was finding it as crowded as Dollar Day. Peewee passed clothesline under my belt and around the yoke. She touched helmets. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “Did you tie a square knot?”

  She pulled her helmet away. A minute later she touched helmets again. “It was a granny,” she admitted in a small voice, “but it’s a square knot now.”

  “Good. Tuck the ends in my belt so that I can’t trip, then we’ll mush. Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “I just wish I had salvaged my gum, old and tired as it was. My throat’s awful dry.”

  “Drink some water. Not too much.”

  “Kip! It’s not a nice joke.”

  I stared. “Peewee—your suit hasn’t any water?”

  “What? Don’t be silly.”

  My jaw dropped. “But, baby,” I said helplessly, “why didn’t you fill your tank before we left?”

  “What are you talking about? Does your suit have a water tank?”

  I couldn’t answer. Peewee’s suit was for tourists—for those “scenic walks amidst incomparable grandeur on the ancient face of the Moon” that the ads promised. Guided walks, of course, not over a half-hour at a time—they wouldn’t put in a water tank; some tourist might choke, or bite the nipple off and half drown in his helmet, or some silly thing. Besides, it was cheaper.

  I began to worry about other shortcomings that cheap-jack equipment might have—with Peewee’s life depending on it. “I’m sorry,” I said humbly. “Look, I’ll try to figure out some way to get water to you.”

  “I doubt if you can. I can’t die of thirst in the time it’ll take us to get there, so quit worrying. I’m all right. I just wish I had my bubble gum. Ready?”

  “Uh…ready.”

  The hills were hardly more than giant folds in lava; we were soon through them, even though we had to take it cautiously over the very rough ground. Beyond them the ground looked flatter than weste
rn Kansas, stretching out to a close horizon, with mountains sticking up beyond, glaring in the Sun and silhouetted against a black sky like cardboard cutouts. I tried to figure how far the horizon was, on a thousand-mile radius and a height of eye of six feet—and couldn’t do it in my head and wished for my slipstick. But it was awfully close, less than a mile.

  Peewee let me overtake her, touched helmets. “Okay, Kip? All right, Mother Thing?”

  “Sure.”

  (“All right, dear.”)

  “Kip, the course from the pass when they fetched me here was east eight degrees north. I heard them arguing and sneaked a peek at their map. So we go back west eight degrees south—that doesn’t count the jog to these hills but it’s close enough to find the pass. Okay?”

  “Sounds swell.” I was impressed. “Peewee, were you an Indian scout once? Or Davy Crockett?”

  “Pooh! Anybody can read a map”—she sounded pleased. “I want to check compasses. What bearing do you have on Earth?”

  I said silently: Oscar, you’ve let me down. I’ve been cussing her suit for not having water—and you don’t have a compass.

  (Oscar protested: “Hey, pal, that’s unfair! Why would I need a compass at Space Station Two? Nobody told me I was going to the Moon.”) I said, “Peewee, this suit is for space station work. What use is a compass in space? Nobody told me I was going to the Moon.”

  “But—Well, don’t stop to cry about it. You can get your directions by Earth.”

  “Why can’t I use your compass?”

  “Don’t be silly; it’s built into my helmet. Now just a moment—” She faced Earth, moved her helmet back and forth. Then she touched helmets again. “Earth is smacko on northwest…that makes the course fifty-three degrees left of there. Try to pick it out. Earth is two degrees wide, you know.”

  “I knew that before you were born.”

  “No doubt. Some people require a head start.”

  “Smart aleck!”

  “You were rude first!”

  “But—Sorry, Peewee. Let’s save the fights for later. I’ll spot you the first two bites.”

  “I won’t need them! You don’t know how nasty I can—”