{"id":26609,"date":"2026-03-15T01:16:06","date_gmt":"2026-03-15T05:16:06","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=26609"},"modified":"2026-03-15T01:16:08","modified_gmt":"2026-03-15T05:16:08","slug":"arthur-c-clarke-transit-of-earth","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/arthur-c-clarke-transit-of-earth\/26609\/","title":{"rendered":"Arthur C. Clarke: Transit of Earth"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> \u201cTransit of Earth\u201d is a science fiction short story by Arthur C. Clarke, published in January 1971 in Playboy<\/em> magazine. Evans is an astronaut stranded on Mars who knows he has less than twenty-four hours of oxygen left. As he waits to record an astronomical phenomenon that occurs only once every hundred years\u2014the passage of Earth across the face of the Sun as seen from Mars\u2014he reflects on his life, his fears, and the memories that haunt him. With the calm of someone who has already accepted his fate, Evans prepares to carry out the mission for which his companions sacrificed their own lives.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Arthur<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

Transit of Earth<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Arthur C. Clarke
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Testing, one, two, three, four, five\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Evans speaking. I will continue to record as long as possible. This is a two-hour capsule, but I doubt if I\u2019ll fill it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That photograph has haunted me all my life; now, too late, I know why. (But would it have made any difference if I had<\/em> known? That\u2019s one of those meaningless and unanswerable questions the mind keeps returning to endlessly, like the tongue exploring a broken tooth.)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve not seen it for years, but I\u2019ve only to close my eyes and I\u2019m back in a landscape almost as hostile\u2014and as beautiful\u2014as this one. Fifty million miles sunward, and seventy-two years in the past, five men face the camera amid the Antarctic snows. Not even the bulky furs can hide the exhaustion and defeat that mark every line of their bodies; and their faces are already touched by Death.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There were five of them. There were five of us, and of course we also took a group photograph. But everything else was different. We were smiling\u2014cheerful, confident. And our picture was on all the screens of Earth within ten minutes. It was months before their<\/em> camera was found and brought back to civilisation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And we die in comfort, with all modern conveniences\u2014including many that Robert Falcon Scott could never have imagined, when he stood at the South Pole in 1912.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two hours later. I\u2019ll start giving exact times when it becomes important.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

All the facts are in the log, and by now the whole world knows them. So I guess I\u2019m doing this largely to settle my mind\u2014to talk myself into facing the inevitable. The trouble is, I\u2019m not sure what subjects to avoid, and which to tackle head on. Well, there\u2019s only one way to find out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first item: in twenty-four hours, at the very most, all the oxygen will be gone. That leaves me with the three classical choices. I can let the carbon dioxide build up until I become unconscious. I can step outside and crack the suit, leaving Mars to do the job in about two minutes. Or I can use one of the tablets in the med kit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

CO2<\/sub> build-up. Everyone says that\u2019s quite easy\u2014just like going to sleep. I\u2019ve no doubt that\u2019s true; unfortunately, in my case it\u2019s associated with nightmare number one\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wish I\u2019d never come across that damn book True Stories of World War Two<\/em>, or whatever it was called. There was one chapter about a German submarine, found and salvaged after the war. The crew was still inside it\u2014two<\/em> men per bunk. And between each pair of skeletons, the single respirator set they\u2019d been sharing\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Well, at least that won\u2019t happen here. But I know, with a deadly certainty, that as soon as I find it hard to breathe, I\u2019ll be back in that doomed U-boat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So what about the quicker way? When you\u2019re exposed to vacuum, you\u2019re unconscious in ten or fifteen seconds, and people who\u2019ve been through it say it\u2019s not painful\u2014just peculiar. But trying to breathe something that isn\u2019t there brings me altogether too neatly to nightmare number two.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This time, it\u2019s a personal experience. As a kid, I used to do a lot of skin diving, when my family went to the Caribbean for vacations. There was an old freighter that had sunk twenty years before, out on a reef, with its deck only a couple of yards below the surface. Most of the hatches were open, so it was easy to get inside, to look for souvenirs and hunt the big fish that like to shelter in such places.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of course it was dangerous if you did it without scuba gear. So what boy could resist the challenge?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My favourite route involved diving into a hatch on the foredeck, swimming about fifty feet along a passageway dimly lit by portholes a few yards apart, then angling up a short flight of stairs and emerging through a door in the battered superstructure. The whole trip took less than a minute\u2014an easy dive for anyone in good condition. There was even time to do some sight-seeing, or to play with a few fish along the route. And sometimes, for a change, I\u2019d switch directions, going in the door and coming out again through the hatch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That was the way I did it the last time. I hadn\u2019t dived for a week\u2014there had been a big storm, and the sea was too rough\u2014so I was impatient to get going.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I deep-breathed on the surface for about two minutes, until I felt the tingling in my finger tips that told me it was time to stop. Then I jackknifed and slid gently down toward the black rectangle of the open doorway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It always looked ominous and menacing\u2014that was part of the thrill. And for the first few yards I was almost completely blind; the contrast between the tropical glare above water and the gloom between decks was so great that it took quite a while for my eyes to adjust. Usually, I was halfway along the corridor before I could see anything clearly. Then the illumination would steadily increase as I approached the open hatch, where a shaft of sunlight would paint a dazzling rectangle on the rusty, barnacled metal floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d almost made it when I realised that, this time, the light wasn\u2019t getting better. There was no slanting column of sunlight ahead of me, leading up to the world of air and life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had a second of baffled confusion, wondering if I\u2019d lost my way. Then I knew what had happened\u2014and confusion turned into sheer panic. Sometime during the storm, the hatch must have slammed shut. It weighed at least a quarter of a ton.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t remember making a U turn; the next thing I recall is swimming quite slowly back along the passage and telling myself: Don\u2019t hurry; your air will last longer if you take it easy. I could see very well now, because my eyes had had plenty of time to become dark-adapted. There were lots of details I\u2019d never noticed before, like the red squirrelfish lurking in the shadows, the green fronds and algae growing in the little patches of light around the portholes, and even a single rubber boot, apparently in excellent condition, lying where someone must have kicked it off. And once, out of a side corridor, I noticed a big grouper staring at me with bulbous eyes, his thick lips half parted, as if he was astonished at my intrusion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The band around my chest was getting tighter and tighter. It was impossible to hold my breath any longer. Yet the stairway still seemed an infinite distance ahead. I let some bubbles of air dribble out of my mouth. That improved matters for a moment, but, once I had exhaled, the ache in my lungs became even more unendurable.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now there was no point in conserving strength by flippering along with that steady, unhurried stroke. I snatched the ultimate few cubic inches of air from my face mask\u2014feeling it flatten against my nose as I did so\u2014and swallowed them down into my starving lungs. At the same time, I shifted gear and drove forward with every last atom of strength\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And that\u2019s all I remember until I found myself spluttering and coughing in the daylight, clinging to the broken stub of the mast. The water around me was stained with blood, and I wondered why. Then, to my great surprise, I noticed a deep gash in my right calf. I must have banged into some sharp obstruction, but I\u2019d never noticed it and even then felt no pain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That was the end of my skin diving until I started astronaut training ten years later and went into the underwater zero-gee simulator. Then it was different, because I was using scuba gear. But I had some nasty moments that I was afraid the psychologists would notice, and I always made sure that I got nowhere near emptying my tank. Having nearly suffocated once, I\u2019d no intention of risking it again\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I know exactly what it will feel like to breathe the freezing wisp of near-vacuum that passes for atmosphere on Mars. No thank you. So what\u2019s wrong with poison? Nothing, I suppose. The stuff we\u2019ve got takes only fifteen seconds, they told us. But all my instincts are against it, even when there\u2019s no sensible alternative.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Did Scott have poison with him? I doubt it. And if he did, I\u2019m sure he never used it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m not going to replay this. I hope it\u2019s been of some use, but I can\u2019t be sure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The radio has just printed out a message from Earth, reminding me that transit starts in two hours. As if I\u2019m likely to forget\u2014when four men have already died so that I can be the first human being to see it. And the only one, for exactly a hundred years. It isn\u2019t often that Sun, Earth, and Mars line up neatly like this; the last time was in 1905, when poor old Lowell was still writing his beautiful nonsense about the canals and the great dying civilisation that had built them. Too bad it was all delusion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019d better check the telescope and the timing equipment.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Sun is quiet today\u2014as it should be, anyway, near the middle of the cycle. Just a few small spots, and some minor areas of disturbance around them. The solar weather is set calm for months to come. That\u2019s one thing the others won\u2019t have to worry about, on their way home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I think that was the worst moment, watching Olympus<\/em> lift off Phobos and head back to Earth. Even though we\u2019d known for weeks that nothing could be done, that was the final closing of the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was night, and we could see everything perfectly. Phobos had come leaping up out of the west a few hours earlier, and was doing its mad backward rush across the sky, growing from a tiny crescent to a half-moon; before it reached the zenith it would disappear as it plunged into the shadow of Mars and became eclipsed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We\u2019d been listening to the countdown, of course, trying to go about our normal work. It wasn\u2019t easy, accepting at last the fact that fifteen of us had come to Mars and only ten would return. Even then, I suppose there were millions back on Earth who still could not understand. They must have found it impossible to believe that Olympus<\/em> couldn\u2019t descend a mere four thousand miles to pick us up. The Space Administration had been bombarded with crazy rescue schemes; heaven knows, we\u2019d thought of enough ourselves. But when the permafrost under Landing Pad Three finally gave way and Pegasus<\/em> toppled, that was that. It still seems a miracle that the ship didn\u2019t blow up when the propellant tank ruptured\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m wandering again. Back to Phobos and the countdown.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the telescope monitor, we could clearly see the fissured plateau where Olympus<\/em> had touched down after we\u2019d separated and begun our own descent. Though our friends would never land on Mars, at least they\u2019d had a little world of their own to explore; even for a satellite as small as Phobos, it worked out at thirty square miles per man. A lot of territory to search for strange minerals and debris from space\u2014or to carve your name so that future ages would know that you were the first of all men to come this way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The ship was clearly visible as a stubby, bright cylinder against the dull-grey rocks; from time to time some flat surface would catch the light of the swiftly moving sun, and would flash with mirror brilliance. But about five minutes before lift-off, the picture became suddenly pink, then crimson\u2014then vanished completely as Phobos rushed into eclipse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The countdown was still at ten seconds when we were startled by a blast of light. For a moment, we wondered if Olympus<\/em> had also met with catastrophe. Then we realised that someone was filming the take-off, and the external floodlights had been switched on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

During those last few seconds, I think we all forgot our own predicament; we were up there aboard Olympus<\/em>, willing the thrust to build up smoothly and lift the ship out of the tiny gravitational field of Phobos, and then away from Mars for the long fall sunward. We heard Commander Richmond say \u2018Ignition\u2019, there was a brief burst of interference, and the patch of light began to move in the field of the telescope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That was all. There was no blazing column of fire, because, of course, there\u2019s really no ignition when a nuclear rocket lights up. \u2018Lights up\u2019 indeed! That\u2019s another hangover from the old chemical technology. But a hot hydrogen blast is completely invisible; it seems a pity that we\u2019ll never again see anything so spectacular as a Saturn or a Korolov blast-off.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Just before the end of the burn, Olympus<\/em> left the shadow of Mars and burst out into sunlight again, reappearing almost instantly as a brilliant, swiftly moving star. The blaze of light must have startled them aboard the ship, because we heard someone call out: \u2018Cover that window!\u2019 Then, a few seconds later, Richmond announced: \u2018Engine cutoff.\u2019 Whatever happened, Olympus<\/em> was now irrevocably headed back to Earth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A voice I didn\u2019t recognise\u2014though it must have been the Commander\u2019s\u2014said \u2018Goodbye, Pegasus<\/em>\u2018, and the radio transmission switched off. There was, of course, no point in saying \u2018Good luck\u2019. That had all been settled weeks ago.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve just played this back. Talking of luck, there\u2019s been one compensation, though not for us. With a crew of only ten, Olympus<\/em> has been able to dump a third of her expendables and lighten herself by several tons. So now she\u2019ll get home a month ahead of schedule.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Plenty of things could have gone wrong in that month; we may yet have saved the expedition. Of course, we\u2019ll never know\u2014but it\u2019s a nice thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve been playing a lot of music, full blast\u2014now that there\u2019s no one else to be disturbed. Even if there were any Martians, I don\u2019t suppose this ghost of an atmosphere can carry the sound more than a few yards.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We have a fine collection, but I have to choose carefully. Nothing downbeat and nothing that demands too much concentration. Above all, nothing with human voices. So I restrict myself to the lighter orchestral classics; the \u2018New World\u2019 symphony and Grieg\u2019s piano concerto fill the bill perfectly. At the moment I\u2019m listening to Rachmaninoff\u2019s \u2018Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini\u2019, but now I must switch off and get down to work.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There are only five minutes to go. All the equipment is in perfect condition. The telescope is tracking the Sun, the video recorder is standing by, the precision timer is running.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

These observations will be as accurate as I can make them. I owe it to my lost comrades, whom I\u2019ll soon be joining. They gave me their oxygen, so that I can still be alive at this moment. I hope you remember that, a hundred or a thousand years from now, whenever you crank these figures into the computers\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Only a minute to go; getting down to business. For the record: year, 1984; month, May; day, 11, coming up to four hours thirty minutes Ephemeris Time\u2026 now<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Half a minute to contact. Switching recorder and timer to high speed. Just rechecked position angle to make sure I\u2019m looking at the right spot on the Sun\u2019s limb. Using power of five hundred\u2014image perfectly steady even at this low elevation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Four thirty-two. Any moment now\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There it is\u2026 there it is! I can hardly believe it! A tiny black dent in the edge of the Sun\u2026 growing, growing, growing\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hello, Earth. Look up at me, the brightest star in your sky, straight overhead at midnight\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Recorder back to slow.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Four thirty-five. It\u2019s as if a thumb is pushing into the Sun\u2019s edge, deeper and deeper\u2026 Fascinating to watch\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Four forty-one. Exactly halfway. The Earth\u2019s a perfect black semicircle\u2014a clean bite out of the Sun. As if some disease is eating it away\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Four forty-eight. Ingress three-quarters complete.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Four hours forty-nine minutes thirty seconds. Recorder on high speed again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The line of contact with the Sun\u2019s edge is shrinking fast. Now it\u2019s a barely visible black thread. In a few seconds, the whole Earth will be superimposed on the Sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now I can see the effects of the atmosphere. There\u2019s a thin halo of light surrounding that black hole in the Sun. Strange to think that I\u2019m seeing the glow of all the sunsets\u2014and all the sunrises\u2014that are taking place around the whole Earth at this very moment\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ingress complete\u2014four hours fifty minutes five seconds. The whole world has moved onto the face of the Sun. A perfectly circular black disc silhouetted against that inferno ninety million miles below. It looks bigger than I expected; one could easily mistake it for a fair-sized sunspot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nothing more to see now for six hours, when the Moon appears, trailing Earth by half the Sun\u2019s width. I\u2019ll beam the recorder data back to Lunacom, then try to get some sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My very last sleep. Wonder if I\u2019ll need drugs. It seems a pity to waste these last few hours, but I want to conserve my strength\u2014and my oxygen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I think it was Dr Johnson who said that nothing settles a man\u2019s mind so wonderfully as the knowledge that he\u2019ll be hanged in the morning. How the hell did he<\/em> know?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ten hours thirty minutes Ephemeris Time. Dr Johnson was right. I had only one pill, and don\u2019t remember any dreams.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The condemned man also ate a hearty breakfast. Cut that out\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Back at the telescope. Now the Earth\u2019s halfway across the disc, passing well north of centre. In ten minutes, I should see the Moon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve just switched to the highest power of the telescope\u2014two thousand. The image is slightly fuzzy, but still fairly good; atmospheric halo very distinct. I\u2019m hoping to see the cities on the dark side of Earth\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

No luck. Probably too many clouds. A pity; it\u2019s theoretically possible, but we never succeeded. I wish\u2026 never mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ten hours forty minutes. Recorder on slow speed. Hope I\u2019m looking at the right spot.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fifteen seconds to go. Recorder fast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Damn\u2014missed it. Doesn\u2019t matter\u2014the recorder will have caught the exact moment. There\u2019s a little black notch already in the side of the Sun. First contact must have been about ten hours forty-one minutes twenty seconds ET.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What a long way it is between Earth and Moon; there\u2019s half the width of the Sun between them. You wouldn\u2019t think the two bodies had anything to do with each other. Makes you realise just how big the Sun really is\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ten hours forty-four minutes. The Moon\u2019s exactly halfway over the edge. A very small, very clear-cut semicircular bite out of the edge of the Sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ten hours forty-seven minutes five seconds. Internal contact. The Moon\u2019s clear of the edge, entirely inside the Sun. Don\u2019t suppose I can see anything on the night side, but I\u2019ll increase the power.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s funny.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Well, well. Someone must be trying to talk to me; there\u2019s a tiny light pulsing away there on the darkened face of the moon. Probably the laser at Imbrium Base.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sorry, everyone. I\u2019ve said all my goodbyes, and don\u2019t want to go through that again. Nothing can be important now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Still, it\u2019s almost hypnotic\u2014that flickering point of light, coming out of the face of the Sun itself. Hard to believe that, even after it\u2019s travelled all this distance, the beam is only a hundred miles wide. Lunacom\u2019s going to all this trouble to aim it exactly at me, and I suppose I should feel guilty at ignoring it. But I don\u2019t. I\u2019ve nearly finished my work, and the things of Earth are no longer any concern of mine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ten hours fifty minutes. Recorder off. That\u2019s it\u2014until the end of Earth transit, two hours from now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve had a snack and am taking my last look at the view from the observation bubble. The Sun\u2019s still high, so there\u2019s not much contrast, but the light brings out all the colours vividly\u2014the countless varieties of red and pink and crimson, so startling against the deep blue of the sky. How different from the Moon\u2014though that, too, has its own beauty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It\u2019s strange how surprising the obvious can be. Everyone knew that Mars was red. But we didn\u2019t really expect the red of rust, the red of blood. Like the Painted Desert of Arizona; after a while, the eye longs for green.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To the north, there is one welcome change of colour; the cap of carbon-dioxide snow on Mount Burroughs is a dazzling white pyramid. That\u2019s another surprise. Burroughs is twenty-five thousand feet above Mean Datum; when I was a boy, there weren\u2019t supposed to be any mountains on Mars\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The nearest sand dune is a quarter of a mile away, and it, too, has patches of frost on its shaded slope. During the last storm, we thought it moved a few feet, but we couldn\u2019t be sure. Certainly the dunes are<\/em> moving, like those on Earth. One day, I suppose, this base will be covered\u2014only to reappear again in a thousand years. Or ten thousand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That strange group of rocks\u2014the Elephant, the Capitol, the Bishop\u2014still holds its secrets, and teases me with the memory of our first big disappointment. We could have sworn that they were sedimentary; how eagerly we rushed out to look for fossils! Even now, we don\u2019t know what formed that outcropping. The geology of Mars is still a mass of contradictions and enigmas\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We have passed on enough problems to the future, and those who come after us will find many more. But there\u2019s one mystery we never reported to Earth, or even entered in the log\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first night after we landed, we took turns keeping watch. Brennan was on duty, and woke me up soon after midnight. I was annoyed\u2014it was ahead of time\u2014and then he told me that he\u2019d seen a light moving around the base of the Capitol.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We watched for at least an hour, until it was my turn to take over. But we saw nothing; whatever that light was, it never reappeared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now Brennan was as levelheaded and unimaginative as they come; if he said he saw a light, then he saw one. Maybe it was some kind of electric discharge, or the reflection of Phobos on a piece of sand-polished rock. Anyway, we decided not to mention it to Lunacom, unless we saw it again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Since I\u2019ve been alone, I\u2019ve often awakened in the night and looked out toward the rocks. In the feeble illumination of Phobos and Deimos, they remind me of the skyline of a darkened city. And it has always remained darkened. No lights have ever appeared for me\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Twelve hours forty-nine minutes Ephemeris Time. The last act\u2019s about to begin. Earth has nearly reached the edge of the Sun. The two narrow horns of light that still embrace it are barely touching\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Recorder on fast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Contact! Twelve hours fifty minutes sixteen seconds. The crescents of light no longer meet. A tiny black spot has appeared at the edge of the Sun, as the Earth begins to cross it. It\u2019s growing longer, longer\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Recorder on slow. Eighteen minutes to wait before Earth finally clears the face of the Sun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Moon still has more than halfway to go; it\u2019s not yet reached the mid-point of its transit. It looks like a little round blob of ink, only a quarter the size of Earth. And there\u2019s no light flickering there any more. Lunacom must have given up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Well, I have just a quarter of an hour left, here in my last home. Time seems to be accelerating the way it does in the final minutes before a lift-off. No matter; I have everything worked out now. I can even relax.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Already, I feel part of history. I am one with Captain Cook, back in Tahiti in 1769, watching the transit of Venus. Except for that image of the Moon trailing along behind, it must have looked just like this\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What would Cook have thought, over two hundred years ago, if he\u2019d known that one day a man would observe the whole Earth in transit from an outer world? I\u2019m sure he would have been astonished\u2014and then delighted\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I feel a closer identity with a man not yet born. I hope you hear these words, whoever you may be. Perhaps you will be standing on this very spot, a hundred years from now, when the next transit occurs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Greetings to 2084, November 10! I wish you better luck than we had. I suppose you will have come here on a luxury liner. Or you may have been born on Mars, and be a stranger to Earth. You will know things that I cannot imagine. Yet somehow I don\u2019t envy you. I would not even change places with you if I could.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For you will remember my name, and know that I was the first of all mankind ever to see a transit of Earth. And no one will see another for a hundred years\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Twelve hours fifty-nine minutes. Exactly halfway through egress. The Earth is a perfect semicircle\u2014a black shadow on the face of the Sun. I still can\u2019t escape from the impression that something has taken a big bite out of that golden disc. In nine minutes it will be gone, and the Sun will be whole again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thirteen hours seven minutes. Recorder on fast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Earth has almost gone. There\u2019s just a shallow black dimple at the edge of the Sun. You could easily mistake it for a small spot, going over the limb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Thirteen hours eight.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Goodbye, beautiful Earth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Going, going, going. Goodbye, good\u2014<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m OK again now. The timings have all been sent home on the beam. In five minutes, they\u2019ll join the accumulated wisdom of mankind. And Lunacom will know that I stuck to my post.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I\u2019m not sending this. I\u2019m going to leave it here, for the next expedition\u2014whenever that may be. It could be ten or twenty years before anyone comes here again. No point in going back to an old site when there\u2019s a whole world waiting to be explored\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So this capsule will stay here, as Scott\u2019s diary remained in his tent, until the next visitors find it. But they won\u2019t find me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Strange how hard it is to get away from Scott. I think he gave me the idea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For his body will not lie frozen forever in the Antarctic, isolated from the great cycle of life and death. Long ago, that lonely tent began its march to the sea. Within a few years, it was buried by the falling snow and had become part of the glacier that crawls eternally away from the Pole. In a few brief centuries, the sailor will have returned to the sea. He will merge once more into the pattern of living things\u2014the plankton, the seals, the penguins, the whales, all the multitudinous fauna of the Antarctic Ocean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There are no oceans here on Mars, nor have there been for at least five billion years. But there is life of some kind, down there in the badlands of Chaos II, which we never had time to explore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Those moving patches on the orbital photographs. The evidence that whole areas of Mars have been swept clear of craters, by forces other than erosion. The long-chain, optically active carbon molecules picked up by the atmospheric samplers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And, of course, the mystery of Viking 6. Even now, no one has been able to make any sense of those last instrument readings, before something large and heavy crushed the probe in the still, cold depths of the Martian night\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And don\u2019t talk to me about primitive<\/em> life forms in a place like this! Anything that\u2019s survived here will be so sophisticated that we may look as clumsy as dinosaurs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s still enough propellant in the ship\u2019s tanks to drive the Mars car clear around the planet. I have three hours of daylight left\u2014plenty of time to get down into the valleys and well out into Chaos. After sunset, I\u2019ll still be able to make good speed with the headlights. It will be romantic, driving at night under the moons of Mars\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One thing I must fix before I leave. I don\u2019t like the way Sam\u2019s lying out there. He was always so poised, so graceful. It doesn\u2019t seem right that he should look so awkward now. I must do something about it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I wonder if I<\/em> could have covered three hundred feet without a suit, walking slowly, steadily\u2014the way he did, to the very end.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I must try not to look at his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

* * *<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That\u2019s it. Everything shipshape and ready to go.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The therapy has worked. I feel perfectly at ease\u2014even contented, now that I know exactly what I\u2019m going to do. The old nightmares have lost their power.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It is true: we all die alone. It makes no difference at the end, being fifty million miles from home.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019m going to enjoy the drive through that lovely painted landscape. I\u2019ll be thinking of all those who dreamed about Mars\u2014Wells and Lowell and Burroughs and Weinbaum and Bradbury. They all guessed wrong\u2014but the reality is just as strange, just as beautiful, as they imagined.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know what\u2019s waiting for me out there, and I\u2019ll probably never see it. But on this starveling world, it must be desperate for carbon, phosphorus, oxygen, calcium. It can use me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And when my oxygen alarm gives its final \u2018ping,\u2019 somewhere down there in that haunted wilderness, I\u2019m going to finish in style. As soon as I have difficulty in breathing, I\u2019ll get off the Mars car and start walking\u2014with a playback unit plugged into my helmet and going full blast.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For sheer, triumphant power and glory there\u2019s nothing in the whole of music to match the Toccata and Fugue in D. I won\u2019t have time to hear all of it; that doesn\u2019t matter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Johann Sebastian, here I come.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cTransit of Earth\u201d is a science fiction short story by Arthur C. Clarke, published in January 1971 in Playboy magazine. Evans is an astronaut stranded on Mars who knows he has less than twenty-four hours of oxygen left. As he waits to record an astronomical phenomenon that occurs only once every hundred years\u2014the passage of Earth across the face of the Sun as seen from Mars\u2014he reflects on his life, his fears, and the memories that haunt him. With the calm of someone who has already accepted his fate, Evans prepares to carry out the mission for which his companions sacrificed their own lives.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":26608,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[566,552,772],"class_list":["post-26609","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-arthur-c-clarke-en","tag-science-fiction","tag-united-kingdom","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":566,"label":"Arthur C. Clarke"},{"value":552,"label":"Science fiction"},{"value":772,"label":"United Kingdom"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/03\/Arthur-C.-Clarke-El-transito-de-la-Tierra.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":411,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":411,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":566,"name":"Arthur C. Clarke","slug":"arthur-c-clarke-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":566,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":16,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":552,"name":"Science fiction","slug":"science-fiction","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":552,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":118,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":772,"name":"United Kingdom","slug":"united-kingdom","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":772,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":92,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/26609","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=26609"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/26609\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/26608"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=26609"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=26609"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=26609"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}