excited by the future—by change, enterprise, possibilities. They didn’t want to read this dreary stuff about the plight of the shiftless.”
“So,” said Bourne, “Dickens left Britain for good. He lived and worked in America, where his social awareness had long been appreciated; he campaigned on a variety of reform issues right up to his recent death.”
“What is your point?” I demanded coolly.
“That your British hearts are riven by internal contradiction—the same contradiction which expelled such a good man as Dickens from your body politic, leaving you the colder and the poorer. The contradiction which allows Traveller to believe that his Anarchism can be validly founded on a heap of laboring, disenfranchised poor. A contradiction which, in the end, will tear you apart—and a contradiction which now drives you to meddle in the affairs of other nations. Do you not fear that nationalism will erupt out of France and across Europe, disrupting your Balance of Power for ever—and do your mothers still frighten you as children with tales of how ‘Boney’ will get you if you misbehave?”
I laughed—for my own mother had done precisely that—but Bourne, excited, continued now in a harsher voice. “Ned, there is a strain of modern Englishmen called the Sons of Gascony. Are you familiar with their theories?”
“I have heard of them,” I admitted stiffly.
“The Sons are the distillation of your national character, in some ways; for, constantly aware of the past, they live in constant fear of it—and constantly plan revenge. After the Norman Conquest a series of forts, each twenty or so miles apart, was built across England and Wales, the purpose being to subdue the conquered English. These forts have now been absorbed into your great castles—Windsor, the London Tower. And the north of England was razed.”
I frowned. “But that’s eight centuries ago. Who cares about such matters now?”
Bourne laughed. “To the Sons it is as yesterday. The tides of history since, with all their flotsam of ancient victories and defeats, only add to their fears. They brood on Gascony, which was an English domain from the Conquest to the sixteenth century, when the final fragment—Calais—was lost by Mary Tudor.
“Vicars, the Sons plan a final solution to the ancient ‘problem’ of the French. Again boats will cross the Channel; again there will be a Conquest—and again, every few miles, the terrible forts will be thrown up. But this time guns powered by anti-ice will loom from their turrets; and this time it will be the regions of France which will be ground underfoot.”
“But that’s monstrous,” I said, stunned.
“Ask Holden,” Bourne snapped. “Well, sir? Do you deny the existence of such a movement? And do you deny your own sympathy for its aims?”
Holden opened his mouth to reply—but he was not given the chance; for at that moment a terrible cry emanated from the open hatchway above our heads.
We looked at each other in horror; for it had been Traveller, our only pilot as we hurtled toward the Moon, and he had sounded in mortal distress!
Strapped helplessly into my seat, I looked up at the open hatchway to the Bridge. A shaft of Moonlight raked down through the hatch and shone in the smoky air of the Cabin. I felt oddly resentful at this turn of events; if only, I reflected, I had been allowed to sit in this cozy Cabin and debate politics until it was all over… one way or the other.
But, it seemed, I could no longer hide from events.
I looked at Holden. “What do you think we should do, George?”
Holden chewed at his nail. “I’ve no idea.”
“But he must be in some sort of difficulty up there. Why else would he cry out so?… But in that case, wouldn’t he call for help?”
Pocket said, “That wouldn’t be Sir Josiah’s way, sir. He’s not one to admit weakness.”
Holden snorted. “Well, in a situation like this that’s a damned irresponsible attitude.”
“Unless,” I breathed, “he’s been disabled completely. Perhaps he is lying up there unconscious—or even dead! In which case the
Only Bourne, slumped within himself, appeared unmoved by this lurid speculation.
“Now, Ned, we shouldn’t get carried away,” Holden said, his voice tight with tension.
“I think one of us should go up there,” I said.
Pocket said, “I wouldn’t advise it, sir. Sir Josiah wouldn’t like—”
“Damn his likes and dislikes. I’m talking about saving all our lives, man!”
“Ned, think on,” Holden said nervously. “What if Traveller ignites the motors while you are between decks? You could be dashed against the bulkhead, hurt or killed. No, I think we should sit and wait.”
I shook my head. If Holden had lost his nerve—well, he had my sympathy, and I did not remark on the fact. Instead I opened up my restraints and pushed my way out of the chair. I said, “Gentlemen, I propose to ascend. If all is well with Traveller, then the worst that will happen is that I will be the target of a few ripe insults. And if something amiss has occurred—well, perhaps I will be able to offer assistance.
“I think you should stay strapped into your seats.” And with those words, and feeling their helpless eyes on my back, I launched myself into the air and pulled through the hatch to the Bridge.
The Moon hung over the
I stared in fascination. I knew that no man, even armed with the mightiest telescope on Earth, had before seen the sister world in such dazzling detail.
I observed with interest how the larger craters, which looked from this angle more like circular walled encampments, appeared to contain a central peak, while the smaller craters were smooth within; and I saw too how craters overlaid craters, so that it was as if the Moon had been bombarded by a hail of meteors or other objects not once, in some wild remote past of the Solar System, but many times, again and again. And the sharpness of the smaller craters’ rims attested to their newness, implying that this bombardment continued even in the present day.
Now a new feature hove into view, a mountainous ridge very like a crater wall—except that, in this world of circles, this wall was virtually straight, traveling from top to bottom of our window. The area beyond the wall appeared oddly free of craters, although the ground was very broken up. I pushed myself away from the deck and floated up to the nose of the Bridge dome. As I looked across the surface of the Moon and deeper into the dark side, I could make out no limit to this strange craterless region. The delimiting wall was now receding behind the ship, and I was startled to see that the wall was not straight after all: it curved inwards around the shattered region in a mighty sweep, and I realized of a sudden that we were flying over the interior of an immense crater; so immense indeed that the curve of its walls almost dwarfed the curve of the satellite itself!
Now I knew that we must have reached the side of the Moon hidden from Earth, for this monstrous crater must cover most of a hemisphere, overshadowing by far the great walled plains of the Earth- facing side such as Copernicus and Ptolemaeus.
Soon the boundary wall of the giant crater had receded from view behind the curve of the planet, but the far wall was still nowhere to be seen, and I peered up in wonder at hundreds of square miles of desolation— desolation, that is, even by lunar standards.
There was a soft groan behind me. I turned in the air, suddenly mindful of my mission. Poor Traveller lay strapped to his throne-couch with his face buried in his huge hands; his stovepipe hat floated in the air beside him, and wisps of white hair orbited his cranium. A fat notebook was strapped, open, to his right thigh; into this, I knew, he had over the last few days been entering painstaking details of the schedule—the maneuvers, the rocket bursts—which would deliver us safely to the surface.
I did a graceful somersault, kicked against the windows, and settled gently to the deck at Traveller’s side. I
