Tunnel in the Sky (5 page)

   
“I was . . . until a few hours ago.” Rod tried to shake hands; his sister gathered him in a bear hug and bussed him on the mouth, squeezing him against the raised ornaments of her chrome corselet. She was still in uniform, a fact that caused him to think that she had just arrived-on her rare visits home she usually went slopping around in an old bathrobe and go-ahead slippers, her hair caught up in a knot. Now she was still in dress

   
armor and kilt and had dumped her side arms, gauntlets, and pluined helmet on the floor.

   
She looked him over proudly. “My, but you've grown! You're almost as tall as I am.”

   
“I'm taller.”

   
“Want to bet? No, don't try to wiggle away from me; I'll twist your arm. Slip off your shoes and stand back to back.”

   
“Sit down, children,” their father said mildly. “Rod, why were you late?”

   
“Uh . . .” He had worked out a diversion involving telling about the examination coming up, but he did not use it as his sister intervened.

   
“Don't heckle him, Pater. Ask for excuses and you'll get them. I learned that when I was a sublieutenant.”

   
“Quiet, daughter. I can raise him without your help.” Rod was surprised by his father's edgy answer, was more surprised by Helen's answer: “So? Really?” Her tone was odd.

   
Rod saw his mother raise a hand, seem about to speak, then close her mouth. She looked upset. His sister and father looked at each other; neither spoke. Rod looked from one to the other, said slowly, “Say, what's all this?”

   
His father glanced at him. “Nothing. We'll say no more about it. Dinner is waiting. Coming, dear?” He turned to his wife, handed her up from her chair, offered her his arm.

   
“Just a minute,” Rod said insistently. “I was late because I was hanging around the Gap.”

   
“Very well. You know better, but I said we would say no more about it.” He turned toward the lift.

   
“But I wanted to tell you something else, Dad. I won't be home for the next week or so.”

   
“Very well- eh? What did you say?”

   
“I'll be away for a while, sir. Maybe ten days or a bit longer.”

   
His father looked perplexed, then shook his head. “Whatever your plans are, you will have to change them. I can't let you go away at this time.”

   
“But, Dad-”

   
“I'm sorry, but that is definite.”

   
“But, Dad, I have to!”

   
“No.”

   
Rod looked frustrated. His sister said suddenly, “Pater, wouldn't it be well to find out why he wants to be away?”

   
“Now, daughter-”

   
“Dad, I'm taking my solo survival, starting tomorrow morning!”

   
Mrs. Walker gasped, then began to weep. Her husband said, “There, there, my dear!” then turned to his son and said harshly, “You've upset your mother.”

   
“But, Dad, I. . .” Rod shut up, thinking bitterly that no one seemed to give a hoot about his end of it. Mter all, he was the one who was going to have to sink or swim. A lot they knew or-

   
“You see, Pater,” his sister was saying. “He does have to be away. He has no choice, because-”

   
“I see nothing of the sort! Rod, I meant to speak about this earlier, but I had not realized that your test would take place so soon. When I signed permission for you to take that course, I had, I must admit, a mental reservation. I felt that the experience would be valuable later when and if you took the course in college. But I never intended to let you come up against the final test while still in high school. You are too young.

   
Rod was shocked speechless. But his sister again spoke for him. “Fiddlesticks!”

   
“Eh? Now, daughter, please remember that-”

   
“Repeat fiddlesticks! Any girl in my company has been up against things as rough and many of them are not much older than Buddy. What are you trying to do, Pater? Break his nerve?”

   
“You have no reason to. . . I think we had best discuss this later.”

   
“I
   
think that is a good idea.” Captain Walker took her brother's arm and they followed their parents down to the refectory. Dinner was on the table, still warm in its delivery containers; they took their places, standing, and Mr. Walker solemnly lighted the Peace Lamp. The family was evangelical Monist by inheritance, each of Rod's grandfathers having been converted in the second great wave of proselyting that swept out of Persia in the last decade of the previous century, and Rod's father took seriously his duties as family priest.

   
As the ritual proceeded Rod made his responses automatically, his mind on this new problem. His sister chimed in heartily but his mother's answers could hardly be heard.

   
Nevertheless the warm symbolism had its effect; Rod felt himself calming down. By the time his father intoned the last “-one Principle, one family, one flesh!” he felt like eating. He sat down and took the cover off his plate.

   
A yeast cutlet, molded to look like a chop and stripped with real bacon, a big baked potato, and a grilled green lobia garnished with baby's buttons . . . Rod's mouth watered as he reached for the catsup.

   
He noticed that Mother was not eating much, which surprised him. Dad was not eating much either but Dad often just picked at his food . . . he became aware with sudden warm pity that Dad was thinner and greyer than ever. How old was Dad?

   
His attention was diverted by a story his sister was telling: “-and so the Commandant told me I would have to clamp down. And I said to her, 'Ma'am, girls will be girls. It I have to bust a petty officer everytime one of them does something like that, pretty soon I won't have anything but privates. And Sergeant Dvorak is the best gunner I have.”'

   
“Just a second,” her father interrupted. “I thought you said 'Kelly,' not 'Dvorak.'“

   
“I did and she did. Pretending to misunderstand which sergeant she meant was my secret weapon-for I had Dvorak cold for the same offense, and Tiny Dvorak (she's bigger than I am) is the Squadron's white hope for the annual corps-wide competition for best trooper. Of course, losing her stripes would put her, and us, out of the running.

   
“So I straightened out the 'mix up' in my best wide-eyed, thick-headed manner, let the old gal sit for a moment trying not to bite her nails, then told her that I had both women confined to barracks until that gang of college boys was through installing the new 'scope, and sang her a song about how the quality of mercy is not strained, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven, and made myself responsible for seeing to it that she was not again embarrassed by scandalous-her word, not mine-scandalous incidents . . . especially when she was showing quadrant commanders around.

   
“So she grumpily allowed as how the company commander was responsible for her company and she would hold me to it and now would I get out and let her work on the quarterly training report in peace? So I threw her my best parade ground salute and got out so fast I left a hole in the air.”

   
“I wonder,” Mr. Walker said judicially, “if you should oppose your commanding officer in such matters? After all, she is older and presumably wiser than you are.”

   
Helen made a little pile of the last of her baby's buttons, scooped them up and swallowed them. “Fiddlesticks squared and cubed. Pardon me, Pater, but if you had any military service you would know better. I am as tough as blazes to my girls myself. . . and it just makes them boast about how they've got the worst fire-eater in twenty planets. But if they're in trouble higher up, I've got to take care of my kids. There always comes a day when there is something sticky up ahead and I have to stand up and walk toward it. And it will be all right because I'll have Kelly on my right flank and Dvorak on my left and each of them trying to take care of Maw Walker all by her ownself. I know what I'm doing. 'Walker's Werewolves' are a team.”

   
Mrs. Walker shivered. “Gracious, darling, I wish you had never taken up a calling so . . . well, so dangerous.”

   
Helen shrugged. “The death rate is the same for us as for anybody . . . one person, one death, sooner or later. What would you want, Mum? With eighteen million more women than men on this continent did you want me to sit and knit until my knight comes riding? Out where I operate, there are more men than women; I'll wing one yet, old and ugly as I am.

   
Rod asked curiously, “Sis, would you really give up your commission to get married?”

   
“Would I! I won't even count his arms and legs. If he is still warm and can nod his head, he's had it. My target is six babies and a farm.”

   
Rod looked her over. “I'd say your chances are good. You're quite pretty even if your ankles are thick.”

   
“Thanks, pardner. Thank you too much. What's for dessert, Mum?”

   
“I didn't look. Will you open it, dear?”

   
Dessert turned out to be iced mangorines, which pleased Rod. His sister went on talking. “The Service isn't a bad shake, on active duty. It's garrison duty that wears. My kids get fat and sloppy and restless and start fighting with each other from sheer boredom. For my choice, barracks casualties are more to be dreaded than combat. I'm hoping that our squadron will be tagged to take part in the pacification of Byer's Planet.”

   
Mr. Walker looked at his wife, then at his daughter. “You have upset your mother again, my dear. Quite a bit of this talk has hardly been appropriate under the Light of Peace.”

   
“I was asked questions, I answered.”

   
“Well, perhaps so.”

   
Helen glanced up. “Isn't it time to turn it out, anyway? We all seem to have finished eating.”

   
“Why, if you like. Though it is hardly reverent to hurry.”

   
“The Principle knows we haven't all eternity.” She turned to Rod. “How about making yourself scarce, mate? I want to make palaver with the folks.”

   
“Gee, Sis, you act as if I was-”

   
“Get lost, Buddy. I'll see you later.”

   
Rod left, feeling affronted. He saw Helen blow out the pax lamp as he did so.

   
He was still making lists when his sister came to his room. “Hi, kid.”

   
“Oh. Hello, Sis.”

   
“What are you doing? Figuring what to take on your solo?”

   
“Sort of.”

   
“Mind if I get comfortable?” She brushed articles from his bed and sprawled on it. “We'll go into that later.”

   
Rod thought it over. “Does that mean Dad won't object?”

   
“Yes. I pounded his head until he saw the light. But,

   
as I said, well go into that later. I've got something to tell you, youngster.”

   
“Such as?”

   
“The first thing is this. Our parents are not as stupid as you probably think they are. Fact is, they are pretty bright.”

   
“I never said they were stupid!” Rod answered, comfortably aware of what his thoughts had been.

   
“No. But I heard what went on before dinner and so did you. Dad was throwing his weight around and not listening. But, Buddy, it has probably never occurred to you that it is hard work to be a parent, maybe the hardest job of all- particularly when you have no talent for it, which Dad hasn't. He knows it and works hard at it and is conscientious. Mostly he does mighty well. Sometimes he slips, like tonight. But, what you did not know is this: Dad is going to die.”

   
“What?” Rod looked stricken. “I didn't know he was ill!”

   
“You weren't meant to know. Now climb down off the ceiling; there is a way out. Dad is terribly ill, and he would die in a few weeks at the most- unless something drastic is done. But something is going to be. So relax.”

   
She explained the situation bluntly: Mr. Walker was suffering from a degenerative disease under which he was slowly starving to death. His condition was incurable by current medical art; he might linger on, growing weaker each day, for weeks or months- but he would certainly die soon.

   
Rod leaned his head on his hands and chastised himself. Dad dying . . . and he hadn't even noticed. They had kept it from him, like a baby, and he had been too stupid to see it.