Part 8 (1/2)
”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 ma.s.s 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 was 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 pa.s.sed 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?”