But in the back of my mind I realize that if I have to go back Earthside I’ll never see her again.
Well, disqualified or not, I head out for the Ranger 9 site by the most direct route: across the central hills.
They look like dimples in the satellite imagery, but as ol’ Stomper gets closer to them, those rounded slumped hills rise up in front of me like a real barrier. They’re not steep, and not really all that high, but those slopes are worn almost as smooth as glass. There’s no air on the Moon, you know, and for eons micrometeorites the size of dust motes have been falling in from space and sandpapering the hills.
I start to wonder if Stomper can really climb across them. There aren’t any trails or passes, just a jumbled knot of rocks rising up from the plain of the crater floor. Sigurdsen tried going up them in a wheeled buggy back before Selene became an independent nation; he found the going too treacherous and turned back. Nobody’s bothered since then. There’s nothing in those bare knobby hills that’s worth the effort.
I throttle down and shift to a lower gear.
“Easy does it, Stomper,” I mutter. “You can do it. I know you can.”
One step at a time, like a turtle on tiptoes, we pick our way through the jumbled rocks. I’m pouring sweat by the time we get near the top. Inside the spacesuit you can boil in your own juices, you know.
“Are you singing?” Janine’s voice asks me.
“What?”
“Sounds like you were singing to yourself, Tay,” she says, sounding kind of concerned.
I realize I must have been humming to myself, sort of. An old folk song my grandfather used to sing, about a railroad worker named John Henry.
“I’m okay,” I tell her.
“Dr. Brunner’s really hacked at you,” Janine says. “He’s sore you haven’t turned back.”
“He’s gonna have to be sore a while longer,” I answer tightly.
Stomper clomps along up the worn old rocks and we get to the top. Off in the distance I can see the crumpled wreckage of Ranger 9. I have to be even more careful going downhill, making sure each one of Stomper’s six feet are solidly planted with each step. No slipping, no sliding.
Easing my way down the hills is even scarier than going up. Ol’ Stomper lurches hard; for an instant I’m scared that we’re going to tip over. But Stomper plants those big feet of his solidly and we’re okay. Still, my hands are slippery with perspiration as I jiggle the throttle and the gear shifts.
We get down, back on the crater floor, and start thumping along as fast as we can to the Ranger 9 wreckage. Out on the horizon to my left I spot a hazy cloud of dust heading my way. It’s Zeke, in Dash-nine. The turtle has beaten the hare!
“Vehicle oh-four reporting,” I sing into my lip microphone. “I’m approaching the Ranger site.”
“Pay no attention to Taylor Reed,” Brunner’s icy voice answers immediately. “He’s been disqualified.”
Bastard! I walk Stomper right up to the crumpled remains of Ranger 9, under its protective dome of clear glassteel, and use the external arms to plant my marker by the old wreckage. Then I turn around and start for home.
I ought to slow down, I know. I can’t win the flicking race, I’ve been disqualified. So what’s the difference? But then I hear Zeke call, “Dash-nine at Ranger site. Starting my return leg.”
And again I remember that old, old folk song my grandfather used to sing when things got really bad. About John Henry, a black man who refused to give up. And I thought, I’ll be damned if I let Zeke Browkowski or Mance Brunner or anybody else beat me. I’ll die with a hammer in my hands, Lord, Lord.
“Come on, you ol’ turtle,” I mutter to Stomper. “Let’s get home before Zeke does.”
Stomper weaves through the hills again and we’re back down on the flat. We clomp along at a pretty fair clip, but then I see Browkowski off to my right, a cloud of dust coming around the hills and heading straight for home.
It’s turning into a two-car race. I’m way ahead but Zeke is catching up fast. I can see him in the rearview screen, a cloud of dust that’s getting closer every second.
I’m pushing too hard. Stomper’s middle left leg starts making a grinding noise. My control panel shows a blinking yellow light. The leg’s main bearing is starting to overheat.
I shut down the middle left leg altogether; just keep it locked up and off the ground. Stomper limps the rest of the way back to Selene’s main airlock. It’s a rough, jouncing ride but we get there a whole two minutes, eighteen seconds ahead of Zeke.
Who is proclaimed the official winner of the race, of course.
I limp Stomper through the main airlock and into Selene’s big, cavernous garage, power down, and duck through the hatch. Five meters high, I can see the crowd gathering around Browkowski and Dash-nine: Brunner and Zeke’s older brother, the chief of maintenance, a bunch of other people. Even Janine.
Nobody’s waiting for me at the bottom of Stomper’s ladder except Harry, sitting in his powerchair and grinning up at me.
I’ll die with this hammer in my hand. The words to that old song kept ringing in my mind. I was dead, all right. Just like ol’ John Henry.
Once I plant my boots on the garage’s concrete floor, I slide my helmet visor up and take a look at Stomper. His legs are covered with dust, even the middle left one, which is still hanging up there like some ponderous mechanical ballet dancer doing a pose.
“Better keep your distance,” I tell Harry. “My coveralls are soaked with perspiration. I’m gonna smell pretty ripe when I peel off this suit.”
He’s grinning at me, big white teeth sparkling against his dark skin. “I’ll go to the infirmary and get some nose plugs,” he says.
He rolls his chair alongside me as I clump to the lockers where the suits are stored. I take off the helmet and then sit wearily on the bench to remove my big, thick-soled boots. As I start to worm my arms out of the sleeves, Janine shows up.
I stand up, my arms half in the suit’s sleeves. Janine looks pretty as ever, but kind of embarrassed.
“I’m sorry you were disqualified, Tay,” she says.
“Not your fault,” I mumble.
She tries to smile. “There’s a sort of party over at the Pelican Bar.”
“For Zeke. He’s the winner.”
