We are Legion divided from itself, diminished and on the brink of forever vanishing. What God sheds light on this far planet, driving us into the darkness? Three men were lost in our first hour. Many more left us in the next, but none, I predict, to the cold directly, no! Our drills lock and gauges freeze from the moment twilight is too fresh for contemplation to the holy arrival of the ever-distant sun, as if its song of life would reach this planet, as sung to the patient earth-like colony awaiting our return.
As a matter of fact, only one song is ever sung here, one that to the revered star is lost entirely. One that at a range so close, so intimate, that it seems to come from the icy satellite itself, which an instant’s analysis beyond the time of sublimity’s cold embrace can prove. Whether oblivious to its own music, or incapable of control, or even in a mode of self-defense unlike any found in nature I know not, whatever has been claimed within the confines of reason.
It’s too simple a process for such an absurd doom: We feel the song and wander, leaving behind the atoll of light to be developed for the melody of the underworld. Which is uncannier, the mystery or the insight? I suppose if by some natural inertia the animals of the Creation had resisted Noah’s command but succumbed to escaping their flood, then we are but beasts to go willingly into ours.
The cruelest aspect of our endeavor is that we knew it would be here – the ice, the cold, even the song – the first we considered the most important. Precious as it is to our lively, thirsty home, the ice mocks us. The cold is brutal, yet manageable. But the song, that curious song, if it were not so mesmerizing, would seem like a bad joke about a serious situation, foreboding and surprising at once. It is the greatest cause for our distress. From the beginning, it vibrates through our bodies. We hum it, we contemplate it and it dominates all attitudes. It’s the only God I know anymore, though I was never a believer before now.
Second thoughts arise of science as well. Are we not beyond the theory of rope and mast? If work were non-existent from this moment forth and cabin fever forever dead, the memory of the song will keep us returning from the sound occlusion chamber we have in progress. But before we all greet our fate with a lucid smile, we finish. For now, and for some, forever, we rest.