Исай Лукодьянов - The Black Pillar

Conversation ceased as the launch approached the rig. All eyes were on the black pillar rising from the cloud of steam. It no longer looked to Kravtsov like a harmless little hair: there was something sinister and terrifying about it.

"Yes," said Morozov after a long silence. "Mother Earth has acquired quite a nice little tail."

The sea was choppy in the vicinity of the rig. The launch came up to the landing stage, Morozov first of all ordered a container with a self-recording thermometer for long-term temperature measurements to be lowered into the water. Then the instruments were carried over to the freight lift, and finally they all went up to the upper deck of the rig.

It was like a red-hot frying-pan there. Kravtsov glanced uneasily at Morozov: he was an elderly man-how would he stand that devilish heat? Morozov, wet with sweat, was putting on a glasscloth suit. Everybody hastened to do the same.

"Can you all hear me?" Kravtsov heard Morozov's voice through his helmet-phones. "Fine. We are now starting our first measurements. We shall take them every twenty-five metres. Yura, is everything ready?"

"Yes, Victor Konstantinovich," replied the fair-haired lad who was, it appeared, an instrument technician.

"Right! Let's begin!"

Jim Parkinson walked along the rails toward the centre of the rig, unwinding a surveyer's tape. Having measured twenty-five metres from the rig's side, he dipped a brush in a tin of red lead and made a red mark. Morozov pressed a button and fixed his eye to the telescope that was attached to the container resembling a gas cylinder. He looked through it for a long time, his eye lit with flashes of light from it. Then he took out a notebook, removed the glove from his right hand, and began to write.

Meanwhile Yura was reading two other recording instruments, and Will was busy with his magnetograph. Morozov had given Kravtsov the task of recording radioactivity.

Yura and Chulkov moved the instruments to the mark made by Jim-two hundred and twenty-five metres from the black pillar, and the measurements were repeated. Jim walked on ahead with his tape, measuring off the next twenty-five metres, and Kravtsov watched him anxiously. True, it was still a long way off to the pillar, but how was one to know at what distance it would start pulling today?

"Comrade Kravtsov," he heard Morozov say. "At what distance was your Chulkov drawn to the pillar yesterday?"

"About ten metres."

"Less than ten," said Chulkov. "About eight."

"Oh no," objected Kravtsov and, calling to Jim, repeated the question in English.

"Exactly twelve yards," declared Jim. "Not an inch more."

Morozov chuckled.

"Researchers!" he said. "Here now: put the instruments on the truck. Parkinson, come back. We'll move forward together."

The deck suddenly began to rock and heave under their feet. Lanky Jim fell over the tin of paint. Yura fell flat on his back, pressing the box containing the quartz gravity meter to his breast. Will was thrown against Morozov. Steam swirled furiously and rapidly about the base of the pillar and the rig was covered in a white shroud.

The tremors gradually died down and ceased altogether. The wind unfurled the coils of steam and blew them upwards. The five men in blue-grey protective suits stood huddled together, powerless before the awesome might of nature.

"The speed of the pillar seems to have increased," said Will, raising his head and peering through his eye-shield.

"The radar can measure that," said Morozov. "Let's push on."

And these inflexible men approached the pillar step by step, pushing the truck with the instruments in front of them and unwinding the tape.

At the two hundred mark it took them an hour and a half to carry out their measurements: they had to wait until the pendulum gravity meter, which had been disturbed by the tremors, returned to normal.

At the 150 mark Morozov made them rope themselves together.

At the 100 mark Jim discovered that the paint in the tin was boiling and evaporating. Yura handed him a piece of chalk.

At the 75 mark Will sat down, doubled up, on the truck, and uttered a short groan.

"What's the matter, McPherson?" asked Morozov in alarm.

Will made no answer.

"I'll take him back to the launch," said Kravtsov. "It's a heart attack."

"No," came Will's weak voice. "It'll soon pass."

"Take him to the launch immediately," ordered Morozov.

Kravtsov took Will under the armpits, raised him, and helped him to get to the side. He listened to Will's heavy breathing and kept repeating, "All right, old chap, all right."

In the lift it seemed to him that Will had lost consciousness. He became terribly frightened and started shaking Will, then removed Will's helmet and his own. The lift stopped. Kravtsov opened the door and shouted:

"Launch!"

Two nimble Japanese sailors ran on to the landing stage and helped Kravtsov take off Will's protective suit. With a weak movement of his hand the Scotsman pointed to a pocket under the belt of his shorts. Kravtsov understood. He took a glass tube from the pocket and put a white tablet in Will's mouth.

"Another," gasped Will.

They carried Will to the launch and laid him on the narrow seat at the stern. One of the sailors put a cork life-jacket under his head.

"Take him to the ship immediately," Kravtsov said to the petty officer in English. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hand Mr. McPherson over to the doctor and return here."

"Yes, sir."

The launch put off and Kravtsov stood watching it for a little. "Will, old friend," he said anxiously under his breath. "I've got very fond of you. Will, you mustn't… You're a strong chap…"

Only now did he notice that the sun was setting. How many hours had they spent on the rig? Heavy dense clouds were moving across the sky and as they approached the sun were suffused with a fiery orange light.

The stifling air gripped him by the throat like a vise. Kravtsov put on his helmet and entered the lift. Then he made his way slowly across the steam-shrouded upper deck in his crackling protective suit, with an odd sensation that all this was not happening on Earth, but on some strange planet; he swore at himself for such stupid thoughts.

He approached the blue-grey figures, who were still taking measurements at the 75 mark, heard Morozov address a question to him, and replied that he had sent McPherson across to the ship.

Morozov was worried about something. He himself checked the readings of all the instruments.

"A sharp break," he muttered. "Let's go on. All keep close together."

They moved forward, shoulder to shoulder, pushing the truck on which stood the container with the pendulum gravity meter. The other instruments they carried in their hands. Jim unwound the tape.

They had hardly advanced fifteen metres when suddenly the truck started rolling along the rails of its own accord towards the pillar.

"Back!" Morozov's voice resounded in their ears.

The men drew back hastily. The truck and container ran faster and faster, drawn by that mysterious force. A cloud of steam engulfed it, then it appeared again in a gap in the steam. At the point where the rails ended, it flew up, as though from a springboard, was seen for an instant as a grey patch, and disappeared in the eddies of steam.

"There it is!" cried Chulkov, pointing with his glove.

At a height of twenty metres or so, amidst the swirl of steam, the pillar could be seen rushing upwards, carrying with it the container, with the truck stuck to it just below. And then they disappeared in the clouds.

The four men watched, dumbstruck, heads bent back.

"Bye-bye!" said Chulkov. "Now we can look for our stuff on the moon."

Jim was muttering curses.

Kravtsov was overcome by a terrible feeling of tiredness. His legs felt like stones. The protective suit weighed ten tons. Hammers were pounding slowly in his ears.