“I wanted to feel wonder, admiration, curiosity. Instead, my skin crawled beneath my suit. I felt horror.”
10 January, 1999
An account by Lamont Townsend
Aboard the United Space Ship Westward
The moment the belly of the asteroid pod fell open to reveal the surface of the moon, all my resolve seemed to fly away with the last wisps of air from the evacuated cabin. I am ashamed to admit that, had I not been physically connected to the other men and women in the party by a tether, I may well have stayed rooted to that spot, staring in dread and fascination at the landscape, another one of its frozen denizens.
Among other things, the moon is rich in oxygen, though it has no air. Instead, the oxygen covers its surface as something like a thick, syrupy liquid, but that description does it no justice. It pools in the craters and crevices of the jagged, metallic landscape in vast lakes, concealed beneath a thick mist that catches and holds the cold glow of the gas giant with a deep, almost ultraviolet blue. If one scoops it up with a hand, it will stay suspended, tentacle-like, for long minutes at a time before slowly curling back into its resting state. In the shadows, it forms weird, abstract sculptures, faintly luminous, monstrous in shape.
Looking over the horizon, one sees the gas giant looming like a vast, blind eye, almost featureless. And set against it, at some angles, is the tower. It rises from the phantom ground as if a giant of unspeakable proportions had thrust a spear into the belly of the moon. We were not near enough to the tower for me to clearly see any details of its construction at the base, but even from some mile’s distance, the dimensions of it were staggering. It dominated my awareness; it seemed that I could not go more than three slow steps in any given direction without returning my eyes to its looming presence. It was an object of grim fascination, like a broken bone. I wanted to feel wonder, admiration, curiosity. Instead, my skin crawled beneath my suit. I felt horror. This is a ghost world. The mining party, chained together with our tools, our copper suits glowing green in the unearthly haze, looked like souls in perdition. Who would…
“Oy, Monty!”
Rosemary’s voice startled Lamont into awareness. He looked up to see her standing in the open doorway of his cabin, her strawberry hair catching the dim amber light from the corridor. Then, he blinked and looked down at his typewriter. The words looked unfamiliar to him. Beside the keys, his ashtray overflowed with spent cigarettes.
“They said you were here, but when you didn’t answer your door chime…” the medic began, and then her voice trailed off. She took a couple steps into the darkened room. “Monty, are you alright?” She asked, her tone softening.