that which separates the sun from the earth, or in round numbers 400,000
miles. So that invisible face is so much nearer to the sun when she
receives its rays."
"Quite right," replied Nicholl.
"On the contrary," continued Barbicane.
"One moment," said Michel, interrupting his grave companion.
"What do you want?"
"I ask to be allowed to continue the explanation."
"And why?"
"To prove that I understand."
"Get along with you," said Barbicane, smiling.
"On the contrary," said Michel, imitating the tone and gestures of the
president, "on the contrary, when the visible face of the moon is lit by
the sun, it is because the moon is full, that is to say, opposite the
sun with regard to the earth. The distance separating it from the radiant
orb is then increased in round numbers to 400,000 miles, and the heat
which she receives must be a little less."
"Very well said!" exclaimed Barbicane. "Do you know, Michel, that, for
an amateur, you are intelligent."
"Yes," replied Michel coolly, "we are all so on the Boulevard des
Italiens."
Barbicane gravely clasped the hand of his amiable companion, and continued
to enumerate the advantages reserved for the inhabitants of the visible
face.
Amongst others, he mentioned eclipses of the sun, which only take place
on this side of the lunar disc; since, in order that they may take place,
it is necessary for the moon to be -in opposition-. These eclipses,
caused by the interposition of the earth between the moon and the sun,
can last -two hours-; during which time, by reason of the rays refracted
by its atmosphere, the terrestrial globe can appear as nothing but a
black point upon the sun.
"So," said Nicholl, "there is a hemisphere, that invisible hemisphere
which is very ill supplied, very ill treated, by nature."
"Never mind," replied Michel; "if we ever become Selenites, we will
inhabit the visible face. I like the light."
"Unless, by any chance," answered Nicholl, "the atmosphere should be
condensed on the other side, as certain astronomers pretend."
"That would be a consideration," said Michel.
Breakfast over, the observers returned to their post. They tried to
see through the darkened scuttles by extinguishing all light in the
projectile; but not a luminous spark made its way through the darkness.
One inexplicable fact preoccupied Barbicane. Why, having passed within
such a short distance of the moon--about twenty-five miles only--why
the projectile had not fallen? If its speed had been enormous, he could
have understood that the fall would not have taken place; but, with
a relatively moderate speed, that resistance to the moon's attraction
could not be explained. Was the projectile under some foreign influence?
Did some kind of body retain it in the ether? It was quite evident that
it could never reach any point of the moon. Whither was it going? Was
it going farther from, or nearing, the disc? Was it being borne in that
profound darkness through the infinity of space? How could they learn,
how calculate, in the midst of this night? All these questions made
Barbicane uneasy, but he could not solve them.
Certainly, the invisible orb was -there-, perhaps only some few miles
off; but neither he nor his companions could see it. If there was any
noise on its surface, they could not hear it. Air, that medium of sound,
was wanting to transmit the groanings of that moon which the Arabic
legends call "a man already half granite, and still breathing."
One must allow that that was enough to aggravate the most patient
observers. It was just that unknown hemisphere which was stealing from
their sight. That face which fifteen days sooner, or fifteen days later,
had been, or would be, splendidly illuminated by the solar rays, was then
being lost in utter darkness. In fifteen days where would the projectile
be? Who could say? Where would the chances of conflicting attractions
have drawn it to? The disappointment of the travellers in the midst of
this utter darkness may be imagined. All observation of the lunar disc
was impossible. The constellations alone claimed all their attention;
and we must allow that the astronomers Faye, Charconac, and Secchi, never
found themselves in circumstances so favourable for their
observation.
Indeed, nothing could equal the splendour of this starry world, bathed
in limpid ether. Its diamonds set in the heavenly vault sparkled
magnificently. The eye took in the firmament from the Southern Cross to
the North Star, those two constellations which in 12,000 years, by reason
of the succession of equinoxes, will resign their part of polar stars,
the one to Canopus in the southern hemisphere, the other to Wega in
the northern. Imagination loses itself in this sublime Infinity, amidst
which the projectile was gravitating, like a new star created by the
hand of man. From a natural cause, these constellations shone with a soft
lustre; they did not -twinkle-, for there was no atmosphere which, by
the intervention of its layers unequally dense and of different degrees
of humidity, produces this scintillation. These stars were soft eyes,
looking out into the dark night, amidst the silence of absolute
space.
Illustration: NOTHING COULD EQUAL THE SPLENDOR OF THIS STARRY WORLD.
Long did the travellers stand mute, watching the constellated firmament,
upon which the moon, like a vast screen, made an enormous black hole.
But at length a painful sensation drew them from their watchings. This
was an intense cold, which soon covered the inside of the glass of the
scuttles with a thick coating of ice. The sun was no longer warming the
projectile with its direct rays, and thus it was losing the heat stored
up in its walls by degrees. This heat was rapidly evaporating into space
by radiation, and a considerably lower temperature was the result. The
humidity of the interior was changed into ice upon contact with the
glass, preventing all observation.
Nicholl consulted the thermometer, and saw that it had fallen to seventeen
degrees (centigrade) below zero.* So that, in spite of the many reasons
for economizing, Barbicane, after having begged light from the gas, was
also obliged to beg for heat. The projectile's low temperature was no
longer endurable. Its tenants would have been frozen to death.
*1° Fahr. (Ed.)
"Well!" observed Michel, "we cannot reasonably complain of the monotony
of our journey! What variety we have had, at least in temperature. Now
we are blinded with light and saturated with heat, like the Indians of
the Pampas! now plunged into profound darkness, amidst the cold like the
Esquimauxs of the north pole. No, indeed! we have no right to complain;
nature does wonders in our honour."
"But," asked Nicholl, "what is the temperature outside?"
"Exactly that of the planetary space," replied Barbicane.
"Then," continued Michel Ardan, "would not this be the time to make the
experiment which we dared not attempt when we were drowned in the sun's
rays?"
"It is now or never," replied Barbicane, "for we are in a good position
to verify the temperature of space, and see if Fourier or Pouillet's
calculations are exact."
"In any case it is cold," said Michel. "See! the steam of the interior
is condensing on the glasses of the scuttles. If the fall continues, the
vapour of our breath will fall in snow around us."
"Let us prepare a thermometer," said Barbicane.
We may imagine that an ordinary thermometer would afford no result under
the circumstances in which this instrument was to be exposed. The mercury
would have been frozen in its ball, as below forty-two degrees below
zero* it is no longer liquid. But Barbicane had furnished himself with
a spirit thermometer on Wafferdin's system, which gives the minima of
excessively low temperatures.
*-44° Fahr.
Before beginning the experiment, this instrument was compared with an
ordinary one, and then Barbicane prepared to use it.
"How shall we set about it?" asked Nicholl.
"Nothing is easier," replied Michel Ardan, who was never at a loss.
"We open the scuttle rapidly; throw out the instrument; it follows the
projectile with exemplary docility; and a quarter of an hour after, draw
it in."
"With the hand?" asked Barbicane.
"With the hand," replied Michel.
"Well then, my friend, do not expose yourself," answered Barbicane, "for
the hand that you draw in again will be nothing but a stump frozen and
deformed by the frightful cold."
"Really!"
"You will feel as if you had had a terrible burn, like that of iron at
a white heat; for whether the heat leaves our bodies briskly or enters
briskly, it is exactly the same thing. Besides, I am not at all certain
that the objects we have thrown out are still following us."
"Why not?" asked Nicholl.
"Because, if we are passing through an atmosphere of the slightest
density, these objects will be retarded. Again, the darkness prevents
our seeing if they still float around us. But in order not to expose
ourselves to the loss of our thermometer, we will fasten it, and we can
then more easily pull it back again."
Illustration: "THE VAPOR OF OUR BREATH WILL FALL IN SNOW
AROUND US."
Barbicane's advice was followed. Through the scuttle rapidly opened,
Nicholl threw out the instrument which was held by a short cord, so that
it might be more easily drawn up. The scuttle had not been opened more
than a second, but that second had sufficed to let in a most intense
cold.
"The devil!" exclaimed Michel Ardan, "it is cold enough to freeze a white
bear."
Barbicane waited until half an hour had elapsed, which was more than time
enough to allow the instrument to fall to the level of the surrounding
temperature. Then it was rapidly pulled in.
Barbicane calculated the quantity of spirits of wine overflowed into the
little phial soldered to the lower part of the instrument, and said,--
"A hundred and forty degrees centigrade* below zero!"
*-218° Fahr. (Ed.)
M. Pouillet was right and Fourier wrong. That was the undoubted temperature
of the starry space. Such is, perhaps, that of the lunar continents, when
the orb of night has lost by radiation all the heat which fifteen days
of sun have poured into her.
CHAPTER XV.
HYPERBOLA OR PARABOLA.
We may, perhaps, be astonished to find Barbicane and his companions so
little occupied with the future reserved for them in their metal prison
which was bearing them through the infinity of space. Instead of asking
where they were going, they passed their time making experiments, as if
they had been quietly installed in their own study.
We might answer that men so strong-minded were above such anxieties--that
they did not trouble themselves about such trifles--and that they had
something else to do than to occupy their minds with the future.
The truth was that they were not masters of their projectile; they could
neither check its course, nor alter its direction.
A sailor can change the head of his ship as he pleases; an aeronaut can
give a vertical motion to his balloon. They, on the contrary, had no power
over their vehicle. Every maneuver was forbidden. Hence the inclination
to let things alone, or as the sailors say, "let her run."
Where did they find themselves at this moment, at eight o'clock in the
morning of the day called upon the earth the 6th of December? Very
certainly in the neighbourhood of the moon, and even near enough for her
to look to them like an enormous black screen upon the firmament. As to
the distance which separated them, it was impossible to estimate it. The
projectile, held by some unaccountable force, had been within four miles
of grazing the satellite's north pole.
Illustration: A DISCUSSION AROSE.
But since entering the cone of shadow these last two hours, had the
distance increased or diminished? Every point of mark was wanting by
which to estimate both the direction and the speed of the projectile.
Perhaps it was rapidly leaving the disc, so that it would soon quit the
pure shadow. Perhaps, again, on the other hand, it might be nearing it
so much that in a short time it might strike some high point on the
invisible hemisphere, which would doubtlessly have ended the journey much
to the detriment of the travellers.
A discussion arose on this subject, and Michel Ardan, always ready with
an explanation, gave it as his opinion that the projectile, held by the
lunar attraction, would end by falling on the surface of the terrestrial
globe like an aërolite.
"First of all, my friend," answered Barbicane, "every aërolite does not
fall to the earth; it is only a small proportion which do so; and if we
had passed into an aërolite, it does not necessarily follow that we
should ever reach the surface of the moon."
"But how if we get near enough?" replied Michel.
"Pure mistake," replied Barbicane. "Have you not seen shooting stars rush
through the sky by thousands at certain seasons?"
"Yes."
"Well, these stars, or rather corpuscules, only shine when they are
heated by gliding over the atmospheric layers. Now, if they enter the
atmosphere, they pass at least within forty miles of the earth, but they
seldom fall upon it. The same with our projectile. It may approach very
near to the moon, and yet not fall upon it."
"But then," asked Michel, "I shall be curious to know how our erring
vehicle will act in space?"
"I see but two hypotheses," replied Barbicane, after some moments'
reflection.
"What are they?"
"The projectile has the choice between two mathematical curves, and it
will follow one or the other according to the speed with which it is
animated, and which at this moment I cannot estimate."
"Yes," said Nicholl, "it will follow either a parabola or a hyperbola."
"Just so," replied Barbicane. "With a certain speed it will assume the
parabola, and with a greater the hyperbola."
"I like those grand words," exclaimed Michel Ardan; "one knows directly
what they mean. And pray what is your parabola, if you please?"
"My friend," answered the captain, "the parabola is a curve of the
second order, the result of the section of a cone intersected by a plane
parallel to one of its sides."
"Ah! ah!" said Michel, in a satisfied tone.
"It is very nearly," continued Nicholl, "the course described by a bomb
launched from a mortar."
"Perfect! And the hyperbola?"
"The hyperbola, Michel, is a curve of the second order, produced by the
intersection of a conic surface and a plane parallel to its axis, and
constitutes two branches separated one from the other, both tending
indefinitely in the two directions."
"Is it possible!" exclaimed Michel Ardan in a serious tone, as if they
had told him of some serious event. "What I particularly like in your
definition of the hyperbola (I was going to say hyperblague) is that it
is still more obscure than the word you pretend to define."
Nicholl and Barbicane cared little for Michel Ardan's fun. They were deep
in a scientific discussion. What curve would the projectile follow? was
their hobby. One maintained the hyperbola, the other the parabola. They
gave each other reasons bristling with -x-. Their arguments were couched
in language which made Michel jump. The discussion was hot, and neither
would give up his chosen curve to his adversary.
This scientific dispute lasted so long that it made Michel very impatient.
"Now, gentlemen cosines, will you cease to throw parabolas and hyperbolas
at each other's heads? I want to understand the only interesting question
in the whole affair. We shall follow one or other of these curves? Good.
But where will they lead us to?"
"Nowhere," replied Nicholl.
"How, nowhere?"
"Evidently," said Barbicane, "they are open curves, which may be prolonged
indefinitely."
"Ah, savants!" cried Michel; "and what are either the one or the other
to us from the moment we know that they equally lead us into infinite
space?"
Barbicane and Nicholl could not forbear smiling. They had just been
creating "art for art's sake." Never had so idle a question been raised
at such an inopportune moment. The sinister truth remained that, whether
hyperbolically or parabolically borne away, the projectile would never
again meet either the earth or the moon.
What would become of these bold travellers in the immediate future? If
they did not die of hunger, if they did not die of thirst, in some days,
when the gas failed, they would die from want of air, unless the cold
had killed them first. Still, important as it was to economize the gas,
the excessive lowness of the surrounding temperature obliged them to
consume a certain quantity. Strictly speaking, they could do without its
-light-, but not without its -heat-. Fortunately the caloric generated by
Reiset's and Regnaut's apparatus raised the temperature of the interior
of the projectile a little, and without much expenditure they were able
to keep it bearable.
But observations had now become very difficult. The dampness of the
projectile was condensed on the windows and congealed immediately. This
cloudiness had to be dispersed continually. In any case they might hope
to be able to discover some phenomena of the highest interest.
But up to this time the disc remained dumb and dark. It did not answer
the multiplicity of questions put by these ardent minds; a matter which
drew this reflection from Michel, apparently a just one,--
"If ever we begin this journey over again, we shall do well to choose
the time when the moon is at the full."
"Certainly," said Nicholl, "that circumstance will be more favourable.
I allow that the moon, immersed in the sun's rays, will not be visible
during the transit, but instead we should see the earth, which would
be full. And what is more, if we were drawn round the moon, as at this
moment, we should at least have the advantage of seeing the invisible
part of her disc magnificently lit."
"Well said, Nicholl," replied Michel Ardan. "What do you think, Barbicane?"
"I think this," answered the grave president: "If ever we begin this
journey again, we shall start at the same time and under the same
conditions. Suppose we had attained our end, would it not have been
better to have found continents in broad daylight than a country plunged
in utter darkness? Would not our first installation have been made under
better circumstances? Yes, evidently. As to the -invisible- side, we
could have visited it in our exploring expeditions on the lunar globe.
So that the time of the full moon was well chosen. But we ought to have
arrived at the end; and in order to have so arrived, we ought to have
suffered no deviation on the road."
"I have nothing to say to that," answered Michel Ardan. "Here is, however,
a good opportunity lost of observing the other side of the moon."
But the projectile was now describing in the shadow that incalculable
course which no sight-mark would allow them to ascertain. Had its
direction been altered, either by the influence of the lunar attraction,
or by the action of some unknown star? Barbicane could not say. But
a change had taken place in the relative position of the vehicle; and
Barbicane verified it about four in the morning.
The change consisted in this, that the base of the projectile had
turned towards the moon's surface, and was so held by a perpendicular
passing through its axis. The attraction, that is to say the -weight-,
had brought about this alteration. The heaviest part of the projectile
inclined towards the invisible disc as if it would fall upon it.
Was it falling? Were the travellers attaining that much desired end? No.
And the observation of a sign-point, quite inexplicable in itself, showed
Barbicane that his projectile was not nearing the moon, and that it had
shifted by following an almost concentric curve.
This point of mark was a luminous brightness, which Nicholl sighted
suddenly, on the limit of the horizon formed by the black disc. This
point could not be confounded with a star. It was a reddish incandescence
which increased by degrees, a decided proof that the projectile was
shifting towards it and not falling normally on the surface of the moon.
"A volcano! it is a volcano in action!" cried Nicholl; "a disembowelling
of the interior fires of the moon! That world is not quite extinguished."
"Yes, an eruption," replied Barbicane, who was carefully studying the
phenomenon through his night glass. "What should it be, if not a volcano?"
"But, then," said Michel Ardan, "in order to maintain that combustion,
there must be air. So an atmosphere -does- surround that part of the
moon."
"-Perhaps- so," replied Barbicane, "but not necessarily. The volcano,
by the decomposition of certain substances, can provide its own oxygen,
and thus throw flames into space. It seems to me that the deflagration,
by the intense brilliancy of the substances in combustion, is produced
in pure oxygen. We must not be in a hurry to proclaim the existence of
a lunar atmosphere."
The fiery mountain must have been situated about the 45° south latitude
on the invisible part of the disc; but, to Barbicane's great displeasure,
the curve which the projectile was describing was taking it far from
the point indicated by the eruption. Thus he could not determine its
nature exactly. Half an hour after being sighted, this luminous point
had disappeared behind the dark horizon; but the verification of this
phenomenon was of considerable consequence in their selenographic studies.
It proved that all heat had not yet disappeared from the bowels of this
globe; and where heat exists, who can affirm that the vegetable kingdom,
nay, even the animal kingdom itself, has not up to this time resisted
all destructive influences? The existence of this volcano in eruption,
unmistakably seen by these earthly savants, would doubtless give rise
to many theories favourable to the grave question of the habitability of
the moon.
Barbicane allowed himself to be carried away by these reflections. He
forgot himself in a deep reverie in which the mysterious destiny of the
lunar world was uppermost. He was seeking to combine together the facts
observed up to that time, when a new incident recalled him briskly to
reality. This incident was more than a cosmical phenomenon; it was a
threatened danger, the consequences of which might be disastrous in the
extreme.
Suddenly, in the midst of the ether, in the profound darkness, an
enormous mass appeared. It was like a moon, but an incandescent moon
whose brilliancy was all the more intolerable as it cut sharply on the
frightful darkness of space. This mass, of a circular form, threw a
light which filled the projectile. The forms of Barbicane, Nicholl, and
Michel Ardan, bathed in its white sheets, assumed that livid spectral
appearance which physicians produce with the fictitious light of alcohol
impregnated with salt.
Illustration: A PREY TO FRIGHTFUL TERROR.
"By Jove!" cried Michel Ardan, "we are hideous. What is that
ill-conditioned moon?"
"A meteor," replied Barbicane.
"A meteor burning in space?"
"Yes."
This shooting globe suddenly appearing in shadow at a distance of at most
200 miles, ought, according to Barbicane, to have a diameter of 2000
yards. It advanced at a speed of about one mile and a half per second.
It cut the projectile's path and must reach it in some minutes. As it
approached it grew to enormous proportions.
Imagine, if possible, the situation of the travellers! It is impossible
to describe it. In spite of their courage, their -sang-froid-, their
carelessness of danger, they were mute, motionless with stiffened limbs,
a prey to frightful terror. Their projectile, the course of which they
could not alter, was rushing straight on this ignited mass, more intense
than the open mouth of an oven. It seemed as though they were being
precipitated towards an abyss of fire.
Barbicane had seized the hands of his two companions, and all three
looked through their half-open eyelids upon that asteroid heated to a
white heat. If thought was not destroyed within them, if their brains
still worked amidst all this awe, they must have given themselves up for
lost.
Two minutes after the sudden appearance of the meteor (to them two
centuries of anguish) the projectile seemed almost about to strike it,
when the globe of fire burst like a bomb, but without making any noise
in that void where sound, which is but the agitation of the layers of
air, could not be generated.
Nicholl uttered a cry, and he and his companions rushed to the scuttle.
What a sight! What pen can describe it? What palette is rich enough in
colours to reproduce so magnificent a spectacle?
It was like the opening of a crater, like the scattering of an immense
conflagration. Thousands of luminous fragments lit up and irradiated
space with their fires. Every size, every colour, was there intermingled.
There were rays of yellow and pale yellow, red, green, grey--a crown
of fireworks of all colours. Of the enormous and much-dreaded globe
there remained nothing but these fragments carried in all directions,
now become asteroids in their turn, some flaming like a sword, some
surrounded by a whitish cloud, and others leaving behind them trains of
brilliant cosmical dust.
These incandescent blocks crossed and struck each other, scattering
still smaller fragments, some of which struck the projectile. Its left
scuttle was even cracked by a violent shock. It seemed to be floating
amidst a hail of howitzer shells, the smallest of which might destroy it
instantly.
The light which saturated the ether was so wonderfully intense, that
Michel, drawing Barbicane and Nicholl to his window, exclaimed, "The
invisible moon, visible at last!"
And through a luminous emanation, which lasted some seconds, the whole
three caught a glimpse of that mysterious disc which the eye of man now
saw for the first time. What could they distinguish at a distance which
they could not estimate? Some lengthened bands along the disc, real clouds
formed in the midst of a very confined atmosphere, from which emerged
not only all the mountains, but also projections of less importance; its
circles, its yawning craters, as capriciously placed as on the visible
surface. Then immense spaces, no longer arid plains, but real seas,
oceans, widely distributed, reflecting on their liquid surface all the
dazzling magic of the fires of space; and, lastly, on the surface of the
continents, large dark masses, looking like immense forests under the
rapid illumination of a brilliance.
Was it an illusion, a mistake, an optical illusion? Could they give a
scientific assent to an observation so superficially obtained? Dared
they pronounce upon the question of its habitability after so slight a
glimpse of the invisible disc?
Illustration: WHAT A SIGHT.
But the lightnings in space subsided by degrees; its accidental
brilliancy died away; the asteroids dispersed in different directions
and were extinguished in the distance. The ether returned to its
accustomed darkness; the stars, eclipsed for a moment, again twinkled in
the firmament, and the disc, so hastily discerned, was again buried in
impenetrable night.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE SOUTHERN HEMISPHERE.
The projectile had just escaped a terrible danger, and a very unforeseen
one. Who would have thought of such a rencontre with meteors? These
erring bodies might create serious perils for the travellers. They were
to them so many sandbanks upon that sea of ether which, less fortunate
than sailors, they could not escape. But did these adventurers complain
of space? No, not since nature had given them the splendid sight of a
cosmical meteor bursting from expansion, since this inimitable firework,
which no Ruggieri could imitate, had lit up for some seconds the invisible
glory of the moon. In that flash, continents, seas, and forests had
become visible to them. Did an atmosphere, then, bring to this unknown
face its life-giving atoms? Questions still insoluble, and for ever
closed against human curiosity!
It was then half past three in the afternoon. The projectile was
following its curvilinear direction round the moon. Had its course been
again altered by the meteor? It was to be feared so. But the projectile
must describe a curve unalterably determined by the laws of mechanical
reasoning. Barbicane was inclined to believe that this curve would be
rather a parabola than a hyperbola. But admitting the parabola, the
projectile must quickly have passed through the cone of shadow projected
into space opposite the sun. This cone, indeed, is very narrow, the
angular diameter of the moon being so little when compared with the
diameter of the orb of day; and up to this time the projectile had
been floating in this deep shadow. Whatever had been its speed (and it
could not have been insignificant) its period of occultation continued.
That was evident, but perhaps that would not have been the case in a
supposed rigidly parabolical trajectory,--a new problem which tormented
Barbicane's brain, imprisoned as he was in a circle of unknowns which he
could not unravel.
Illustration: "THE SUN!"
Neither of the travellers thought of taking an instant's repose. Each
one watched for an unexpected fact, which might throw some new light on
their uranographic studies. About five o'clock, Michel Ardan distributed,
under the name of dinner, some pieces of bread and cold meat, which were
quickly swallowed without either of them abandoning their scuttle, the
glass of which was incessantly encrusted by the condensation of vapour.
About forty-five minutes past five in the evening, Nicholl, armed with
his glass, sighted towards the southern border of the moon, and in the
direction followed by the projectile, some bright points cut upon the
dark shield of the sky. They looked like a succession of sharp points
lengthened into a tremulous line. They were very bright. Such appeared
the terminal line of the moon when in one of her octants.
They could not be mistaken. It was no longer a simple meteor. This
luminous ridge had neither colour nor motion. Nor was it a volcano in
eruption. And Barbicane did not hesitate to pronounce upon it.
"The sun!" he exclaimed.
"What! the sun?" answered Nicholl and Michel Ardan.
"Yes, my friends, it is the radiant orb itself lighting up the summit
of the mountains situated on the southern borders of the moon. We are
evidently nearing the south pole."
"After having passed the north pole," replied Michel. "We have made the
circuit of our satellite, then?"
"Yes, my good Michel."
"Then, no more hyperbolas, no more parabolas, no more open curves to
fear?"
"No, but a -closed- curve."
"Which is called--"
"An ellipse. Instead of losing itself in interplanetary space, it is
probable that the projectile will describe an elliptical orbit around
the moon."
"Indeed!"
"And that it will become -her- satellite."
"Moon of the moon!" cried Michel Ardan.
"Only, I would have you observe, my worthy friend," replied Barbicane,
"that we are none the less lost for that."
"Yes, in another manner, and much more pleasantly," answered the careless
Frenchman with his most amiable smile.
Illustration: "LIGHT AND HEAT; ALL LIFE IS CONTAINED IN THEM."
CHAPTER XVII.
TYCHO.
At six in the evening the projectile passed the south pole at less than
forty miles off, a distance equal to that already reached at the north
pole. The elliptical curve was being rigidly carried out.
At this moment the travellers once more entered the blessed rays of the
sun. They saw once more those stars which move slowly from east to west.
The radiant orb was saluted by a triple hurrah. With its light it also
sent heat, which soon pierced the metal walls. The glass resumed its
accustomed appearance. The layers of ice melted as if by enchantment; and
immediately, for economy's sake, the gas was put out, the air apparatus
alone consuming its usual quantity.
"Ah!" said Nicholl, "these rays of heat are good. With what impatience
must the Selenites wait the reappearance of the orb of day."
"Yes," replied Michel Ardan, "imbibing as it were the brilliant ether,
light and heat, all life is contained in them."
At this moment the bottom of the projectile deviated somewhat from the
lunar surface, in order to follow the slightly lengthened elliptical
orbit. From this point, had the earth been at the full, Barbicane and
his companions could have seen it, but immersed in the sun's irradiation
she was quite invisible. Another spectacle attracted their attention,
that of the southern part of the moon, brought by the glasses to within
450 yards. They did not again leave the scuttles, and noted every detail
of this fantastical continent.
Mounts Doerfel and Leibnitz formed two separate groups very near the
south pole. The first group extended from the pole to the eighty-fourth
parallel, on the eastern part of the orb; the second occupied the eastern
border, extending from the 65° of latitude to the pole.
On their capriciously formed ridge appeared dazzling sheets, as mentioned
by Pere Secchi. With more certainty than the illustrious Roman astronomer,
Barbicane was enabled to recognize their nature.
"They are snow," he exclaimed.
"Snow?" repeated Nicholl.
"Yes, Nicholl, snow; the surface of which is deeply frozen. See how they
reflect the luminous rays. Cooled lava would never give out such intense
reflection. There must then be water, there must be air on the moon. As
little as you please, but the fact can no longer be contested." No, it
could not be. And if ever Barbicane should see the earth again, his notes
will bear witness to this great fact in his selenographic observations.
These mountains of Doerfel and Leibnitz rose in the midst of plains of a
medium extent, which were bounded by an indefinite succession of circles
and annular ramparts. These two chains are the only ones met with in
this region of circles. Comparatively but slightly marked, they throw up
here and there some sharp points, the highest summit of which attains an
altitude of 24,600 feet.
But the projectile was high above all this landscape, and the projections
disappeared in the intense brilliancy of the disc. And to the eyes of the
travellers there reappeared that original aspect of the lunar landscapes,
raw in tone, without gradation of colours, and without degrees of shadow,
roughly black and white, from the want of diffusion of light.
Illustration: HE DISTINGUISHED ALL THIS.
But the sight of this desolate world did not fail to captivate them by its
very strangeness. They were moving over this region as if they had been
borne on the breath of some storm, watching heights defile under their
feet, piercing the cavities with their eyes, going down into the rifts,
climbing the ramparts, sounding these mysterious holes, and levelling all
cracks. But no trace of vegetation, no appearance of cities; nothing but
stratification, beds of lava, overflowings polished like immense mirrors,
reflecting the sun's rays with overpowering brilliancy. Nothing belonging
to a -living- world--everything to a dead world, where avalanches,
rolling from the summits of the mountains, would disperse noiselessly at
the bottom of the abyss, retaining the motion, but wanting the sound. In
any case it was the image of death, without its being possible even to
say that life had ever existed there.
Michel Ardan, however, thought he recognized a heap of ruins, to which
he drew Barbicane's attention. It was about the 80th parallel, in 30°
longitude. This heap of stones, rather regularly placed, represented a
vast fortress, overlooking a long rift, which in former days had served
as a bed to the rivers of prehistorical times. Not far from that, rose
to a height of 17,400 feet the annular mountain of Short, equal to the
Asiatic Caucasus. Michel Ardan, with his accustomed ardour, maintained
"the evidences" of his fortress. Beneath it he discerned the dismantled
ramparts of a town; here the still intact arch of a portico, there two
or three columns lying under their base; farther on, a succession of
arches which must have supported the conduit of an aqueduct; in another
part the sunken pillars of a gigantic bridge, run into the thickest parts
of the rift. He distinguished all this, but with so much imagination in
his glance, and through glasses so fantastical, that we must mistrust
his observation. But who could affirm, who would dare to say, that the
amiable fellow did not really see that which his two companions would
not see?
Moments were too precious to be sacrificed in idle discussion. The
Selenite city, whether imaginary or not, had already disappeared afar off.
The distance of the projectile from the lunar disc was on the increase,
and the details of the soil were being lost in a confused jumble. The
reliefs, the circles, the craters and plains alone remained, and still
showed their boundary lines distinctly. At this moment, to the left,
lay extended one of the finest circles of lunar orography, one of the
curiosities of this continent. It was Newton, which Barbicane recognized
without trouble, by referring to the -Mappa Selenographica-.
Newton is situated in exactly 77° south lat., and 16° east long. It
forms an annular crater, the ramparts of which, rising to a height of
21,300 feet, seemed to be impassable.
Barbicane made his companions observe that the height of this mountain
above the surrounding plain was far from equalling the depth of its
crater. This enormous hole was beyond all measurement, and formed a
gloomy abyss, the bottom of which the sun's rays could never reach.
There, according to Humboldt, reigns utter darkness, which the light of
the sun and the earth cannot break. Mythologists could well have made it
the mouth of hell.
"Newton," said Barbicane, "is the most perfect type of these annular
mountains, of which the earth possesses no sample. They prove that
the moon's formation, by means of cooling, is due to violent causes;
for whilst under the pressure of internal fires the reliefs rise to
considerable height, the depths withdraw far below the lunar level."
"I do not dispute the fact," replied Michel Ardan.
Some minutes after passing Newton, the projectile directly overlooked
the annular mountain of Moret. It skirted at some distance the summits
of Blancanus, and at about half-past seven in the evening reached the
circle of Clavius.
This circle, one of the most remarkable of the disc, is situated in 58°
south lat., and 15° east long. Its height is estimated at 22,950 feet.
The travellers, at a distance of twenty-four miles (reduced to four by
their glasses), could admire this vast crater in its entirety.
Illustration: CAN YOU PICTURE TO YOURSELVES?
"Terrestrial volcanoes," said Barbicane, "are but molehills compared
with those of the moon. Measuring the old craters formed by the first
eruptions of Vesuvius and Etna, we find them little more than three miles
in breadth. In France the circle of Cantal measures six miles across; at
Ceyland the circle of the island is forty miles, which is considered the
largest on the globe. What are these diameters against that of Clavius,
which we overlook at this moment?"
"What is its breadth?" asked Nicholl.
"It is 150 miles," replied Barbicane. "This circle is certainly the most
important on the moon, but many others measure 150, 100, or 75 miles."
"Ah! my friends," exclaimed Michel, "can you picture to yourselves what
this now peaceful orb of night must have been when its craters, filled
with thunderings, vomited at the same time smoke and tongues of flame.
What a wonderful spectacle then, and now what decay! This moon is nothing
more than a thin carcase of fireworks, whose squibs, rockets, serpents
and suns, after a superb brilliancy, have left but sadly broken cases.
Who can say the cause, the reason, the motive force of these cataclysms?"
Barbicane was not listening to Michel Ardan; he was contemplating those
ramparts of Clavius, formed by large mountains spread over several
miles. At the bottom of the immense cavity burrowed hundreds of small
extinguished craters, riddling the soil like a colander, and overlooked
by a peak 15,000 feet high.
Around the plain appeared desolate. Nothing so arid as these reliefs,
nothing so sad as these ruins of mountains, and (if we may so express
ourselves) these fragments of peaks and mountains which strewed the soil.
The satellite seemed to have burst at this spot.
The projectile was still advancing, and this movement did not subside.
Circles, craters, and uprooted mountains succeeded each other incessantly.
No more plains; no more seas. A never-ending Switzerland and Norway. And
lastly, in the centre of this region of crevasses, the most splendid
mountain on the lunar disc, the dazzling Tycho, in which posterity will
ever preserve the name of the illustrious Danish astronomer.
In observing the full moon in a cloudless sky no one has failed to remark
this brilliant point of the southern hemisphere. Michel Ardan used every
metaphor that his imagination could supply to designate it by. To him this
Tycho was a focus of light, a centre of irradiation, a crater vomiting
rays. It was the tire of a brilliant wheel, an -asteria- enclosing the
disc with its silver tentacles, an enormous eye filled with flames, a
glory carved for Pluto's head, a star launched by the Creator's hand,
and crushed against the face of the moon!
Tycho forms such a concentration of light that the inhabitants of the
earth can see it without glasses, though at a distance of 240,000 miles!
Imagine, then, its intensity to the eye of observers placed at a distance
of only fifty miles! Seen through this pure ether, its brilliancy was so
intolerable that Barbicane and his friends were obliged to blacken their
glasses with the gas smoke before they could bear the splendour. Then
silent, scarcely uttering an interjection of admiration, they gazed, they
contemplated. All their feelings, all their impressions, were concentrated
in that look, as under any violent emotion all life is concentrated at
the heart.
Tycho belongs to the system of radiating mountains, like Aristarchus
and Copernicus; but it is of all the most complete and decided, showing
unquestionably the frightful volcanic action to which the formation of
the moon is due. Tycho is situated in 43° south lat., and 12° east
long. Its centre is occupied by a crater fifty miles broad. It assumes
a slightly elliptical form, and is surrounded by an enclosure of annular
ramparts, which on the east and west overlook the outer plain from a
height of 15,000 feet. It is a group of Mont Blancs, placed round one
common centre and crowned by radiating beams.
What this incomparable mountain really is, with all the projections
converging towards it, and the interior excrescences of its crater,
photography itself could never represent. Indeed, it is during the full
moon that Tycho is seen in all its splendour. Then all shadows disappear,
the foreshortening of perspective disappears, and all proofs become
white--a disagreeable fact; for this strange region would have been
marvellous if reproduced with photographic exactness. It is but a group
of hollows, craters, circles, a network of crests; then, as far as the
eye could see, a whole volcanic network cast upon this encrusted soil.
One can then understand that the bubbles of this central eruption have
kept their first form. Crystallized by cooling, they have stereotyped
that aspect which the moon formerly presented when under the Plutonian
forces.
The distance which separated the travellers from the annular summits of
Tycho was not so great but that they could catch the principal details.
Even on the causeway forming the fortifications of Tycho, the mountains
hanging on to the interior and exterior sloping flanks rose in stories
like gigantic terraces. They appeared to be higher by 300 or 400 feet
to the west than to the east. No system of terrestrial encampment could
equal these natural fortifications. A town built at the bottom of this
circular cavity would have been utterly inaccessible.
Inaccessible and wonderfully extended over this soil covered with
picturesque projections! Indeed, nature had not left the bottom of
this crater flat and empty. It possessed its own peculiar orography, a
mountainous system, making it a world in itself. The travellers could
distinguish clearly cones, central hills, remarkable positions of the soil,
naturally placed to receive the chefs-d'œuvre of Selenite architecture.
There was marked out the place for a temple, here the ground of a forum,
on this spot the plan of a palace, in another the plateau for a citadel;
the whole overlooked by a central mountain of 1500 feet. A vast circle,
in which ancient Rome could have been held in its entirety ten times
over.
"Ah!" exclaimed Michel Ardan, enthusiastic at the sight; "what a grand
town might be constructed within that ring of mountains! A quiet city,
a peaceful refuge, beyond all human misery. How calm and isolated those
misanthropes, those haters of humanity might live there, and all who have
a distaste for social life!"
"All! It would be too small for them," replied Barbicane simply.
CHAPTER XVIII.
GRAVE QUESTIONS.
But the projectile had passed the enceinte of Tycho, and Barbicane and
his two companions watched with scrupulous attention the brilliant rays
which the celebrated mountain shed so curiously all over the horizon.
What was this radiant glory? What geological phenomenon had designed
these ardent beams? This question occupied Barbicane's mind.
Under his eyes ran in all directions luminous furrows, raised at the edges
and concave in the centre, some twelve miles, others thirty miles broad.
These brilliant trains extended in some places to within 600 miles of
Tycho, and seemed to cover, particularly towards the east, the northeast
and the north, the half of the southern hemisphere. One of these jets
extended as far as the circle of Neander, situated on the 40th meridian.
Another by a slight curve furrowed the Sea of Nectar, breaking against
the chain of Pyrenees, after a circuit of 800 miles. Others, towards the
west, covered the Sea of Clouds and the Sea of Humours with a luminous
network. What was the origin of these sparkling rays, which shone on the
plains as well as on the reliefs, at whatever height they might be? All
started from a common centre, the crater of Tycho. They sprang from him.
Herschel attributed their brilliancy to currents of lava congealed by the
cold; an opinion, however, which has not been generally adopted. Other
astronomers have seen in these inexplicable rays a kind of -moraines-,
rows of erratic blocks, which had been thrown up at the period of Tycho's
formation.
"And why not?" asked Nicholl of Barbicane, who was relating and rejecting
these different opinions.
"Because the regularity of these luminous lines, and the violence
necessary to carry volcanic matter to such distances, is inexplicable."
"Eh! by Jove!" replied Michel Ardan, "it seems easy enough to me to
explain the origin of these rays."
"Indeed?" said Barbicane.
"Indeed," continued Michel. "It is enough to say that it is a vast star,
similar to that produced by a ball or a stone thrown at a square of
glass!"
"Well!" replied Barbicane, smiling. "And what hand would be powerful
enough to throw a ball to give such a shock as that?"
"The hand is not necessary," answered Nicholl, not at all confounded;
"and as to the stone, let us suppose it to be a comet."
"Ah! those much-abused comets!" exclaimed Barbicane. "My brave Michel,
your explanation is not bad; but your comet is useless. The shock which
produced that rent must have come from the inside of the star. A violent
contraction of the lunar crust, while cooling, might suffice to imprint
this gigantic star."
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508
,
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989
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992
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.
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1000