ADRIFT IN THE SOLAR REGIONS
Life in the Argenta became very monotonous. After the first throes of
despair, the glimpse of the glorious expanse of the Heavens served to
cheer the prisoners within the ship. They had no clocks that were going.
During the terror of the first few days time had mattered so little to
them that they had let them run down. They now arranged to set all the
clocks, and judge the time accordingly, and plan out their days. Rise at
eight; lunch at one; tea at four; and dinner at seven and then to bed.
The “night” would pass and they would begin another “day.”
They reckoned they had sufficient food to last the twelve earth months,
and they could exist in comfort for three hundred and sixty-five days.
And with the minutest care, perhaps even longer. “We can’t live in space
for more than twelve months, surely,” said Mavis, but Sir John did not
answer her. They had consumed perhaps an eighth of their water supply,
and had the supply of concentrated water essence untouched. Still, they
were afraid to waste any for washing purposes, and considered it a treat
to be allowed to dip their fingers in any fluid that was left over from
cooking; even a drop of cold tea proved a boon to them, and they
gratefully damped cloths in it and wiped their hot and dry faces.
Alan fixed a piece of paper on the wall of the front cabin, and every
night before they retired, he would tick off the number of the day from
the time they had reset their clocks and begin to count again. Thirty,
forty, fifty, so the “days” passed, and little John Alan grew
enormously. The few garments that had been packed in their hurried
flight were now too small for him, and Mavis was forced to use some of
her own dresses, and cut them up for the growing child. He alone was
unconscious of the danger of their peculiar position, and he crowed and
gurgled and bit his toes, in complete babyish happiness and delight. If
anything, Mavis had grown more beautiful after the arrival of her child.
Her eyes glowed with maternal pride, and her cheeks were flushed with
joy as she watched her baby, born into such a strange life, grow day by
day fairer and more loving.
The library aboard, which Sir John had had the foresight to install in
his giant Argenta, proved a godsend to the weary travellers. Every day
they read aloud some old literary favourite, and renewed their
acquaintance with Sam Weller, Pip, the Aged P, and Little Nell; laughed
over the experiences of the “Innocents Abroad” enjoyed again the story
of “Three Men in a Boat.” But even with these diversions, with chess,
dominoes, and draughts; with singing and playing, they grew tired of
their enforced inactivity, and chafed at their surroundings.
Their air supply was excellent; the mechanism never failed in its work;
certainly the air grew hot and fetid at times but by the aid of electric
fans it was freshened and purified. Every day they looked out of the
little glass window, and drank in the glories of the heavens.
One day, it was the ninety-eighth according to Alan’s chart, Mavis
startled them all by a sudden exclamation.
“What is it, my dear?” asked Sir John, looking up from an interesting
game of chess he was enjoying with Alan.
“Look at Jupiter! Isn’t he large to-night?” said she. “Why, yesterday he
looked like a big star, to-day he is like the moon at harvest time.”
They all crowded round the little window.
“By Jove, you’re right,” said Alan. “We must be sailing in a direct line
toward him.”
“How plain the clouds are upon him,” said Desmond. “You can see them
plainly right across his face.”
The belts across the face of Jupiter were certainly very plain; across
the surface of the planet they floated pearly white, like masses of
“snow-clouds” as seen in England on a hot summer’s day. From the
equatorial region they merged, both north and south from a glorious
coppery colour, becoming a deep, ruddy purplish tint at the poles.
“Are they clouds like ours?” asked Mavis wonderingly.
“I don’t think it has ever been proved what they really are,” answered
Alan. “I think the general theory is, that those clouds as you call them
are, in reality, a vapour-laden atmosphere that floats across the orb.”
“I should love to go there,” said Mavis.
“Well, it looks as though we were making for that part of the
firmament,” said her uncle.
“It certainly does,” she retorted. “But when shall we reach there?”
At that moment Masters and Hector came in, in great excitement.
“The engines are working,” announced Hector enthusiastically.
“What!” from all.
“It’s true. Masters and I were tinkering at them this morning, when
suddenly the little starting cog flew round, there was a roar, a flash
of sparks, and they started properly.”
This was indeed good news, for ever since the end of the world the
airship had been propelled through space by some unknown outside
influence; her engines not only refused to work but her steering
apparatus refused to act.
“I intend navigating straight ahead,” announced Masters. “I’ll have
eight engines going, and then we ought to get up a speed of over four
hundred and fifty miles; that together with the pace we are already
travelling should help us considerably in reaching somewhere, if there
is anywhere for us to get.”
Eagerly they all went into the engine room, and watched first one, then
another of the powerful engines set going. They were however surprised
to find that they felt no difference in their speed; yet the speedometer
registered four hundred and twenty miles, and all eight engines were
working merrily.
They went back to the bows, and watched the universe stretched out
before them. They passed close to a star, whose name they did not know,
and its radiance lit up the little cabin for fourteen days, that were
marked off religiously on Alan’s calendar. Then came another terrible
time, when depression took hold of them all again, and they would sit,
silent, staring into space. Their eyes were dull and lustreless; their
limbs cramped from lack of exercise, and their brains torpid and
sluggish.
Perhaps Alan felt the deprivation of air and exercise most, but he
continued to be the cheeriest of them all.
“Oh, for some green vegetables,” sighed Mavis one day. John Alan had
been particularly restless, and she felt more than usually miserable.
“And plenty of nice rabbit food,” went on Alan cheerfully. “Crisp, long
lettuces, the rosy radish, juicy tomatoes, and above all the cool,
refreshing slices of the unwholesome cucumber.”
“Oh, Alan, I’m so miserable,” she sobbed. “Will this awful existence
never end? Shall we just die here, and this ship become the meteoric
tomb of seven unfortunates of the world? A tomb always spinning on, on,
through endless space, through endless time, like some lost soul.”
“Lost world, you mean,” corrected Alan. “You are mixing your metaphors,
and when a lady does that, it’s a sure sign she wants a cup of tea!”
“I don’t want a cup of tea, Alan. I just want to get a breath of air.
Alan, couldn’t you persuade Masters to open the shutters? Couldn’t we
just go on to the deck for five minutes—only five minutes?” she pleaded.
“My dear,” said Alan gently. “It’s quite impossible. Now listen
carefully to what I am saying. Long, long ago, we were out of the
atmosphere and the gravitation of our earth. In some way or other, the
tornado that accompanied the end of our world drove us through space
where nothing is! Oh, I know it sounds complicated, dear, but by all the
knowledge of science, as taught by the most advanced astronomers, long
ago we should have been suspended in space, unable to move or be moved,
outside the gravitation of other worlds; just atoms, motionless, still.
That hasn’t happened. We have defied the great authorities, and are
being whirled through the heavens by some power unheard of by the
scientists of the earth. Still, dear, we do not know whether there is
air outside. Should we lift the shutters that protect us, we might find
we were unable to exist.”
“That’s the word,” cried Mavis. “We aren’t living now. We are only
existing. We don’t know from hour to hour what terrible fate may await
us. If by lifting the shutters we kill ourselves, surely that is better
than this lingering death.”
“Mavis, Mavis, don’t.”
“Do you know we have only a month’s supply of food left?”
Alan looked at her in horror. “You don’t mean that, Mavis?” said he
incredulously.
“My dear Alan, you are just like all men. Sufficient for the day! That’s
your motto. You never enquired about the food. Since I took over the
culinary department, none of you have worried a bit, while day by day
I’ve seen our stock of provisions grow less and less. In a month’s time,
Alan, our food will be totally exhausted.”
“What about the condensed foods?”
“Oh we still have some of them—perhaps with extreme care they would last
another four weeks, and then—the end.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before, Mavis?”
“Oh I couldn’t,” hysterically. “You were all so contented. Besides I
didn’t realize the seriousness of it myself until to-day. Our flour is
nearly gone. You yourself said the bread wasn’t as good this morning. Of
course it wasn’t. It was just mixtures of every cereal I could think of
to try and make it last out.”
This news was indeed serious, and Alan walked thoughtfully to his chart.
Yes, he ought to have known. It registered five hundred and fifty-five
days. Over eighteen earth months they had been flying through the
heavens. Their food had lasted magnificently.
“Water?” he queried.
“We finished the tank water long ago. I’m pretty well through with the
cubes.”
“Let me come and see the food supply.”
Carefully he went over every item. Even yet, there seemed to be enough
to feed an army, but he knew how little there was in reality. “I think
if we have one good meal a day, we ought to make it last longer,” said
he. “After all, one good meal is better than three small ones, and
incidentally, we save over the one transaction. We must sleep longer,
that’s all. We will get up at noon, and have a cup of tea and a biscuit.
At four we will have dinner, and if we retire at eight, a cup of cocoa
then should suffice us. The longer we remain in bed the less food we
shall require. Come, let us tell the others.”
Sir John took the news very quietly. Not a muscle of his face
twitched—he might have been receiving a most ordinary announcement.
Masters shrugged his shoulders indifferently, and Murdoch went on with
his work as if he had not heard. Desmond took the news badly, however.
His face grew ashen. “Why should this have come upon us?” he cried. “We
had been through so much. Happiness came my way at last, and now—” He
drew Mavis fiercely to him. “I won’t lose you. There must be some way
out.”
“There is none, my boy,” said Sir John, “so you had better make up your
mind to that at once. Here we are and here we must remain, till by some
merciful intervention, we die, or are given release.”
“Where shall we ever find release?” from Desmond.
“In some new world, perhaps.”
“How big Jupiter is,” said Alan, looking out into the vastness. “He is
certainly a wonderful planet,” said Mavis.
“Is it my fancy or are we slowing down?” asked Sir John.
“I’ve wondered the same thing myself,” said Masters. “For the last few
days I have noticed an appreciable difference in our speed.”
But although the difference was so slight as to be almost undiscernible,
the new topic of conversation gave the prisoners new life.
The days passed—the quantity of the food they consumed grew daily less
and less, and they were growing weaker and weaker every day. At length
they gave up their cup of tea in the mornings—their tea had gone. Then
they halved their dinner portions making one day’s share of food last
two! But all the same the dreaded day came only too soon, and five
hundred and ninety-five days after Alan had put up his calendar, they
found they had only a few tins of concentrated food left. They were all
hungry. Little John Alan grew fretful, his mother feverish. There was
silence in the little front cabin, the silence of the grave. The little
party were all half asleep, when suddenly Alan rose. “What’s the
matter?” he asked quickly.
“What is it?” asked his uncle.
“Don’t you realize?—we’ve stopped! We’ve stopped!” It was true, the
Argenta was stationary at last! At the same moment Masters came rushing
in.
“We’ve stopped!” he cried. “The engines have refused again to work.”
They all crowded round the little “lookout,” but could see nothing. For
the first time for nearly two years their vision was limited. Gone was
the brightness of Jupiter, gone the glorious Magellanic Cloud—gone, too,
the many thousand points of light that enriched the heavens. All about
them was a moving vapour. It was unlike clouds, but surged and swirled
like heavy snow flakes. It was a whitish vapour that looked like
steam—that altered again and took on the hue of thick yellowish smoke.
“Where are we?” asked Mavis. “Can’t we get out?”
“We’ll see,” said Alan soothingly.
But still Mavis went on pleadingly. “Oh surely our chance has come at
last. If we opened the shutters now, we might get free altogether.”
The next morning, Murdoch was missing. His bed had not been slept in.
“Where’s Murdoch?” asked Alan of Masters.
“I don’t know. I’ve been expecting him to relieve me in the engine room
every minute. Is he in the kitchen?”
“No. I can’t find him anywhere.”
“Good God! Then I know what he has done,” said Masters brokenly. “He was
very upset over Mrs. Desmond yesterday. She wanted me to open the
shutters. Come.”
At the stern of the ship and on the lower deck was a little trap door in
the metal covering. “He’s gone through there,” said Masters hoarsely.
“He asked me a lot of questions about it last night. I told him about
the mechanism of this trap and he suggested we should go out on deck,
and see if it was possible to breathe out there. I laughed at him and
thought no more about the matter.”
As he was speaking he deftly wound a scarf about his nose and mouth, and
stuffed his ears with cotton wool saturated with oil. He touched a
spring and a sheet of metal unfolded and when it rested at last in
position, it formed a tiny air tight closet outside the trap. “I shall
open the trap as quickly as I can,” said he quickly. “On the other side
the deck is opened up and there is a space left large enough to test
thoroughly the outer air. But by the aid of this “cubby-hole” we still
have our ether protection kept safe all round the ship. Now I am going
out to see if Murdoch is there. If I don’t come back, don’t search for
me. It will be too late.”
“Masters, don’t go!” urged Alan.
“I must go,” grimly, “but I beg of you, if I don’t return in ten
minutes, forget I ever existed.”
Without another word he slipped into the little boxlike chamber, and the
door snapped to after him. They heard the sound of a click, rushing air,
and then, silence.
Five minutes passed—six—seven—eight. Sir John, Desmond and Mavis had
come up in time to hear the trap close, and quickly Alan explained the
position.
“Why did you let him go?” cried Mavis.
“Murdoch went for you, my dear,” he answered sternly. “Masters went to
save him.”
Mavis covered her face with her hands, and the tears trickled down her
face.
“My dear, don’t take it to heart,” went on Alan kindly. “If anything
happens to Murdoch, he will have given his life for his friends.”
Then a muffled cry came from within the little chamber. Quickly Alan
touched the lever, the folds of metal rolled back, and two figures fell
forward on their faces.
“Water,” commanded Alan, and Mavis rushed to get some.
“Have you any brandy left?” asked Sir John.
“A very little.”
“Bring some too,” he cried as Mavis disappeared into the kitchen.
Tenderly they wiped blood and sweat from the faces of the unconscious
men.
Masters opened his eyes. “Out there,” said he hoarsely. “Terrible
smell—sulphuric—can’t breathe properly—whirling clouds—eyes smart—don’t
go again.”
“He’ll do,” said Sir John. “How’s Murdoch?”
“He’s so terribly cold,” said Mavis.
Alan took his place by the still form. “Brandy,” said he. He looked at
the man on the floor. Thick veins like whipcords stood out upon his
forehead. Blood trickled from his nose, his ears, his mouth. His lips
were swollen, and were blue in colour and cracked.
“He’s gone,” said Alan.
“Dead?” cried Mavis in horror.
“Quite dead.” Gently they carried the dead man, who had risked his life
for his friends, to his little sleeping cabin. Tenderly they laid him on
his bed, covered up his face, and closed the door softly behind them.
Then they went back to Mavis who was watching over Masters.
“How is he?” asked Desmond.
“Better, I think. He asked for water. I think he is sleeping now.”
Alan bent over their old and valued friend. The look of pallor had
vanished, the veins subsided, he was breathing naturally.
“Poor Murdoch,” sobbed Mavis. “I feel it was my fault. I was always
worrying you to open the shutters and let us go outside.”
“Don’t worry, little one,” said Sir John. “He died like an English
gentleman.”
“Oh how terrible everything is,” she sobbed hysterically. “There seems
no end to our torment. Oh this horrible place, this horrible ship of
doom!”