The Lotus Caves

by John Christopher

  “It’s been a waste of time coming here.”

  “I don’t know.” Steve held the book up. “You found this.”

  “That won’t help us much,” Marty said bitterly. “One or two historians on Earth may find it interesting but I don’t think Mr. Sherrin is likely to think it justifies anything.”

  “But if Thurgood was right—if there really is something funny there and we find it . . . Or even if we find Thurgood’s crawler. We’ll still be in ­trouble, but it may distract them a bit.”

  They argued about it. Marty felt he could not advance what weighed heaviest with him: the increasing longing to be back inside the Bubble, surrounded by the things and people he knew, taking the cabin to school, doing homework even . . . He realized Steve did not share this feeling. As the argument continued, he realized something else—that the people who had shaken their heads over him as obstinate and self-willed had not been all that far off the mark. Since they had palled up, Steve had seemed easygoing, willing to let Marty have the lead in things. There had been the balloons, but that was something Marty had accepted right away. Marty himself had suggested going to First Station, but that too was in line with what Steve wanted. This was the first time they had clashed sharply, and Marty found himself beaten back, bit by bit, by Steve’s implacable determination. In the end, Steve had him maneuvered into a position in which he had either to agree to the new scheme or seem a coward, scared of having offended the authorities and afraid to do anything that would offend them further. So, unwillingly, he agreed.

  “We’ll go up there and have a look. But not hang around, searching, if we don’t find anything. O.K.?”

  Steve nodded. “O.K.”

  He seemed satisfied with his victory, but looked as though he had never been in doubt of it. Marty resented that and showed it. Steve in return was amiable. They worked it out that the co-ordinate point referred to would take seven or eight hours to reach, and he suggested that they should both get a sleep in before setting out. He insisted on Marty taking the bunk while he bedded down on the floor of the cabin.

  But it was some time before Marty got to sleep. At first he was being furious with himself over his own weakness. Later he was thinking of home and feeling miserable.

  Their route lay south of the pass, in higher and more difficult ground than that which they had previously encountered. The crawler needed careful handling and three or four times they went off course and had to backtrack. Driving was an exhausting business and they switched to one-hour shifts; even an hour was tiring. But they were making progress: the red line traced on the map by the navigator slowly lengthened, snaking its way up through the hills, toward the distant mountains. At last, Marty said: “We’re on it, as near as can be. 217-092. See any flowers?”

  It was a torn and savagely splintered land, jagged and angular, much harsher even than the usual moonscape. Steve had had the grip-spikes out continuously for the past half hour and even so the crawler tended to slip and stagger. He halted now, and said: “That could be the cleft he went through just before he saw it, over there on the left. There’s a bank of rock beyond with breaks in it. I’m going to try it anyway.”

  The fissures of which Thurgood had written were not only too narrow to get the crawler through but were also some feet above the floor of the little valley. Steve stopped the crawler again alongside one of them, and they stared out. The break looked across to a wall of rock, a hundred yards or so beyond. There was no sign of movement, no sign of anything but bare stone. Steve said: “I’m getting out to have a look.”

  Marty did not suggest accompanying him; it was routine that one person remained inside the crawler except in an emergency. He watched him go through the lock and then clamber awkwardly up inside the fissure so that he could see what lay on the other side. He stayed there some minutes. When he got back, Marty said: “Well?”

  Steve shook his head. “Nothing. There’s what looks like a small crater on the other side with a long drop beneath it. Nothing remarkable.”

  “So he must have been mistaken. Or mad. More probably mad since he took it so seriously. Do we go back now?”

  Steve said: “What I think might be an idea is to work around and see if we can get up on to the other side. There’s a ledge which looks broad enough. We could see much better from there.”

  “See what? You’ve seen enough to know there couldn’t be a giant flower here, or anything like a flower. What’s the point in going on?”

  “I think he must have been wrong,” Steve said. “There’s nothing but rock. But now we’ve come so far . . . I think we could try to spot his crawler. This is the place he was heading for.”

  “But once he got here,” Marty argued, “and found he had drawn a blank, he may have traveled on. Perhaps by that time he was chasing giant butter­flies.”

  “I don’t think so. I think he would have hung around.”

  “In any case, the patrols from First Station that made the search for him will have come here. Mike Pozzi knew where it was. They must have worked that out.”

  Steve got back into the driving seat. “I’d like to have a look, all the same.”

  He spoke with the same inflexible determination. Short of fighting him over it, he was not going to be stopped. And quite apart from the fact that, as Marty had learned during their few wrestling bouts in the gymnasium at the Recreation Center, Steve was a lot stronger than he was, one did not start fights inside a crawler: the risks were too great. All he could do was bear with the situation and hope that Steve would soon get as bored with the business as he was already.

  • • •

  The going became even worse. Steve drove a tortuous course through the rocks, with the crawler at times balanced at precarious angles. Gradually, though, he worked his way past or around the various obstacles, and they reached the ledge he had spoken of. They were much higher than they had been. Below and in front of them was what Steve had thought was a crater, but from here one could see that it was more like a cone-shaped depression in the rock, no more than thirty feet across. Below it, the rock face fell into a gulf whose bottom could not be seen. Across lay the other face, broken by the fissures through one of which Steve had climbed.

  Marty said: “I still don’t see anything.”

  “You’ll have to do the looking. This ledge . . .” Steve was concentrating on the controls. “It’s narrower than I thought.” The crawler’s left-hand tracks dropped and they were traveling at an angle to the horizontal again. “Tricky.”

  “Want me to take a turn?”

  “Not right now. You could make some coffee, but I would wait till we get level again. Keep your eyes skinned.”

  The ledge continued to narrow and continued to cant over to one side. Steve was proceeding very slowly, letting each spike bite home in turn. They were safe enough, but Marty found he was not enjoying the glimpses he had of the ravine on their left. It was possible that Thurgood had fallen down there—the early crawlers had been much less stable than modern ones were.

  The ledge turned a corner ahead of them and from there was presumably directly above the cone-shaped depression. If it were any more narrow or oblique, Steve would have to reverse. They inched around, and could see what lay ahead. Steve gave a grunt of satisfaction.

  “That’s better.”

  The ledge broadened in front, extending into a shelf at least twenty-five feet across. That part was in shadow, but farther on there was a broad sunlit pass leading downward. Steve said: “We can move a bit faster now.”

  The engine whined on a higher note as he increased speed, retracting the grip-spikes at the same time. They rolled forward, moving into shadow. Marty said: “I think I’ll see about that coffee.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea. I was just . . .”

  Steve wrenched violently at the wheel as, without warning, the crawler slid sideways. With one arm he slammed the
grip-spike lever, to engage them again. But the crawler was out of control, loose stones screeching and whining under her tracks. A small patch of scree, Marty thought, masked by the shadow of the overhang above. It was the last logical thought he had before the crawler tipped over, falling free into space, and everything dissolved into fear and the certainty of death.

  6

  A Storm of Leaves

  MARTY REMEMBERED CLOSING HIS EYES tightly as the crawler skidded and fell. He had no recollection of opening them again, but he realized he could see light. There had been the smack of impact which had thrown him hard against the bunk curtain. But a dragging, braking impact, followed by a second: sharp and final but not the annihilating crash which he had expected—which had seemed inevitable.

  Not only light but color. It shimmered softly through the spectrum—reds and golds, greens and blues. A dream? He closed his eyes and opened them again. The colors were still there, and outside. He was seeing them through the observation dome of the crawler. And yet impossible. He looked for Steve and saw him slumped against the wall. He went to him, having to climb up because the crawler was at an angle, its nose pointing down. He said: “Steve . . .” and touched his hand. It seemed warm but there was no response.

  Things were moving, high in the rainbow air. He looked up and saw them, and it was more fantastic than the colors. They were like leaves, a storm of them, but leaves that floated upward. Leaves, he thought . . . floating? Was he dead, perhaps? Was this the afterworld—heaven?

  Dazed, he went to the airlock. It crossed his mind that he ought to put a suit on. But a spacesuit—to walk through paradise? He buttoned the inner door, stepped inside, and released the outer. He had not operated the air pump, but there was no hiss of escaping air. Instead air billowed in against him, pleasantly warm. It felt thick, heavy, rich to the lungs and sweet to the nostrils. He jumped down and his feet sank into a springy softness.

  His eyes were growing accustomed to the light. It was altogether unlike anything he had known. Light on the Moon was full of harshness, hard blacks and whites with intermediate somber grays. This was gentle, flickering, continually changing, richly colored. He glanced down and saw that there was light at his feet, too. He stood on a carpet of something like moss and the carpet glowed green, mauve, dull amber. He walked and saw tiny stars of light splash from his treading feet. Splash? He bent down and touched with his fingers. Wetness clung to them. He had read of dew in meadows on Earth, small beads of brilliance hanging poised on spears of grass. Dew, on the barren Moon? If he were not dead he must be dreaming.

  He could take in his surroundings better now. He was inside a cavern, some fifteen yards across and perhaps half that height. It was roughly circular but the floor sloped down. At the bottom it dipped quite sharply and there was what looked like the opening of a tunnel. The leaves . . . he raised his eyes, looking for them. A few still moved through the air but most seemed to have plastered themselves against the ceiling in a glowing patchwork. Light came from them, as it did from the moss. Phosphorescence—that was it.

  By the far wall there was a moss-encrusted outcropping of rock. Farther up and in the middle of the cave he saw what at first looked like a giant snake. Giant indeed—more than a foot in thickness and lying in a huge elaborate coil. The body of it was black but the top swelled into a spheroid, creamy white, a couple of yards in diameter. Not a snake, he realized: the other end disappeared into the ground.

  And yet that did not mean anything. In dreams nothing was fixed, everything capable of changing into something else. He watched to see if it would move. Nothing happened. Then he jumped as something lightly touched his cheek. He brushed at it frantically with his hand and saw a leaf go spinning away through the air, deepening from pink to crimson as it went. Two or three others were spiraling down toward him. He turned back to the crawler, jumped into the airlock and closed the door behind him.

  He heard a noise as he came through the inner door. From Steve—a small groan. Marty bent down and saw movement. He lifted Steve’s head, and the eyes opened.

  “You O.K.?” he asked.

  “What happened?” Steve winced, momentarily closing his eyes again. “We hit that loose rock . . .”

  “It’s not a dream then.” Marty felt almost disappointed. “People don’t share dreams.”

  “Dreams? Where are we?” Steve struggled to his feet. “That light . . . is it real?”

  “I don’t know. It must be.”

  “What’s that?”

  Three of the leaves floated down and rested on top of the crawler. Two were pale lemon, the other a deep pulsating blue. After a moment the lemon-­colored ones detached themselves and drifted up and away but the third remained.

  “What is it?” Steve insisted.

  Marty started to tell him as much as he knew. Steve interrupted to say: “You went outside? In a suit?”

  “No.” It seemed silly to say you did not need a spacesuit when you were dead. “I was a bit dazed.”

  “But you could breathe?”

  “Yes. There’s air, all right. It’s different—scented, and it seems to make your lungs tingle. But you can breathe it. I was about five minutes out there.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Nor did I at first. We’re in some sort of cave.” It was beginning, in a weird way, to make sense; since they were obviously alive, it had to. “I suppose we’re inside the Moon. We must have broken through the surface in that fall.”

  Steve shook his head and then put a hand up to it, grimacing.

  “I must have landed on my skull.” He paused. “I’m going out to have a look. How far did you explore?”

  “Not far.”

  He was not going to say that a leaf had scared him.

  “Come on then.” Steve stopped by the airlock. “You’re sure you went out. You didn’t imagine it?”

  Marty rubbed his fingers together; they were still wet.

  “No, I didn’t imagine it.”

  • • •

  They stood in silence. The pattern of colors moved and spun along the walls and ceiling and floor of the cave. Steve spoke at last. He said: “Well, where?”

  He had not spoken loudly but his voice had a slightly echoing quality. Marty said, keeping his own hushed: “What do you mean?”

  “You said we’d broken through to the inside of the Moon. How? Where’s the hole we made?”

  It was a good point. All around and above them the colors ebbed and flowed in lambency. There did not appear to be a space a grip-spike could penetrate, let alone something as big as the crawler.

  “Well, we’re here,” Marty said. “And I remember crashing. There were two impacts, the first a sort of dragging one. The second must have been when we dropped this last bit to the floor.”

  He remembered something else: the leaves which had been rushing through the air and which he had later seen plastered against the ceiling. He looked for them again and could not find them. That part of the cave’s roof was no different from the rest, no leaf shapes showing in its kaleidoscope of shifting patterns.

  He told Steve of this. Steve said: “Does that explain anything? I suppose it could.” He stared around. “There has to be an explanation. Doesn’t there? I mean, it can’t be jabberwocky—it must have rules. We’ve only got to think them out.”

  Marty said: “I wonder . . .”

  “What?”

  “There’s air in here, a bit denser than in the Bubble I would say. The cave has to be sealed or it would simply rush out into vacuum. The leaves floating up may have plugged the gap that was made when the crawler crashed through.”

  Steve objected: “It’s not possible. How do you make a vacuum seal with leaves? And where are they now?”

  “I don’t know. But we’re here, we’re alive, and we must have got in some way.”

  Steve said: “It’s craz
y. Let’s look around. We may find something.”

  They went up the sloping floor first. The moss covered it completely. It was an inch or two deep and one could push one’s fingers through to soil underneath. Reaching the wall they could see there was no dividing line—the moss climbed up without a break. Looking back they saw that the floor carried the same shimmering play of colors as walls and ceiling, except that where they had walked the imprints of their feet showed darker. But these gradually blended back into the colors and were lost. Steve pressed his hand against the wall at shoulder height.

  “There can’t be soil on a vertical surface. I thought not. So how . . . ? Wait a minute. Thin stalks running up. But what kind of plant could work that way?”

  “What kind of leaves float upward?”

  “Well, if there were a hole in the roof and air was blowing out I suppose the current would draw them up. Except that we still have the same nonsense of leaves sealing a gap between quite high air pressure and absolute vacuum. And where do the leaves come from? I don’t see any trees around.”

  “There’s that.”

  Marty pointed to the black snake-like coils, topped by the vast bud.

  “No leaves, though.”

  Steve went over and Marty followed him. They ran their hands along it. The surface was very smooth and hard. The spheroid end was raised above the rest, some ten feet high. Steve jumped to try to touch it but failed.

  “It moved a bit,” Marty said.

  “I didn’t see. How?”

  “A sort of swaying.”

  It was hard to describe. He felt uneasy. It had almost looked as though the movement had been a conscious one. But that was ridiculous. He said: “You probably shook it.”

  “No leaves anyway,” Steve said. “And no sign of anywhere they could have been. There isn’t a break on the whole of that surface. I’m going to take a closer look at that leaf which landed on the crawler.”

  But when they reached the crawler there was no sign of it. Steve stared around the cave.