“Ten days,” I said; “that leaves—­” I looked up at the sun for a moment, and then saw that it was halfway from the zenith to the western edge of things.  “Four days! ...  Cavor, we mustn’t sit here and dream.  How do you think we may begin?”

I stood up.  “We must get a fixed point we can recognise—­we might hoist a flag, or a handkerchief, or something—­and quarter the ground, and work round that.”

He stood up beside me.

“Yes,” he said, “there is nothing for it but to hunt the sphere.  Nothing.  We may find it—­certainly we may find it.  And if not—­”

“We must keep on looking.”

He look this way and that, glanced up at the sky and down at the tunnel, and astonished me by a sudden gesture of impatience.  “Oh! but we have done foolishly!  To have come to this pass!  Think how it might have been, and the things we might have done!”

“We might do something yet.”

“Never the thing we might have done.  Here below out feet is a world.  Think of what that world must be!  Think of that machine we saw, and the lid and the shaft!  They were just remote outlying things, and those creatures we have seen and fought with no more than ignorant peasants, dwellers in the outskirts, yokels and labourers half akin to brutes.  Down below!  Caverns beneath caverns, tunnels, structures, ways...  It must open out, and be greater and wider and more populous as one descends.  Assuredly.  Right down at the last the central sea that washes round the core of the moon.  Think of its inky waters under the spare lights—­if, indeed, their eyes need lights!  Think of the cascading tributaries pouring down their channels to feed it!  Think of the tides upon its surface, and the rush and swirl of its ebb and flow! perhaps they have ships that go upon it, perhaps down there are mighty cities and swarming ways, and wisdom and order passing the wit of man.  And we may die here upon it, and never see the masters who must be—­ruling over these things!  We may freeze and die here, and the air will freeze and thaw upon us, and then—!  Then they will come upon us, come on our stiff and silent bodies, and find the sphere we cannot find, and they will understand at last too late all the thought and effort that ended here in vain!”

His voice for all that speech sounded like the voice of someone heard in a telephone, weak and far away.

“But the darkness,” I said.

“One might get over that.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.  How am I to know?  One might carry a torch, one might have a lamp—­ The others—­might understand.”

He stood for a moment with his hands held down and a rueful face, staring out over the waste that defied him.  Then with a gesture of renunciation he turned towards me with proposals for the systematic hunting of the sphere.

“We can return,” I said.

He looked about him.  “First of all we shall have to get to earth.”