Charley was a realist.
"So I went wandering off just to see what I could find!" Charley said.
We watched him get up, throw another log on the fire and draw his Indian blanket around himself—so tightly he looked like a great swathed mummy swaying in the glare.
"Nothing tremendous ever happens when you go exploring with all the trimmings!" Charley went on. "You've got to be devil-may-care about it. So I just made sure my helmet was screwed on tight and went striding away from the ship like a clockwork orang-outang!
"If you've been on the dark side you know that there's a sensation of bitter cold at all times—even when you're bundled up and in motion. You keep looking back and wishing you hadn't—and before you can count the stars in a square foot of sky you're at the bottom of a valley with glacial sides and the desolation is so awful you want to sit down on the nearest rock and never get up!"
Charley sat down, crossed his long legs and took a deep, slow puff on his pipe.
"I shouted—just to hear the echoes come rolling back. You can talk to yourself that way and get comfort out of it, because what you'll hear will be the giant in yourself. The valley was so big a soaring eagle would have burst its lungs trying to fly out of it.
"But don't get the idea I climbed down over an icy slope on a rope. I simply sat down and let myself slide. Smooth? There wasn't a crevice or a projection until I reached the bottom and picked myself up."
Charley nodded. "I had to lift off my helmet for a minute, to shake off the ice. That's when I shouted and heard the echoes come rolling back.
"I'd clamped the helmet back on, and was adjusting my oxygen intake when I happened to glance down at my big, square feet."