Tunnel in the Sky

by Robert A. Heinlein

  They were searching a series of arched galleries water-carved in sandstone cliff. The shelf of the lowest gallery was six or seven meters above the sloping stand of soil below. The canyon dropped rapidly here; Rod could visualize a flume from upstream, bringing running water right to the caves…not right away, but when they had time to devise tools and cope with the problems. Someday, someday—but in the meantime here was plenty of room for the colony in a spot which almost defended itself. Not to mention, he added, being in out of the rain.

  Roy was the better Alpinist; he inched up, flat to the rock, reached the shelf and threw down his line to Rod—snaked him up quickly. Rod got an arm over the edge, scrambled to his knees, stood up—and gasped, “What the deuce!”

  “That,” said Roy, “is why I kept quiet. I thought you would think I was crazy.”

  “I think we both are.” Rod stared around. Filling the depth of the gallery, not seen from below, was terrace on terrace of cliff dwellings.

  They were not inhabited, nor had they ever been by men. Openings which must have been doors were no higher than a man’s knee, not wide enough for shoulders. But it was clear that they were dwellings, not merely formations carved by water. There were series of rooms arranged in half a dozen low stories from floor to ceiling of the gallery. The material was a concrete of dried mud, an adobe, used with wood.

  But there was nothing to suggest what had built them. Roy started to stick his head into an opening; Rod shouted, “Hey! Don’t do that!”

  “Why not? It’s abandoned.”

  “You don’t know what might be inside. Snakes, maybe.”

  “There are no snakes. Nobody’s ever seen one.”

  “No…but take it easy.”

  “I wish I had a torch light.”

  “I wish I had eight beautiful dancing girls and a Cadillac copter. Be careful. I don’t want to walk back alone.”

  They lunched in the gallery and considered the matter. “Of course they were intelligent,” Roy declared. “We may find them elsewhere. Maybe really civilized now—these look like ancient ruins.”

  “Not necessarily intelligent,” Rod argued. “Bees make more complicated homes.”

  “Bees don’t combine mud and wood the way these people did. Look at that lintel.”

  “Birds do. I’ll concede that they were bird-brained, no more.”

  “Rod, you won’t look at the evidence.”

  “Where are their artifacts? Show me one ash tray marked ‘Made in Jersey City.’”

  “I might find some if you weren’t so jumpy.”

  “All in time. Anyhow, the fact that they found it safe shows that we can live here.”

  “Maybe. What killed them? Or why did they go away?”

  They searched two galleries after lunch, found more dwellings. The dwellers had apparently formed a very large community. The fourth gallery they explored was almost empty, containing a beginning of a hive in one corner. Rod looked it over. “We can use this. If may not be the best, but we can move the gang in and then find the best at our leisure.”

  “We’re heading back?”

  “Uh, in the morning. This is a good place to sleep and tomorrow we’ll travel from ‘can’ to ‘can’t’—I wonder what’s up there?” Rod was looking at a secondary shelf inside the main arch.

  Roy eyed it. “I’ll let you know in a moment.”

  “Don’t bother. It’s almost straight up. We’ll build ladders for spots like that.”

  “My mother was a human fly, my father was a mountain goat. Watch me.”

  The shelf was not much higher than his head. Roy had a hand over—when a piece of rock crumbled away. He did not fall far.

  Rod ran to him. “You all right, boy?”

  Roy grunted, “I guess so,” then started to get up. He yelped.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My right leg. I think…ow! I think it’s broken.”

  Rod examined the break, then went down to cut splints. With a piece of the line Roy carried, used economically, for he needed most of it as a ladder, he bound the leg, padding it with leaves. It was a simple break of the tibia, with no danger of infection.

  They argued the whole time. “Of course you will,” Roy was saying. “Leave me a fresh kill and what salt meat there is. You can figure some way to leave water.”

  “Come back and find your chawed bones!”

  “Not at all. Nothing can get at me. If you hustle, you can make it in three days.”

  “Four, or five more likely. Six days to lead a party back. Then you want to go back in a stretcher? How would you like to be helpless when a stobor jumps us?”

  “But I wouldn’t go back. The gang would be moving down here.”

  “Suppose they do? Eleven days, more likely twelve—Roy, you didn’t just bang your shin; you banged your head, too.”

  The stay in the gallery while Roy’s leg repaired was not difficult nor dangerous; it was merely tedious. Rod would have liked to explore all the caves, but the first time he was away longer than Roy thought necessary to make a kill Rod returned to find his patient almost hysterical. He had let his imagination run away, visioning Rod as dead and thinking about his own death, helpless, while he starved or died of thirst. After that Rod left him only to gather food and water. The gallery was safe from all dangers; no watch was necessary, fire was needed only for cooking. The weather was getting warmer and the daily rains dropped off.

  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?”

  “Eh? Nothing to it. You tie a knife with rawhide to a thinner bamboo pole, then reach in and whittle. All it takes is patience. Waxie worked it out. But you haven’t seen anything yet. We’re going to have iron.”

  “Huh?”

  “We’ve got ore; now we are experimenting. But I do wish we could locate a seam of coal. Say, you didn’t spot any, did you?”

  Dinner was a feast, a luau, a celebration to make the weddings look pale. Rod was given a real plate to eat on—unglazed, lopsided, ungraceful, but a plate. As he took out Colonel Bowie, Margery Chung Kinksi put a wooden spoon in his hand. “We don’t have enough to go around, but the guests of honor rate them tonight.” Rod looked at it curiously. It felt odd in his hand.

  Dinner consisted of boiled greens, some root vegetables new to him, and a properly baked haunch served in thin slices. Roy and Rod were served little unleavened cakes like tortillas. No one else had them, but Rod decided that it was polite not to comment on that. Instead he made a fuss over eating bread again.

  Margery dimpled. “We’ll have plenty of bread some day. Maybe next year.”

  There were tart little fruits for dessert, plus a bland, tasteless sort which resembled a dwarf banana with seeds. Rod ate too much.

  Grant called them to order and announced that he was going to ask the travelers to tell what they had experienced. “Let them get it all told—then they won’t have to tell it seventy times over. Come on, Rod. Let’s see your ugly face.”

  “Aw, let Roy. He talks better than I do.”

  “Take turns. When your voice wears out, Roy can take over.”

  Between them they told it all, interrupting and supplementing each other. The colonists were awed by the beach of a billion bones, still more interested in the ruins of the Dwellers. “Rod and I are still arguing,” Roy told them. “I say that it was a civilization. He says that it could be just instinct. He’s crazy with the heat; the Dwellers were people. Not humans, of course, but people.”

  “Then where are they now?”

  Roy shrugged. “Where are the Selenites, Dora? What became of the Mithrans?”

  “Roy is a romanticist,” Rod objected. “But you’ll be able to form your own opinions when we get there.”

  “That’s right, Rod,” Roy agreed.

  “That covers everything,” Rod went on. “The rest was just waiting while Roy’s leg healed. But it brings up the main subject. How quickly can we move? Grant, is there any reason not to start at once? Shouldn’t we break camp tomorrow and start trekking? I’ve been studying it—how to make the move, I mean—and I would say to send out an advance party at daybreak. Roy or I can lead it. We go downstream an easy day’s journey, pick a spot, make a kill, and have fire and food ready when the rest arrive. We do it again the next day. I think we can be safe and snug in the caves in five days.”

  “Dibs on the advance party!”

  “Me, too!”

  There were other shouts but Rod could not help but realize that the response was not what he had expected. Jimmy did not volunteer and Caroline merely looked thoughtful. The Baxters he could not see; they were in shadow.

  He turned to Cowper. “Well, Grant? Do you have a better idea?”

  “Rod,” Grant said slowly, “your plan is okay…but you’ve missed a point.”

  “Yes?”

  “Why do you assume that we are going to move?”

  “Huh? Why, that’s what we were sent for! To find a better place to live. We found it—you could hold those caves against an army. What’s the hitch? Of course we move!”

  Cowper examined his nails. “Rod, don’t get sore. I don’t see it and I doubt if other people do. I’m not saying the spot you and Roy found is not good. It may be better than here—the way this place used to be. But we are doing all right here—and we’ve got a lot of time and effort invested. Why move?”

  “Why, I told you. The caves are safe, completely safe. This spot is exposed…it’s dangerous.”

  “Maybe. Rod, in the whole time we’ve been here, nobody has been hurt inside camp. We’ll put it to a vote, but you can’t expect us to abandon our houses and everything we have worked for to avoid a danger that may be imaginary.”

  “Imaginary? Do you think that a stobor couldn’t jump that crummy barricade?” Rod demanded, pointing.

  “I think a stobor would get a chest full of pointed stakes if he tried it,” Grant answered soberly. “That ‘crummy barricade’ is a highly efficient defense. Take a better look in the morning.”

  “Where we were you wouldn’t need it. You wouldn’t need a night watch. Shucks, you wouldn’t need houses. Those caves are better than the best house here!”

  “Probably. But, Rod, you haven’t seen all we’ve done, how much we would have to abandon. Let’s look it over in the daylight, fellow, and then talk.”

  “Well…no, Grant, there is only one issue: the caves are safe; this place isn’t. I call for a vote.”

  “Easy now. This isn’t a town meeting. It’s a party in your honor. Let’s not spoil it.”

  “Well… I’m sorry. But we’re all here; let’s vote.”

  “No.” Cowper stood up. “There will be a town meeting on Friday as usual. Goodnight, Rod. Goodnight, Roy. We’re awfully glad you’re back. Goodnight all.”

  The party gradually fell apart. Only a few of the younger boys seemed to want to discuss the proposed move. Bob Baxter came over, put a hand on Rod and said, “See you in the morning, Rod. Bless you.” He left before Rod could get away from a boy who was talking to him.

  Jimmy Throxton stayed, as did Caroline. When he got the chance Rod said, “Jimmy? Where do you stand?”

  “Me? You know me, pal. Look, I sent Jackie to bed; she wasn’t feeling well. But she told me to tell you that we were back of you a hundred percent, always.”

  “Thanks. I feel better.”

  “See you in the morning? I want to check on Jackie.”

  “Sure. Sleep tight.”

  He was finally left with Caroline. “Roddie? Want to inspect the guard with me? You’ll do it after tonight, but we figured you could use a night with no worries.”

  “Wait a minute. Carol…you’ve been acting funny.”

  “Me? Why, Roddie!”

  “Well, maybe not. What do you think of the move? I didn’t hear you pitching in.”

  She looked away. “Roddie,” she said, “if it was just me, I’d say start tomorrow. I’d be on the advance party.”

  “Good! What’s got into these people? Grant has them buffaloed but I can’t see why.” He scratched his head. “I’m tempted to make up my own party—you, me, Jimmy and Jack, the Baxters, Roy, the few who were rarin’ to go tonight, and anybody else with sense enough to pound sand.”

  She sighed. “It won’t work, Rod
die.”

  “Huh? Why not?”

  “I’ll go. Some of the youngsters would go for the fun of it. Jimmy and Jack would go if you insisted…but they would beg off if you made it easy for them. The Baxters should not and I doubt if Bob would consent. Carmen isn’t really up to such a trip.”

  13

  Unkillable

  THE MATTER NEVER CAME TO A VOTE. Long before Friday Rod knew how a vote would go—about fifty against him, less than half that for him, with his friends voting with him through loyalty rather than conviction or possibly against him in a showdown.

  He made an appeal in private to Cowper. “Grant, you’ve got me licked. Even Roy is sticking with you now. But you could swing them around.”

  “I doubt it. What you don’t see, Rod, is that we have taken root. You may have found a better place…but it’s too late to change. After all, you picked this spot.”

  “Not exactly, it…well, it just sort of happened.”

  “Lots of things in life just sort of happen. You make the best of them.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do! Grant, admitted that the move is hard; we could manage it. Set up way stations with easy jumps, send our biggest huskies back for what we don’t want to abandon. Shucks, we could move a person on a litter if we had to—using enough guards.”

  “If the town votes it, I’ll be for it. But I won’t try to argue them into it. Look, Rod, you’ve got this fixed idea that this spot is dangerously exposed. The facts don’t support you. On the other hand see what we have. Running water from upstream, waste disposal downstream, quarters comfortable and adequate for the climate. Salt—do you have salt there?”

  “We didn’t look for it—but it would be easy to bring it from the seashore.”

  “We’ve got it closer here. We’ve got prospects of metal. You haven’t seen that ore outcropping yet, have you? We’re better equipped every day; our standard of living is going up. We have a colony nobody need be ashamed of and we did it with bare hands; we were never meant to be a colony. Why throw up what we have gained to squat in caves like savages?”

  Rod sighed. “Grant, this bank may be flooded in the rainy season—aside from its poor protection now.”