The Rolling Stones (28 page)

“Shut up and hurry!”

“I am hurrying. She made me take a bath. I don’t need no doctors. All the bugs that ever bit me, died.”

When Charlie had dug his scooter out of the floating junkyard moored to his home they soon saw why he had refused to lend it. It seemed probable that no one else could possibly pilot it. Not only was it of vintage type, repaired with parts from many other sorts, but also the controls were arranged for a man with four hands. Charlie had been in free fall so long that he used his feet almost as readily for grasping and handling as does an ape; his space suit had had the feet thereof modified so that he could grasp things between the big toe and the second, as with Japanese stockings.

“Hang on. Where we going?”

“Do you know where the Eakers live?”

“Sure. Used to live out past that way myself. Lonely stretch.” He pointed. “Right out there, ’bout half a degree right of that leetle second-magnitude star—say eight hundred, eight hundred ten miles.”

“Cas, maybe we’d better check the drift reports in the store?”

Charlie seemed annoyed. “I know Rock City. I keep up with the drifts. I have to.”

“Then let’s go.”

“To Eakers’?”

“No, no—uh, just about…” He strained his neck, figured the position of the Sun, tried to imagine himself in Hazel’s suit, heading back. “About there—would you say, Pol?”

“As near as we can guess it.”

The crate was old but Charlie had exceptionally large tanks on it; it could maintain a thrust for plenty of change-of-motion. Its jet felt as sweet as any. Rut it had no radar of any sort. “Charlie, how do you tell where you are in this thing?”

“That.”

“That” proved to be an antiquated radio compass loop. The twins had never seen one, knew how it worked only by theory. They were radar pilots, not used to conning by the seats of their suits. Seeing their faces Charlie added, “Shucks, if you’ve got any eye for angle, you don’t need fancy gear. Anywhere within twenty miles of the City Hall, I don’t even turn on my suit jet—I just jump.”

They cruised out the line that the twins had picked. Once in free fall Charlie taught them how to handle the compass loop. “Just plug it into your suit in place of your regular receiver. If you pick up a signal, swing the loop until it’s least loud. That’s the direction of the signal—an arrow right through the middle of the loop.”

“But which way? The loop faces both ways.”

“You have to know that. Or guess wrong and go back and try again.”

Castor took the first watch. He got plenty of signals; the node was buzzing with talk—all bad news. He found, too, that the loop, while not as directional as a “salad bowl” antenna, usually did not pick up but one signal at a time. As they scooted along, endlessly he swung the loop, staying with each signal just long enough to be sure that the sound could not be Hazel.

Pollux tapped his arm and put his helmet in contact with Castor’s. “Anything?”

“Just chatter.”

“Keep trying. We’ll stay out until we find them. Want me to spell you?”

“No. If we don’t find them, I’m not going back.”

“Quit being a cheap hero and listen. Or give me that loop.”

City Hall dropped astern until it was no longer a shape. Castor at last reluctantly gave over the watch to Pollux. His twin had been at it for perhaps ten minutes when he suddenly made motions waving them to silence even though he could not have heard them in any case. Castor spoke to him helmet to helmet. “What is it?”

“Sounded like a kid crying. Might have been Buster.”

“Where?”

“I’ve lost it. I tried to get a minimum. Now I can’t raise it.”

Charlie, anticipating what would be needed, had swung ship as soon as he had quit accelerating. Now he blasted back as much as he had accelerated, bringing them dead in space relative to City Hall and the node. He gave it a gentle extra bump to send them cruising slowly back the way they had come. Pollux listened, slowly swinging his loop. Castor strained his eyes, trying to see something, anything, other than the cold stars.

“Got it again!” Pollux pounded his brother.

Old Charlie killed their relative motion; waited. Pollux cautiously tried for a minimum, then swung the loop, and tried again. He pointed, indicating that it had to be one of two directions, a hundred and eighty degrees apart.

“Which way?” Castor asked Charlie.

“Over that way.”

“I can’t see anything.”

“Me neither. I got a hunch.”

Castor did not argue. Either direction was equally likely. Charlie gunned it hard in the direction he had picked, roughly toward Vega. He had hardly cut the gun and let it coast in free fall when Pollux was nodding vigorously. They coasted for some minutes, with Pollux reporting the signal stronger and the minimum sharper…but still nothing in sight. Castor longed for radar. By now he could hear crying in his own phones. It could be Buster—it
must
be Buster.

“There she is!”

It was Charlie’s shout. Castor could not see anything, even though old Charlie pointed it out to him. At last he got it—a point of light, buried in stars. Pollux unplugged from the compass when it was clear that what they saw was a mass, not a star, and in the proper direction. Old Charlie handled his craft as casually as a bicycle, bringing them up to it fast and killing his headway so that they were dead with it. He insisted on making the jump himself.

Lowell was too hysterical to be coherent. Seeing that he was alive and not hurt, they turned at once to Hazel. She was still strapped in her seat, eyes open, a characteristic half-smile on her face. But she neither greeted them nor answered.

Charlie looked at her and shook his head. “Not a chance, boys. She ain’t even wearing an oxy bottle.”

Nevertheless they hooked a bottle to her suit—Castor’s bottle; no one had thought to bring a spare. The twins went back cross-connected on what was left in Pollux’s bottle, temporarily Siamese twins. The family scooter they left in orbit, to be picked up and towed in by someone else. Charlie used almost all his fuel on the way back, gunning to as high a speed as he dared while still saving boost to brake them at City Hall.

They shouted the news all the way back. Somewhere along the line someone picked up their signal; passed it along.

They took her into Fries’ store, there being more room there. Mrs. Fries pushed the twins aside and applied artificial respiration herself, to be displaced ten minutes later by Dr. Stone. She used the free-fall method without strapping down, placing herself behind Hazel and rhythmically squeezing her ribs with both arms.

It seemed that all of Rock City wanted to come inside. Fries chased them out, and, for the first time in history, barred the door to his store. After a while Dr. Stone swapped off with her husband, then took back the task after only a few minutes’ rest.

Meade was weeping silently; old Charlie was wringing his hands and looking out of place and unhappy. Dr. Stone worked with set face, her features hardened to masculine, professional lines. Lowell, his hand in Meade’s, was dry-eyed but distressed, not understanding, not yet knowing death. Castor’s mouth was twisted, crying heavily as a man cries, the sobs wrung from him; Pollux, emotion already exhausted, was silent.

When Edith Stone relieved him, Roger Stone backed away, turned toward the others. His face was without anger but without hope. Pollux whispered, “Dad? Is she?”

Roger Stone then noticed them, came over and put an arm around Castor’s heaving shoulders. “You must remember, boys, that she is very old. They don’t have much comeback at her age.”

Hazel’s eyes opened. “
Who
doesn’t, boy?”

THE ENDLESS TRAIL

H
AZEL HAD USED

the ancient fakir’s trick, brought to the west, so it is said, by an entertainer called Houdini, of breathing as shallowly as possible and going as quickly as may be into a coma. To hear her tell it, there never had been any real danger. Die? Shucks, you couldn’t suffocate in a coffin in that length of time. Sure, she had had to depend on Lowell to keep up the cry for help; he used less oxygen. But deliberate suicide to save the boy? Ridiculous! There hadn’t been any need to.

It was not until the next day that Roger Stone called the boys in. He told them, “You did a good job on the rescue. We’ll forget the technical breach of confinement to the ship.”

Castor answered, “It wasn’t anything. Hazel did it, really. I mean, it was an idea that we got out of her serial, the skew orbit episode.”

“I must not have read that one.”

“Well, it was a business about how to sort out one piece of space from another when you don’t have too much data to go on. You see, Captain Sterling had to—”

“Never mind. That’s not what I wanted to talk with you about. You did a good job, granted, no matter what suggested it to you. If only conventional search methods had been used, your grandmother would unquestionably now be dead. You are two very intelligent men—when you take the trouble. But you didn’t take the trouble soon enough. Not about the gyros.”

“But Dad, we never dreamed—”

“Enough.” He reached for his waist; the twins noticed that he was wearing an old-fashioned piece of apparel—a leather belt. He took it off. “This belonged to your great grandfather. He left it to your grandfather—who in turn left it to me. I don’t know how far back it goes—but you might say that the Stone family was founded on it.” He doubled it and tried it on the palm of his hand. “All of us, all the way back, have very tender memories of it. Very tender. Except you two.” He again whacked his palm with it.

Castor said, “You mean you’re going to beat us with that?”

“Have you any reason to offer why I shouldn’t?”

Castor looked at Pollux, sighed and moved forward. “I’ll go first, I’m the older.”

Roger moved to a drawer, put the belt inside. “I should have used it ten years ago.” He closed the drawer. “It’s too late, now.”

“Aren’t you going to do it?”

“I never said I was going to. No.”

The twins swapped glances. Castor went on, “Dad—Captain. We’d rather you did.”

Pollux added quickly, “Much rather.”

“I know you would. That way you’d be through with it. But instead you’re going to have to live with it. That’s the way adults have to do it.”

“But Dad—”

“Go to your quarters, sir.”

When it was time for the
Rolling Stone
to leave for Ceres a good proportion of the community crowded into City Hall to bid the doctor and her family good-by; all the rest were hooked in by radio, a full town meeting. Mayor Fries made a speech and presented them with a scroll which made them all honorary citizens of Rock City, now and forever; Roger Stone tried to answer and choked up. Old Charlie, freshly bathed, cried openly. Meade sang one more time into the microphone, her soft contralto unmixed this time with commercialism. Ten minutes later the
Stone
drifted out-orbit and back.

As at Mars, Roger Stone left her circum Ceres, not at a station or satellite—there was none—but in orbit. Hazel, the Captain, and Meade went down by shuttle to Ceres City, Meade to see the sights, Roger to arrange the disposal of their high grade and core material and for a cargo of refined metal to take back to Luna, Hazel to take care of business or pleasure of her own. Doctor Stone chose not to go—on Lowell’s account; the shuttle was no more than an over-sized scooter with bumper landing gear.

The twins were still under hatches, not allowed to go.

Meade assured them, on return, that they had not missed anything. “It’s just like Luna City, only little and crowded and no fun.”

Their father added, “She’s telling the truth, boys, so don’t take it too hard. You’ll be seeing Luna itself next stop anyway.”

“Oh, we weren’t kicking!” Castor said stiffly.

“Not a bit,” insisted Pollux. “We’re willing to wait for Luna.”

Roger Stone grinned. “You’re not fooling anyone. But we will be shaping orbit home in a couple of weeks. In a way I’m sorry. All in all, it’s been two good years.”

Meade said suddenly, “Did you say ‘home,’ Daddy? It seems to me we
are
home. We’re going back to Luna, but we’re taking home with us.”

“Eh? Yes, I suppose you’re right; the good old
Rolling Stone
is home, looked at that way. She’s taken us through a lot.” He patted a bulkhead affectionately. “Right, Mother?”

Hazel had been unusually silent. Now she looked at her son and said, “Oh, sure, sure. Of course.”

Dr. Stone said, “What did you do downside, Mother Hazel?”

“Me? Oh, not much. Swapped lies with a couple of old-timers. And sent off that slough of episodes. By the way, Roger, better start thinking about story lines.”

“Eh? What was that, Mother?”

“That’s my last. I’m giving the show back to you.”

“Well, all right—but why?”

“Uh, I’m not going to find it so convenient now.” She seemed embarrassed. “You see—well, would any of you mind very much if I checked out now?”

“What do you mean?”

“The
Helen of Troy
is shaping for the Trojans and the
Wellington
is matching there for single-H and a passenger. Me. I’m going on out to Titan.”

Before they could object she went on, “Now don’t look at me that way. I’ve always wanted to see the Rings, close up—close enough to file my nails on ’em. They must be the gaudiest sight in the System. I got to thinking right seriously about it when the air was getting a little stuffy back—well, back you-know-when. I said to myself: Hazel, you aren’t getting any younger; you catch the next chance that comes your way. I missed one once, Roger, when you were three. A good chance, but they wouldn’t take a child and well, never mind. So now I’m going.”

She paused, then snapped, “Don’t look so much like a funeral! You don’t need me now. What I mean is, Lowell is bigger now and not such a problem.”

“I’ll always need you, Mother Hazel,” her daughter-in-law said quietly.

“Thanks. But not true. I’ve taught Meade all the astrogation I know. She could get a job with Four-Planets tomorrow if they weren’t so stuffy about hiring female pilots. The twins—well, they’ve soaked up all the meanness I can pass on to them; they’ll put up a good fight, whatever comes up. And you, Son, I finished with you when you were in short pants. You’ve been bringing me up ever since.”