Steve winced. His watch. A fragment of Garth’s old, sane, likable self—a fleeting fragment.
“Where is this place which you call the Crystal Mountain?” Steve asked with level quietness.
He knew immediately that he had made a mistake. Garth’s eyes widened in understanding; then his lips twisted into a leer, and he began to laugh....
Steve had been only vaguely aware of the presence of the two Melconnes who crouched beside him. But now he felt hands clutching fiercely at his metal-clad shoulders. They were Claire Melconne’s fingers. “It’s your fault!” he was screaming, “He’s your brother, Steve Jubiston. You let him do this to us! I’ll be like that! Furry! Moldy! Like a piece of rotten food! I’ll kill you!”
The kid was cracking. Steve knew it at once. The poisons which were in his blood were already acting on the boy’s nerves and brain. The sight of Garth's hideous, diseased body, was the straw that was breaking him. Steve arose, grappling with Claire, clutching at his flailing arms, trying as gently as possible to restrain him. Professor Melconne was helping.
Their attention was drawn to Garth. With a sudden burst of strength, he arose to his feet and raced to the airlock. Before Steve and the professor had an opportunity to prevent it, he had unbolted the inner airtight door, and had darted through. They heard his mocking, maniacal scream, as the automatic safety device reclosed the panel. They knew that Garth was racing naked out over the airless lunar terrain. Yes, now they could see him through a window. His bare feet were pounding fiercely at the chalky ground, in that mad sprint to death. His head was uplifted to the stars; his lips were gasping. They saw him stumble at the brink of a steep slope, and go tumbling like a battered and discarded rag-doll.
It was useless to make any attempt to save him. For a long minute, they stood staring after him.
Claire was the first to speak. “I’m sorry, Steve,” he panted. “I know it isn’t much of an excuse, but—”
“I know, kid,” Steve said dully. “Now we’ve got to look for our own air.” He had turned away, and for a moment seemed deep in thought. “As the only really well man on this boat,” he continued carefully, “I believe that it is both my right and duty to assume command. I can handle the flier alone. Therefore, I think it would be best if you both took a hypodermic and went to sleep.”
Professor Melconne seemed about to remonstrate, then, sensing Steve’s unspoken meaning, thought better of it. "You’re right, Steve,” he said. “We’re not to be regarded as trustworthy, and it will be much better to have us out of the way temporarily at least. Good luck!”
Without asking any questions about what he intended to do, Mr. Melconne and his son retired from the control room to the small chamber behind it.
Old Steve went to work. He had no plan other than to search the lunar terrain until he found some clue, or until the last dregs of oxygen were gone. Forty minutes was all the time he had.
A small black notebook lying on the floor beside Garth’s clothing, caught his eye. Hurriedly he picked it up and began to thumb through it. It contained Garth’s notes, some taken before he had left camp. He skimmed quickly through these, coming to several pages on which many capital R’s and G’s, arranged in groups appeared. After each was a brief explanation: RRGR—Come this way! RRRG—kill! Steve understood. Here were Garth’s notes on the plant-men’s language. The R’s stood for flashes of red light, and the G’s for flashes of green. A strange, paradoxical thrill of pride came over him. Even during his sickness, when he played god to the plant-men, Garth had been the scholar and the delver after knowledge. He’d had his fairly lucid moments, of course. But the key wouldn’t do any good now.
In quest of some possible clue to the location of the place he sought, he scanned each page. He found nothing. However, on the last of the written leaves was a brief note which immediately riveted his attention. He read it avidly. Then a wild look, half of triumph and half of despair, flickered briefly on his rugged features. If he could only somehow find his way to the Crystal Mountain! It would mean so much! God!
Seated before the control panel, he closed the starting switches. The generators that fed power to the levitator and repulsion plates began to whine....
From an altitude of a thousand feet, Steve looked down upon the moon. Night had almost come. Except for one frosty wing of her corona, the sun was almost invisible. Only a small segment of her disc still peeped above the serrated horizon. These last thin rays gilded only the mountain peaks, and the tops of crater-brims. Only the brightening light of the half-Earth was left to soften the blackness of the deeper valleys.
CHAPTER VI
The Mystery of the Plant-Men
For over twenty minutes, Steve had searched without success. He sat in the pilot’s chair, hunched over the control levers. His eyes continually scanned the tortured terrain that spread vague and unreal beneath him in the feeble light. He knew what his chances were, yet, doggedly, he kept at his task.
A broad, squat mountain peak reared under him. At first glance it did not seem any different from the hundreds of other isolated peaks, which are common on the moon. Then, as he continued to gaze at it, he saw numerous shifting points of frosty light on its slopes. The phenomenon was doubtless caused by Earth rays, shining on, and being reflected from, vast deposits of rock crystal with which the peak was loaded.
Was this Garth’s Crystal Mountain? Taken by the idea, Steve sent the space-boat rocketing downward, so that he could get a closer look at his find. His small searchlight played on the rounded slopes. The beam sent back diamond-like reflections. Yes, the mountain seemed to he composed almost entirely of crystals that looked like worn and dusty glass. A flash of hope came to old Steve. This might easily be called the Crystal Mountain!
His craft swooped around sharply as he continued to examine the peculiar natural formation. But no, his searchlight revealed nothing that might indicate that this mountain was more suited to support life than any other portion of the moon. If possible, it was more desolate and barren.
Disappointed, Steve continued with his quest, guiding his craft in ever-widening circles.
His time was nearly up. Already the oxygen escape-valve had ceased to hiss.
Then Steve saw a series of red and green light flashes, flickering eerily through the dusk beneath. In a moment they were gone. An idea came to him. Why not follow a plant-man? They would be hurrying to a place of cover, now that the lunar night, with its awful cold, was coming on. Fool! Why hadn’t he thought of that before? It might be too late, now that he could no longer see the plant-man.
Eagerly, he waited for the creature to signal again, so that he could tell where it was; but the flickering lights did not re-appear.
Steve was desperate. He picked up Garth’s notebook, a half-formed plan throbbing in his mind. Feverishly, his gauntleted fingers scrambled through the leaves. He glanced down the columns of symbols, scanning each explanation of meaning, RGRGR—Greetings. It might serve the purpose! At least it was worth a trial.
On the calculation desk at his side lay what appeared to be an ordinary flashlight, but a brief examination revealed that several things had been done to it. Instead of having only one cold-light globe, it was fitted with two, each of which was equipped with a separate button-switch. One of the globes was smeared with a green pigment, and the other with red.
Steve took up the flashlight, and holding it close to the window, flashed out the signal—red, green, red, green, red.
Eagerly he watched for an answer. There it was, far down in the darkened valley. Red, green, red, green, red—flickering eerily.
He sent the space-boat skimming toward it. Approaching close to where the plant-man had been, he checked his speed to a crawl. It would not do to frighten the creature, who of course thought that Garth was guiding the vessel.
Again he signalled, and was answered, this time from a greater distance along the valley. And so the plant-man led him on, over the rough ground, reaching at last a small crater, over th
e walls of which the lunarian disappeared.
Hovering, Steve played his searchlight into the crater. In its floor yawned an immense chasm, sweeping down into misty darkness. The bright beam stabbed into a thin, whitish vapor that steamed up out of the pit. In it, white particles that looked like snowflakes were forming and swirling. Was the steamy stuff really water vapor, or was it carbon-dioxide gas brought to the congealing point by the chill of the lunar night? Steve had no means of knowing; yet the presence of either might indicate that he was on the right track.
The chasm yawned black and forbidding. Steve hesitated. Might he not be following a false lead that would bring him and his companions to destruction? There was no evidence of a Crystal Mountain here. Moving the directing levers of the searchlight, he sent the misty beam groping for the plant-man. After a moment, he found him. The creature was hurrying along a trail that spiralled down around the walls of the pit. His fantastic figure was swaying, loping along at top-most speed, as though he were frightened.
Steve drew a deep breath, then eased the control stick forward. Under the guidance of his cautious fingers, the vessel dropped into the black orifice. It continued to descend vertically for a distance of almost two miles; then the rocky tunnel curved outward, becoming horizontal. Sweeping the searchlight here and there over the jagged walls, Steve continued to advance into the dense shadows. The dark openings of many side-passages came into view. The barometer indicated a steadily rising air pressure in the tunnel. Evidently, there was still a trace of volcanic action here, giving rise to a copious outward flow of carbonic acid gas from the heart of the moon.
Where would the passage lead him? Would he find the place that he sought; the Crystal Mountain? Certainly there could be no Crystal Mountain way down here!
Abruptly, the volcanic corridor turned upward. As Steve guided the space-boat in the long ascent, he detected a faint glow far above.
Puzzled and wondering, Steve emerged into a vast place where prevailed a faint, half-revealing luminescence, like eldritch moonlight. He glanced through a window and saw, or fancied he saw, the dim shapes of fantastically formed trees. He played his searchlight groundward, seeking a landing place.
Having brought the vessel to rest, he opened a small aircock, which led through the double walls of the craft. A faint stream of vapor came through the valve. Tentatively, he tested it with his nose. It was real air, warm and humid.
Unprotected by his space-suit, he hurried eagerly through the airlock. His feet felt moist earth; about him were bushes. A soft inviting breeze fanned his cheek. Still puzzled, he looked upward toward the source of the illumination. It took almost a minute of scrutiny before the explanation of the glow was clear in his mind. Yes, this was Crystal Mountain all right; doubtless the same mountain he had examined before he had followed the plant-man. But now he was inside it! The vast dome above, which evidently had been formed by volcanic action in some remote age, was made up of translucent rock-crystal. The light shining through it was the light of the Earth; the same light that fell on the desolate lunar plains outside. Doubtlessly in the same manner, during the lunar day, the much brighter rays of the sun reached this buried valley.
Old Steve was gasping in sheer amazement. It was a great, natural hothouse that he had found, the one place on the moon where conditions were favorable for the development of even the most delicate of life-forms.
He directed the misty path of his flashlight against the riotous jungle of vegetation. Sweeping it onward, he saw a small, marshy lake, the inky surface of which was unruffled by the tiniest ripple. Standing in the water were hundreds of grotesque shapes, statuesquely motionless. Plant-men! Doubtless they were hibernating during the lunar night, absorbing moisture and mineral foods.
Old Steve was exultant. Impulsively, he drew his pistol, pointed its muzzle high over the lake. Garth had ruled those people by awing them. Why couldn’t he do the same? Smiling, he returned the weapon to his holster. Such things could wait.
Beside the lake he saw a group of tall, cactiform plants, the pulpy stems of which were bright purple. The sight of them brought back to his mind the needs of his two companions. What had Garth written in that last page of his notebook? “The raw juice of the purple plants applied to the affected parts, and if possible, injected in very minute quantities into the blood stream. The plant-men contract this same disease, and treat it in just this way, always successfully, if in time. I learned of the treatment too late....”
Old Steve knew what to do. He would get the medicine kit....
It was not until he turned that he noticed the dark bulk of the Artemis, the vessel that had brought the expedition to the moon, resting against the slope of a low hill. Garth had brought it there.
Some hours had passed. Steve Jubiston, Claire Melconne, and the professor were standing in the control room of the moon-ship. The professor was speaking: “We shall return to Earth as soon as we can collect some of the interesting objects around us,” he was saying. “They should cause quite a sensation. Then we’ll bring a new and larger expedition back with us.”
“How about Garth?” Claire demanded.
Professor Melconne’s voice became quieter. “We know about Garth and what happened to him,” he said. “The same thing might have happened to any one of us, allowing perhaps for differences in temperament. Everything unsavory concerning him goes out of our log, and he shall receive full credit for everything he has accomplished here.”
A fleeting, pained look crossed old Steve’s rugged face, as he gazed out of a window at the eldritch-lighted landscape beyond. Jumbled things flitted through his mind. There was a brain-picture of a small, studious schoolboy, mounting butterflies in a picture-frame. That had been the Garth of long ago. Walker? Frank Walker was dead: murdered. Old Steve’s heart was heavy. But he knew that the heaviness would not last long. The many interesting things he had to occupy his mind would soon make him forget. People were like that. Nature had made them that way. Nature was kind.
“Thanks a lot, Mr. Melconne,” Steve said. “And now I think I’ll take the flier and go up through the tunnel to the real outdoors. It’s night there now. I want to land there some place and just walk for a few minutes. I want to feel the cold and see the craters under the Earth shine. All by myself. I want—oh hell—such talk!”
The End
[1] Terrestrial lichens are peculiar composite growths, part fungus and part green algae. These two separate and distinct plants exist together in a state of symbiosis. (A combination in which two forms of life are mutually benefited by each other.) The fibrous skeleton of any lichen is a fungus which binds the green algae together, and doubtless serves as a means of retaining moisture, which is necessary for both plants. Since the fungus contains no chlorophyl, it cannot manufacture its own food, and for that reason is dependent upon the green algae.
Since terrestrial lichens are very hardy, and seem capable of thriving under the most rigorous of Earthly conditions, I have assumed that the simpler forms of lunar vegetation are similar to them.
[2] According to a theory accepted until recent years, the moon was totally without atmosphere. The sharp shadows and the complete absence of any atmospheric distortion of the details of the lunar terrain seemed to bear this out. Even stars, when occulted, or eclipsed, by the dark edge of the moon, showed no change in aspect, nor any irregularity in their apparent position, up to the very instant that they disappeared behind the lunar disc. There was no evidence of any atmospheric refraction.
However, during a solar eclipse in November, 1919, W. H. Pickering noted a prolongation of the cusps, or horns, of the crescent of the disappearing sun—a phenomenon which he believed was due to the refraction and diffusion of light by a lunar atmosphere. It was also noted that when a bright planet, Jupiter, for instance, was occulted by the lighted edge, or limb of the moon, a dark band, parallel to the lunar surface, was projected across the planet. This also indicated refraction by an atmosphere. When a planet was occulted by the dark ed
ge of the moon, no such phenomenon took place. It is concluded from this that during the long lunar night, the air disappears, perhaps freezing, and deposits itself on the ground in the form of hoar-frost, which does not melt again until after sunrise.
There are several reasons why I have assumed that the air of the moon is mostly carbon-dioxide. According to a well-established theory, just before life appeared on the Earth, its atmosphere was made up chiefly of nitrogen and carbon-dioxide, with very little, if any, free oxygen. It was not until green plants started to decompose this carbon-dioxide, which was supposed to have come principally from volcanic vents, that there was any considerable quantity of oxygen. Oxygen is too active a gas, chemically, to exist in a free state for any length of time, when there are so many other elements with which it can combine. The oxygen content of our atmosphere is maintained only by the action of green plants.
Assuming that the evolution of the moon was somewhat similar to that of our Earth, we can conclude that, today at least, a large portion of the lunar atmosphere is carbon-dioxide, since the moon has no extensive, if any, green vegetation.
In addition, the ability of a planet to retain an atmosphere seems to be in proportion to its gravitational force. It is believed that the atmospheres of all planets are slowly leaking away into space. With a gravity only one-sixth as great as that of Earth, it is obvious that the lunar air would not only be more highly expanded, but would escape much more rapidly, because of the weaker force holding it to the lunar surface. Because carbon-dioxide is a very heavy gas, it would be retained much longer than the lighter nitrogen and water vapor.
According to Mr. Pickering, the maximum air pressure on the moon cannot exceed five millimeters of mercury, which, of course, is a very insignificant amount when compared to the seventy-seven centimeters approximate normal sea-level pressure on Earth. Mr. Pickering’s theory is not much more than a guess, but it is certain that the lunar atmosphere is very rare.
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