WHILE THE majority of the group slumbered, Nathanial found sleep elusive. Although his body ached with fatigue, his mind raced. The combination of astonishing sights and danger-induced adrenaline was not one conducive to sleep. As a scientist, he wondered about the gyroscopic vehicles, the submersible and the electrical weapons that the Drobates possessed. He wondered about the potential energy source that the endless illumination of the fungi might provide, and he wondered about the Drobates’ curiosity concerning Annabelle. As a human, he mourned the loss of almost all of the men who had come down the river with him, as well as the three Marines who had lost their lives rescuing him, men with whom he had not had even the opportunity to become acquainted. He mourned particularly for his friend K’chuk, and wondered at his noble sacrifice to save his friends, friendships which stretched between species and worlds.
But at the same time, the faces of the six Drobates he had killed haunted him. Who now mourned for them? He and his companions had seen only the dreary façade of Drobate life, the callous cruelty of its officials, the neglect and decay of its public spaces. But life went on in the city somehow, which meant that behind the façade there were people who went about their jobs, raised families, lived and loved and mourned each other’s deaths. How well did people sleep in the city this night, who saw the empty place on the bed beside them?
Restless, he turned in the direction of Stevenson, only to find the man absent. Propping himself up on his elbow, he cast his eye around the dark station to hear Stevenson returning. He sat down and had a number of tins in his arms—tins of a very different design than their own bully beef rations, but which appeared to be of a similar purpose.
“I found these in what appears to be a market stall,” offered Stevenson by way of explanation, taking a seat next to Nathanial. “I sampled one of them—tinned mushrooms. I know our own rations are nearly exhausted but we need to eat. Perhaps I might ensnare an albino bat, should you find this disagreeable to your palette.”
Nathanial smiled. “Do you not feel that eating tinned produce in a railway station abandoned some years ago poses rather more of a threat than the bats?”
“That is why I experimented on myself first. It appears to have been preserved astonishingly well given its age.”
“How have you been able to get into the can?” Nathanial asked.
At this, Stevenson showed him a concealed blade of curious aspect. “I took it from the Drobate which Miss Somerset had slain,” he said. “It is rather a tarnished metal, however; something of a badly-preserved antique, I think. A superior being these Drobates may be, but they must have inferior skills at the forge.”
“They do seem something of a decadent group, all things considered. One wonders what their city would be like in the hands of more capable citizens.”
“Such as the British, do you mean?” Stevenson asked. “As if London is any more of a paradise?”
“There is room for improvement in all our cities, yes,” said Nathanial. “But ask the Indians, the Persians, the residents of Zanzibar. From what I can gather in the London papers, all of these people have found their lives immeasurably improved since the British have, ah, intervened. Venus and Mercury, too: those people’s standard of living is manifestly better for the presence of the British. You must have faith in the Empire, Stevenson. You are, after all, charged with defending it.”
They sat for a time in a companionable silence. After a time, Stevenson asked; “You have been to Mercury and Venus? Might I take from this that you have been travelling with Sovereign since last I saw you?”
Nathanial gave him a rueful smile. “Would that it were so. I would not have had nearly the amount of adventures and Miss Somerset would still have a full quota of limbs.” He provided Stevenson with a brief summary of his activities between his visits to Luna, from his encounters with spectral characters on Mercury to his trek across the Martian deserts. “For someone as venturesome as Miss Somerset, it has been quite the adventure. For my part, I have been hugely anticipating my return home ever since I received that letter requesting my help on Venus. To think that I now face a return in shackles! But I forget myself: how has your time on Luna been spent?”
Stevenson grimaced. “Believe me, it has been an ordeal unlike any other. When I reflect on the last few months of my life, I admit I do wonder whether I was right to choose the Navy as my preferred career choice.”
“The Drobates punished you both physically and mentally, I understand?” Nathanial asked, to which Stevenson nodded by way of confirmation.
“I shan’t detail the ways in which the Drobates tortured me physically. Needless to say, they were interested in the physical limitations of the body. You’ll remember that when we met, the Drobates were attempting to heal as much as they were attempting to harm. Such is the way they choose to test the body’s capacities. With regards to their psychological experimentations, they were interested in the limitations of the mind. Some of these experiments involved deprivation: of light, of sound, of company. Some of them were an excess of these same properties. Some of the men quickly went mad, others died from the physical torture. Challoner and Clements became insane in short order; what happened to them after this, I know not. Dead, no doubt: the Drobates ruthlessly discarded those who had outlived their usefulness. Burroughs mentioned having seen them.”
“Yes, but not alive, alas,” Nathanial confirmed, and briefly outlined the circumstances of their capture.
“Barbaric, but no more than one would expect. I cannot explain how I survived when Challoner and Clements could not endure it. I had not considered myself more resilient than them; it seems perhaps that, of late, I have learned more about myself than I was anticipating.” Stevenson paused for a moment. “It gives me no pleasure to report that both the men and the Selenites became impressionable after a few months of this. You’ll have heard how, on our first visit to Luna in pursuit of Miss Somerset, we were set upon by Selenites? Knowing what you now know about the regular behaviour of the Selenites, does this not strike you as odd?”
Nathanial sat up. “Do you mean to say that these Selenites were psychologically influenced by the Drobates?”
Stevenson nodded once more. “I hardly believed that the Selenites were capable of good at first. It was only later I learnt that those who had attacked the Annabelle were acting under influence. There are many things on this moon that can influence one’s mind. These Drobates are dangerous. They worship science, yet they know little of its methods and will stop at nothing in their pursuit of information. They have none of our consideration for proper behaviour and will happily compromise one another if they feel that it interferes with their learning. In any case, they were specifically interested in the mental stamina of a human, of their life expectancy, of their breeding habits. I rather think, Nathanial, I confounded their expectations in some of these areas. I discovered an aptitude for telepathy, which I kept carefully secret from them. Were it not for this, I fear I would have gone mad, the same as Challoner and Clements.”
“I am glad that you did not,” Nathanial responded, rather quicker than he would have liked.
For a few moments silence sat between them, neither men quite looking at each other. Nathanial did not wish to deduce what was going through Stevenson’s mind, but for his own part he was rather pleased to hear Stevenson address him by his Christian name. Talk of his travels reminded Nathanial of Arnaud, no doubt still on Mercury, discovering new and fascinating things about the rock that made up that world, and a strange conflict echoed inside Nathanial’s…heart? Perhaps. There was certainly confusion abounding within.
He looked to the ground, and said, “Sovereign has suffered enough loss of life without you going in the same direction,” in the hope that this would clear things up for both himself and Stevenson. “Do you think that the Drobates can be stopped?” He looked back up, to find Stevenson smiling at him.
For a brief moment the two sat there in silence, their eyes locking. Perhaps things were not as simple as Nathanial had hoped. Stevenson was the first to look away, however. Nathanial’s eyes still lingered.
“Stopped? I suppose so, but I think we would be better advised to try and survive them, rather than to defeat them,” Stevenson said. “We were, after all, in their city. Even if you believe that you defeat them and that you gain control of them, the opposite is true. Those who lead the Drobates find themselves under perennial threat. In all, they are, I believe, driven by much the same things that we are: they want to learn what they can, they long for power, and they want control of a shadowy force central to Luna.”
“The Heart,” Nathanial said quietly, “the Selenites’ Holy of Holies. I have been there, though I admit I know little of its ways. I believe that it also carries some variety of psychological influence, which seems to result in the irrational behaviour of those sensitive to it. It drove nastavnik Tereshkov quite mad, although I hear his sanity was in question even before he came to Luna.”
“Were it not for the Heart,” said Stevenson, “none of us would be here in the first place, then. Admit it, Nathanial, Britain would have little interest in this rock were it not for the Russian stronghold here. Russia’s sole reason for being here is the desire for power that the discovery of the Heart hints at. Why, even Doctor Grant must have knowledge of the Heart to choose to explore this depressing moon for as long as he has done. Without it, Luna is nothing more than an empty land with a number of caverns and some unusual wildlife.”
“As we all once believed. I imagine the same could be said of California: largely desert, some curious mountains and nothing much of interest were it not for the enormous quantity of gold beneath its surface. It’s curious what men will do when faced with something desirable, wouldn’t you agree?”
Stevenson yawned and met Nathanial’s eye. “Men will take leave of their senses when faced with anything attractive, Nathanial. That’s what I think, at least,” he added with a hint of a smile.
“Quite so,” said Nathanial, smiling himself. “Now, enthralling though our conversation is, I feel the adrenaline has worked its way out of my system and this leaves me with mere fatigue. I suggest we rest, breakfast on these peculiar canned foods, then seek our escape from this railroad with a view to resuming our pursuit of Doctor Grant. We have been forced to deviate from our original mission somewhat and I feel Captain Folkard will be as keen as I to resume our quest.”
“Very good. Good night, Nathanial,” Stevenson said slowly, life finally returning to his blue eyes.
“Good night, Erasmus,” Nathanial returned, his heart now lighter, although no less confused.
THE POCKET watch which Annabelle Somerset kept on her person had been a gift from her parents in 1879. It had been an unusual gift to give to a girl for her tenth birthday; yet Annabelle had been an unusual child. She had shown it to her uncle, who had shown her how to wind the watch, and from then on she ensured that the watch told immaculate time. During her time with the Chiricahua, she had taken great pains to ensure that the watch was concealed at all times so that the Apaches did not take her only remaining link to her family. When she was finally freed from the captivity of the Chiricahua, she had changed so much both physically and mentally that it was only the watch that confirmed that she was, as claimed, the presumed-dead Annabelle Somerset.
Now it had stopped running, a victim of her plunge into the River of Life.
What difference did a watch make? It was just gears and springs and a metal casing. She had lost her leg. Her dear friend K’chuk was dead, along with so many others. Only a silly fool would weep over a broken watch, and yet she felt her throat grow tight as she looked at it again.
A symbol of where her losses began.
A little of the luminous moss had penetrated the ruined station and so there was a very faint ambient light to which her eyes had become accustomed overnight. She turned back to the group, who seemed to be stirring. No doubt their backs, shoulders and necks would ache from a night spent on the floor of a train station; they would be complaining about various aches for the remainder of the day. Beside her—but removed enough that they would not touch in their repose, for propriety’s sake—George slept, snoring softly. Annabelle smiled.
Before this journey, her feelings toward him were natural enough, and she supposed rather ordinary. A handsome, confident man who filled a uniform out exactly the way one wanted it filled, a man of action who, unlike so many others of his sort, actually seemed to have a brain in his head. She felt what any sensible young woman would, she supposed. Attraction, even a bit of infatuation. Something had changed along the way, however.
She had seen him assume responsibility without a hint of self-importance, and she liked that. She had seen him suffer injuries and carry on cheerfully, and without the hint of martyrdom so many found it impossible to resist. But perhaps the defining moment for her had been when Phillips tormented Nathanial back in the tunnel and George had risen to his defence. Nathanial sometimes needed protecting, but more to the point, he deserved protecting, had earned it in full measure. When George Bedford, his head wrapped in a bloody bandage, stood up on his injured leg and hobbled over to Phillips, when he had threatened to thrash a man who stood an inch or two taller than himself, a man of athletic build and uninjured, while George could scarcely stay on his feet, her heart warmed in a way she never recalled having felt before. It was an easier thing to play the hero, she reflected, when healthy, rested, and mounted on a great white horse.
Nathanial stirred. It seemed he had spent some of the night in restless tossing and turning, for the position from which he awoke was perilously close to encroaching upon Stevenson’s personal space. Annabelle frowned at this, but let it pass without comment as, rectifying the error quickly, Nathanial climbed to a seated position and looked over at Annabelle.
“Good morning, Annabelle, if it can be considered such,” he said. In order to further the conversation without disturbing any late sleepers, he moved across to where Annabelle was seated.
“I suspect that morning is right. Have you no idea of the time?”
“None. You?”
Annabelle shook her head. “My pocket watch has been with me for ten years, yet it has at the last betrayed me.”
Nathanial nodded. He looked across at the still-resting Stevenson, then back at Annabelle, his face contorted in thought. “Annabelle, there is something I have been meaning to say, something which weighs heavily on my conscience. I cannot help but think that, had I but taken your suspicions on Peregrine Station more to heart, or done so sooner, your current…condition… Well, I am dreadfully sorry. So dreadfully sorry.” He looked down in shame.
Annabelle suspected Nathanial felt responsible for her injury by virtue of having been named her guardian, but she never dreamed his burden of guilt was as heavy, or as specific, as this. She took his hand in hers. “Nathanial, no one could ask for a truer friend. I would have died but for you, more than once—on Peregrine, on the cutter, and how many times on Mars? I cannot even count them. Do not torture yourself with might-have-beens. The bullet which took my leg came from Le Boeuf’s gun, not yours, and the blame is entirely his. Never forget that.”
The words were barely out of Annabelle’s mouth and Nathanial had not yet moved his lips to respond when Folkard, in one movement, went from being entirely unconscious to awake in a seated position. It was clearly the awakening of a man accustomed to waking up rapidly when called to duty.
“My preference would be for two slices of toast, a black coffee and a series of prayers before I commence my activities for the day,” he announced at once. “As I fear that none of these options are available, I suggest that we break our fast with the last of our rations and try to find some potable water. Unless Ordinary Seaman Stevenson would care to share his find of the night with us?”
Stevenson, still attempting to wake up, gaped in surprise at the Captain.
“Really, Stevenson,” Folkard said, “my eyes are not yet as old and cataract-ridden as to miss the market stall which stands against the wall. When I noticed upon waking that it was disturbed, I naturally assumed someone did some foraging. The mess bag which you appear to have accumulated overnight, and the two empty tins there at your feet suggest the one responsible. Your captain sees more than he may be letting on, Stevenson. I would advise you bear this in mind.”
At this a strange look passed between Stevenson and Nathanial; it lasted barely a fraction of a second, but it was enough to pique Annabelle’s interest.
Bedford rolled over blinking, scratched his scalp, and smiled broadly at Annabelle. “Did I hear something about breakfast?”
“Eras…ah, Mister Stevenson found some tinned food last evening after the rest of you had gone to sleep,” Nathanial explained, “and as neither of us died during the night, I pronounce it safe, and not significantly worse to the palate than that awful tinned bully beef. How much more is there?”
“Perhaps two dozen cans,” Stevenson said.
“Fetch them, lad, and we’ll see about distributing them to the Russians and the Selenites, if the contents are palatable to them,” Folkard ordered.
The breakfast was rudimentary and was curiously acidic to the taste, but the group, who had gone without food for some hours, devoured it greedily. Having found a crumbling but nevertheless still functioning decorative fountain to provide liquid refreshment, the group ate and considered their next move.
Annabelle watched Nathanial take several tins of food to the Selenites but returned with them uneaten, his brow furrowed with concern. Their numbers had dwindled during their rest as several wandered away into the tunnels and two had died as they slept.
In the meantime, George and Folkard debated what to do about the Russian prisoners. Folkard was inclined to unchain them. The hostility to Annabelle and Henry at the cave entrance he inclined to put down to panic, and the situation now clearly made them allies, however temporarily, against a common foe. George disagreed.
“With respect, sir, the evidence we uncovered after you disappeared is unsettling. The Russians appear to be reorganising for an assault on Otterbein Base.”
“Is that so?” Folkard asked, his eyes narrowed. “Well, since we’ve had little chance afforded to us for a full report, perhaps now would be the time?”
Bedford nodded sharply. “Yes, sir,” he said, and outlined the events that had transpired from the attack of the red Selenites on Sovereign up until the moment he and the Marines had discovered Charles’ party along the shore of the River of Life. “So you see, sir,” he concluded, “even if these men know nothing of the plans, should we encounter Russians in strength, who will surely be hostile, these prisoners would be bound by patriotic duty to help them.”
“It hardly seems right, keeping those men chained up like slaves,” Folkard said, “but you’re right of course. I did not meet Colonel Harrison when we arrived. Is he up to defending the base?”
“If anyone can lose the base, Harrison is your man,” George answered. “I left Major Larkins there with half our Marines, and hopefully Harrison will have the brains to listen to Larkin’s advice, but honestly I cannot say what will happen.”
So even if they made their way back to Otterbein, they might only do so to march into the arms of the Russians. Annabelle found that unsettling, but only in a remote sort of way. The current problems were so daunting this other one seemed remote and theoretical by comparison.
Folkard and Stevenson both agreed that the vague buzz of Drobate thoughts remained unchanged, but if a Russian attack on Otterbein was in the offing they could not afford to wait any longer.
Much fortified by food, rest and sleep, they lit one of their last four torches and set out down the tunnel. The dwindling supply of torches was another reason to make haste. The walking staff the Marines had given Annabelle was a considerable aid and let her take much of the weight off her sore stump. She could tell that it helped George’s swollen ankle as well. All of the other English used them except for the armed Marines and Private Gordon. They could no longer find a Selenite strong enough to carry Private Gordon, but Doctor Phillips and Private Williams took turns carrying him.
AFTER PERHAPS two or three miles of walking they found the going unexpectedly blocked by what remained of a railway train, which took up much of the line before disappearing into the tunnel in front of them. The tunnel itself had suffered some structural damage, and masonry had collapsed around the front of the train, which allowed for no inspection of the engine. The carriages had given into the disintegration of the years: copper oxide polluted their surfaces and the circular windows along their sides were largely shattered. Unintelligible graffiti had been crudely daubed on their sides at haphazard junctures.
“It seems our path goes no further,” declared Folkard. “It’s a good thing we prevented pursuit; otherwise we would be trapped here.”
“We are trapped here,” Nathanial said, “unless your intuitive grasp of the lunar landscape can again come to our aid.”
Annabelle strode off in the direction of a doorway, all but invisible under years of dust and spider webs.
“You do get used to her wanderings,” said Nathanial apologetically to Bedford, then cried to her. “Annabelle, please be cautious! You have no way of knowing what’s behind that door!”
“Given that the hinges have rusted, the doors are covered in spider webs, caterpillar trails and paintings of what appear to be naked Drobates, and in light of the fact that this door is wanting for a handle, I doubt anyone has gone through here for quite some time,” came the reply.
Bedford hastened behind her at the best speed his ankle would allow. “Annabelle, please let me deal with this,” he said as Annabelle reached into the hole where a handle would be expected to sit. She stepped aside with a smile. Bedford examined the hole, inserted the butt of his metal walking staff and used it as a lever, at length managing to pry it open with a shriek of rusted hinges.
Light flooded out and all of them stood for a moment with eyes closes or squinted nearly so until their pupils adjusted to the unfamiliar brilliance. Folkard then detailed Booth and the Marines to keep the Russians and Selenites back. The rest of the party went through the doorway.
Much to Nathanial’s surprise, the doorway opened onto a long, dusty corridor which appeared to parallel the rail tunnel.
“If we follow this, we should be able to get back to the rail tunnel further down,” Bedford said, which made sense and so they set off, with the Russians and Selenites bringing up the rear.
After perhaps a quarter of a mile they came to another rusted door which looked as if it opened onto the rail tunnel, but it would not yield to them, even when Bedford and Phillips both put their shoulders against it and braced their feet against the opposite corridor wall. There was nothing for it, they agreed, but to go on, but Nathanial sensed that the corridor gradually curved to the left, taking them away from the rail tunnel—or perhaps paralleling it, if it also curved. That was certainly possible, although they walked quite some distance without seeing another access door.
“Have you noticed,” Phillips said after twenty or so more minutes of walking, “how the dust seems almost artfully arranged on the floor?”
They stopped and Folkard went a little ahead with the torch, where the dust was not yet disturbed, and examined it carefully with the torch. “It is hard to be certain,” he announced shortly, “but I believe Doctor Phillips may be correct. The dust looks to me as if it has been blown onto the floor rather than having simply settled there. We should be cautious. Before we go further, we will tie rags around the bottoms of those metal walking sticks; they make a frightful banging.”
They did so and resumed walking, and after another twenty minutes the passage ended in a blank wall.
“Absurd!” Phillips exclaimed. “What idiot would build a corridor miles long and have it simply end in a wall?”
“None,” Nathanial answered. He had begun working his way back along the wall, feeling for irregularities, and within a few yards found three circular indentations low down in the wall. “Ah!” He pressed three of his fingers in the indentations, felt a metallic instead of stone surface beyond, pressed, and heard a distinct click.
He snatched his hand back as a small doorway sank into the floor and revealed a sterile corridor of the sort one would find in a hospital or sanatorium. He could hardly have been more surprised had the doorway opened onto another planet at the opposite side of the universe; it seemed almost as if that was exactly what had happened. Light from a series of electric lamps at regular intervals flooded the corridor and briefly dazzled the group, who had become accustomed to peering at each other in the weak light of the railway and, before that, squinting in the intrusive glare provided by the fungi. The corridor was as clean and tidy as a shrine. To their left, right and immediately ahead were further doors. All bar the door on the left were closed.
“Well, this area is still in use,” concluded Nathanial, “but in which direction should we head?”
“I would speculate that the central door, being as it is the largest, would be the one behind which the occupants lurk,” said Folkard. “But I wonder if it might not be prudent to assess the contents of the other rooms first, so that we might get an idea of our potential opponents.”
“Or allies,” Nathanial added. “We don’t yet know that the inhabitants are hostile, Captain.”
“Don’t be daft, Stone,” said Phillips. “We have no facilities down here and the Selenites have never built anything so elaborate. Whoever maintains this facility cannot be friends. But here we are at the open door so that we may see for ourselves.”
Large work surfaces for experimentation dominated the room, with charts and boards scrawled with unreadable language on the walls. A large electric screen dominated the far wall, displaying numbers of some sort, although it offered no indication of what it was measuring.
The room’s most distinctive feature was its disarray. Mysterious machinery and unfamiliar crystals cluttered the work spaces. Some of the technology was common to Earth: clockwork parts and coil springs here and there. Other sorts, which appeared to be nothing more than thin boards covered with silver-painted patterns, offered no suggestions as to their purpose or workings. It was a researcher’s dream, and Nathanial almost found himself rueing the lack of time they would have in the room.
“A rather unusual collection, to say the least,” he said, giving a cursory glance to as much as was possible. “There are so many different disciplines here that the overall effect is one of total anarchy. Yet I suspect that to say this, would be to do the room a disservice. Inspect a little closer and it feels almost cohesive.”
“Do you see the organisation of the wires in this machine?” Phillips asked, holding up a hunk of machinery that appeared to be encased in glass of some sort. “You’ll note that there are a number of thin wires connected broadly to this thicker wire in the middle. Unfortunately both the top and the bottom appear to be missing so I am unable to draw any real conclusions; the design in large part resembles the veins in a human arm, or perhaps a thigh.”
Nathanial rifled through a series of boxes precariously stacked atop each other. He rummaged through a number of cogs, nuts and bolts, along with the occasional glass sphere, but could find nothing that attracted his interest specifically.
Folkard, Bedford, Stevenson and Annabelle allowed the two scientists to go about their investigations for a time, until Folkard finally wearied.
“Professor Stone, can I ask what necessitates this delay?”
Nathanial turned apologetically to Folkard. “My apologies, Captain. It was my understanding that you wished to gain information on the inhabitants of this particular maze.”
“Yes, but at more haste than this, man! What impressions do you have thus far?”
“The disorganisation is consistent with that of the City of Light and Science,” Nathanial began, “and there is a range of technology with which I am, as yet, unfamiliar. Certainly it is most likely that Drobates could be behind this project; it is equally unlikely that this is some Russian or German technology which is yet to be published in the science journals—it has too little in common with anything I know of. The technology I find bizarre and the clutter maddening, yet in a way this room holds its own peculiar logic, which does remind me of laboratories I have served in. I simply cannot put my finger on where. In short, Captain, I can offer no definite conclusions.”
He stopped a moment and walked over to a cylindrical container which might be used in Britain to hold umbrellas, or else riding crops. In this particular container, however, stood something else entirely.
“Could it be?” he asked himself, and turned his back to the group briefly as he fished through the contents.
“Could what be?” asked Folkard. “Stone, just what is it you expect to find in there?”
“Something that may be of use to the mission, or at least something that might be of benefit to one of our party,” said Nathanial, retrieving the item and turning, with a smile, to the group, with his prize cradled in his arms.
When Annabelle saw what it was that he was holding, she couldn’t help but return the smile.
Nathanial held a prosthetic leg.
“A PROSTHETIC leg! It cannot be!” gasped Annabelle, striding towards Nathanial.
“Indeed. And do you not find the design familiar?”
Annabelle took the leg off him and examined it. “Why, it is very similar to the sketch you showed me. Remarkably so, although the proportions are different.”
“Yes, as this was clearly intended for a Drobate, not a human,” Nathanial said with an indulgent smile.
Annabelle frowned, then her eyes lit up in realisation. “Can you alter this to work for me?”
“Well, of that I am not certain. It’s not exactly the same, of course, and so even were it the correct length—and it looks quite close in that respect—the position of the knee is different and may prove awkward. That assumes, of course, that we can discover how to make it work at all. But look,” he said, and took the leg from Annabelle. “This leg design uses a series of opposed springs which store and discharge energy at different points in the leg’s motion. You see, as the wearer leans forward in their stride, the ankle bends, but provides resistance, then unbends to propel you forward.” He demonstrated by placing the foot of the leg on the floor and walking it forward. “As I had proposed, this has opposed springs in the artificial ankle and produces a similar effect.”
Nathanial handed it back to Annabelle, who studied it cautiously. “I would suggest we take that back to Sovereign. Perhaps I can find a way to modify it and securely fasten it in place of your current prosthetic.” Nathanial turned to Captain Folkard and the others, who had stood by silently as Nathanial had demonstrated the use of the leg. “Now we can adjourn to the room directly across from this one and have a look there. Captain, if you are amenable?”
Folkard nodded his consent. They crossed to the second door and as soon as Nathanial opened it his nostrils filled with an appalling stench. The room was another laboratory of similar design to the previous one; yet while that room had been scattered with the debris of mechanical parts, this one was littered with mutilated and dislocated body parts.
Annabelle gasped, and retreated out into the hallway and Bedford immediately joined her.
It was difficult to tell, in many places, from what living creature the viscera had originated or even where it begun and terminated: in many places the unfortunate cadavers had been crudely fused with some of the mechanical technology from the previous laboratory. Some attempts at preservation had been made by means of sealing heads and other parts in jars; overall, however, the impression was one of a terrible necrosis.
Stevenson, the weakest of the group, had to make his way to a sink at the back of the room in order to be violently sick.
“This grotesque cornucopia can scarcely be countenanced!” gasped Folkard. “How many creatures were killed to satisfy the curiosity of this madman? If one of you would be so kind as to furnish me with a match, I propose this horror is burnt to the ground.”
“I feel that would be unwise, Captain,” said Phillips. “Beneath the reek of putrefaction is a number of smells which suggest highly flammable chemicals. We would barely have time to strike a light before becoming engulfed in a fireball. This is to say nothing of the attention that such an act would surely attract.”
“If their anatomical students are anything like ours, they murder no one, rather cut up the already dead, which may account for the stench,” Nathanial observed. He had taken to covering his mouth with a handkerchief, and examined one of the bodies. Its head had been removed and much of its torso was beneath a sheet. It had taken on a curious hue. “Phillips, can you share any thoughts on when these bodies might have been brought here?”
“There’s simply so many different elements here that it would be difficult to hypothesise,” answered Phillips. “For a start, I know nothing of the rate of decay of a Drobate corpse but I think it reasonable to speculate these are Drobate corpses—mostly. These are Selenites over here, and I think the remnants of some bats in those two tubs.”
“I think we should leave this room as soon as possible. Stevenson is clearly not well enough to continue, the scent would make any of us ill over time,” Nathanial pointed out. “I should make this comment, however: the freshest corpses, such as they are, display an attempt at fusion technology which is vastly superior to those of their predecessors. You’ll note that the arm here joins seamlessly with the metallic elements below the elbow, serving almost as an endoskeleton. Really, this is quite years ahead from anything comparable on Earth.”
“You scientific men have had quite enough time to explore these monstrous rooms,” said Folkard. “To what conclusions can we now arrive?”
“I feel that we are looking at the work of an advanced civilization, possibly the same race which built the City of Light and Science…”
“Yes,” said Phillips, “it’s perfectly clear that the Drobates are not capable of building such a city. You have seen the state in which they live, clearly not in a manner that would suggest the knowledge needed to build the city. It is more like they are squatting, using the technology left behind.”
“Possibly so. Either that or they have lost the knowledge used to build it in the first place? It would not be the first time the descendants of a great civilization fell into degeneracy. I would further add that a scientist from our own planet has been working in this laboratory.”
“Nathanial!” Annabelle exclaimed, “are you suggesting that Uncle Cyrus would…?”
“I might hypothesise that this scientist,” Nathanial continued, not wishing to get into such a conversation with Annabelle at this juncture, “has only been recently added to the group, hence the improved care and attention to detail indicated in these later works; really, however, this is speculation. All that remains, I fear, is to take our chances behind the remaining door.”
The group hurried out of the deathly museum and hastily closed the door behind them. There was every possibility that the third door contained a still greater horror. Bedford and Stevenson unholstered their revolvers as they stood before the door, awash now with a trepidation which far exceeded any that they had felt earlier in their mission.
“Booth, be prepared to cover our withdrawal if necessary,” Folkard ordered the Marine Lieutenant standing at the opening to the rail tunnel. Then he opened the door.
At first glance, it seemed as though the room was completely unoccupied. The work surfaces were clear and it seemed as if the majority of the laboratory apparatus had been removed. Compared to the chaos of the preceding laboratories, Nathanial found the order and simplicity of this one eerie.
A sound from the back of the laboratory caught Nathanial’s attention and he turned to see a door opening. Three Drobates entered.
The Drobates wore long white robes which buttoned up at the front, giving the robes a curious appearance of being both laboratory coat and papal smock. In their hands they carried instruments which glowed and blinked, clearly powered by electricity, although Nathanial could see no power cords linking them to a power source. The central figure was the shortest and boasted less developed muscles than the hulking specimens at either side of him who, while dressed in the same uniform, looked as if they were a private guard.
As one, they silently moved towards the group, who cocked their weapons, not allowing their eyes to drop from the Drobates for a second. The meeting would have almost certainly ended in gunfire were it not for a less graceful entrance behind them. The group, Drobates and humans alike, turned in the direction of the entrant.
The Drobates regarded him with evident reverence, the humans with mere astonishment. The newcomer was human, fast approaching his final big adventure in life; a man who was greatly changed from his days on Earth but still immediately recognisable.
“Uncle!”
“Ah, Annabelle my dear, I expect you’ll be here for me,” said Cyrus Grant.