Twenty-Nine
The bots had dug far beyond anything Montague might need in the next hundred years.
We climbed through dusty galleries of blue-gray basalt. The pressure suit’s collar chafed enough that I tried to turn my eyes rather than my head. I knew these suits were designed to be worn against bare skin, to wick away sweat and recycle moisture and monitor life signs, but I was wishing I had worn a couple pairs of socks to protect my feet from the centimeter of slop in the boots. The blistered ankle was a constant irritation.
Chevy let me set the pace. We mostly walked heavy left, going to double heavy only on longer corridors. My muscles loosened.
My vague recollections led us to the spiral ramp going up and down. We didn’t dare even heavy left up that thirty-degree slope, but the floo
