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, Cocoa, 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-colour 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 quarrelling?")
"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 time
s. 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 cheapjack 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 western 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 Crocket?"
"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..."
"I have some idea."
("Children! Children!")
"I'm sorry, Peewee."
"So am I. I'm edgy. I wish we were there."
"So do I. Let me figure the course." I counted degrees using Earth as a yardstick. I marked a place by eye, then tried again judging fifty-three degrees as a proportion of ninety. The results didn't agree, so I tried to spot some stars to help me. They say you can see stars from the Moon even when the Sun is in the sky. Well, you can—but not easily. I had the Sun over my shoulder but was facing Earth, almost three-quarters full, and had the dazzling ground glare as well. The polarizer cut down the glare and cut out the stars, too.
So I split my guesses and marked the spot. "Peewee? See that sharp peak with sort of a chin on its left profile? That ought to be the course, pretty near."
"Let me check." She tried it by compass, then touched helmets. "Nice going, Kip. Three degrees to the right and you've got it."
I felt smug. "Shall we get moving?"
"Right. We go through the pass, then Tombaugh Station is due west."
It was about ten miles to the mountains; we made short work of it. You can make time on the Moon—if it is flat and if you can keep your balance. Peewee kept stepping it up until we were almost flying, long low strides that covered ground like an ostrich—and, do you know, it's easier fast than slow. The only hazard, after I got the hang of it, was landing on a rock or hole or something and tripping. But that was hazard enough because I couldn't pick my footing at that speed. I wasn't afraid of falling; I felt certain that Oscar could take the punishment. But suppose I landed on my back? Probably smash the Mother Thing to jelly.
I was worried about Peewee, too. That cut-rate tourist suit wasn't as rugged as Oscar. I've read about explosive decompression—I never want to see it. Especially not a little girl. But I didn't dare use radio to warn her even though we were probably shielded from Wormface—and if I tugged on my leash I might make her fall.
The plain started to rise and Peewee let it slow us down. Presently we were walking, then we were climbing a scree slope. I stumbled but landed on my hands and got up—one-sixth gravity has advantages as well as hazards. We reached the top and Peewee led us into a pocket in the rocks. She stopped and touched helmets. "Anybody home? You two all right?"
("All right, dear.")
"Sure," I agreed. "A little winded, maybe." That was an understatement but if Peewee could take it, I could.
"We can rest," she answered, "and take it easy from here on. I wanted to get us out of the open as fast as possible. They'll never find us here."
I thought she was right. A wormface ship flying over might spot us, if they could see down as well as up-probably just a matter of touching a control. But our chances were better now. "This is the time to recharge your empty bottle."
Okay."
None too soon—the bottle which had been almost full had dropped by a third, more like half. She couldn't make it to Tombaugh Station on that—simple arithmetic. So I crossed my fingers and got to work. "Partner, will you untie this cat's cradle?"
While Peewee fumbled at knots, I started to take a drink—then stopped, ashamed of myself. Peewee must be chewing her tongue to work up saliva by now—and I hadn't been able to think of any way to get water to her. The tank was inside my helmet and there was no way to reach it without making me—and Mother Thing —dead in the process.
If I ever lived to be an engineer I'd correct that!
I decided that it was idiotic not to drink because she couldn't; the lives of all of us might depend on my staying in the best condition I could manage. So I drank and ate three malted milk tablets and a salt tablet, then had another drink. It helped a lot but I hoped Peewee hadn't noticed. She was busy unwinding clothesline anyhow it was hard to see into a helmet.
> I took Peewee's empty bottle off her back, making darn sure to close her outside stop valve first—there's supposed to be a one-way valve where an air hose enters a helmet but I no longer trusted her suit; it might have more cost-saving shortcomings. I laid the empty on the ground by a full one, looked at, straightened up and touched helmets. "Peewee, disconnect the bottle on the left side of my back."
"Why, Kip?"
"Who's doing this job?" I had a reason but was afraid she might argue. My lefthand bottle held pure oxygen; the others were oxy-helium. It was full, except for a few minutes of fiddling last night in Centerville. Since I couldn't possibly give her bottle a full charge, the next best thing was to give her a half-charge of straight oxygen.
She shut up and removed it.
I set about trying to transfer pressure between bottles whose connections didn't match. There was no way to do it properly, short of tools a quarter of a million miles away—or over in Tombaugh Station which was just as bad. But I did have adhesive tape.
Oscar's manual called for two first-aid kits. I didn't know what was supposed to be in them; the manual had simply given USAF stock numbers. I hadn't been able to guess what would be useful in an outside kit—a hypodermic needle, maybe, sharp enough to stab through and give a man morphine when he needed it terribly. But since I didn't know, I had stocked inside and outside with bandage, dressings, and a spool of surgical tape.
I was betting on the tape.
I butted the mismatched hose connections together, tore off a scrap of bandage and wrapped it around the junction—I didn't want sticky stuff on the joint; it could foul the operation on a suit. Then I taped the junction, wrapping tightly, working very painstakingly and taping three inches on each side as well as around the joint—if tape could restrain that pressure a few moments, there would still be one deuce of a force trying to drag that joint apart. I didn't want it to pull apart at the first jolt. I used the entire roll.
I motioned Peewee to touch helmets. "I'm about to open the full bottle. The valve on the empty is already open. When you see me start to close the valve on the full one, you close the other one—fast! Got it?"
Have Space Suit - Will Travel Page 8
