Part 9 (1/2)
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 it, 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 b.u.t.ted the mismatched hose connections together, tore off a sc.r.a.p 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?”
”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 color 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 s.p.a.ce 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 top heavy 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 s.p.a.ce 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 pa.s.s can't be any farther. You watch for the pa.s.s 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.