Farnham’s Freehold By Robert A. Heinlein

The armor door, beyond the bolted door, was intended to withstand as much blast as the walls. It was cranked into place, or out, by a rack and gear driven by a long crank.

Joe could not budge it. Duke, heavier by forty pounds, put his weight on it-no results. Then they leaned on it together.

“Frozen.”

“Yeah.”

“Joe, you mentioned a sledgehammer.”

The young Negro frowned. “Duke, I would rather your father tried that. We could break the crank. O~ a tooth on the rack.”

“The trouble is, we’re trying to crank a ton or so of door uphill, when it was meant to move on the level.”

“Yes. But this door always has been pesky.”

“What do we do?”

“We get at the escape tunnel.”

A block and tackle was fastened to a hook in the ceiling; the giant bottles were hauled out of the jumble and stacked, with Barbara and Karen heaving on the line and the men guiding them and then bracing them so that the stack could not roll. When the middle of the floor was clear they were able to get at the manhole cover to the tunnel. It was the massive, heavy-traffic sort and the hook in the ceiling was for lifting it.

It came up, creaking. It swung suddenly because of the 300 out-of-plumb of everything, taking a nick out of Duke’s shin and an oath out of Duke.

The hole was packed with provisions. The girls dug them out, Karen, being smaller, going down inside as they got deeper and Barbara stacking the stuff.

Karen stuck her head up. “Hey! Water Boss! There’s canned water here.”

“Well, goody for me!”

Joe said, “I had forgotten that. This hatch hasn’t been opened since the shelter was stocked.”

“Joe, shall I knock out the braces?”

“I’ll get ‘em. You clear out the supplies. Duke, this isn’t armored the way the door is. Those braces hold a piece of boiler plate against the opening, with the supplies behind it and the manhole cover holding it all down. Inside the tunnel, at ten foot intervals, are walls of sandbags, and the mouth has dirt over it. Your father said the idea was to cofferdam a blast. Let it in, slow it down, a piece at a time.”

“We’ll find those sandbags jammed against that boiler plate.”

“If so, we’ll dig ‘em out.”

“Why didn’t he use real armor?”

“He thought this was safer. You saw what happened to the doors. I would hate to have to pry loose a steel barrier in that tunnel.”

“I see. Joe, I’m sorry I ever called this place a ‘hole in the ground.’”

“Well, it isn’t. It’s a machine-a survival machine.”

“I’m through,” Karen announced. “Some gentleman help me up. Or you, Duke.”

“I’ll put the lid on with you under it.” Duke helped his sister to climb out.

Joe climbed down, flinching at the strain on his ribs. Dr. Livingstone had been superintending. Now he followed his friend into the hole, using Joe’s shoulders as a landing.

“Duke, if you’ll hand me that sledge- Stay out of the way, Doc. Get your tail down.”

“Want me to take him?” asked Karen.

“No, he likes to be in on things. Somebody hold the light.” The braces were removed and piled on the floor above.

“Duke, I need the tackle now. I don’t want to hoist the plate. Just take its weight so I can swing it back. It’s heavy.”

“Here it comes.”

“That’s good. Doc! Darn you, Doc! Get out from under my feet! Just a steady strain, Duke. Somebody hand me the flashlight. I’ll swing her back and have a look.”

“And get a face full of isotopes.”

“Have to chance it. A touch more- That’s got her, she’s swinging free.”

Then Joe didn’t say anything. At last Duke said, “What do you see?”

“I’m not sure. Let me swing it back, and hand me one brace.”

“Right over your head. Joe, what do you see?”

The Negro was swinging the plate back when suddenly he grunted. “Doe! Doe, come back here! That little scamp! Between my legs and into the tunnel. Doc!”

“He can’t get far.”

“Well- Karen, will you go wake your father?”