One Against the Moon

by Donald A. Wollheim

He looked around, pondering this. Could he survive? He had probably only a short time to work this out. Obviously he had to work fast and make good.

"Come, Cheeky," he said, "no time for foolishness. No daily swim in the river this morning. Harvest time is here."

He glanced at his rabbits, but they did not seem to mind the temperature drop. He went into the clumps of Moontrees and began to gather their fruit—the big balls—as fast as possible. They were still plump enough to hold food-pulp. He realized that if he waited, they would probably dry up on their trees, shrivel to seed as the increasing cold drew the moisture from them. He spent that day in gathering a harvest, in piling great masses of the fruit in a small cavern-wall bubble near his sleeping chamber. When he had amassed enough to see him through at least two weeks, he gathered the fallen trunks and dried-up old stalks and piled them in the narrow entrance to this storage cave. He built a fire there, paced it out, and spread it out to burn slowly. He would have to keep this fire going and another like it in front of his own sleeping cavern.

He transferred the rabbits to his bubble-home also, rebuilding their pen.

As he had expected, the temperature in his hidden world continued its fall. A few days later it was quite chilly and the Moontrees had acted as he surmised. Their fruits had withered quite rapidly, finally dropping off as small hard seeds. The tree stalks dried out, turned hard, and fell. Robin gathered them as fuel for his fires, found that they were quite excellent, and also that the fresh-fallen ones could be woven into basketry.

The river continued to flow, but was more sluggish, and its waters began to grow cold. On the other hand, the Moonworms and other little creatures seemed to be having their heyday. They were out in quantities greater than he had ever seen and were busily gathering the fallen seeds, carrying them away, evidently preferring them to the fruit.

Robin made himself a jacket from an extra part of the padding, stitching it together with cord and thongs made from shell fibers. With a fire going at the door of his cave, he found he still wouldn't need blankets.

During the balance of the Lunar night Robin was forced to remain close to his caves, tending his fires, conserving all his energies. Outside, the temperature never actually reached freezing, or at least not that Robin could estimate. But at its worst, it was definitely chilly and the river fairly cold.

The view within the cavern cleared somewhat of its usual mugginess and he could see much more. He could now make out the walls on all sides, and discovered that the farthest distance, in the direction in which the river ran, was perhaps several miles off. The vegetation had mainly flattened, was drying up, and he could see everywhere the little ball-segmented insects humping and squirming about.

He saw a number of varieties he had not noticed before. One day venturing out with his bow and arrow, he disturbed something working amid a pile of broken stalks. The thing rushed out, directly at him. It was large, as large as a dog, and it ran straight for him silently, its wide mouth gaping.