They discussed everything from girls to what the colony needed, what could have caused the disaster that had stranded them, what they would have to eat if they could have what they wanted, and back to girls again. They did not discuss the possibility of rescue; they took it for granted that they were there to stay. They slept much of the time and often did nothing, in animal-like torpor.
Roy wanted to start back as soon as Rod removed the splints, but it took him only seconds to discover that he no longer knew how to walk. He exercised for days, then grew sulky when Rod still insisted that he was not able to travel; the accumulated irritations of invalidism spewed out in the only quarrel they had on the trip.
Rod grew as angry as he was, threw Roy’s climbing
rope at him and shouted, “Go ahead! See how far you get on that gimp leg!”
Five minutes later Rod was arranging a sling, half dragging Roy, white and trembling and thoroughly subdued, back up onto the shelf. Thereafter they spent ten days getting Roy’s muscles into shape, then started back.
Shorty Dumont was the first one they ran into as they approached the settlement. His jaw dropped and he looked scared, then he ran to greet them, ran back to alert those in camp. “Hey, everybody! They’re back!”
Caroline heard the shout, outdistanced the others in great flying leaps, kissed and hugged them both. “Hi, Carol,” Rod said. “What are you bawling about?”
“Oh, Roddie, you bad, bad boy!”
12 “It Won’t Work, Rod”
In the midst of jubilation Rod had time to notice many changes. There were more than a dozen new buildings, including two long shedlike affairs of bamboo and mud. One new hut was of sunbaked brick; it had windows. Where the cooking fire had been was a barbecue pit and by it a Dutch oven. Near it a stream of water spilled out of bamboo pipe, splashed through a rawhide net, fell into a rock bowl, and was led away to the creek . . . he hardly knew whether to be pleased or irked at this anticipation of his own notion.
He caught impressions piecemeal, as their triumphal entry was interrupted by hugs, kisses; and bone jarring slaps on the back, combined with questions piled on questions. “No, no trouble except that Roy got mad and busted his leg . . . yeah, sure, we found what we went after; wait till you see . . . no . . . yes . . . Jackie! . . . Hi, Bob! it’s good to see you, too, boy! Where’s Carmen. . . Hi, Grant!”
Cowper was grinning widely, white teeth splitting his beard. Rod noticed with great surprise that the man looked old why, shucks, Grant wasn’t more than twenty-two, twenty-three at the most. Where did he pick up those lines?
“Rod, old boy! I don’t know whether to have you two thrown in the hoosegow or decorate your brows with laurel.”
“We got held up.”
“So it seems. Well, there is more rejoicing for the strayed lamb than for the ninety and nine. Come on up to the city hall.”
“The what?”
Cowper looked sheepish. “They call it that, so I do. Better than ‘Number Ten, Downing Street’ which it started off with. It’s just the hut where I sleep it doesn’t belong to me,” he added. “When they elect somebody else, I’ll sleep in bachelor hall.” Grant led them toward a little building apart from the others and facing the cooking area.
The wall was gone.
Rod suddenly realized what looked strange about the upstream end of the settlement; the wall was gone completely and in its place was a thornbush barricade. He opened his mouth to make a savage comment then realized that it really did not matter. Why kick up a row when the colony would be moving to the canyon of the Dwellers? They would never need walls again; they would be up high at night, with their ladders pulled up after them. He picked another subject.
“Grant, how in the world did you guys get the inner partitions out of those bamboo pipes?”