“Just where are we?”
“I’ll have to take some sights before I can report,” Morrie admitted. “Some place west of Ocean us Procellarum and near the equator.”
“I know that.”
“Well, if you’re in a hurry, Skipper, you had better call up the Automobile Club.”
“I’m in no hurry. Injun not lost — wigwam lost. But I hope the earth is visible from there. It would be a good spot, in that case, to set up Art’s antenna, not too far from the ship. Frankly, I’m opposed to moving the ship until we head back, even if we miss a chance to try to contact earth.”
They were in the shadows now, to Cargraves’ relief. Contrary to popular fancy, the shadows were not black, despite the lack of air-dispersed sunlight. The dazzle of the floor behind them and the glare of the hills beyond all contrived to throw quite a lot of reflected light into the shadows.
When they had proceeded some distance farther toward the hills, Cargraves realized that he was not keeping his party together too well. He had paused to examine a place, discovered by Ross, where the base rock pushed up through the waste of the desert floor, and was trying in the dim light to make out its nature, when he noticed that Morrie was not with them.
He restrained his vexation; it was entirely possible that Morrie, who was in the lead, had not seen them stop. But he looked around anxiously.
Morrie was about a hundred yards ahead, where the first folds of the hills broke through. “Morrie!”
The figure stood up, but no answer came over the radio. He noticed then that Morrie was veering, weaving around. “Morrie! Come back here! Are you all right?”
“All right? Sure, I’m all right.” He giggled.
“Well, come back here.”
“Can’t come back. I’m busy — I’ve found it!” Morrie took a careless step, bounded high in the air, came down, and staggered.
“Morrie! Stand still.” Cargraves was hurrying toward him.
But he did not stand still. He began bounding around, leaping higher and higher. “I’ve found it!” he shrieked. “I’ve found it!” He gave one last bound and while he floated lazily down, he shouted, “I’ve found . . . the bare bones-” His voice trailed off. He lit feet first, bounced through a complete forward flip and collapsed.
Cargraves was beside him almost as he fell, having himself approached in great flying leaps.
First the helmet — no, it was not cracked. But the boy’s eyes stared out sightlessly. His head lolled, his face was gray.
Cargraves gathered him up in his arms and began to run toward the Galileo. He knew the signs though he had seen it only in the low-pressure chamber used for pilot training — anoxia! Something had gone wrong; Morrie was starved for oxygen. He might die before he could be helped, or, still worse, he might live with his brain permanently damaged, his fine clear intellect gone.
It had happened before that way, more than once during the brave and dangerous days when man was conquering high-altitude flying.
The double burden did not slow him down. The two together, with their space suits, weighed less than seventy pounds. It was just enough to give him stability.
He squeezed them into the lock, holding Morrie close to his chest and waited in agonizing impatience as the air hissed through the valve. All his strength would not suffice to force that door open until the pressure equalized.
Then he was in and had laid him on the deck. Morrie was still out. He tried to remove the suit with trembling, glove-hampered fingers, then hastily got out of his own suit and un-clamped Morrie’s helmet. No sign of life showed as the fresh air hit the patient.
Cussing bitterly he tried to give the boy oxygen directly from his suit but found that the valve on Morrie’s suit, for some reason, refused to respond. He turned then to his own suit, disconnected the oxygen line and fed the raw oxygen directly to the boy’s face while pushing rhythmically on his chest.
Morrie’s eyes flickered and he gasped.
“What happened? Is he all right?” The other two had come through the lock while he worked.