Have Space Suit—Will Travel

by Robert A. Heinlein

  As for radar sightings—there were unexplained radar sightings before I was born.

  Wormface could sit there, as close to Tombaugh Station as Dallas is to Fort Worth, and not fret, snug as a snake under a house. Too many square miles, not enough people.

  Too incredibly many square miles… Our whole world was harsh bright cliffs and dark shadows and black sky, and endless putting one foot in front of the other.

  But eventually we were going downhill oftener than up and at weary last we came to a turn where we could see out over a hot bright plain. There were mountains awfully far away; even from our height, up a thousand feet or so, they were beyond the horizon. I looked out over that plain, too dead beat to feel triumphant, then glanced at Earth and tried to estimate due west.

  Peewee touched her helmet to mine. “There it is, Kip.”

  “Where?” She pointed and I caught a glint on a silvery dome.

  The Mother Thing trilled at my spine. (“What is it, children?”)

  “Tombaugh Station, Mother Thing.”

  Her answer was wordless assurance that we were good children and that she had known that we could do it.

  The station may have been ten miles away. Distances were hard to judge, what with that funny horizon and never anything for comparison—I didn’t even know how big the dome was. “Peewee, do we dare use radio?”

  She turned and looked back. I did also; we were about as alone as could be. “Let’s risk it.”

  “What frequency?”

  “Same as before. Space operations. I think.”

  So I tried. “Tombaugh Station. Come in, Tombaugh Station. Do you read me?” Then Peewee tried. I listened up and down the band I was equipped for. No luck.

  I shifted to horn antenna, aiming at the glint of light. No answer.

  “We’re wasting time, Peewee. Let’s start slogging.”

  She turned slowly away. I could feel her disappointment—I had trembled with eagerness myself. I caught up with her and touched helmets. “Don’t let it throw you, Peewee. They can’t listen all day for us to call. We see it, now we’ll walk it.”

  “I know,” she said dully.

  As we started down we lost sight of Tombaugh Station, not only from twists and turns but because we dropped it below the horizon. I kept calling as long as there seemed any hope, then shut it off to save breath and battery.

  We were about halfway down the outer slope when Peewee slowed and stopped—sank to the ground and sat still.

  I hurried to her. “Peewee!”

  “Kip,” she said faintly, “could you go get somebody? Please? You know the way now. I’ll wait here. Please, Kip?”

  “Peewee!” I said sharply. “Get up! You’ve got to keep moving.”

  “I c- c- can’t!” She began to cry. “I’m so thirsty…and my legs—” She passed out.

  “Peewee!” I shook her shoulder. “You can’t quit now! Mother Thing!—you tell her!”

  Her eyelids fluttered. “Keep telling her, Mother Thing!” I flopped Peewee over and got to work. Hypoxia hits as fast as a jab on the button. I didn’t need to see her blood-color index to know it read danger; the gauges on her bottles told me. The oxygen bottle showed empty, the oxy-helium tank was practically so. I closed her exhaust valves, overrode her chin valve with the outside valve and let what was left in the oxy-helium bottle flow into her suit. When it started to swell I cut back the flow and barely cracked one exhaust valve. Not until then did I close stop valves and remove the empty bottle.

  I found myself balked by a ridiculous thing.

  Peewee had tied me too well; I couldn’t reach the knot! I could feel it with my left hand but couldn’t get my right hand around; the bottle on my front was in the way—and I couldn’t work the knot loose with one hand.

  I made myself stop panicking. My knife—of course, my knife! It was an old scout knife with a loop to hang it from a belt, which was where it was. But the map hooks on Oscar’s belt were large for it and I had had to force it on. I twisted it until the loop broke.

  Then I couldn’t get the little blade open. Space-suit gauntlets don’t have thumb nails.

  I said to myself: Kip, quit running in circles. This is easy. All you have to do is open a knife—and you’ve got to…because Peewee is suffocating. I looked around for a sliver of rock, anything that could pinch-hit for a thumb nail. Then I checked my belt.

  The prospector’s hammer did it, the chisel end of the head was sharp enough to open the blade. I cut the clothesline away.

  I was still blocked. I wanted very badly to get at a bottle on my back. When I had thrown away that empty and put the last fresh one on my back, I had started feeding from it and saved the almost-half-charge in the other one. I meant to save it for a rainy day and split it with Peewee. Now was the time—she was out of air, I was practically so in one bottle but still had that half-charge in the other—plus an eighth of a charge or less in the bottle that contained straight oxygen (the best I could hope for in equalizing pressures), I had planned to surprise her with a one-quarter charge of oxy-helium, which would last longer and give more cooling.

  A real knight-errant plan, I thought. I didn’t waste two seconds discarding it.

  I couldn’t get that bottle off my back!

  Maybe if I hadn’t modified the backpack for non-regulation bottles I could have done it. The manual says: “Reach over your shoulder with the opposite arm, close stop valves at bottle and helmet, disconnect the shackle—” My pack didn’t have shackles; I had substituted straps. But I still don’t think you can reach over your shoulder in a pressurized suit and do anything effective. I think that was written by a man at a desk. Maybe he had seen it done under favorable conditions. Maybe he had done it, but was one of those freaks who can dislocate both shoulders. But I’ll bet a full charge of oxygen that the riggers around Space Station Two did it for each other as Peewee and I had, or went inside and deflated.

  If I ever get a chance, I’ll change that. Everything you have to do in a space suit should be arranged to do in front—valves, shackles, everything, even if it is to affect something in back. We aren’t like Wormface, with eyes all around and arms that bend in a dozen places; we’re built to work in front of us—that goes triple in a space suit.

  You need a chin window to let you see what you’re doing, too! A thing can look fine on paper and be utterly crumby in the field.

  But I didn’t waste time moaning; I had a one-eighth charge of oxygen I could reach. I grabbed it.

  That poor, overworked adhesive tape was a sorry mess. I didn’t bother with bandage; if I could get the tape to stick at all I’d be happy. I handled it as carefully as gold leaf, trying to get it tight, and stopped in the middle to close Peewee’s exhaust entirely when it looked as if her suit was collapsing. I finished with trembling fingers.

  I didn’t have Peewee to close a valve. I simply gripped that haywired joint in one hand, opened Peewee’s empty bottle with the other, swung over fast and opened the oxygen bottle wide—jerked my hand across and grabbed the valve of Peewee’s bottle and watched those gauges.

  The two needles moved toward each other. When they slowed down I started closing her bottle—and the taped joint blew out.

  I got that valve closed in a hurry; I didn’t lose much gas from Peewee’s bottle. But what was left on the supply side leaked away. I didn’t stop to worry; I peeled away a scrap of adhesive, made sure the bayonet-and-snap joint was clean, got that slightly recharged bottle back on Peewee’s suit, opened stop valves.

  Her suit started to distend. I opened one exhaust valve a crack and touched helmets. “Peewee! Peewee! Can you hear me? Wake up, baby! Mother Thing!—make her wake up!”

  “Peewee!”

  “Yes, Kip?”

  “Wake up! On your feet, Champ! Get up! Honey, please get up.”

  “Huh? Help me get my helmet off… I can’t breathe.”

  “Yes, you can. Kick your chin valve—feel it, taste it. Fresh air!”

  She tried,
feebly; I gave her a quick strong shot, overriding her chin valve from outside. “Oh!”

  “See? You’ve got air. You’ve got lots of air. Now get up.”

  “Oh, please, just let me lie here.”

  “No, you don’t! You’re a nasty, mean, spoiled little brat—and if you don’t get up, nobody will love you. The Mother Thing won’t love you. Mother Thing!—tell her!”

  (“Stand up, daughter!”)

  Peewee tried. I helped her, once she was trying. She trembled and clung to me and I kept her from falling. “Mother Thing?” she said faintly. “I did it. You…still love me?”

  (“Yes, darling!”)

  “I’m dizzy…and I don’t think I…can walk.”

  “You don’t have to, honey,” I said gently and picked her up in my arms. “You don’t have to walk any farther.” She didn’t weigh anything.

  The trail disappeared when we were down out of the foothills but the crawler’s tracks were sharp in the dust and led due west. I had my air trimmed down until the needle of the blood-color indicator hung at the edge of the danger sector. I held it there, kicking my chin valve only when it swung past into danger. I figured that the designer must have left some leeway, the way they do with gasoline gauges. I had long since warned Peewee never to take her eyes off her own indicator and hold it at the danger limit. She promised and I kept reminding her. I pressed her helmet against the yoke of mine, so that we could talk.

  I counted paces and every half-mile I told Peewee to call Tombaugh Station. It was over the horizon but they might have a high mast that could “see” a long way.

  The Mother Thing talked to her, too—anything to keep her from slipping away again. It saved my strength to have the Mother Thing talk and was good for all of us.

  After a while I noticed that my needle had drifted into the red again. I kicked the valve and waited. Nothing happened. I kicked it again and the needle drifted slowly toward the white. “How you fixed for air, Peewee?”

  “Just fine, Kip, just fine.”

  Oscar was yelling at me. I blinked and noticed that my shadow had disappeared. It had been stretched out ahead at an angle to the tracks. The tracks were there but my shadow was not. That made me sore, so I turned around and looked for it. It was behind me.

  The darn thing had been hiding. Games!

  (“That’s better!” said Oscar.)

  “It’s hot in here, Oscar.”

  (“You think it’s cool out here? Keep your eye on that shadow, bud—and on those tracks.”)

  “All right, all right! Quit pestering me.” I made up my mind that I wouldn’t let that shadow get away again. Games it wanted to play, huh?

  “There’s darn little air in here, Oscar.”

  (“Breathe shallow, chum. We can make it.”)

  “I’m breathing my socks, now.”

  (“So breathe your shirt.”)

  “Did I see a ship pass over?”

  (“How should I know? You’re the one with the blinkers.”)

  “Don’t get smart. I’m in no mood to joke.”

  I was sitting on the ground with Peewee across my knees and Oscar was really shouting—and so was the Mother Thing. (“Get up, you big ape! Get up and try.”) (“Get up, Kip dear! Only a little way now.”)

  “I just want to get my wind.”

  (“All right, you’ve got it. Call Tombaugh Station.”)

  I said, “Peewee, call Tombaugh Station.”

  She didn’t answer. That scared me and I snapped out of it. “Tombaugh Station, come in! Come in!” I got to my knees and then to my feet. “Tombaugh Station, do you read me? Help! Help!”

  A voice answered, “I read you.”

  “Help! M’aidez! I’ve got a little girl dying! Help!”

  Suddenly it sprang up in front of my eyes—great shiny domes, tall towers, radio telescopes, a giant Schmidt camera. I staggered toward it. “May Day!”

  An enormous lock opened and a crawler came toward me. A voice in my phones said, “We’re coming. Stay where you are. Over and out.”

  A crawler stopped near me. A man got out, came over and touched helmets. I gasped: “Help me get her inside.”

  I got back: “You’ve given me trouble, bub. I don’t like people who give me trouble.” A bigger, fatter man got out behind him.

  The smaller man raised a thing like a camera and aimed it at me. That was the last I knew.

  Chapter 7

  I don’t know if they took us all that weary way back in the crawler, or if Wormface sent a ship. I woke up being slapped and was inside, lying down. The skinny one was slapping me—the man the fat one called “Tim.” I tried to fight back and found that I couldn’t. I was in a strait-jacket thing that held me as snugly as a wrapped mummy. I let out a yelp.

  Skinny grabbed my hair, jerked my head up, tried to put a big capsule into my mouth.

  I tried to bite him.

  He slapped me harder and offered me the capsule again. His expression didn’t change—it stayed mean.

  I heard: “Take it, boy,” and turned my eyes. The fat one was on the other side. “Better swallow it,” he said. “You got five bad days ahead.”

  I took it. Not because of the advice but because a hand held my nose and another popped the pill into my mouth when I gasped. Fatty held a cup of water for me to wash it down; I didn’t resist that, I needed it.

  Skinny stuck a hypodermic needle big enough for a horse into my shoulder. I told him what I thought of him, using words I hardly ever use. The skinny one could have been deaf; the fat one chuckled. I rolled my eyes at him. “You, too,” I added weakly. “Squared.”

  Fatty clucked reprovingly. “You ought to be glad we saved your life.” He added, “Though it wasn’t my idea, you strike me as a sorry item. He wanted you alive.”

  “Shaddap,” Skinny said. “Strap his head.”

  “Let him break his neck. We better fix our ownselves. He won’t wait.” But he started to obey.

  Skinny glanced at his watch. “Four minutes.”

  The fat one hastily tightened a strap across my forehead, then both moved very fast, swallowing capsules, giving each other hypos. I watched as best I could.

  I was back in the ship. The ceiling glowed the same way, the walls looked the same. It was the room the two men used; their beds were on each side and I was strapped to a soft couch between them.

  Each hurriedly got on his bed, began zipping up a tight wrapping like a sleeping bag. Each strapped his head in place before completing the process. I was not interested in them. “Hey! What did you do with Peewee?”

  The fat man chuckled. “Hear that, Tim? That’s a good one.”

  “Shaddap.”

  “You—” I was about to sum up Fatty’s character but my thoughts got fuzzy and my tongue was thick. Besides, I wanted to ask about the Mother Thing, too.

  I did not get out another word. Suddenly I was incredibly heavy and the couch was rock hard.

  For a long, long time I wasn’t awake or truly asleep. At first I couldn’t feel anything but that terrible weight, then I hurt all over and wanted to scream. I didn’t have the strength for it.

  Slowly the pain went away and I stopped feeling anything. I wasn’t a body—just me, no attachments. I dreamed a lot and none of it made sense; I seemed to be stuck in a comic book, the sort P.T.A. meetings pass resolutions against, and the baddies were way ahead no matter what I did.

  Once the couch gave a twisting lurch and suddenly I had a body, one that was dizzy. After a few ages I realized vaguely that I had gone through a skew-flip turnover. I had known, during lucid moments, that I was going somewhere, very fast, at terribly high acceleration. I decided solemnly that we must be halfway and tried to figure out how long two times eternity was. It kept coming out eighty-five cents plus sales tax; the cash register rang “NO SALE” and I would start over.

  Fats was undoing my head strap. It stuck and skin came away. “Rise and shine, bub. Time’s awastin’.”

  A croak was all I managed. T
he skinny one was unwrapping me. My legs sagged apart and hurt. “Get up!”

  I tried and didn’t make it. Skinny grabbed one of my legs and started to knead it.

  I screamed.

  “Here, lemme do that,” said Fatty. “I used to be a trainer.”

  Fats did know something about it. I gasped when his thumbs dug into my calves and he stopped. “Too rough?” I couldn’t answer. He went on massaging me and said almost jovially, “Five days at eight gravities ain’t no joy ride. But you’ll be okay. Got the needle, Tim?”

  The skinny one jabbed me in my left thigh. I hardly felt it. Fats pulled me to a sitting position and handed me a cup. I thought it was water; it wasn’t and I choked and sprayed. Fats waited, then gave it to me again. “Drink some, this time.” I did.

  “Okay, up on your feet. Vacation is over.”

  The floor swayed and I had to grab him until it stopped. “Where are we?” I said hoarsely.

  Fats grinned, as if he knew an enormously funny joke. “Pluto, of course. Lovely place, Pluto. A summer resort.”

  “Shaddap. Get him moving.”

  “Shake it up, kid. You don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  Pluto! It couldn’t be; nobody could get that far. Why, they hadn’t even attempted Jupiter’s moons yet. Pluto was so much farther that—

  My brain wasn’t working. The experience just past had shaken me so badly that I couldn’t accept the fact that the experience itself proved that I was wrong.

  But Pluto!

  I wasn’t given time to wonder; we got into space suits. Although I hadn’t known, Oscar was there, and I was so glad to see him that I forgot everything else. He hadn’t been racked, just tossed on the floor. I bent down (discovering charley horses in every muscle) and checked him. He didn’t seem hurt.