Have Space Suit - Will Travel

by Robert A. Heinlein

  "Close the valve when you do, quickly. Roger."

  "Stand by. Get your hand on the valve." I grabbed that lump of bandaged joint in one fist, squeezed as hard as I could, and put my other hand on the valve. If that joint let go, maybe my hand would go with it—but if the stunt failed, little Peewee didn't have long to live. So I really gripped.

  Watching both gauges, I barely cracked the valve. The hose quivered; the needle gauge that read "empty" twitched. I opened the valve wide.

  One needle swung left, the other right. Quickly they approached half-charge. "Now!" I yelled uselessly and started closing the valve.

  And felt that patchwork joint start to give.

  The hoses squeezed out of my fist but we lost only a fraction of gas. I found that I was trying to close a valve that was closed tight. Peewee had hers closed. The gauges each showed just short of half full—there was air for Peewee.

  I sighed and found I had been holding my breath.

  Peewee put her helmet against mine and said very soberly, "Thanks, Kip."

  "Charton Drugs service, ma'am—no tip necessary. Let me tidy this mess, you can tie me and we'll go.

  "You won't have to carry but one extra bottle now."

  "Wrong, Peewee. We may do this stunt five or six times until there's only a whisper left"—or until the tape wears out, I added to myself. The first thing I did was to rewrap the tape on its spool—and if you think that is easy, wearing gloves and with the adhesive drying out as fast as you wind it, try it.

  In spite of the bandage, sticky stuff had smeared the connections when the hoses parted. But it dried so hard that it chipped off the bayonet-and-snap joint easily. I didn't worry about the screw-thread joint; I didn't expect to use it on a suit. We mounted Peewee's recharged bottle and I warned her that it was straight oxygen. "Cut your pressure and feed from both bottles. What's your blood colour reading?"

  "I've been carrying it low on purpose."

  "Idiot! You want to keel over? Kick your chin valve! Get into normal range!"

  We mounted one bottle I had swiped on my back, tied the other and the oxy bottle on my front, and were on our way.

  Earth mountains are predictable; lunar mountains aren't, they've never been shaped by water. We came to a hole too steep to go down other than by rope and a wall beyond I wasn't sure we could climb. With pitons and snap rings and no space suits it wouldn't have been hard in the Rockies—but not the way we were. Peewee reluctantly led us back. The scree slope was worse going down—I backed down on hands and knees, with Peewee belaying the line above me. I wanted to be a hero and belay for her—we had a brisk argument. "Oh, quit being big and male and gallantly stupid, Kip! You've got four big bottles and the Mother Thing and you're topheavy and I climb like a goat."

  I shut up.

  At the bottom she touched helmets. "Kip," she said worriedly, "I don't know what to do."

  "What's the trouble?"

  "I kept a little south of where the crawler came through. I wanted to avoid crossing right where the crawler crossed. But I'm beginning to think there isn't any other way."

  "I wish you had told me before."

  "But I didn't want them to find us! The way the crawler came is the first place they'll look."

  "Mmm . . . yes." I looked up at the range that blocked us. In pictures, the mountains of the Moon look high and sharp and rugged; framed by the lens of a space suit they look simply impossible.

  I touched helmets again. "We might find another way —if we had time and air and the resources of a major expedition. We've got to take the route the crawler did. Which way?"

  "A little way north... I think."

  We tried to work north along the foothills but it was slow and difficult. Finally we backed off to the edge of the plain. It made us jumpy but it was a chance we had to take. We walked, briskly but not running, for we didn't dare miss the crawler's tracks. I counted paces and when I reached a thousand I tugged the line; Peewee stopped and we touched helmets. "We've come half a mile. How much farther do you think it is? Or could it possibly be behind us?"

  Peewee looked up at the mountains. "I don't know," she admitted. "Everything looks different."

  "We're lost?"

  "Uh... it ought to be ahead somewhere. But we've come pretty far. Do you want to turn around?"

  "Peewee, I don't even know the way to the post office."

  "But what should we do?"

  "I think we ought to keep going until you are absolutely certain the pass can't be any farther. You watch for the pass and I'll watch for crawler tracks. Then, when you're certain that we've come too far, we'll turn back. We can't afford to make short casts like a dog trying to pick up a rabbit's scent."

  "All right."

  I had counted two thousand more paces, another mile when Peewee stopped. "Kip? It can't be ahead of us. The mountains are higher and solider than ever."

  "You're sure? Think hard. Better to go another five miles than to stop too short."

  She hesitated. She had her face pushed up close to her lens while we touched helmets and I could see her frown. Finally she said, "It's not up ahead, Kip."

  "That settles it. To the rear, march! 'Lay on, Macduff, and curs'd be him who first cries, "Hold, enough!" ' "

  "King Lear."

  "Macbeth. Want to bet?"

  Those tracks were only half a mile behind us—I had missed them. They were on bare rock with only the lightest covering of dust; the Sun had been over my shoulder when we first crossed them, and the caterpillar-tread marks hardly showed—I almost missed them going back.

  They led off the plain and straight up into the mountains.

  We couldn't possibly have crossed those mountains without following the crawler's trail; Peewee had had the optimism of a child. It wasn't a road; it was just something a crawler on caterpillar treads could travel. We saw places that even a crawler hadn't been able to go until whoever pioneered it set a whopping big blast, backed off and waited for a chunk of mountain to get out of the way. I doubt if Skinny and Fatty carved that goat's path; they didn't look fond of hard work. Probably one of the exploration parties. If Peewee and I had attempted to break a new trail, we'd be there yet, relics for tourists of future generations.

  But where a tread vehicle can go, a man can climb. It was no picnic; it was trudge, trudge, trudge, up and up and up—watch for loose rock and mind where you put your feet. Sometimes we belayed with the line. Nevertheless it was mostly just tedious.

  When Peewee had used that half-charge of oxygen, we stopped and I equalized pressures again, this time being able to give her only a quarter-charge—like Achilles and the tortoise, I could go on indefinitely giving her half of what was left—if the tape held out. It was in bad shape but the pressure was only half as great and I managed to keep the hoses together until we closed valves.

  I should say that I had it fairly easy. I had water, food pills, dexedrine. The last was enormous help, any time I felt fagged I borrowed energy with a pep-pill. Poor Peewee had nothing but air and courage.

  She didn't even have the cooling I had. Since she was on a richer mix, one bottle being pure oxygen, it did not take as much flow to keep up her blood—colour index-and I warned her not to use a bit more than necessary; she could not afford air for cooling, she had to save it to breathe.

  "I know, Kip," she answered pettishly. "I've got the needle jiggling the red light right now. Think I'm a fool?"

  "I just want to keep you alive."

  "All right, but quit treating me as a child. You put one foot in front of the other. I'll make it."

  "Sure you will!"

  As for Mother Thing she always said she was all right and she was breathing the air I had (a trifle used), but I didn't know what was hardship to her. Hanging by his heels all day would kill a man; to a bat it is a nice rest—yet bats are our cousins.

  I talked with her as we climbed. It didn't matter what; her songs had the effect on me that it has to have your own gang cheering. Poor Peewee didn't ev
en have that comfort, except when we stopped and touched helmets —we still weren't using radio; even in the mountains we were fearful of attracting attention.

  We stopped again and I gave Peewee one-eighth of a charge. The tape was in very poor shape afterwards; I doubted if it would serve again. I said, "Peewee, why don't you run your oxy-helium bottle dry while I carry this one? It'll save your strength."

  "I'm all right."

  "Well, you won't use air so fast with a lighter load."

  "You have to have your arms free. Suppose you slip?"

  "Peewee, I won't carry it in my arms. My right-hand backpack bottle is empty; I'll chuck it. Help me make the change and I'll still be carrying only four—just balanced evenly."

  "Sure, I'll help. But I'll carry two bottles. Honest, Kip, the weight isn't anything. But if I run the oxy-helium bottle dry, what would I breathe while you're giving me my next charge?"

  I didn't want to tell her that I had doubts about another charge, even in those ever smaller amounts. "Okay, Peewee. '

  She changed bottles for me; we threw the dead one down a black hole and went on. I don't know how far we climbed nor how long; I know that it seemed like days—though it couldn't have been, not on that much air. During mile after mile of trail we climbed at least eight thousand feet. Heights are hard to guess—but I've seen mountains I knew the heights of. Look it up yourself—the first range east of Tombaugh Station.

  That's a lot of climbing, even at one-sixth gee. It seemed endless because I didn't know how far it was nor how long it had been. We both had watches—under our suits. A helmet ought to have a built-in watch. I should have read Greenwich time from the face of Earth. But I had no experience and most of the time I couldn't see Earth because we were deep in mountains—anyhow I didn't know what time it had been when we left the ship.

  Another thing space suits should have is rear-view mirrors. While you are at it, add a window at the chin so that you can see where you step. But of the two, I would take a rear-view mirror. You can't glance behind you; you have to turn your entire body. Every few seconds I wanted to see if they were following us—and I couldn't spare the effort. All that nightmare trek I kept imagining them on my heels, expecting a wormy hand on my shoulder. I listened for footsteps which couldn't be heard in vacuum anyhow.

  When you buy a space suit, make them equip it with a rear-view mirror. You won't have Wormface on your trail but it's upsetting to have even your best friend sneak up behind you. Yes, and if you are coming to the Moon, bring a sunshade. Oscar was doing his best and York had done an honest job on the air conditioning—but the untempered Sun is hotter than you would believe and I didn't dare use air just for cooling, any more than Peewee could.

  It got hot and stayed hot and sweat ran down and I itched all over and couldn't scratch and sweat got into my eyes and burned. Peewee must have been parboiled. Even when the trail wound through deep gorges lighted only by reflection off the far wall, so dark that we turned on headlamps, I still was hot—and when we curved back into naked sunshine, it was almost unbearable. The temptation to kick the chin valve, let air pour in and cool me, was almost too much. The desire to be cool seemed more important than the need to breathe an hour hence.

  If I had been alone, I might have done it and died But Peewee was worse off than I was. If she could stand it, I had to.

  I had wondered how we could be so lost so close to human habitation—and how crawly monsters could hide a base only forty miles from Tombaugh Station. Well, I had time to think and could figure it out because I could see the Moon around me.

  Compared with the Moon the Arctic is swarming with people. The Moon's area is about equal to Asia—with fewer people than Centerville. It might be a century before anyone explored that plain where Wormface was based. A rocket ship passing over wouldn't notice anything even if camouflage hadn't been used; a man in a space suit would never go there; a man in a crawler would find their base only by accident even if he took the pass we were in and ranged around that plain. The lunar mapping satellite could photograph it and rephotograph, then a technician in London might note a tiny difference on two films. Maybe. Years later somebody might check up—if there wasn't something more urgent to do in a pioneer outpost where everything is new and urgent.

  As for radar sightings—there were unexplained radar sightings before I was born.

  Wormface could sit there, as close to Tombaugh Station as Dallas is to Fort Worth, and not fret, snug as a snake under a house. Too many square miles, not enough people.

  Too incredibly many square miles... Our whole world was harsh bright cliffs and dark shadows and black sky, and endless putting one foot in front of the other.

  But eventually we were going downhill oftener than up and at weary last we came to a turn where we could see out over a hot bright plain. There were mountains awfully far away; even from our height, up a thousand feet or so, they were beyond the horizon. I looked out over that plain, too dead beat to feel triumphant, then glanced at Earth and tried to estimate due west.

  Peewee touched her helmet to mine. "There it is, Kip."

  "Where?" She pointed and I caught a glint on a silvery dome.

  The Mother Thing trilled at my spine. ("What is it, children?")

  "Tombaugh Station, Mother Thing."

  Her answer was wordless assurance that we were good children and that she had known that we could do it.

  The station may have been ten miles away. Distances were hard to judge, what with that funny horizon and never anything for comparison—I didn't even know how big the dome was. "Peewee, do we dare use radio?"

  She turned and looked back. I did also; we were about as alone as could be. "Let's risk it."

  "What frequency?"

  "Same as before. Space operations. I think."

  So I tried. "Tombaugh Station. Come in, Tombaugh Station. Do you read me?" Then Peewee tried. I listened up and down the band I was equipped for. No luck.

  I shifted to horn antenna, aiming at the glint of light. No answer.

  "We're wasting time, Peewee. Let's start slogging."

  She turned slowly away. I could feel her disappointment—I had trembled with eagerness myself. I caught up with her and touched helmets. "Don't let it throw you, Peewee. They can't listen all day for us to call. We see it, now we'll walk it."

  "I know," she said dully.

  As we started down we lost sight of Tombaugh Station, not only from twists and turns but because we dropped it below the horizon. I kept calling as long as there seemed any hope, then shut it off to save breath and battery.

  We were about halfway down the outer slope when Peewee slowed and stopped—sank to the ground and sat still.

  I hurried to her. "Peewee!"

  "Kip," she said faintly, "could you go get somebody? Please? You know the way now. I'll wait here. Please, Kip?"

  "Peewee!" I said sharply. "Get up! You've got to keep moving.

  "I c-c-can't!" She began to cry. "I'm so thirsty... and my legs—" She passed out.

  "Peewee!" I shook her shoulder. "You can't quit now! Mother Thing!—you tell her!"

  Her eyelids fluttered. "Keep telling her, Mother Thing!" I flopped Peewee over and got to work. Hypoxia hits as fast as a jab on the button. I didn't need to see her blood-colour index to know it read DANGER; the gauges on her bottles told me. The oxygen bottle showed empty, the oxy-helium tank was practically so. I closed her exhaust valves, overrode her chin valve with the outside valve and let what was left in the oxy-helium bottle flow into her suit. When it started to swell I cut back the flow and barely cracked one exhaust valve. Not until then did I close stop valves and remove the empty bottle.

  I found myself balked by a ridiculous thing.

  Peewee had tied me too well; I couldn't reach the knot! I could feel it with my left hand but couldn't get my right hand around; the bottle on my front was i the way—and I couldn't work the knot loose with one hand.

  I made myself stop panicking. My knife—of course, m
y knife! It was an old scout knife with a loop to hang it from a belt, which was where it was. But the map hooks on Oscar's belt were large for it and I had had to force it on. I twisted it until the loop broke.

  Then I couldn't get the little blade open. Space-suit gauntlets don't have thumb nails.

  I said to myself: Kip, quit running in circles. This is easy. All you have to do is open a knife—and you've got to... because Peewee is suffocating. I looked around for a sliver of rock, anything that could pinch-hit for a thumb nail. Then I checked my belt.

  The prospector's hammer did it, the chisel end of the head was sharp enough to open the blade. I cut the clothesline away.

  I was still blocked. I wanted very badly to get at a bottle on my back. When I had thrown away that empty and put the last fresh one on my back, I had started feeding from it and saved the almost-half-charge in the other one. I meant to save it for a rainy day and split it with Peewee. Now was the time—she was out of air, I was practically so in one bottle but still had that half-charge in the other—plus an eighth of a charge or less in the bottle that contained straight oxygen (the best I could hope for in equalizing pressures), I had planned to surprise her with a one-quarter charge of oxy-helium, which would last longer and give more cooling.

  A real knight-errant plan, I thought. I didn't waste two seconds discarding it.

  I couldn't get that bottle off my back!

  Maybe if I hadn't modified the backpack for nonregulation bottles I could have done it. The manual says: "Reach over your shoulder with the opposite arm, close stop valves at bottle and helmet, disconnect the shackle—" My pack didn't have shackles; I had substituted straps. But I still don't think you can reach over your shoulder in a pressurized suit and do anything effective. I think that was written by a man at a desk. Maybe he had seen it done under favourable conditions. Maybe he had done it, but was one of those freaks who can dislocate both shoulders. But I'll bet a full charge of oxygen that the riggers around Space Station Two did it for each other as Peewee and I had, or went inside and deflated.

  If I ever get a chance, I'll change that. Everything you have to do in a space suit should be arranged to do in front—valves, shackles, everything, even if it is to affect something in back. We aren't like Wormface, with eyes all around and arms that bend in a dozen places; we're built to work in front of us—that goes triple in a space suit.