Journey to the Heart of Luna - Andy Frankham-Allen [40]
“Captain Folkard is taking care of it, Miss Somerset. Why would Doctor Grant believe you to be a prisoner of the Russians?”
Before Miss Somerset could offer up an explanation, however, a choking sound came from Miller. All heads turned to look. The young man was staggering back, gloved-hands frantically reaching for his suit helmet. Platt reached him first, trying to calm him down. Stevenson had a feeling he knew the problem.
“Our hour’s up, sir,” he said, indicating the oxygen tank on Bedford’s back.
Bedford took a deep breath and almost choked himself. “Agreed, Mister Stevenson. We’re now running on residual oxygen. We must find one of those atmosphere pockets Doctor Grant mentioned in his…” He stopped abruptly. Miss Somerset was looking from him to Stevenson in bewilderment. “What is it, Miss Somerset?”
“I’m curious as to why you did not avail yourself of the oxygen cylinders on my uncle’s ship. They would have given you extra time.”
“Alas, we were busy escaping from enraged ants, Miss Somerset, while at the same time carrying injured personnel. One of which, you might recall, was you.”
“Nonetheless, the cylinders are quite small. Surely it would not have been so difficult to carry a few?”
Bedford narrowed his eyes, clearly not impressed with his decisions being questioned by a civilian. Especially one they had just rescued.
Stevenson stepped forward. “Lieutenant Bedford, sir, if I may interject?”
Bedford snapped his eyes at Stevenson. “You may,” he said.
“Regardless of the cylinders, we currently have no extra supply of oxygen, so at best we have ten minutes of residual oxygen left in our suits. The more we stand here and talk, the more air we are using up.”
“You are, of course, right,” Bedford agreed. He turned to Platt and Miller. “Have you quite calmed down now, Mister Miller?”
Miller swallowed and nodded meekly.
“Capital! Miss Somerset, are you familiar with these atmosphere pockets?”
“I am. Would you care for me to lead the way?”
Stevenson almost smiled at the sarcastic tone in her voice, but managed to restrain himself before Bedford noticed.
“If you would be so kind, yes.” Bedford turned to the rest of his team. “Until we reach this atmosphere pocket, I suggest we keep unnecessary chatter to a minimum, try to conserve what air we still have. We have lost three crewmembers already; I think I can speak for Captain Folkard when I say it would be appreciated if we could lose no more. Miss Somerset?”
“Of course, Lieutenant, if you men would like to follow me?”
She set off and the team followed, except for Stevenson who joined her at the head. Somerset cast him a sideways glance, noticing him shift the weight of the carbine in his arm. “Chivalry, Mister Stevenson?”
Stevenson smiled. “We may live in tough times, Miss Somerset, but it is not quite dead yet.”
“Well, as much I appreciate the sentiment,” she said and, with speed that surprised Stevenson, relived him of his weapon, which she promptly loaded, “I can look after myself.”
Laughter echoed in Stevenson’s helmet. He glanced back to see Bedford shaking his head, and offering out his Lee Metford carbine. Stevenson gladly accepted it, noting that Bedford removed his trusty Lancaster pistol from its holster. Miss Somerset was now some feet ahead, and Stevenson smiled ruefully at her back.
So you can, he thought.
5.
NATHANIAL WAS certain he was the first to hear it. A strange chittering sound ahead, as if someone was quickly snapping sticks together. It was not, however, a random sound. There was purpose to it. Multi-layered, as if…
“Captain!” Nathanial said, with a start. “I believe there is something ahead of us!”
Folkard and Ainsworth both pulled up short and listened. The sound was getting louder. Folkard turned to Ainsworth. “Stand ready,” he said, and armed his own weapon. Ainsworth did likewise.
The three men stood waiting, listening intently as the strange sound continued to approach. Nathanial had never