He would have to try radio. He wasn’t hopeful, as they had heard nothing
even from the cliff. Still, he must try- He glanced at Sam’s blood-oxygen reading,
then climbed the rubble, extended his antenna and tried. “M’aidez!” he called.
“Help! Does anybody hear me?” He tried again.
And again.
When he saw Sam move he hurried back. Sam was sitting up and feeling his
left knee. Bruce touched helmets. “Sam, are you all right?”
“Huh? This leg won’t work right.”
“Is it broken?”
“How do I know? Turn on your radio.”
“It is on. Yours is busted.”
“Huh? How’d that happen?”
“When you fell.”
“Fell?”
Bruce pointed. “Don’t you remember?”
Sam stared at the cliff. “Uh, I don’t know. Say, this thing hurts like
mischief. Where’s the rest of the troop?”
Bruce said slowly, “We’re out by ourselves, Sam. Remember?”
Sam frowned. “I guess so. Bruce, we’ve got to get out of here! Help me get
my skis on.”
“Do you think you can ski with that knee?”
“I’ve got to.” Bruce lifted him to his feet, then bound a ski to the injured
leg while Sam balanced on the other. But when Sam tried shifting his weight he
collapsed-and fainted.
Bruce gave him air and noted that the blood-oxygen reading was still okay.
He untangled the ski, straightened out Sam’s legs, and waited. When Sam’s eyes
fluttered he touched helmets. “Sam, can you understand me?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
~You,,can’t stay on your feet. I’ll carry you.”
No.
“What do you mean, ‘No’?”
“No good. Rig a toboggan.” He closed his eyes.
Bruce laid Sam’s skis side by side. Two steel rods were clipped to the tail
of each ski; he saw how they were meant to be used. Slide a rod through four ring
studs, two on each ski; snap a catch-so! Fit the other rods. Remove bindings-the
skis made a passable narrow toboggan.
He removed Sam’s pack, switched his bottles around in front and told him to
hold them. “I’m going to move you. Easy, now!” The space-suited form hung over the
edges, but there was no help for it. He found he could thread a rope under the rods
and lash his patient down. Sam’s pack he tied on top.
He made a hitch by tying a line to the holes in the tips of the skis; there
was a long piece left over. He said to Sam, “I’ll tie this to my arm. If you want
anything, just jerk.”
Okay.
“Here we go.” Bruce put on his skis, brought the hitch up to his armpits and
ducked his head through, forming a harness. He grasped his ski poles and set out to
the south, parallel to the cliff.
The toboggan drag steadied him; he settled down to covering miles. Earth was
shut off by the cliff; the Sun gave him no estimate of hour. There was nothing but
blackness, stars, the blazing Sun, a burning desert underfoot, and the towering
cliff-nothing but silence and the urgency to get back to base.
Something jerked his arm. It scared him before he accounted for it. He went
back to the toboggan. “What is it, Sam?”
“I can’t stand it. It’s too hot.” The boy’s face was white and
sweat-covered.
Bruce gave him a shot of air, then thought about it. There was an emergency
shelter in Sam’s pack, just a rolled-up awning with a collapsible frame. Fifteen
Page 124
minutes later he was ready to move. One awning support was tied upright to the sole
of one of Sam’s boots; the other Bruce had bent and wedged under Sam’s shoulders.
The contraption looked ready to fall apart but it held. “There! Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Look, Bruce, I think my knee is all right now. Let me try it.”
Bruce felt out the knee through the suit. It was twice the size of its mate;
he could feel Sam wince. He touched helmets. “You’re full of hop, chum. Relax.”
Bruce got back into harness.
Hours later, Bruce came across tracks. They swung in from northeast, turned
and paralleled the hills. He stopped and told Sam.
“Say, Sam, how can I tell how old they are?”
“You can’t. A track fifty years old looks as fresh as a new one.