“I was progressing in great leaps and bounds,” I said at last, when I had calmed sufficiently to speak with some coherence. “You know something of the chemical properties, do you not? I had calculated the exact expansion of our atmosphere, so that we should experience weightlessness at precisely the right moment.”

“What you say disturbs me,” said Bedford gravely. “I do not like these calculations. Cavor, what is weightlessness like?”

There followed a silence, broken finally by a laugh as Cavor moved the sphere. “My dear Bedford, it is as though the world had slipped from beneath you. One moment your feet are sitting firmly, and the next—nothing. And yet you do not fall. You float, absolutely at rest, provided you keep still. If you move your hand, the slightest pause, the slightest current of air, carries you gently across the cabin.”

I watched him push off the floor. He floated, still as a bubble, and touched the ceiling with his fingertips. “I see,” I said, “like a fish in water.”

“Or like a leaf on the air,” he replied. “There is no sound, no pressure, no hurry.” The sphere was small. I followed him. We bobbed apart, then came together. We touched without effort, like two particles attracted by an unseen force.

When the light returned—at the moment of breaking through the lunar atmosphere—the sense of space was overwhelming. Out there, above barely a mile of air, the Moon lay before us like a dim globe, mottled and faintly luminous. The silence deepened. For one moment I felt lonely. Then Cavor exclaimed, “Look!”

The shuttle glass was pulled aside, and the edge of the surface came into view—a landscape desolate and stony, lit by a pale sunlight that was colder than any winter dawn. I saw the sphere gliding downward, darker as it skimmed ridges, blacker still as we passed into shadowed hollows. There was no noise; there could be no noise. The world beneath was our world now.

We touched. The sphere rested on long legs, like the frame of some metal insect. The Moon lay under us. I stepped out into wonder. My foot sank into grey dust that gave way like sifted ashes. A thin chill rose through me. I drew my breath slowly, not trusting it. The sky was black; the Sun was a white disc. No wind. No atmosphere. Only silence, and stillness, and the endless forging of light across the grey plains.

“I never knew anything could be so beautiful,” I breathed. “So strange.”

Cavor moved away. “I am going to take a sample of soil,” he announced. He bent down and scooped up a handful. It fell slowly through the air, grains drifting as though on water. He let it go, and the particles danced in sunlight before settling. Beneath them, the dust lay deep.

We explored. Jagged rocks, smooth plains, and deep shadows. I found footprints: ours, reaching outward into the silence. Time lost meaning. Minutes and hours merged. We wandered, companions in isolation, held together by curiosity and the sphere behind us.

We discovered a cave. It yawned—dark and still. I approached, the air beside me so empty it whispered. I stepped in. My torch revealed walls shaped by moon-stuff—an alien carving of stone. No air moved; every breath was measured. Yet I felt alive.

Cavor’s voice came from behind me. “It is hollow,” he said. “We must be careful. But what a marvel! Who could have guessed that beneath the moon’s face there is structure, a secret waiting?”

We retreated to the sphere. My mind still drifted among lunar shadows. As we prepared to depart, I looked back into the cave one last time, remembering the hush, the isolation, the discovery of something beyond our expectation. Up there, above us, the Earth shone—blue and familiar, tethered to us by memory.

We rose. The moon receded. The Earth grew once more. We would speak of this journey forever—of the silence, the weightlessness, the dust underfoot, and the lamp of home shining across the void.