THE FIGHT after the explosion and cave-in had been short and nasty, fought in pitch black and choking dust against the four Drobates who were trapped on the human side of the collapsed wall of rock. Bedford had been knocked senseless by a falling stone and so had missed it, but when he awoke, his bandaged head cradled in Annabelle’s lap, Booth had described the action.
Privates Jones and Heighway had done most of the real fighting—rifles empty but sword bayonets fixed, they clubbed and stabbed three of the creatures to death. Annabelle had dispatched the fourth as he tried to seize her, shooting him down with the last round in the derringer Bedford had given her. He gave silent thanks for having done so.
He had regained consciousness a quarter hour ago. His head still pounded, he felt dizzy if he tried to stand, and he noticed that the ankle he had twisted coming down the hill was now inflamed and very painful. He, Folkard, and Lieutenant Booth now sat together in the flickering light of a relit torch and took stock.
Bedford and Booth retained their revolvers and Professor Stone gladly surrendered his to Folkard, who passed it on to Stevenson and instead took one of the electric rifles. “I may have a sense of how this works,” he said. Bedford wondered if this was his technical skill speaking or more of this lunar mysticism which seemed to take hold of his mind now and then, but he could not make out his captain’s expression in the torchlight.
Stone, once he turned over the revolver, retreated to the side of the tunnel and sat by himself, legs drawn up against his chest and arms wrapped around them. The fight at the tunnel mouth, before the explosion, had been—well, horrible. Bedford was a sailor, not at all trained for that sort of close-in fighting, and even the Marines had been shaken by the savagery of that desperate struggle. Stone had not been part of the actual physical press at the tunnel entrance, but had he not arrived with a full revolver when he did, Bedford doubted that any of them would have escaped with their lives. With rifles empty the five were reduced to bayonets and rifle butts against a mob which simply would not stop. Then Gordon and Booth were wounded and it was down to just Jones, Heighway, and Bedford. Just as the Drobates surged through the doorway by sheer physical mass, Stone arrived and shot, in succession, the first six creatures through the entrance, killed them, and clogged the entranceway, however briefly, with their bodies. He must have looked directly into each of their faces as he killed them; otherwise he would have missed with at least one or two shots.
Now Stone sat silently by the wall, holding his knees to his chest and staring into space with haunted eyes.
“Not the adventure you thought it would be, was it Stone?” Doctor Phillips said with derision as he bound Gordon’s leg.
Bedford lurched to his feet, fought off the wave of dizziness and nausea which followed, and limped the three steps to Phillips. “Shut your mouth.”
Phillips looked up in surprise and outrage. “How dare you? I’ll…”
“Shut your mouth or so help me God I’ll kick your bloody teeth out.”
“Good advice there, Doc,” Private Gordon said quietly.
If Bedford’s words outraged Phillips, Gordon’s stunned him. Perhaps the doctor expected fawning loyalty and gratitude from the man whose leg he bandaged, or perhaps he simply expected deference from someone so much lower in station. Bedford did not know which nor did he particularly care. Phillips closed his mouth and looked back down at his work.
Bedford walked over to Stone and crouched, put his hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Professor.”
Stone looked up at him, smiled weakly, and nodded. “You’d have done the same for me,” he said.
“I certainly hope I would have,” Bedford said. “Not that it makes it any easier. We’ve some food here and you look as if you could use a meal. We all could. The Drobates can’t get through that cave-in and most of us are too injured or exhausted to go any further right now. Captain Folkard, with your permission I recommend we sup, get some rest, and then set off when we’ve regained our strength?”
“Sounds perfectly reasonable. How far will your rations stretch, Lieutenant? We have quite a mob, counting the Russians and Selenites.”
Bedford hadn’t considered that. His concern, certainly his responsibility, was for the ten British and one American gathered here. Folkard seemed to have taken responsibility for the Russians as well, and Stone had risked his life for the Selenites.
“Miss Somerset and Chief Charles’s party, with commendable initiative, foraged a quantity of mushrooms. We’ll give those to the Selenites and split what tinned rations and bully beef we have with the Russians—a third for them, a third for us, and a third in reserve, if that meets your approval, sir. Lieutenant Booth, set up a guard rotation if you please. The wounded are excused duty but I think Doctor Phillips and Professor Stone can manage a watch. You don’t mind, do you, Professor?”
“No, of course not,” Stone answered.
Bedford did not ask Phillips for his opinion.
“I concur, Lieutenant,” Folkard said, “with one addition. Our numbers and strength are too reduced to carry our dead with us, much as it pains me to say so. We will bury them here, under the loose rocks of this collapse, and hold a service in their memory.”
Folkard of course presided and Bedford thought it an odd ceremony, including as it did prayers for the deliverance of the souls of the Russians who had attacked Annabelle and Seaman Henry, the Selenites who Bedford doubted any theologian worth his salt back on Earth would admit to having souls, and the Drobates who had fallen as well—either misguided creatures if you believed Folkard’s sermon, or demons incarnate in Bedford’s judgement.
Once the service was over, the guard sorted out, and rations distributed, Bedford limped over and slid to the floor next the Annabelle. They ate in silence for a while, both of them chewing and swallowing from duty rather than hunger. Bedford knew how physically and emotionally drained he felt; he could not imagine how Annabelle had managed this long without collapsing.
“Chief Charles’s party,” she said quietly at length.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You called it his and my party. Please just call it his. We all did what we could, but Folkard left him in command, and he did a splendid job. We would never have made it here without him.”
“Of course.”
“They are all dead now, all but me: Charles, O’Hara, Gibbs, Staples, K’chuk, and his two retainers. I didn’t even know their names. That doesn’t seem right, does it?”
“Try to get some rest, my dear,” Bedford said and patted her hand. She took his hand in hers and rested her head on his shoulder. Within moments both had fallen into a deep slumber.
NATHANIAL STUDIED the rail tunnel by flickering torchlight. Although the design was different than a terrestrial rail line, the function was clearly the same. The tunnel was lit by electrical lamps, or rather it had been, although there was no power to them now and many of them appeared broken in any case. Through the gloom and flickering torchlight he gauged the underground railroad as long neglected by the Drobates, at least with respect to its original function. The roof was a breeding ground for lunar spiders, whose webs covered the lamps. From somewhere down the tunnels came the flapping and squeaking of a family of lunar bats. The tiles which adorned the tunnel walls were cracked and, in some places, missing altogether. Nathanial found the pervasive sense of dilapidation oppressive.
That said, the centre of the tunnels, near the single rail, seemed comparatively free of spider webs and debris. He judged the tunnels were used at least for foot traffic on occasion. On the first trip to Luna some men has seemed to simply vanish from the underground tunnels, and K’chuk had hinted that the Drobates had been responsible for the abductions, which this trip had certainly confirmed. Could these derelict rail tunnels provide access to the caverns and passages which honeycombed the ground near Otterbein Base? It was an attractive hypothesis, made all the more likely by K’chuk’s apparent familiarity with their design. What had Annabelle said he called it? The iron ribbon tunnel—as good a description of a monorail train tunnel as any.
Directly in front of the group, however, the tunnel forked to right and left, one heavy rail following each branch but without any sort of elaborate switching mechanism at the junction. Nathanial supposed they must have switched the trains electronically, perhaps electromagnetically, running the current through the track the train was to follow. The important question was which would take them to the vicinity of Otterbein and which would snake off aimlessly? Both tunnels seemed equally decrepit and equally travelled.
“Neither direction seems especially promising,” said Nathanial.
“We should go left,” said Folkard automatically.
“I would agree, sir,” said Stevenson, who was considerably revived after a meal and a few hours sleep. Nathanial suspected that renewed hope, and the company of friends, had done as much to revive him.
Nathanial was about to question the merits of relying on psychic instincts but saw little point. Folkard was in command again so he would do as he saw fit. In any case Nathanial had no more wisdom to offer on the subject; if forced to choose between the two tunnels, he’d probably have flipped a five shilling piece, if he’d had one. Bedford’s attention was occupied by Annabelle. She had lost her cane in the fight at the tunnel and Bedford had become almost as lame as her as his ankle had swollen, so now the two supported each other. Twelve surly Russians in chains occupied most of the attention of Lieutenant Booth and the three Marines. Phillips walked by his patient, who rode one of the stronger Selenites, although in truth almost any of the humans would have been better able to carry him. Private Williams walked by the doctor as well, still unsteady of hand and uncertain of balance, but uncomplaining of either. That left Stevenson, and Nathanial was content to walk with his friend in companionable silence at the head of the column.
As the march wore on, however, it became apparent that the group, despite a meal and a few hours sleep, retained very limited stamina. It had been some years since Folkard had had to march in this fashion and Bedford’s leg grew worse with every step. Stevenson, the only other naval man, had suffered from a ghoulish array of tortures over a number of months which had left him a long way from his physical peak; Annabelle, of course, struggled along, but without use of a cane her leg had begun to feel as if the bottom was again chafing, and every step brought slightly more pain. The Russians shuffled along morosely and the Selenites had begun to straggle badly as well. Phillips and Nathanial, apart from the occasional stint at the wicket or at the tennis court, were more academic than Olympian, but still fared better than most of the group, which suggested to Nathanial how dire the situation had become. Only Lieutenant Booth and his two Marines seemed untouched by the growing fatigue.
As there was no pursuit, they gradually reduced their pace to accommodate the weaker and more battered members of the party, but Nathanial worried at their progress. How far had they come down the river? How long would it take to walk back using this tunnel? They were all but out of food as it was and without prospect of foraging down here—unless one fancied spiders and bats, and it might come to that.
Within the hour the tunnel broadened and they came to a derelict station. A second line led from this station, perhaps in the direction of a residential area on the outskirts of the city. The party, by now desperate for rest, staggered across the station and onto the platform, while Booth sent his two Marines trotting off to explore the depths of the station.
Stevenson fell to the ground and Folkard, who attempted to pull him up, clearly lacked the strength to do so. Nathanial lifted his friend to his feet and helped him up onto the platform, but exhaustion was not his sole handicap. Nathanial saw Stevenson’s eyes flit nervously about and Folkard fidgeted as well.
“What is it?” Nathanial asked.
Folkard and Stevenson exchanged a glance, then the captain answered. “A buzzing; an uneasiness. A feeling similar to those I had around the Drobates.”
Bedford, Annabelle, and Booth joined them. “Drobates did you say?” Bedford asked.
Folkard looked around the empty station and scratched his scalp in thought. “Not right here, but nearby. Not the huge buzzing host of the city—perhaps only a handful, or they are further away… I cannot put my finger on it, but I sense they are in the direction we wish to travel.” Stevenson nodded his assent.
Nathanial joined Stevenson on the floor of the station and stretched out.
“In that case, Captain,” Bedford said, “I propose we rest. We clearly need it, and perhaps the Drobates ahead will move on while we do so. Alternatively, I’ll send a couple of the men to find out if the station egress gives us access to the river or at least some forage for the Selenites. I grant these are far from luxury accommodations. Nonetheless, if the worst thing that we are likely to encounter by sleeping here is lunar bats, I feel it is likely to be the safest area in the entirety of Luna.”
So they rested for a while, the Russians by necessity in a tight bunch, but by choice a distance away where they spoke in low voices and cast furtive glances at the English. After a quarter hour the two Marines returned with word that the passage from the station up to whatever cavern or tunnel it connected to was entirely blocked by fallen dripstones and rubble of considerable size. They did bring back a half dozen polished metal rods, each about four feet long and topped by elaborate pointed designs. They had pulled them from a broken and buckled metal fence, and Private Jones had reasoned they would make good walking staffs, particularly for Annabelle and Bedford.
“Wouldn’t make a half-bad spear, either,” Bedford said as he hefted it.