Chapter II: A Dead City

From a height of a few thousand miles Mercury, at first glance, strongly reminded them of the moon. The general effect was the same--leaden disk, with slight prominences here and there on the circumference, and large, irregular splotches of a darkish shade relieved by a great many brilliantly lighted areas, lines, and spots.

A second glance, however, found a marked difference. Instead of the craters, which always distinguished the moon, Mercury showed ranges of bona fide mountains.

The doctor gave a sigh of regret, mixed with a generous amount of excitement. “Too bad those mountains weren’t distinguishable from the earth,” he complained. “We wouldn’t have been so quick to brand Mercury a dead world.”

The others were too engrossed to comment. The sky-car was rapidly sinking nearer and nearer the planet; already Smith had stopped the current with which he had attracted the cube toward the little world’s northern hemisphere, and was now using negative voltage. This, in order to act as a brake, and prevent them from falling to destruction.

Suddenly Van Emmon, the geologist, whose eyes had been glued to his binoculars, gave an exclamation of wonder. “Look at those faults!” He pointed toward a region south of that for which they were bound; what might be called the planet’s torrid zone.

At first it was hard to see; then, little by little, there unfolded before their eyes a giant, spiderlike system of chasms in the strange surface beneath them. From a point almost directly opposite the sun, these cracks radiated in a half-dozen different directions; vast, irregular clefts, they ran through mountain and plain alike. In places they must have been hundreds of miles wide, while there was no guessing as to their depth. For all that the four in the cube could see, they were bottomless.

“Small likelihood of anybody being alive there now,” commented the geologist skeptically. “If the sun has dried it out enough to produce faults like that, how could animal life exist?”

“Notice, however,” prompted the doctor, “that the cracks do not extend all the way to the edge of the disk.” This was true; all the great chasms ended far short of the “twilight band” which the doctor had declared might still contain life.

But as the sky-car rushed downward their attention became fixed upon the surface directly beneath them, a point whose latitude corresponded roughly with that of New York on the Earth. It was a region of low-lying mountains, decidedly different from various precipitous ranges to be seen to the north and east. On the west, or left-hand side of this district, a comparatively level stretch, with an occasional peak or two projecting, suggested the ancient bed of an ocean.

By this time they were within a thousand miles. Smith threw on a little more current; their speed diminished to a safer point, and they scanned the approaching surface with the greatest of care. The architect, who was a New Yorker, was strongly reminded of the fall aspect of the Appalachians; but Van Emmon, who was born and raised on the Pacific coast, declared that the spot was almost exactly like the region north of San Francisco. “If I didn’t know where I was,” he declared, “I’d be trying to locate Eureka right now.”

The engineer smiled tolerantly. He had spent several years in Scotland, and he felt sure, he obligingly told the others, that this new locality was far more like the Ben Lomond country than any other spot on earth. He was so positive, he made the doctor, a New Zealander, smile quite broadly.

“It is just like the hills near my home,” he stated, with an air of finality which made further discussion useless.

“There’s a river!” the architect suddenly exclaimed, pointing; then added, before the others could comment, “I mean, what was once a river.” They saw that he was right; an irregular but well-defined streak of sandy hue trickled down the middle of their chosen destination--a long, L-shaped valley, surrounded by low hills.

“That’s the most likely place, outside of the twilight zone, for life to be found,” remarked the doctor. “Neither mountainous nor dead level.”

He added: “The spectroscope has plainly shown that there’s water vapor in what little air there is. Must be precious little. If the air was as humid as the earth’s, we couldn’t see the surface at all from this height.”

The inviting-looking valley was now less than a hundred miles below. Inviting, however, only in outline; in color it was a grayish buff, scorched and forbidding. The hills were yellower, and an alkali white on their summits.

“Do either of you fellows see anything GREEN?” demanded the engineer, a little later. They were silent; each had noticed long before, that not even near the poles was there the slightest sign of vegetation.

“No chance unless there’s foliage,” muttered the doctor, half to himself. The builder asked what he meant. He explained: “So far as we know, all animal life depends upon vegetation for its oxygen. Not only the oxygen in the air, but that stored in the plants which animals eat. Unless there’s greenery--”

He paused at a low exclamation from Smith. The engineer’s eyes were fixed, in wonder and excitement, upon that part of the valley which lay at the joint of the “L” below them. It was perhaps six miles across; and all over the comparatively smooth surface jutted dark projections. Viewed through the glasses, they had a regular, uniform appearance.

“By Jove!” ejaculated the doctor, almost in awe. He leaned forward and scrubbed the dead-light for the tenth time. All four men strained their eyes to see.

It was the architect who broke the silence which followed. The other three were content to let the thrill of the thing have its way with them. Such a feeling had little weight with the expert in archeology.

“Well,” he declared jubilantly in his boyish voice, “either I eat my hat or that’s a genuine, bona fide city!”

As swiftly as an elevator drops, and as safely, the cube shot straight downward. Every second the landscape narrowed and shrunk, leaving the remaining details larger, clearer, sharper. Bit by bit the amazing thing below them resolved itself into a real metropolis.

Within five minutes they were less than a mile above it. Smith threw on more current, so that the descent stopped; and the cube hung motionless in space.

For another five minutes the four men studied the scene in nervous silence. Each knew that the others were looking for the same thing--some sign of life. A little spot of green, or possibly something in motion--a single whiff of smoke would have been enough to cause a whoop of joy.