No answer.
He repeated his appeal, with no more success than the first time. Then, summoning up all of his will-power, he dragged himself to the divan in the dark, and pulled himself to his feet. He rummaged in his pocket and took out a match, which he struck on the wall.
He saw Sharp by the flickering light, his limbs stiff and his face bloody. “Thunder!” he groaned. “He’s dead!” This thought restored his strength. He ran to the commutator and turned it sharply—but the battery that supplied current to the lamps must have been broken, for no light shone forth.
Voriguin hesitated for a moment, uncertain what to do. The match had gone out, burning his fingers, and the darkness seemed even more intense and frightening following that temporary illumination.
Suddenly, he remembered that he had a candle-stub in his pocket. He struck a match and lit the candle. Sure now of not being plunged back into darkness, he went back to Sharp, knelt down beside him and put a hand on his heart. The heart was beating—feebly, to be sure, but it was beating.
The anguish that had gripped Voriguin at the thought that he was alone, with a cadaver for his only companion, abruptly disappeared, and he set about trying to bring Fedor Sharp round. He observed that the scientist’s forehead had struck the corner of the bookcase and that the wound, though slight, was bleeding copiously. Among the debris scattered on the floor, the laboratory assistant perceived a medial kit, which had survived the shock. He opened it and improvised a dressing. Once the hemorrhage was stemmed he resumed trying to bring the wounded man round. He uncorked a phial and passed it back and forth under the nostrils several times.
Finally, Sharp sniffed vigorously. Blood colored his cheeks and he opened his eyes. At first, he looked around in astonishment, seemingly wondering what he was doing there, lying on the floor in the midst of broken furniture and fragments of instruments. Then, memory suddenly flooded back. He put his hand to his head and cried: “We’re on the Moon!”
“So it seems,” said the laboratory assistant.
“What?” exclaimed the scientist. “It seems so—aren’t you sure, then?”
“I confess that I was in much more of a hurry to assure myself that you weren’t dead.”
Sharp raised his arms to the Heavens. “God be praised!” he exclaimed. “Well, I can tell you that my first action would have been to run to the porthole.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” muttered Voriguin, ill-temperedly. “You’re nothing but an egotist.”
“No,” said Sharp, “I’m a scientist! Science before all!” As he concluded this reply in his usual dry and jerky voice, his expression suddenly darkened. He had only just noticed the pitiful state of the shell’s interior. “Why that light?” he asked, pointing to the candle that Voriguin had placed on a broken door-panel from the bookcase.
“Because the batteries aren’t working.”
Sharp frowned. “Is it night, then?” he asked.
The laboratory assistant shrugged his shoulders. “All I know,” he said, “is that when I came to, the vehicle was in complete darkness.”
At this reply, Sharp mumbled a few words that his companion did not hear. “Of course,” he said. “That’s because we re-sealed the portholes, for fear that the glass might be broken in the fall.” And he added: “Give me your arm to help me up, Voriguin, for I feel extremely weak.”
When he was upright, he took a few steps, with the support of his assistant. “Ah,” he said, “that’s better. I think it’s this blood-loss that weakened me.” He leaned back against the wall of the shell and said to Voriguin: “Before anything else, we need to know where we are. Climb up on the divan, unscrew the plate of the porthole and look out.”
The laboratory assistant obeyed, but did not succeed in immediately in exposing the porthole; the bolts had undoubtedly been damaged in the fall; one of them had even snapped. Finally, the plate fell away and a bright ray of light penetrated the interior of the shell. Sharp immediately blew out the candle.
“Well?” he asked, in a tremulous voice.
“We’ve arrived,” Voriguin replied. “At least, I think so—I can see mountains in the distance strongly resembling those we saw when we were still in space.”
Sharp uttered a cry of joy. “But where are we, exactly?” he said.
The laboratory assistant pressed his face against the window, standing on tiptoe in order to get a better view of the surroundings. “Without being precise,” he said, “I think we must have fallen on the slope of a crater.”
“The interior or exterior slope?”
“Exterior—otherwise, I wouldn’t see mountains on the horizon, my view being limited…”
“It’s doubtless one of the small volcanoes I showed you in the Sea of Serenity,” murmured Sharp. After a pause, he exclaimed: “Get down! Get down quickly. We need to get out of here.”
Voriguin jumped down to the floor. “Get out of here?” he repeated. “We’ll have to take some precautions, I imagine?”
The scientist shrugged his shoulders. “What have we to fear?” he asked. “Too great a difference between the density of the lunar atmosphere and the air in our vehicle.”
“Unless the composition of the lunar atmosphere is totally different,” Vorigin retorted.
“That’s a possibility,” Sharp muttered.
“And perhaps fatal,” the other added.
Sharp looked at him scornfully. “You didn’t come here I suppose, to stay shut up in the vehicle?” he growled.
“You assured me that the atmosphere on the Moon’s surface was breathable.”
“I still affirm that.”
“It’s possible—but personally, I doubt it.”
The scientist seemed surprised. “Why?” he asked.
To this perfectly natural question, Voriguin made no reply.
“In a word, you’re scared,” jeered Sharp.
“At least admit that you’re scared too,” said the laboratory assistant.
“You’ve braved dangers more serious that this, though.”
“I don’t deny it,” Voriguin protested, “but I’m strongly averse to leaving my bones here and I’d like to take certain precautions.”
“What precautions?” Sharp asked.
“That’s up to you, not me,” the other complained. “You’re a man of science, while I…”
A singular smile played on Sharp’s lips. “As far as you’re concerned,” he said. “I know of only one precaution to take.”
“Go on.”
“Let me go out first. Admit that no experiment on the lunar atmosphere could be as conclusive.”
Voriguin stuck out his lips in a significant moue. “Agreed—but if you die…”
“If I die,” Sharp replied, “you’ll have to decide what to do.” And he advanced upon the ‘manhole’ that served as a door, armed with a wrench with which to unscrew the nuts.
Voriguin put a hand on his arm. Sharp stopped and looked at him in surprise. “What is it now?” he growled.
“Do you think you have the right to risk your life like this?” the laboratory assistant asked.
Sharp could not suppress a start of surprise. “You’re joking!” he said.
“No, I’m being serious.”
The scientist folded his arms. “You’re claiming the right,” he said, “to prevent me from disposing of my life as I see fit?”
“Certainly—don’t forget that you brought me here and that, consequently, you’re responsible for my skin. If you died, what would become of me?”
Sharp burst out laughing. “Ah!” he said. “That’s the real reason for the interest you’re taking in my health. I find this solicitude quite extraordinary, though, inasmuch as it contrasts markedly with the less-than-benevolent intentions you manifested in my regard two days ago, before the presence of Mikhail Ossipoff’s shell was observed in space.”
Voriguin lowered his head, frowning and scowling.
“Well?” Sharp went on. “You’re not answering….”
The laboratory assistant raised his head again. “When I wanted to kill you,” he muttered, “your death assured my life, in the sense that the air you would have ceased to breathe I would have breathed myself. Now, on the contrary, your death would lead to mine. What would become of me, in fact, in these regions of which I know nothing? How would I ever see the Earth again, ignorant as I am of all the things you know?” He had pronounced these final words in a vibrant and angry voice, which gave evidence of the jealousy he felt towards the scientist.
Sharp nodded his head. “Good,” he said. “Very well, I understand. Fundamentally, you’re right. We’re two associates; the existence of each of us represents a social asset that we don’t have the right to depreciate.” He reflected briefly. “Well, don’t worry,” he continued. “I promise you to act prudently, so as not to compromise an existence that is so precious to you.”
“You promise me?” said Voriguin, incredulously.
“I swear it,” said Sharp, more sincere than he had ever been about being minded to risk his life. The he went to the manhole and set about unfastening the bolts. In spite of all his efforts, however, he could not do it. “What’s the matter with it?” he grumbled.
“You’re doubtless still too weak,” retorted the laboratory assistant. “Pass me the implement.” He grabbed the wrench and strove vigorously against the steel plate that served as a door. It was in vain, though, the bolts resisted, and the plate did not budge an inch. “Damn it!” he muttered. He threw the wrench across the room and sat down, using the back of his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow.
Sharp had gone pale. “Climb back on the divan,” he said, “and try to see in what position the shell has fallen.”
Voriguin hoisted himself up again. Scarcely had he glanced outside, however, when he released a frightful oath. “It’s impossible to get out,” he said, in a strangled voice.
“Impossible!” exclaimed Sharp.
“The shell is embedded in the ground to a depth 15 centimeters below the portholes. The door’s blocked.”
The scientist let himself collapse on to the divan, his limbs shaken by a convulsive tremor. “We’ll need all our strength,” he said, hoarsely, “to free the bolts on the plate…once the plate is off, we’ll attack the ground with the tools we have.”
Voriguin shook his head. “You’re forgetting that the door opens outwards,” he said.
“That’s true,” murmured Sharp, dejectedly.
There was a long silence between the two men, who were racking their brains trying to think of a means of escaping the inevitable and frightful death that awaited them.
“What if we break a porthole?” Voriguin said, suddenly.
“What good would it do?” said Sharp. “The opening isn’t large enough to let us out.”
“I know that,” the laboratory assistant replied, “but through the opening, by means of a pick-axe, we could clear the doorway.”
“But the windows are made of reinforced glass—and, in consequence, unbreakable.”
“Ler’s try anyway,” Voriguin retorted. He bent down, retrieved a strong steel pick-axe from among the objects strewn on the floor, hoisted himself up on the bench and was raising his arms to attack the window when a cry from Sharp stopped him.
“Fool!” howled the scientist. “What are you doing?”
Voruin looked at him in amazement. “I’m going to break this porthole.”
“And what if the lunar atmosphere isn’t breathable?” stammered Sharp.80
“Well?” said the other, uncomprehendingly.
“All the air in the vehicle will rush outside and we’ll perish here, asphyxiated. Can you grasp that?”
Yes, Voriguin had grasped it. He let his pick-axe fall, collapsed on the divan, put his head in his hands and began to sob.
Sharp, seated in a corner, looked at him pityingly.
Suddenly, the other got up, ran to the scientist, grabbed him by his coat collar and shook him furiously, shouting: “You’re a swine! You dragged me here, assuring me that it would be possible to live on the Moon—but it’s not true, since you’d rather await death here than take the risk of finding air outside.”
Sharp struggled in vain; his companion’s wrists held him firmly and he could not escape from their grip. Eventually, Voriguin, having got over his anger, let him go, and the scientist rolled on the floor amid the debris of instruments and furniture. Sharp was not the stronger of the two; he hid his anger, silently got to his feet and went up into the vehicle’s nose-cone. He stayed there for a long time, considering the situation, seeking a means of getting out of the tomb—but his thoughts went round and round in the same circle and no bright idea came to mind.
When he went back down, Voriguin, moved by hunger, said to him in an ominous voice: “I’ve checked the contents of the food-store. There are 30 pounds of biscuits left, 15 pounds of tinned meat and 50 liters of cognac. How long do you think we can live on that?”
Sharp thought about it and replied: “We can keep going for a month.”
“Provided that we have sufficient air for that.”
“Have you checked?”
“No—you know that I’m not very familiar with it. I’m not sure of the calculation to convert liters of liquid into cubic meters of gas, so if you want to see for yourself…”
Making no reply, Sharp headed for the reservoir and examined its contents minutely. He remained silent for a moment, as if he were making a calculation, then said in a dull voice: “We still have six weeks’ supply.”
Voriguin sighed. “A lot might happen in six weeks,” he said.
“You’re forgetting that breathing isn’t eating, and we only have a month’s food.”
“Well, that gives us a month,” said the laboratory assistant.
Surprised by this philosophical attitude, Sharp looked at his companion. “What are you hoping for, then?” he asked.
The other shook his head. “Perhaps Ossipoff will save us once again.”
“You’re mad!” exclaimed the scientist, a flush of blood reddening his face. “Ossipoff’s traveling through space.”
“Is he?” replied the laboratory assistant. “What proof is there that you’re not mistaken?”
“Oh!” Sharp bellowed. “Rather death than deliverance by that man!”
“I don’t share your opinion.”
“We’ll see what you think when Jonathan Farenheit gets his hands on you,” Sharp retorted.
Voriguin shuddered. He had not thought about the American.
That was the commencement of a frightful existence. The antipathy between the two men that had existed in a latent state could only increase, and was soon transformed into hatred. Each of them, accusing the other of stealing his share of the air and nourishment, was haunted by an obsession: the murder of his companion. They did not speak to one another, and cut meal-times—the only occasions they came together—as short as they could. The rest of the time, Sharp remained shut up in his laboratory, sometimes plunged into rage-filled reveries, sometimes with his eye glued to his telescope, feverishly scanning the horizon.
What did he hope to see out there, on the summits of those high mountains?
Downstairs, Voriguin spent his time lying on the divan, smoking and drinking, as he had done during the month when the shell had remained immobile at the point of equal attraction—except that he drank more moderately, fearful of drunkenness, which might put him at Sharp’s mercy.
One day, the latter came down, more depressed and anxious than usual. He had observed that the Sun was descending towards the horizon. Knowing the particular meteorology of the lunar world as he did, he knew that this presaged the long, cold and mortal night. At the same time, a glance at the reservoir informed him of the rapid diminution of the precious breathable gas. When he went back up again after the meal, he took a liter of cognac with him. Voriguin smiled, thinking that the scientist too was seeking forgetfulness in alcohol of the frightful fate that awaited them.
>
Having arrived in the laboratory, Sharp uncorked the bottle, drank two or three gulps of the liquid, then rummaged in a dark corner and took out a small bottle full of a greenish liquid, which he emptied into the cognac bottle. That done, he seemed calmer, and he waited resignedly for the Sun to disappear beneath the horizon. The most intense darkness then succeeded the vivid sunlight; at the same time, a frightful cold, penetrating the shell, chilled the two companions.
For long hours, each of them prowled around the narrow cage in which they were enclosed, seeking to struggle by means of constant movement against the cold numbing their limbs.
“Oh!” cried Voriguin, in a moment of anger. “To think that I haven’t the courage to kill myself!”
A cruel smile distorted Sharp’s lips as he continued walking. That extraordinary man did not sleep; understanding that to immobilize himself in sleep would be to immobilize himself in death, he had condemned himself to march without respite. Exhausted, harassed by fatigue, he marched, leaning on the walls of the cannonball, supporting himself on the furniture, his head swimming, his eyelids closed, his legs unsteady, he marched on and on. Such was the force of his will that he slept as he marched. Only once did he stop and prick up his ears. Beneath him, Voroguin’s circular promenade had ceased. The scientist nodded his head and murmured: “Who knows? Perhaps I’ll have no need to do as I planned?” And he resumed his march.
12 hours passed...then 24…then 48. The room that served as Voriguin’s residence was still silent. Then Sharp opened his door slightly, went down the stairway on tiptoe and groped his way around the room. Suddenly, his hands encountered an inert, frozen body and he stood up, releasing a cry of horror. It was Voriguin’s body, gripped by the cold in his sleep, and killed by it.
Sharp bent down again, felt for a pulse, sounded the cadaver with a stethoscope, and turned it over. The face and hands were frozen, in the true sense of the word. Then he released a sigh of satisfaction and murmured: “So much the better.” He went back to the cannonball’s nose-cone then, and resumed his circular march, until the moment when, his stomach racked by hunger, he went back down and headed for the food-store. Scarcely had he plunged his hand into it however, than he uttered a cry of fury and despair.
The Extraordinary Adventures of a Russian Scientist Across the Solar System (Vol. 1) Page 35
