Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

ahead.”

“I still don’t like it.”

“Who’s in charge?”

Bruce shrugged, snapped on the line and started down.

Sam stopped him presently. “Halfway. Pick me a nest.”

Bruce walked the face to the right, but found only smooth wall. He worked

back and located a crack. “Here’s a crack,” he reported, “but just one. I shouldn’t

drive two pitons in one crack.”

“Spread ’em apart,” Sam directed. “It’s good rock.” Reluctantly, Bruce

complied. The spikes went in easily but he wished he could hear the firm ring that

meant a piton was biting properly. Finished, he hung the strap. “Lower away!”

In a couple of minutes he was down and unsnapped the line. “Off belay!” He

hurried down the loose rock at the base. When he reached the edge of it he called,

“Sam! This plain is soft stuff.”

“Okay,” Sam acknowledged. “Stand clear.” Bruce

moved along the cliff about fifty feet and stopped to bind on skis. Then he shuffled

out onto the plain, kickturned, and looked back. Sam had reached the pitons. He

hung, one foot in the strap, the bight in his elbow, and recovered his line. He

passed his line through the second piton ring, settled in rappel, and hooked the

strap from piton to piton as an anchor. He started down.

Halfway down the remaining two hundred feet he stopped. “What’s the matter?”

called Bruce.

“It’s reached a shackle,” said Sam, “and the pesky thing won’t feed through

the ring. I’ll free it.” He raised himself a foot, then suddenly let what he had

gained slip through the ring above.

To Bruce’s amazement Sam leaned out at an impossible angle. He heard Sam cry

“Rock!” before he understood what had happened-the piton had failed.

Sam fell about four feet, then the other piton, connected by the strap,

stopped him. He caught himself, feet spread. But the warning cry had not been

pointless; Bruce saw a rock settling straight for Sam’s helmet. Bruce repeated the

shout.

Sam looked up, then jumped straight out from the cliff. The rock passed

between him and the wall; Bruce could not tell if it had struck him. Sam swung in,

his feet caught the cliff-and again he leaned out crazily. The second piton had let

go.

Sam again shouted, “Rock!” even as he kicked himself away from the cliff.

Bruce watched him, turning slowly over and over and gathering momentum. It

seemed to take Sam forever to fall.

Then he struck.

Bruce fouled his skis and had to pick himself up. He forced himself to be

careful and glided toward the spot.

Sam’s frantic shove had saved him from crashing his helmet into rock. He lay

buried in the loose debris, one leg sticking up ridiculously. Bruce felt an hysteri

cal desire to laugh.

Sam did not stir when Bruce tugged at him. Bruce’s skis got in his way;

finally he stood astraddle, hauled Sam out. The boy’s eyes were closed, his features

slack, but the suit still had pressure. “Sam,” shouted Bruce, “can you hear me?”

Sam’s blood-oxygen reading was dangerously in the red; Bruce opened his

intake valve wider-but the reading failed to improve. He wanted to turn Sam face

down, but he had no way of straightening Sam’s helmeted head, nor would he then be

able to watch the blood-oxygen indicator unless he took time to remove the belt. He

decided to try artificial respiration with the patient face up. He kicked off skis

and belt.

The pressure in the suit got in his way, nor could he fit his hands

satisfactorily to Sam’s ribs. But he kept at it-swing! and one, and two and up! and

one, and two and swing!

The needle began to move. When it was well into the white Bruce paused.

It stayed in the white.

Sam’s lips moved but no sound came. Bruce touched helmets. “What is it,

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Sam?”

Faintly he heard, “Look out! Rock!”

Bruce considered what to do next.

There was little he could do until he got Sam into a pressurized room. The

idea, he decided, was to get help-fast!

Send up a smoke signal? Fire a gun three times? Snap out of it, Bruce!

You’re on the Moon now. He wished that someone would happen along in a desert car.