A VISITOR IS ANNOUNCED
The many experiments made during this last quarter of the nineteenth
century have given considerable impetus to the question of guidable
balloons. The cars furnished with propellers attached in 1852 to the
aerostats of the elongated form introduced by Henry Giffard, the
machines of Dupuy de Lome in 1872, of the Tissandier brothers in 1883,
and of Captain Krebs and Renard in 1884, yielded many important
results. But if these machines, moving in a medium heavier than
themselves, maneuvering under the propulsion of a screw, working at an
angle to the direction of the wind, and even against the wind, to
return to their point of departure, had been really “guidable.” they
had only succeeded under very favorable conditions. In large, covered
halls their success was perfect. In a calm atmosphere they did very
well. In a light wind of five or six yards a second they still moved.
But nothing practical had been obtained. Against a miller’s wind—nine
yards a second—the machines had remained almost stationary. Against a
fresh breeze—eleven yards a second—they would have advanced backwards.
In a storm—twenty-seven to thirty-three yards a second—they would have
been blown about like a feather. In a hurricane—sixty yards a
second—they would have run the risk of being dashed to pieces. And in
one of those cyclones which exceed a hundred yards a second not a
fragment of them would have been left. It remained, then, even after
the striking experiments of Captains Krebs and Renard, that though
guidable aerostats had gained a little speed, they could not be kept
going in a moderate breeze. Hence the impossibility of making practical
use of this mode of aerial locomotion.
With regards to the means employed to give the aerostat its motion a
great deal of progress had been made. For the steam engines of Henry
Giffard, and the muscular force of Dupuy de Lome, electric motors had
gradually been substituted. The batteries of bichromate of potassium of
the Tissandier brothers had given a speed of four yards a second. The
dynamo-electric machines of Captain Krebs and Renard had developed a
force of twelve horsepower and yielded a speed of six and a half yards
per second.
With regard to this motor, engineers and electricians had been
approaching more and more to that desideratum which is known as a steam
horse in a watch case. Gradually the results of the pile of which
Captains Krebs and Renard had kept the secret had been surpassed, and
aeronauts had become able to avail themselves of motors whose lightness
increased at the same time as their power.
In this there was much to encourage those who believed in the
utilization of guidable balloons. But yet how many good people there
are who refuse to admit the possibility of such a thing! If the
aerostat finds support in the air it belongs to the medium in which it
moves; under such conditions, how can its mass, which offers so much
resistance to the currents of the atmosphere, make its way against the
wind?
In this struggle of the inventors after a light and powerful motor, the
Americans had most nearly attained what they sought. A dynamo-electric
apparatus, in which a new pile was employed the composition of which
was still a mystery, had been bought from its inventor, a Boston
chemist up to then unknown. Calculations made with the greatest care,
diagrams drawn with the utmost exactitude, showed that by means of this
apparatus driving a screw of given dimensions a displacement could be
obtained of from twenty to twenty-two yards a second.
Now this was magnificent!
“And it is not dear.” said Uncle Prudent, as he handed to the inventor
in return for his formal receipt the last installment of the hundred
thousand paper dollars he had paid for his invention.
Immediately the Weldon Institute set to work. When there comes along a
project of practical utility the money leaps nimbly enough from
American pockets. The funds flowed in even without its being necessary
to form a syndicate. Three hundred thousand dollars came into the
club’s account at the first appeal. The work began under the
superintendence of the most celebrated aeronaut of the United States,
Harry W. Tinder, immortalized by three of his ascents out of a
thousand, one in which he rose to a height of twelve thousand yards,
higher than Gay Lussac, Coxwell, Sivet, Crocé-Spinelli, Tissandier,
Glaisher; another in which he had crossed America from New York to San
Francisco, exceeding by many hundred leagues the journeys of Nadar,
Godard, and others, to say nothing of that of John Wise, who
accomplished eleven hundred and fifty miles from St. Louis to Jefferson
county; the third, which ended in a frightful fall from fifteen hundred
feet at the cost of a slight sprain in the right thumb, while the less
fortunate Pilâtre de Rozier fell only seven hundred feet, and yet
killed himself on the spot!
At the time this story begins the Weldon Institute had got their work
well in hand. In the Turner yard at Philadelphia there reposed an
enormous aerostat, whose strength had been tried by highly compressed
air. It well merited the name of the monster balloon.
How large was Nadar’s Géant? Six thousand cubic meters. How large was
John Wise’s balloon? Twenty thousand cubic meters. How large was the
Giffard balloon at the 1878 Exhibition? Twenty-five thousand cubic
meters. Compare these three aerostats with the aerial machine of the
Weldon Institute, whose volume amounted to forty thousand cubic meters,
and you will understand why Uncle Prudent and his colleagues were so
justifiably proud of it.
This balloon not being destined for the exploration of the higher
strata of the atmosphere, was not called the Excelsior, a name which is
rather too much held in honor among the citizens of America. No! It was
called, simply, the “Go-Ahead.” and all it had to do was to justify its
name by going ahead obediently to the wishes of its commander.
The dynamo-electric machine, according to the patent purchased by the
Weldon Institute, was nearly ready. In less than six weeks the
“Go-Ahead” would start for its first cruise through space.
But, as we have seen, all the mechanical difficulties had not been
overcome. Many evenings had been devoted to discussing, not the form of
its screw nor its dimensions, but whether it ought to be put behind, as
the Tissandier brothers had done, or before as Captains Krebs and
Renard had done. It is unnecessary to add that the partisans of the two
systems had almost come to blows. The group of “Beforists” were equaled
in number by the group of “Behindists.” Uncle Prudent, who ought to
have given the casting vote—Uncle Prudent, brought up doubtless in the
school of Professor Buridan—could not bring himself to decide.
Hence the impossibility of getting the screw into place. The dispute
might last for some time, unless the government interfered. But in the
United States the government meddles with private affairs as little as
it possibly can. And it is right.
Things were in this state at this meeting on the 13th of June, which
threatened to end in a riot—insults exchanged, fisticuffs succeeding
the insults, cane thrashings succeeding the fisticuffs, revolver shots
succeeding the cane thrashings—when at thirty-seven minutes past eight
there occurred a diversion.
The porter of the Weldon Institute coolly and calmly, like a policeman
amid the storm of the meeting, approached the presidential desk. On it
he placed a card. He awaited the orders that Uncle Prudent found it
convenient to give.
Uncle Prudent turned on the steam whistle, which did duty for the
presidential bell, for even the Kremlin clock would have struck in
vain! But the tumult slackened not.
Then the president removed his hat. Thanks to this extreme measure a
semi-silence was obtained.
“A communication!” said Uncle Prudent, after taking a huge pinch from
the snuff-box which never left him.
“Speak up!” answered eighty-nine voices, accidentally in agreement on
this one point.
“A stranger, my dear colleagues, asks to be admitted to the meeting.”
“Never!” replied every voice.
“He desires to prove to us, it would appear.” continued Uncle Prudent,
“that to believe in guiding balloons is to believe in the absurdest of
Utopias!”
“Let him in! Let him in!”
“What is the name of this singular personage?” asked secretary Phil
Evans.
“Robur.” replied Uncle Prudent.
“Robur! Robur! Robur!” yelled the assembly. And the welcome accorded so
quickly to the curious name was chiefly due to the Weldon Institute
hoping to vent its exasperation on the head of him who bore it!