THE END OF THIS REMARKABLE STORY.
“Barbicane? Nicholl?”
“Maston!”
“You?”
“We!”
And in that pronoun, spoken simultaneously by the two in a singular
tone, there was everything that could be said in the way of irony and
reproach.
J. T. Maston passed his iron hook across his forehead. Then in a voice
that hissed between his lips he asked,—
“Your gallery at Kilimanjaro was two thousand feet long and ninety in
diameter?”
“Yes?”
“Your projectile weighed one hundred and eighty thousand tons?”
“Yes.”
“And you used two thousand tons of meli-melonite?”
“Yes.”
The three yes’s fell like blows of a sledge-hammer on J. T. Maston’s
occiput.
“Then I conclude—” he said.
“What?” asked Barbicane.
“—That, as the experiment failed, the explosive did not give the
projectile the necessary initial velocity!”
“Indeed!” said Captain Nicholl.
“And that your meli-melonite is only fit for pop-guns!”
Captain Nicholl started at the insult.
“Maston!” he exclaimed.
“Nicholl!”
“Will you fight me with meli-melonite?
“No; with fulmi-cotton. It is surer!”
Mrs. Scorbitt hastened to interfere.
“Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” she said. “Between friends!”
Then Impey Barbicane put in a word very quietly,—
“What is the use of abusing each other? It is certain that the
calculations of our friend Maston were correct, and it is certain that
the explosive of our friend Nicholl was sufficient! We followed exactly
the teachings of science! And we failed! For what reasons? Probably we
shall never know!”
“Well,” said the secretary of the Gun Club; “we will try it again!”
“And the money which has been lost?” observed Captain Nicholl.
“And public opinion, which will not permit you to again risk the fate of
the world?” added Mrs. Scorbitt.
“What will become of the North Pole?” asked Nicholl.
“What is the value of the shares in the North Polar Practical
Association?” asked Barbicane.
Oh, what a fall there had been thereof! The certificates could be bought
at waste-paper prices.
Such was the memorable fiasco of the gigantic project of Barbicane & Co.
If ever unfortunate engineers were overwhelmed with ridicule, if ever
there were amusing articles in the newspapers, caricatures, comic songs,
parodies—it was then. Barbicane, the director of the Association, the
members of the Gun Club, were literally covered with scorn. The storm of
contempt was so thoroughly American that it was untranslatable even in
Volapuk. And Europe joined in with such vigour that at last America was
scandalized. And then remembering that Barbicane, Nicholl, and Maston
were of American birth, and belonged to the famous club of Baltimore, a
reaction in their favour set in, which was almost strong enough to make
the United States declare war against the Old World.
But was it ever to be known why the enterprise failed? Did the failure
prove that the project was impossible, that the forces of which man
disposes will never be sufficient to bring about a change in the Earth’s
diurnal movement, that never would the Polar regions be displaced in
latitude to such an extent that their icy mantle will be melted by the
solar rays?
That this was the case appeared undoubted a few days after the return of
Barbicane and Nicholl to the United States.
A letter appeared in the Parisian _Temps_ of the 17th of October, which
did mankind a service in confirming it in its feeling of security.
The letter was the following:—
“The abortive attempt to furnish the Earth with a new axis is now known.
Nevertheless, the calculations of J. T. Maston were correctly founded,
and would have produced the desired results if by some inexplicable
distraction they had not been nullified by an error at the outset.
“In fact, the celebrated secretary of the Gun Club took for his basis
the circumference of the terrestrial spheroid at forty thousand metres
instead of forty million metres—and that nullified the solution.
“How came he to make such an error? What could have caused it? How could
so remarkable a mathematician have made such a mistake? Conjecture is
vain.
“There is no doubt that the problem of the change of the terrestrial
axis was correctly stated, and it should have been correctly worked out.
But the initial error of three noughts produced an error of twelve
noughts in the final result.
“It is not a cannon a million times as large as a four hundred pounder,
but a million million million such cannons, hurling a million million
million projectiles of one hundred and eighty thousand tons, that would
displace the Pole 23° 28′, supposing that meli-melonite has the
expansive power attributed to it by Captain Nicholl.
“In short, the discharge of the projectile at Kilimanjaro has been to
displace the Pole three microns—that is, thousandths of a millimetre,
and the maximum effect on the level of the sea must have been just
nine-thousandths of a micron.
“The projectile has become a small planet, and henceforth belongs to our
system, in which it is retained by the solar attraction.
“ALCIDE PIERDEUX.”
So it was some distraction of J. T. Maston’s, an error of three noughts
at the beginning of his calculations, that had brought this humiliating
disaster on Barbicane & Co.
The members of the Gun Club were furious, but among the general public a
reaction arose in favour of the poor fellow. After all, it was this
mistake which had caused all the evil—or rather all the good, for it
saved the world from ruin.
And so compliments came in from all parts, and letters arrived in
millions congratulating J. T. Maston on having forgotten his three
noughts!
But that extraordinary man, more deeply disgusted than ever, would not
listen to the congratulatory world. Barbicane, Nicholl, Tom Hunter with
the wooden leg, Colonel Bloomsberry, the brisk Bilsby, and their
friends, would never forgive him.
But at least there remained Mrs. Scorbitt!
At first J. T. Maston refused to admit that he had made a mistake; and
set to work to check his calculations.
Sulphuric Alcide was, however, accurate. And that was why, when he found
the error at the last moment, and had no time to reassure his
fellow-men, he so calmly sipped his pleasant hot coffee while the spinal
marrow was so unpleasantly cool in his fellow-men’s backs.
There was no disguising the fact. Three noughts had slipped out of the
terrestrial waist!
Then it was that J. T. Maston remembered! It was at the beginning of his
labours when he had shut himself up in Ballistic Cottage. He had written
the number 40,000,000 on the blackboard.
At that moment came a hurried tinkle from the telephone. He had gone to
the instrument. He had exchanged a few words with Mrs. Scorbitt. There
was a flash of lightning that upset him and his blackboard. He picked
himself and his blackboard up. He began to write in the figures half
rubbed out by the fall. He had just written 40,000—when the bell rang a
second time. And when he returned to work he had forgotten the three
last noughts in the measure of the Earth’s equator!
Now all that was the fault of Mrs. Scorbitt. If she had not bothered him
he would never have been knocked down by the return shock of that
electrical discharge.
And so the unhappy woman also received a shock when J. T. Maston told
her how the mistake had been made. Yes! She was the cause of the
disaster! It was her doing that J. T. Maston was now dishonoured for the
many years he had to live, for it was the general custom to die as
centenarians in the Gun Club.
And after the interview J. T. Maston fled from the house in New Park. He
went back to Ballistic Cottage. He strode about his workroom saying to
himself,—
“Now I am good for nothing in the world!”
“Not even if you were to marry?” said a voice which emotion made
heartrending.
It was Mrs. Scorbitt.
Tearful and distracted she had followed J. T. Maston.
“Dear Maston!” said she.
“Well! Yes!” said he; “on one condition—that I never again touch
mathematics.”
“I abominate them!” said the widow.
And thus it was that Mrs. Scorbitt became Mrs. J. T. Maston.
As to Alcide Pierdeux, what honour, what celebrity that letter brought
both him and his old school! Translated into all languages, copied into
all newspapers, it made his name known throughout the world.
It happened, therefore, that the father of the pretty Provençale, who
had refused him his daughter’s hand because he was too learned, came to
read the famous letter in the _Petit Marseillais_. Without any
assistance he managed to make out its meaning. And then he was seized
with remorse, and, as a preliminary measure, sent Sulphuric Alcide an
invitation to dinner.
And so the world was left as it was.
No attempt was made by Barbicane & Co. to resume business. Any attempt
would have been futile. Alcide’s contention was indisputable. It could
be shown by mechanics that to effect a displacement of 23° 28′, even
with meli-melonite, so many Kilimanjaro guns or mines would be required,
that the surface of the spheroid could not hold them.
The world’s inhabitants could thus sleep in peace. To modify the
conditions of the Earth’s movement is beyond the powers of man. It is
not given to mankind to change the order established by the Creator in
the system of the Universe.
THE END.
BOURNEMOUTH:
PRINTED BY W. MATE & SONS (1919) LTD.,
58 COMMERCIAL ROAD.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
2. Retained anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as
printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
4. Superscripts are denoted by a caret before a single superscript
character or a series of superscripted characters enclosed in
curly braces, e.g. M^r. or M^{ister}.
5. Subscripts are denoted by an underscore before a series of
subscripted characters enclosed in curly braces, e.g. H_{2}O.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Purchase of the North Pole, by Jules Verne