Part 13 (1/2)

Jock was s.h.i.+vering and sweating. ”They blue-lighted us, that's what. They took Tim.” He shuddered. ”I'm glad it was him. I thought-well, maybe you've noticed I'm a little stout . . . they like fat.”

”What do you mean? What have they done with him?”

”Poor old Tim. He had his faults, like anybody, but-He's soup, by now . . . that's what.” He shuddered again. ”They like soup-bones and all.”

”I don't believe it. You're trying to scare me.”

”So?” He looked me up and down. ”They'll probably take you next. Son, if you're smart, you'll take that letter opener of yours over to that horse trough and open your veins. It's better that way.”

I said, ”Why don't you? Here, I'll lend it to you.”

He shook his head and s.h.i.+vered. ”I ain't smart.”

I don't know what became of Tim. I don't know whether the wormfaces ate people, or not. (You can't say ”cannibal.” We may be mutton, to them.) I wasn't especially scared because I had long since blown all fuses in my ”scare” circuits.

What happens to my body after I'm through with it doesn't matter to me. But it did to Jock; he had a phobia about it. I don't think Jock was a coward; cowards don't even try to become prospectors on the Moon. He believed his theory and it shook him. He halfway admitted that he had more reason to believe it than I had known. He had been to Pluto once before, so he said, and other men who had come along, or been dragged, on that trip hadn't come back.

When feeding time came-two cans-he said he wasn't hungry and offered me his rations. That ”night” he sat up and kept himself awake. Finally I just had to go to sleep before he did.

I awoke from one of those dreams where you can't move. The dream was correct; sometime not long before, I had surely been blue-lighted.

Jock was gone.

I never saw either of them again.

Somehow I missed them . . . Jock at least. It was a relief not to have to watch all the time, it was luxurious to bathe. But it gets mighty boring, pacing your cage alone.

I have no illusions about them. There must be well over three billion people I would rather be locked up with. But they were people.

Tim didn't have anything else to recommend him; he was as coldly vicious as a guillotine. But Jock had some slight awareness of right and wrong, or he wouldn't have tried to justify himself. You might say he was just weak.

But I don't hold with the idea that to understand all is to forgive all; you follow that and first thing you know you're sentimental over murderers and rapists and kidnappers and forgetting their victims. That's wrong. I'll weep over the likes of Peewee, not over criminals whose victims they are. I missed Jock's talk but if there were some way to drown such creatures at birth, I'd take my turn as executioner. That goes double for Tim.

If they ended up as soup for hobgoblins, I couldn't honestly be sorry- even though it might be my turn tomorrow.

As soup, they probably had their finest hour.

Chapter 8.

I was jarred out of useless brain-cudgeling by an explosion, a sharp crack -a ba.s.s rumble-then a whoos.h.!.+ of reduced pressure. I bounced to my feet-anyone who has ever depended on a s.p.a.ce suit is never again indifferent to a drop in pressure.

I gasped, ”What the deuce!”

Then I added, ”Whoever is on watch had better get on the ball-or we'll all be breathing thin cold stuff.” No oxygen outside, I was sure-or rather the astronomers were and I didn't want to test it.

Then I said, ”Somebody bombing us? I hope.

”Or was it an earthquake?”

This was not an idle remark. That Scientific American article concerning ”summer” on Pluto had predicted ”sharp isostatic readjustments” as the temperature rose-which is a polite way of saying, ”Hold your hats! Here comes the chimney!”

I was in an earthquake once, in Santa Barbara; I didn't need a booster shot to remember what every Californian knows and others learn in one lesson: when the ground does a jig, get outdoors!

Only I couldn't.

I spent two minutes checking whether adrenalin had given me the strength to jump eighteen feet instead of twelve. It hadn't. That was all I did for a half-hour, if you don't count nail biting.

Then I heard my name! ”Kip! Oh, Kip!”

”Peewee!” I screamed. ”Here! Peewee!”

Silence for an eternity of three heartbeats- ”Kip?”

”Down HERE!”

”Kip? Are you down this hole?”

”Yes! Can't you see me?” I saw her head against the light above.

”Uh, I can now. Oh, Kip, I'm so glad!”

”Then why are you crying? So am I!”

”I'm not crying,” she blubbered. ”Oh Kip ... Kip.”

”Can you get me out?”

”Uh-” She surveyed that drop. ”Stay where you are.”

”Don't go 'way!” She already had.

She wasn't gone two minutes; it merely seemed like a week. Then she was back and the darling had a nylon rope!

”Grab on!” she shrilled.

”Wait a sec. How is it fastened?”

”I'll pull you up.”

”No, you won't-or we'll both be down here. Find somewhere to belay it.”

”I can lift you.”

”Belay it! Hurry!”

She left again, leaving an end in my hands. Shortly I heard very faintly: ”On belay!”