downstairs I paused to think, then went back up the steps and followed the corridor round the laboratory. Soon, I came across a second glass door, exactly like the first; I made no attempt to open it, knowing that it would be locked.
I was looking for an opening or vent of some sort. The idea of spying on Sartorius had come to me quite naturally, without the least sense of shame. I was determined to have done with conjecture and discover the truth, even if, as I imagined it would, the truth proved incomprehensible. It struck me that the laboratory must be lit from above by windows let into the dome. It should be possible, therefore, to spy on Sartorius from the outside. But first I should have to equip myself with an atmosphere-suit and oxygen gear.
When I reached the deck below, I found the door of the radio-cabin ajar. Snow, sunk in his armchair, was asleep. At the sound of my footsteps, he opened his eyes with a start.
"Hello, Kelvin!" he croaked. "Well, did you discover anything?"
"Yes … he's not alone."
Snow grinned sourly.
"Oh, really? Well, that's something. Has he got visitors?"
"I can't understand why you won't tell me what's going on," I retorted impulsively. "Since I have to remain here, I'm bound to find out the truth sooner or later. Why the mystery?"
"When you've received some visitors yourself, you'll understand."
I had the impression that my presence annoyed him and he had no desire to prolong the conversation.
I turned to go.
"Where are you off to?"
I did not answer.
The hangar-deck was just as I had left it. My burnt-out capsule still stood there, gaping open, on its platform. On my way to select an atmosphere-suit, I suddenly realized that the skylights through which I hoped to observe Sartorius would probably be made of slabs of opaque glass, and I lost interest in my venture on to the outer hull.
Instead, I descended the spiral stairway which led to the lower-deck store rooms. The cramped passage at the bottom contained the usual litter of crates and cylinders. The walls were sheeted in bare metal which had a bluish glint. A little further on, the frosted pipes of the refrigeration plant appeared beneath a vault and I followed them to the far end of the corridor where they vanished into a cooling-jacket with a wide, plastic collar. The door to the cold store was two inches thick and lagged with an insulating compound. When I opened it, the icy cold gripped me. I stood, shivering, on the threshold of a cave carved out of an iceberg; the huge coils, like sculptured reliefs, were hung with stalactites. Here, too, buried beneath a covering of snow, there were crates and cylinders, and shelves laden with boxes and transparent bags containing a yellow, oily substance. The vault sloped downwards to where a curtain of ice hid the back of the cave. I broke through it. An elongated figure, covered with a sheet of canvas, lay stretched out on an aluminum rack.
I lifted a corner of the canvas and recognised the stiff features of Gibarian. His glossy black hair clung tightly to his skull. The sinews of his throat stood out like bones. His glazed eyes stared up at the vault, a tear of opaque ice hanging from the corner of each lid. The cold was so intense that I had to clench my teeth to prevent them from chattering. I touched Gibarian's cheek; it was like touching a block of petrified wood, bristling with black prickly hairs. The curve of the lips seemed to express an infinite, disdainful patience.
As I let the canvas fall, I noticed, peeping out from beneath the folds at the foot, five round, shiny objects, like black pearls, ranged in order of size. I stiffened with horror.
What I had seen were the round pads of five bare toes. Under the shroud, flattened against Gibarian's body, lay the Negress. Slowly, I pulled back the canvas. Her head, covered in frizzy hair twisted up into little tufts, was resting in the hollow of one massive arm. Her back glistened, the skin stretched taut over the spinal
I was looking for an opening or vent of some sort. The idea of spying on Sartorius had come to me quite naturally, without the least sense of shame. I was determined to have done with conjecture and discover the truth, even if, as I imagined it would, the truth proved incomprehensible. It struck me that the laboratory must be lit from above by windows let into the dome. It should be possible, therefore, to spy on Sartorius from the outside. But first I should have to equip myself with an atmosphere-suit and oxygen gear.
When I reached the deck below, I found the door of the radio-cabin ajar. Snow, sunk in his armchair, was asleep. At the sound of my footsteps, he opened his eyes with a start.
"Hello, Kelvin!" he croaked. "Well, did you discover anything?"
"Yes … he's not alone."
Snow grinned sourly.
"Oh, really? Well, that's something. Has he got visitors?"
"I can't understand why you won't tell me what's going on," I retorted impulsively. "Since I have to remain here, I'm bound to find out the truth sooner or later. Why the mystery?"
"When you've received some visitors yourself, you'll understand."
I had the impression that my presence annoyed him and he had no desire to prolong the conversation.
I turned to go.
"Where are you off to?"
I did not answer.
The hangar-deck was just as I had left it. My burnt-out capsule still stood there, gaping open, on its platform. On my way to select an atmosphere-suit, I suddenly realized that the skylights through which I hoped to observe Sartorius would probably be made of slabs of opaque glass, and I lost interest in my venture on to the outer hull.
Instead, I descended the spiral stairway which led to the lower-deck store rooms. The cramped passage at the bottom contained the usual litter of crates and cylinders. The walls were sheeted in bare metal which had a bluish glint. A little further on, the frosted pipes of the refrigeration plant appeared beneath a vault and I followed them to the far end of the corridor where they vanished into a cooling-jacket with a wide, plastic collar. The door to the cold store was two inches thick and lagged with an insulating compound. When I opened it, the icy cold gripped me. I stood, shivering, on the threshold of a cave carved out of an iceberg; the huge coils, like sculptured reliefs, were hung with stalactites. Here, too, buried beneath a covering of snow, there were crates and cylinders, and shelves laden with boxes and transparent bags containing a yellow, oily substance. The vault sloped downwards to where a curtain of ice hid the back of the cave. I broke through it. An elongated figure, covered with a sheet of canvas, lay stretched out on an aluminum rack.
I lifted a corner of the canvas and recognised the stiff features of Gibarian. His glossy black hair clung tightly to his skull. The sinews of his throat stood out like bones. His glazed eyes stared up at the vault, a tear of opaque ice hanging from the corner of each lid. The cold was so intense that I had to clench my teeth to prevent them from chattering. I touched Gibarian's cheek; it was like touching a block of petrified wood, bristling with black prickly hairs. The curve of the lips seemed to express an infinite, disdainful patience.
As I let the canvas fall, I noticed, peeping out from beneath the folds at the foot, five round, shiny objects, like black pearls, ranged in order of size. I stiffened with horror.
What I had seen were the round pads of five bare toes. Under the shroud, flattened against Gibarian's body, lay the Negress. Slowly, I pulled back the canvas. Her head, covered in frizzy hair twisted up into little tufts, was resting in the hollow of one massive arm. Her back glistened, the skin stretched taut over the spinal
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