“What have you been doing here, Orthis?” I demanded. “You are under arrest, and supposed to be in your quarters.”
“You’ll see what I’ve been doing,” he replied truculently, “and it’s done-it’s done—it can’t ever be undone—I’ve seen to that.”
I grabbed him roughly by the shoulder. “What do you mean? Tell me what you have done, or by God I will kill you with my own hands,” for I knew, not only from his words but from his expressions, that he had accomplished something which he considered very terrible.
The man was a coward and he quailed under my grasp. “You wouldn’t dare to kill me,” he cried, and it don’t make any difference, for we’ll all be dead in a few hours. Go and look at your damned compass.
2
The Secret of the Moon
Norton, whose watch it was, had already hurried toward the pilot room where were located the controls and the various instruments. This room, which was just forward of the engine-room, was in effect a circular conning-tower which projected about twelve inches above the upper hull. The entire circumference of this twelve inch superstructure was set with small ports of thick crystal glass.
As I turned to follow Norton I spoke to West. “Mr. West,” I said, “you and Mr. Jay will place Lieutenant Commander Orthis in irons immediately. If he resists, kill him.”
As I hurried after Norton I heard a volley of oaths from Orthis and a burst of almost maniacal laughter. When I reached the pilot house I found Norton working very quietly with the controls. There was nothing hysterical in his movements, but his face was absolutely ashen.
“What is wrong, Mr. Norton?” I asked. But as I looked at the compass simultaneously I read my answer there before he spoke. We were moving at right angles to our proper course.
“We are falling toward the Moon, sir,” he said, “and she does not respond to her control.”
“Shut down the engines,” I ordered, “they are only accelerating our fall.” “Aye, aye, sir,” he replied.
“The Lunar Eighth Ray tank is of sufficient capacity to keep us off the Moon,” I said. “If it has not been tampered with, we should be in no danger of falling to the Moon’s surface.”
“If it has not been tampered with, sir; yes, sir, that is what I have been thinking.”
“But the gauge here shows it full to capacity,” I reminded him.
“I know, sir,” he replied, “but if it were full to capacity, we should not be falling so rapidly.”
Immediately I fell to examining the gauge, almost at once discovering that it had been tampered with and the needle set permanently to indicate a maximum supply. I turned to my companion.
“Mr. Norton,” I said, “please go forward and investigate the Lunar Eighth Ray tank, and report back to me immediately.”
The young man saluted and departed. As he approached the tank it was necessary for him to crawl through a very restricted place beneath the deck.
In about five minutes Norton returned. He was not so pale as he had been, but he looked very haggard. “Well?” I inquired as he halted before me. “The exterior intake value has been opened, sir,” he said, “the rays were escaping into space. I have closed it, sir.”
The valve to which he referred was used only when the ship was in dry dock, for the purpose of refilling the buoyancy tank, and, because it was so seldom used and a further precaution against accident, the valve was placed in an inaccessible part of the hull where there was absolutely no likelihood of its being accidentally opened.
Norton glanced at the instrument. “We are not falling quite so rapidly now,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied, “I had noted that, and I have also been able to adjust the Lunar Eighth Ray gauge-it shows that we have about half the original pressure.”
“Not enough to keep us from going aground,” he commented.
“No, not here, where there is no atmosphere. If the Moon had an atmosphere we could at least keep off the surface if we wished to. As it is, however, I imagine that we will be able to make a safe landing, though, of course that will do us little good. You understand, I suppose, Mr. Norton, that this is practically the end.”
He nodded. “It will be a sad blow to the inhabitants of two worlds,” he remarked, his entire forgetfulness of self indicating the true nobility of his character.
“It is a sad report to broadcast,” I remarked, “but it must be done, and at once. You will, please, send the following message to the Secretary of Peace:
“U.S.S. The Barsoom, January 6, 2026, about twenty thousand miles off the Moon. Lieutenant Commander Orthis, while under the influence of liquor, has destroyed auxiliary engine and opened exterior intake valve Lunar Eighth Ray buoyancy tank. Ship sinking rapidly. Will keep you—”
Norton who had seated himself at the radio desk leaped suddenly to his feet and turned toward me. “My God, sir,” he cried, “he has destroyed the radio outfit also. We can neither send nor receive.”
A careful examination revealed the fact that Orthis had so cleverly and completely destroyed the instruments that there was no hope of repairing them. I turned to Norton.
“We are not only dead, Norton, but we are buried as well.”
I smiled as I spoke and he answered me with a smile that betokened his utter fearlessness of death.
“I have but one regret, sir,” he said, “and that is that the world will never know that our failure was not due to any weakness of our machinery, ship or equipment.”
I called to West and Jay who by this time had placed Orthis in irons and confined him to his stateroom. When they came I told them what had happened, and they took it as coolly as did Norton. Nor was I surprised, for these were fine types selected from the best of that splendid organization which officered the International Peace Fleet.
Together we immediately made a careful inspection of the ship, which revealed no further damage than that which we had already discovered, but which was sufficient as we well knew, to preclude any possibility of our escaping from the pull of the Moon.
“You gentlemen realize our position as well as I,” I told them. “Could we repair the auxiliary generator we might isolate the Lunar Eighth Ray, refill our tank, and resume our voyage. But the diabolical cleverness with which Lieutenant Commander Orthis has wrecked the machine renders this impossible. We might fight away from the surface of the Moon for a considerable period, but in the end it would avail us nothing. It is my plan, therefore, to make a landing. In so far as the actual lunar conditions are concerned, we are confronted only by a mass of theories, many of which are conflicting. It will, therefore, be at least a matter of consuming interest to us to make a landing upon this dead world where we may observe it closely, but there is also the possibility, remote I grant you, that we may discover conditions here which may in some manner alleviate our position. At least we can be no worse off. To live for fifteen years cooped in the hull of this dead ship is unthinkable. I may speak only for myself, but to me it would be highly preferable to die immediately than to live on thus, knowing that there was no hope of rescue. Had Orthis not destroyed the radio outfit we could have communicated with Earth and another ship been outfitted and sent to our rescue inside a year. But now we cannot tell them, and they will never know our fate. The emergency that has arisen has, however, so altered conditions that I do not feel warranted in taking this step without consulting you gentlemen. It is a matter now largely of the duration of our lives. I—cannot proceed upon the mission upon which I have been dispatched, nor can I return to Earth. I wish, therefore, that you would express yourselves freely concerning the plan which I have outlined.”