Free The Map of the Sky by Félix J. Palma

vertiginous descent. It struck him as particularly odd that it had occurred precisely when they were there, as though arranged for their entertainment. If they had not become icebound, no one would have seen the machine, and its occupant, assuming someone really was steering the thing, would have perished alone. Then he wondered what country had the scientific capability to produce a machine like the one that had hurtled through the air at such an incredible speed, but he promptly shook his head. There was no point in speculating. In less than an hour he would find out for himself, he thought, and so he focused instead on the majestic beauty of the landscape, that never-ending expanse of pristine whiteness surrounding him on all sides, like an imitation marble palace. As he did so, he thought it ironical that the very qualities that gave the landscape its beauty would probably be the same ones that killed them.
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    D ESPITE THE THICKENING FOG, they soon caught sight of the machine. The object that had fallen from the sky was so enormous it stood out ominously in the distance, like a beacon lighting their way. When they finally reached the site of the accident, they could see it was indeed some kind of flying machine. Almost as big as a tram, but round and domed, the machine stuck up from the ice like an idol from some unknown religion. It appeared undamaged, although the impact had cracked the ice in a thirty-yard radius, so that they had to tread carefully as they approached. The object was made of a shiny material, sleek as a dolphin’s skin, and seemed to have no door or hatch. The only blemish on the glossy fuselage was a cluster of strange embossed symbols from which a faint coppery light emanated.
    “Does anyone have any idea what the devil it is?” MacReady asked, glancing about inquiringly.
    No one spoke, although the captain was not really expecting a reply. They were all mesmerized by the machine’s gleaming surface, which mirrored their astonished faces. Reynolds studied his reflection as if itwere a stranger’s. He was so used to seeing himself broken up into what looked like lopsided fragments in the tiny mirror he used for shaving that he was surprised to discover the pitiful result when they all came together. No one could deny he was impeccably clean shaven, yet his eyes had a weary, feverish look from lack of sleep, and he seemed as slender as a wraith. Apart from that, the face peering back at him from the machine’s silky surface still had that same childish air that made it difficult for him to compete in the adult world, those plump lips that failed to command authority.
    Reynolds sighed resignedly and looked away from his reflection in order to examine the nearest cluster of markings. Most of these were finely drawn symbols, vaguely reminiscent of Asian characters, framed by what looked like geometric shapes. He could not resist stretching his right hand toward one of them, with the aim of running his finger along their wavy spirals. Although he was curious to know what that peculiar shimmering material felt like, he chose to keep his glove on for fear his hand might freeze. When he touched the symbol, a strange plume of smoke began to rise slowly into the air, and as Reynolds looked on in wonder, a tiny blue flame sprouted from his glove like an unexpected bloom. The explorer felt a stabbing pain, which instantly radiated through his whole body. He withdrew his hand, unable to stop the excruciating agony from emerging as a terrible roar. Reynolds caught a sudden whiff of singed fabric and flesh and amid the pain was scarcely able to grasp that on touching the strange symbol, his glove had caught fire, despite the subzero temperatures. The sailors standing next to him recoiled in horror, while Reynolds, his face screwed up in pain, fell to his knees on the ice, holding up his right hand, now wrapped in shreds of charred cloth, blackened and smoking like a witch’s claw.
    “Good