Twenty-Six
Miss Redding didn’t notice Chevy’s tiny slip.
Or she’d gone silent to contemplate it.
The darkness didn’t bother Chevy as much as he feared it might. He’d gone caving more than once. A well-charted cave was a comfortable place to ride out a Texas blizzard. If only the gravity would stop its wax and wane, he might even be able to make himself comfortable in this borrowed suit.
The pressure suit’s original owner was a few centimeters bigger than Chevy, in every dimension. He felt like he was wearing a personal bouncy house. If he threw himself at the ground, though, he wouldn’t bounce. The bulging suit might puncture.
At least these caves had no stalagmites. They didn’t even have pebbles. The machines had carved everything exactly rough enough to offer traction.
None of that
