"This one has."
"You mean you saw a space ship in here?"
"Well, I don't know. It's not like any I ever saw before, but if it's not a space ship, I don't know what it is good for."
I wanted to go see, but Hank objected. "Another time, Bill; we've got to get back to camp. We're late as it is."
I didn't put up any fight. My side was paining me again, from the walk. "Okay, what happens next?"
"Like this." He led me around to the end of the contraption; the trough came nearly down to the floor in back. Hank helped me get inside, told me to lie down, and went up to the other end. 'The guy that built this," he said, "must have been a hump-backed midget with four arms. Hang on."
"Do you know what you're doing?" I asked.
"I moved it about six feet before; then I lost my nerve. Abracadabra! Hold onto your hat!" He poked a finger deep into a hole.
The thing began to move, silently, gently, without any fuss. When we came out into the sunshine, Hank pulled his finger out of the hole. I sat up. The thing was two thirds out of the cave and the front end was beyond the crystals.
I sighed. "You made it, Hank, Let's get going. If I had some more ice on my side I think I could walk."
"Wait a second," he said. "I want to try something. There are holes here I haven't stuck a finger in yet."
"Leave well enough alone."
Instead of answering he tried another hole. The machine backed up suddenly. "Woopsl" he said, jerked his finger out, and jabbed it back where it had been before. He left it there until he regained what we had lost.
He tried other holes more cautiously. At last he found one which caused the machine to rear up its front end slightly and swing it to the left, like a caterpillar. "Now we are in business," he said happily. "I can steer it." We started down the canyon.
Hank was not entirely correct in thinking he could guide it. It was more like guiding a horse than a machine—or perhaps more like guiding one of those new groundmobiles with the semi-automatic steering. The walker wagon came to the little natural bridge of ice through which the crystals passed and stopped of itself. Hank tried to get it to go through the opening, which was large enough; it would have none of it. The front end cast around like a dog sniffing, then eased gradually up hill and around the ice.
It stayed level; apparently it could adjust its legs, like the fabulous hillside snee.
When Hank came to the ice flow we had crossed on the way up to the notch, he stopped it and gave me a fresh ice pack. Apparently it did not object to ice in itself, but simply refused to go through holes, for when we started up again, it crossed the little glacier, slowly and cautiously, but steadily.
We headed on toward camp. "This," Hank announced happily, "is the greatest cross-country, rough-terrain vehicle ever built. I wish I knew what makes it go. If I had the patent on this thing, I'd be rich."
"It's yours; you found it."
"It doesn't really belong to me."
"Hank," I answered, "you don't really think the owner is going to come back looking for it, do you?"
He got a very odd look. "No, I don't, Bill. Say, Bill, uh, how long ago do you think this thing was put in there?"
"I wouldn't even want to guess."
There was only one tent at the camp site. As we came up to it, somebody came out and waited for us. It was Sergei.
"Where have you guys been?" he asked. "And where in Kingdom Come did you steal that?
"And what is it?" he added.
We did our best to bring him up to date, and presently he did the same for us. They had searched for us as long as they could, then Paul had been forced to move back to camp number one to keep the date with the Jitterbug. He had left Sergei behind to fetch us when we showed up. "He left a note for you," Sergei added, digging it out
It read:
"Dear Pen Pals,
"I am sorry to go off and leave you crazy galoots but you know the schedule as well as I do. I would stay behind myself to herd you home, but your pal Sergei insists that it is his privilege. Every time I try to reason with him he crawls further back into his hole, bares his teeth, and growls.
"As soon as you get this, get your chubby little legs to moving in the direction of camp number one. Run, do not walk. We'll hold the Jitterbug, but you know how dear old Aunt Hattie feels about keeping her schedule. She isn't going to like it if you are late.
"When I see you, I intend to beat your ears down around your shoulders.
"Good luck,
"P. du M.
"P.S. to Doctor Slop: I took care of your accordion."
When we had finished reading it Sergei said, "I want to hear more about what you found—about eight times more. But not now; we've got to tear over to camp number one. Hank, you think Bill can't walk it?"
I answered for myself, an emphatic "no." The excitement was wearing off and I was feeling worse again.
"Hmm—Hank, do you think that mobile junk yard will carry us over there?"
"I think it will carry us any place." Hank patted it.
"How fast? The Jitterbug has already grounded."
"Are you sure?" asked Hank.
"I saw its trail in the sky at least three hours ago."
"Let's get going!"
I don't remember much about the trip. They stopped once in the pass, and packed me with ice again. The next thing I knew I was awakened by hearing Sergei shout, "There's the Jitterbug! I can see it."
"Jitterbug, here we come," answered Hank. I sat up and looked, too.
We were coming down the slope, not five miles from it, when flame burst from its tail and it climbed for the sky.
Hank groaned. I lay back down and closed my eyes.
I woke up again when the contraption stopped. Paul was there, hands on his hips, staring at us. "About time you birds got home," he announced. "But where did you find that?"
"Paul," Hank said urgently, "Bill is very sick."
"Oh, oh!" Paul swung up and into the walker and made no more questions then. A moment later he had my belly bared and was shoving a thumb into that spot between the belly button and the hip bone. "Does that hurt?" he asked.
I was too weak to slug him. He gave me a pill.
I took no further part in events for a while, but what had happened was this: Captain Hattie had waited, at Paul's urgent insistence, for a couple of hours, and then had announced that she had to blast. She had a schedule to keep with the Covered Wagon and she had no intention, she said, of keeping eight thousand people waiting for the benefit of two. Hank and I could play Indian if we liked; we couldn't play hob with her schedule.
There was nothing Paul could do, so he sent the rest back and waited for us.
But I didn't hear this at the time. I was vaguely aware that we were in the walker wagon, travelling, and I woke up twice when I was repacked with ice, but the whole episode is foggy. They travelled east, with Hank driving and Paul navigating—by the seat of his pants. Some long dreamy time later they reached a pioneer camp surveying a site over a hundred miles away—and from there Paul radioed for help.
Whereupon the Jitterbug came and got us. I remember the landing back at Leda—that is, I remember somebody saying, "Hurry, there! We've got a boy with a burst appendix."
20. Home
There was considerable excitement over what we had found—and there still is—but I didn't see any of it. I was busy playing games with the Pearly Gates. I guess I have Dr. Archibald to thank for still being here. And Hank. And Sergei. And Paul. And Captain Hattie. And some nameless party, who lived somewhere, a long time ago, whose shape and race I still don't know, but who designed the perfect machine for traveling overland through rough country.