The Lotus Caves by John Christopher Page A

seacoast with twisted ocher rocks and a fantastic gray overhanging wave. And on one of the shelves a photograph wallet which, opened, showed on one side a woman, smiling under a big summer hat, on the other a big black dog with a boy beside him. The boy was about three, dressed in shorts and shirts out of a historical film. He wondered why the photograph had been abandoned and realized it was probably because it had belonged to one of the men who lay outside under the cairn. Seventy years ago. The boy would be an old man now, if he were still alive.
    He lay on one of the bunks, staring at the ceiling which pressed close down on him. It was no worse than sleeping in a crawler bunk but that was for a few nights, a week maybe. Three years had been the shortest time any of the early colonists had spent here.
    The bunk was of metal, enclosing broad strips of intertwined plastic, much less resilient than the kind they used now. It had been bolted to the wall and there was a small gap, no more than half an inch, at the side. He twisted around, getting up, and the beam from his suit-lamp lit it for a moment and showed something there. He peered and could distinguish it better. A thin book? He pulled the side of the bunk but it was immovable. It was impossible to get at it with his spacesuited fingers; even without the awkwardness of mittens the gap would have been too small. It could not be anything important, anyway. He left the bunk, abandoning it, and then found himself drawn back. He studied the crack more closely. If one could get something long and thin, it might be possible to hook it out.
    The bunks had angle irons reinforcing their corners, strips of steel some eight by three quarter inches. He got one off, using the screwdriver attachment of the multi-tool on his belt. Then he began the fishing operation. It was not easy. Once he thought he had got the book, only to have it slip even farther down. He almost abandoned the idea—the strip of metal was awkward to use and he felt himself sweating inside the suit. It would be good to get back in the crawler and rub a cleansing pad over himself. He decided he would make one more effort, and when that failed gave himself an absolutely final one. It was two attempts after that before he managed to get the steel firmly under the object, and lifted it clear.
    It was a notebook, the leaves paper and not plastic. He fumbled it open and saw that it was in the nature of a log or journal. There was an entry:
    â€œDay 402. Crawler duty with Barney. Nothing to report. At least he doesn’t talk all the time like Mike. Got back to find that stupid argument about the weight of a seagull still going on. Everyone talking, even Lew in it now. They could settle it in a few minutes by sending a signal back requesting information, but I suppose they think that would cause alarm or something. And they don’t want to settle it anyway. If they did, there would be nothing to argue about. My weight today 167 lbs.—minus one. Due for a haircut, but can’t be bothered to fix it with Barney.”
    He flipped the pages and read a couple more entries, which seemed as dull and trivial as the first. He thought of leaving the journal here, where it belonged, and then decided Steve might like to look at it. He wedged it into his suit-pouch, and started up the ladder.
    Steve’s radio came through to him as he reached ground level: “. . . you’ve got to. Marty?”
    â€œI’m here,” he said. “I’ve been down below.”
    â€œAnything there?”
    â€œNothing much. You find anything?”
    â€œOnly lumber.”
    â€œWe could give it a rest for now. I could do with a rub-down.”
    Steve nodded, awkwardly in the suit. “A drink, too. Let’s go.”
    They left the station and headed for the nearby crawler. Steve went through the airlocks first, and Marty waited impatiently for him to be clear. Then it was his turn. He tugged his suit