Journey to the Heart of Luna - Andy Frankham-Allen [32]
3.
“NOW AT a depth of fifteen kilometres, sir,” the coxswain said.
“And still no glow,” Folkard pointed out to Nathanial.
Nathanial had to confess he was somewhat disappointed. It seemed they had been descending the gorge for an eternity, although in truth it was probably no more than twenty minutes. So far there was little of interest to be seen. Just rock all around them. He, like Folkard, had felt sure they were on the right track. That this is where either Doctor Grant or the Russians had gone. Perhaps such gorges did exist in the other craters that scarred the surface of Luna, just as Folkard had surmised. None other, though, was the source of the glow. A fact that almost certainly would have attracted the attention of the Russians. It was a foregone conclusion; after all they already knew that both nastavnik Tereshkov and Doctor Grant displayed a more than idle curiosity about the glow.
“The glow is clearly not a continuous occurrence, Captain. Perhaps it is the result of some heretofore unknown intelligence.”
“An…alien intelligence, Professor? Further supposition about the moon men?”
“Maybe, after all there has never been any indication that the glow appears at regularly occurring intervals. Perhaps it is some form of communication, analogous to the smoke signals of the Indians?”
“If that is so, Professor, who could these moon men be communicating with?”
“Another mystery, Captain. It seems this mission is replete with them.”
Folkard smiled. “All the best missions are, Professor, that is why I am out…” His riposte was cut short by an abrupt jerking of the ship. He turned to the coxswain, as Nathanial grabbed at the nearest station for support. “Report, coxswain!”
“Sir, the aether propeller appears to be having trouble responding,” the coxswain said, as he tried to manipulate the aether wheel.
The pipe whistled and the bosun snatched it up quickly, putting the end to his ear. He listened, responded, then turned to the captain. “That was the trimsman in the liftwood room, sir. It would appear the liftwood is reacting to something.”
“Reacting? How is that possible? Mister Dinnick, contact the engine room and discover the situation with the aether propeller.”
Still the bridge continued to shake, as the coxswain attempted to coax a response from the propeller. Nathanial looked out of the glass window, something in the back of his mind was trying to wiggle its way free. Something Annabelle had told…
His eyes widened in alarm at the sight of the gorge wall drawing closer.
“Captain, we’re going to be smashed into little bits!”
“At ease, Professor, the Sovereign can withstand a little buffering against rock.”
Nathanial wished he could agree, but since Folkard appeared to be so nonplussed by the situation he decided he would also attempt the same resolve. Nathanial turned his mind to the problem. The propeller was designed to work at its best in the aether, or in a marginal way in the thin atmosphere high above the Earth’s surface. For the latter it needed the assistance of the liftwood. In the upper atmosphere the propeller merely served to direct the ship with more accuracy, it was the liftwood that kept the ship afloat.
“Of course!” Nathanial exclaimed, slapping his forehead. “Captain, I know to what the liftwood is responding,” he said as he staggered across the bridge. He stumbled into the bulkhead and reached out his left hand to stop himself from hitting it too hard. He let out a gasp of pain as the bandage pressed even tighter over his burned hand.
“Professor, are you okay?” asked a member of the bridge crew.
Nathanial did his best to ignore his throbbing hand, and nodded. “I will survive,” he said, with a wan smile. He would have to visit Doctor Beverly again at some point, see if he could receive something for the pain. For now, though, he carried on towards Captain Folkard. “We have hit an atmosphere pocket,” he said once he reached the bosun’s station.
“Professor?” asked the puzzled captain.
“In Miss Somerset’s letters to me she told me that in