prowling of the agoraphobic monsters was kept a little further off . . .
The day wore on. The puny red sun declined, and disappeared. The constellations shone out, familiar still, for against the panorama of the heavens the leap from Earth to Mars is the tiniest of hops. One day, I am sure, the constellations will look different, when our hops have indeed become great leaps—for me, that is an article of faith—but it won't be for a long time yet. . . .
The night closed down. Through the dome's small windows all but the stars was dark—except at one point where, across miles of sand, I could see the glow of the Figurao's main jet, still flaring where she lay.
I broke open a packet of rations, and ate some food. I felt no hunger, but the familiarity of the simple act of eating held some comfort. The food did me good, too. It gave me strength, and I felt better able to resist. Then, suddenly, I became aware of silence . . .
Looking out of the window again, I saw that the flare of the rocket-tube had vanished. There was nothing but blackness and the stars. All sound had ceased, and left such a silence as was never known on Earth. Nor was it just that, not just the negative absence of sound; the silence was hard, positive, a quality of eternity itself. It rang in one's ears until they sought relief by hearing sounds that did not exist; murmurings, far-off bells, sighs not so far off, tickings, whispers, faint ululations . . .
A bit of verse that my grandfather used to quote came into my mind:
. . . for all the night
I heard their thin gnat-voices cry
Star to faint star across the sky,
and I seemed to hear them, too: they had no words, they were on the threshold of sound, but they encouraged me . . .
And, God knows, I needed encouragement, as I crouched there in my flimsy dome . . .
The voices cry—but the elemental terrors prowl. We need numbers to sustain us; in numbers we can dispel the terrors; alone, we are weak, mutilated. Taken from our pool of corporate strength we gasp, we wriggle defenselessly while the terrors circle round, slowly closing in . . .
Perhaps the voices are just
