Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

skis. Then he was fouled, he went down, it engulfed him.

Again he came to rest in soft, feathery, darkness. He lay quiet, nursing his

defeat, before trying to get out. He hardly knew which way was up, much less which

way was out. He was struggling experimentally when he felt a tug on his belt. Sam

was trying to help him.

A few minutes later, with Sam’s pull to guide him, Bruce was again on the

floor of the ca\’e. The only light came from the torch in Sam’s hand; it was enough

to show that the pile choking the hole was bigger than ever.

Sam motioned him over. “Too bad, Bruce,” was all he said.

Bruce controlled his choking voice to say, “I’ll get busy as soon as I catch

my breath.”

“Where’s your left ski?”

“Huh? Oh! Must have pulled off. It’ll show up when I start digging.”

“Hmmm .. . how much air have you?”

“Uh?” Bruce looked at his belt. “About a third of a bottle.”

“I’m breathing my socks. I’ve got to change.”

“Right away!” Bruce started to make the switch; Sam pulled him down again.

“You take the fresh bottle, and give me your bottle.”

“But-”

“No ‘buts’ about it,” Sam cut him off. “You have to do all the work; you’ve

got to take the full tank.”

Silently Bruce obeyed. His mind was busy with arithmetic. The answer always

came out the same; he knew with certainty that there was not enough air left to

permit him again to perform the Herculean task of moving that mountain of dust.

He began to believe that they would never get out. The knowledge wearied

him; he wanted to lie down beside the still form of Abner Green and, like him, not

struggle at the end.

However he could not. He knew that, for Sam’s sake, he would have to shovel

away at that endless sea of sand, until he dropped from lack of oxygen. Listlessly

he took off his remaining ski and walked toward his task.

Sam jerked on the rope.

Bruce went back. “What’s got into you, kid?” Sam demanded.

“Nothing. Why?”

“It’s got you whipped.”

“I didn’t say so.”

“But you think so. I could see it. Now you listen! You convinced me that you

could get us out-and, by Jimmy! you’re going to! You’re just cocky enough to be the

first guy to whip a morning glory and you can do it. Get your chin up!”

Bruce hesitated. “Look, Sam, I won’t quit on you, but you might as well know

the truth: there isn’t air enough to do it again.”

“Figured that out when I saw the stuff start to crumble.

“You knew? Then if you know any prayers, better say them.”

Sam shook his arm. “It’s not time to pray; it’s time to get busy.”

“Okay.” Bruce started to straighten up.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Huh?”

“There’s no point in digging. Once was worth trying; twice is wasting

oxygen.”

“Well, what do you want me to do?”

“You didn’t try all the ways out, did you?”

“No.” Bruce thought about it. “I’ll try again, Sam. But there isn’t air

enough to try them all.”

“You can search longer than you can shovel. But don’t search haphazardly;

search back toward the hills. Anywhere else will be just another morning glory; we

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need to come out at the hills; away from the sand.

“Uh. . . look, Sam, where are the hills? Down here you can’t tell north from

next week.”

“Over that way,” Sam pointed.

“Huh? How do you know?”

“You showed me. When you broke through I could tell where the Sun was from

the angle of the light.”

“But the Sun is overhead.”

“Was when we started. Now it’s fifteen, twenty de

grees to the west. Now listen: these caves must have been big blow holes once, gas

pockets. You search off in that direction and find us a blow hole that’s not choked

with sand.”

“I’ll do my darndest!”

“How far away were the hills when we got caught?”

Bruce tried to remember. “Half a mile, maybe.”

“Check. You won’t find what we want tied to me with five or six hundred feet