“Lord!” I gasped.  “But this—­”

I craned my neck to see.  I perceived there was a blinding glare outside, an utter change from the gloomy darkness of our first impressions.  “Have I been insensible long?” I asked.

“I don’t know—­the chronometer is broken.  Some little time....  My dear chap!  I have been afraid...”

I lay for a space taking this in.  I saw his face still bore evidences of emotion.  For a while I said nothing.  I passed an inquisitive hand over my contusions, and surveyed his face for similar damages.  The back of my right hand had suffered most, and was skinless and raw.  My forehead was bruised and had bled.  He handed me a little measure with some of the restorative—­I forget the name of it—­he had brought with us.  After a time I felt a little better.  I began to stretch my limbs carefully.  Soon I could talk.

“It wouldn’t have done,” I said, as though there had been no interval.

“No! it wouldn’t.”

He thought, his hands hanging over his knees.  He peered through the glass and then stared at me.

“Good Lord!” he said.  “No!”

“What has happened?” I asked after a pause.  “Have we jumped to the tropics?”

“It was as I expected.  This air has evaporated—­if it is air.  At any rate, it has evaporated, and the surface of the moon is showing.  We are lying on a bank of earthy rock.  Here and there bare soil is exposed.  A queer sort of soil!”

It occurred to him that it was unnecessary to explain.  He assisted me into a sitting position, and I could see with my own eyes.

Chapter 8

A Lunar Morning

The harsh emphasis, the pitiless black and white of scenery had altogether disappeared.  The glare of the sun had taken upon itself a faint tinge of amber; the shadows upon the cliff of the crater wall were deeply purple.  To the eastward a dark bank of fog still crouched and sheltered from the sunrise, but to the westward the sky was blue and clear.  I began to realise the length of my insensibility.

We were no longer in a void.  An atmosphere had arisen about us.  The outline of things had gained in character, had grown acute and varied; save for a shadowed space of white substance here and there, white substance that was no longer air but snow, the arctic appearance had gone altogether.  Everywhere broad rusty brown spaces of bare and tumbled earth spread to the blaze of the sun.  Here and there at the edge of the snowdrifts were transient little pools and eddies of water, the only things stirring in that expanse of barrenness.  The sunlight inundated the upper two blinds of our sphere and turned our climate to high summer, but our feet were still in shadow, and the sphere was lying upon a drift of snow.

And scattered here and there upon the slope, and emphasised by little white threads of unthawed snow upon their shady sides, were shapes like sticks, dry twisted sticks of the same rusty hue as the rock upon which they lay.  That caught one’s thoughts sharply.  Sticks!  On a lifeless world?  Then as my eye grew more accustomed to the texture of their substance, I perceived that almost all this surface had a fibrous texture, like the carpet of brown needles one finds beneath the shade of pine trees.