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realized that he
had gone considerably beyond the triple peak.
Without
his steady forward speed, he found it difficult for a moment to stand erect. He
braced against the movement of the big tank on his back, and turned around to
look back.
He
stared at the dark, earthlit ground over which he had been trotting. With the
looming mountain in the foreground, and the upthrust ringwalls of smaller
craterlets here and there above the level, aseptic frigidity of the plain, it
was a scene of complete desolation. It was more naked of life or any kind of
softness than any desert on Earth; yet to Hansen, it did not really seem like a
desert. There was some further overtone plucking at the fringe of his
consciousness.
Then it came to him.
"It's
like an oceanT he exclaimed . " There's something about it that's like .. . like a cold, gray, winter sea smashing in on a rocky coast!"
There was the same monstrous, chilling power,
the same effect upon the beholder that here was a massive, half-sentient entity
against whose callous strength and cruelty nothing human could stand. It was a thing to observe from a safe distance, to cower from lest it somehow become
aware of the puny structure of bone, blood, and flesh spying upon it. Then
there would be no escape, no withstanding the crushing force of its malice. But
he was on no safe cliff. He was down in the
sea.
He
looked around. Gray everywhere, mottled with inky shadows. Gray ash underfoot,
gray-and-black lumps thrusting up from the surface like colossal vertebrae,
gray distance in all directions.
"Been
going for hours," he thought, "and there's no sign, really, that I'll
ever get anywhere! I might as well be in the middle of the far side of
Pluto!"
The
huge mountain towered behind him, like a hulking beast from some alien world
stalking the only object in all its frozen world that
dared to move. Hansen suddenly could not bear to have his back turned to it. He
faced it and edged clumsily away. The helmet that reduced his field of vision
was his prison. If that black-shadowed mass of rock chose to topple over, it
would easily reach him, and more. He would be ground under countless tons of
weight, mangled and frozen in one instant—
Hansen whirled about and
bolted.
On his first stride, he caught the toe of his
right foot in the sand and sprawled forward with flailing arms. He plowed into
the ground, throwing up spurts of sand like a speedboat tossing spray.
Somehow, he was up immediately, running in
long, wobbling, forty-foot bounds. His eyes bulged and the breath rasped
between his hps as he strove desperately to keep his balance.
It was like running in a dream, the nightmare
come true. More than once, until he adapted to the pace, he found himself
churning two or three steps at the zenith of his trajectory, too impatient to
wait for the touch of boot on sand. There was sudden, dynamic power in his
tiring muscles. All his joints felt loose.
His
chest began to labor and he stumbled slightly. With a quick spasm, he blew his
lungs and sucked in a deeper breath. After a few repetitions, he felt a trifle
easier. In a minute he began to get his second wind. All this came like a
half-perceived process of instinct, while he concentrated narrowly upon
speeding ahead.
He
flew up a slight grade and took off in a soaring leap to the next crest of an
undulating stretch of pale yellow ash. The next thing he knew, he was rushing
upon a long shadow that barred his path.
A
hasty glance each way warned him there was no use trying to skirt it, for the
shadow or hole or whatever it was ran for hundreds of yards right and left.
Hansen stamped hard at the near edge and kicked off for at least sixty feet.
Something seemed to snap in his right knee, but he came down all right and kept
running, well clear of the shadow.
How
long he ran, dodging this way and that to avoid hills and shadows obstructing
his path, he did not know. In the end, the tiny motors of his suit fell behind
the rate at which he
had gone considerably beyond the triple peak.
Without
his steady forward speed, he found it difficult for a moment to stand erect. He
braced against the movement of the big tank on his back, and turned around to
look back.
He
stared at the dark, earthlit ground over which he had been trotting. With the
looming mountain in the foreground, and the upthrust ringwalls of smaller
craterlets here and there above the level, aseptic frigidity of the plain, it
was a scene of complete desolation. It was more naked of life or any kind of
softness than any desert on Earth; yet to Hansen, it did not really seem like a
desert. There was some further overtone plucking at the fringe of his
consciousness.
Then it came to him.
"It's
like an oceanT he exclaimed . " There's something about it that's like .. . like a cold, gray, winter sea smashing in on a rocky coast!"
There was the same monstrous, chilling power,
the same effect upon the beholder that here was a massive, half-sentient entity
against whose callous strength and cruelty nothing human could stand. It was a thing to observe from a safe distance, to cower from lest it somehow become
aware of the puny structure of bone, blood, and flesh spying upon it. Then
there would be no escape, no withstanding the crushing force of its malice. But
he was on no safe cliff. He was down in the
sea.
He
looked around. Gray everywhere, mottled with inky shadows. Gray ash underfoot,
gray-and-black lumps thrusting up from the surface like colossal vertebrae,
gray distance in all directions.
"Been
going for hours," he thought, "and there's no sign, really, that I'll
ever get anywhere! I might as well be in the middle of the far side of
Pluto!"
The
huge mountain towered behind him, like a hulking beast from some alien world
stalking the only object in all its frozen world that
dared to move. Hansen suddenly could not bear to have his back turned to it. He
faced it and edged clumsily away. The helmet that reduced his field of vision
was his prison. If that black-shadowed mass of rock chose to topple over, it
would easily reach him, and more. He would be ground under countless tons of
weight, mangled and frozen in one instant—
Hansen whirled about and
bolted.
On his first stride, he caught the toe of his
right foot in the sand and sprawled forward with flailing arms. He plowed into
the ground, throwing up spurts of sand like a speedboat tossing spray.
Somehow, he was up immediately, running in
long, wobbling, forty-foot bounds. His eyes bulged and the breath rasped
between his hps as he strove desperately to keep his balance.
It was like running in a dream, the nightmare
come true. More than once, until he adapted to the pace, he found himself
churning two or three steps at the zenith of his trajectory, too impatient to
wait for the touch of boot on sand. There was sudden, dynamic power in his
tiring muscles. All his joints felt loose.
His
chest began to labor and he stumbled slightly. With a quick spasm, he blew his
lungs and sucked in a deeper breath. After a few repetitions, he felt a trifle
easier. In a minute he began to get his second wind. All this came like a
half-perceived process of instinct, while he concentrated narrowly upon
speeding ahead.
He
flew up a slight grade and took off in a soaring leap to the next crest of an
undulating stretch of pale yellow ash. The next thing he knew, he was rushing
upon a long shadow that barred his path.
A
hasty glance each way warned him there was no use trying to skirt it, for the
shadow or hole or whatever it was ran for hundreds of yards right and left.
Hansen stamped hard at the near edge and kicked off for at least sixty feet.
Something seemed to snap in his right knee, but he came down all right and kept
running, well clear of the shadow.
How
long he ran, dodging this way and that to avoid hills and shadows obstructing
his path, he did not know. In the end, the tiny motors of his suit fell behind
the rate at which he
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