Her eyes flickered open, dark as night, but they barely registered him. Instead they shifted around in their sockets, as if trying to find something to latch on to. For a brief moment her eyes seemed to focus on Miller; her brows knitted together, but her gaze soon drifted away again. Miller could only guess as to the effects long-term exposure to oxygen from a tank like the large one by her would have on a person. He had only been breathing oxygen from a tank for about forty minutes and he was already feeling a little light-headed. Oxygenated air was no substitute for the real thing.
Miller looked up from Miss Somerset at the slight vibration on the floor grating. He crossed to the inner door, in time to see Stevenson and Bedford dragging an atmosphere-suited man, with Challoner and Clements firing the way they came, up the gangway. Miller couldn’t tell who the wounded man was, but certainly it was clear that one of the rescue team had been left behind. He couldn’t conscience the idea that Bedford would wilfully leave a man behind, unless the circumstances were extreme. Miller’s heart dropped. Clearly the Russian okhrana on Luna was more of a threat than he had believed.
2.
NOW THEY were in the airlock, Stevenson released Platt’s body, allowing Bedford to gently lower the able seaman onto the floor. Miss Somerset, although not fully cognizant, was at least a little aware now. He walked over to her as Bedford issued orders to Clements and Challoner to take up point at the inner door.
“Is it possible to secure that door?” Stevenson asked, glancing over at Miller who was still struggling with releasing the outer airlock door. “Buy us some time.”
“Challoner?” Bedford said.
Ensign Challoner stepped back from his position and regarded the door, leaving Clements to continue firing. Stevenson hadn’t seen the enemy, since they had been out of sight around a corner when he had come across the unconscious form of Able Seaman Platt, but Bedford had already gone ahead and confronted the new enemy face-on.
“No, sir, this door will not be budged,” Challoner reported, returning to assist Clements in keeping the enemy at bay.
Stevenson turned back to Miss Somerset. They had to get her out of here, which meant carrying her. Bedford would have to enlist the help of either Challoner or Clements with Platt; Stevenson would carry Miss Somerset. Although that large oxygen canister would cause a problem.
First of all, he decided, he would need to make her easier to transport. He crouched down by the large canister, and compared the nozzle size to that of the smaller, mobile, cylinders. It was compatible.
“I do beg your pardon, Miss Somerset, but this might be a little uncomfortable.”
She was looking at him, but she did not appear to be totally aware of him, not that she would have been able to hear him, of course. It was a pity, since it would have been a lot better if she was to take a deep breath. With a grimace, he removed the tube from the large canister. Immediately Miss Somerset’s breath caught, her dark eyes widening. Stevenson worked fast to secure the tube to a small cylinder, hoping the one he had chosen still contained enough oxygen in it to last the young lady until they found the caverns. That is, Stevenson considered, glancing up at Miller, if the outer door ever got opened. He looked back to Miss Somerset, who was now breathing regularly again and, he was certain, she was now aware of him.
She started shaking and struggled to move. Stevenson had not considered the temperature drop; the atmosphere suit fed his own body heat back at him. Miss Somerset had no such luxury; she had been lying in a damaged flyer, open to the elements, for a week. Stevenson was far from a Luna expert, but he had heard that on the long nights the temperature drop was phenomenal.
With a hiss and a clunk the outer door finally released. Miller turned around, sweat beading on his forehead, and smiled. Stevenson said nothing. One good thing and the boy was happy with himself.
“Excellent work, Miller,” Bedford said, his tone implying he thought the complete opposite. “Now, come and help me with Platt. Stevenson, you take Miss Somerset. Challoner and Clements, keep point.”
Orders given, they worked quickly to carry them out. With an apology, Stevenson roughly strapped the oxygen cylinder to Miss Somerset, and pulled her off the floor. He would have rather done so gently, but his suit prevented such finesse. Miller and Bedford had no such misgivings about the unconscious Platt, of course, and began dragging him across the floor towards the open airlock. Stevenson stood by, and let them pass. Miss Somerset was a good deal lighter than Platt. Once they were safely out of the flyer, Stevenson turned to look at the two officers at the inner door. Challoner was busy reloading his carbine, while Clements continued firing.
“Let’s go!” Stevenson shouted.
Challoner looked up as he clipped the magazine to the bottom of the gun, and it was that moment of distraction that sealed the fate of both Ensign Lee Challoner and Able Seaman John Clements, affording Stevenson his first glimpse of the enemy.
Ten of them immediately filled the space outside the inner door, grabbing hold of Clement and Challoner with their spindly, but powerful, tarsal claws. In the earthlight their oily skin was a very deep-blue, almost black. At first Stevenson was certain his eyesight was failing him, his imagination working overtime as a result of the oxygenated air. He even shook his head, hoping to clear away the vision, but it persisted and he realised that the natives of Luna were indeed giant ants.
They pulled the two men out of sight, the guns falling to the floor. Stevenson quickly unjacked his helmet before he too was dragged into the gangway, and stepped back slowly, Miss Somerset held uncomfortably in his arms. If only she was more aware, she could possibly support herself a little, but as it was she was like a dead weight in his arms, preventing him from even attempting to reach for his own carbine.
The ant in the lead, a different colour to the rest, a rusty almost coppery lustre, tilted its head to one side, its antennae twitching. It noticed the discarded guns, and reached down and picked up one of the carbines.
Stevenson was transfixed, unable to take his eyes away as the ants all stood back, waiting for a signal from their leader. The copper ant was looking at the carbine, trying to figure it out. Stevenson blinked. Intelligent giant ants! He had travelled to Venus once before, seen the reptiles that lived there, but this was…Well, it was beyond the pale!
A bullet ricocheted off the iron door behind him, and he almost buckled in surprise. The ant had worked out the gun.
Stevenson turned and, hoping that the ant would take a lot longer to work out how to successfully aim the gun, exited the flyer as fast as he was able.
3.
“WILL THAT stench never cease?”
Folkard laughed. “I would suspect not, Professor. Who knows what these moon men excrete?”
“Good grief. Captain, please!”
Folkard raised his lantern so he could see Professor Stone’s face clearly. “Come, Professor, a scientist like you must be aware that all living creatures excrete things every day. Such things naturally smell.”
“Nonetheless, I hardly think this is the kind of conversation one should be having.”
Folkard looked back at Ainsworth, who was studiously ignoring the conversation between his commanding officer and the professor, as a well-trained subordinate ought. Folkard grinned; he would soon do away with that kind of behaviour.
“Perhaps not,” he said, looking back at Professor Stone. “But it does go some way to explain why the stench will, indeed, never cease. You are just going to have to develop a nose for it.”
Professor Stone’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “I find that hard to accept, Captain.”
“Nonetheless we are stuck with it.”
Professor Stone and he continued on in silence for a short while, Ainsworth behind them, lamp in one hand and rifle at the ready in the other. So far they had seen little of interest. They had walked a short distance, leaving the Sovereign to stand guard at the entrance to the tunnel while the team in the cutter went to investigate the bottom of the gorge. Stala
ctites hung from the ceiling of the tunnel, some extending further than others, the longest of which had caused the small team to duck several times on their short journey. Professor Stone reasoned that with the underground moisture evaporation, the subsequent vapours rose until they condensed on the ceiling. It was the talk of vapours that led Professor Stone to once again complain about the rank smell.
The walls themselves seemed to be covered in some kind of slime, nothing too viscous, but enough to warrant careful moderation in their progress.
“I suspect the slime is a composite of the water vapour, rock dust and this organic matter,” Professor Stone said, indicating the brown fungus-like substance on the closest wall. He painfully switched the lantern to his bandaged left hand, and tentatively reached out for the substance with his right. “Hmm, feels a little like a mushroom.”
“Albeit a slimy mushroom, Professor,” Folkard said, and reached past Stone to pull a section of the fungus off the wall. “I wonder what it tastes like.”
Professor Stone grabbed Folkard’s arm, to prevent him from placing the fungus in his mouth. “Captain, please! This could be deadly to humans. We know nothing of the constitution of these moon men.”
“Perhaps not, Professor, but the Russians have spent some time on Luna, and there has to come a moment where they’d need to find a native food source.” With that he pulled his arm away from the professor and deposited the fungus in his mouth. “Besides which,” he said, as he began to chew, “this is not the first alien plant I have tried over the years. You soon build up a strong constitution through these things.”
Professor Stone regarded him for a moment, then nodded. “You are quite right, Captain, and it is time I joined this adventure wholeheartedly.” So saying the professor grabbed a handful of the fungus and placed it in his own mouth.
“Smashing show, Professor!”
The two men ate in silence for a moment, while Ainsworth continued ahead slightly. The fungus was very sweet, almost as sweet as the grapes Folkard had once tasted in the jungles of Venus.
“What do you think, Professor?”
“Quite palatable. Although the aftertaste; it is rather like biting one’s own tongue.”
“Yes. Rich in iron, maybe?”
“A very real possibility.”
Folkard nodded. “Then we at least will not starve as we look for Doctor Grant and his team.”
Once more in silence they continued on. The only sound accompanying them was that of the gravel crunching beneath their boots and constant echo of water dripping in the distance.
Silently, from the shadows behind them, a tarsal claw moved.
4.
“OVER THERE!” Miller said, pointing. Stevenson looked. Sure enough there was a hole in the wall of the basin, a good thirty feet away. They had surely been off the ship for almost an hour now, but fortunately they were making good time with their progress across the lunar surface. The low gravity was working to their favour, which was even more of an advantage considering the extra weight that Stevenson was now carrying. Miss Somerset almost weighed nothing now, and crossing the remaining thirty feet would take no time at all. Due to the unexpected lightness of Miss Somerset, Stevenson was now able to manoeuvre her to his shoulder, allowing him to have his carbine at the ready.
Not that it seemed necessary anymore, as the ants were no longer following them. He had looked back several times, to check on their retreat, only to discover that the ants, including the copper one with the gun, remained at the open airlock, almost as if they were protecting their prize.
Bedford and Miller were still ahead of him, Platt having regained consciousness. The able seaman was a little confused, and probably concussed, but he quickly adapted and was now walking alongside the other men.
Just as they reached the cave mouth, Miss Somerset finally started to stir. Stevenson suspected it was the change in temperature, because even he could feel the heat emanating from the cave through his atmosphere suit. He lowered her down as gently as he could, and helped her steady herself. For a few moments, while Bedford and company scouted the immediate area of the cave, Stevenson remained with Miss Somerset.
She looked around, taking in her surroundings. As the seconds passed by she slowly recovered her composure. For the first time Stevenson noted that she wore a pair of beige trousers, and a checkered blouse. Around her waist was a gun holster, sans gun. Her eyes rested on him, took in his atmosphere suit and the Union Flag stitched onto the breast. She opened her mouth to speak, then stopped, held up a finger and reached inside her blouse. She pulled out a small wooden box, the front of which was a small grill. Miss Somerset pressed the box against her respirator.
“I see my message reached the Admiralty,” she said, her American tones clipped and precise.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Ordinary Seaman Stevenson, from the HMAS Sovereign.”
Miss Somerset looked around the cave, at the other Sovereign crew. “I assume Nathanial is still on the ship? That is, of course, if he had the gumption to actually come to my rescue.”
“Professor Stone is, indeed, on the Sovereign, Miss Somerset.”
“Professor? Nathanial never told me he became a professor.” For a second Miss Somerset smiled to herself.
“Captain Folkard insisted he remain to assist in the search for Doctor Grant,” Stevenson continued.
Miss Somerset’s hand went to her respirator-covered mouth. “Oh my God, my uncle! He still thinks me a prisoner of Tereshkov.”
“Would you care to explain why that is so?” Bedford asked, as he returned. Miss Somerset turned to him, and he saluted her. “Lieutenant George Bedford at your service; first officer of the HMAS Sovereign.”
Miss Somerset nodded curtly, but her eyes hid a slight smile. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”
“Also, how are we able to hear you?”
Miss Somerset grinned. “This little box, a marvellous invention of my uncle. It’s a wireless transmitter, carries my voice directly to the speakers in your helmets. One of a kind.”
“How is that possible?” Stevenson asked.
“I have no idea, Mister Stevenson, I’m not a scientist.” She looked back to Bedford. “Before I explain myself, would you care to explain why I am now in a lunar cave?”
Bedford gave a short, but accurate, account of their exploration of the Annabelle and the subsequent attack of the ant creatures. She listened intently, but once Bedford described the ants, and Stevenson added the bit about the gun, Miss Somerset interrupted.
“That is quite ludicrous, Mister Stevenson. The Selenites are not remotely aggressive. They’re peaceable, builders, creators. They’re not warmongers. And to take up arms…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but that makes no sense at all. They rarely venture onto the surface. Certainly they can store oxygen in their lungs, but to attack…”
“Nonetheless that is what happened, Miss Somerset,” Stevenson said.
“Selenites; is that the native name of the moon men?” Bedford asked.
“No, Lieutenant. The moon men are, I believe, quite different. Selenite is a term coined by my uncle, from Howell’s Epistolae Hoelianae in which he describes all lunary men as Selenites. Uncle Cyrus has discovered that the Selenites do not have a species name, although they do have different names for each colony.” At the mention of her uncle Miss Somerset’s tanned skin paled. “We must rescue him.”
“Captain Folkard is taking care of it, Miss Somerset. Why would Doctor Grant believe you to be a prisoner of the Russians?”
Before Miss Somerset could offer up an explanation, however, a choking sound came from Miller. All heads turned to look. The young man was staggering back, gloved-hands frantically reaching for his suit helmet. Platt reached him first, trying to calm him down. Stevenson had a feeling he knew the problem.
“Our hour’s up, sir,” he said, indicating the oxygen tank on Bedford’s back.
Bedford took a deep breath and almost choked himself. “Agreed, Mister Stevenson. We’re
now running on residual oxygen. We must find one of those atmosphere pockets Doctor Grant mentioned in his…” He stopped abruptly. Miss Somerset was looking from him to Stevenson in bewilderment. “What is it, Miss Somerset?”
“I’m curious as to why you did not avail yourself of the oxygen cylinders on my uncle’s ship. They would have given you extra time.”
“Alas, we were busy escaping from enraged ants, Miss Somerset, while at the same time carrying injured personnel. One of which, you might recall, was you.”
“Nonetheless, the cylinders are quite small. Surely it would not have been so difficult to carry a few?”
Bedford narrowed his eyes, clearly not impressed with his decisions being questioned by a civilian. Especially one they had just rescued.
Stevenson stepped forward. “Lieutenant Bedford, sir, if I may interject?”
Bedford snapped his eyes at Stevenson. “You may,” he said.
“Regardless of the cylinders, we currently have no extra supply of oxygen, so at best we have ten minutes of residual oxygen left in our suits. The more we stand here and talk, the more air we are using up.”
“You are, of course, right,” Bedford agreed. He turned to Platt and Miller. “Have you quite calmed down now, Mister Miller?”
Miller swallowed and nodded meekly.
“Capital! Miss Somerset, are you familiar with these atmosphere pockets?”
“I am. Would you care for me to lead the way?”
Stevenson almost smiled at the sarcastic tone in her voice, but managed to restrain himself before Bedford noticed.
“If you would be so kind, yes.” Bedford turned to the rest of his team. “Until we reach this atmosphere pocket, I suggest we keep unnecessary chatter to a minimum, try to conserve what air we still have. We have lost three crewmembers already; I think I can speak for Captain Folkard when I say it would be appreciated if we could lose no more. Miss Somerset?”
Journey to the Heart of Luna Page 9