TUNNEL IN THE SKY by ROBERT A. HEINLEIN

Mrs. Walker shivered. “Gracious, darling, I wish you had never taken up a calling so . . . well, so dangerous.”

Helen shrugged. “The death rate is the same for us as for anybody . . . one person, one death, sooner or later. What would you want, Mum? With eighteen million more women than men on this continent did you want me to sit and knit until my knight comes riding? Out where I operate, there are more men than women; I’ll wing one yet, old and ugly as I am.

Rod asked curiously, “Sis, would you really give up your commission to get married?”

“Would I! I won’t even count his arms and legs. If he is still warm and can nod his head, he’s had it. My target is six babies and a farm.”

Rod looked her over. “I’d say your chances are good. You’re quite pretty even if your ankles are thick.”

“Thanks, pardner. Thank you too much. What’s for dessert, Mum?”

“I didn’t look. Will you open it, dear?”

Dessert turned out to be iced mangorines, which pleased Rod. His sister went on talking. “The Service isn’t a bad shake, on active duty. It’s garrison duty that wears. My kids get fat and sloppy and restless and start fighting with each other from sheer boredom. For my choice, barracks casualties are more to be dreaded than combat. I’m hoping that our squadron will be tagged to take part in the pacification of Byer’s Planet.”

Mr. Walker looked at his wife, then at his daughter. “You have upset your mother again, my dear. Quite a bit of this talk has hardly been appropriate under the Light of Peace.”

“I was asked questions, I answered.”

“Well, perhaps so.”

Helen glanced up. “Isn’t it time to turn it out, anyway? We all seem to have finished eating.”

“Why, if you like. Though it is hardly reverent to hurry.”

“The Principle knows we haven’t all eternity.” She turned to Rod. “How about making yourself scarce, mate? I want to make palaver with the folks.”

“Gee, Sis, you act as if I was”

“Get lost, Buddy. I’ll see you later.”

Rod left, feeling affronted. He saw Helen blow out the pax lamp as he did so.

He was still making lists when his sister came to his room. “Hi, kid.”

“Oh. Hello, Sis.”

“What are you doing? Figuring what to take on your solo?”

“Sort of.”

“Mind if I get comfortable?” She brushed articles from his bed and sprawled on it. “We’ll go into that later.”

Rod thought it over. “Does that mean Dad won’t object?”

“Yes. I pounded his head until he saw the light. But,

as I said, well go into that later. I’ve got something to tell you, youngster.”

“Such as?”

“The first thing is this. Our parents are not as stupid as you probably think they are. Fact is, they are pretty bright.”

“I never said they were stupid!” Rod answered, comfortably aware of what his thoughts had been.

“No. But I heard what went on before dinner and so did you. Dad was throwing his weight around and not listening. But, Buddy, it has probably never occurred to you that it is hard work to be a parent, maybe the hardest job of all particularly when you have no talent for it, which Dad hasn’t. He knows it and works hard at it and is conscientious. Mostly he does mighty well. Sometimes he slips, like tonight. But, what you did not know is this: Dad is going to die.”

“What?” Rod looked stricken. “I didn’t know he was ill!”

“You weren’t meant to know. Now climb down off the ceiling; there is a way out. Dad is terribly ill, and he would die in a few weeks at the most unless something drastic is done. But something is going to be. So relax.”

She explained the situation bluntly: Mr. Walker was suffering from a degenerative disease under which he was slowly starving to death. His condition was incurable by current medical art; he might linger on, growing weaker each day, for weeks or months but he would certainly die soon.

Rod leaned his head on his hands and chastised himself. Dad dying . . . and he hadn’t even noticed. They had kept it from him, like a baby, and he had been too stupid to see it.

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