It was not daylight after all!
In another moment I could see what it was, and at the sight I could have beaten my head against the rocks with disappointment. For I beheld simply an irregularly sloping open space, and all over its slanting floor stood a forest of little club-shaped fungi, each shining gloriously with that pinkish, silvery light. For a moment I stared at their soft radiance, then sprang forward and upward among them. I plucked up half a dozen and flung them against the rocks, and then sat down, laughing bitterly, as Cavor's ruddy face came into view.
‘It's phosphorescence again,’ I said. ‘No need to hurry. Sit down and make yourself at home.’ And as he spluttered over our disappointment I began to lob more of these growths into the cleft.
‘I thought it was daylight,’ he said.
‘Daylight!’ cried I. ‘Daybreak, sunset, clouds, and windy skies! Shall we ever see such things again?’
As I spoke a little picture of our world seemed to rise before me, bright and dainty and clear, like the background of some old Italian picture. ‘The sky that changes, and the sea that changes, and the hills and the green trees, and the towns and cities shining in the sun. Think of a wet roof at sunset, Cavor! Think of the windows of a westward house!’
He made no answer.
‘Here we are burrowing in this beastly world that isn't a world, with its inky ocean hidden in some abominable blackness below, and outside that torrid day and that death stillness of night. And all those things that are chasing us now, beastly men of leather – insect men, that come out of a nightmare! After all, they're right! What business have we here, smashing them and disturbing their world? For all we know the whole planet is up and after us already. In a minute we may hear them whimpering and their gongs going. What are we to do? Where are we to go? Here we are as comfortable as snakes from Jamrach's loose in a Surbiton villa1!’
‘It was your fault,’ said Cavor.
‘My fault!’ I shouted. ‘Good Lord!’
‘I had an idea.’
‘Curse your ideas!’
‘If we had refused to budge—’
‘Under those goads?’
‘Yes. They would have carried us.’
‘Over that bridge?’
‘Yes. They must have carried us from outside.’
‘I'd rather be carried by a fly across a ceiling. Good Heavens!’
I resumed my destruction of the fungi. Then suddenly I saw something that struck me even then.
‘Cavor,’ I said, ‘these chains are of gold!’
He was thinking intently, with his hands gripping his cheeks. He turned his head slowly and stared at me and, when I had repeated my words, at the twisted chain about his right hand. ‘So they are.’ he said, ‘so they are.’ His face lost its transitory interest even as he looked. He hesitated for a moment, then went on with his interrupted meditation. I sat for a space puzzling over the fact that I had only just observed this, until I considered the blue light in which we had been and which had taken all the colour out of the metal. And from that discovery I started upon a train of thought that carried me wide and far. I forgot that I had just been asking what business we had in the moon. Gold…
It was Cavor who spoke first. ‘It seems to me that there are two courses open to us.’
‘Well?’
‘Either we can attempt to make our way – fight our way if necessary – out to the exterior and then hunt for our sphere until either we find it or the cold of the night comes to kill us, or else—’
He paused. ‘Yes,’ I said, though I knew what was coming.
‘We might attempt once more to establish some sort of understanding with the minds of the people in the moon.’
‘So far as I'm concerned – it's the first.’
‘I doubt.’
‘I don't.’
‘You see,’ said Cavor, ‘I do not think we can judge the Selenites by what we have seen of them. Their central world, their civilized world, will be far below in the profounder caverns about their sea. This region of the crust in which we are is an outlying district, a pastoral region. At least, that is my interpretation. These Selenites we have seen may be only the equivalent of cowboys and engine-tenders. Their use of goads – in all probability mooncalf goads – the lack of imagination they show in expecting us to be able to do just what they can do, their indisputable brutality, all seem to point to something of that sort. But if we endured—’
‘Neither of us could endure a six-inch plank across the bottomless pit for very long.’
‘No,’ said Cavor, ‘but then—’
‘I won't I said.
He discovered a new line of possibilities. ‘Well, suppose we got ourselves into some corner, where we could defend ourselves against these hinds and labourers. If, for example, we could hold out for a week or so, it is probable that the news of our appearance would filter down to the more intelligent and populous parts—’
‘If they exist.’
‘They must exist, or whence come those tremendous machines?’
‘That's possible, but it's the worst of the two chances.’
‘We might write up inscriptions on walls—’
‘How do we know their eyes could see the marks we made?’
‘If we cut them—’
‘That's possible of course.’
I took up a new thread of thought. ‘After all,’ I said, ‘I suppose you don't think these Selenites so infinitely wiser than men?’
‘They must know a lot more – or at least a lot of different things.’
‘Yes, but –’ I hesitated. ‘I think you'll admit, Cavor, that you're rather an exceptional man.’
‘How?’
‘Well, you – you're a rather lonely man; have been, that is. You haven't married.’
‘Never wanted to. But why?’
‘And you never grew richer than you happened to be?’
‘Never wanted that either.’
‘You've just rooted after knowledge.’
‘Well, a certain curiosity is natural—’
‘You think so. That's just it. You think every other mind wants to know. I remember once, when I asked you why you conducted all these researches, you said you wanted your FRS, and to have the stuff called Cavorite, and things like that. You know perfectly well you didn't do it for that; but at the time my question took you by surprise, and you felt you ought to have something to look like a motive. Really, you conducted researches because you had to. It's your twist.’
‘Perhaps it is—’
‘It isn't one man in a million has that twist. Most men want – well, various things, but very few want knowledge for its own sake. I don't, I know perfectly well. Now these Selenites seem to be a driving, busy sort of people, but how do you know that even the most intelligent will take an interest in us or our world? I don't believe they'll even know we have a world. They never come out at night – they'd freeze if they did. They've probably never seen any heavenly body at all except blazing sun. How are they to know there is another world? What does it matter to them if they do? Well, even if they have had a glimpse of a few stars or even of the earth crescent, what of that? Why should people living inside a planet trouble to observe that sort of thing? Men wouldn't have done it except for the seasons and sailing; why should the moon people?…
‘Well, suppose there are a few philosophers like yourself. They are just the very Selenites who'll never hear of our existence. Suppose a Selenite had dropped on the earth when you were at Lympne; you'd have been the last man in the world to hear he had come. You never read a newspaper. You see the chances against you. Well, it's for these chances we're sitting here doing nothing while precious time is flying. I tell you we've got into a fix. We've come unarmed, we've lost our sphere, we've got no food, we've shown ourselves to the Selenites and made them think we're strange, strong, dangerous animals, and unless these Selenites are perfect fools they'll set about now and hunt us till they find us, and when they find us they'll take us if they
can and kill us if they can't, and that's the end of the matter. After they take us, they'll probably kill us through some misunderstanding. After we're done for they may discuss us, perhaps, but we shan't get much fun out of that.’
‘Go on.’
‘On the other hand, here's gold knocking about like cast iron at home. If only we can get some of it back, if only we can find our sphere again before they do and get back, then—’
‘Yes?’
‘We might put the thing on a sounder footing. Come back in a bigger sphere with guns.’
‘Good Lord!’ cried Cavor, as though the idea was horrible.
I shied another luminous fungus down the cleft.
‘Look here, Cavor,’ I said, ‘I've half the voting power anyhow in this affair, and this is a case for a practical man. I'm a practical man, and you are not. I'm not going to trust to Selen-ites and geometrical diagrams again if I can help it…. That's all. Get back. Drop all this secrecy – or most of it. And come again.’
He reflected. ‘When I came to the moon,’ he said, ‘I ought to have come alone.’
‘The question before the meeting,’ I said, ‘is how to get back to the sphere.’
For a time we nursed our knees in silence. Then he seemed to decide to accept my reasons.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘one can get data. It is clear that, while the sun is on this side of the moon, the air will be blowing through this planet sponge from the dark side hither. On this side, at any rate, the air will be expanding and flowing out of the moon caverns into the craters….Very well, there's a draught here.’
‘So there is.’
‘And that means that this is not a dead end; somewhere behind us this cleft goes on and up. The draught is blowing up, and that is the way we have to go. If we try to get up any sort of chimney or gully there is, we shall not only get out of these passages where they are hunting for us—’
‘But suppose the gully is too narrow.’
‘We'll come down again.’
‘Ssh!’ I said, suddenly; ‘what's that?’
We listened. At first it was an indistinct murmur, and then one picked out the clang of a gong. ‘They must think we are mooncalves,’ said I, ‘to be frightened at that.’
‘They're coming along that passage,’ said Cavor. ‘They must be.’
‘They'll not think of the cleft. They'll go past.’
I listened again for a space. ‘This time,’ I whispered, ‘they're likely to have some sort of weapon.’
Then suddenly I sprang to my feet. ‘Good heavens, Cavor!’ I cried. ‘But they will. They'll see the fungi I have been pitching down. They'll—’
I didn't finish my sentence. I turned about and made a leap over the fungus-tops towards the upper end of the cavity. I saw that the space turned upwards and became a draughty cleft again, ascending to impenetrable darkness. I was about to clamber up into this, and then with a happy inspiration turned back.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Cavor.
‘Go on!’ said I, and went back and got two of the shining fungi, and putting one into the breast pocket of my flannel jacket so that it stuck out to light our climbing, went back with the other for Cavor. The noise of the Selenites was now so loud that it seemed they must be already beneath the cleft. But it might be they would have difficulty in clambering into it, or might hesitate to ascend it against our possible resistance. At any rate we had now the comforting knowledge of the enormous muscular superiority that was the gift of our birth on another planet. The next moment I was clambering with gigantic vigour after Cavor's blue-lit heels.
17
THE FIGHT IN THE CAVE OF THE MOON BUTCHERS
I do not know how far we clambered before we came to the grating. It may be we ascended only a few hundred feet, but at the time it seemed to me we might have hauled and jammed and hopped and wedged ourselves through a mile or more of vertical ascent. Whenever I recall that time there comes into my head the heavy clank of our golden chains that followed every movement. Very soon my knuckles and knees were raw, and I had a bruise on one cheek. After a time the first violence of our efforts diminished, and our movements became more deliberate and less painful.
The noise of the pursuing Selenites had died away altogether. It seemed almost as if they had not traced us up the crack after all, in spite of the telltale heap of broken fungi that must have lain beneath it. At times the cleft narrowed so much that we could scarce squeeze into it, at others it expanded into great drusy cavities studded with prickly crystals, or thickly beset with dull, shining fungoid pimples. Sometimes it twisted spirally and at other times slanted down nearly to the horizontal direction. Ever and again there was the intermittent drip and trickle of water by us. Once or twice it seemed to us that small living things had rustled out of our reach, but what they were we never saw. They may have been venomous beasts for all I know, but they did us no harm, and we were now tuned to a pitch when a weird creeping thing more or less mattered little. And at last, far above came the familiar bluish light again, and then we saw that it filtered through a grating that barred our way.
We whispered as we pointed this out to each other and became more and more cautious in our ascent. Presently we were close under the grating, and by pressing my face against its bars I could see a limited portion of the cavern beyond. It was clearly a large space, and lit no doubt by some rivulet of the same blue light that we had seen flow from the beating machinery. An intermittent trickle of water dropped ever and again between the bars near my face.
My first endeavour was naturally to see what might be upon the floor of the cavern, but our grating lay in a depression whose rim hid all this from our eyes. Our foiled attention then fell back upon the suggestion of the various sounds we heard, and presently my eye caught a number of faint shadows that played across the dim roof, far overhead.
Indisputably there were several Selenites, perhaps a considerable number in this space, for we could hear the noises of their intercourse and faint sounds that I identified as their footfalls. There was also a succession of regularly repeated sounds, chid, chid, chid, which began and ceased, suggestive of a knife or spade hacking at some soft substance. Then came a clank as of chains, a whistle and a rumble as of a truck running over a hollowed place, and then again that chid, chid, chid, resumed. The shadows told of shapes that moved quickly and rhythmically in agreement with that regular sound, and rested when it ceased.
We put our heads close together and began to discuss these things in noiseless whispers.
‘They are occupied,’ I said; ‘they are occupied in some way.’
‘Yes.’
‘They're not seeking us or thinking of us.’
‘Perhaps they have not heard of us.’
‘Those others are hunting about below. If suddenly we appeared here —’
We looked at each other.
‘There might be a chance to parley,’ said Cavor.
‘No,’ I said, ‘not as we are.’
For a space we remained, each occupied with his own thoughts.
Chid, chid, chid went the chipping, and the shadows moved to and fro.
I looked at the grating. ‘It's flimsy,’ I said. ‘We might bend two of the bars and crawl through.’
We wasted a little time in vague discussion. Then I took one of the bars in both hands, and got my feet up against the rock until they were almost on a level with my head, and so thrust against the bar. It bent so suddenly that I almost slipped. I clambered about and bent the adjacent bar in the opposite direction, and then took the luminous fungus from my pocket and dropped it down the fissure.
‘Don't do anything hastily,’ whispered Cavor, as I twisted myself up through the opening I had enlarged. I had a glimpse of busy figures as I came through the grating, and immediately bent down, so that the rim of the depression in which the grating lay hid me from their eyes, and so lay flat, signalling advice to Cavor as he also prepared to come through. Presently we were side by side in the depression, peer
ing over the edge at the cavern and its occupants.
It was a much larger cavern than we had supposed from our first glimpse of it, and we looked up from the lowest portion of its sloping floor. It widened out as it receded from us, and its roof came down and hid the remoter portion altogether. Lying in a line along its length, vanishing at last far away in that tremendous perspective, were a number of huge shapes, huge pallid hulls, upon which the Selenites were busy. At first they seemed big white cylinders of vague import. Then I noted the heads upon them lying towards us, eyeless and skinless like the heads of sheep at a butcher's, and perceived they were the carcasses of mooncalves being cut up, much as the crew of a whaler might cut up a moored whale. They were cutting off the flesh in strips, and on some of the farther trunks the white ribs were showing. It was the sound of their hatchets that made that chid, chid, chid. Some distance away a thing like a trolley, cable-drawn and loaded with chunks of lax meat, was running up the slope of the cavern floor. This enormous busy avenue of hulls that were destined to be food gave us a sense of the vast populousness of the moon world second only to the effect of our first glimpse down the shaft.
It seemed to me at first that the Selenites must be standing on trestle-supported planks,* and then I saw that the planks and supports and the hatchets were really of the same leaden hue as my fetters had seemed before white light came to bear on them. A number of very thick-looking crowbars lay about the floor, and had apparently assisted to turn the dead mooncalf over on its side. They were perhaps six feet long, with shaped handles; very tempting-looking weapons. The whole place was lit by three transverse streams of the blue fluid.
We lay for a long time noting all these things in silence. ‘Well?’ said Cavor at last.
I crouched lower and turned to him. I had come upon a brilliant idea. ‘Unless they lowered those bodies by a crane,’ I said, ‘we must be nearer the surface than I thought.’
‘Why?’
H. G. Wells Page 15
