Anti-Ice

by Stephen Baxter

  I turned now to study the lie of the Phaeton. I was only some ten yards from the ship and the vessel loomed over me; overall she had survived surprisingly well, and the dull sheen of her aluminum skin glowed through a thin coating of lunar dust. The glass of the Bridge dome, though showing evidence of scorching, sparkled in the remaining sunlight and cast highlights across the shattered lunar plain. Traveller had brought us down, I saw, on the brow of one of the low hills—its summit being perhaps ten feet from the common level—and I silently applauded his skill, for we were surely safer and more stable there than in one of the narrow “valleys” which wound between the hills. But the ship was far from level, for one of its three landing legs had rested on a larger boulder and had crumpled slightly; the leg still supported the craft, but at an angle of perhaps twenty degrees to the vertical.

  As he had intended, Traveller had brought us down with the upper portions of the craft in sunlight. From the Cabin ports in the shadowed lower portion of the hull a warm gaslight shone out over the lifeless rocks; and in the windows I could make out the faces of Bourne and Holden. I longed to be readmitted to the cosiness of that interior, with its scents of Pocket’s cooking and of Traveller’s Turkish cigarettes; but also I experienced a surge of pride that we had brought this roomful of England to this terrible place. Even now I could see that Holden still wore his tie, neatly knotted around his wing collar!

  As I stared at the ship standing proud in that hostile place I became aware that my helmet and the upper part of my air suit were becoming uncomfortably hot. I reminded myself that I had very little time to accomplish my mission before my position out on the surface became untenable. So, without further hesitation, I raised the Great Eastern above my head with both hands—I saw Holden applauding this gesture—and then made to place it behind a rock, sheltered from the blast of Phaeton’s rockets. I paused in this act, watching the ship expectantly, and was rewarded with the sight of Holden raising a camera to the port. So my final request before leaving the ship was fulfilled; by this lapse into immodesty I had ensured that my jaunt on the Moon should be recorded for all posterity.

  As I held my position like an awkward statue, waiting the single second until the plate should be exposed, I felt an odd tremble from the ground below me, like a minor earthquake. But I held my pose, and the tremor passed away.

  With the Eastern fixed in place I hurried into the shadow of the Phaeton, my breath laboring, determined to get on with my mission.

  I lit my Ruhmkorff coil and held it high. Pale electrical light extended far across the shattered lunar land: it could not, of course, compete with the direct light of the Sun, but it did reveal the nature of what lay hidden in the shadows of the hills and the larger boulders. I sought the reflective glint which Traveller and I had espied from space—and, perhaps five feet beyond the boundary of Phaeton’s hillock, I made out a stretch of soil ten feet wide which lay as flat as a millpond and returned highlights from my coil.

  I moved as quickly as I could down the shallow slope of the hill, and, with my hose nearly fully extended, I crouched to reach the gleaming pool.

  I was cruelly disappointed. My mitten, probing at the reflective surface, broke through it and reached crumbled soil; I raised up fragments of the surface I had shattered and held them before my face. This was no ice; rather, I held a fragment of some glass-like substance—brownish and all but opaque, but recognizably glass nevertheless. I had heard that great heat, or great pressure, can reduce ordinary sand to glass without the intervention of man, and no doubt this was the explanation of this phenomenon. Perhaps this natural pane had been formed in the very impact which had thrown up Traveller Crater itself. I was sure this substance would have formed a fascinating conundrum for the men of science—not least, I suspected, because it demonstrated the commonality of minerals on Earth and on the Moon—but it was little help to me! Had the glinting glaciers Traveller and I had discerned from orbit all been chimerae formed by this glassy debris?

  In a moment of rage and disappointment I cried out and hurled the pane of glass far from me; it traveled many hundreds of yards, its spin unhindered by any atmosphere, glinting in its treacherous fashion in the low sunlight. And the ground shook once more beneath my feet, as if in sympathy; the tremor was powerful this time, and boulders rolled across the ground, like sand grains on the skin of a drum.

  I dropped to a crouch while the landscape rattled; I waited fearfully lest some boulder should roll close enough to crush me, or block my air hose…

  And at length the trembling ceased, but it was matched almost at once by the rattling of my heart, for in the depression vacated by one large boulder I saw the unmistakable spark of frost.

  I hurried to the shining patch, but as sunlight struck it the ice hissed to vapour which escaped through my fingers.

  I remained elated, however, for now my path was clear. Whatever water remained on the Moon must surely lie within the deepest caves, or beneath boulders—at any event removed from the sunlight. Several large boulders lay within reach of my air hose. I hurried to one of the largest—a cube- shaped affair some four feet on a side—and spent some moments pondering how I, one man alone, should lift such a monster. I considered returning to the Phaeton in the hope of improvising some sort of lever; then I remembered that I was, after all, on the surface of the Moon, whose one-sixth gravity had loaned me the strength of a team of navigators. So I crouched down and slid my fingers underneath a lip of the rock. I heaved at it, expecting it to flip aside like an empty carton; but although the boulder did indeed shift, it did so slowly and ponderously—and after a great deal of plate-steaming effort from me—so that I was left in no doubt as to its substantial mass.

  Thus I learned by practical demonstration the difference between weight, which is governed by the gravity of a planet, and inertia, which is not.

  Imagine my disappointment, though, when the rock at last tumbled aside to reveal not even the slightest stain of frost. I stood there, lungs laboring at the thin substance provided by the hoses, and staring in disbelief at the ground.

  There was nothing for it but to proceed to the next rock and try again; and when I did so, to my intense joy, I was rewarded with the sight of a thick pool of frost some five feet wide and several inches thick. Sheltering the precious stuff with my own shadow I bundled the frost into my insulated bag, using my mitten as a scoop, and came away with some pounds of lunar water.

  I soon lost track of time as I worked through that changeless lunar afternoon. Boulder after boulder I tore aside, finding substantial caches of water under perhaps half of them. I filled the bag over and over, and returned several times to the Phaeton, soon amassing a small hill of crumbled ice in the shadow of the ship. Every few minutes the ground would tremble ominously; but I learned to ignore these small earthquakes. When the bag was more than half-full, though it did not weigh me down, its inertia, as it swung against my back, became a distracting nuisance.

  Then came a massive tremor.

  It was as if some giant had struck the surface of the Moon. I was thrown to the ground. I had the presence of mind to cover my faceplate with my mittens; otherwise the glass should surely have smashed. I lay there for long seconds, hardly daring to look up, expecting at any moment to be hurled into some lunar chasm or smashed beneath a fall of rock. And the Moonquake continued in an utter and eerie silence!

  When only echoes still rolled massively through the rock beneath me, I climbed cautiously to my feet. My air hose, my bag of ice, were safe; but my faceplate was severely misted up—so much so that I could barely see—and my Ruhmkorff coil was smashed and useless. I abandoned it for some future explorer to puzzle over. I was uncertain of the time—not having had the presence of mind to wear a watch on the outside of my air suit!—and I stood a few feet beyond the lip of Phaeton’s low hill and looked about.

  The landscape appeared to have changed: the look of the range of hillocks and the way their shadows lay was not as I remembered it. No doubt, I tol
d myself, this was simply an illusion of the sunset; for even on Earth the aspect of natural features can appear to evolve as the light dies.

  I hesitated for some more moments, disoriented, trying to weigh in my mind the benefits of a few more pounds of ice in my half-full satchel against the unknown dangers of this strange place—when the decision was taken out of my hands.

  Another tremor erupted over the landscape. I dropped the ice axe and staggered away from Phaeton’s hill. After a few paces I came up against the limits of my air hose and my head was jerked back against my neck. I stood my ground, balancing with outstretched arms, and turned to face the Phaeton—to be greeted by a quite astonishing sight.

  All around the hill cylinders of rock were rising from the ground. There were perhaps twelve of them, equally spaced around the dome of the hill, each about a yard in diameter; they rose evenly, by several feet per second. The ground shuddered anew and I struggled to keep my feet, wondering at the power required to lift such mighty masses so rapidly. Soon the hill—and the Phaeton—was quite enclosed by the pillars. As the pillars grew their rate of increase slowed, until at last they settled to a height of a hundred feet. I realized that it was only by the grace of God that my air pipes had not been snagged or ruptured by the growth of this mineral flora.

  The ground shook on as if in response to distant explosions, and I turned to view the rest of the landscape. Like flowers of rock, pillars sprang up around all of the hills which littered this shattered plain; some of them, I saw by tilting my fogged helmet back, towered to heights which far outshone the puny hundred feet of the Phaeton pillars: the largest, perhaps half a mile away, must have stretched up a full thousand feet. The pillars were as smooth as if finished by a fine craftsman, but their mineral nature was not concealed.

  This sprouting growth all across the plain, conducted in an eerie silence, reminded me irresistibly of the growth of life; perhaps the pillars were analogous to the plants which dwell in desert climes and erupt into growth at the smallest drop of rain. But I wondered what sort of life it was that raised such monstrous statues, and at such speed.

  At last the final pillars reached their target heights; and all across a plain newly scored by parallel shadows, the stillness was broken only by a gentle rain of dust and pebbles.

  I stood my ground for a few moments, the blood pounding through my temples, wondering if it was safe to essay a return to the Phaeton.

  Then, while I still hesitated, the next phase began.

  The largest hill, some fifty feet high, was the first. Small boulders and plates of rock exploded all around the perimeter of the hill. The mound shuddered visibly and tremors raced through the rocky floor to my feet; and I had the impression of some vast animal struggling to rise from its confines of earth.

  Then, with a jolt of fresh shock, I realized that this impression had been exactly right; for the whole hill was lifting bodily from the lunar soil. It rode skywards on its tube of encircling pillars. I stood there dumbfounded, scarcely able to believe the evidence of my senses. Now the “hill” lifted clear of the ground, and I saw that its dome profile was matched beneath by another, inverted dome, so that the whole formed a symmetrical stone lens; the underside of the lens, though, was scarred and fragmented. Fist-sized chunks of rock splintered from the sharp lip of the lens, which scoured at the supporting pillars.

  As the lens shape rose it accelerated, reaching speeds that denied its thousands of tons mass. Soon it was soaring far above me, still sailing up its thousand-foot circle of pillars.

  But this had only been the precursor: soon, all around the plain, the mounds were lifting to reveal characteristic lens shapes, and I had cause to welcome the airless nature of the Moon, for surely if there had been atmosphere to carry sound the noise of these great emergings would have smashed my eardrums at once.

  Then my head was snapped backwards by a tug on my air hose and I was sent sprawling on the ground. I twisted rapidly where I lay and was greeted with the sight of the Phaeton’s hill, with the ship still on its back, riding into the sky like all its cousins.

  With my ice bag bouncing against the small of my back I clawed my way to my feet, mittens scrabbling against rocks. I stood where the lip of the Phaeton hill had formerly been—it was now the rim of a shallow crater—and I peered up in desperation. Already the edge of the lens was some ten feet above me and accelerating, bearing the ship and all my hopes with it. Within seconds my air hose would reach its full extension. Perhaps then I would be hauled into the air, like a marionette, my legs dangling helplessly; or perhaps the hose would snap at once, spilling my precious air into the lunar emptiness…

  I fixed my ice bag more evenly over my shoulders, bent my legs as far as my swollen suit joints would allow, and leapt from the surface of the Moon.

  The lunar gravity plucked only weakly at my flight. I rose high, my hose coiling around me. As I neared the peak of my trajectory my upward speed slowed, and for an agonizing moment I thought I would just fail to grab the rim; but at last my arms and head sailed above the lip of rock and I scrabbled at it with my mittened hands, finally finding purchase in crevices in the carcass of this rocky beast.

  I hung there sucking in piped air, my pack of ice thumping against my spine. As the lens accelerated into the sky the pressure on my hands and shoulders increased steadily, so that I was forced to postpone any idea of climbing safely aboard the lens; it was all I could do to hold my position.

  I twisted my neck, trying to find some relief from the agony of my overextended shoulders; and as I did so I became aware of still another development. For now the rock-lens beings, having hauled themselves to the peaks of their pillar legs, were beginning to move about the plain. They scraped their way in a stately fashion across the ground toward and away from each other, in a manner reminiscent of duelling swordsmen—or of predatory insects.

  This slow, silent waltz was quite as astonishing as if I had seen Windsor Castle get up and walk about.

  The pillar-limbs were not articulating or tilting in any way; it appeared that, while remaining vertical, pillars were sliding one by one beneath the surface of their passenger lens; all this motion was co-ordinated in a surprisingly graceful fashion, allowing the rock-beasts to move quite freely.

  All this I saw in glimpses over two or three seconds, as I soared upwards in pursuit of the Phaeton.

  At last the pressure in my arms eased, and I realized that my lens must be approaching the top of its nest of pillars. I looked up and saw that the ends of the pillars were indeed very close—but, far beyond them, I could see the underside of another lens-beast, larger and higher than the Phaeton’s. It moved toward the Phaeton lens in a quite menacing fashion.

  I had no idea what this meant, but doubted that it was a good sign; and as soon as I was able I hauled myself over the lip of the rock, dragging my hose and ice bag behind me. I had imagined that the Phaeton might have been shaken free, or at least, tumbled over and smashed; but, to my relief, she still clung to the hill, and even remained upright. Out of a corner of my eye I noticed that the model of the Great Eastern had been smashed under a fallen rock; only a few fragments of metal and glass showed where I had set her no more than hours earlier.

  I hurried toward the ship. I saw how Holden and Pocket were peering from the windows in my direction—and I could see the unreserved joy with which they greeted my appearance from the dead, water-bag and all. Holden gestured at me to hurry; but I needed no urging!

  Traveller had explained to me how a hatch at the lower skirt of the hull could be opened for the deposition of ice. I scrambled up a landing leg with an adroitness that surprised me, found the hatch, undogged its latches as Traveller had taught me, and was soon emptying my bag of ice into the tanks. Hastily I scooped up handfuls from my hill of collected ice and crammed them, too, into the hatch. I had to fumble at all of this with my mittened hands and the more I hurried the more I spilled ice wastefully; I was conscious the whole time that should our lens-host take it
into its mind to go for a jaunt then surely I and the Phaeton would be hurled to an untimely death; and all the while, at the edge of my vision, I could see that other monster lens towering over the Phaeton’s, and drawing ever nearer.

  At last it was done. I closed the hatch, hurled the empty bag far from me and dropped away from the ship’s leg, waving to Holden. I scrambled up the rope ladder which led to my air cupboard, eyeing the rocket nozzles nervously; as soon as Traveller could fire his engines he would surely not hesitate to do so, whether or not I was safely aboard, and so I had seconds to make myself secure. I hauled myself through the narrow hatchway, landing in the cupboard chest first like a fish and then hauling my legs behind me; I dragged in the rope ladder and my dangling air hose and was reaching for the hatch—

  —when the rockets fired.

  I was thrown against the bulkhead. My body was dragged toward the still-open hatch; I scrabbled at the riveted iron with my hands and legs, and for a terrifying period I lay crucified over the open hatchway, my head dangling on a stalk of neck.

  The rockets raised a cloud of dust and pebbles from the carapace of our lens-beast.

  The ship lurched abruptly sideways, and I had to latch my fingers around bulkhead plates. Then the lip of the larger lens-beast, which had towered over the Phaeton, slid across my field of view; and I realized that Traveller had been forced to drag us across the sky to avoid this second monster.