Bab Bab 20 · Mr. Bedford in Infinite Space

. Mr. Bedford in Infinite Space

It was almost as though I had been killed. Indeed, I could imagine a

man suddenly and violently killed would feel very much as I did. One

moment, a passion of agonising existence and fear; the next, darkness

and stillness, neither light nor life nor sun, moon nor stars, the

blank infinite. Although the thing was done by my own act, although I

had already tasted this very of effect in Cavor’s company, I felt

astonished, dumbfounded, and overwhelmed. I seemed to be borne upward

into an enormous darkness. My fingers floated off the studs, I hung as

if I were annihilated, and at last very softly and gently I came

against the bale and the golden chain, and the crowbars that had

drifted to the middle of the sphere.

I do not know how long that drifting took. In the sphere of course,

even more than on the moon, one’s earthly time sense was ineffectual.

At the touch of the bale it was as if I had awakened from a dreamless

sleep. I immediately perceived that if I wanted to keep awake and alive

I must get a light or open a window, so as to get a grip of something

with my eyes. And besides, I was cold. I kicked off from the bale,

therefore, clawed on to the thin cords within the glass, crawled along

until I got to the manhole rim, and so got my bearings for the light

and blind studs, took a shove off, and flying once round the bale, and

getting a scare from something big and flimsy that was drifting loose,

I got my hand on the cord quite close to the studs, and reached them. I

lit the little lamp first of all to see what it was I had collided

with, and discovered that old copy of _Lloyd’s News_ had slipped its

moorings, and was adrift in the void. That brought me out of the

infinite to my own proper dimensions again. It made me laugh and pant

for a time, and suggested the idea of a little oxygen from one of the

cylinders. After that I lit the heater until I felt warm, and then I

took food. Then I set to work in a very gingerly fashion on the

Cavorite blinds, to see if I could guess by any means how the sphere

was travelling.

The first blind I opened I shut at once, and hung for a time flattened

and blinded by the sunlight that had hit me. After thinking a little I

started upon the windows at right angles to this one, and got the huge

crescent moon and the little crescent earth behind it, the second time.

I was amazed to find how far I was from the moon. I had reckoned that

not only should I have little or none of the “kick-off” that the

earth’s atmosphere had given us at our start, but that the tangential

“fly off” of the moon’s spin would be at least twenty-eight times less

than the earth’s. I had expected to discover myself hanging over our

crater, and on the edge of the night, but all that was now only a part

of the outline of the white crescent that filled the sky. And Cavor—?

He was already infinitesimal.

I tried to imagine what could have happened to him. But at that time I

could think of nothing but death. I seemed to see him, bent and smashed

at the foot of some interminably high cascade of blue. And all about

him the stupid insects stared...

Under the inspiring touch of the drifting newspaper I became practical

again for a while. It was quite clear to me that what I had to do was

to get back to earth, but as far as I could see I was drifting away

from it. Whatever had happened to Cavor, even if he was still alive,

which seemed to me incredible after that blood-stained scrap, I was

powerless to help him. There he was, living or dead behind the mantle

of that rayless night, and there he must remain at least until I could

summon our fellow men to his assistance. Should I do that? Something of

the sort I had in my mind; to come back to earth if it were possible,

and then as maturer consideration might determine, either to show and

explain the sphere to a few discreet persons, and act with them, or

else to keep my secret, sell my gold, obtain weapons, provisions, and

an assistant, and return with these advantages to deal on equal terms

with the flimsy people of the moon, to rescue Cavor, if that were still

possible, and at any rate to procure a sufficient supply of gold to

place my subsequent proceedings on a firmer basis. But that was hoping

far; I had first to get back.

I set myself to decide just exactly how the return to earth could be

contrived. As I struggled with that problem I ceased to worry about

what I should do when I got there. At last my only care was to get

back.

I puzzled out at last that my best chance would be to drop back towards

the moon as near as I dared in order to gather velocity, then to shut

my windows, and fly behind it, and when I was past to open my earthward

windows, and so get off at a good pace homeward. But whether I should

ever reach the earth by that device, or whether I might not simply find

myself spinning about it in some hyperbolic or parabolic curve or

other, I could not tell. Later I had a happy inspiration, and by

opening certain windows to the moon, which had appeared in the sky in

front of the earth, I turned my course aside so as to head off the

earth, which it had become evident to me I must pass behind without

some such expedient. I did a very great deal of complicated thinking

over these problems—for I am no mathematician—and in the end I am

certain it was much more my good luck than my reasoning that enabled me

to hit the earth. Had I known then, as I know now, the mathematical

chances there were against me, I doubt if I should have troubled even

to touch the studs to make any attempt. And having puzzled out what I

considered to be the thing to do, I opened all my moonward windows, and

squatted down—the effort lifted me for a time some feet or so into the

air, and I hung there in the oddest way—and waited for the crescent to

get bigger and bigger until I felt I was near enough for safety. Then I

would shut the windows, fly past the moon with the velocity I had got

from it—if I did not smash upon it—and so go on towards the earth.

And that is what I did.

At last I felt my moonward start was sufficient. I shut out the sight

of the moon from my eyes, and in a state of mind that was, I now

recall, incredibly free from anxiety or any distressful quality, I sat

down to begin a vigil in that little speck of matter in infinite space

that would last until I should strike the earth. The heater had made

the sphere tolerably warm, the air had been refreshed by the oxygen,

and except for that faint congestion of the head that was always with

me while I was away from earth, I felt entire physical comfort. I had

extinguished the light again, lest it should fail me in the end; I was

in darkness, save for the earthshine and the glitter of the stars below

me. Everything was so absolutely silent and still that I might indeed

have been the only being in the universe, and yet, strangely enough, I

had no more feeling of loneliness or fear than if I had been lying in

bed on earth. Now, this seems all the stranger to me, since during my

last hours in that crater of the moon, the sense of my utter loneliness

had been an agony....

Incredible as it will seem, this interval of time that I spent in space

has no sort of proportion to any other interval of time in my life.

Sometimes it seemed as though I sat through immeasurable eternities

like some god upon a lotus leaf, and again as though there was a

momentary pause as I leapt from moon to earth. In truth, it was

altogether some weeks of earthly time. But I had done with care and

anxiety, hunger or fear, for that space. I floated, thinking with a

strange breadth and freedom of all that we had undergone, and of all my

life and motives, and the secret issues of my being. I seemed to myself

to have grown greater and greater, to have lost all sense of movement;

to be floating amidst the stars, and always the sense of earth’s

littleness and the infinite littleness of my life upon it, was implicit

in my thoughts.

I can’t profess to explain the things that happened in my mind. No

doubt they could all be traced directly or indirectly to the curious

physical conditions under which I was living. I set them down here just

for what they are worth, and without any comment. The most prominent

quality of it was a pervading doubt of my own identity. I became, if I

may so express it, dissociate from Bedford; I looked down on Bedford as

a trivial, incidental thing with which I chanced to be connected. I saw

Bedford in many relations—as an ass or as a poor beast, where I had

hitherto been inclined to regard him with a quiet pride as a very

spirited or rather forcible person. I saw him not only as an ass, but

as the son of many generations of asses. I reviewed his school-days and

his early manhood, and his first encounter with love, very much as one

might review the proceedings of an ant in the sand. Something of that

period of lucidity I regret still hangs about me, and I doubt if I

shall ever recover the full-bodied self satisfaction of my early days.

But at the time the thing was not in the least painful, because I had

that extraordinary persuasion that, as a matter of fact, I was no more

Bedford than I was any one else, but only a mind floating in the still

serenity of space. Why should I be disturbed about this Bedford’s

shortcomings? I was not responsible for him or them.

For a time I struggled against this really very grotesque delusion. I

tried to summon the memory of vivid moments, of tender or intense

emotions to my assistance; I felt that if I could recall one genuine

twinge of feeling the growing severance would be stopped. But I could

not do it. I saw Bedford rushing down Chancery Lane, hat on the back of

his head, coat tails flying out, _en route_ for his public examination.

I saw him dodging and bumping against, and even saluting, other similar

little creatures in that swarming gutter of people. Me? I saw Bedford

that same evening in the sitting-room of a certain lady, and his hat

was on the table beside him, and it wanted brushing badly, and he was

in tears. Me? I saw him with that lady in various attitudes and

emotions—I never felt so detached before.... I saw him hurrying off to

Lympne to write a play, and accosting Cavor, and in his shirt sleeves

working at the sphere, and walking out to Canterbury because he was

afraid to come! Me? I did not believe it.

I still reasoned that all this was hallucination due to my solitude,

and the fact that I had lost all weight and sense of resistance. I

endeavoured to recover that sense by banging myself about the sphere,

by pinching my hands and clasping them together. Among other things, I

lit the light, captured that torn copy of _Lloyd’s_, and read those

convincingly realistic advertisements about the Cutaway bicycle, and

the gentleman of private means, and the lady in distress who was

selling those “forks and spoons.” There was no doubt they existed

surely enough, and, said I, “This is your world, and you are Bedford,

and you are going back to live among things like that for all the rest

of your life.” But the doubts within me could still argue: “It is not

you that is reading, it is Bedford, but you are not Bedford, you know.

That’s just where the mistake comes in.”

“Confound it!” I cried; “and if I am not Bedford, what am I?”

But in that direction no light was forthcoming, though the strangest

fancies came drifting into my brain, queer remote suspicions, like

shadows seen from away. Do you know, I had a sort of idea that really I

was something quite outside not only the world, but all worlds, and out

of space and time, and that this poor Bedford was just a peephole

through which I looked at life? ...

Bedford! However I disavowed him, there I was most certainly bound up

with him, and I knew that wherever or whatever I might be, I must needs

feel the stress of his desires, and sympathise with all his joys and

sorrows until his life should end. And with the dying of Bedford—what

then? ...

Enough of this remarkable phase of my experiences! I tell it here

simply to show how one’s isolation and departure from this planet

touched not only the functions and feeling of every organ of the body,

but indeed also the very fabric of the mind, with strange and

unanticipated disturbances. All through the major portion of that vast

space journey I hung thinking of such immaterial things as these, hung

dissociated and apathetic, a cloudy megalomaniac, as it were, amidst

the stars and planets in the void of space; and not only the world to

which I was returning, but the blue-lit caverns of the Selenites, their

helmet faces, their gigantic and wonderful machines, and the fate of

Cavor, dragged helpless into that world, seemed infinitely minute and

altogether trivial things to me.

Until at last I began to feel the pull of the earth upon my being,

drawing me back again to the life that is real for men. And then,

indeed, it grew clearer and clearer to me that I was quite certainly

Bedford after all, and returning after amazing adventures to this world

of ours, and with a life that I was very likely to lose in this return.

I set myself to puzzle out the conditions under which I must fall to

earth.