Chap­ter VII opens with a rush of pos­si­bil­i­ty. The pro­tag­o­nist, hav­ing nar­row­ly escaped his cap­tors and the mon­strous crea­tures of Pel­lu­ci­dar, push­es into unfa­mil­iar ter­ri­to­ry beyond the walls of Phutra. A long cor­ri­dor leads him upward, final­ly emerg­ing into the open expanse of a wild, alien land bathed in per­pet­u­al day­light. The silence is unfa­mil­iar, but strange­ly com­fort­ing. He breathes in the clean air, his sens­es over­whelmed by the rich, pri­mal world around him. Trees that stretch impos­si­bly tall cast no shad­ows, and the lack of night removes all famil­iar mark­ers of time. Despite this brief feel­ing of free­dom, his thoughts return to Per­ry. Escap­ing alone has left him hol­low. The val­ue of free­dom fades when it’s not shared.

Walk­ing across the uneven land­scape, he begins to reflect on Perry’s ear­li­er expla­na­tion of Pellucidar’s grav­i­ty. Because the Earth­’s core has a reversed grav­i­ta­tion­al pull, move­ment feels lighter and less restrict­ed. His strides cov­er more ground, and climb­ing no longer tax­es his mus­cles as it once did. Yet the exhil­a­ra­tion this brings is tem­pered by the weight of respon­si­bil­i­ty he feels toward his com­pan­ion. The strange physics of this world seem to both aid and mock him. With every step fur­ther from cap­tiv­i­ty, guilt fol­lows him. Even with this phys­i­cal light­ness, emo­tion­al bur­dens remain. In that qui­et, expan­sive world, he sens­es that escape is nev­er just physical—it is also moral.

The land­scape trans­forms into plains dot­ted with strange plants, some mov­ing as if alive, and herds of bizarre ani­mals graz­ing peace­ful­ly. Hunger dri­ves him to try a prim­i­tive hunt, catch­ing a small beast that offers unex­pect­ed nour­ish­ment. Eat­ing raw meat is no longer dis­turb­ing; the urgency of sur­vival rewrites his instincts. Yet, beneath this prac­ti­cal act lies some­thing deep­er: adap­ta­tion. The man from the sur­face world is slow­ly trans­form­ing. Not in form, but in thought. Pel­lu­ci­dar is teach­ing him to live by its rules. Still, beneath the skin of this new world, his inner voice clings to old val­ues. Per­ry, help­less some­where in Phutra, remains at the cen­ter of his thoughts.

In a qui­et val­ley lined with vines and shad­ed by thick canopy, the dis­cov­ery of a canoe stirs both sus­pi­cion and hope. Who­ev­er left it behind could be a threat—or an oppor­tu­ni­ty. Moments lat­er, that spec­u­la­tion is answered by the appear­ance of a native hold­ing a long spear, his gaze sharp and body tense. Words aren’t exchanged, only the lan­guage of threat. With no oth­er option, the pro­tag­o­nist leaps into the canoe and begins to pad­dle. The native gives chase. Every stroke becomes a des­per­ate rhythm of sur­vival. The nar­row riv­er opens into a wide bay, and the chase becomes a test of endurance and will.

Just when exhaus­tion over­takes him, an enor­mous crea­ture bursts from the water. It’s unlike any­thing he’s ever seen—a ser­pent with eyes like molten rock and a maw capa­ble of devour­ing men whole. The native’s spear is raised, but it’s use­less. The mon­ster lunges, catch­ing his canoe in the tur­bu­lence. The man cries out as the waves pitch him into the beast’s path. The pro­tag­o­nist paus­es, pad­dle raised. For a moment, their eyes meet. The native is no longer a threat but a per­son fac­ing death. Despite every­thing, some­thing human stirs with­in the pro­tag­o­nist. He con­sid­ers inter­ven­ing, even though log­ic says it would be sui­cide.

This inter­nal strug­gle lasts only sec­onds, but it lingers. He can­not defeat the crea­ture. Yet his refusal to aban­don com­pas­sion reveals a truth that tran­scends species or tribes. Empa­thy, raw and unfil­tered, links them in that fatal moment. Ulti­mate­ly, the ser­pent devours the native. Silence returns. The pro­tag­o­nist, shak­en, lets the cur­rent take him, his hands trem­bling not from fear, but from sor­row. There’s no tri­umph in this escape. Only the real­iza­tion that every choice in Pel­lu­ci­dar comes with a price, whether it’s guilt, loss, or a piece of one’s human­i­ty.

By the end of this jour­ney, he is left not with the thrill of free­dom, but with a qui­et res­o­lu­tion. He must return—not just for Per­ry, but for some­thing big­ger than him­self. Sur­vival here is more than brute strength. It demands loy­al­ty, com­pas­sion, and the courage to face dan­ger not just with fists, but with heart. Pel­lu­ci­dar, for all its sav­agery, reveals the purest form of what it means to be human. The pro­tag­o­nist now under­stands that real free­dom lies not in run­ning from dan­ger, but in choos­ing whom to stand beside in the face of it.