Heinlein, Robert A – Expanded Universe

of line. Take that pad of paper in my pouch. Blaze your way-and be darn sure you

blaze enough!”

”I will!”

“Attaboy! Good luck.”

Bruce stood up.

It was the same tedious, depressing business as before. Bruce stretched the

line, then set out at the end of it, dropping bits of paper and counting his steps.

Several times he was sure that he was under the hills, only to come to an impasse.

Twice he skirted the heaps that marked other morning glorys. Each time he retraced

his steps he gathered up his blazes, both to save paper and to keep from confusing

himself.

Once, he saw a glimmer of light and his heart pounded-but it filtered down

from a hole too difficult even for himself and utterly impossible for Sam.

His air got low; he paid no attention, other than to adjust his mix to keep

it barely in the white. He went on searching.

A passage led to the left, then down; he began to doubt the wisdom of going

further and stopped to check the darkness. At first his eyes saw nothing, then it

seemed as if there might be a suggestion of light ahead. Eye fatigue? Possibly. He

went another hundred feet and tried again. It was light!

Minutes later he shoved his shoulders up through a twisted hole and gazed

out over the burning plain.

“Hi!” Sam greeted him. “I thought you had fallen down a hole.

“Darn near did. Sam, I found it!”

“Knew you would. Let’s get going.”

“Right. I’ll dig out my other ski.”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Look at your air gauge. We aren’t going anywhere on skis.”

“Huh? Yeah, I guess not.” They abandoned their loads, except for air and

water bottles. The dark trek was made piggy-back, where the ceiling permitted. Some

places Bruce half dragged his partner. Other places they threaded on hands and knees

with Sam pulling his bad leg painfully behind him.

Bruce climbed out first, having slung Sam in a bowline before he did so. Sam

gave little help in getting out; once they were above ground Bruce picked him up and

set him against a rock. He then touched helmets. “There, fellow! We made it!”

Sam did not answer.

Bruce peered in; Sam’s features were slack, eyes half closed. A check of his

belt told why; the blood-oxygen indicator showed red.

Sam’s intake valve was already wide open; Bruce moved fast, giving himself a

quick shot of air, then transferring his bottle to Sam. He opened it wide.

He could see Sam’s pointer crawl up even as his own dropped toward the red.

Bruce had air in his suit for three or four minutes if he held still.

He did not hold still. He hooked his intake hose to the manifold of the

single bottle now attached to Sam’s suit and opened his valve. His own indicator

stopped dropping toward the red. They were Siamese twins now, linked by one

partly-exhausted bottle of utterly necessary gas. Bruce put an arm around Sam,

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settled Sam’s head on his shoulder, helmet to helmet, and throttled down both valves

until each was barely in the white. He gave Sam more margin than himself, then

settled down to wait. The rock under them was in shadow, though the Sun still baked

the plain. Bruce

looked out, searching for anyone or anything, then extended his aerial. “M’aidez!”

he called. “Help us! We’re lost.”

He could hear Sam muttering. “May day!” Sam echoed into his dead radio. “May

day! We’re lost.”

Bruce cradled the delirious boy in his arm and repeated again, “M’aidez! Get

a bearing on us.” He paused, then echoed, “May day! May day!”

After a while he readjusted the valves, then went back to repeating

endlessly, “May day! Get a bearing on us.”

He did not feel it when a hand clasped his shoulder. He was still muttering

“May day!” when they dumped him into the air lock of the desert car.

Mr. Andrews visited him in the infirmary at Base Camp. “How are you, Bruce?”

“Me? I’m all right, sir. I wish they’d let me get up.”

“My instructions. So I’ll know where you are.” The Scoutmaster smiled; Bruce