Read Online The Last Book in the Universe by Rodman Philbrick - Free Book Online Page B

hoping for stairs,” Ryter says, looking at where the Pipe looms above us. “Or at least a ladder of some kind.”
    We have to make do with climbing the rubble around the pylon. Little Face seems to be his old self now that our escape is in sight. He finds a path and leads us up the chunks of rubble. Ryter and me are both panting by the time we make it to the top, but Little Face, he’s not even winded. He waits until we’re almost there, gives us a big grin, and then jumps inside the open end of the Pipe. He claps his hands and chirps out, “Chox!” to let us know everything is okay.
    I never thought that stupid word would sound so good.
    This may sound fried, but the Pipe feels like home. We know the place, and what to expect, more or less. Even the rats are familiar, and not the least bit scary, compared to what we’re leaving behind. The rats keep scurrying ahead of us, until their red eyes fade into the dimness.
    â€œLead on,” Ryter says to me with a grand gesture. “‘We’ve miles to go before we sleep. And promises to keep.’” After a moment, to let that sink in, he says, “That’s from a poem.”
    I’m too numbed to ask what a poem is, but as usual the old gummy seems to know what I’m thinking.
    â€œThe man who wrote the poem was called Robert Frost. He lived in the twentieth century,” he says. “All that’s survived of his poetry is that one line. But even one line is a kind of literary immortality.”
    â€œLit-er-ary im-mortality,” I say, mimicking his know-it-all voice. “What’s that?”
    â€œIt means part of you lives forever,” he explains. “The part of you that writes down words.”
    â€œYeah? And what if nobody cares about the words?”
    â€œSomeday they will,” he insists, and you can tell he believes that more than anything.
    I don’t know about words that make you live forever, but he’s right about one thing. We’ve got miles to go, slogging along through the Pipe. Being careful to avoid the rusty holes and the clunky stuff that snags our feet.
    There are parts of the Pipe that echo so much we sound like an army, and other parts where we can’t hear anything, not even the skittery rats. Ryter says that’s because of something he calls “acoostiks,” but I think the Pipe has moods like a living thing. Noisy moods, quiet moods, dark moods. Sometimes it feels real peaceful and soothing, like the Pipe wants us to feel safe. Other times I’m so scared it feels like my knees are coming unscrewed or something. But it doesn’t matter what we feel. The Pipe doesn’t care. The Pipe keeps us moving.
    I keep expecting Ryter to stop and rest because he’s old and worn out, but he just plods along, never complaining, and after a while I get this idea that inside he’s a lot stronger than he looks on the outside. Sometimes he’s as quiet as the Pipe; other times he runs off at the mouth about books and words and other stuff nobody cares about anymore.
    This one time he goes, “What’s in a name, Spaz? You of all people should know.”
    â€œA name is just a word,” I tell him. “It doesn’t matter.”
    â€œNo? What about Odysseus?”
    â€œWho’s Oh-dis-he-us?”
    â€œOdysseus is many things. A name. A myth. A word.”
    â€œYeah,” I go, “a word nobody knows.”
    â€œA word I know. And if you listen, you’ll know, too.”
    â€œOkay,” I say. “Have it your way. I’m listening.”
    Ryter grunts in satisfaction. “In the beginning, Odysseus was just a man like any man. But he went on a long, dangerous journey, much as we are doing, and people spoke of it for generations, until eventually he became a myth. Later his adventures were written down in a book, and his name became the word for ‘long, adventurous journey.’