AN HOUR passed since the attack and the group still travelled through the mountains. They left the cave through a low tunnel, with Annabelle marched between two of them. Annabelle was certain that the cavalry would be quick to arrive, but she was mistaken: the Somersets had been isolated when they had stopped their hike for lunch. For Ezekiel Somerset, leisure time held the advantage of being able to “get away from it all”, which had cost him dearly.
Evidently the cavalry knew there were Indians in the mountains, however. Annabelle saw the valley below filling up with mounted cavalry, heading straight for the group which held her.
“Goyahkla,” one of the Indians urged their chief, before pointing down towards the mounted troops below.
Annabelle felt a glimmer of hope. The Indians were famous for their reckless and warlike nature. Would they succumb to temptation and ride into battle against this cavalry? Surely they would lose such a contest given the relative disparity in numbers. The United States cavalry were heroes, popular in every town they protected and with a daunting record on the field of battle. Annabelle could be home by sundown—but what was home, now that her parents were dead?
Annabelle saw from the way the Indian chief slowly scanned the area that he was considering his options. Perhaps he was tempted to fight, for he gave an order in a language she could not speak but which prompted one of his warriors to light an arrow and draw back his bow. The approaching cavalry surely outnumbered the arrows in their quivers, however: it was a brave stand, but one doomed to failure.
The warrior released his arrow. It landed in a tree some distance away from them. It had been a long, hot, dry summer and the brush in the mountains was as dry and brittle as old bones. The tree caught fire immediately, smoke billowing up from it. The fire alerted the men of the cavalry, who quickly dismounted and charged up the mountain. Annabelle gave a wail of despair. They were heading for the wrong mountain!
At a signal from the chief, the Indians took flight, not in the direction of the cavalry as expected, but down into the caverns again. The Indians moved through the tunnels with sure footing in spite of the darkness and uneven flooring. She realized they had a wealth of experience traversing these mountains.
After a while in the darkness of the caves, Annabelle lost her sense of time, unable to calculate how long they had been travelling or how far they had journeyed. They travelled in a slow descent through the mountain, yet at what speed or distance, she could not say. After a while, however, she saw daylight again as it shone through a crevice in the rock. The party scrambled up the rocks, dragging her along with them, and directly they were out in the sunlight of the mid-afternoon. Annabelle rubbed her eyes furiously, trying to adjust them to the light. When she could see again, she looked around.
They stood on the slopes of the mountains opposite to the valley filled with cavalry. Not keen to waste any time, the chief, Goyahkla, gave the nod for the Indians to mount their horses and race away, back to their latest hideout with their latest captive. In the early going, Annabelle screamed and cursed, using any obscenity she had heard from the ranch hands but with no effect. No one could hear her; no one would ride to her rescue. She was a prisoner of savages.
LIETENANT BEDFORD picked at his meal and worried at the prospect of a return to Luna. While the opportunity to butt heads with some of Russia’s finest forces was an opportunity he relished, or at least imagined that out of duty he ought to, he couldn’t help but wonder at the dangers which might face them this time.
If one thing had been established during their initial explorations of the moon, it was that there was a great deal about which they knew nothing. The cold, barren surface that man had gazed upon since the dawn of time turned out to merely be a veil hiding a series of labyrinthine chambers populated by numerous lunar ant colonies. These were, however, not the trifling creatures that disturbed one’s picnic, but five-foot-high, intelligent beings with a number of surprising defence mechanisms. They were the Selenites, who fought alongside the British forces in opposition to the Russians, who had subjected the Selenites to a series of ghastly tortures. Their allegiances, however, were not entirely clear. Bedford remembered all too well the mysterious disappearance of Ordinary Seaman Stevenson and the capture of Ensign Lee Challoner and Able Seaman John Clements, for which the Selenites were, he suspected, at least partially responsible.
Moreover, the lack of solid intelligence or systematic documented experience was bothersome to Bedford. He felt that Luna represented uncharted waters, which was a dangerous thing for any ship to sail into. The last time they had done so, the peril had been multiplied by, in Bedford’s private judgment, erratic and irresponsible decisions by Captain Folkard, and quite uncharacteristic of his commander’s normal behaviour.
“Have you given any thought as to how to approach this mission, sir?” Bedford asked.
“Why, send a group of men down the gorge to Otterbein Research Base, in the company of Miss Somerset,” replied Folkard, peering with suspicion at the meat the chef had prepared. The food was something that had been procured on Mars; the taste largely disguised by some mysterious spices from the planet which gave the meal an earthy, almost dusty flavour. The suggestion of taking Annabelle to Luna, however, left Bedford regarding Folkard in the same way the captain regarded his meal. “No need to look quite so perplexed, Bedford. The girl is keen to see her uncle again and why not? He can vouch for Professor Stone’s good name too, if needs be.”
“Merely concerned as to what the Admiralty will make of taking a civilian to Luna, sir,” replied Bedford, attacking his meat with similar disdain to his captain. “I wouldn’t like it said that Sovereign put an injured young woman in harm’s way to do a sailor’s proper job, and heaven help us if she is harmed. Gladstone and the Liberals will float a no confidence vote as soon as the news reaches Earth.”
“Have a care, Lieutenant,” reproached Folkard. “What’s said of Sovereign is my worry, and what becomes of the Tory Government is theirs. Besides, I am not sure a sailor can do what we need done here, unless he takes a pair of leg irons along. Miss Somerset may be able to persuade Grant to come voluntarily, which I sincerely hope she can do. But our orders are clear: voluntarily or not, come he shall. Tell me, Bedford, how much will Mister Gladstone like it if we bring the inventor of the aether propeller governor back to Earth at gunpoint, and with no charges worth the toot from a bosun’s whistle lodged against him?”
Bedford dropped both his eyes and the objection, at least for the moment. Folkard was right, of course, but that did not ease Bedford’s mind with respect to Annabelle going into harm’s way again, and still weak from her horrible injury.
“Orders are orders,” continued Folkard, “but there’s more to it than simply that. Doctor Grant is the one person to have extensive knowledge of that curious centre of Luna, the Heart. Such knowledge will be indispensable to the Empire, I feel. Possibly even to the entire world.”
“Are we even entirely sure of what the Heart is, sir?” asked Bedford, as Folkard chewed on his meal with distaste.
“The heliograph reports which came from Grant’s when we were last on Earth suggest that the Heart may well contain information on space travel which far outstrips our own,” Folkard answered, after swallowing and putting down his silverware in surrender. “Some of the reports that Grant submitted provided intricate detail about planets that no astronomer has catalogued. Including, it would seem, a planet at the furthest edges of the Solar system that our best telescopes cannot even see! According to the science chaps at Naval Intelligence, the reports have become wilder and more disturbing, yet it is clear that Grant’s experiments with the Heart have given him knowledge of potentially remarkable import. This knowledge, carefully applied by reasonable, rationale British men, could take the human race to areas of which we never previously dared dream. I realise you meet this information with scepticism—even you, though, had to see the effect the Heart had on Grant and Tereshkov. To say nothing of the Selenites.”
“Very well, Captain,” Bedford said after a moment, the influence of the Heart striking a chord of concern about their last visit to Luna. “The instruction from the Admiralty, then, is to bring Doctor Grant aboard. If I may have permission to say so, it does sound rather a gamble. After all, the political situation here is rather…volatile. We assured Versailles we were not bound for Luna earlier, not that it was any of their business. All the same, they’ll put it out that we lied, deliberately misled them, and make a fuss in the international press.”
“Yes, that business with the Frogs was unfortunate, but hardly our concern. We have to render assistance as required by custom and law, and we refused to allow a boarding party, as was also our legal right, and did not hurt a hair on their little Froggy heads. Let them jabber for a while. Give those chaps at the Foreign Office something to do to earn their pay for a change!” cried Folkard. “Besides, I would hardly lead us to Luna without a plan of some sort.”
At this, Bedford had to hold his tongue. As he had just recalled, the previous exploration of Luna had not been characterised by meticulous planning, or much in the way of planning of any sort, by his captain. The loss of so many men as a result of following Folkard’s orders was a black mark against his character which Bedford felt to this day. Such sloppy work was not characteristic of Folkard. In the interceding seven months or so, there had been no further examples of negligence on Folkard’s part and the ship had been run in the fashion which one would expect of Her Majesty’s finest. Bedford had assumed that Folkard had recovered from some ill which had clouded his judgement and that he was now cured. As such, the need to return to the barren rock and all the dark secrets that lay beneath its surface was unfortunate, to say the least.
Ultimately, however, they had no choice.
“I would be keen to hear the strategy, sir,” Bedford ventured finally.
“Very well, Lieutenant,” Folkard agreed, pushing aside for a final time the luncheon. “Otterbein Base has hosted Cyrus Grant since April. Whatever the content of his recent heliograph messages, it should be a simple enough task to head to their dock, send a cutter down and retrieve Grant. I have already sent a heliograph to the Base requesting a rendezvous with the military commander, Colonel Harrison. There are still a few Russians at large in the caverns—no one is sure exactly how many—but Harrison seems to have security of the base well in hand. In light of the situation on Luna, I would prefer to keep as low a profile as possible. Don’t want a bunch of overly-excitable scientists going on about a military invasion, eh?”
Bedford mulled it over. “Quite so. And who would you consider best suited to leading this mission?”
“An experienced man, ideally one with experience on Luna,” Folkard said.
“Hum,” Bedford noted non-committally. “Well then, the best man for the job, in fact, the most experienced man on the ship, is you, sir.”
The captain paused to give it thought, rather pointedly Bedford believed, and then nodded. “Very well, I shall command the mission on Luna’s surface, Lieutenant, and I leave you in command of Sovereign until I return.”
“Very good, sir,” Bedford replied.
NATHANIAL WAS shocked to hear that Annabelle would return to the surface of Luna given her condition, but in his predicament it was unwise to question the decision. In any case, his surprise at Annabelle’s inclusion on the journey paled to insignificance compared with the shock at his own. His presence on Luna might very well work to his advantage, however: Grant could potentially be a powerful ally and character witness, especially as the knowledge he had acquired would be a boon to the Empire. Assisting the Empire in securing that knowledge would mitigate against a charge of treason, Nathanial hoped.
McKittrick and Nathanial came upon Annabelle in some distress, attempting to walk with her peg-leg attached, but faltering due to her physical condition. Despite Nathanial’s best efforts on Mars, simply following the procedure in Blackwood’s book had clearly not been sufficient, a point Doctor Beverly had taken him to task over once the doctor had seen the abrasions on Annabelle’s stump and the irritation around the stitches.
Annabelle had dressed for the excursion but now leaned against the bed for support.
“Nathanial, I simply must have that leg that you promised me,” she remarked upon their entrance, without the courtesy of a full greeting. “You remember the sketches of a prosthetic? I must have it before two o’clock.”
Nathanial laughed. “Annabelle, it’s gone one o’clock now. However do you expect me to construct a workable model with no materials, no workshop and no time to do so?”
“In any manner you can. We are shortly landing on Luna and I can hardly do that in this condition,” she cried, trying to place her hands on her hips and, as a result, losing her balance and toppling back onto the bed. Dashing to help her, McKittrick and Nathanial both offered an arm and helped her sit up on the edge of the bed. “You will have to construct something, Nathanial, I cannot manage like this.”
“Very well,” Nathanial agreed. “Let me help you slip off the leather socket of your peg.” Once they did so, Nathanial did a quick look at the sickbay around him. In the absence of any adequate materials, one simply had to improvise with whatever one had at hand. He picked up three items that he felt would serve as an adequate supplement to her prosthetic. One of these was a rubber surgical cap and the second a tube of lubricating cream. The third was McKittrick’s carbine.
“Egad, I am disarmed!” gasped McKittrick. “I implore you, don’t shoot!”
“Oh, come now, McKittrick, surely you don’t mean to say that you intend maintaining the absurd pretence that this rifle is loaded?”
The guard visibly coloured. “You were aware of this already?”
“You have a nervous habit of squeezing the trigger when deep in thought, McKittrick,” said Nathanial, smiling. “When the rifle failed to detonate, it was hardly difficult to deduce the intention of the weapon was as a cosh, rather than as originally intended. Now, Annabelle, it’s best you lean back for this.”
Annabelle sat on the bed she had been stuck on for a number of weeks. Nathanial first stretched the rubber surgical cap until it fit over her stump snugly, a thin but flexible protection against further irritation. Then he spread lubricating cream over the bottom of the rubber cap so it would slide as necessary inside the leather cup which held Annabelle’s peg to her stump. Finally he reattached the leather cup and stump, making sure they were secure.
“My hope is that this minimizes the friction between your stump and the leather cup,” Nathanial explained. “Now try standing and use this carbine as a cane to take some of the pressure off your leg.”
“Do you mean to say you intend me to drag this gun along as a crutch, Nathanial?” Annabelle said, horrified at the prospect.
“No, of course not. Just use it for now and we’ll find you a proper cane before we leave. I’m sure there must be one somewhere on this vessel. Now, see whether you can stand on that.”
With some difficulty Annabelle rose to a standing position.
“How does it feel?”
“Better,” reported Annabelle. “There is not the pain I experienced before. A cane may be just the thing until I heal.”
“Can you walk on it?”
Annabelle took the sort of cautious steps that anyone would when faced with the same predicament. Needless to say it looked rather like a baby deer attempting to cross a frozen lake.
“Unsuitable, perhaps,” mused Nathanial, largely to himself, “but I feel that with a few modifications, it may do until a return to Earth.”
“What am I to use as a weapon?” said McKittrick, clearly hurt at the loss.
“Why, you can have your carbine back as soon as we find a cane for Miss Somerset. But I imagine you will be issued a pistol for the expedition,” replied Nathanial. “I understood that was standard naval issue. Please try not to look so downcast, McKittrick. You’ve provided for the poor and needy. A reasonable charitable loan, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” replied McKittrick eventually, as a commotion in the corridors attracted his attention. Returning his interest to Nathanial, he raised his voice somewhat. “Now, come on, you lubber! This is no time to cavort with womenfolk! Don’t make me clap you in irons again, you dog!”
Nathanial shook his head and smiled.
WAITING FOR Sovereign to descend the gorge was a tedious ordeal for Annabelle, during which she observed the men. Judging by the nervous looks they exchanged, she ventured few of them had ever set foot on an alien world before. George Bedford, she noticed, conversed with Captain Folkard, probably confirming the plans of the mission. Annabelle still felt awkward with her new leg, so did not move to join them. The less she moved, she believed, the less her physical infirmity would be in evidence. She felt an odd excitement in her chest of unfamiliar cause. Certainly it did not link to the reunion with her uncle: thinking about the meeting left her with a feeling of dread, rather than the elation she currently felt.
George approached her and she wondered if she had not fully recovered from her exploits aboard Peregrine Station and Mars, because her heart suddenly seemed to hammer in her chest as if the workings of some great machine.
“Permission to escort you to the door, Miss Somerset?” George asked.
“George, the door is only a matter of feet away,” replied Annabelle, but she allowed him to assist her nonetheless. After all, she had barely had time to familiarise herself with the cane.
“Are you certain you are up to this? Your face is flushed. If your wound should reopen…”
“I am fine, George, I assure you. This very handsome cane, which one Seaman Jack Fenn was good enough to loan me, takes much of the weight, even when I will no longer have the pleasure of your arm. And with six sailors as my escort, all of them carrying revolvers under their jumpers, I shall be nearly as safe as I was in sickbay, and a good deal happier to be out and doing something.”
It was a handsome cane, she thought, black lacquered wood polished to a mirror finish, and an ornate heavy silver head which might serve as a bludgeon if needed. She was not entirely sure why a seaman would possess such a thing, and she was hardly in a position to enquire, so she merely accepted the loan with gratitude and felt very flattered by the broad smile Mister Fenn had given her upon her open admiration of the cane.
Annabelle stumbled as her cane slipped on the smooth steel decking by the ramp to the cutter’s hatch, but George tightened his grip on her arm and steadied her. She paused and looked up at the yawning hatch of the small craft and felt a sudden stab of fear. She shuddered involuntarily.
“Annabelle…”
“No, it is nothing. I just…the last time I boarded a cutter of this sort I was bleeding and close to death. When last I saw that cutter it lay broken and scattered in the Martian waste. Unpleasant memories, George, but nothing more than that, I assure you.” As she and George stood by the boarding ramp five of the naval rating filed past them and into the cutter. She was to be paired with Able Seaman Howard Henry, who Annabelle understood to have served some time in prison but who was otherwise unknown to her. She had no worries about this—she had handled worse than an ex-lag, after all—but she did wish that she had the opportunity to spend more time with George.
“Ah, I believe we have reached our destination,” said George, turning to face her. “You may find Luna much changed from your previous voyages and not, alas, for the better. I wish you the best of luck, Miss Somerset. Perhaps a handshake to confirm my well wishes?”
Annabelle was surprised by the gesture, but acquiesced regardless. As she did so, she felt the exchange of some mysterious package into her hand, a leather pouch no larger than her palm, but solid and with weight to it. Not normally a man disposed to mendacity, Bedford handing Annabelle a parcel in this furtive manner could only suggest something at once useful to Annabelle and yet confidential. Annabelle secreted the mysterious package in the side pocket of her jacket, aware that now was not the time for scrutiny.
“It’s a shame that you won’t be joining us on Luna, Lieutenant,” Annabelle said. “Certainly your resourcefulness helped me out last time.”
Bedford smiled ruefully. “I fulfilled the boyhood dream of stepping on Luna on the last expedition. Now duty demands I stay behind. I sincerely hope your trip will be as boring as the captain anticipates.”
WITHIN AN hour they reached the entrance to the large side cavern holding the base. Chief Coxswain’s Mate Charles manoeuvred the cutter in and to the landing ground of the base and then settled down. Upon disembarking they took stock of their surroundings.
Folkard had been here before, of course, but it was an entirely novel, and very alien, environment for most of the others. The Great Cavern was roughly spherical and was about a mile in diameter, softly lit by the glow of the uniquely luminescent lunar fungus which covered much of the ceiling. The floor was roughly level, formed from broken rubble fallen from the roof. A sparkling lake filled over half of the base of the cavern and the research station sprawled along its rocky shore.
Despite its official-sounding name, Otterbein Base was in fact little more than a scattered gaggle of buildings which served to house a set of dormitories, storage sheds, mess and administration facilities, and laboratories. The base had a tidier look than Folkard remembered; the buildings now linked by neatly whitewashed pathways of crushed stone.
The cutter’s arrival drew the attention of a dozen or more people in the open area and more soon emerged from the buildings. Visitors were not common here.
Folkard noted a khaki-clad and turbaned soldier trotting crossing the open ground in the long-striding shuffling trot used in low gravity, his rifle carried at the slope. Judging by his tightly rolled beard, Folkard made him a Sikh. When he reached the shore party he came to attention smartly and saluted.
“Sir! Private Anil Singh, Third Sikh Infantry, Punjab Frontier Force. Colonel Harrison’s compliments, and please allow me to guide you to the headquarters.”
“Very good, Private. Mister Charles, form the shore party up and follow the private. Professor Stone, Miss Somerset, if you would be so good as to accompany us? Seaman Henry, give Miss Somerset your arm if she should require it.”
Folkard led, naturally, with Nathanial and McKittrick central and Annabelle and Henry heading up the rear. The journey was not a smooth one for Annabelle as her peg kept sinking an inch or two into the crushed rock surface of the walk, and she nearly stumbled once, but she maintained her composure. Seaman Henry steadied her arm and remained mute.
Singh led them to the door of the central building in the base and held the door for them. “Wait, please, and they will come for you,” he said but remained outside at his guard station.
The party found themselves waiting in an anteroom which was little more than an entrance hall. The headquarters had been one of the few permanent buildings the Russians finished before being discovered and driven off by the British. Folkard noted that some touches of Muscovite baroque remained, despite the attempts to Anglicise the building.
A door at the back of the anteroom opened and a man in civilian clothes but a military-appearing handlebar moustache stepped through it. “Ah, the crew of HMAS Sovereign, I take it? Mister Singh just telephoned through,” he added, by way of explanation.
“Quite so. Colonel Harrison, I presume?” Folkard said.
“Unfortunately Colonel Harrison is detained elsewhere. I am Professor Robert George, director of the base. Please accept my apologies on the colonel’s behalf. I’m sure you’re aware of Luna’s delicate position; the colonel is attending to what he suspects to be a security breach earlier in the day. Quite possibly he is over-zealous in his caution. One simply can’t be too careful, Admiral Folkard,” he noted, offering his hand to the commanding officer.
“Captain Folkard, Director,” Folkard corrected, taking his hand. “In any case, yes, sadly I’m all too aware of the politics here on Luna. One must wonder how you cope.”
“If I might say so, Professor George, you have established a rather excellent base here, from the little I have seen of it,” interjected Stone. “With your permission, Captain, perhaps I might be able to discuss the work here with some of Professor George’s men?”
“I can see no reason why that shouldn’t be possible,” said George, nodding. “You are Nathanial Stone, I presume? Doctor Grant has said much about you. A collaborator and sometime-rival, I believe, of sorts, but—let me see, what was the phrase? ‘An eminent scientist and an honourable man’, I think.”
Miss Annabelle shot Folkard a knowing look, but he elected to ignore it, and looked back at the base director. “In fact it was Doctor Grant we have come to see, Director. Might he be at the base now, so that we might have a word?”
Professor George smoothed his moustache. “Ah. I’m afraid that may be a problem. Why don’t you come through to the central chamber and we can provide you with an adequate reception?”
ANNABELLE WAS quick to secure the best seat in the room: a chair at the head of the table which allowed her a view of as many of the group as possible, yet also discreetly disguised her disability. The room was uncomfortably intimate for the size of the party within. Several luminaries from the base had been called in to meet with the group and, when combined with the contingent from Sovereign, the occupants outnumbered the furnishings, leaving McKittrick, Henry and the other ratings to scowl at the back while the officers and scientists sat at a central table. The room had been designed in the fashion of the lounges one might expect at Oxford or Cambridge University, but with wrought iron and plants in lieu of oak panelling and books, the overall effect was rather less of the academic and more of the allotment.
Annabelle sat at an angle, as her artificial leg, still without a bendable knee, stuck straight out from her chair, covered only partly by her skirt. Even arranging herself so the table’s wooden leg did not interfere with her own similarly-constituted limb was awkward. She recalled that on Earth and again on Luna, her uncle Cyrus had marvelled at her physical aptitude and boundless energy. What would he make of her now, little more than a cripple? She felt that the Annabelle Somerset whom Cyrus Grant had known was now as dead as her dear parents, leaving only this one-legged husk in its wake.
“Perhaps you might start by explaining your recent work with Doctor Grant, Doctor Staples?” Professor George requested of the eldest man in the room, a harried-looking fellow whose black hair, through the balding process, was retreating to the top of his skull.
“Certainly I will endeavour to, Director,” nodded Staples. “Doctor Grant and I were engaged in some work which attempted to address how best to traverse the asteroid belt, based on the problems we all know to exist. Grant was convinced of some rather radical ideas, which he believed he could find evidence of. It was his conviction, although I’m afraid I can’t explain as to why, that the solar system may host life outside of the inner planets. He was rather dependent on the Heart, although he refused to explain what information the Heart had been giving him, or how he arrived at the conclusions he did.”
“Scarcely surprising, Staples. Grant’s work here was hardly characterised by transparency even then, to say nothing of punctuality and reliability,” interrupted another of the scientists.
“Ah. This is Doctor Howard Phillips,” Professor George said with some embarrassment. “He is our resident entomologist, a specialist in that new branch called myrmecology, which is to say the study of ants. He is here with several of his students studying the biology of the Selenites. Somewhat similar to terrestrial ants, you understand—apart from size, of course.”
“I offer no argument,” admitted Staples directly to Phillips. “Doctor Grant’s behaviour had become increasingly erratic throughout our association and by the end he was rarely, if ever, showing up.”
“By the end?” Folkard interrupted. “What do you mean by that?”
There was an uncomfortable silence among the researchers, who were clearly uncertain whether or not to confess to their visitors. A bell rang outside in the anteroom, breaking the silence.
“Captain Folkard, Grant has not been seen in several weeks,” Professor George finally admitted. “We believe that he was in search of some great mystery of Luna, a mystery he chose not to share with us. Happily we have sources who can tell us more, one of whom I believe is at the door.” The director rose and left the room and an uncomfortable silence settled over all of them.
Annabelle felt a sinking feeling in her stomach at the news of her uncle’s disappearance. He could have been seized by all manner of enemy, human or otherwise, and subjected to unthinkable torture to extract the knowledge in his mind. She swallowed before speaking.
“Gentlemen, Cyrus Grant was―is―my uncle,” she managed. “I am sorry to report that we have no other family. Do you know whether he might be in any danger?”
The men exchanged glances. “I’m afraid it’s entirely possible, Miss Somerset,” Phillips admitted. “Your uncle was never one to exercise caution. Particularly with the sort of things with which he surrounded himself, if the rumours are true.”
“The rumours are true. Unspeakable things!” agreed Staples. “I shudder to think of them. You must remember, he had been on Luna longer than anyone else and…well…his interests seemed to change from those of his colleagues as time passed. Drastically so, let us merely add that.”
Even the dimmest person could realise that he was being diplomatic to prevent further embarrassment to Annabelle. Annabelle, however, had concerns which far outweighed her possible embarrassment.
“What do you mean, ‘unspeakable things’, Doctor?” she asked. “The Selenites played a crucial part in the securing of this base. Uncle Cyrus and I have a good deal of respect for them; surely he has conveyed this to you?”
“You are quite correct about the Selenites, Miss Somerset,” said Staples. “The creatures to which Doctor Phillips refers, however, were no Selenites. I could scarcely begin to describe them. As soon as I saw them I felt that no good could come from their presence; and indeed, none has.”
“Wait!” Nathanial interjected. “Creatures? Beings other than Selenites? Do you mean to say you have encountered another intelligent race here on Luna? Why in God’s name did you not report this at once?”
“Yes,” Folkard added forcefully, “I’d like to know that as well.”
Staples and Phillips exchanged confused looks for a moment.
“Why, we did so, Captain Folkard,” Staples said, “in our regular heliograph reports to the Colonial Office. Do you mean to say you were not informed?”
“Informed in vague terms that the reports from the base had become ‘disquieting’, I think was the word. But no specific intelligence as to the content of the reports was passed to me. Blast and damn those secretive pencil-pushing fools. This puts a different light on the matter!”
Annabelle, deducing from this that her uncle was in very grave trouble indeed, turned to Folkard with a look of despair. “Thank goodness we arrived when we did. We may still be in time to save him. Surely we know which way he will be heading, Captain. Is that not enough of a lead to pursue?”
Folkard nodded, but paused, lost in thought for a moment. It was clear that he had understood Annabelle’s hint that Cyrus had gone to the Heart. “Last time we followed that particular lead, there were a number of lives lost, Miss Somerset. We must consider whether it is prudent to make a further visit into the caverns that litter Luna. I can ill afford to exercise so little caution again. Yet at the same time…” His sentence ran down at that point and Folkard retreated into his thoughts.
Presently the door of the conference room opened and Professor George returned, accompanied by a guest familiar to some of the party. While the men who had had no prior dealings visibly shuddered to look upon such a bizarre countenance, those already acquainted with the strange creature were delighted to see him.
“K’chuk, old man! A pleasure to see you again!” said Folkard, who had risen from his seat. He offered a hand to the Selenite, but thought better of it. Annabelle had no such qualms and, forgetting herself slightly, staggered over to K’chuk and caught him in an embrace.
“I echo the captain’s sentiment, K’chuk,” added Nathanial, “it seems like forever since we saw you last. The memories are still all too vivid, mind you. How are your Selenites?”
K’chuk was the Retainer of Knowledge for the Compuntos colony, a position of some seniority which meant that his viewpoint of the Selenites’ position on Luna carried no little weight. Choosing to remain standing for reasons of necessity as well as of decorum, he made a melancholy movement with his head. “Much different, friend Nathanial. So much different for Selenites and for humans here. Hard for Selenites here.”
“What is the issue?” asked Folkard. “Not those Russians creating trouble again?”
“Russians,” confirmed K’chuk, “but not only Russians. Others, too. Everywhere trouble for Selenites. Baddoctor is not the only problem for us now.”
“I’m sure you appreciate, K’chuk,” said Professor George, “that the British representation on Luna has only the best interests of the Selenites at heart. I assure you we have never intended any harm to the Selenites, nor am I aware that we have inflicted any.” K’chuk’s role in his village placed him in a position between tribal leader and wise man. His co-operation was crucial for the continued relations between the British and the Selenites, which accounted for Professor George’s obsequious tone, Annabelle decided. “Our gratitude at the continued assistance of the Selenites cannot be underestimated. But I digress. Now, we’ve called you here on this occasion because these fellows from Sovereign are looking for some assistance.”
“That’s right. Thank you, Director,” Folkard said and turned to the Selenite. “We’ve returned to Luna with the intention of gaining audience with Cyrus Grant. I anticipated meeting him here but it seems our expectations have been disappointed. Have you or your village seen him at all?”
“Selenites have seen gooddoctor recently, yes,” K’chuk confirmed. “He was heading for the Heart.”
“Well, surely this presents no problem?” said Annabelle. “We’ll simply take the lift. If memory serves, the journey is no more complicated than that.”
K’chuk shook his head. “Heart everywhere. Friend Annabelle has seen only one piece. Gooddoctor can learn from Heart here but…” He seemed to strain for the right words. “Different part of Heart, different learning.”
“Certainly we must give chase immediately, if he seeks the Heart,” Folkard said at once. “A part of the Heart which we have never explored, however, is a danger indeed. K’chuk, do you know in which direction the good doctor was going?”
“Yes, Selenites know where Grant went,” replied K’chuk, “but route is bad one. Much danger. Many of your enemies, many of ours. Things that you have not seen.”
“What do you mean?” asked Nathanial, but received no reply.
“Will you take us in that direction?” asked Folkard. “It really would be most appreciated. If you’re concerned as regards safety, I should note that we have some of our best men accompanying us, and well-armed.”
K’chuk displayed a marked reticence in spite of Folkard’s assurances and, at a gesture from Nathanial, the latter turned to Annabelle in appeal. Annabelle, in turn, addressed Professor George.
“Director, if I might be permitted to have a word with K’chuk in private? K’chuk, would you mind awfully?” George nodded, and led the two to a smaller room which served as an office. The room boasted all the spaciousness of a funicular railway carriage.
“Now, K’chuk,” Annabelle began once they were alone, “I know that your people do not tell lies, but I do know when you’re not telling us the entire truth. What is happening here on Luna? Are these people mistreating you?”
K’chuk pondered a moment, which Annabelle took to mean that he was seeking the most diplomatic way to say his piece. So difficult to tell, though, with that inexpressive face!
“Earth men as one to us, friend Annabelle,” he said at last. “We know no difference in Britain village and Russia village. One group hurts Selenites, one does not. That is all. British Research Base men not harm Selenites. They are not baddoctor. But the gooddoctor has left us, friend Annabelle. He not friend of Selenites as he was. He not remember himself.”
“Are you worried about meeting him like this?” Annabelle asked. “Surely you are not saying that my uncle is an enemy of the Selenites?”
“No enemy. But he does things that say he does not want Selenite friends. Selenites not talked with gooddoctor,” K’chuk admitted. “He has…other friends now. He is interested in things Selenites do not have interest in. K’chuk not seen him for some months.”
It seemed to Annabelle as if K’chuk was lamenting a friendship that had come unstuck due to interests becoming incompatible. This was hardly the end of the world for a human, of course, particularly not one with the endless stream of loose connections and travelling companions of Annabelle Somerset; however she could well imagine that it was a new experience for a Selenite, whose closest friends remained so from larva to death.
“You’re worried that he might have no time for you, or view you differently from before? I can well understand this, K’chuk. Look at this.” At this remark, she pulled up her skirt, revealing the hitherto concealed wooden leg, carved to look like a riveted and pistoned mechanical appendage.
“You are turning into a machine?” asked K’chuk, at which Annabelle had to smile.
“No, although I see it appears so. This wooden carving must serve as a leg for me temporarily.”
“Where is your normal leg?”
“Gone, alas. There was…” Annabelle thought of how best to explain it. “A fight between some humans on a space station in which I was injured. The wound became a problem and my leg couldn’t be saved. It was that or death: hardly a choice offering much luxury. Now I am to be presented to my uncle with less body parts than he remembers me having. I fear that he will think less of me for that. Perhaps we both have our reasons why we would not wish to meet my uncle, K’chuk. But really we must, or at least I must. Some things are more important than foolish pride.
“We find ourselves in a research base which has already attracted some interest. It has surely occurred to our enemies to find out quite what is being researched here. If we don’t reach the Heart first, there is every chance that another party on Luna will find it. Perhaps the Russians…” she remembered a curious word from her last visit to Luna “…or Drobates, I know not. I do know, however, that it would be a sorry day for both of us if they do.”
“Friend Annabelle, we help you go to Grant. But it is a dangerous journey. Need to be careful. We come with you and help. Maybe even best British men no use there.”