“You’re telling me!”
Just beyond the outermost burst panel, I found her. She had sunk forward, as if too tired to go on. Her arms stretched in front of her and, on the floor of the tunnel not quite touched by her tiny fingers, was a small round box about the size ladies keep powder in on dressing tables.
Her face was composed and her eyes were open except that nictitating membranes were drawn across as they had been when I had first seen her in the pasture back of our house, a few days or weeks or a thousand years ago. But she had been hurt then and looked it; now I half expected her to draw back those inner lids and sing a welcome.
I touched her.
She was hard as ice and much colder.
I blinked back tears and wasted not a moment. She wanted that little box placed a hundred yards out on the causeway and the bump on top twisted—and she wanted it done in the next six or seven minutes. I scooped it up. “Righto, Mother Thing! On my way!”
(“Get cracking, chum!”)
(“Thank you, dear Kip…”)
I don’t believe in ghosts. I had heard her sing thank-you so many times that the notes echoed in my head.
A few feet away at the mouth of the tunnel, I stopped. The wind hit me and was so cold that the deathly chill in the tunnel seemed summery. I closed my eyes and counted thirty seconds to give time to adjust to starlight while I fumbled on the windward side of the tunnel at a slanting strut that anchored the causeway to the mountain, tied my safety line by passing it around the strut and snapping it back on itself. I had known that it was night outside and I expected the causeway to stand out as a black ribbon against the white “snow” glittering under a skyful of stars. I thought I would be safer on that windswept way if I could see its edges—which I couldn’t by headlamp unless I kept swinging my shoulders back and forth—clumsy and likely to throw me off balance or slow me down.
I had figured this carefully; I didn’t regard this as a stroll in the garden—not at night, not on Pluto! So I counted thirty seconds and tied my line while waiting for eyes to adjust to starlight. I opened them.
And I couldn’t see a darned thing!
Not a star. Not even the difference between sky and ground. My back was to the tunnel and the helmet shaded my face like a sunbonnet; I should have been able to see the walkway. Nothing.
I turned the helmet and saw something that accounted both for black sky and the quake we had felt—an active volcano. It may have been five miles away or fifty, but I could not doubt what it was—a jagged, angry red scar low in the sky.
But I didn’t stop to stare. I switched on the headlamp, splashed it on the righthand windward edge, and started a clumsy trot, keeping close to that side, so that if I stumbled I would have the entire road to recover in before the wind could sweep me off. That wind scared me. I kept the line coiled in my left hand and paid it out as I went, keeping it fairly taut. The coil felt stiff in my fingers.
The wind not only frightened me, it hurt. It was a cold so intense that it felt like flame. It burned and blasted, then numbed. My right side, getting the brunt of it, began to go and then my left side hurt more than the right.
I could no longer feel the line. I stopped, leaned forward and got the coil in the light from the headlamp—that’s another thing that needs fixing! the headlamp should swivel.
The coil was half gone, I had come a good fifty yards. I was depending on the rope to tell me; it was a hundred-meter climbing line, so when I neared its end I would be as far out as the Mother Thing had wanted. Hurry, Kip!
(“Get cracking, boy! It’s cold out here.”)
I stopped again. Did I have the box?
I couldn’t feel it. But the headlamp showed my right hand clutched around it. Stay there, fingers! I hurried on, counting steps. One! Two! Three! Four!…
When I reached forty I stopped and glanced over the edge, saw that I was at the highest part where the road crossed the brook and remembered that it was about midway. That brook—methane, was it?—was frozen solid, and I knew that the night was cold.
There were a few loops of line on my left arm—close enough. I dropped the line, moved cautiously to the middle of the way, eased to my knees and left hand, and started to put the box down.
My fingers wouldn’t unbend.
I forced them with my left hand, got the box out of my fist. That diabolical wind caught it and I barely saved it from rolling away. With both hands I set it carefully upright.
(“Work your fingers, bud. Pound your hands together!” )
I did so. I could tighten the muscles of my forearms, though it was tearing agony to flex fingers. Clumsily steadying the box with my left hand, I groped for the little knob on top.
I couldn’t feel it but it turned easily once I managed to close my fingers on it; I could see it turn.
It seemed to come to life, to purr. Perhaps I heard vibration, through gloves and up my suit; I certainly couldn’t have felt it, not the shape my fingers were in. I hastily let go, got awkwardly to my feet and backed up, so that I could splash the headlamp on it without leaning over.
I was through, the Mother Thing’s job was done, and (I hoped) before deadline. If I had had as much sense as the ordinary doorknob, I would have turned and hurried into the tunnel faster than I had come out.
But I was fascinated by what it was doing.
It seemed to shake itself and three spidery little legs grew out the bottom. It raised up until it was standing on its own little tripod, about a foot high. It shook itself again and I thought the wind would blow it over. But the spidery legs splayed out, seemed to bite into the road surface and it was rock firm.
Something lifted and unfolded out the top.
It opened like a flower, until it was about eight inches across. A finger lifted (an antenna?), swung as if hunting, steadied and pointed at the sky.
Then the beacon switched on. I’m sure that is what happened although all I saw was a flash of light—parasitic it must have been, for light alone would not have served even without that volcanic overcast. It was probably some harmless side effect of switching on an enormous pulse of power, something the Mother Thing hadn’t had time, or perhaps equipment or materials, to eliminate or shield. It was about as bright as a peanut photoflash.
But I was looking at it. Polarizers can’t work that fast. It blinded me.
I thought my headlamp had gone out, then I realized that I simply couldn’t see through a big greenish-purple disc of dazzle.
(“Take it easy, boy. It’s just an after-image. Wait and it’ll go away.”)
“I can’t wait! I’m freezing to death!”
(“Hook the line with your forearm, where it’s clipped to your belt. Pull on it.”)
I did as Oscar told me, found the line, turned around, started to wind it on both forearms.
It shattered.
It did not break as you expect rope to break; it shattered like glass. I suppose that is what it was by then—glass, I mean. Nylon and glass are super-cooled liquids.
Now I know what “super-cooled” means.
But all I knew then was that my last link with life had gone. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear, I was all alone on a bare platform, billions of miles from home, and a wind out of the depths of a frozen hell was bleeding the last life out of a body I could barely feel—and where I could feel, it hurt like fire.
“Oscar!”
(“I’m here, bud. You can make it. Now—can you see anything?”)
“No!”
(“Look for the mouth of the tunnel. It’s got light in it. Switch off your headlamp. Sure, you can—it’s just a toggle switch. Drag your hand back across the right side of our helmet.”)
I did.
(“See anything?”)
“Not yet.”
(“Move your head. Try to catch it in the corner of your eye—the dazzle stays in front, you know. Well?”)
“I caught something that time!”
(“Reddish, wasn’t it? Jagged, too. The volcano. N
ow we know which way we’re facing. Turn slowly and catch the mouth of the tunnel as it goes by.”)
Slowly was the only way I could turn. “There it is!”
(“Okay, you’re headed home. Get down on your hands and knees and crab slowly to your left. Don’t turn—because you want to hang onto that edge and crawl. Crawl toward the tunnel.”)
I got down. I couldn’t feel the surface with my hands but I felt pressure on my limbs, as if all four were artificial. I found the edge when my left hand slipped over it and I almost fell off. But I recovered. “Am I headed right?”
(“Sure you are. You haven’t turned. You’ve just moved sideways. Can you lift your head to see the tunnel?”)
“Uh, not without standing up.”
(“Don’t do that! Try the headlamp again. Maybe your eyes are okay now.”)
I dragged my hand forward against the right side of the helmet. I must have hit the switch, for suddenly I saw a circle of light, blurred and cloudy in the middle. The edge of the walkway sliced it on the left.
(“Good boy! No, don’t get up; you’re weak and dizzy and likely to fall. Start crawling. Count ’em. Three hundred ought to do it.”)
I started crawling, counting.
“It’s a long way, Oscar. You think we can make it?”
(“Of course we can! You think I want to be left out here?”)
“I’d be with you.”
(“Knock off the chatter. You’ll make me lose count. Thirty-six…thirty-seven…thirty-eight—”)
We crawled.
(“That’s a hundred. Now we double it. Hundred one…hundred two…hundred three—”)
“I’m feeling better, Oscar. I think it’s getting warmer.”
(“WHAT!”)
“I said I’m feeling a little warmer.”
(“You’re not warmer, you blistering idiot! That’s freeze-to-death you’re feeling! Crawl faster! Work your chin valve. Get more air. Le’ me hear that chin valve click!”)
I was too tired to argue; I chinned the valve three or four times, felt a blast blistering my face.
(“I’m stepping up the stroke. Warmer indeed! Hund’d nine…hund’d ten…hun’leven…hun’twelve—pick it up!”)
At two hundred I said I would just have to rest.
(“No, you don’t!”)
“But I’ve got to. Just a little while.”
(“Like that, uh? You know what happens. What’s Peewee goin’ to do? She’s in there, waiting. She’s already scared because you’re late. What’s she goin’ to do? Answer me!”)
“Uh…she’s going to try to wear Tim’s suit.”
(“Right! In case of duplicate answers the prize goes to the one postmarked first. How far will she get? You tell me.”)
“Uh…to the mouth of the tunnel, I guess. Then the wind will get her.”
(“My opinion exactly. Then we’ll have the whole family together. You, me, the Mother Thing, Peewee. Cozy. A family of stiffs.”)
“But—”
(“So start slugging, brother. Slug…slug…slug…slug…tw’und’d five…two’und’d six…tw’und’d sev’n—”)
I don’t remember falling off. I don’t even know what that “snow” felt like. I just remember being glad that the dreadful counting was over and I could rest.
But Oscar wouldn’t let me. (“Kip! Kip! Get up! Climb back on the straight and narrow.”)
“Go way.”
(“I can’t go away. I wish I could. Right in front of you. Grab the edge and scramble up. It’s only a little farther now.”)
I managed to raise my head, saw the edge of the walkway in the light of my headlamp about two feet above my head. I sank back. “It’s too high,” I said listlessly. “Oscar, I think we’ve had it.”
He snorted. (“So? Who was it, just the other day, cussed out a little bitty girl who was too tired to get up? ‘Commander Comet,’ wasn’t it? Did I get the name right? The ‘Scourge of the Spaceways’…the no-good lazy sky tramp. ‘Have Space Suit—Will Travel.’ Before you go to sleep, Commander, can I have your autograph? I’ve never met a real live space pirate before…one that goes around hijacking ships and kidnapping little girls.”)
“That’s not fair!”
(“Okay, okay, I know when I’m not wanted. But just one thing before I leave: she’s got more guts in her little finger than you have in your whole body—you lying, fat, lazy swine! Good-bye. Don’t wait up.”)
“Oscar! Don’t leave me!”
(“Eh? You want help?”)
“Yes!”
(“Well, if it’s too high to reach, grab your hammer and hook it over the edge. Pull yourself up.”) I blinked. Maybe it would work. I reached down, decided I had the hammer even though I couldn’t feel it, got it loose. Using both hands I hooked it over the edge above me. I pulled.
That silly hammer broke just like the line. Tool steel—and it went to pieces as if it had been cast out of type slugs.
That made me mad. I heaved myself to a sitting position, got both elbows on the edge, and struggled and groaned and burst into fiery sweat—and rolled over onto the road surface.
(“That’s my boy! Never mind counting, just crawl toward the light!”)
The tunnel wavered in front of me. I couldn’t get my breath, so I kicked the chin valve.
Nothing happened.
“Oscar! The chin valve is stuck!” I tried again.
Oscar was very slow in answering. (“No, pal, the valve isn’t stuck. Your air hoses have frozen up. I guess that last batch wasn’t as dry as it could have been.”)
“I haven’t any air!”
Again he was slow. But he answered firmly, (“Yes, you have. You’ve got a whole suit full. Plenty for the few feet left.”)
“I’ll never make it.”
(“A few feet, only. There’s the Mother Thing, right ahead of you. Keep moving.”)
I raised my head and, sure enough, there she was. I kept crawling, while she got bigger and bigger. Finally I said, “Oscar…this is as far as I go.”
(“I’m afraid it is. I’ve let you down…but thanks for not leaving me outside there.”)
“You didn’t let me down…you were swell. I just didn’t quite make it.”
(“I guess we both didn’t quite make it…but we sure let ’em know that we tried! So long, partner.”)
“So long. ¡Hasta la vista, amigo!” I managed to crawl two short steps and collapsed with my head near the Mother Thing’s head.
She was smiling. (“Hello, Kip my son.”)
“I didn’t…quite make it, Mother Thing. I’m sorry.”
(“Oh, but you did make it!”)
“Huh?”
(“Between us, we’ve both made it.”)
I thought about that for a long time. “And Oscar.”
(“And Oscar, of course.”)
“And Peewee.”
(“And always Peewee. We’ve all made it. Now we can rest, dear.”)
“G’night… Mother Thing.”
It was a darn short rest. I was just closing my eyes, feeling warm and happy that the Mother Thing thought that I had done all right—when Peewee started shaking my shoulder. She touched helmets. “Kip! Kip! Get up. Please get up.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Because I can’t carry you! I tried, but I can’t do it. You’re just too big!”
I considered it. Of course she couldn’t carry me—where did she get the silly notion that she could? I was twice her size. I’d carry her…just as soon as I caught my breath.
“Kip! Please get up.” She was crying now, blubbering.
“Why, sure, honey,” I said gently, “if that’s what you want.” I tried and had a clumsy bad time of it. She almost picked me up, she helped a lot. Once up, she steadied me.
“Turn around. Walk.”
She almost did carry me. She got her shoulders under my right arm and kept pushing. Every time we came to one of those blown-out panels she either helped me step over, or simply pushed me through and helped me up ag
ain.
At last we were in the lock and she was bleeding air from inside to fill it. She had to let go of me and I sank down. She turned when the inner door opened, started to say something—then got my helmet off in a hurry.
I took a deep breath and got very dizzy and the lights dimmed.
She was looking at me. “You all right now?”
“Me? Sure! Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Let me help you inside.”
I couldn’t see why, but she did help and I needed it. She sat me on the floor near the door with my back to the wall—I didn’t want to lie down. “Kip, I was so scared!”
“Why?” I couldn’t see what she was worried about. Hadn’t the Mother Thing said that we had all done all right?
“Well, I was. I shouldn’t have let you go out.”
“But the beacon had to be set.”
“Oh, but—You set it?”
“Of course. The Mother Thing was pleased.”
“I’m sure she would have been,” she said gravely.
“She was.”
“Can I do anything? Can I help you out of your suit?”
“Uh…no, not yet. Could you find me a drink of water?”
“Right away!”
She came back and held it for me—I wasn’t as thirsty as I had thought; it made me a bit ill. She watched me for some time, then said, “Do you mind if I’m gone a little while? Will you be all right?”
“Me? Certainly.” I didn’t feel well, I was beginning to hurt, but there wasn’t anything she could do.
“I won’t be long.” She began clamping her helmet and I noticed with detached interest that she was wearing her own suit—somehow I had had the impression that she had been wearing Tim’s.
I saw her head for the lock and realized where she was going and why. I wanted to tell her that the Mother Thing would rather not be inside here, where she might…where she might—I didn’t want to say “spoil” even to myself.
But Peewee was gone.
I don’t think she was away more than five minutes. I had closed my eyes and I am not sure. I noticed the inner door open. Through it stepped Peewee, carrying the Mother Thing in her arms like a long piece of firewood. She didn’t bend at all.
Peewee put the Mother Thing on the floor in the same position I had last seen her, then unclamped her helmet and bawled.
Have Space Suit—Will Travel Page 15
