Chapter 8 — A Lunar Morning

           Theharshemphasis,thepitilessblackandwhiteofsceneryhadaltogetherdisappeared.Theglareofthesunhadtakenuponitselfafainttingeofamber;theshadowsuponthecliffofthecraterwallweredeeplypurple.Totheeastwardadarkbankoffogstillcrouchedandshelteredfromthesunrise,buttothewestwardtheskywasblueandclear.Ibegantorealisethelengthofmyinsensibility.

           Wewerenolongerinavoid.Anatmospherehadarisenaboutus.Theoutlineofthingshadgainedincharacter,hadgrownacuteandvaried;saveforashadowedspaceofwhitesubstancehereandthere,whitesubstancethatwasnolongerairbutsnow,thearcticappearancehadgonealtogether.Everywherebroadrustybrownspacesofbareandtumbledearthspreadtotheblazeofthesun.Hereandthereattheedgeofthesnowdriftsweretransientlittlepoolsandeddiesofwater,theonlythingsstirringinthatexpanseofbarrenness.Thesunlightinundatedtheuppertwoblindsofoursphereandturnedourclimatetohighsummer,butourfeetwerestillinshadow,andthespherewaslyinguponadriftofsnow.

           Andscatteredhereandthereupontheslope,andemphasisedbylittlewhitethreadsofunthawedsnowupontheirshadysides,wereshapeslikesticks,drytwistedsticksofthesamerustyhueastherockuponwhichtheylay.Thatcaughtone’sthoughtssharply.Sticks!Onalifelessworld?Thenasmyeyegrewmoreaccustomedtothetextureoftheirsubstance,Iperceivedthatalmostallthissurfacehadafibroustexture,likethecarpetofbrownneedlesonefindsbeneaththeshadeofpinetrees.

           “Cavor!”Isaid.

           “Yes.”