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Chapter 11 — The Mooncalf Pastures
Butatlastverycautiouslyandbitbybitwecreptintoapositionfromwhichwecouldpeerdown.Thebushesaboutuscreakedandwavedwiththeforceofabreezethatwasblowingdowntheshaft.Wecouldseenothingatfirstexceptsmoothverticalwallsdescendingatlastintoanimpenetrableblack.Andthenverygraduallywebecameawareofanumberofveryfaintandlittlelightsgoingtoandfro.
Foratimethatstupendousgulfofmysteryheldussothatweforgotevenoursphere.Intime,aswegrewmoreaccustomedtothedarkness,wecouldmakeoutverysmall,dim,elusiveshapesmovingaboutamongthoseneedle-pointilluminations.Wepeeredamazedandincredulous,understandingsolittlethatwecouldfindnowordstosay.Wecoulddistinguishnothingthatwouldgiveusacluetothemeaningofthefaintshapeswesaw.
“Whatcanitbe?”Iasked;“whatcanitbe?”
“Theengineering!...Theymustliveinthesecavernsduringthenight,andcomeoutduringtheday.”
“Cavor!”Isaid.“Cantheybe—that—itwassomethinglike—men?”
“Thatwasnotaman.”
“Wedarerisknothing!”
“Wedaredonothinguntilwefindthesphere!”
“Wecandonothinguntilwefindthesphere.”
Heassentedwithagroanandstirredhimselftomove.Hestaredabouthimforaspace,sighed,andindicatedadirection.Westruckoutthroughthejungle.Foratimewecrawledresolutely,thenwithdiminishingvigour.Presentlyamonggreatshapesofflabbypurpletherecameanoiseoftramplingandcriesaboutus.Welayclose,andforalongtimethesoundswenttoandfroandverynear.
