Rising at 5h., I observed a drooping in the leaves of my garden, and
especially of the larger shrubs and plants, for which I was not wholly
unprepared, but which might entail some inconvenience if, failing
altogether, they should cease to absorb the gases generated from
buried waste, to consume which they had been planted. Besides this, I
should, of course, lose the opportunity of transplanting them to Mars,
though I had more hope of acclimatising seedlings raised from the seed
I carried with me than plants which had actually begun their life on
the surface of the Earth. The failure I ascribed naturally to the
known connection between the action of gravity and the circulation of
the sap; though, as I had experienced no analogous inconvenience in my
own person, I had hoped that this would not seriously affect
vegetation. I was afraid to try the effect of more liberal watering,
the more so that already the congelation of moisture upon the glasses
from the internal air, dry as the latter had been kept, was a sensible
annoyance—an annoyance which would have become an insuperable trouble
had I not taken so much pains, by directing the thermic currents upon
the walls, to keep the internal temperature, in so far as comfort
would permit—it had now fallen to 4° C.—as near as possible to that
of the inner surface of the walls and windows. A careful use of the
thermometer indicated that the metallic surface of the former was now
nearly zero C., or 32° F. The inner surface of the windows was somewhat
colder, showing that the crystal was more pervious to heat than the
walls, with their greater thickness, their outer and inner lining of
metal, and massive interior of concrete. I directed a current from the
thermogene upon either division of the garden, hoping thus to protect
the plants from whatever injury they might receive from the cold.
Somewhat later, perceiving that the drooping still continued, I
resolved upon another experiment, and arranging an apparatus of copper
wire beneath the soil, so as to bring the extremities in immediate
contact with their roots, I directed through these wires a prolonged
feeble current of electricity; by which, as I had hoped rather than
expected, the plants were after a time materially benefited, and to
which I believe I owed it that they had not all perished long before
the termination of my voyage.
It would be mere waste of space and time were I to attempt anything
like a journal of the weeks I spent in the solitude of this artificial
planet. As matter of course, the monotony of a voyage through space is
in general greater than that of a voyage across an ocean like the
Atlantic, where no islands and few ships are to be encountered. It was
necessary to be very frequently, if not constantly, on the look-out
for possible incidents of interest in a journey so utterly novel
through regions which the telescope can but imperfectly explore. It
was difficult, therefore, to sit down to a book, or even to pursue any
necessary occupation unconnected with the actual conduct of the
vessel, with uninterrupted attention. My eyes, the only sense organs I
could employ, were constantly on the alert; but, of course, by far the
greater portion of my time passed without a single new object or
occasion of remark. That a journey so utterly without precedent or
parallel, in which so little could be anticipated or provided for,
through regions absolutely untraversed and very nearly unknown, should
be monotonous, may seem strange. But in truth the novelties of the
situation, such as they were, though intensely striking and
interesting, were each in turn speedily examined, realised, and, so to
speak, exhausted; and this once done, there was no greater occupation
to the mind in the continuance of strange than in that of familiar
scenery. The infinitude of surrounding blackness, filled as it were
with points of light more or less brilliant, when once its effects had
been scrutinised, and when nothing more remained to be noted, afforded
certainly a more agreeable, but scarcely a more interesting or
absorbing, outlook than the dead grey circle of sea, the dead grey
hemisphere of cloud, which form the prospect from the deck of a packet
in mid-Atlantic; while of change without or incident in the vessel
herself there was, of course, infinitely less than is afforded in an
ocean voyage by the variations of weather, not to mention the solace
of human society. Everything around me, except in the one direction in
which the Earth's disc still obscured the Sun, remained unchanged for
hours and days; and the management of my machinery required no more
than an occasional observation of my instruments and a change in the
position of the helm, which occupied but a few minutes some half-dozen
times in the twenty-four hours. There was not even the change of night
and day, of sun and stars, of cloud or clear sky. Were I to describe
the manner in which each day's leisure was spent, I should bore my
readers even more than—they will perhaps be surprised by the
confession—I was bored myself.
My sleep was of necessity more or less broken. I wished to have eight
hours of rest, since, though seven of continuous sleep might well have
sufficed me, even if my brain had been less quiet and unexcited during
the rest of the twenty-four, it was impossible for me to enjoy that
term of unbroken slumber. I therefore decided to divide my sleep into
two portions of rather more than four hours each, to be taken as a
rule after noon and after midnight; or rather, since noon and midnight
had no meaning for me, from 12h. to 16h. and from 24h. to 4.h. But of
course sleep and everything else, except the necessary management of
the machine, must give way to the chances of observation; it would be
better to remain awake for forty-eight hours at a stretch than to miss
any important phenomenon the period of whose occurrence could be even
remotely calculated.
At 8h., I employed for the first time the apparatus which I may call
my window telescope, to observe, from a position free from the
difficulties inflicted on terrestrial astronomers by the atmosphere,
all the celestial objects within my survey. As I had anticipated, the
absence of atmospheric disturbance and diffusion of light was of
extreme advantage. In the first place, I ascertained by the barycrite
and the discometer my distance from the Earth, which appeared to be
about 120 terrestrial radii. The light of the halo was of course very
much narrower than when I first observed it, and its scintillations or
coruscations no longer distinctly visible. The Moon presented an
exquisitely fine thread of light, but no new object of interest on the
very small portion of her daylight hemisphere turned towards me. Mars
was somewhat difficult to observe, being too near what may be called
my zenith. But the markings were far more distinct than they appear,
with greater magnifying powers than I employed, upon the Earth. In
truth, I should say that the various disadvantages due to the
atmosphere deprive the astronomer of at least one-half of the
available light-collecting power of his telescope, and consequently of
the defining power of the eye-piece; that with a 200 glass he sees
less than a power of 100 reveals to an eye situated in space; though,
from the nature of the lens through which I looked, I cannot speak
with certainty upon this point. With a magnifying power of 300 the
polar spots of Mars were distinctly visible and perfectly defined.
They were, I thought, less white than they appeared from the Earth,
but their colour was notably different from that of the planet's
general surface, differing almost as widely from the orange hue of
what I supposed to be land as from the greyish blue of the water. The
orange was, I thought, deeper than it appears through a telescope of
similar power on Earth. The seas were distinctly grey rather than
blue, especially when, by covering the greater part of the field, I
contrived for a moment to observe a sea alone, thus eliminating the
effect of contrast. The bands of Jupiter in their turn were more
notably distinct; their variety of colour as well as the contrast of
light and shade much more definite, and their irregularities more
unmistakable. A satellite was approaching the disc, and this afforded
me an opportunity of realising with especial clearness the difference
between observation through seventy or a hundred miles of terrestrial
atmosphere outside the object glass and observation in space. The two
discs were perfectly rounded and separately discernible until they
touched. Moreover, I was able to distinguish upon one of the darker
bands the disc of the satellite itself, while upon a lighter band its
round black shadow was at the same time perfectly defined. This
wonderfully clear presentation of one of the most interesting of
astronomical phenomena so absorbed my attention that I watched the
satellite and shadow during their whole course, though the former,
passing after a time on to a light band, became comparatively
indistinct. The moment, however, that the outer edge passed off the
disc of Jupiter, its outline became perfectly visible against the
black background of sky. What was still more novel was the occultation
for some little time of a star, apparently of the tenth magnitude, not
by the planet but by the satellite, almost immediately after it passed
off the disc of the former. Whether the star actually disappeared at
once, as if instantaneously extinguished, or whether, as I thought at
the moment, it remained for some tenth of a second partially visible,
as if refracted by an atmosphere belonging to the satellite, I will
not venture to say. The bands and rings of Saturn, the division
between the two latter, and the seven satellites, were also perfectly
visible, with a distinctness that a much greater magnifying power
would hardly have attained under terrestrial conditions. I was
perplexed by two peculiarities, not, so far as I know, hitherto [5]
mentioned by astronomers. The circumference did not appear to present
an even curvature.
I mean that, apart from the polar compression, the shape seemed as if
the spheroid were irregularly squeezed; so that though not broken by
projection or indentation, the limb did not present the regular
quasi-circular curvature exhibited in the focus of our telescopes.
Also, between the inner ring and the planet, with a power of 500, I
discerned what appeared to be a dark purplish ring, semi-transparent,
so that through it the bright surface of Saturn might be discerned as
through a veil. Mercury shone brightly several degrees outside the
halo surrounding the Earth's black disc; and Venus was also visible;
but in neither case did my observations allow me to ascertain anything
that has not been already noted by astronomers. The dim form of Uranus
was better defined than I had previously seen it, but no marking of
any kind was perceptible.
Rising from my second, or, so to speak, midday rest, and having
busied myself for some little time with what I may call my household
and garden duties, I observed the discometer at 1h. (or 5 P.M.). It
indicated about two hundred terrestrial radii of elevation. I had,
of course, from the first been falling slightly behind the Earth in
her orbital motion, and was no longer exactly in opposition; that is
to say, a line drawn from the Astronaut to the Earth's centre was no
longer a prolongation of that joining the centres of the Earth and
Sun. The effect of this divergence was now perceptible. The earthly
corona was unequal in width, and to the westward was very distinctly
brightened, while on the other side it was narrow and comparatively
faint. While watching this phenomenon through the lower lens, I
thought that I could perceive behind or through the widest portion
of the halo a white light, which at first I mistook for one of those
scintillations that had of late become scarcely discernible. But after
a time it extended visibly beyond the boundary of the halo itself, and
I perceived that the edge of the Sun's disc had come at last into view.
It was but a minute and narrow crescent, but was well worth watching.
The brightening and broadening of the halo at this point I perceived to
be due, not to the Sun's effect upon the atmosphere that produced it,
but chiefly to the twilight now brightening on that limb of the Earth's
disc; or rather to the fact that a small portion of that part of the
Earth's surface, where, if the Sun were not visible, he was but a very
little below the horizon, had been turned towards me. I saw through
the telescope first a tiny solar crescent of intense brightness, then
the halo proper, now exceedingly narrow, and then what looked like
a silver terrestrial crescent, but a mere thread, finer and shorter
than any that the Moon ever displays even to telescopic observers on
Earth; since, when such a minute portion of her illuminated surface
is turned towards the Earth, it is utterly extinguished to our eyes
by the immediate vicinity of the Sun, as was soon the case with the
terrestrial crescent in question. I watched long and with intense
interest the gradual change, but I was called away from it by a
consideration of no little practical moment. I must now be moving
at a rate of nearly, if not quite, 40,000 miles an hour, or about a
million miles per diem. It was not my intention, for reasons I shall
presently explain, ever greatly to exceed this rate; and if I meant
to limit myself to a fixed rate of speed, it was time to diminish the
force of the apergic current, as otherwise before its reduction could
take effect I should have attained an impulse greater than I desired,
and which could not be conveniently or easily diminished when once
reached. Quitting, therefore, though reluctantly, my observation of
the phenomena below me, I turned to the apergion, and was occupied for
some two or three hours in gradually reducing the force as measured by
the cratometer attached to the downward conductor, and measuring with
extreme care the very minute effect produced upon the barycrite and the
discometer. Even the difference between 200 and 201 radii of elevation
or apogaic distance was not easily perceptible on either. It took, of
course, much more minute observation and a much longer time to test
the effect produced by the regulation of the movement, since whether I
travelled forty, forty-five, or forty-two thousand miles in the course
of one hour made scarcely any difference in the diameter of the Earth's
disc, still less, for reasons above given, in the gravity. By midnight,
however, I was satisfied that I had not attained quite 1,000,000 miles,
or 275 terrestrial radii; also that my speed was not greater than
45,000 miles (11¼ radii) per hour, and was not, I thought, increasing.
Of this last point, however, I could better satisfy myself at the end
of my four hours' rest, to which I now betook myself.
I woke about 4h. 30m., and on a scrutiny of the instruments, felt
satisfied that I was not far out in my calculations. A later hour,
however, would afford a more absolute certainty. I was about to turn
again to the interesting work of observation through the lens in the
floor, when my attention was diverted by the sight of something like
a whitish cloud visible through the upper window on my left hand.
Examined by the telescope, its widest diameter might be at most ten
degrees. It was faintly luminous, presenting an appearance very closely
resembling that of a star cluster or nebula just beyond the power of
resolution. As in many nebulae, there was a visible concentration
in one part; but this did not occupy the centre, but a position
more resembling that of the nucleus of a small tailless comet. The
cloudlet might be a distant comet, it might be a less distant body of
meteors clustering densely in some particular part of their orbit;
and, unfortunately, I was not likely to solve the problem. Gradually
the nebula changed its position, but not its form, seeming to move
downwards and towards the stern of my vessel, as if I were passing it
without approaching nearer. By the time that I was satisfied of this,
hunger and even faintness warned me that I must not delay preparing my
breakfast. When I had finished this meal and fulfilled some necessary
tasks, practical and arithmetical, the hand of the chronometer
indicated the eighth hour of my third day. I turned again somewhat
eagerly to the discometer, which showed an apparent distance of 360
terrestrial radii, and consequently a movement which had not materially
varied from the rate of 11¼ radii per hour. By this time the diameter
of the Earth was not larger in appearance than about 19', less than
two-thirds that of the Sun; and she consequently appeared as a black
disc covering somewhat more than one-third of his entire surface,
but by no means concentrical. The halo had of course completely
disappeared; but with the vernier it was possible to discern a narrow
band or line of hazy grey around the black limb of the planet. She was
moving, as seen from the Astronaut, very slightly to the north, and
more decidedly, though very slowly, to the eastward; the one motion due
to my deliberately chosen direction in space, the other to the fact
that as my orbit enlarged I was falling, though as yet slowly, behind
her. The sun now shone through, the various windows, and, reflected
from the walls, maintained a continuous daylight within the Astronaut,
as well diffused as by the atmosphere of Earth, strangely contrasting
the star-spangled darkness outside.
At the beginning as at the end of my voyage, I steered a distinct
course, governed by considerations quite different from those which
controlled the main direction of my voyage. Thus far I had simply
risen straight from the Earth in a direction somewhat to the
southward, but on the whole "in opposition," or right away from the
Sun. So, at the conclusion of my journey, I should have to devote some
days to a gradual descent upon Mars, exactly reversing the process of
my ascent from the Earth. But between these two periods I had
comparatively little to do with either planet, my course being
governed by the Sun, and its direction and rate being uniform. I
wished to reach Mars at the moment of opposition, and during the whole
of the journey to keep the Earth between myself and the Sun, for a
reason which may not at first be obvious. The moment of opposition is
not necessarily that at which Mars is nearest to the Earth, but is
sufficiently so for practical calculation. At that moment, according
to the received measurement of planetary distances, the two would be
more than 40 millions of miles apart. In the meantime the Earth,
travelling on an interior or smaller orbit, and also at a greater
absolute speed, was gaining on Mars. The Astronaut, moving at the
Earth's rate under an impulse derived from the Earth's revolution
round the Sun (that due to her rotation on her own axis having been
got rid of, as aforesaid), travelled in an orbit constantly widening,
so that, while gaining on Mars, I gained on him less than did the
Earth, and was falling behind her. Had I used the apergy only to drive
me directly outward from the Sun, I should move under the impulse
derived from the Earth about 1,600,000 miles a day, or 72 millions of
miles in forty-five days, in the direction common to the two planets.
The effect of the constantly widening orbit would be much as if the
whole motion took place on one midway between those of the Earth and
Mars, say 120 millions of miles from the Sun. The arc described on
this orbit would be equivalent to 86 millions of miles on that of
Mars. The entire arc of his orbit between the point opposite to that
occupied by the Earth when I started and the point of opposition—the
entire distance I had to gain as measured along his path—was about
116 millions of miles; so that, trusting to the terrestrial impulse
alone, I should be some 30 millions behindhand at the critical moment.
The apergic force must make up for this loss of ground, while driving
me in a direction, so to speak, at right angles with that of the
orbit, or along its radius, straight outward from the Sun, forty odd
millions of miles in the same time. If I succeeded in this, I should
reach the orbit of Mars at the point and at the moment of opposition,
and should attain Mars himself. But in this I might fail, and I should
then find myself under the sole influence of the Sun's attraction;
able indeed to resist it, able gradually to steer in any direction
away from it, but hardly able to overtake a planet that should lie far
out of my line of advance or retreat, while moving at full speed away
from me. In order to secure a chance of retreat, it was desirable as
long as possible to keep the Earth between the Astronaut and the Sun;
while steering for that point in space where Mars would lie at the
moment when, as seen from the centre of the Earth, he would be most
nearly opposite the Sun,—would cross the meridian at midnight. It was
by these considerations that the course I henceforward steered was
determined. By a very simple calculation, based on the familiar
principle of the parallelogram of forces, I gave to the apergic
current a force and direction equivalent to a daily motion of about
750,000 miles in the orbital, and rather more than a million in the
radial line. I need hardly observe that it would not be to the apergic
current alone, but to a combination of that current with the orbital
impulse received at first from the Earth, that my progress and course
would be due. The latter was the stronger influence; the former only
was under my control, but it would suffice to determine, as I might
from time to time desire, the resultant of the combination. The only
obvious risk of failure lay in the chance that, my calculations
failing or being upset, I might reach the desired point too soon or
too late. In either case, I should be dangerously far from Mars,
beyond his orbit or within it, at the time when I should come into a
line with him and the Sun; or, again, putting the same mischance in
another form, behind him or before him when I attained his orbit. But
I trusted to daily observation of his position, and verification of my
"dead reckoning" thereby, to find out any such danger in time to avert
it.
The displacement of the Earth on the Sun's face proved it to be
necessary that the apergic current should be directed against the
latter in order to govern my course as I desired, and to recover the
ground I had lost in respect to the orbital motion. I hoped for a
moment that this change in the action of the force would settle a
problem we had never been able to determine. Our experiments proved
that apergy acts in a straight line when once collected in and directed
along a conductor, and does not radiate, like other forces, from a
centre in all directions. It is of course this radiation— diffusing
the effect of light, heat, or gravity over the surface of a sphere,
which surface is proportionate to the square of the radius—that causes
these forces to operate with an energy inversely proportionate, not
to the distance, but to its square. We had no reason to think that
apergy, exempt as it is from this law, would be at all diminished by
distance; and this view the rate of acceleration as I rose from the
Earth had confirmed, and my entire experience has satisfied me that
it is correct. None of our experiments, however, had indicated, or
could well indicate, at what rate this force can travel through space;
nor had I yet obtained any light upon this point. From the very first
the current had been continuous, the only interruption taking place
when I was not five hundred miles from the Earth's surface. Over so
small a distance as that, the force would move so instantaneously
that no trace of the interruption would be perceptible in the motion
of the Astronaut. Even now the total interruption of the action of
apergy for a considerable time would not affect the rate at which I
was already moving. It was possible, however, that if the current had
been hitherto wholly intercepted by the Earth, it might take so long a
time in reaching the Sun that the interval between the movement of the
helm and the response of the Astronaut's course thereto might afford
some indication of the time occupied by the current in traversing the
96½ millions of miles which parted me from the Sun. My hope, however,
was wholly disappointed. I could neither be sure that the action was
instantaneous, nor that it was otherwise.
At the close of the third day I had gained, as was indicated by the
instruments, something more than two millions of miles in a direct
line from the Sun; and for the future I might, and did, reckon on a
steady progress of about one and a quarter million miles daily under
the apergic force alone—a gain in a line directly outward from the
Sun of about one million. Henceforward I shall not record my
observations, except where they implied an unexpected or altered
result.
On the sixth day, I perceived another nebula, and on this occasion in
a more promising direction. It appeared, from its gradual movement, to
lie almost exactly in my course, so that if it were what I suspected,
and were not at any great distance from me, I must pass either near or
through it, and it would surely explain what had perplexed and baffled
me in the case of the former nebula. At this distance the nature of
the cloudlet was imperceptible to the naked eye. The window telescope
was not adjustable to an object which I could not bring conveniently
within the field of view of the lenses. In a few hours the nebula so
changed its form and position, that, being immediately over the
portion of the roof between the front or bow lens and that in the
centre of the roof, its central section was invisible; but the
extremities of that part which I had seen in the first instance
through the upper plane window of the bow were now clearly visible
from the upper windows of either side. What had at first been a mere
greatly elongated oval, with a species of rapidly diminishing tail at
each extremity, had now become an arc spanning no inconsiderable part
of the space above me, narrowing rapidly as it extended downwards and
sternwards. Presently it came in view through the upper lens, but did
not obscure in the least the image of the stars which were then
visible in the metacompass. I very soon ascertained that the cloudlet
consisted, as I had supposed in the former case, of a multitude of
points of light less brilliant than the stars, the distance between
which became constantly wider, but which for some time were separately
so small as to present no disc that any magnifying power at my command
could render measurable. In the meantime, the extremities visible
through the other windows were constantly widening out till lost in
the spangled darkness. By and by, it became impossible with the naked
eye to distinguish the individual points from the smaller stars; and
shortly after this the nearest began to present discs of appreciable
size but somewhat irregular shape. I had now no doubt that I was about
to pass through one of those meteoric rings which our most advanced
astronomers believe to exist in immense numbers throughout space, and
to the Earth's contact with or approach to which they ascribe the
showers of falling stars visible in August and November. Ere long,
one after another of these bodies passed rapidly before my sight, at
distances varying probably from five yards to five thousand miles.
Where to test the distance was impossible, anything like accurate
measurement was equally out of the question; but my opinion is, that
the diameters of the nearest ranged from ten inches to two hundred
feet. One only passed so near that its absolute size could be judged
by the marks upon its face. This was a rock-like mass, presenting at
many places on the surface distinct traces of metallic veins or
blotches, rudely ovoid in form, but with a number of broken surfaces,
one or two of which reflected the light much more brilliantly than
others. The weight of this one meteoroid was too insignificant as
compared with that of the Astronaut seriously to disturb my course.
Fortunately for me, I passed so nearly through the centre of the
aggregation that its attraction as a whole was nearly inoperative. So
far as I could judge, the meteors in that part of the ring through
which I passed were pretty evenly distributed; and as from the
appearance of the first which passed my window to the disappearance of
the last four hours elapsed, I conceived that the diameter of the
congeries, measured in the direction of my path, which seemed to be
nearly in the diameter of their orbit, was about 180,000 miles, and
probably the perpendicular depth was about the same.
I may mention here, though somewhat out of place, to avoid
interrupting the narrative of my descent upon Mars, the only
interesting incident that occurred during the latter days of my
journey—the gradual passage of the Earth off the face of the Sun. For
some little time after this the Earth was entirely invisible; but
later, looking through the telescope adjusted to the lens on that
side, I discerned two very minute and bright crescents, which, from
their direction and position, were certainly those of the Earth and
Moon, indeed could hardly be anything else.
Towards the thirtieth day of my voyage I was disturbed by the
conflicting indications obtained from different instruments and
separate observations. The general result came to this, that the
discometer, where it should have indicated a distance of 333, actually
gave 347. But if my speed had increased, or I had overestimated the
loss by changes of direction, Mars should have been larger in equal
proportion. This, however, was not the case. Supposing my reckoning to
be right, and I had no reason to think it otherwise, except the
indication of the discometer, the Sun's disc ought to have diminished
in the proportion of 95 to 15, whereas the diminution was in the
proportion of 9 to 1. So far as the barycrite could be trusted, its
very minute indications confirmed those of the discometer; and the
only conclusion I could draw, after much thought and many intricate
calculations, was that the distance of 95 millions of miles between
the Earth and the Sun, accepted, though not very confidently, by all
terrestrial astronomers, is an over-estimate; and that, consequently,
all the other distances of the solar system have been equally
overrated. Mars consequently would be smaller, but also his distance
considerably less, than I had supposed. I finally concluded that the
solar distance of the Earth was less than 9 millions of miles, instead
of more than 95. This would involve, of course, a proportionate
diminution in the distance I had to traverse, while it did not imply
an equal error in the reckoning of my speed, which had at first been
calculated from the Earth's disc, and not from that of the Sun. Hence,
continuing my course unchanged, I should arrive at the orbit of Mars
some days earlier than intended, and at a point behind that occupied
by the planet, and yet farther behind the one I aimed at. Prolonged
observation and careful calculation had so fully satisfied me of the
necessity of the corrections in question, that I did not hesitate to
alter my course accordingly, and to prepare for a descent on the
thirty-ninth instead of the forty-first day. I had, of course, to
prepare for the descent very long before I should come within the
direct influence of the attraction of Mars. This would not prevail
over the Sun's attraction till I had come within a little more than
100,000 miles of the surface, and this distance would not allow for
material reduction of my speed, even were I at once to direct the
whole force of the apergic current against the planet. I estimated
that arriving within some two millions of miles of him, with a speed
of 45,000 miles per hour, and then directing the whole force of the
current in his direction, I should arrive at his surface at a speed
nearly equal to that at which I had ascended from the Earth. I knew
that I could spare force enough to make up for any miscalculation
possible, or at least probable. Of course any serious error might be
fatal. I was exposed to two dangers; perhaps to three: but to none
which I had not fully estimated before even preparing for my voyage.
If I should fail to come near enough to the goal of my journey, and
yet should go on into space, or if, on the other hand, I should stop
short, the Astronaut might become an independent planet, pursuing an
orbit nearly parallel to that of the Earth; in which case I should
perish of starvation. It was conceivable that I might, in attempting
to avert this fate, fall upon the Sun, though this seemed exceedingly
improbable, requiring a combination of accidents very unlikely to
occur. On the other hand, I might by possibility attain my point, and
yet, failing properly to calculate the rate of descent, be dashed to
pieces upon the surface of Mars. Of this, however, I had very little
fear, the tremendous power of the apergy having been so fully proved
that I believed that nothing but some disabling accident to
myself—such as was hardly to be feared in the absence of gravitation,
and with the extreme simplicity of the machinery I employed—could
prevent my being able, when I became aware of the danger, to employ in
time a sufficient force to avert it. The first of these perils, then,
was the graver one, perhaps the only grave one, and certainly to my
imagination it was much the most terrible. The idea of perishing of
want in the infinite solitude of space, and being whirled round for
ever the dead denizen of a planet one hundred feet in diameter, had in
it something even more awful than grotesque.
On the thirty-ninth morning of my voyage, so far as I could calculate
by the respective direction and size of the Sun and of Mars, I was
within about 1,900,000 miles from the latter. I proceeded without
hesitation to direct the whole force of the current permitted to
emerge from the apergion directly against the centre of the planet.
His diameter increased with great rapidity, till at the end of the
first day I found myself within one million of miles of his surface.
His diameter subtended about 15', and his disc appeared about
one-fourth the size of the Moon. Examined through the telescope, it
presented a very different appearance from that either of the Earth or
of her satellite. It resembled the former in having unmistakably air
and water. But, unlike the Earth, the greater portion of its surface
seemed to be land; and, instead of continents surrounded by water, it
presented a number of separate seas, nearly all of them land-locked.
Around the snow-cap of each pole was a belt of water; around this,
again, a broader belt of continuous land; and outside this, forming
the northern and southern boundary between the arctic and temperate
zones, was another broader band of water, connected apparently in one
or two places with the central, or, if one may so call it, equatorial
sea. South of the latter is the one great Martial ocean. The most
striking feature of this new world, as seen from this point, was the
existence of three enormous gulfs, from three to five thousand miles
in length, and apparently varying in breadth from one hundred to seven
hundred miles. In the midst of the principal ocean, but somewhat to
the southward, is an island of unique appearance. It is roughly
circular, and, as I perceived in descending, stands very high, its
table-like summit being some 4000 feet, as I subsequently ascertained,
above the sea-level. Its surface, however, was perfectly
white—scarcely less brilliant, consequently, than an equal area of
the polar icefields. The globe, of course, revolved in some 4-1/ hours
of earthly time, and, as I descended, presented successively every
part of its surface to my view. I speak of descent, but, of course, I
was as yet ascending just as truly as ever, the Sun being visible
through the lens in the floor, and reflected upon the mirror of the
discometer, while Mars was now seen through the upper lens, and his
image received in the mirror of the metacompass. A noteworthy feature
in the meteorology of the planet became apparent during the second day
of the descent. As magnified by the telescope adjusted to the upper
lens, the distinctions of sea and land disappeared from the eastern
and western limbs of the planet; indeed, within 15° or an hour of time
from either. It was plain, therefore, that those regions in which it
was late evening or early morning were hidden from view; and,
independently of the whitish light reflected from them, there could be
little doubt that the obscuration was due to clouds or mists. Had the
whitish light covered the land alone, it might have been attributed to
a snowfall, or, perhaps, even to a very severe hoar frost congealing a
dense moisture. But this last seemed highly improbable; and that mist
or cloud was the true explanation became more and more apparent as,
with a nearer approach, it became possible to discern dimly a broad
expanse of water contrasting the orange tinge of the land through this
annular veil. At 4h. on the second day of the descent, I was about
500,000 miles from Mars, the micrometer verifying, by the increased
angle subtended by the diameter, my calculated rate of approach. On
the next day I was able to sleep in security, and to devote my
attention to the observation of the planet's surface, for at its close
I should be still 15,000 miles from Mars, and consequently beyond the
distance at which his attraction would predominate over that of the
Sun. To my great surprise, in the course of this day I discerned two
small discs, one on each side of the planet, moving at a rate which
rendered measurement impossible, but evidently very much smaller than
any satellite with which astronomers are acquainted, and so small that
their non-discovery by terrestrial telescopes was not extraordinary.
They were evidently very minute, whether ten, twenty, or fifty miles
in diameter I could not say; neither of them being likely, so far as I
could calculate, to come at any part of my descent very near the
Astronaut, and the rapidity of their movement carrying them across the
field, even with the lowest power of my telescopes, too fast for
measurement. That they were Martial moons, however, there could be no
doubt.
About 10h. on the last day of the descent, the effect of Mars'
attraction, which had for some time so disturbed the position of the
Astronaut as to take his disc completely out of the field of the
meta-compass, became decidedly predominant over that of the Sun. I had
to change the direction of the apergic current first to the left-hand
conductor, and afterwards, as the greater weight of the floor turned
the Astronaut completely over, bringing the planet immediately below
it, to the downward one. I was, of course, approaching Mars on the
daylight side, and nearly in the centre. This, however, did not
exactly suit me. During the whole of this day it was impossible that I
should sleep for a minute; since if at any point I should find that I
had miscalculated my rate of descent, or if any other unforeseen
accident should occur, immediate action would be necessary to prevent
a shipwreck, which must without doubt be fatal. It was very likely
that I should be equally unable to sleep during the first twenty-four
hours of my sojourn upon Mars, more especially should he be inhabited,
and should my descent be observed. It was, therefore, my policy to
land at some point where the Sun was setting, and to enjoy rest during
such part of the twelve hours of the Martial night as should not be
employed in setting my vessel in order and preparing to evacuate it. I
should have to ascertain exactly the pressure of the Martial
atmosphere, so as not to step too suddenly from a dense into what was
probably a very light one. If possible, I intended to land upon the
summit of a mountain, so high as to be untenanted and of difficult
access. At the same time it would not do to choose the highest point
of a very lofty range, since both the cold and the thinness of the air
might in such a place be fatal. I wished, of course, to leave the
Astronaut secure, and, if not out of reach, yet not within easy reach;
otherwise it would have been a simple matter to watch my opportunity
and descend in the dark from my first landing-place by the same means
by which I had made the rest of my voyage.
At 18h. I was within 8000 miles of the surface, and could observe Mars
distinctly as a world, and no longer as a star. The colour, so
remarkable a feature in his celestial appearance, was almost equally
perceptible at this moderate elevation. The seas are not so much blue
as grey. Masses of land reflected a light between yellow and orange,
indicating, as I thought, that orange must be as much the predominant
colour of vegetation as green upon Earth. As I came still lower, and
only parts of the disc were visible at once, and these through the
side and end windows, this conviction was more and more strongly
impressed upon my mind. What, however, was beyond denial was, that if
the polar ice and snow were not so purely and distinctly white as they
appear at a distance upon Earth, they were yet to a great extent
devoid of the yellow tinge that preponderated everywhere else. The
most that could be said was, that whereas on Earth the snow is of that
white which we consider absolute, and call, as such, snow-white, but
which really has in it a very slight preponderance of blue, upon Mars
the polar caps are rather cream-white, or of that white, so common in
our flowers, which has in it an equally slight tinge of yellow. On the
shore, or about twenty miles from the shore of the principal sea to
the southward of the equator, and but a few degrees from the equator
itself, I perceived at last a point which appeared peculiarly suitable
for my descent. A very long range of mountains, apparently having an
average height of about 14,000 feet, with some peaks of probably twice
or three times that altitude, stretched for several hundred miles
along the coast, leaving, however, between it and the actual
shore-line an alluvial plain of some twenty to fifty miles across. At
the extremity of this range, and quite detached from it, stood an
isolated mountain of peculiar form, which, as I examined it through
the telescope, appeared to present a surface sufficiently broken and
sloped to permit of descent; while, at the same time, its height and
the character of its summit satisfied me that no one was likely to
inhabit it, and that though I might descend-it in a few hours, to
ascend it on foot from the plain would be a day's journey. Towards
this I directed my course, looking out from time to time carefully for
any symptoms of human habitation or animal life. I made out by degrees
the lines of rivers, mountain slopes covered by great forests,
extensive valleys and plains, seemingly carpeted by a low, dense, rich
vegetation. But my view being essentially of a bird's-eye character,
it was only in those parts that lay upon my horizon that I could
discern clearly the height of any object above the general level; and
as yet, therefore, there might well be houses and buildings,
cultivated fields and divisions, which I could not see.
Before I had satisfied myself whether the planet was or was not
inhabited, I found myself in a position from which its general surface
was veiled by the evening mist, and directly over the mountain in
question, within some twelve miles of its summit. This distance I
descended in the course of a quarter of an hour, and landed without a
shock about half an hour, so far as I could judge, after the Sun had
disappeared below the horizon. The sunset, however, by reason of the
mists, was totally invisible.