Bourne grinned. “How sad for you English that you are cut off from your newest colony. You could have taught these Phoebeans how to salute your flag; or how to institute a Parliament, as you did the hapless Indians.”
I laughed at this, but Holden bristled and said: “Or you Frenchies could instruct them in the techniques of revolution. They are surely mindless and destructive enough for that.”
I said, “Gentlemen, please; this is hardly a moment for such squabbling.” I looked at Traveller expectantly. “Sir Josiah, you mentioned our return to Earth. And so we are saved, are we not?”
Traveller smiled at me, not unkindly, and pointed to the hatch set in the ceiling. “See for yourself.”
I loosened my restraint, handed Pocket the remains of my cigar for neat disposal, and left my brandy globe to hover in the air; and then, still in my towelling robe, I jumped up to the hatch and passed through into the Bridge.
The Bridge was a place of spectral beauty; the various dials and panels shone in the faint yellow glow of their Ruhmkorff lights like the candlelit faces of carol-singers; and the whole was awash in a soft blue light: this was the light of Earth, which hung directly above the glass dome of the roof.
I stared up at that lovely island of water and cloud, and at the fizzing spark of the Little Moon which soared over the oceans; and, though I knew that we had many days of travel through space still to endure, every moment that passed would bring me closer to my home, and to the world of human affairs from which I had been plucked: to the world of war—and of love.
I stared at the planet until it seemed to me that the glimmering ocean was overlaid with the soft eyes of Françoise, my beacon of hope.
12
THE AIR OF ENGLAND
Josiah Traveller brought the Phaeton back to England on 20 September 1870.
The engineer jockeyed his battered craft through the fires of air friction, the globe-circling winds of the upper atmosphere, and finally a quite devastating thunderstorm: still a mile from the ground we cowered in our seats, peering fearfully through the ports at swords of lightning which leapt from cloud to cloud; and we imagined that we had passed through Earth all the way to Hell.
And at last the Phaeton, having all but exhausted its precious lunar water, settled with a bump into the soft, stubble-covered soil of a Kent farm. The rockets died for the last time, and silence settled over the Smoking Cabin which had become our prison. Pocket, Holden and I stared at each other with wild anticipation. Then we heard the soft sigh of the air of England against the outer skin of the craft; and we let out yells as we realized that we were at last home.
The Frenchman, Bourne, wept softly into the palm of his hand. I noticed this and, drawn by an odd sympathy I had acquired for the fellow, might have said some words to give him comfort. But my blood was racing at the thought that I had returned to my home country; a return that had seemed inconceivable through most of our astounding flight beyond the atmosphere. And so I pushed aside my restraints, still yelling like a coot, and stood up—
—and was floored, as fast as by any brawler’s haymaker, by my own astonishing weight!
My legs had crumpled like paper, and I found my face pressed uncomfortably against the deck. With arms which trembled from the strain I pushed myself upright and rested my back against the padded wall. “My word, fellows, this gravity has given us all a pack to wear.”
Holden nodded. “Traveller did warn us of the debilitating consequences of a lack of weight.”
“Yes; and so much for all his wretched exercise regimes. To the Moon with a set of Indian clubs! Well, I’d like to see how the great man himself is bearing up under this once-familiar strain…” But Holden shamed me with his reminder that Traveller was an old man who should not be encouraged to strain his heart. And so it was I who crawled like a weakened child to the large hatchway set in the wall of the Cabin.
After much effort I succeeded in turning the locking wheel, and I kicked open the heavy hatch.
A draft of cool air, the essence of a fresh English autumn afternoon, gushed into the craft. I heard Holden and Pocket sigh over the crisp oxygen, and even Bourne looked up from his introverted weeping. I lay on my back and sucked in that wonderful atmosphere, and felt the blood course through my cheeks at the nip of cold. “How stale the air was in this ship!” I said.
Holden breathed deeply, coughing. “Traveller’s chemical system is a scientific marvel. But I have to agree, Ned; the piped air in this box has become steadily more foul.”
Now I pushed myself upright and slithered forward until my legs were dangling over the ten-foot drop to the dark loam of Kent; I gazed out over fields, hedgerow, threads of smoke from farmhouse fires and copses.
I looked down, wondering how I might reach the ground—and found myself staring into the wide, ruddy face of a farmer. He wore a battered but respectable tweed suit, muddied Wellington boots and a straw hat; and he carried a large pitchfork, held before him as if for defense. As he gazed at our unlikely craft his mouth hung open, showing poor teeth.
I surreptitiously made sure my tie was straight and waved to him. “Good afternoon, sir.”
He stumbled back three paces, held up the pitchfork at me and his jaw dropped further.
I raised my hands and essayed my most diplomatic smile. “Sir, we are Englishmen; you need fear nothing, despite the extraordinary manner of our arrival.” It was time to be modest. “You have no doubt heard of us. I am of the party of Sir Josiah Traveller, and this is the Phaeton.”
I paused, expecting instant recognition—surely we had been the subject of press speculation since our disappearance—but the worthy rustic merely scowled and uttered a syllable I interpreted as: “Who?”
I began to explain, but my words sounded fantastic even to my own ears, and the farmer merely frowned with ever greater suspicion. So at last I gave it up. “Sir, let me emphasize the pertinent fact: which is that we are four Englishmen, and a French, in desperate need of your assistance. Despite my youth and health I cannot even support my own weight, thanks to the astounding experiences to which I have been subject. I therefore ask you, as one Christian to another, if you will forward the help we need.”
The farmer’s face, red as an apple, was a picture of mistrust. But at last, after muttering something about the acres of stubble we’d scorched to a crisp, he lowered his pitchfork and approached the vessel.
The farmer’s name was Clay Lubbock.
It took Lubbock and two of his strongest lads to carry us from the ship. They used slings of rope to lower us from one strong set of arms to another. Then we were loaded on to a bullock cart and, swathed in sheets, hauled off across the broken ground to the farmhouse. Traveller, his voice rendered uneven by the jolting of the cart, remarked on the irony of our rapid descent through the technological strata; but his own appearance—thin, fragile and deathly pale—belied his jocular words, and none of us responded.
The rustics stared in silent fascination at Traveller’s platinum nose.
In the farmhouse we were greeted by Mrs. Lubbock, a bluff, gray woman with massive, hair-coated forearms; without questions or how-do-you-do’s she assessed our condition with the ready eye of a buyer of livestock and despite some protests from Traveller, soon had us wrapped up warmly before a roaring fire and was pouring thick chicken stock into us. Lubbock, meanwhile, set off to town on his fastest horse to spread the word of our return.