Part 6 (1/2)
”I don't advise it,” she said frostily. ”I bite.”
I believed her. And scratch. And other things. None of them pleasant. I changed the subject. ”Why didn't you tell me, Peewee?”
”I was afraid you might try to get out.”
”Huh? I certainly would have!”
”Precisely. But I wanted that panel closed ... as long as he was out there.”
Maybe she was a genius. Compared with me. ”I see your point. All right, let's see if we can get it open.” I examined the panel. The wad of gum was there, up high as she could reach, and from the way it was mashed it did seem possible that it had fouled the groove the panel slid into, but I couldn't see any crack down the edge.
I tried the point of my big blade on it. The panel seemed to creep to the right an eighth of an inch-then the blade broke.
I closed the stub and put the knife away. ”Any ideas?”
”Maybe if we put our hands flat against it and tried to drag it?”
”Okay.” I wiped sweat from my hands on my s.h.i.+rt. ”Now . . . easy does it. Just enough pressure for friction.”
The panel slid to the right almost an inch-and stopped firmly.
But there was a hairline crack from floor to ceiling.
I broke off the stub of the big blade this time. The crack was no wider. Peewee said, ”Oh, dear!”
”We aren't licked.” I backed off and ran toward the door.
”Toward,” not ”to”-my feet skidded, I leveled off and did a leisurely bellywhopper. Peewee didn't laugh.
I picked myself up, got against the far wall, braced one foot against it and tried a swimming racing start.
I got as far as the door panel before losing my footing. I didn't hit it very hard, but I felt it spring. It bulged a little, then sprang back.
”Wait a sec, Kip,” said Peewee. ”Take your socks off. I'll get behind you and push-my tennis shoes don't slip.”
She was right. On the Moon, if you can't get rubber-soled shoes, you're better off barefooted. We backed against the far wall, Peewee behind me with her hands on my hips. ”One . . . two . . . three . . . Go!” We advanced with the grace of a hippopotamus.
I hurt my shoulder. But the panel sprung out of its track, leaving a s.p.a.ce four inches wide at the bottom and tapering to the top.
I left skin on the door frame and tore my s.h.i.+rt and was hampered in language by the presence of a girl. But the opening widened. When it was wide enough for my head, I got down flat and peered out. There was n.o.body in sight-a foregone conclusion, with the noise I had made, unless they were playing cat-and-mouse. Which I wouldn't put past them. Especially him.
Peewee started to wiggle through; I dragged her back. ”Naughty, naughty! I go first.” Two more heaves and it was wide enough for me. I opened the small blade of my knife and handed it to Peewee. ”With your s.h.i.+eld or on it, soldier.”
”You take it.”
”I won't need it. 'Two-Fisted Death,' they call me around dark alleys.” This was propaganda, but why worry her? Sans pew et sans reproche- maiden-rescuing done cheaply, special rates for parties.
I eased out on elbows and knees, stood up and looked around. ”Come on out,” I said quietly.
She started to, then backed up suddenly. She reappeared clutching that bedraggled dolly. ”I almost forgot Madame Pompadour,” she said breathlessly.
I didn't even smile.
”Well,” she said defensively, ”I have to have her to get to sleep at night. It's my one neurotic quirk-but Daddy says I'll outgrow it.”
”Sure, sure.”
”Well, don't look so smug! It's not fetis.h.i.+sm, not even primitive animism; it's merely a conditioned reflex. I'm aware that it's just a doll-I've understood the pathetic fallacy for ... oh, years and years!”
”Look, Peewee,” I said earnestly, ”I don't care how you get to sleep. Personally I hit myself over the head with a hammer. But quit yakking. Do you know the layout of these s.h.i.+ps?”
She looked around. ”I think this is the s.h.i.+p that chased me. But it looks the same as the one I piloted.”
”All right. Should we head for the control room?”
”Huh?”
”You flew the other heap. Can you fly this one?”
”Unh ... I guess so. Yes, I can.”
”Then let's go.” I started in the direction they had lugged me.
”But the other time I had the Mother Thing to tell me what to do! Let's find her.”
I stopped. ”Can you get it off the ground?”
”Well . . . yes.”
”We'll look for her after we're in the air-'in s.p.a.ce,' I mean. If she's aboard we'll find her. If she's not, there's not a thing we can do.”
”Well ... all right. I see your logic; I don't have to like it.” She tagged along. ”Kip? How many gravities can you stand?”
”Huh? I haven't the slightest idea. Why?”
”Because these things can go lots faster than I dared try when I escaped before. That was my mistake.”
”Your mistake was in heading for New Jersey.”
”But I had to find Daddy!”
”Sure, sure, eventually. But you should have ducked over to Lunar Base and yelled for the Federation s.p.a.ce Corps. This is no job for a popgun; we need help. Any idea where we are?”
”Mmm . . . I think so. If he took us back to their base. I'll know when I look at the sky.”
”All right. If you can figure out where Lunar Base is from here, that's where we'll go. If not- Well, we'll head for New Jersey at all the push it has.”
The control-room door latched and I could not figure out how to open it. Peewee did what she said should work-which was to tuck her little finger into a hole mine would not enter-and told me it must be locked. So I looked around.
I found a metal bar racked in the corridor, a thing about five feet long, pointed on one end and with four handles like bra.s.s knucks on the other. I didn't know what it was-the hobgoblin equivalent of a fire ax, possibly -but it was a fine wrecking bar.