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had to work out what was best for the expedition as a whole. I did not argue; there would have been no point. But I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I know I did see something, and something that moved. And it looked like a gigantic flower. I’d been hoping to get back to that region and explore it properly, while whoever was with me was asleep. I suppose Lew guessed this, or maybe thought I was unbalanced and a risk on that account. The thing is, we have more than another year to stick out before we go back. That’s a long time to have people looking sideways at you. Whereas if I can establish that there really is something there, bring back proof . . . I’m on duty with Mike and Benny next. They’ve got this craze for playing cribbage. I can get out without them noticing, and the crawler’s ready and stocked. I’ll come back with proof. They won’t be able to deny it then.’”
    Steve looked up. “That’s the end.”
    Marty said: “That journal . . . it must have been written by Andrew Thurgood. The one who’s listed as ‘not recovered.’”
    â€œWell, obviously,” Steve said. “Didn’t you realize?”
    â€œThey didn’t say anything in the books about flowers or anything—only about him taking a crawler without authorization and not coming back.”
    â€œI suppose Lewin Mclnnes didn’t put it in his log, either. The accounts do say Thurgood was behaving queerly.”
    â€œA giant flower.” Marty shook his head. “I suppose he went on looking for it till it was too late to get back. He wouldn’t want to admit the others had been right.”
    â€œIf they were right.”
    â€œWhat else? He must have been mad.”
    â€œHe doesn’t sound mad. Everything’s very matter-­of-fact apart from the flower bit. And where he’s considering the possibility of it being a hallucination—­that doesn’t read like someone who’s out of his mind.”
    â€œAll right. Maybe he found the flower. A Moon-flower. Maybe he climbed up it and found a land full of Moon-giants. He didn’t come back, did he? Even if he got lost, he could have radioed for help. But he didn’t call them at all. Would a sane man let himself die rather than admit he was wrong?”
    â€œI don’t know,” Steve said. “We could check, though.”
    â€œHow do you mean, check? Check what? It was more than seventy years ago.”
    â€œThe grid hasn’t changed.” He leafed back through the pages of the journal, looking for something. “I thought so: he gives the positional ­co-ordinates. 217-092. We can go and have a look.”
    â€œHave a look for what? The flower?”
    â€œMaybe. Or Thurgood’s crawler. He’s bound to have headed back there.”
    â€œYou’re joking, aren’t you?” Marty said.
    â€œJoking? No. Maybe something went wrong with his radio—those early sets were always going on the blink.”
    â€œI’m talking about us. You weren’t serious about going up there to look for him?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    Marty took a deep breath. “Because I reckon it’s time we headed back for the Bubble. We’re in ­trouble enough as it is, and my guess is that the longer we stay away the worse it’s going to be.”
    â€œThat’s one way of looking at it,” Steve said. He was very calm and assured. “Or you could say that since we already are in deep trouble it can hardly be much worse.”
    â€œIt’s been a waste of time coming here.”
    â€œI don’t know.” Steve held the book up. “You found this.”
    â€œThat won’t help us much,” Marty said bitterly. “One or two historians on Earth may find it interesting but I don’t think Mr. Sherrin is likely to think it justifies anything.”
    â€œBut if Thurgood was right—if there