I tried to imagine what could have happened to him. But at that time I

could think of nothing but death. I seemed to see him, bent and smashed

at the foot of some interminably high cascade of blue. And all about him

the stupid insects stared...

Under the inspiring touch of the drifting newspaper I became practical

again for a while. It was quite clear to me that what I had to do was to

get back to earth, but as far as I could see I was drifting away from it.

Whatever had happened to Cavor, even if he was still alive, which seemed

to me incredible after that blood-stained scrap, I was powerless to help

him. There he was, living or dead behind the mantle of that rayless night,

and there he must remain at least until I could summon our fellow men to

his assistance. Should I do that? Something of the sort I had in my mind;

to come back to earth if it were possible, and then as maturer

consideration might determine, either to show and explain the sphere to a

few discreet persons, and act with them, or else to keep my secret, sell

my gold, obtain weapons, provisions, and an assistant, and return with

these advantages to deal on equal terms with the flimsy people of the

moon, to rescue Cavor, if that were still possible, and at any rate to

procure a sufficient supply of gold to place my subsequent proceedings on

a firmer basis. But that was hoping far; I had first to get back.

I set myself to decide just exactly how the return to earth could be

contrived. As I struggled with that problem I ceased to worry about what I

should do when I got there. At last my only care was to get back.

220

The First Men In The Moon