October 20, 1930
Dear Romana,
I have no idea if this letter's ever going to reach you. I sincerely hope I can just hand it to you, because the alternatives are all on the seriously nasty side. This isn't the kind of universe I ever want to think about your TARDIS accidentally sliding sideways into, and the possibility of you getting pulled in here by something on purpose is just too distressing to contemplate. Suzi Darley was bad enough and I barely know her. You really, really, really don't want to be here.
The expedition Frank Pabodie dragooned me into is well within striking range of the Antarctic continent by now. We should be crossing the Antarctic Circle sometime today, in fact. Under ordinary circumstances I'd be kind of impressed, especially since we're making our way through a bunch of field ice and all, but all I'm really feeling is this big old lump of dread in my stomach that won't go away. Antarctica isn't the relatively pristine place here that it is in a lot of other worlds. If I remember right- and I honestly can't say if I do or not, because it's literally been close to seventy years since I last read the story in question- there were cities here over a hundred and fifty million years ago, and some of the inhabitants might still be in hibernation somewhere under all the ice. If we're very, very, very lucky, all that's going to happen is that we'll find some of their artifacts in the course of drilling.
I wish I could say I felt that lucky.
I wish I remembered more of that story. I wish I was nearly anywhere but here.
Anyway, this being 1930, we're bundled up in the finest cold-weather gear money can currently buy. I've been wearing my watch cap as often as I can, despite it being summer in the southern hemisphere. I had to leave my theatrical makeup and hair dye behind in Arkham- they would've caused way too many questions- and Pabodie's exactly the kind of guy to notice that my hair's not all shot through with grey any more. As it stands he thinks the sea air's doing me good because it looks like it's taking the lines out of my face. What I wouldn't give for some latex and rubber cement! If we get through this alive and not gibbering somehow, I plan on retiring from the University as soon as we submit our final reports. Laszlo suggested I consider taking up with Tesla- the man's mostly retired now himself, but you never know...
I should go. Captain Douglas just sent word that we're about to cross the Circle and we'd better all come on deck for the appropriate ceremonies. Sailors' superstition, I know, but at least anthropologically interesting superstition. And it's not like I can really talk, given that I've knitted at least three versions of the Elder Sign into every single piece of clothing I've produced since I got stuck on board this stupid ship. Nobody's noticed yet, or if they have, they haven't said anything. We'll see what happens.
More tomorrow, if all goes well.
Love,
Ray.
[translated, as all Ray's letters to Romana are, from the Sumerian]
I have no idea if this letter's ever going to reach you. I sincerely hope I can just hand it to you, because the alternatives are all on the seriously nasty side. This isn't the kind of universe I ever want to think about your TARDIS accidentally sliding sideways into, and the possibility of you getting pulled in here by something on purpose is just too distressing to contemplate. Suzi Darley was bad enough and I barely know her. You really, really, really don't want to be here.
The expedition Frank Pabodie dragooned me into is well within striking range of the Antarctic continent by now. We should be crossing the Antarctic Circle sometime today, in fact. Under ordinary circumstances I'd be kind of impressed, especially since we're making our way through a bunch of field ice and all, but all I'm really feeling is this big old lump of dread in my stomach that won't go away. Antarctica isn't the relatively pristine place here that it is in a lot of other worlds. If I remember right- and I honestly can't say if I do or not, because it's literally been close to seventy years since I last read the story in question- there were cities here over a hundred and fifty million years ago, and some of the inhabitants might still be in hibernation somewhere under all the ice. If we're very, very, very lucky, all that's going to happen is that we'll find some of their artifacts in the course of drilling.
I wish I could say I felt that lucky.
I wish I remembered more of that story. I wish I was nearly anywhere but here.
Anyway, this being 1930, we're bundled up in the finest cold-weather gear money can currently buy. I've been wearing my watch cap as often as I can, despite it being summer in the southern hemisphere. I had to leave my theatrical makeup and hair dye behind in Arkham- they would've caused way too many questions- and Pabodie's exactly the kind of guy to notice that my hair's not all shot through with grey any more. As it stands he thinks the sea air's doing me good because it looks like it's taking the lines out of my face. What I wouldn't give for some latex and rubber cement! If we get through this alive and not gibbering somehow, I plan on retiring from the University as soon as we submit our final reports. Laszlo suggested I consider taking up with Tesla- the man's mostly retired now himself, but you never know...
I should go. Captain Douglas just sent word that we're about to cross the Circle and we'd better all come on deck for the appropriate ceremonies. Sailors' superstition, I know, but at least anthropologically interesting superstition. And it's not like I can really talk, given that I've knitted at least three versions of the Elder Sign into every single piece of clothing I've produced since I got stuck on board this stupid ship. Nobody's noticed yet, or if they have, they haven't said anything. We'll see what happens.
More tomorrow, if all goes well.
Love,
Ray.
[translated, as all Ray's letters to Romana are, from the Sumerian]