The Reign of Darkness (Dystopian Collection). Джек Лондон
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up a slope among the scrub stems, and sat down at last panting in a high place beneath the shadow of a mass of twisted lava. Even in the shade the rock felt hot.
The air was intensely hot, and we were in great physical discomfort, but for all that we were no longer in a nightmare. We seemed to have come to our own province again, beneath the stars. All the fear and stress of our flight through the dim passages and fissures below had fallen from us. That last fight had filled us with an enormous confidence in ourselves so far as the Selenites were concerned. We looked back almost incredulously at the black opening from which we had just emerged. Down there it was, in a blue glow that now in our memories seemed the next thing to absolute darkness, we had met with things like mad mockeries of men, helmet-headed creatures, and had walked in fear before them, and had submitted to them until we could submit no longer. And behold, they had smashed like wax and scattered like chaff, and fled and vanished like the creatures of a dream!
I rubbed my eyes, doubting whether we had not slept and dreamt these things by reason of the fungus we had eaten, and suddenly discovered the blood upon my face, and then that my shirt was sticking painfully to my shoulder and arm.
“Confound it!” I said, gauging my injuries with an investigatory hand, and suddenly that distant tunnel mouth became, as it were, a watching eye.
“Cavor!” I said; “what are they going to do now? And what are we going to do?”
He shook his head, with his eyes fixed upon the tunnel. “How can one tell what they will do?”
“It depends on what they think of us, and I don’t see how we can begin to guess that. And it depends upon what they have in reserve. It’s as you say, Cavor, we have touched the merest outside of this world. They may have all sorts of things inside here. Even with those shooting things they might make it bad for us….
“Yet after all,” I said, “even if we don’t find the sphere at once, there is a chance for us. We might hold out. Even through the night. We might go down there again and make a fight for it.”
I stared about me with speculative eyes. The character of the scenery had altered altogether by reason of the enormous growth and subsequent drying of the scrub. The crest on which we sat was high, and commanded a wide prospect of the crater landscape, and we saw it now all sere and dry in the late autumn of the lunar afternoon. Rising one behind the other were long slopes and fields of trampled brown where the mooncalves had pastured, and far away in the full blaze of the sun a drove of them basked slumberously, scattered shapes, each with a blot of shadow against it like sheep on the side of a down. But never a sign of a Selenite was to be seen. Whether they had fled on our emergence from the interior passages, or whether they were accustomed to retire after driving out the mooncalves, I cannot guess. At the time I believed the former was the case.
“If we were to set fire to all this stuff,” I said, “we might find the sphere among the ashes.”
Cavor did not seem to hear me. He was peering under his hand at the stars, that still, in spite of the intense sunlight, were abundantly visible in the sky. “How long do you think we’ve have been here?” he asked at last.
“Been where?”
“On the moon.”
“Two earthly days, perhaps.”
“More nearly ten. Do you know, the sun is past its zenith, and sinking in the west. In four days’ time or less it will be night.”
“But — we’ve only eaten once!”
“I know that. And — But there are the stars!”
“But why should time seem different because we are on a smaller planet?”
“I don’t know. There it is!”
“How does one tell time?”
“Hunger — fatigue — all those things are different. Everything is different — everything. To me it seems that since first we came out of the sphere has been only a question of hours — long hours — at most.”
“Ten days,” I said; “that leaves — ” I looked up at the sun for a moment, and then saw that it was halfway from the zenith to the western edge of things. “Four days! … Cavor, we mustn’t sit here and dream. How do you think we may begin?”
I stood up. “We must get a fixed point we can recognise — we might hoist a flag, or a handkerchief, or something — and quarter the ground, and work round that.”
He stood up beside me.
“Yes,” he said, “there is nothing for it but to hunt the sphere. Nothing. We may find it — certainly we may find it. And if not — ”
“We must keep on looking.”
He look this way and that, glanced up at the sky and down at the tunnel, and astonished me by a sudden gesture of impatience. “Oh! but we have done foolishly! To have come to this pass! Think how it might have been, and the things we might have done!”
“We might do something yet.”
“Never the thing we might have done. Here below out feet is a world. Think of what that world must be! Think of that machine we saw, and the lid and the shaft! They were just remote outlying things, and those creatures we have seen and fought with no more than ignorant peasants, dwellers in the outskirts, yokels and labourers half akin to brutes. Down below! Caverns beneath caverns, tunnels, structures, ways… It must open out, and be greater and wider and more populous as one descends. Assuredly. Right down at the last the central sea that washes round the core of the moon. Think of its inky waters under the spare lights — if, indeed, their eyes need lights! Think of the cascading tributaries pouring down their channels to feed it! Think of the tides upon its surface, and the rush and swirl of its ebb and flow! perhaps they have ships that go upon it, perhaps down there are mighty cities and swarming ways, and wisdom and order passing the wit of man. And we may die here upon it, and never see the masters who must be — ruling over these things! We may freeze and die here, and the air will freeze and thaw upon us, and then —! Then they will come upon us, come on our stiff and silent bodies, and find the sphere we cannot find, and they will understand at last too late all the thought and effort that ended here in vain!”
His voice for all that speech sounded like the voice of someone heard in a telephone, weak and far away.
“But the darkness,” I said.
“One might get over that.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. How am I to know? One might carry a torch, one might have a lamp — The others — might understand.”
He stood for a moment with his hands held down and a rueful face, staring out over the waste that defied him. Then with a gesture of renunciation he turned towards me with proposals for the systematic hunting of the sphere.
“We can return,” I said.
He looked about him. “First of all we shall have to get to earth.”
“We could bring back lamps to carry and climbing irons, and a hundred necessary things.”
“Yes,” he said.
“We can take back an earnest of success in this gold.”
He looked at my golden crowbars, and said nothing for a space. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring across the crater. At last he signed and spoke. “It was I found the way here, but to find a way isn’t always to be master of a way. If I take my secret back to earth, what will happen? I do not see how I can keep my secret for a year, for even a part of a year. Sooner or later it must come out, even if other men rediscover it. And then … Governments and powers will struggle to get hither, they will fight against one another, and against these moon people; it will only spread warfare and multiply the occasions of war. In a little while, in a very little while, if I tell my secret, this planet to its deepest galleries will be strewn with human dead. Other things are doubtful, but that is certain. It is not