Anti-Ice

Phaeton’s hill. After a few paces I came up against the limits of my air hose and my head was jerked back against my neck. I stood my ground, balancing with outstretched arms, and turned to face the Phaeton—to be greeted by a quite astonishing sight.

All around the hill cylinders of rock were rising from the ground. There were perhaps twelve of them, equally spaced around the dome of the hill, each about a yard in diameter; they rose evenly, by several feet per second. The ground shuddered anew and I struggled to keep my feet, wondering at the power required to lift such mighty masses so rapidly. Soon the hill—and the Phaeton—was quite enclosed by the pillars. As the pillars grew their rate of increase slowed, until at last they settled to a height of a hundred feet. I realized that it was only by the grace of God that my air pipes had not been snagged or ruptured by the growth of this mineral flora.

The ground shook on as if in response to distant explosions, and I turned to view the rest of the landscape. Like flowers of rock, pillars sprang up around all of the hills which littered this shattered plain; some of them, I saw by tilting my fogged helmet back, towered to heights which far outshone the puny hundred feet of the Phaeton pillars: the largest, perhaps half a mile away, must have stretched up a full thousand feet. The pillars were as smooth as if finished by a fine craftsman, but their mineral nature was not concealed.

This sprouting growth all across the plain, conducted in an eerie silence, reminded me irresistibly of the growth of life; perhaps the pillars were analogous to the plants which dwell in desert climes and erupt into growth at the smallest drop of rain. But I wondered what sort of life it was that raised such monstrous statues, and at such speed.

At last the final pillars reached their target heights; and all across a plain newly scored by parallel shadows, the stillness was broken only by a gentle rain of dust and pebbles.

I stood my ground for a few moments, the blood pounding through my temples, wondering if it was safe to essay a return to the Phaeton.

Then, while I still hesitated, the next phase began.

The largest hill, some fifty feet high, was the first. Small boulders and plates of rock exploded all around the perimeter of the hill. The mound shuddered visibly and tremors raced through the rocky floor to my feet; and I had the impression of some vast animal struggling to rise from its confines of earth.

Then, with a jolt of fresh shock, I realized that this impression had been exactly right; for the whole hill was lifting bodily from the lunar soil. It rode skywards on its tube of encircling pillars. I stood there dumbfounded, scarcely able to believe the evidence of my senses. Now the “hill” lifted clear of the ground, and I saw that its dome profile was matched beneath by another, inverted dome, so that the whole formed a symmetrical stone lens; the underside of the lens, though, was scarred and fragmented. Fist-sized chunks of rock splintered from the sharp lip of the lens, which scoured at the supporting pillars.

As the lens shape rose it accelerated, reaching speeds that denied its thousands of tons mass. Soon it was soaring far above me, still sailing up its thousand-foot circle of pillars.

But this had only been the precursor: soon, all around the plain, the mounds were lifting to reveal characteristic lens shapes, and I had cause to welcome the airless nature of the Moon, for surely if there had been atmosphere to carry sound the noise of these great emergings would have smashed my eardrums at once.

Then my head was snapped backwards by a tug on my air hose and I was sent sprawling on the ground. I twisted rapidly where I lay and was greeted with the sight of the Phaeton’s hill, with the ship still on its back, riding into the sky like all its cousins.

With my ice bag bouncing against the small of my back I clawed my way to my feet, mittens scrabbling against rocks. I stood where the lip of the Phaeton hill had formerly been—it was now the rim of a shallow crater—and I peered up in desperation. Already the edge of the lens was some ten feet above me and accelerating, bearing the ship and all my hopes with it. Within seconds my air hose would reach its full extension. Perhaps then I would be hauled into the air, like a marionette, my legs dangling helplessly; or perhaps the hose would snap at once, spilling my precious air into the lunar emptiness…

I fixed my ice bag more evenly over my shoulders, bent my legs as far as my swollen suit joints would allow, and leapt from the surface of the Moon.

The lunar gravity plucked only weakly at my flight. I rose high, my hose coiling around me. As I neared the peak of my trajectory my upward speed slowed, and for an agonizing moment I thought I would just fail to grab the rim; but at last my arms and head sailed above the lip of rock and I scrabbled at it with my mittened hands, finally finding purchase in crevices in the carcass of this rocky beast.

I hung there sucking in piped air, my pack of ice thumping against my spine. As the lens accelerated into the sky the pressure on my hands and shoulders increased steadily, so that I was forced to postpone any idea of climbing safely aboard the lens; it was all I could do to hold my position.

I twisted my neck, trying to find some relief from the agony of my overextended shoulders; and as I did so I became aware of still another development. For now the rock-lens beings, having hauled themselves to the peaks of their pillar legs, were beginning to move about the plain. They scraped their way in a stately fashion across the ground toward and away from each other, in a manner reminiscent of duelling swordsmen—or of predatory insects.

This slow, silent waltz was quite as astonishing as if I had seen Windsor Castle get up and walk about.

The pillar-limbs were not articulating or tilting in any way; it appeared that, while remaining vertical, pillars were sliding one by one beneath the surface of their passenger lens; all this motion was co-ordinated in a surprisingly graceful fashion, allowing the rock-beasts to move quite freely.

All this I saw in glimpses over two or three seconds, as I soared upwards in pursuit of the Phaeton.

At last the pressure in my arms eased, and I realized that my lens must be approaching the top of its nest of pillars. I looked up and saw that the ends of the pillars were indeed very close—but, far beyond them, I could see the underside of another lens-beast, larger and higher than the Phaeton’s. It moved toward the Phaeton lens in a quite menacing fashion.

I had no idea what this meant, but doubted that it was a good sign; and as soon as I was able I hauled myself over the lip of the rock, dragging my hose and ice bag behind me. I had imagined that the Phaeton might have been shaken free, or at least, tumbled over and smashed; but, to my relief, she still clung to the hill, and even remained upright. Out of a corner of my eye I noticed that the model of the Great Eastern had been smashed under a fallen rock; only a few fragments of metal and glass showed where I had set her no more than hours earlier.

I hurried toward the ship. I saw how Holden and Pocket were peering from the windows in my direction— and I could see the unreserved joy with which they greeted my appearance from the dead, water-bag and all. Holden gestured at me to hurry; but I needed no urging!

Traveller had explained to me how a hatch at the lower skirt of the hull could be opened for the deposition of ice. I scrambled up a landing leg with an adroitness that surprised me, found the hatch, undogged its latches as Traveller had taught me, and was soon emptying my bag of ice into the tanks. Hastily I scooped up handfuls from my hill of collected ice and crammed them, too, into the hatch. I had to fumble at all of this with my mittened hands and the more I hurried the more I spilled ice wastefully; I was conscious the whole time that should our lens-host take it into its mind to go for a jaunt then surely I and the Phaeton would be hurled to an untimely death; and all the while, at the edge of my vision, I could see that other monster lens towering over the Phaeton’s, and drawing ever nearer.

At last it was done. I closed the hatch, hurled the empty bag far from me and dropped away from the ship’s leg, waving to Holden. I scrambled up the rope ladder which led to my air cupboard, eyeing the rocket nozzles nervously; as soon as Traveller could fire his engines he would surely not hesitate to do so, whether or not I was safely aboard, and so I had seconds to make myself secure. I hauled myself through the narrow hatchway, landing in the cupboard chest first like a fish and then hauling my legs behind me; I dragged in the rope ladder and my dangling air hose and was reaching for the hatch—

—when the rockets fired.

I was thrown against the bulkhead. My body was dragged toward the still-open hatch; I scrabbled at the riveted iron with my hands and legs, and for a terrifying period I lay crucified over the open hatchway, my head dangling on a stalk of neck.