Thunderhead

9

At noon, Carnaby and Sickle rested on a nearly horizontal slope of rock that curved to meet the vertical wall that swelled up and away overhead. Their faces and clothes were gray with the impalpable dust whipped up by the brisk wind. Terry spat grit from his mouth, passed a can of hot stew and a plastic water flask to Carnaby.

“Getting cool already,” he said. “Must not be more’n ten above freezing.”

“We might get a little more snow before morning.” Carnaby eyed the milky sky. “You’d better head back now, Terry. No point in you getting caught in a storm.”

“I’m in for the play,” the boy said shortly. “Say, Lieutenant, you got another transmitter up there at the beacon station you might could get through on?”

Carnaby shook his head. “Just the beacon tube, the lens generators, and a power pack. It’s a stripped-down installation. There’s a code receiver, but it’s only designed to receive classified instruction input.”

“Too bad.” They ate in silence for a few minutes, looking out over the plain below. “Lieutenant, when this is over,” Sickle said suddenly, “we got to do something. There’s got to be some way to remind the Navy about you being here!”

Carnaby tossed the empty can aside and stood. “I put a couple of messages on the air, sub-light, years ago,” he said. “That’s all I can do.”

“Heck, Lieutenant, it takes six years, sub-light, just to make the relay station on Goy! Then if somebody happens to pick up the call and boost it, in another ten years some Navy brass might even see it. And then if he’s in a good mood, he might tell somebody to look into it, next time they’re out this way.”

“Best I could do, Terry, now that the liners don’t call any more.”

Carnaby finished his stew, dropped the can, watched it roll off downslope, clatter over the edge, a tiny sound lost in the whine and shrill of the wind. He looked up at the rampart ahead.

“We better get moving,” he said. “We’ve got a long climb to make before dark.”