I could no longer feel the line. I stopped, leaned forward and got the coil in the light from the headlamp-that's another thing that needs fixing! the headlamp should swivel.
The coil was half gone, I had come a good fifty yards. I was depending on the rope to tell me; it was a hundred-meter climbing line, so when I neared its end I would be as far out as the Mother Thing had wanted. Hurry, Kip!
("Get cracking, boy! It's cold out here.")
I stopped again. Did I have the box?
I couldn't feel it. But the headlamp showed my right hand clutched around it. Stay there, fingers! I hurried on, counting steps. One! Two! Three! Four! ...
When I reached forty I stopped and glanced over the edge, saw that I was at the highest part where the road crossed the brook and remembered that it was about midway. That brook-methane, was it?-was frozen solid, and I knew that the night was cold.
There were a few loops of line on my left arm-close enough. I dropped the line, moved cautiously to the middle of the way, eased to my knees and left hand, and started to put the box down.
My fingers wouldn't unbend.
I forced them with my left hand, got the box out of my fist. That diabolical wind caught it and I barely saved it from rolling away. With both hands I set it carefully upright.
("Work your fingers, bud. Pound your hands together!")
I did so. I could tighten the muscles of my forearms, though it was tearing agony to flex fingers. Clumsily steadying the box with my left hand, I groped for the little knob on top.
I couldn't feel it but it turned easily once I managed to close my fingers on it; I could see it turn.
It seemed to come to life, to purr. Perhaps I heard vibration, through gloves and up my suit; I certainly couldn't have felt it, not the shape my fingers were in. I hastily let go, got awkwardly to my feet and backed up, so that I could splash the headlamp on it without leaning over.
I was through, the Mother Thing's job was done, and (I hoped) before deadline. If I had had as much sense as the ordinary doorknob, I would have turned and hurried into the tunnel faster than I had come out. But I was fascinated by what it was doing.
It seemed to shake itself and three spidery little legs grew out the bottom. It raised up until it was standing on its own little tripod, about a foot high. It shook itself again and I thought the wind would blow it over. But the spidery legs splayed out, seemed to bite into the road surface and it was rock firm.
Something lifted and unfolded out the top.
It opened like a flower, until it was about eight inches across. A finger lifted (an antenna?), swung as if hunting, steadied and pointed at the sky.
Then the beacon switched on. I'm sure that is what happened although all I saw was a flash of light-parasitic it must have been, for light alone would not have served even without that volcanic overcast. It was probably some harmless side effect of switching on an enormous pulse of power, something the Mother Thing hadn't had time, or perhaps equipment or materials, to eliminate or shield. It was about as bright as a peanut photoflash.
But I was looking at it. Polarizers can't work that fast. It blinded me.
I thought my headlamp had gone out, then I realized that I simply couldn't see through a big greenish-purple disc of dazzle.
("Take it easy, boy. It's just an after-image. Wait and it'll go away.")
"I can't wait! I'm freezing to death!"
("Hook the line with your forearm, where it's clipped to your belt. Pull on it.")
I did as Oscar told me, found the line, turned around, started to wind it on both forearms.
It shattered.
It did not break as you expect rope to break; it shattered like glass. I suppose that is what it was by then-glass, I mean. Nylon and glass are super-cooled liquids.
Now I know what "super-cooled" means.
But all I knew then was that my last link with life had gone. I couldn't see, I couldn't hear, I was all alone on a bare platform, billions of miles from home, and a wind out of the depths of a frozen hell was bleeding the last life out of a body I could barely feel-and where I could feel, it hurt like fire.
"Oscar!"
("I'm here, bud. You can make it. Now-can you see anything?")
"No!"
("Look for the mouth of the tunnel. It's got light in it. Switch off your headlamp. Sure, you can-it's just a toggle switch. Drag your hand back across the right side of our helmet.")
I did.
("See anything?")
"Not yet."
("Move your head. Try to catch it in the corner of your eye-the dazzle stays in front, you know. Well?")
"I caught something that time!"
("Reddish, wasn't it? Jagged, too. The volcano. Now we know which way we're facing. Turn slowly and catch the mouth of the tunnel as it goes by.")
Slowly was the only way I could turn. "There it is!"
("Okay, you're headed home. Get down on your hands and knees and crab slowly to your left. Don't turn-because you want to hang onto that edge and crawl. Crawl toward the tunnel.")
I got down. I couldn't feel the surface with my hands but I felt pressure on my limbs, as if all four were artificial. I found the edge when my left hand slipped over it and I almost fell off. But I recovered. "Am I headed right?"
("Sure you are. You haven't turned. You've just moved sideways. Can you lift your head to see the tunnel?")
"Uh, not without standing up."
("Don't do that! Try the headlamp again. Maybe your eyes are okay now.")
I dragged my hand forward against the right side of the helmet. I must have hit the switch, for suddenly I saw a circle of light, blurred and cloudy in the middle. The edge of the walkway sliced it on the left.
("Good boy! No, don't get up; you're weak and dizzy and likely to fall. Start crawling. Count ‘em. Three hundred ought to do it.")
I started crawling, counting.
"It's a long way, Oscar. You think we can make it?"
("Of course we can! You think I want to be left out here?")
"I'd be with you."
("Knock off the chatter. You'll make me lose count. Thirty-six... thirty-seven... thirty-eight-")
We crawled.
("That's a hundred. Now we double it. Hundred one... hundred two... hundred three-")
"I'm feeling better, Oscar. I think it's getting warmer."
("WHAT!")
"I said I'm feeling a little warmer."
("You're not warmer, you blistering idiot! That's freeze-to-death you're feeling! Crawl faster! Work your chin valve. Get more air. Le' me hear that chin valve click!")
I was too tired to argue; I chinned the valve three or four times, felt a blast blistering my face.
("I'm stepping up the stroke. Warmer indeed! Hund'd nine... hund'd ten... hun'leven... hun'twelve-pick it up!")
At two hundred I said I would just have to rest.
("No, you don't!")
"But I've got to. Just a little while."
("Like that, uh? You know what happens. What's Peewee goin' to do? She's in there, waiting. She's already scared because you're late. What's she goin' to do? Answer me!")
"Uh... she's going to try to wear Tim's suit."
("Right! In case of duplicate answers the prize goes to the one postmarked first. How far will she get? You tell me.")
"Uh ... to the mouth of the tunnel, I guess. Then the wind will get her."
("My opinion exactly. Then we'll have the whole family together. You, me, the Mother Thing, Peewee. Cozy. A family of stiffs.")
"But-"
("So start slugging, brother. Slug... slug... slug... slug... tw'und'd five... two'und'd six... tw'und'd sev'n'-")
I don't remember falling off. I don't even know what the "snow" felt like. I just remember being glad that the dreadful counting was over and I could rest.