Lona— Herman did a very good job. It's only fifty yards away."
She nodded, looking all about her, face haunted, as she groped for his hand.
And no wonder, Whitey thought, looking around him at the empty houses and storage buildings. They were near a park with playground equipment, swing chains dangling from a central mast, pathetic in their loneliness. There was only an occasional broken window (windows on an asteroid! The gall, the audacity, the sheer overweening pride of these pioneers!). That was all, no other damage. Oh, here and there, the odd tile had broken loose from a roof, but only a few—when the wind had come, it hadn't had much force. It was vacuum that had killed this place, not hurricane.
It was a grim town, dead and forlorn, with memories of families and laughter and tears—a ghost town in space.
"Are there any—bodies?" Lona swallowed, hard.
"No—the disaster squad took them all away for burial." No need to add that the crypt was under the skin of the asteroid itself. "If it seems you've been here before, it's nothing to worry about. You have been."
"I know," she said, her voice flat in his helmet speakers, "but it's really creepy. It all looks the same, and it makes me feel like I'm little again—but it's all so different."
Yes, without life . Whitey reminded himself that the doctor had said this would strengthen her immensely, would banish any lingering ghosts of guilt, that there was almost no chance of another breakdown, she was a very strong little girl inside now. "Of course, we can't ever be completely sure, Mr. Whitey. The human brain is inconceivably complex."
"Is that the generator?" Lona stared at the hemisphere of metal honeycomb before them, in a fenced-off section of the park.
"No, just its antenna," Whitey answered. "The generator's underground."
Lona stared up at him. "Then how could it blow up?"
"We don't know it blew up," Whitey reminded her. "Come on, let's look."
He found the trapdoor set into the rock beside the antenna, punched in the combination. It had been a real job getting that set of numbers—they were classified material of the highest order, vital to public safety (never mind the fact that the people they were supposed to guard had died four years before). But finally, with a letter from the doctor testifying how important the expedition was for the child's mental health, a few bribes, and a flawless train of logic, the relevant bureaucrat had reluctantly agreed to let him have the combination. It was reassuring, in its way, giving you the feeling that the living were protected as well as the dead.
Whitey swung the lock handle and hauled the trapdoor open. They went down carefully, him first, flashlight probing the darkness around him. "Careful not to foul my line."
"I won't, Gran'pa." But she wasn't being sassy about it—that worried him.
Then he saw the generator.
He stopped stock still, just standing there, staring.
"Gran'pa," she said, "it's…"
"In perfect condition." Whitey nodded. "At least, it looks that way. Let's just check, child."
Then he brought out the toolkit, opened the access panels one by one, and took out the circuit checker. "What do I do with this thing?"
"Red lead to contact A, Gran'pa—there." Lona pointed. "And blue lead to contact D."
"I'm glad one of us knows what I'm doing…"
But Lona was frowning at the meter, frowning and taking out her keypad. She punched in the data displayed on the circuit and said, "Red lead to contact B, Granpa, and blue lead to contact H."
So it went, Whitey placing the probes where she told him, she frowning at the readout and punching data into her keypad. He began to think she wasn't really aware of him any more, was just using him as a sort of voice-activated servomechanism.
Well, at least it was some sign of life.
Finally, she straightened up with a sigh and said, "That's all. We've checked every circuit. There's nothing more here for me."
Whitey fastened the access panels back in place,
She nodded, looking all about her, face haunted, as she groped for his hand.
And no wonder, Whitey thought, looking around him at the empty houses and storage buildings. They were near a park with playground equipment, swing chains dangling from a central mast, pathetic in their loneliness. There was only an occasional broken window (windows on an asteroid! The gall, the audacity, the sheer overweening pride of these pioneers!). That was all, no other damage. Oh, here and there, the odd tile had broken loose from a roof, but only a few—when the wind had come, it hadn't had much force. It was vacuum that had killed this place, not hurricane.
It was a grim town, dead and forlorn, with memories of families and laughter and tears—a ghost town in space.
"Are there any—bodies?" Lona swallowed, hard.
"No—the disaster squad took them all away for burial." No need to add that the crypt was under the skin of the asteroid itself. "If it seems you've been here before, it's nothing to worry about. You have been."
"I know," she said, her voice flat in his helmet speakers, "but it's really creepy. It all looks the same, and it makes me feel like I'm little again—but it's all so different."
Yes, without life . Whitey reminded himself that the doctor had said this would strengthen her immensely, would banish any lingering ghosts of guilt, that there was almost no chance of another breakdown, she was a very strong little girl inside now. "Of course, we can't ever be completely sure, Mr. Whitey. The human brain is inconceivably complex."
"Is that the generator?" Lona stared at the hemisphere of metal honeycomb before them, in a fenced-off section of the park.
"No, just its antenna," Whitey answered. "The generator's underground."
Lona stared up at him. "Then how could it blow up?"
"We don't know it blew up," Whitey reminded her. "Come on, let's look."
He found the trapdoor set into the rock beside the antenna, punched in the combination. It had been a real job getting that set of numbers—they were classified material of the highest order, vital to public safety (never mind the fact that the people they were supposed to guard had died four years before). But finally, with a letter from the doctor testifying how important the expedition was for the child's mental health, a few bribes, and a flawless train of logic, the relevant bureaucrat had reluctantly agreed to let him have the combination. It was reassuring, in its way, giving you the feeling that the living were protected as well as the dead.
Whitey swung the lock handle and hauled the trapdoor open. They went down carefully, him first, flashlight probing the darkness around him. "Careful not to foul my line."
"I won't, Gran'pa." But she wasn't being sassy about it—that worried him.
Then he saw the generator.
He stopped stock still, just standing there, staring.
"Gran'pa," she said, "it's…"
"In perfect condition." Whitey nodded. "At least, it looks that way. Let's just check, child."
Then he brought out the toolkit, opened the access panels one by one, and took out the circuit checker. "What do I do with this thing?"
"Red lead to contact A, Gran'pa—there." Lona pointed. "And blue lead to contact D."
"I'm glad one of us knows what I'm doing…"
But Lona was frowning at the meter, frowning and taking out her keypad. She punched in the data displayed on the circuit and said, "Red lead to contact B, Granpa, and blue lead to contact H."
So it went, Whitey placing the probes where she told him, she frowning at the readout and punching data into her keypad. He began to think she wasn't really aware of him any more, was just using him as a sort of voice-activated servomechanism.
Well, at least it was some sign of life.
Finally, she straightened up with a sigh and said, "That's all. We've checked every circuit. There's nothing more here for me."
Whitey fastened the access panels back in place,
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