CHAPTER XXVIII.

A NEW STAR

That very night, the startling news so impatiently awaited, burst like

a thunderbolt over the United States of the Union, and thence, darting

across the ocean, ran through all the telegraphic wires of the globe.

The projectile had been detected, thanks to the gigantic reflector of

Long’s Peak! Here is the note received by the director of the

Observatory of Cambridge. It contains the scientific conclusion

regarding this great experiment of the Gun Club.

LONG’S PEAK, December 12. To the Officers of the Observatory of

Cambridge. The projectile discharged by the Columbiad at Stones Hill

has been detected by Messrs. Belfast and J. T. Maston, 12th of

December, at 8:47 P.M., the moon having entered her last quarter. This

projectile has not arrived at its destination. It has passed by the

side; but sufficiently near to be retained by the lunar attraction.

The rectilinear movement has thus become changed into a circular motion

of extreme velocity, and it is now pursuing an elliptical orbit round

the moon, of which it has become a true satellite.

The elements of this new star we have as yet been unable to determine;

we do not yet know the velocity of its passage. The distance which

separates it from the surface of the moon may be estimated at about

2,833 miles.

However, two hypotheses come here into our consideration.

1. Either the attraction of the moon will end by drawing them into

itself, and the travelers will attain their destination; or,

2. The projectile, following an immutable law, will continue to

gravitate round the moon till the end of time.

At some future time, our observations will be able to determine this

point, but till then the experiment of the Gun Club can have no other

result than to have provided our solar system with a new star. J.

BELFAST.

To how many questions did this unexpected _denouement_ give rise? What

mysterious results was the future reserving for the investigation of

science? At all events, the names of Nicholl, Barbicane, and Michel

Ardan were certain to be immortalized in the annals of astronomy!

When the dispatch from Long’s Peak had once become known, there was but

one universal feeling of surprise and alarm. Was it possible to go to

the aid of these bold travelers? No! for they had placed themselves

beyond the pale of humanity, by crossing the limits imposed by the

Creator on his earthly creatures. They had air enough for _two_ months;

they had victuals enough for _twelve;—but after that?_ There was only

one man who would not admit that the situation was desperate—he alone

had confidence; and that was their devoted friend J. T. Maston.

Besides, he never let them get out of sight. His home was henceforth

the post at Long’s Peak; his horizon, the mirror of that immense

reflector. As soon as the moon rose above the horizon, he immediately

caught her in the field of the telescope; he never let her go for an

instant out of his sight, and followed her assiduously in her course

through the stellar spaces. He watched with untiring patience the

passage of the projectile across her silvery disc, and really the

worthy man remained in perpetual communication with his three friends,

whom he did not despair of seeing again some day.

“Those three men,” said he, “have carried into space all the resources

of art, science, and industry. With that, one can do anything; and you

will see that, some day, they will come out all right.”

ROUND THE MOON

A SEQUEL TO

FROM THE EARTH TO THE MOON

PRELIMINARY CHAPTER

THE FIRST PART OF THIS WORK, AND SERVING AS A PREFACE TO THE SECOND

During the year 186-, the whole world was greatly excited by a

scientific experiment unprecedented in the annals of science. The

members of the Gun Club, a circle of artillerymen formed at Baltimore

after the American war, conceived the idea of putting themselves in

communication with the moon!—yes, with the moon—by sending to her a

projectile. Their president, Barbicane, the promoter of the enterprise,

having consulted the astronomers of the Cambridge Observatory upon the

subject, took all necessary means to ensure the success of this

extraordinary enterprise, which had been declared practicable by the

majority of competent judges. After setting on foot a public

subscription, which realized nearly L1,200,000, they began the gigantic

work.

According to the advice forwarded from the members of the Observatory,

the gun destined to launch the projectile had to be fixed in a country

situated between the 0 and 28th degrees of north or south latitude, in

order to aim at the moon when at the zenith; and its initiatory

velocity was fixed at twelve thousand yards to the second. Launched on

the 1st of December, at 10hrs. 46m. 40s. P.M., it ought to reach the

moon four days after its departure, that is on the 5th of December, at

midnight precisely, at the moment of her attaining her perigee, that is

her nearest distance from the earth, which is exactly 86,410 leagues

(French), or 238,833 miles mean distance (English).

The principal members of the Gun Club, President Barbicane, Major

Elphinstone, the secretary Joseph T. Maston, and other learned men,

held several meetings, at which the shape and composition of the

projectile were discussed, also the position and nature of the gun, and

the quality and quantity of powder to be used. It was decided: First,

that the projectile should be a shell made of aluminum with a diameter

of 108 inches and a thickness of twelve inches to its walls; and should

weigh 19,250 pounds. Second, that the gun should be a Columbiad cast in

iron, 900 feet long, and run perpendicularly into the earth. Third,

that the charge should contain 400,000 pounds of gun-cotton, which,

giving out six billions of litres of gas in rear of the projectile,

would easily carry it toward the orb of night.

These questions determined President Barbicane, assisted by Murchison

the engineer, to choose a spot situated in Florida, in 27° 7′ North

latitude, and 77° 3′ West (Greenwich) longitude. It was on this spot,

after stupendous labor, that the Columbiad was cast with full success.

Things stood thus, when an incident took place which increased the

interest attached to this great enterprise a hundredfold.

A Frenchman, an enthusiastic Parisian, as witty as he was bold, asked

to be enclosed in the projectile, in order that he might reach the

moon, and reconnoiter this terrestrial satellite. The name of this

intrepid adventurer was Michel Ardan. He landed in America, was

received with enthusiasm, held meetings, saw himself carried in

triumph, reconciled President Barbicane to his mortal enemy, Captain

Nicholl, and, as a token of reconciliation, persuaded them both to

start with him in the projectile. The proposition being accepted, the

shape of the projectile was slightly altered. It was made of a

cylindro-conical form. This species of aerial car was lined with strong

springs and partitions to deaden the shock of departure. It was

provided with food for a year, water for some months, and gas for some

days. A self-acting apparatus supplied the three travelers with air to

breathe. At the same time, on one of the highest points of the Rocky

Mountains, the Gun Club had a gigantic telescope erected, in order that

they might be able to follow the course of the projectile through

space. All was then ready.

On the 30th of November, at the hour fixed upon, from the midst of an

extraordinary crowd of spectators, the departure took place, and for

the first time, three human beings quitted the terrestrial globe, and

launched into inter-planetary space with almost a certainty of reaching

their destination. These bold travelers, Michel Ardan, President

Barbicane, and Captain Nicholl, ought to make the passage in

ninety-seven hours, thirteen minutes, and twenty seconds. Consequently,

their arrival on the lunar disc could not take place until the 5th of

December at twelve at night, at the exact moment when the moon should

be full, and not on the 4th, as some badly informed journalists had

announced.

But an unforeseen circumstance, viz., the detonation produced by the

Columbiad, had the immediate effect of troubling the terrestrial

atmosphere, by accumulating a large quantity of vapor, a phenomenon

which excited universal indignation, for the moon was hidden from the

eyes of the watchers for several nights.

The worthy Joseph T. Maston, the staunchest friend of the three

travelers, started for the Rocky Mountains, accompanied by the Hon. J.

Belfast, director of the Cambridge Observatory, and reached the station

of Long’s Peak, where the telescope was erected which brought the moon

within an apparent distance of two leagues. The honorable secretary of

the Gun Club wished himself to observe the vehicle of his daring

friends.

The accumulation of the clouds in the atmosphere prevented all

observation on the 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th, and 10th of December.

Indeed it was thought that all observations would have to be put off to

the 3d of January in the following year; for the moon entering its last

quarter on the 11th, would then only present an ever-decreasing portion

of her disc, insufficient to allow of their following the course of the

projectile.

At length, to the general satisfaction, a heavy storm cleared the

atmosphere on the night of the 11th and 12th of December, and the moon,

with half-illuminated disc, was plainly to be seen upon the black sky.

That very night a telegram was sent from the station of Long’s Peak by

Joseph T. Maston and Belfast to the gentlemen of the Cambridge

Observatory, announcing that on the 11th of December at 8h. 47m. P.M.,

the projectile launched by the Columbiad of Stones Hill had been

detected by Messrs. Belfast and Maston—that it had deviated from its

course from some unknown cause, and had not reached its destination;

but that it had passed near enough to be retained by the lunar

attraction; that its rectilinear movement had been changed to a

circular one, and that following an elliptical orbit round the star of

night it had become its satellite. The telegram added that the elements

of this new star had not yet been calculated; and indeed three

observations made upon a star in three different positions are

necessary to determine these elements. Then it showed that the distance

separating the projectile from the lunar surface “might” be reckoned at

about 2,833 miles.

It ended with the double hypothesis: either the attraction of the moon

would draw it to herself, and the travelers thus attain their end; or

that the projectile, held in one immutable orbit, would gravitate

around the lunar disc to all eternity.

With such alternatives, what would be the fate of the travelers?

Certainly they had food for some time. But supposing they did succeed

in their rash enterprise, how would they return? Could they ever

return? Should they hear from them? These questions, debated by the

most learned pens of the day, strongly engrossed the public attention.

It is advisable here to make a remark which ought to be well considered

by hasty observers. When a purely speculative discovery is announced to

the public, it cannot be done with too much prudence. No one is obliged

to discover either a planet, a comet, or a satellite; and whoever makes

a mistake in such a case exposes himself justly to the derision of the

mass. Far better is it to wait; and that is what the impatient Joseph

T. Maston should have done before sending this telegram forth to the

world, which, according to his idea, told the whole result of the

enterprise. Indeed this telegram contained two sorts of errors, as was

proved eventually. First, errors of observation, concerning the

distance of the projectile from the surface of the moon, for on the

11th of December it was impossible to see it; and what Joseph T. Maston

had seen, or thought he saw, could not have been the projectile of the

Columbiad. Second, errors of theory on the fate in store for the said

projectile; for in making it a satellite of the moon, it was putting it

in direct contradiction of all mechanical laws.

One single hypothesis of the observers of Long’s Peak could ever be

realized, that which foresaw the case of the travelers (if still alive)

uniting their efforts with the lunar attraction to attain the surface

of the disc.

Now these men, as clever as they were daring, had survived the terrible

shock consequent on their departure, and it is their journey in the

projectile car which is here related in its most dramatic as well as in

its most singular details. This recital will destroy many illusions and

surmises; but it will give a true idea of the singular changes in store

for such an enterprise; it will bring out the scientific instincts of

Barbicane, the industrious resources of Nicholl, and the audacious

humor of Michel Ardan. Besides this, it will prove that their worthy

friend, Joseph T. Maston, was wasting his time, while leaning over the

gigantic telescope he watched the course of the moon through the starry

space.

CHAPTER I.

TWENTY MINUTES PAST TEN TO FORTY-SEVEN MINUTES PAST TEN P. M.

As ten o’clock struck, Michel Ardan, Barbicane, and Nicholl, took leave

of the numerous friends they were leaving on the earth. The two dogs,

destined to propagate the canine race on the lunar continents, were

already shut up in the projectile.

The three travelers approached the orifice of the enormous cast-iron

tube, and a crane let them down to the conical top of the projectile.

There, an opening made for the purpose gave them access to the aluminum

car. The tackle belonging to the crane being hauled from outside, the

mouth of the Columbiad was instantly disencumbered of its last

supports.

Nicholl, once introduced with his companions inside the projectile,

began to close the opening by means of a strong plate, held in position

by powerful screws. Other plates, closely fitted, covered the

lenticular glasses, and the travelers, hermetically enclosed in their

metal prison, were plunged in profound darkness.

“And now, my dear companions,” said Michel Ardan, “let us make

ourselves at home; I am a domesticated man and strong in housekeeping.

We are bound to make the best of our new lodgings, and make ourselves

comfortable. And first let us try and see a little. Gas was not

invented for moles.”

So saying, the thoughtless fellow lit a match by striking it on the

sole of his boot; and approached the burner fixed to the receptacle, in

which the carbonized hydrogen, stored at high pressure, sufficed for

the lighting and warming of the projectile for a hundred and forty-four

hours, or six days and six nights. The gas caught fire, and thus

lighted the projectile looked like a comfortable room with thickly

padded walls, furnished with a circular divan, and a roof rounded in

the shape of a dome.

Michel Ardan examined everything, and declared himself satisfied with

his installation.

“It is a prison,” said he, “but a traveling prison; and, with the right

of putting my nose to the window, I could well stand a lease of a

hundred years. You smile, Barbicane. Have you any _arriere-pensee_? Do

you say to yourself, ‘This prison may be our tomb?’ Tomb, perhaps;

still I would not change it for Mahomet’s, which floats in space but

never advances an inch!”

While Michel Ardan was speaking, Barbicane and Nicholl were making

their last preparations.

Nicholl’s chronometer marked twenty minutes past ten P.M. when the

three travelers were finally enclosed in their projectile. This

chronometer was set within the tenth of a second by that of Murchison

the engineer. Barbicane consulted it.

“My friends,” said he, “it is twenty minutes past ten. At forty- seven

minutes past ten Murchison will launch the electric spark on the wire

which communicates with the charge of the Columbiad. At that precise

moment we shall leave our spheroid. Thus we still have twenty-seven

minutes to remain on the earth.”

“Twenty-six minutes thirteen seconds,” replied the methodical Nicholl.

“Well!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, in a good-humored tone, “much may be

done in twenty-six minutes. The gravest questions of morals and

politics may be discussed, and even solved. Twenty-six minutes well

employed are worth more than twenty-six years in which nothing is done.

Some seconds of a Pascal or a Newton are more precious than the whole

existence of a crowd of raw simpletons—”

“And you conclude, then, you everlasting talker?” asked Barbicane.

“I conclude that we have twenty-six minutes left,” replied Ardan.

“Twenty-four only,” said Nicholl.

“Well, twenty-four, if you like, my noble captain,” said Ardan;

“twenty-four minutes in which to investigate—”

“Michel,” said Barbicane, “during the passage we shall have plenty of

time to investigate the most difficult questions. For the present we

must occupy ourselves with our departure.”

“Are we not ready?”

“Doubtless; but there are still some precautions to be taken, to deaden

as much as possible the first shock.”

“Have we not the water-cushions placed between the partition- breaks,

whose elasticity will sufficiently protect us?”

“I hope so, Michel,” replied Barbicane gently, “but I am not sure.”

“Ah, the joker!” exclaimed Michel Ardan. “He hopes!—He is not sure!—and

he waits for the moment when we are encased to make this deplorable

admission! I beg to be allowed to get out!”

“And how?” asked Barbicane.

“Humph!” said Michel Ardan, “it is not easy; we are in the train, and

the guard’s whistle will sound before twenty-four minutes are over.”

“Twenty,” said Nicholl.

For some moments the three travelers looked at each other. Then they

began to examine the objects imprisoned with them.

“Everything is in its place,” said Barbicane. “We have now to decide

how we can best place ourselves to resist the shock. Position cannot be

an indifferent matter; and we must, as much as possible, prevent the

rush of blood to the head.”

“Just so,” said Nicholl.

“Then,” replied Michel Ardan, ready to suit the action to the word,

“let us put our heads down and our feet in the air, like the clowns in

the grand circus.”

“No,” said Barbicane, “let us stretch ourselves on our sides; we shall

resist the shock better that way. Remember that, when the projectile

starts, it matters little whether we are in it or before it; it amounts

to much the same thing.”

“If it is only ‘much the same thing,’ I may cheer up,” said Michel

Ardan.

“Do you approve of my idea, Nicholl?” asked Barbicane.

“Entirely,” replied the captain. “We’ve still thirteen minutes and a

half.”

“That Nicholl is not a man,” exclaimed Michel; “he is a chronometer

with seconds, an escape, and eight holes.”

But his companions were not listening; they were taking up their last

positions with the most perfect coolness. They were like two methodical

travelers in a car, seeking to place themselves as comfortably as

possible.

We might well ask ourselves of what materials are the hearts of these

Americans made, to whom the approach of the most frightful danger added

no pulsation.

Three thick and solidly-made couches had been placed in the projectile.

Nicholl and Barbicane placed them in the center of the disc forming the

floor. There the three travelers were to stretch themselves some

moments before their departure.

During this time, Ardan, not being able to keep still, turned in his

narrow prison like a wild beast in a cage, chatting with his friends,

speaking to the dogs Diana and Satellite, to whom, as may be seen, he

had given significant names.

“Ah, Diana! Ah, Satellite!” he exclaimed, teasing them; “so you are

going to show the moon-dogs the good habits of the dogs of the earth!

That will do honor to the canine race! If ever we do come down again, I

will bring a cross type of ‘moon-dogs,’ which will make a stir!”

“If there _are_ dogs in the moon,” said Barbicane.

“There are,” said Michel Ardan, “just as there are horses, cows,

donkeys, and chickens. I bet that we shall find chickens.”

“A hundred dollars we shall find none!” said Nicholl.

“Done, my captain!” replied Ardan, clasping Nicholl’s hand. “But, by

the bye, you have already lost three bets with our president, as the

necessary funds for the enterprise have been found, as the operation of

casting has been successful, and lastly, as the Columbiad has been

loaded without accident, six thousand dollars.”

“Yes,” replied Nicholl. “Thirty-seven minutes six seconds past ten.”

“It is understood, captain. Well, before another quarter of an hour you

will have to count nine thousand dollars to the president; four

thousand because the Columbiad will not burst, and five thousand

because the projectile will rise more than six miles in the air.”

“I have the dollars,” replied Nicholl, slapping the pocket of this

coat. “I only ask to be allowed to pay.”

“Come, Nicholl. I see that you are a man of method, which I could never

be; but indeed you have made a series of bets of very little advantage

to yourself, allow me to tell you.”

“And why?” asked Nicholl.

“Because, if you gain the first, the Columbiad will have burst, and the

projectile with it; and Barbicane will no longer be there to reimburse

your dollars.”

“My stake is deposited at the bank in Baltimore,” replied Barbicane

simply; “and if Nicholl is not there, it will go to his heirs.”

“Ah, you practical men!” exclaimed Michel Ardan; “I admire you the more

for not being able to understand you.”

“Forty-two minutes past ten!” said Nicholl.

“Only five minutes more!” answered Barbicane.

“Yes, five little minutes!” replied Michel Ardan; “and we are enclosed

in a projectile, at the bottom of a gun 900 feet long! And under this

projectile are rammed 400,000 pounds of gun-cotton, which is equal to

1,600,000 pounds of ordinary powder! And friend Murchison, with his

chronometer in hand, his eye fixed on the needle, his finger on the

electric apparatus, is counting the seconds preparatory to launching us

into interplanetary space.”

“Enough, Michel, enough!” said Barbicane, in a serious voice; “let us

prepare. A few instants alone separate us from an eventful moment. One

clasp of the hand, my friends.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Michel Ardan, more moved than he wished to appear; and

the three bold companions were united in a last embrace.

“God preserve us!” said the religious Barbicane.

Michel Ardan and Nicholl stretched themselves on the couches placed in

the center of the disc.

“Forty-seven minutes past ten!” murmured the captain.

“Twenty seconds more!” Barbicane quickly put out the gas and lay down

by his companions, and the profound silence was only broken by the

ticking of the chronometer marking the seconds.

Suddenly a dreadful shock was felt, and the projectile, under the force

of six billions of litres of gas, developed by the combustion of

pyroxyle, mounted into space.

CHAPTER II.

THE FIRST HALF-HOUR

What had happened? What effect had this frightful shock produced? Had

the ingenuity of the constructors of the projectile obtained any happy

result? Had the shock been deadened, thanks to the springs, the four

plugs, the water-cushions, and the partition-breaks? Had they been able

to subdue the frightful pressure of the initiatory speed of more than

11,000 yards, which was enough to traverse Paris or New York in a

second? This was evidently the question suggested to the thousand

spectators of this moving scene. They forgot the aim of the journey,

and thought only of the travelers. And if one of them—Joseph T. Maston

for example—could have cast one glimpse into the projectile, what would

he have seen?

Nothing then. The darkness was profound. But its cylindro- conical

partitions had resisted wonderfully. Not a rent or a dent anywhere! The

wonderful projectile was not even heated under the intense deflagration

of the powder, nor liquefied, as they seemed to fear, in a shower of

aluminum.

The interior showed but little disorder; indeed, only a few objects had

been violently thrown toward the roof; but the most important seemed

not to have suffered from the shock at all; their fixtures were intact.

On the movable disc, sunk down to the bottom by the smashing of the

partition-breaks and the escape of the water, three bodies lay

apparently lifeless. Barbicane, Nicholl, and Michel Ardan—did they

still breathe? or was the projectile nothing now but a metal coffin,

bearing three corpses into space?

Some minutes after the departure of the projectile, one of the bodies

moved, shook its arms, lifted its head, and finally succeeded in

getting on its knees. It was Michel Ardan. He felt himself all over,

gave a sonorous “Hem!” and then said:

“Michel Ardan is whole. How about the others?”

The courageous Frenchman tried to rise, but could not stand. His head

swam, from the rush of blood; he was blind; he was a drunken man.

“Bur-r!” said he. “It produces the same effect as two bottles of

Corton, though perhaps less agreeable to swallow.” Then, passing his

hand several times across his forehead and rubbing his temples, he

called in a firm voice:

“Nicholl! Barbicane!”

He waited anxiously. No answer; not even a sigh to show that the hearts

of his companions were still beating. He called again. The same

silence.

“The devil!” he exclaimed. “They look as if they had fallen from a

fifth story on their heads. Bah!” he added, with that imperturbable

confidence which nothing could check, “if a Frenchman can get on his

knees, two Americans ought to be able to get on their feet. But first

let us light up.”

Ardan felt the tide of life return by degrees. His blood became calm,

and returned to its accustomed circulation. Another effort restored his

equilibrium. He succeeded in rising, drew a match from his pocket, and

approaching the burner lighted it. The receiver had not suffered at

all. The gas had not escaped. Besides, the smell would have betrayed

it; and in that case Michel Ardan could not have carried a lighted

match with impunity through the space filled with hydrogen. The gas

mixing with the air would have produced a detonating mixture, and the

explosion would have finished what the shock had perhaps begun. When

the burner was lit, Ardan leaned over the bodies of his companions:

they were lying one on the other, an inert mass, Nicholl above,

Barbicane underneath.

Ardan lifted the captain, propped him up against the divan, and began

to rub vigorously. This means, used with judgment, restored Nicholl,

who opened his eyes, and instantly recovering his presence of mind,

seized Ardan’s hand and looked around him.

“And Barbicane?” said he.

“Each in turn,” replied Michel Ardan. “I began with you, Nicholl,

because you were on the top. Now let us look to Barbicane.” Saying

which, Ardan and Nicholl raised the president of the Gun Club and laid

him on the divan. He seemed to have suffered more than either of his

companions; he was bleeding, but Nicholl was reassured by finding that

the hemorrhage came from a slight wound on the shoulder, a mere graze,

which he bound up carefully.

Still, Barbicane was a long time coming to himself, which frightened

his friends, who did not spare friction.

“He breathes though,” said Nicholl, putting his ear to the chest of the

wounded man.

“Yes,” replied Ardan, “he breathes like a man who has some notion of

that daily operation. Rub, Nicholl; let us rub harder.” And the two

improvised practitioners worked so hard and so well that Barbicane

recovered his senses. He opened his eyes, sat up, took his two friends

by the hands, and his first words were—

“Nicholl, are we moving?”

Nicholl and Ardan looked at each other; they had not yet troubled

themselves about the projectile; their first thought had been for the

traveler, not for the car.

“Well, are we really moving?” repeated Michel Ardan.

“Or quietly resting on the soil of Florida?” asked Nicholl.

“Or at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico?” added Michel Ardan.

“What an idea!” exclaimed the president.

And this double hypothesis suggested by his companions had the effect

of recalling him to his senses. In any case they could not decide on

the position of the projectile. Its apparent immovability, and the want

of communication with the outside, prevented them from solving the

question. Perhaps the projectile was unwinding its course through

space. Perhaps after a short rise it had fallen upon the earth, or even

in the Gulf of Mexico—a fall which the narrowness of the peninsula of

Florida would render not impossible.

The case was serious, the problem interesting, and one that must be

solved as soon as possible. Thus, highly excited, Barbicane’s moral

energy triumphed over physical weakness, and he rose to his feet. He

listened. Outside was perfect silence; but the thick padding was enough

to intercept all sounds coming from the earth. But one circumstance

struck Barbicane, viz., that the temperature inside the projectile was

singularly high. The president drew a thermometer from its case and

consulted it. The instrument showed 81° Fahr.

“Yes,” he exclaimed, “yes, we are moving! This stifling heat,

penetrating through the partitions of the projectile, is produced by

its friction on the atmospheric strata. It will soon diminish, because

we are already floating in space, and after having nearly stifled, we

shall have to suffer intense cold.

“What!” said Michel Ardan. “According to your showing, Barbicane, we

are already beyond the limits of the terrestrial atmosphere?”

“Without a doubt, Michel. Listen to me. It is fifty-five minutes past

ten; we have been gone about eight minutes; and if our initiatory speed

has not been checked by the friction, six seconds would be enough for

us to pass through the forty miles of atmosphere which surrounds the

globe.”

“Just so,” replied Nicholl; “but in what proportion do you estimate the

diminution of speed by friction?”

“In the proportion of one-third, Nicholl. This diminution is

considerable, but according to my calculations it is nothing less. If,

then, we had an initiatory speed of 12,000 yards, on leaving the

atmosphere this speed would be reduced to 9,165 yards. In any case we

have already passed through this interval, and—”

“And then,” said Michel Ardan, “friend Nicholl has lost his two bets:

four thousand dollars because the Columbiad did not burst; five

thousand dollars because the projectile has risen more than six miles.

Now, Nicholl, pay up.”

“Let us prove it first,” said the captain, “and we will pay afterward.

It is quite possible that Barbicane’s reasoning is correct, and that I

have lost my nine thousand dollars. But a new hypothesis presents

itself to my mind, and it annuls the wager.”

“What is that?” asked Barbicane quickly.

“The hypothesis that, for some reason or other, fire was never set to

the powder, and we have not started at all.”

“My goodness, captain,” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “that hypothesis is not

worthy of my brain! It cannot be a serious one. For have we not been

half annihilated by the shock? Did I not recall you to life? Is not the

president’s shoulder still bleeding from the blow it has received?”

“Granted,” replied Nicholl; “but one question.”

“Well, captain?”

“Did you hear the detonation, which certainly ought to be loud?”

“No,” replied Ardan, much surprised; “certainly I did not hear the

detonation.”

“And you, Barbicane?”

“Nor I, either.”

“Very well,” said Nicholl.

“Well now,” murmured the president “why did we not hear the

detonation?”

The three friends looked at each other with a disconcerted air. It was

quite an inexplicable phenomenon. The projectile had started, and

consequently there must have been a detonation.

“Let us first find out where we are,” said Barbicane, “and let down

this panel.”

This very simple operation was soon accomplished.

The nuts which held the bolts to the outer plates of the right-hand

scuttle gave way under the pressure of the English wrench. These bolts

were pushed outside, and the buffers covered with India-rubber stopped

up the holes which let them through. Immediately the outer plate fell

back upon its hinges like a porthole, and the lenticular glass which

closed the scuttle appeared. A similar one was let into the thick

partition on the opposite side of the projectile, another in the top of

the dome, and finally a fourth in the middle of the base. They could,

therefore, make observations in four different directions; the

firmament by the side and most direct windows, the earth or the moon by

the upper and under openings in the projectile.

Barbicane and his two companions immediately rushed to the uncovered

window. But it was lit by no ray of light. Profound darkness surrounded

them, which, however, did not prevent the president from exclaiming:

“No, my friends, we have not fallen back upon the earth; no, nor are we

submerged in the Gulf of Mexico. Yes! we are mounting into space. See

those stars shining in the night, and that impenetrable darkness heaped

up between the earth and us!”

“Hurrah! hurrah!” exclaimed Michel Ardan and Nicholl in one voice.

Indeed, this thick darkness proved that the projectile had left the

earth, for the soil, brilliantly lit by the moon-beams would have been

visible to the travelers, if they had been lying on its surface. This

darkness also showed that the projectile had passed the atmospheric

strata, for the diffused light spread in the air would have been

reflected on the metal walls, which reflection was wanting. This light

would have lit the window, and the window was dark. Doubt was no longer

possible; the travelers had left the earth.

“I have lost,” said Nicholl.

“I congratulate you,” replied Ardan.

“Here are the nine thousand dollars,” said the captain, drawing a roll

of paper dollars from his pocket.

“Will you have a receipt for it?” asked Barbicane, taking the sum.

“If you do not mind,” answered Nicholl; “it is more business-like.”

And coolly and seriously, as if he had been at his strong-box, the

president drew forth his notebook, tore out a blank leaf, wrote a

proper receipt in pencil, dated and signed it with the usual

flourish,[1] and gave it to the captain, who carefully placed it in his

pocketbook. Michel Ardan, taking off his hat, bowed to his two

companions without speaking. So much formality under such circumstances

left him speechless. He had never before seen anything so “American.”

[1] This is a purely French habit.

This affair settled, Barbicane and Nicholl had returned to the window,

and were watching the constellations. The stars looked like bright

points on the black sky. But from that side they could not see the orb

of night, which, traveling from east to west, would rise by degrees

toward the zenith. Its absence drew the following remark from Ardan:

“And the moon; will she perchance fail at our rendezvous?”

“Do not alarm yourself,” said Barbicane; “our future globe is at its

post, but we cannot see her from this side; let us open the other.”

“As Barbicane was about leaving the window to open the opposite

scuttle, his attention was attracted by the approach of a brilliant

object. It was an enormous disc, whose colossal dimension could not be

estimated. Its face, which was turned to the earth, was very bright.

One might have thought it a small moon reflecting the light of the

large one. She advanced with great speed, and seemed to describe an

orbit round the earth, which would intersect the passage of the

projectile. This body revolved upon its axis, and exhibited the

phenomena of all celestial bodies abandoned in space.

“Ah!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “What is that? another projectile?”

Barbicane did not answer. The appearance of this enormous body

surprised and troubled him. A collision was possible, and might be

attended with deplorable results; either the projectile would deviate

from its path, or a shock, breaking its impetus, might precipitate it

to earth; or, lastly, it might be irresistibly drawn away by the

powerful asteroid. The president caught at a glance the consequences of

these three hypotheses, either of which would, one way or the other,

bring their experiment to an unsuccessful and fatal termination. His

companions stood silently looking into space. The object grew rapidly

as it approached them, and by an optical illusion the projectile seemed

to be throwing itself before it.

“By Jove!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, “we shall run into one another!”

Instinctively the travelers drew back. Their dread was great, but it

did not last many seconds. The asteroid passed several hundred yards

from the projectile and disappeared, not so much from the rapidity of

its course, as that its face being opposite the moon, it was suddenly

merged into the perfect darkness of space.

“A happy journey to you,” exclaimed Michel Ardan, with a sigh of

relief. “Surely infinity of space is large enough for a poor little

projectile to walk through without fear. Now, what is this portentous

globe which nearly struck us?”

“I know,” replied Barbicane.

“Oh, indeed! you know everything.”

“It is,” said Barbicane, “a simple meteorite, but an enormous one,

which the attraction of the earth has retained as a satellite.”

“Is it possible!” exclaimed Michel Ardan; “the earth then has two moons

like Neptune?”

“Yes, my friends, two moons, though it passes generally for having only

one; but this second moon is so small, and its speed so great, that the

inhabitants of the earth cannot see it. It was by noticing disturbances

that a French astronomer, M. Petit, was able to determine the existence

of this second satellite and calculate its elements. According to his

observations, this meteorite will accomplish its revolution around the

earth in three hours and twenty minutes, which implies a wonderful rate

of speed.”

“Do all astronomers admit the existence of this satellite?” asked

Nicholl.

“No,” replied Barbicane; “but if, like us, they had met it, they could

no longer doubt it. Indeed, I think that this meteorite, which, had it

struck the projectile, would have much embarrassed us, will give us the

means of deciding what our position in space is.”

“How?” said Ardan.

“Because its distance is known, and when we met it, we were exactly

four thousand six hundred and fifty miles from the surface of the

terrestrial globe.”

“More than two thousand French leagues,” exclaimed Michel Ardan. “That

beats the express trains of the pitiful globe called the earth.”

“I should think so,” replied Nicholl, consulting his chronometer; “it

is eleven o’clock, and it is only thirteen minutes since we left the

American continent.”

“Only thirteen minutes?” said Barbicane.

“Yes,” said Nicholl; “and if our initiatory speed of twelve thousand

yards has been kept up, we shall have made about twenty thousand miles

in the hour.”

“That is all very well, my friends,” said the president, “but the

insoluble question still remains. Why did we not hear the detonation of

the Columbiad?”

For want of an answer the conversation dropped, and Barbicane began

thoughtfully to let down the shutter of the second side. He succeeded;

and through the uncovered glass the moon filled the projectile with a

brilliant light. Nicholl, as an economical man, put out the gas, now

useless, and whose brilliancy prevented any observation of the

inter-planetary space.

The lunar disc shone with wonderful purity. Her rays, no longer

filtered through the vapory atmosphere of the terrestrial globe, shone

through the glass, filling the air in the interior of the projectile

with silvery reflections. The black curtain of the firmament in reality

heightened the moon’s brilliancy, which in this void of ether

unfavorable to diffusion did not eclipse the neighboring stars. The

heavens, thus seen, presented quite a new aspect, and one which the

human eye could never dream of. One may conceive the interest with

which these bold men watched the orb of night, the great aim of their

journey.

In its motion the earth’s satellite was insensibly nearing the zenith,

the mathematical point which it ought to attain ninety-six hours later.

Her mountains, her plains, every projection was as clearly discernible

to their eyes as if they were observing it from some spot upon the

earth; but its light was developed through space with wonderful

intensity. The disc shone like a platinum mirror. Of the earth flying

from under their feet, the travelers had lost all recollection.

It was captain Nicholl who first recalled their attention to the

vanishing globe.

“Yes,” said Michel Ardan, “do not let us be ungrateful to it. Since we

are leaving our country, let our last looks be directed to it. I wish

to see the earth once more before it is quite hidden from my eyes.”

To satisfy his companions, Barbicane began to uncover the window at the

bottom of the projectile, which would allow them to observe the earth

direct. The disc, which the force of the projection had beaten down to

the base, was removed, not without difficulty. Its fragments, placed

carefully against a wall, might serve again upon occasion. Then a

circular gap appeared, nineteen inches in diameter, hollowed out of the

lower part of the projectile. A glass cover, six inches thick and

strengthened with upper fastenings, closed it tightly. Beneath was

fixed an aluminum plate, held in place by bolts. The screws being

undone, and the bolts let go, the plate fell down, and visible

communication was established between the interior and the exterior.

Michel Ardan knelt by the glass. It was cloudy, seemingly opaque.

“Well!” he exclaimed, “and the earth?”

“The earth?” said Barbicane. “There it is.”

“What! that little thread; that silver crescent?”

“Doubtless, Michel. In four days, when the moon will be full, at the

very time we shall reach it, the earth will be new, and will only

appear to us as a slender crescent which will soon disappear, and for

some days will be enveloped in utter darkness.”

“That the earth?” repeated Michel Ardan, looking with all his eyes at

the thin slip of his native planet.

The explanation given by President Barbicane was correct. The earth,

with respect to the projectile, was entering its last phase. It was in

its octant, and showed a crescent finely traced on the dark background

of the sky. Its light, rendered bluish by the thick strata of the

atmosphere was less intense than that of the crescent moon, but it was

of considerable dimensions, and looked like an enormous arch stretched

across the firmament. Some parts brilliantly lighted, especially on its

concave part, showed the presence of high mountains, often disappearing

behind thick spots, which are never seen on the lunar disc. They were

rings of clouds placed concentrically round the terrestrial globe.

While the travelers were trying to pierce the profound darkness, a

brilliant cluster of shooting stars burst upon their eyes. Hundreds of

meteorites, ignited by the friction of the atmosphere, irradiated the

shadow of the luminous train, and lined the cloudy parts of the disc

with their fire. At this period the earth was in its perihelion, and

the month of December is so propitious to these shooting stars, that

astronomers have counted as many as twenty-four thousand in an hour.

But Michel Ardan, disdaining scientific reasonings, preferred thinking

that the earth was thus saluting the departure of her three children

with her most brilliant fireworks.

Indeed this was all they saw of the globe lost in the solar world,

rising and setting to the great planets like a simple morning or

evening star! This globe, where they had left all their affections, was

nothing more than a fugitive crescent!

Long did the three friends look without speaking, though united in

heart, while the projectile sped onward with an ever-decreasing speed.

Then an irresistible drowsiness crept over their brain. Was it

weariness of body and mind? No doubt; for after the over-excitement of

those last hours passed upon earth, reaction was inevitable.

“Well,” said Nicholl, “since we must sleep, let us sleep.”

And stretching themselves on their couches, they were all three soon in

a profound slumber.

But they had not forgotten themselves more than a quarter of an hour,

when Barbicane sat up suddenly, and rousing his companions with a loud

voice, exclaimed—

“I have found it!”

“What have you found?” asked Michel Ardan, jumping from his bed.

“The reason why we did not hear the detonation of the Columbiad.”

“And it is—?” said Nicholl.

“Because our projectile traveled faster than the sound!”

CHAPTER III.

THEIR PLACE OF SHELTER

This curious but certainly correct explanation once given, the three

friends returned to their slumbers. Could they have found a calmer or

more peaceful spot to sleep in? On the earth, houses, towns, cottages,

and country feel every shock given to the exterior of the globe. On

sea, the vessels rocked by the waves are still in motion; in the air,

the balloon oscillates incessantly on the fluid strata of divers

densities. This projectile alone, floating in perfect space, in the

midst of perfect silence, offered perfect repose.

Thus the sleep of our adventurous travelers might have been

indefinitely prolonged, if an unexpected noise had not awakened them at

about seven o’clock in the morning of the 2nd of December, eight hours

after their departure.

This noise was a very natural barking.

“The dogs! it is the dogs!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, rising at once.

“They are hungry,” said Nicholl.

“By Jove!” replied Michel, “we have forgotten them.”

“Where are they?” asked Barbicane.

They looked and found one of the animals crouched under the divan.

Terrified and shaken by the initiatory shock, it had remained in the

corner till its voice returned with the pangs of hunger. It was the

amiable Diana, still very confused, who crept out of her retreat,

though not without much persuasion, Michel Ardan encouraging her with

most gracious words.

“Come, Diana,” said he: “come, my girl! thou whose destiny will be

marked in the cynegetic annals; thou whom the pagans would have given

as companion to the god Anubis, and Christians as friend to St. Roch;

thou who art rushing into interplanetary space, and wilt perhaps be the

Eve of all Selenite dogs! come, Diana, come here.”

Diana, flattered or not, advanced by degrees, uttering plaintive cries.

“Good,” said Barbicane: “I see Eve, but where is Adam?”

“Adam?” replied Michel; “Adam cannot be far off; he is there somewhere;

we must call him. Satellite! here, Satellite!”

But Satellite did not appear. Diana would not leave off howling. They

found, however, that she was not bruised, and they gave her a pie,

which silenced her complaints. As to Satellite, he seemed quite lost.

They had to hunt a long time before finding him in one of the upper

compartments of the projectile, whither some unaccountable shock must

have violently hurled him. The poor beast, much hurt, was in a piteous

state.

“The devil!” said Michel.

They brought the unfortunate dog down with great care. Its skull had

been broken against the roof, and it seemed unlikely that he could

recover from such a shock. Meanwhile, he was stretched comfortably on a

cushion. Once there, he heaved a sigh.

“We will take care of you,” said Michel; “we are responsible for your

existence. I would rather lose an arm than a paw of my poor Satellite.”

Saying which, he offered some water to the wounded dog, who swallowed

it with avidity.

This attention paid, the travelers watched the earth and the moon

attentively. The earth was now only discernible by a cloudy disc ending

in a crescent, rather more contracted than that of the previous

evening; but its expanse was still enormous, compared with that of the

moon, which was approaching nearer and nearer to a perfect circle.

“By Jove!” said Michel Ardan, “I am really sorry that we did not start

when the earth was full, that is to say, when our globe was in

opposition to the sun.”

“Why?” said Nicholl.

“Because we should have seen our continents and seas in a new light—the

first resplendent under the solar rays, the latter cloudy as

represented on some maps of the world. I should like to have seen those

poles of the earth on which the eye of man has never yet rested.”

“I dare say,” replied Barbicane; “but if the earth had been _full_, the

moon would have been _new_; that is to say, invisible, because of the

rays of the sun. It is better for us to see the destination we wish to

reach, than the point of departure.”

“You are right, Barbicane,” replied Captain Nicholl; “and, besides,

when we have reached the moon, we shall have time during the long lunar

nights to consider at our leisure the globe on which our likenesses

swarm.”

“Our likenesses!” exclaimed Michel Ardan; “They are no more our

likenesses than the Selenites are! We inhabit a new world, peopled by

ourselves—the projectile! I am Barbicane’s likeness, and Barbicane is

Nicholl’s. Beyond us, around us, human nature is at an end, and we are

the only population of this microcosm until we become pure Selenites.”

“In about eighty-eight hours,” replied the captain.

“Which means to say?” asked Michel Ardan.

“That it is half-past eight,” replied Nicholl.

“Very well,” retorted Michel; “then it is impossible for me to find

even the shadow of a reason why we should not go to breakfast.”

Indeed the inhabitants of the new star could not live without eating,

and their stomachs were suffering from the imperious laws of hunger.

Michel Ardan, as a Frenchman, was declared chief cook, an important

function, which raised no rival. The gas gave sufficient heat for the

culinary apparatus, and the provision box furnished the elements of

this first feast.

The breakfast began with three bowls of excellent soup, thanks to the

liquefaction in hot water of those precious cakes of Liebig, prepared

from the best parts of the ruminants of the Pampas. To the soup

succeeded some beefsteaks, compressed by an hydraulic press, as tender

and succulent as if brought straight from the kitchen of an English

eating-house. Michel, who was imaginative, maintained that they were

even “red.”

Preserved vegetables (“fresher than nature,” said the amiable Michel)

succeeded the dish of meat; and was followed by some cups of tea with

bread and butter, after the American fashion.

The beverage was declared exquisite, and was due to the infusion of the

choicest leaves, of which the emperor of Russia had given some chests

for the benefit of the travelers.

And lastly, to crown the repast, Ardan had brought out a fine bottle of

Nuits, which was found “by chance” in the provision-box. The three

friends drank to the union of the earth and her satellite.

And, as if he had not already done enough for the generous wine which

he had distilled on the slopes of Burgundy, the sun chose to be part of

the party. At this moment the projectile emerged from the conical

shadow cast by the terrestrial globe, and the rays of the radiant orb

struck the lower disc of the projectile direct occasioned by the angle

which the moon’s orbit makes with that of the earth.

“The sun!” exclaimed Michel Ardan.

“No doubt,” replied Barbicane; “I expected it.”

“But,” said Michel, “the conical shadow which the earth leaves in space

extends beyond the moon?”

“Far beyond it, if the atmospheric refraction is not taken into

consideration,” said Barbicane. “But when the moon is enveloped in this

shadow, it is because the centers of the three stars, the sun, the

earth, and the moon, are all in one and the same straight line. Then

the _nodes_ coincide with the _phases_ of the moon, and there is an

eclipse. If we had started when there was an eclipse of the moon, all

our passage would have been in the shadow, which would have been a

pity.”

“Why?”

“Because, though we are floating in space, our projectile, bathed in

the solar rays, will receive light and heat. It economizes the gas,

which is in every respect a good economy.”

Indeed, under these rays which no atmosphere can temper, either in

temperature or brilliancy, the projectile grew warm and bright, as if

it had passed suddenly from winter to summer. The moon above, the sun

beneath, were inundating it with their fire.

“It is pleasant here,” said Nicholl.

“I should think so,” said Michel Ardan. “With a little earth spread on

our aluminum planet we should have green peas in twenty-four hours. I

have but one fear, which is that the walls of the projectile might

melt.”

“Calm yourself, my worthy friend,” replied Barbicane; “the projectile

withstood a very much higher temperature than this as it slid through

the strata of the atmosphere. I should not be surprised if it did not

look like a meteor on fire to the eyes of the spectators in Florida.”

“But then J. T. Maston will think we are roasted!”

“What astonishes me,” said Barbicane, “is that we have not been. That

was a danger we had not provided for.”

“I feared it,” said Nicholl simply.

“And you never mentioned it, my sublime captain,” exclaimed Michel

Ardan, clasping his friend’s hand.

Barbicane now began to settle himself in the projectile as if he was

never to leave it. One must remember that this aerial car had a base

with a _superficies_ of fifty-four square feet. Its height to the roof

was twelve feet. Carefully laid out in the inside, and little

encumbered by instruments and traveling utensils, which each had their

particular place, it left the three travelers a certain freedom of

movement. The thick window inserted in the bottom could bear any amount

of weight, and Barbicane and his companions walked upon it as if it

were solid plank; but the sun striking it directly with its rays lit

the interior of the projectile from beneath, thus producing singular

effects of light.

They began by investigating the state of their store of water and

provisions, neither of which had suffered, thanks to the care taken to

deaden the shock. Their provisions were abundant, and plentiful enough

to last the three travelers for more than a year. Barbicane wished to

be cautious, in case the projectile should land on a part of the moon

which was utterly barren. As to water and the reserve of brandy, which

consisted of fifty gallons, there was only enough for two months; but

according to the last observations of astronomers, the moon had a low,

dense, and thick atmosphere, at least in the deep valleys, and there

springs and streams could not fail. Thus, during their passage, and for

the first year of their settlement on the lunar continent, these

adventurous explorers would suffer neither hunger nor thirst.

Now about the air in the projectile. There, too, they were secure.

Reiset and Regnaut’s apparatus, intended for the production of oxygen,

was supplied with chlorate of potassium for two months. They

necessarily consumed a certain quantity of gas, for they were obliged

to keep the producing substance at a temperature of above 400°. But

there again they were all safe. The apparatus only wanted a little

care. But it was not enough to renew the oxygen; they must absorb the

carbonic acid produced by expiration. During the last twelve hours the

atmosphere of the projectile had become charged with this deleterious

gas. Nicholl discovered the state of the air by observing Diana panting

painfully. The carbonic acid, by a phenomenon similar to that produced

in the famous Grotto del Cane, had collected at the bottom of the

projectile owing to its weight. Poor Diana, with her head low, would

suffer before her masters from the presence of this gas. But Captain

Nicholl hastened to remedy this state of things, by placing on the

floor several receivers containing caustic potash, which he shook about

for a time, and this substance, greedy of carbonic acid, soon

completely absorbed it, thus purifying the air.

An inventory of instruments was then begun. The thermometers and

barometers had resisted, all but one minimum thermometer, the glass of

which was broken. An excellent aneroid was drawn from the wadded box

which contained it and hung on the wall. Of course it was only affected

by and marked the pressure of the air inside the projectile, but it

also showed the quantity of moisture which it contained. At that moment

its needle oscillated between 25.24 and 25.08.

It was fine weather.

Barbicane had also brought several compasses, which he found intact.

One must understand that under present conditions their needles were

acting _wildly_, that is without any _constant_ direction. Indeed, at

the distance they were from the earth, the magnetic pole could have no

perceptible action upon the apparatus; but the box placed on the lunar

disc might perhaps exhibit some strange phenomena. In any case it would

be interesting to see whether the earth’s satellite submitted like

herself to its magnetic influence.

A hypsometer to measure the height of the lunar mountains, a sextant to

take the height of the sun, glasses which would be useful as they

neared the moon, all these instruments were carefully looked over, and

pronounced good in spite of the violent shock.

As to the pickaxes and different tools which were Nicholl’s especial

choice; as to the sacks of different kinds of grain and shrubs which

Michel Ardan hoped to transplant into Selenite ground, they were stowed

away in the upper part of the projectile. There was a sort of granary

there, loaded with things which the extravagant Frenchman had heaped

up. What they were no one knew, and the good-tempered fellow did not

explain. Now and then he climbed up by cramp-irons riveted to the

walls, but kept the inspection to himself. He arranged and rearranged,

he plunged his hand rapidly into certain mysterious boxes, singing in

one of the falsest of voices an old French refrain to enliven the

situation.

Barbicane observed with some interest that his guns and other arms had

not been damaged. These were important, because, heavily loaded, they

were to help lessen the fall of the projectile, when drawn by the lunar

attraction (after having passed the point of neutral attraction) on to

the moon’s surface; a fall which ought to be six times less rapid than

it would have been on the earth’s surface, thanks to the difference of

bulk. The inspection ended with general satisfaction, when each

returned to watch space through the side windows and the lower glass

coverlid.

There was the same view. The whole extent of the celestial sphere

swarmed with stars and constellations of wonderful purity, enough to

drive an astronomer out of his mind! On one side the sun, like the

mouth of a lighted oven, a dazzling disc without a halo, standing out

on the dark background of the sky! On the other, the moon returning its

fire by reflection, and apparently motionless in the midst of the

starry world. Then, a large spot seemingly nailed to the firmament,

bordered by a silvery cord; it was the earth! Here and there nebulous

masses like large flakes of starry snow; and from the zenith to the

nadir, an immense ring formed by an impalpable dust of stars, the

“Milky Way,” in the midst of which the sun ranks only as a star of the

fourth magnitude. The observers could not take their eyes from this

novel spectacle, of which no description could give an adequate idea.

What reflections it suggested! What emotions hitherto unknown awoke in

their souls! Barbicane wished to begin the relation of his journey

while under its first impressions, and hour after hour took notes of

all facts happening in the beginning of the enterprise. He wrote

quietly, with his large square writing, in a business-like style.

During this time Nicholl, the calculator, looked over the minutes of

their passage, and worked out figures with unparalleled dexterity.

Michel Ardan chatted first with Barbicane, who did not answer him, and

then with Nicholl, who did not hear him, with Diana, who understood

none of his theories, and lastly with himself, questioning and

answering, going and coming, busy with a thousand details; at one time

bent over the lower glass, at another roosting in the heights of the

projectile, and always singing. In this microcosm he represented French

loquacity and excitability, and we beg you to believe that they were

well represented. The day, or rather (for the expression is not

correct) the lapse of twelve hours, which forms a day upon the earth,

closed with a plentiful supper carefully prepared. No accident of any

nature had yet happened to shake the travelers’ confidence; so, full of

hope, already sure of success, they slept peacefully, while the

projectile under an uniformly decreasing speed was crossing the sky.

CHAPTER IV.

A LITTLE ALGEBRA

The night passed without incident. The word “night,” however, is

scarcely applicable.

The position of the projectile with regard to the sun did not change.

Astronomically, it was daylight on the lower part, and night on the

upper; so when during this narrative these words are used, they

represent the lapse of time between rising and setting of the sun upon

the earth.

The travelers’ sleep was rendered more peaceful by the projectile’s

excessive speed, for it seemed absolutely motionless. Not a motion

betrayed its onward course through space. The rate of progress, however

rapid it might be, cannot produce any sensible effect on the human

frame when it takes place in a vacuum, or when the mass of air

circulates with the body which is carried with it. What inhabitant of

the earth perceives its speed, which, however, is at the rate of 68,000

miles per hour? Motion under such conditions is “felt” no more than

repose; and when a body is in repose it will remain so as long as no

strange force displaces it; if moving, it will not stop unless an

obstacle comes in its way. This indifference to motion or repose is

called inertia.

Barbicane and his companions might have believed themselves perfectly

stationary, being shut up in the projectile; indeed, the effect would

have been the same if they had been on the outside of it. Had it not

been for the moon, which was increasing above them, they might have

sworn that they were floating in complete stagnation.

That morning, the 3rd of December, the travelers were awakened by a

joyous but unexpected noise; it was the crowing of a cock which sounded

through the car. Michel Ardan, who was the first on his feet, climbed

to the top of the projectile, and shutting a box, the lid of which was

partly open, said in a low voice, “Will you hold your tongue? That

creature will spoil my design!”

But Nicholl and Barbicane were awake.

“A cock!” said Nicholl.

“Why no, my friends,” Michel answered quickly; “it was I who wished to

awake you by this rural sound.” So saying, he gave vent to a splendid

cock-a-doodledoo, which would have done honor to the proudest of

poultry-yards.

The two Americans could not help laughing.

“Fine talent that,” said Nicholl, looking suspiciously at his

companion.

“Yes,” said Michel; “a joke in my country. It is very Gallic; they play

the cock so in the best society.”

Then turning the conversation:

“Barbicane, do you know what I have been thinking of all night?”

“No,” answered the president.

“Of our Cambridge friends. You have already remarked that I am an

ignoramus in mathematical subjects; and it is impossible for me to find

out how the savants of the observatory were able to calculate what

initiatory speed the projectile ought to have on leaving the Columbiad

in order to attain the moon.”

“You mean to say,” replied Barbicane, “to attain that neutral point

where the terrestrial and lunar attractions are equal; for, starting

from that point, situated about nine-tenths of the distance traveled

over, the projectile would simply fall upon the moon, on account of its

weight.”

“So be it,” said Michel; “but, once more; how could they calculate the

initiatory speed?”

“Nothing can be easier,” replied Barbicane.

“And you knew how to make that calculation?” asked Michel Ardan.

“Perfectly. Nicholl and I would have made it, if the observatory had

not saved us the trouble.”

“Very well, old Barbicane,” replied Michel; “they might have cut off my

head, beginning at my feet, before they could have made me solve that

problem.”

“Because you do not know algebra,” answered Barbicane quietly.

“Ah, there you are, you eaters of _x_1; you think you have said all

when you have said ‘Algebra.’”

“Michel,” said Barbicane, “can you use a forge without a hammer, or a

plow without a plowshare?”

“Hardly.”

“Well, algebra is a tool, like the plow or the hammer, and a good tool

to those who know how to use it.”

“Seriously?”

“Quite seriously.”

“And can you use that tool in my presence?”

“If it will interest you.”

“And show me how they calculated the initiatory speed of our car?”

“Yes, my worthy friend; taking into consideration all the elements of

the problem, the distance from the center of the earth to the center of

the moon, of the radius of the earth, of its bulk, and of the bulk of

the moon, I can tell exactly what ought to be the initiatory speed of

the projectile, and that by a simple formula.”

“Let us see.”

“You shall see it; only I shall not give you the real course drawn by

the projectile between the moon and the earth in considering their

motion round the sun. No, I shall consider these two orbs as perfectly

motionless, which will answer all our purpose.”

“And why?”

“Because it will be trying to solve the problem called ‘the problem of

the three bodies,’ for which the integral calculus is not yet far

enough advanced.”

“Then,” said Michel Ardan, in his sly tone, “mathematics have not said

their last word?”

“Certainly not,” replied Barbicane.

“Well, perhaps the Selenites have carried the integral calculus farther

than you have; and, by the bye, what is this ‘integral calculus?’”

“It is a calculation the converse of the differential,” replied

Barbicane seriously.

“Much obliged; it is all very clear, no doubt.”

“And now,” continued Barbicane, “a slip of paper and a bit of pencil,

and before a half-hour is over I will have found the required formula.”

Half an hour had not elapsed before Barbicane, raising his head, showed

Michel Ardan a page covered with algebraical signs, in which the

general formula for the solution was contained.

“Well, and does Nicholl understand what that means?”

“Of course, Michel,” replied the captain. “All these signs, which seem

cabalistic to you, form the plainest, the clearest, and the most

logical language to those who know how to read it.”

“And you pretend, Nicholl,” asked Michel, “that by means of these

hieroglyphics, more incomprehensible than the Egyptian Ibis, you can

find what initiatory speed it was necessary to give the projectile?”

“Incontestably,” replied Nicholl; “and even by this same formula I can

always tell you its speed at any point of its transit.”

“On your word?”

“On my word.”

“Then you are as cunning as our president.”

“No, Michel; the difficult part is what Barbicane has done; that is, to

get an equation which shall satisfy all the conditions of the problem.

The remainder is only a question of arithmetic, requiring merely the

knowledge of the four rules.”

“That is something!” replied Michel Ardan, who for his life could not

do addition right, and who defined the rule as a Chinese puzzle, which

allowed one to obtain all sorts of totals.

“The expression _v_ zero, which you see in that equation, is the speed

which the projectile will have on leaving the atmosphere.”

“Just so,” said Nicholl; “it is from that point that we must calculate

the velocity, since we know already that the velocity at departure was

exactly one and a half times more than on leaving the atmosphere.”

“I understand no more,” said Michel.

“It is a very simple calculation,” said Barbicane.

“Not as simple as I am,” retorted Michel.

“That means, that when our projectile reached the limits of the

terrestrial atmosphere it had already lost one-third of its initiatory

speed.”

“As much as that?”

“Yes, my friend; merely by friction against the atmospheric strata. You

understand that the faster it goes the more resistance it meets with

from the air.”

“That I admit,” answered Michel; “and I understand it, although your

x’s and zero’s, and algebraic formula, are rattling in my head like

nails in a bag.”

“First effects of algebra,” replied Barbicane; “and now, to finish, we

are going to prove the given number of these different expressions,

that is, work out their value.”

“Finish me!” replied Michel.

Barbicane took the paper, and began to make his calculations with great

rapidity. Nicholl looked over and greedily read the work as it

proceeded.

“That’s it! that’s it!” at last he cried.

“Is it clear?” asked Barbicane.

“It is written in letters of fire,” said Nicholl.

“Wonderful fellows!” muttered Ardan.

“Do you understand it at last?” asked Barbicane.

“Do I understand it?” cried Ardan; “my head is splitting with it.”

“And now,” said Nicholl, “to find out the speed of the projectile when

it leaves the atmosphere, we have only to calculate that.”

The captain, as a practical man equal to all difficulties, began to

write with frightful rapidity. Divisions and multiplications grew under

his fingers; the figures were like hail on the white page. Barbicane

watched him, while Michel Ardan nursed a growing headache with both

hands.

“Very well?” asked Barbicane, after some minutes’ silence.

“Well!” replied Nicholl; every calculation made, _v_ zero, that is to

say, the speed necessary for the projectile on leaving the atmosphere,

to enable it to reach the equal point of attraction, ought to be—”

“Yes?” said Barbicane.

“Twelve thousand yards.”

“What!” exclaimed Barbicane, starting; “you say—”

“Twelve thousand yards.”

“The devil!” cried the president, making a gesture of despair.

“What is the matter?” asked Michel Ardan, much surprised.

“What is the matter! why, if at this moment our speed had already

diminished one-third by friction, the initiatory speed ought to have

been—”

“Seventeen thousand yards.”

“And the Cambridge Observatory declared that twelve thousand yards was

enough at starting; and our projectile, which only started with that

speed—”

“Well?” asked Nicholl.

“Well, it will not be enough.”

“Good.”

“We shall not be able to reach the neutral point.”

“The deuce!”

“We shall not even get halfway.”

“In the name of the projectile!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, jumping as if

it was already on the point of striking the terrestrial globe.

“And we shall fall back upon the earth!”

CHAPTER V.

THE COLD OF SPACE

This revelation came like a thunderbolt. Who could have expected such

an error in calculation? Barbicane would not believe it. Nicholl

revised his figures: they were exact. As to the formula which had

determined them, they could not suspect its truth; it was evident that

an initiatory velocity of seventeen thousand yards in the first second

was necessary to enable them to reach the neutral point.

The three friends looked at each other silently. There was no thought

of breakfast. Barbicane, with clenched teeth, knitted brows, and hands

clasped convulsively, was watching through the window. Nicholl had

crossed his arms, and was examining his calculations. Michel Ardan was

muttering:

“That is just like these scientific men: they never do anything else. I

would give twenty pistoles if we could fall upon the Cambridge

Observatory and crush it, together with the whole lot of dabblers in

figures which it contains.”

Suddenly a thought struck the captain, which he at once communicated to

Barbicane.

“Ah!” said he; “it is seven o’clock in the morning; we have already

been gone thirty-two hours; more than half our passage is over, and we

are not falling that I am aware of.”

Barbicane did not answer, but after a rapid glance at the captain, took

a pair of compasses wherewith to measure the angular distance of the

terrestrial globe; then from the lower window he took an exact

observation, and noticed that the projectile was apparently stationary.

Then rising and wiping his forehead, on which large drops of

perspiration were standing, he put some figures on paper. Nicholl

understood that the president was deducting from the terrestrial

diameter the projectile’s distance from the earth. He watched him

anxiously.

“No,” exclaimed Barbicane, after some moments, “no, we are not falling!

no, we are already more than 50,000 leagues from the earth. We have

passed the point at which the projectile would have stopped if its

speed had only been 12,000 yards at starting. We are still going up.”

“That is evident,” replied Nicholl; “and we must conclude that our

initial speed, under the power of the 400,000 pounds of gun-cotton,

must have exceeded the required 12,000 yards. Now I can understand how,

after thirteen minutes only, we met the second satellite, which

gravitates round the earth at more than 2,000 leagues’ distance.”

“And this explanation is the more probable,” added Barbicane, “Because,

in throwing off the water enclosed between its partition-breaks, the

projectile found itself lightened of a considerable weight.”

“Just so,” said Nicholl.

“Ah, my brave Nicholl, we are saved!”

“Very well then,” said Michel Ardan quietly; “as we are safe, let us

have breakfast.”

Nicholl was not mistaken. The initial speed had been, very fortunately,

much above that estimated by the Cambridge Observatory; but the

Cambridge Observatory had nevertheless made a mistake.

The travelers, recovered from this false alarm, breakfasted merrily. If

they ate a good deal, they talked more. Their confidence was greater

after than before “the incident of the algebra.”

“Why should we not succeed?” said Michel Ardan; “why should we not

arrive safely? We are launched; we have no obstacle before us, no

stones in the way; the road is open, more so than that of a ship

battling with the sea; more open than that of a balloon battling with

the wind; and if a ship can reach its destination, a balloon go where

it pleases, why cannot our projectile attain its end and aim?”

“It _will_ attain it,” said Barbicane.

“If only to do honor to the Americans,” added Michel Ardan, “the only

people who could bring such an enterprise to a happy termination, and

the only one which could produce a President Barbicane. Ah, now we are

no longer uneasy, I begin to think, What will become of us? We shall

get right royally weary.”

Barbicane and Nicholl made a gesture of denial.

“But I have provided for the contingency, my friends,” replied Michel;

“you have only to speak, and I have chess, draughts, cards, and

dominoes at your disposal; nothing is wanting but a billiard-table.”

“What!” exclaimed Barbicane; “you brought away such trifles?”

“Certainly,” replied Michel, “and not only to distract ourselves, but

also with the laudable intention of endowing the Selenite smoking

divans with them.”

“My friend,” said Barbicane, “if the moon is inhabited, its inhabitants

must have appeared some thousands of years before those of the earth,

for we cannot doubt that their star is much older than ours. If then

these Selenites have existed their hundreds of thousands of years, and

if their brain is of the same organization of the human brain, they

have already invented all that we have invented, and even what we may

invent in future ages. They have nothing to learn from _us_, and we

have everything to learn from _them_.”

“What!” said Michel; “you believe that they have artists like Phidias,

Michael Angelo, or Raphael?”

“Yes.”

“Poets like Homer, Virgil, Milton, Lamartine, and Hugo?”

“I am sure of it.”

“Philosophers like Plato, Aristotle, Descartes, Kant?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“Scientific men like Archimedes, Euclid, Pascal, Newton?”

“I could swear it.”

“Comic writers like Arnal, and photographers like—like Nadar?”

“Certain.”

“Then, friend Barbicane, if they are as strong as we are, and even

stronger—these Selenites—why have they not tried to communicate with

the earth? why have they not launched a lunar projectile to our

terrestrial regions?”

“Who told you that they have never done so?” said Barbicane seriously.

“Indeed,” added Nicholl, “it would be easier for them than for us, for

two reasons; first, because the attraction on the moon’s surface is six

times less than on that of the earth, which would allow a projectile to

rise more easily; secondly, because it would be enough to send such a

projectile only at 8,000 leagues instead of 80,000, which would require

the force of projection to be ten times less strong.”

“Then,” continued Michel, “I repeat it, why have they not done it?”

“And I repeat,” said Barbicane; “who told you that they have not done

it?”

“When?”

“Thousands of years before man appeared on earth.”

“And the projectile—where is the projectile? I demand to see the

projectile.”

“My friend,” replied Barbicane, “the sea covers five-sixths of our

globe. From that we may draw five good reasons for supposing that the

lunar projectile, if ever launched, is now at the bottom of the

Atlantic or the Pacific, unless it sped into some crevasse at that

period when the crust of the earth was not yet hardened.”

“Old Barbicane,” said Michel, “you have an answer for everything, and I

bow before your wisdom. But there is one hypothesis that would suit me

better than all the others, which is, the Selenites, being older than

we, are wiser, and have not invented gunpowder.”

At this moment Diana joined in the conversation by a sonorous barking.

She was asking for her breakfast.

“Ah!” said Michel Ardan, “in our discussion we have forgotten Diana and

Satellite.”

Immediately a good-sized pie was given to the dog, which devoured it

hungrily.

“Do you see, Barbicane,” said Michel, “we should have made a second

Noah’s ark of this projectile, and borne with us to the moon a couple

of every kind of domestic animal.”

“I dare say; but room would have failed us.”

“Oh!” said Michel, “we might have squeezed a little.”

“The fact is,” replied Nicholl, “that cows, bulls, and horses, and all

ruminants, would have been very useful on the lunar continent, but

unfortunately the car could neither have been made a stable nor a

shed.”

“Well, we might have at least brought a donkey, only a little donkey;

that courageous beast which old Silenus loved to mount. I love those

old donkeys; they are the least favored animals in creation; they are

not only beaten while alive, but even after they are dead.”

“How do you make that out?” asked Barbicane. “Why,” said Michel, “they

make their skins into drums.”

Barbicane and Nicholl could not help laughing at this ridiculous

remark. But a cry from their merry companion stopped them. The latter

was leaning over the spot where Satellite lay. He rose, saying:

“My good Satellite is no longer ill.”

“Ah!” said Nicholl.

“No,” answered Michel, “he is dead! There,” added he, in a piteous

tone, “that is embarrassing. I much fear, my poor Diana, that you will

leave no progeny in the lunar regions!”

Indeed the unfortunate Satellite had not survived its wound. It was

quite dead. Michel Ardan looked at his friends with a rueful

countenance.

“One question presents itself,” said Barbicane. “We cannot keep the

dead body of this dog with us for the next forty-eight hours.”

“No! certainly not,” replied Nicholl; “but our scuttles are fixed on

hinges; they can be let down. We will open one, and throw the body out

into space.”

The president thought for some moments, and then said:

“Yes, we must do so, but at the same time taking very great

precautions.”

“Why?” asked Michel.

“For two reasons which you will understand,” answered Barbicane. “The

first relates to the air shut up in the projectile, and of which we

must lose as little as possible.”

“But we manufacture the air?”

“Only in part. We make only the oxygen, my worthy Michel; and with

regard to that, we must watch that the apparatus does not furnish the

oxygen in too great a quantity; for an excess would bring us very

serious physiological troubles. But if we make the oxygen, we do not

make the azote, that medium which the lungs do not absorb, and which

ought to remain intact; and that azote will escape rapidly through the

open scuttles.”

“Oh! the time for throwing out poor Satellite?” said Michel.

“Agreed; but we must act quickly.”

“And the second reason?” asked Michel.

“The second reason is that we must not let the outer cold, which is

excessive, penetrate the projectile or we shall be frozen to death.”

“But the sun?”

“The sun warms our projectile, which absorbs its rays; but it does not

warm the vacuum in which we are floating at this moment. Where there is

no air, there is no more heat than diffused light; and the same with

darkness; it is cold where the sun’s rays do not strike direct. This

temperature is only the temperature produced by the radiation of the

stars; that is to say, what the terrestrial globe would undergo if the

sun disappeared one day.”

“Which is not to be feared,” replied Nicholl.

“Who knows?” said Michel Ardan. “But, in admitting that the sun does

not go out, might it not happen that the earth might move away from

it?”

“There!” said Barbicane, “there is Michel with his ideas.”

“And,” continued Michel, “do we not know that in 1861 the earth passed

through the tail of a comet? Or let us suppose a comet whose power of

attraction is greater than that of the sun. The terrestrial orbit will

bend toward the wandering star, and the earth, becoming its satellite,

will be drawn such a distance that the rays of the sun will have no

action on its surface.”

“That _might_ happen, indeed,” replied Barbicane, “but the consequences

of such a displacement need not be so formidable as you suppose.”

“And why not?”

“Because the heat and cold would be equalized on our globe. It has been

calculated that, had our earth been carried along in its course by the

comet of 1861, at its perihelion, that is, its nearest approach to the

sun, it would have undergone a heat 28,000 times greater than that of

summer. But this heat, which is sufficient to evaporate the waters,

would have formed a thick ring of cloud, which would have modified that

excessive temperature; hence the compensation between the cold of the

aphelion and the heat of the perihelion.”

“At how many degrees,” asked Nicholl, “is the temperature of the

planetary spaces estimated?”

“Formerly,” replied Barbicane, “it was greatly exagerated; but now,

after the calculations of Fourier, of the French Academy of Science, it

is not supposed to exceed 60° Centigrade below zero.”

“Pooh!” said Michel, “that’s nothing!”

“It is very much,” replied Barbicane; “the temperature which was

observed in the polar regions, at Melville Island and Fort Reliance,

that is 76° Fahrenheit below zero.”

“If I mistake not,” said Nicholl, “M. Pouillet, another savant,

estimates the temperature of space at 250° Fahrenheit below zero. We

shall, however, be able to verify these calculations for ourselves.”

“Not at present; because the solar rays, beating directly upon our

thermometer, would give, on the contrary, a very high temperature. But,

when we arrive in the moon, during its fifteen days of night at either

face, we shall have leisure to make the experiment, for our satellite

lies in a vacuum.”

“What do you mean by a vacuum?” asked Michel. “Is it perfectly such?”

“It is absolutely void of air.”

“And is the air replaced by nothing whatever?”

“By the ether only,” replied Barbicane.

“And pray what is the ether?”

“The ether, my friend, is an agglomeration of imponderable atoms,

which, relatively to their dimensions, are as far removed from each

other as the celestial bodies are in space. It is these atoms which, by

their vibratory motion, produce both light and heat in the universe.”

They now proceeded to the burial of Satellite. They had merely to drop

him into space, in the same way that sailors drop a body into the sea;

but, as President Barbicane suggested, they must act quickly, so as to

lose as little as possible of that air whose elasticity would rapidly

have spread it into space. The bolts of the right scuttle, the opening

of which measured about twelve inches across, were carefully drawn,

while Michel, quite grieved, prepared to launch his dog into space. The

glass, raised by a powerful lever, which enabled it to overcome the

pressure of the inside air on the walls of the projectile, turned

rapidly on its hinges, and Satellite was thrown out. Scarcely a

particle of air could have escaped, and the operation was so successful

that later on Barbicane did not fear to dispose of the rubbish which

encumbered the car.

CHAPTER VI.

QUESTION AND ANSWER

On the 4th of December, when the travelers awoke after fifty-four

hours’ journey, the chronometer marked five o’clock of the terrestrial

morning. In time it was just over five hours and forty minutes, half of

that assigned to their sojourn in the projectile; but they had already

accomplished nearly seven-tenths of the way. This peculiarity was due

to their regularly decreasing speed.

Now when they observed the earth through the lower window, it looked

like nothing more than a dark spot, drowned in the solar rays. No more

crescent, no more cloudy light! The next day, at midnight, the earth

would be _new_, at the very moment when the moon would be full. Above,

the orb of night was nearing the line followed by the projectile, so as

to meet it at the given hour. All around the black vault was studded

with brilliant points, which seemed to move slowly; but, at the great

distance they were from them, their relative size did not seem to

change. The sun and stars appeared exactly as they do to us upon earth.

As to the moon, she was considerably larger; but the travelers’

glasses, not very powerful, did not allow them as yet to make any

useful observations upon her surface, or reconnoiter her

topographically or geologically.

Thus the time passed in never-ending conversations all about the moon.

Each one brought forward his own contingent of particular facts;

Barbicane and Nicholl always serious, Michel Ardan always enthusiastic.

The projectile, its situation, its direction, incidents which might

happen, the precautions necessitated by their fall on to the moon, were

inexhaustible matters of conjecture.

As they were breakfasting, a question of Michel’s, relating to the

projectile, provoked rather a curious answer from Barbicane, which is

worth repeating. Michel, supposing it to be roughly stopped, while

still under its formidable initial speed, wished to know what the

consequences of the stoppage would have been.

“But,” said Barbicane, “I do not see how it could have been stopped.”

“But let us suppose so,” said Michel.

“It is an impossible supposition,” said the practical Barbicane;

“unless that impulsive force had failed; but even then its speed would

diminish by degrees, and it would not have stopped suddenly.”

“Admit that it had struck a body in space.”

“What body?”

“Why that enormous meteor which we met.”

“Then,” said Nicholl, “the projectile would have been broken into a

thousand pieces, and we with it.”

“More than that,” replied Barbicane; “we should have been burned to

death.”

“Burned?” exclaimed Michel, “by Jove! I am sorry it did not happen,

‘just to see.’”

“And you would have seen,” replied Barbicane. “It is known now that

heat is only a modification of motion. When water is warmed—that is to

say, when heat is added to it—its particles are set in motion.”

“Well,” said Michel, “that is an ingenious theory!”

“And a true one, my worthy friend; for it explains every phenomenon of

caloric. Heat is but the motion of atoms, a simple oscillation of the

particles of a body. When they apply the brake to a train, the train

comes to a stop; but what becomes of the motion which it had previously

possessed? It is transformed into heat, and the brake becomes hot. Why

do they grease the axles of the wheels? To prevent their heating,

because this heat would be generated by the motion which is thus lost

by transformation.”

“Yes, I understand,” replied Michel, “perfectly. For example, when I

have run a long time, when I am swimming, when I am perspiring in large

drops, why am I obliged to stop? Simply because my motion is changed

into heat.”

Barbicane could not help smiling at Michel’s reply; then, returning to

his theory, said:

“Thus, in case of a shock, it would have been with our projectile as

with a ball which falls in a burning state after having struck the

metal plate; it is its motion which is turned into heat. Consequently I

affirm that, if our projectile had struck the meteor, its speed thus

suddenly checked would have raised a heat great enough to turn it into

vapor instantaneously.”

“Then,” asked Nicholl, “what would happen if the earth’s motion were to

stop suddenly?”

“Her temperature would be raised to such a pitch,” said Barbicane,

“that she would be at once reduced to vapor.”

“Well,” said Michel, “that is a way of ending the earth which will

greatly simplify things.”

“And if the earth fell upon the sun?” asked Nicholl.

“According to calculation,” replied Barbicane, “the fall would develop

a heat equal to that produced by 16,000 globes of coal, each equal in

bulk to our terrestrial globe.”

“Good additional heat for the sun,” replied Michel Ardan, “of which the

inhabitants of Uranus or Neptune would doubtless not complain; they

must be perished with cold on their planets.”

“Thus, my friends,” said Barbicane, “all motion suddenly stopped

produces heat. And this theory allows us to infer that the heat of the

solar disc is fed by a hail of meteors falling incessantly on its

surface. They have even calculated—”

“Oh, dear!” murmured Michel, “the figures are coming.”

“They have even calculated,” continued the imperturbable Barbicane,

“that the shock of each meteor on the sun ought to produce a heat equal

to that of 4,000 masses of coal of an equal bulk.”

“And what is the solar heat?” asked Michel.

“It is equal to that produced by the combustion of a stratum of coal

surrounding the sun to a depth of forty-seven miles.”

“And that heat—”

“Would be able to boil two billions nine hundred millions of cubic

myriameters[2] of water.”

[2] The myriameter is equal to rather more than 10,936 cubic yards

English.

“And it does not roast us!” exclaimed Michel.

“No,” replied Barbicane, “because the terrestrial atmosphere absorbs

four-tenths of the solar heat; besides, the quantity of heat

intercepted by the earth is but a billionth part of the entire

radiation.”

“I see that all is for the best,” said Michel, “and that this

atmosphere is a useful invention; for it not only allows us to breathe,

but it prevents us from roasting.”

“Yes!” said Nicholl, “unfortunately, it will not be the same in the

moon.”

“Bah!” said Michel, always hopeful. “If there are inhabitants, they

must breathe. If there are no longer any, they must have left enough

oxygen for three people, if only at the bottom of ravines, where its

own weight will cause it to accumulate, and we will not climb the

mountains; that is all.” And Michel, rising, went to look at the lunar

disc, which shone with intolerable brilliancy.

“By Jove!” said he, “it must be hot up there!”

“Without considering,” replied Nicholl, “that the day lasts 360 hours!”

“And to compensate that,” said Barbicane, “the nights have the same

length; and as heat is restored by radiation, their temperature can

only be that of the planetary space.”

“A pretty country, that!” exclaimed Michel. “Never mind! I wish I was

there! Ah! my dear comrades, it will be rather curious to have the

earth for our moon, to see it rise on the horizon, to recognize the

shape of its continents, and to say to oneself, ‘There is America,

there is Europe;’ then to follow it when it is about to lose itself in

the sun’s rays! By the bye, Barbicane, have the Selenites eclipses?”

“Yes, eclipses of the sun,” replied Barbicane, “when the centers of the

three orbs are on a line, the earth being in the middle. But they are

only partial, during which the earth, cast like a screen upon the solar

disc, allows the greater portion to be seen.”

“And why,” asked Nicholl, “is there no total eclipse? Does not the cone

of the shadow cast by the earth extend beyond the moon?”

“Yes, if we do not take into consideration the refraction produced by

the terrestrial atmosphere. No, if we take that refraction into

consideration. Thus let <lower case delta> be the horizontal parallel,

and _p_ the apparent semidiameter—”

“Oh!” said Michel. “Do speak plainly, you man of algebra!”

“Very well, replied Barbicane; “in popular language the mean distance

from the moon to the earth being sixty terrestrial radii, the length of

the cone of the shadow, on account of refraction, is reduced to less

than forty-two radii. The result is that when there are eclipses, the

moon finds itself beyond the cone of pure shadow, and that the sun

sends her its rays, not only from its edges, but also from its center.”

“Then,” said Michel, in a merry tone, “why are there eclipses, when

there ought not to be any?”

“Simply because the solar rays are weakened by this refraction, and the

atmosphere through which they pass extinguished the greater part of

them!”

“That reason satisfies me,” replied Michel. “Besides we shall see when

we get there. Now, tell me, Barbicane, do you believe that the moon is

an old comet?”

“There’s an idea!”

“Yes,” replied Michel, with an amiable swagger, “I have a few ideas of

that sort.”

“But that idea does not spring from Michel,” answered Nicholl.

“Well, then, I am a plagiarist.”

“No doubt about it. According to the ancients, the Arcadians pretend

that their ancestors inhabited the earth before the moon became her

satellite. Starting from this fact, some scientific men have seen in

the moon a comet whose orbit will one day bring it so near to the earth

that it will be held there by its attraction.”

“Is there any truth in this hypothesis?” asked Michel.

“None whatever,” said Barbicane, “and the proof is, that the moon has

preserved no trace of the gaseous envelope which always accompanies

comets.”

“But,” continued Nicholl, “Before becoming the earth’s satellite, could

not the moon, when in her perihelion, pass so near the sun as by

evaporation to get rid of all those gaseous substances?”

“It is possible, friend Nicholl, but not probable.”

“Why not?”

“Because—Faith I do not know.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Michel, “what hundred of volumes we might make of all

that we do not know!”

“Ah! indeed. What time is it?” asked Barbicane.

“Three o’clock,” answered Nicholl.

“How time goes,” said Michel, “in the conversation of scientific men

such as we are! Certainly, I feel I know too much! I feel that I am

becoming a well!”

Saying which, Michel hoisted himself to the roof of the projectile, “to

observe the moon better,” he pretended. During this time his companions

were watching through the lower glass. Nothing new to note!

When Michel Ardan came down, he went to the side scuttle; and suddenly

they heard an exclamation of surprise!

“What is it?” asked Barbicane.

The president approached the window, and saw a sort of flattened sack

floating some yards from the projectile. This object seemed as

motionless as the projectile, and was consequently animated with the

same ascending movement.

“What is that machine?” continued Michel Ardan. “Is it one of the

bodies which our projectile keeps within its attraction, and which will

accompany it to the moon?”

“What astonishes me,” said Nicholl, “is that the specific weight of the

body, which is certainly less than that of the projectile, allows it to

keep so perfectly on a level with it.”

“Nicholl,” replied Barbicane, after a moment’s reflection, “I do not

know what the object it, but I do know why it maintains our level.”

“And why?”

“Because we are floating in space, my dear captain, and in space bodies

fall or move (which is the same thing) with equal speed whatever be

their weight or form; it is the air, which by its resistance creates

these differences in weight. When you create a vacuum in a tube, the

objects you send through it, grains of dust or grains of lead, fall

with the same rapidity. Here in space is the same cause and the same

effect.”

“Just so,” said Nicholl, “and everything we throw out of the projectile

will accompany it until it reaches the moon.”

“Ah! fools that we are!” exclaimed Michel.

“Why that expletive?” asked Barbicane.

“Because we might have filled the projectile with useful objects,

books, instruments, tools, etc. We could have thrown them all out, and

all would have followed in our train. But happy thought! Why cannot we

walk outside like the meteor? Why cannot we launch into space through

the scuttle? What enjoyment it would be to feel oneself thus suspended

in ether, more favored than the birds who must use their wings to keep

themselves up!”

“Granted,” said Barbicane, “but how to breathe?”

“Hang the air, to fail so inopportunely!”

“But if it did not fail, Michel, your density being less than that of

the projectile, you would soon be left behind.”

“Then we must remain in our car?”

“We must!”

“Ah!” exclaimed Michel, in a load voice.

“What is the matter,” asked Nicholl.

“I know, I guess, what this pretended meteor is! It is no asteroid

which is accompanying us! It is not a piece of a planet.”

“What is it then?” asked Barbicane.

“It is our unfortunate dog! It is Diana’s husband!”

Indeed, this deformed, unrecognizable object, reduced to nothing, was

the body of Satellite, flattened like a bagpipe without wind, and ever

mounting, mounting!

CHAPTER VII.

A MOMENT OF INTOXICATION