Free The Lotus Caves by John Christopher Page A

coffee.”
    â€œThat’s a brilliant idea. I was just . . .”
    Steve wrenched violently at the wheel as, without warning, the crawler slid sideways. With one arm he slammed the grip-spike lever, to engage them again. But the crawler was out of control, loose stones screeching and whining under her tracks. A small patch of scree, Marty thought, masked by the shadow of the overhang above. It was the last logical thought he had before the crawler tipped over, falling free into space, and everything dissolved into fear and the certainty of death.

6
    A Storm of Leaves
    M ARTY REMEMBERED CLOSING HIS EYES tightly as the crawler skidded and fell. He had no recollection of opening them again, but he realized he could see light. There had been the smack of impact which had thrown him hard against the bunk curtain. But a dragging, braking impact, followed by a second: sharp and final but not the annihilating crash which he had expected—which had seemed inevitable.
    Not only light but color. It shimmered softly through the spectrum—reds and golds, greens and blues. A dream? He closed his eyes and opened them again. The colors were still there, and outside. He was seeing them through the observation dome of the crawler. And yet impossible. He looked for Steve and saw him slumped against the wall. He went to him, having to climb up because the crawler was at an angle, its nose pointing down. He said: “Steve . . .” and touched his hand. It seemed warm but there was no response.
    Things were moving, high in the rainbow air. He looked up and saw them, and it was more fantastic than the colors. They were like leaves, a storm of them, but leaves that floated upward. Leaves, he thought . . . floating? Was he dead, perhaps? Was this the afterworld—heaven?
    Dazed, he went to the airlock. It crossed his mind that he ought to put a suit on. But a spacesuit—to walk through paradise? He buttoned the inner door, stepped inside, and released the outer. He had not operated the air pump, but there was no hiss of escaping air. Instead air billowed in against him, pleasantly warm. It felt thick, heavy, rich to the lungs and sweet to the nostrils. He jumped down and his feet sank into a springy softness.
    His eyes were growing accustomed to the light. It was altogether unlike anything he had known. Light on the Moon was full of harshness, hard blacks and whites with intermediate somber grays. This was gentle, flickering, continually changing, richly colored. He glanced down and saw that there was light at his feet, too. He stood on a carpet of something like moss and the carpet glowed green, mauve, dull amber. He walked and saw tiny stars of light splash from his treading feet. Splash? He bent down and touched with his fingers. Wetness clung to them. He had read of dew in meadows on Earth, small beads of brilliance hanging poised on spears of grass. Dew, on the barren Moon? If he were not dead he must be dreaming.
    He could take in his surroundings better now. He was inside a cavern, some fifteen yards across and perhaps half that height. It was roughly circular but the floor sloped down. At the bottom it dipped quite sharply and there was what looked like the opening of a tunnel. The leaves . . . he raised his eyes, looking for them. A few still moved through the air but most seemed to have plastered themselves against the ceiling in a glowing patchwork. Light came from them, as it did from the moss. Phosphorescence—that was it.
    By the far wall there was a moss-encrusted outcropping of rock. Farther up and in the middle of the cave he saw what at first looked like a giant snake. Giant indeed—more than a foot in thickness and lying in a huge elaborate coil. The body of it was black but the top swelled into a spheroid, creamy white, a couple of yards in diameter. Not a snake, he realized: the other end disappeared into the ground.
    And yet that did not mean anything. In dreams