He struggled for footing, felt the sand slip under him. He had time to see that he had been caught — in daylight! — by that lunar equivalent of quicksand, a morning glory. Then the sifting dust closed over his helmet.
He felt himself slip, slide, fall, slide again, and come softly to rest.
Bruce tried to get his bearings. Part of his mind was busy with horror, shock, and bitter self blame for having failed Sam; another part seemed able to drive ahead with the business at hand. He did not seem hurt — and he was still breathing. He supposed that he was buried in a morning glory; he suspected that any movement would bury him deeper.
Nevertheless he had to locate Sam. He felt his way up to his neck, pushing the soft flakes aside. The toboggan hitch was still on him. He got both hands on it and heaved. It was frustrating work, like swimming in mud. Gradually he dragged the sled to him — or himself to the sled. Presently he felt his way down the load and located Sam’s helmet. “Sam! Can you hear me?"
The reply was muffled. “Yeah, Bruce!"
“Are you okay?"
“Okay? Don’t be silly! We’re in a morning glory!"
“Yes, I know. Sam, I’m terribly sorry!"
“Well, don’t cry about it. It can’t be helped."
“I didn’t mean to —"
“Stow it, can’t you!" Sam’s voice concealed panic with anger. “It doesn’t matter. We’re goners — don’t you realize that?"
“Huh? No, we’re not! Sam, I’ll get you out — I swear I will."
Sam waited before replying. “Don’t kid yourself, Bruce. Nobody ever gets out of a morning glory."
“Don’t talk like that. We aren’t dead yet."
“No, but we’re going to be. I’m trying to get used to the idea." He paused. “Do me a favor, Bruce — get me loose from these confounded skis. I don’t want to die tied down."
“Right away!" In total darkness, his hands in gloves, with only memory to guide him, and with the soft, flaky dust everywhere, unlashing the load was nearly impossible. He shifted position, then suddenly noticed something — his left arm was free of the dust.
He shifted and got his helmet free as well. The darkness persisted; he fumbled at his belt, managed to locate his flashlight.
He was lying partly out and mostly in a sloping mass of soft stuff. Close overhead was a rocky roof; many feet below the pile spilled over a floor of rock. Sideways the darkness swallowed up the beam.
He still clutched the toboggan; he hauled at it, trying to drag Sam out. Failing, he burrowed back in. “Hey, Sam! We’re in a cave!"
“Huh?"
“Hang on. I’ll get you out." Bruce cautiously thrashed around in an attempt to get his entire body outside the dust. It kept caving down on him. Worse, his skis anchored his feet. He kicked one loose, snaked his arm in, and dragged it out. It slid to the base of the pile. He repeated the process, then rolled and scrambled to the floor, still clinging to the hitch.
He set the light on the rock floor, and put the skis aside, then heaved mightily. Sam, toboggan, and load came sliding down, starting a small avalanche. Bruce touched helmets. “Look! We’re getting somewhere!"
Sam did not answer. Bruce persisted, “Sam, did you hear me?"
“I heard you. Thanks for pulling me out. Now untie me, will you?"
“Hold the light." Bruce got busy. Shortly he was saying, “There you are. Now I’ll stir around and find the way out."
“What makes you think there is a way out?"
“Huh? Don’t talk like that. Who ever heard of a cave with no exit?"
Sam answered slowly, “He didn’t find one."
“Look." Sam shined the light past Bruce. On the rock a few feet away was a figure in an old-fashioned space suit.
Bruce took the light and cautiously approached the figure. The man was surely dead; his suit was limp. He lay at ease, hands folded across his middle, as if taking a nap. Bruce pointed the torch at the glass face plate. The face inside was lean and dark, skin clung to the bones; Bruce turned the light away.
He came back shortly to Sam. “He didn’t make out so well," Bruce said soberly. “I found these papers in his pouch. We’ll take them with us so we can let his folks know."
“You are an incurable optimist, aren’t you? Well, all right." Sam took them. There were two letters, an old-style flat photograph of a little girl and a dog, and some other papers. One was a driver’s license for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, dated June 1995 and signed Abner Green.
Bruce stared. “1995! Gee Whiz!"
“I wouldn’t count on notifying his folks."
Bruce changed the subject. “He had one thing we can use. This." It was a coil of manila rope. “I’ll hitch all the lines together, one end to your belt and one to mine. That’!! give me five or six hundred feet. If you want me, just pull."
“Okay. Watch your step."
“I’ll be careful. You’ll be all right?"
“Sure. I’ve got him for company."
“Well … here goes."
One direction seemed as good as another. Bruce kept the line taut to keep from walking in a circle. The rock curved up presently and his flash showed that it curved back on itself, a dead end. He followed the wall to the left, picking his way, as the going was very rough. He found himself in a passage. It seemed to climb, but it narrowed. Three hundred feet and more out by the ropes, it narrowed so much that he was stopped.
Bruce switched off his light and waited for his eyes to adjust. He became aware of a curious sensation. It was panic.
He forced himself not to turn on the light until he was certain that no gleam lay ahead. Then thankfully he stumbled back into the main cavern.
Another series of chambers led steadily downward. He turned back at a black and bottomless hole.
The details varied but the answers did not: At the furthest reach of the lines, or at some impassable obstacle, he would wait in the dark — but no gleam of light ever showed. He went back to Sam after having covered, he estimated, about 1800.
Sam had crawled up to the heap of fallen dust. Bruce hurried to him. “Sam, are you all right?"
“Sure. I just moved to a feather bed. That rock is terribly cold. What did you find?"
“Well, nothing yet," he admitted. He sat down in the flaky pile and leaned toward Sam. “I’ll start again in a moment."
“How’s your air supply?" asked Sam.
“Uh, I’ll have to crack my reserve bottle soon. How’s yours?"
“Mine is throttled to the limit. You’re doing all the work; I can save my reserve bottle for you — I think."
Bruce frowned. He wanted to protest, but the gesture wouldn’t make sense. They would have to finish up all even; naturally he was using much more air than was Sam.
One thing was sure — time was running out. Finally he said, “Look, Sam — there’s no end of those caves and passages. I couldn’t search them all with all the air in Luna City."
“I was afraid so."
“But we know there’s a way out right above us."
“You mean in."
“I mean out. See here — this morning glory thing is built like an hour glass; there’s an open cone on top, and this pile of sand down below. The stuff trickled down through a hole in the roof and piled up until it choked the hole."
“Where does that get you?"
“Well, if we dug the stuff away we could clear the hole."
“It would keep sifting down."
“No, it wouldn’t, it would reach a point where there wasn’t enough dust close by to sift down any further — there would still be a hole."
Sam considered it. “Maybe. But when you tried to climb up it would collapse back on you. That’s the bad part about a morning glory, Bruce; you can’t get a foothold."
“The dickens I can’t! If I can’t climb a slope on skis without collapsing it, when I’ve got my wits about me and am really trying, why, you can have my reserve air bottle."
Sam chuckled. “Don’t be hasty. I
might hold you to it. Anyhow," he added, “I can’t climb it."
“Once I get my feet on the level, I’ll pull you out like a cork, even if you’re buried. Time’s awastin’." Bruce got busy.
Using a ski as a shovel he nibbled at the giant pile. Every so often it would collapse down on him. It did not discourage him; Bruce knew that many yards of the stuff would have to fall and be moved back before the hole would show.
Presently he moved Sam over to the freshly moved waste. From there Sam held the light; the work went faster. Bruce began to sweat. After a while he had to switch air bottles; he sucked on his water tube and ate a march ration before getting back to work.
He began to see the hole opening above him. A great pile collapsed on him; he backed out, looked up, then went to Sam. “Turn out the light!"
There was no doubt; a glimmer of light filtered down. Bruce found himself pounding Sam and shouting. He stopped and said, “Sam, old boy, did lever say what patrol I’m from?"
“No. Why?"
“Badger Patrol. Watch me dig!" He tore into it. Shortly sunlight poured into the hole and reflected dimly around the cavern. Bruce shoveled until he could see a straight rise from the base of the pile clear to the edge of the morning glory high above them. He decided that the opening was wide enough to tackle.
He hitched himself to Sam with the full length of all the glass ropes and then made a bundle of Sam’s pack save air and water bottles, tied a bowline on Sam’s uninjured foot, using the manila line and secured the bundle to the end of that line. He planned to drag Sam out first, then the equipment. Finished, he bound on skis.
Bruce touched helmets. “This is it, pal. Keep the line clear of the sand."
Sam grabbed his arm. “Wait a minute."
“What’s the matter?"
“Bruce — if we don’t make it, I just want to say that you’re all right."
“Uh … oh, forget it. We’ll make it." He started up. A herringbone step suited the convex approach to the hole. As Bruce neared the opening he shifted to sidestep to fit the narrow passage and the concave shape of the morning glory above. He inched up, transferring his weight smoothly and gradually, and not remaining in one spot too long. At last his head, then his whole body, were in sunshine; he was starting up the morning glory itself.
He stopped, uncertain what to do. There was a ridge above him, where the flakes had broken loose when he had shoveled away their support. The break was much too steep to climb, obviously unstable. He paused only a moment as he could feel his skis sinking in; he went forward in half sidestep, intending to traverse past the unstable formation.
The tow line defeated him. When Bruce moved sideways, the line had to turn a corner at the neck of the hole. It brushed and then cut into the soft stuff. Bruce felt his skis slipping backwards; with cautious haste he started to climb, tried to ride the slipping mass and keep above it. He struggled as the flakes poured over his skis. Then he was fouled, he went down, it engulfed him.
Again he came to rest in soft, feathery, darkness. He lay quiet, nursing his defeat, before trying to get out. He hardly knew which way was up, much less which way was out. He was struggling experimentally when he felt a tug on his belt. Sam was trying to help him.
A few minutes later, with Sam’s pull to guide him, Bruce was again on the floor of the cave. The only light came from the torch in Sam’s hand; it was enough to show that the pile choking the hole was bigger than ever.
Sam motioned him over. “Too bad, Bruce," was all he said. Bruce controlled his choking voice to say, “I’ll get busy as soon as I catch my breath."
“Where’s your left ski?"
“Huh? Oh! Must have pulled off. It’ll show up when I start digging."
“Hmmm … how much air have you?"
“Uh?" Bruce looked at his belt. “About a third of a bottle."
“I’m breathing my socks. I’ve got to change."
“Right away!" Bruce started to make the switch; Sam pulled him down again.
“You take the fresh bottle, and give me your bottle."
“But —"
“No 'buts’ about it," Sam cut him off. “You have to do all the work; you’ve got to take the full tank."
Silently Bruce obeyed. His mind was busy with arithmetic. The answer always came out the same; he knew with certainty that there was not enough air left to permit him again to perform the Herculean task of moving that mountain of dust.
He began to believe that they would never get out. The knowledge wearied him; he wanted to lie down beside the still form of Abner Green and, like him, not struggle at the end.
However he could not. He knew that, for Sam’s sake, he would have to shovel away at that endless sea of sand, until he dropped from lack of oxygen. Listlessly he took off his remaining ski and walked toward his task.
Sam jerked on the rope.
Bruce went back. “What’s got into you, kid?" Sam demanded.
“Nothing. Why?"
“It’s got you whipped."
“I didn’t say so."
“But you think so. I could see it. Now you listen! You convinced me that you could get us out — and, by Jimmy! you’re going to! You’re just cocky enough to be the first guy to whip a morning glory and you can do it. Get your chin up!"
Bruce hesitated. “Look, Sam, I won’t quit on you, but you might as well know the truth: there isn’t air enough to do it again."
“Figured that out when I saw the stuff start to crumble."
“You knew? Then if you know any prayers, better say them."
Sam shook his arm. “It’s not time to pray; it’s time to get busy."
“Okay." Bruce started to straighten up.
“That’s not what I meant."
“Huh?"
“There’s no point in digging. Once was worth trying; twice is wasting oxygen."
“Well, what do you want me to do?"
“You didn’t try all the ways out, did you?"
“No." Bruce thought about it. “I’ll try again, Sam. But there isn’t air enough to try them all."
“You can search longer than you can shovel. But don’t search haphazardly; search back toward the hills. Anywhere else will be just another morning glory; we need to come out at the hills; away from the sand."
“Uh… look, Sam, where are the hills? Down here you can’t tell north from next week."
“Over that way," Sam pointed.
“Huh? How do you know? “
“You showed me. When you broke through I could tell where the Sun was from the angle of the light."
“But the Sun is overhead."
“Was when we started. Now it’s fifteen, twenty degrees to the west. Now listen: these caves must have been big blow holes once, gas pockets. You search off in that direction and find us a blow hole that’s not choked with sand."
“I’ll do my darndest!"
“How far away were the hills when we got caught?"
Bruce tried to remember. “Half a mile, maybe. “
“Check. You won’t find what we want tied to me with five or six hundred feet of line. Take that pad of paper in my pouch. Blaze your way — and be darn sure you blaze enough!"
"I will!"
“Attaboy! Good luck."
Bruce stood up.
It was the same tedious, depressing business as before. Bruce stretched the line, then set out at the end of it, dropping bits of paper and counting his steps. Several times he was sure that he was under the hills, only to come to an impasse. Twice he skirted the heaps that marked other morning glorys. Each time he retraced his steps he gathered up his blazes, both to save paper and to keep from confusing himself.
Once, he saw a glimmer of light and his heart pounded — but it filtered down from a hole too difficult even for himself and utterly impossible for Sam.
His air got low; he paid no attention, other than to adjust his mix to keep it barely in the white. He went on searching.
A passage led to the left, then down; he began t
o doubt the wisdom of going further and stopped to check the darkness. At first his eyes saw nothing, then it seemed as if there might be a suggestion of light ahead. Eye fatigue? Possibly. He went another hundred feet and tried again. It was light!
Minutes later he shoved his shoulders up through a twisted hole and gazed out over the burning plain.
“Hi!" Sam greeted him. “I thought you had fallen down a hole."
“Darn near did. Sam, I found it!"
“Knew you would. Let’s get going."
“Right. I’ll dig out my other ski."
“Nope."
“Why not?"
“Look at your air gauge. We aren’t going anywhere on skis."
“Huh? Yeah, I guess not." They abandoned their loads, except for air and water bottles. The dark trek was made piggy-back, where the ceiling permitted. Some places Bruce half dragged his partner. Other places they threaded on hands and knees with Sam pulling his bad leg painfully behind him.
Bruce climbed out first, having slung Sam in a bowline before he did so. Sam gave little help in getting out; once they were above ground Bruce picked him up and set him against a rock. He then touched helmets. “There, fellow! We made it!"
Sam did not answer.
Bruce peered in; Sam’s features were slack, eyes half closed. A check of his belt told why; the blood-oxygen indicator showed red.
Sam’s intake valve was already wide open; Bruce moved fast, giving himself a quick shot of air, then transferring his bottle to Sam. He opened it wide.
He could see Sam’s pointer crawl up even as his own dropped toward the red. Bruce had air in his suit for three or four minutes if he held still.
He did not hold still. He hooked his intake hose to the manifold of the single bottle now attached to Sam’s suit and opened his valve. His own indicator stopped dropping toward the red. They were Siamese twins now, linked by one partly-exhausted bottle of utterly necessary gas. Bruce put an arm around Sam, settled Sam’s head on his shoulder, helmet to helmet, and throttled down both valves until each was barely in the white. He gave Sam more margin than himself, then settled down to wait. The rock under them was in shadow, though the Sun still baked the plain. Bruce looked out, searching for anyone or anything, then extended his aerial. “M’aidez!" he called. “Help us! We’re lost."
Off The Main Sequence Page 64
