"Because we might have filled the projectile with useful objects, books,

instruments, tools, &c. 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

favoured than the birds who must use their wings to keep themselves up!"

Illustration: IT WAS THE BODY OF SATELLITE.

"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 loud 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.

Thus a phenomenon, curious but explicable, was happening under these

strange conditions.

Every object thrown from the projectile would follow the same course and

never stop until it did. There was a subject for conversation which the

whole evening could not exhaust.

Besides, the excitement of the three travellers increased as they drew

near the end of their journey. They expected unforeseen incidents, and

new phenomena; and nothing would have astonished them in the frame of

mind they then were in. Their over-excited imagination went faster than

the projectile, whose speed was evidently diminishing, though insensibly

to themselves. But the moon grew larger to their eyes, and they fancied

if they stretched out their hands they could seize it.

The next day, the 5th of November, at five in the morning, all three

were on foot. That day was to be the last of their journey, if all

calculations were true. That very night, at twelve o'clock, in eighteen

hours, exactly at the full moon, they would reach its brilliant disc.

The next midnight would see that journey ended, the most extraordinary

of ancient or modern times. Thus from the first of the morning, through

the scuttles silvered by its rays, they saluted the orb of night with a

confident and joyous hurrah.

The moon was advancing majestically along the starry firmament. A few

more degrees, and she would reach the exact point where her meeting with

the projectile was to take place.

According to his own observations, Barbicane reckoned that they would

land on her northern hemisphere, where stretch immense planes, and where

mountains are rare. A favourable circumstance if, as they thought, the

lunar atmosphere was stored only in its depths.

"Besides," observed Michel Ardan, "a plain is easier to disembark upon

than a mountain. A Selenite, deposited in Europe on the summit of Mont

Blanc, or in Asia on the top of the Himalayas, would not be quite in the

right place."

"And," added Captain Nicholl, "on a flat ground, the projectile will

remain motionless when it has once touched; whereas on a declivity it

would roll like an avalanche, and not being squirrels we should not come

out safe and sound. So it is all for the best."

Indeed, the success of the audacious attempt no longer appeared doubtful.

But Barbicane was preoccupied with one thought; but not wishing to make

his companions uneasy, he kept silence on the subject.

The direction the projectile was taking towards the moon's northern

hemisphere, showed that her course had been slightly altered. The

discharge, mathematically calculated, would carry the projectile to the

very centre of the lunar disc. If it did not land there, there must have

been some deviation. What had caused it? Barbicane could neither imagine

nor determine the importance of the deviation, for there were no points

to go by.

He hoped, however, that it would have no other result than that of

bringing them near the upper border of the moon, a region more suitable

for landing.

Without imparting his uneasiness to his companions, Barbicane contented

himself with constantly observing the moon, in order to see whether the

course of the projectile would not be altered; for the situation would

have been terrible if it failed in its aim, and being carried beyond

the disc should be launched into interplanetary space. At that moment,

the moon, instead of appearing flat like a disc, showed its convexity.

If the sun's rays had struck it obliquely, the shadow thrown would have

brought out the high mountains, which would have been clearly detached.

The eye might have gazed into the crater's gaping abysses, and followed

the capricious fissures which wound through the immense plains. But all

relief was as yet levelled in intense brilliancy. They could scarcely

distinguish those large spots which give to the moon the appearance of

a human face.

"Face, indeed!" said Michel Ardan; "but I am sorry for the amiable sister

of Apollo. A very pitted face!"

But the travellers, now so near the end, were incessantly observing

this new world. They imagined themselves walking through its unknown

countries, climbing its highest peaks, descending into its lowest depths.

Here and there they fancied they saw vast seas, scarcely kept together

under so rarefied an atmosphere, and watercourses emptying the mountain

tributaries. Leaning over the abyss, they hoped to catch some sounds

from that orb for ever mute in the solitude of space. That last day left

them.

They took down the most trifling details. A vague uneasiness took

possession of them as they neared the end. This uneasiness would have

been doubled had they felt how their speed had decreased. It would

have seemed to them quite insufficient to carry them to the end. It was

because the projectile then "weighed" almost nothing. Its weight was

ever decreasing, and would be entirely annihilated on that line where

the lunar and terrestrial attractions would neutralize each other.

But in spite of his preoccupation, Michel Ardan did not forget to prepare

the morning repast with his accustomed punctuality. They ate with a good

appetite. Nothing was so excellent as the soup liquefied by the heat of

the gas; nothing better than the preserved meat. Some glasses of good

French wine crowned the repast, causing Michel Ardan to remark that

the lunar vines, warmed by that ardent sun, ought to distil even more

generous wines; that is, if they existed. In any case, the far-seeing

Frenchman had taken care not to forget in his collection some precious

cuttings of the Médoc and Côte d'Or, upon which he founded his hopes.

Reiset and Regnault's apparatus worked with great regularity. Not an

atom of carbonic acid resisted the potash; and as to the oxygen, Captain

Nicholl said "it was of the first quality." The little watery vapour

enclosed in the projectile mixing with the air tempered the dryness; and

many apartments in London, Paris, or New York, and many theatres, were

certainly not in such a healthy condition.

But that it might act with regularity, the apparatus must be kept in

perfect order; so each morning Michel visited the escape regulators,

tried the taps, and regulated the heat of the gas by the pyrometer.

Everything had gone well up to that time, and the travellers, imitating

the worthy Joseph T. Maston, began to acquire a degree of embonpoint,

which would have rendered them unrecognizable if their imprisonment had

been prolonged to some months. In a word, they behaved like chickens in

a coop; they were getting fat.

In looking through the scuttle Barbicane saw the spectre of the dog,

and other divers objects which had been thrown from the projectile

obstinately following them. Diana howled lugubriously on seeing the

remains of Satellite, which seemed as motionless as if they reposed on

the solid earth.

"Do you know, my friends," said Michel Ardan, "that if one of us had

succumbed to the shock consequent on departure, we should have had a

great deal of trouble to bury him? What am I saying? to _etherize_ him,

as here ether takes the place of earth. You see the accusing body would

have followed us into space like a remorse."

"That would have been sad," said Nicholl.

"Ah!" continued Michel, "what I regret is not being able to take a walk

outside. What voluptuousness to float amid this radiant ether, to bathe

oneself in it, to wrap oneself in the sun's pure rays. If Barbicane had

only thought of furnishing us with a diving apparatus and an air-pump,

I could have ventured out and assumed fanciful attitudes of feigned

monsters on the top of the projectile."

"Well, old Michel," replied Barbicane, "you would not have made a feigned

monster long, for in spite of your diver's dress, swollen by the expansion

of air within you, you would have burst like a shell, or rather like a

balloon which has risen too high. So do not regret it, and do not forget

this—as long as we float in space, all sentimental walks beyond the

projectile are forbidden."

Michel Ardan allowed himself to be convinced to a certain extent. He

admitted that the thing was difficult but not _impossible_, a word which

he never uttered.

The conversation passed from this subject to another, not failing for

an instant. It seemed to the three friends as though, under present

conditions, ideas shot up in their brains as leaves shoot at the first

warmth of spring. They felt bewildered. In the middle of the questions

and answers which crossed each other, Nicholl put one question which did

not find an immediate solution.

"Ah, indeed!" said he; "it is all very well to go to the moon, but how

to get back again?"

His two interlocutors looked surprised. One would have thought that this

possibility now occurred to them for the first time.

"What do you mean by that, Nicholl?" asked Barbicane gravely.

"To ask for means to leave a country," added Michel, "when we have not

yet arrived there, seems to me rather inopportune."

"I do not say that, wishing to draw back," replied Nicholl; "but I repeat

my question, and I ask, 'How shall we return?'"

"I know nothing about it," answered Barbicane.

"And I," said Michel, "if I had known how to return, I would never have

started."

Illustration: "I COULD HAVE VENTURED OUT ON THE TOP OF

THE PROJECTILE."

"There's an answer!" cried Nicholl.

"I quite approve of Michel's words," said Barbicane; "and add, that the

question has no real interest. Later, when we think it advisable to

return, we will take counsel together. If the Columbiad is not there,

the projectile will be."

"That is a step certainly. A ball without a gun!"

"The gun," replied Barbicane, "can be manufactured. The powder can be

made. Neither metals, saltpetre, nor coal can fail in the depths of

the moon, and we need only go 8000 leagues in order to fall upon the

terrestrial globe by virtue of the mere laws of weight."

"Enough," said Michel with animation. "Let it be no longer a question of

returning: we have already entertained it too long. As to communicating

with our former earthly colleagues, that will not be difficult."

"And how?"

"By means of meteors launched by lunar volcanos."

"Well thought of, Michel," said Barbicane in a convinced tone of voice.

"Laplace has calculated that a force five times greater than that of

our gun would suffice to send a meteor from the moon to the earth, and

there is not one volcano which has not a greater power of propulsion than

that."

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Michel; "these meteors are handy postmen, and

cost nothing. And how we shall be able to laugh at the post-office

administration. But now I think of it—"

"What do you think of?"

"A capital idea. Why did we not fasten a thread to our projectile, and

we could have exchanged telegrams with the earth?"

"The deuce!" answered Nicholl. "Do you consider the weight of a thread

250,000 miles long nothing?"

"As nothing. They could have trebled the Columbiad's charge; they could

have quadrupled or quintupled it!" exclaimed Michel, with whom the verb

took a higher intonation each time.

"There is but one little objection to make to your proposition," replied

Barbicane, "which is that, during the rotary motion of the globe, our

thread would have wound itself round it like a chain on a capstan, and

that it would inevitably have brought us to the ground."

"By the thirty-nine stars of the Union!" said Michel, "I have nothing

but impracticable ideas to-day; ideas worthy of J. T. Maston. But I have

a notion that, if we do not return to earth, J. T. Maston will be able

to come to us."

"Yes, he'll come," replied Barbicane; "he is a worthy and a courageous

comrade. Besides, what is easier? Is not the Columbiad still buried

in the soil of Florida? Is cotton and nitric acid wanted wherewith to

manufacture the pyroxile? Will not the moon again pass to the zenith of

Florida? In eighteen years' time will she not occupy exactly the same

place as to-day?"

"Yes," continued Michel, "yes, Marston will come, and with him our

friends Elphinstone, Blomsberry, all the members of the Gun Club, and they

will be well received. And by and by they will run trains of projectiles

between the earth and the moon! Hurrah for J. T. Maston!"

It is probable that, if the Hon. J. T. Maston did not hear the hurrahs

uttered in his honour, his ears at least tingled. What was he doing then?

Doubtless posted in the Rocky Mountains, at the station of Long's Peak,

he was trying to find the invisible projectile gravitating in space. If

he was thinking of his dear companions, we must allow that they were not

far behind him; and that, under the influence of a strange excitement,

they were devoting to him their best thoughts.

But whence this excitement, which was evidently growing upon the

tenants of the projectile? Their sobriety could not be doubted. This

strange irritation of the brain, must it be attributed to the peculiar

circumstances under which they found themselves, to their proximity to

the orb of night, from which only a few hours separated them, to some

secret influence of the moon acting upon their nervous system? Their

faces were as rosy as if they had been exposed to the roaring flames

of an oven; their voices resounded in loud accents; their words escaped

like a champagne cork driven out by carbonic acid; their gestures became

annoying, they wanted so much room to perform them; and, strange to say,

they none of them noticed this great tension of the mind.

"Now," said Nicholl, in a short tone, "now that I do not know whether we

shall ever return from the moon, I want to know what we are going to do

there?"

"What we are going to do there?" replied Barbicane, stamping with his

foot as if he was in a fencing saloon; "I do not know."

"You do not know!" exclaimed Michel, with a bellow which provoked a

sonorous echo in the projectile.

"No, I have not even thought about it," retorted Barbicane, in the same

loud tone.

"Well, I know," replied Michel.

"Speak, then," cried Nicholl, who could no longer contain the growling

of his voice.

"I shall speak if it suits me," exclaimed Michel, seizing his companions'

arms with violence.

"_It must_ suit you," said Barbicane, with an eye on fire and a threatening

hand. "It was you who drew us into this frightful journey, and we want

to know what for."

"Yes," said the captain, "now that I do not know where I am going, I want

to know _why_ I am going."

"Why?" exclaimed Michel, jumping a yard high, "why? To take possession

of the moon in the name of the United States; to add a fortieth State to

the Union; to colonize the lunar regions; to cultivate them, to people

them, to transport thither all the prodigies of art, of science, and

industry; to civilize the Selenites, unless they are more civilized than

we are; and to constitute them a republic, if they are not already one!"

"And if there are no Selenites?" retorted Nicholl, who, under the

influence of this unaccountable intoxication, was very contradictory.

"Who said that there were no Selenites?" exclaimed Michel in a threatening

tone.

"I do," howled Nicholl.

"Captain," said Michel, "do not repeat that insolence, or I will knock

your teeth down your throat!"

The two adversaries were going to fall upon each other, and the incoherent

discussion threatened to merge into a fight, when Barbicane intervened

with one bound.

"Stop, miserable men," said he, separating his two companions; "if there

are no Selenites, we will do without them."

"Yes," exclaimed Michel, who was not particular; "yes, we will do without

them. We have only to make Selenites. Down with the Selenites!"

"The empire of the moon belongs to us," said Nicholl. "Let us three

constitute the republic."

"I will be the congress," cried Michel.

"And I the senate," retorted Nicholl.

"And Barbicane, the president," howled Michel.

"Not a president elected by the nation," replied Barbicane.

"Very well, a president elected by the congress," cried Michel; "and as

I am the congress, you are unanimously elected!"

"Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah! for President Barbicane," exclaimed Nicholl.

"Hip! hip! hip!" vociferated Michel Ardan.

Then the President and the Senate struck up in a tremendous voice the

popular song "Yankee Doodle," whilst from the Congress resounded the

masculine tones of the "Marseillaise."

Then they struck up a frantic dance, with maniacal gestures, idiotic

stampings, and somersaults like those of the boneless clowns in the

circus. Diana, joining in the dance, and howling in her turn, jumped to

the top of the projectile. An unaccountable flapping of wings was then

heard amidst most fantastic cock-crows, while five or six hens fluttered

like bats against the walls.

Illustration: THEY STRUCK UP A FRANTIC DANCE.

Then the three travelling companions, acted upon by some unaccountable

influence above that of intoxication, inflamed by the air which had set

their respiratory apparatus on fire, fell motionless to the bottom of

the projectile.

CHAPTER VIII.

AT SEVENTY-EIGHT THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED AND

FOURTEEN LEAGUES.

What had happened? Whence the cause of this singular intoxication, the

consequences of which might have been very disastrous? A simple blunder

of Michel's, which, fortunately, Nicholl was able to correct in time.

After a perfect swoon, which lasted some minutes, the captain, recovering

first, soon collected his scattered senses. Although he had breakfasted

only two hours before, he felt a gnawing hunger, as if he had not eaten

anything for several days. Everything about him, stomach and brain, were

overexcited to the highest degree. He got up and demanded from Michel a

supplementary repast. Michel, utterly done up, did not answer.

Nicholl then tried to prepare some tea destined to help the absorption

of a dozen sandwiches. He first tried to get some fire, and struck a

match sharply. What was his surprise to see the sulphur shine with so

extraordinary a brilliancy as to be almost unbearable to the eye. From

the gas-burner which he lit rose a flame equal to a jet of electric

light.

A revelation dawned on Nicholl's mind. That intensity of light, the

physiological troubles which had arisen in him, the overexcitement of

all his moral and quarrelsome faculties,—he understood all.

"The oxygen!" he exclaimed.

And leaning over the air apparatus, he saw that the tap was allowing

the scentless colourless gas to escape freely, life-giving, but in its

pure state producing the gravest disorders in the system. Michel had

blunderingly opened the tap of the apparatus to the full.

Illustration: "THE OXYGEN!" HE EXCLAIMED.

Nicholl hastened to stop the escape of oxygen with which the atmosphere

was saturated, which would have been the death of the travellers, not by

suffocation, but by combustion. An hour later, the air less charged with

it restored the lungs to their normal condition. By degrees the three

friends recovered from their intoxication; but they were obliged to sleep

themselves sober over their oxygen as a drunkard does over his wine.

When Michel learnt his share of the responsibility of this incident,

he was not much disconcerted. This unexpected drunkenness broke the

monotony of the journey. Many foolish things had been said while under

its influence, but also quickly forgotten.

"And then," added the merry Frenchman, "I am not sorry to have tasted

a little of this heady gas. Do you know, my friends, that a curious

establishment might be founded with rooms of oxygen, where people whose

system is weakened could for a few hours live a more active life. Fancy

parties where the room was saturated with this heroic fluid, theatres

where it should be kept at high pressure; what passion in the souls of

the actors and spectators! what fire, what enthusiasm! And if, instead of

an assembly only a whole people could be saturated, what activity in its

functions, what a supplement to life it would derive. From an exhausted

nation they might make a great and strong one, and I know more than one

state in old Europe which ought to put itself under the regime of oxygen

for the sake of its health!"

Michel spoke with so much animation that one might have fancied that the

tap was still too open. But a few words from Barbicane soon scattered

his enthusiasm.

"That is all very well, friend Michel," said he, "but will you inform

us where these chickens came from which have mixed themselves up in our

concert?"

"Those chickens?"

"Yes."

Indeed, half a dozen chickens and a fine cock were walking about, flapping

their wings and chattering.

"Ah, the awkward things!" exclaimed Michel. "The oxygen has made them

revolt."

"But what do you want to do with these chickens?" asked Barbicane.

"To acclimatize them in the moon, by Jove!"

"Then why did you hide them?"

"A joke, my worthy president, a simple joke, which has proved a miserable

failure. I wanted to set them free on the lunar continent, without

saying anything. Oh, what would have been your amazement on seeing these

earthly-winged animals pecking in the lunar fields!"

"You rascal, you unmitigated rascal," replied Barbicane, "you do not

want oxygen to mount to the head. You are always what _we_ were under

the influence of the gas; you are always foolish!"

"Ah, who says that we were not wise then?" replied Michel Ardan.

After this philosophical reflection, the three friends set about restoring

the order of the projectile. Chickens and cock were reinstated in their

coup. But whilst proceeding with this operation, Barbicane and his two

companions had a most desired perception of a new phenomenon. From the

moment of leaving the earth, their own weight, that of the projectile,

and the objects it enclosed, had been subject to an increasing diminution.

If they could not prove this loss of the projectile, a moment would

arrive when it would be sensibly felt upon themselves and the utensils

and instruments they used.

It is needless to say that a _scale_ would not show this loss; for the

weight destined to weigh the object would have lost exactly as much as

the object itself; but a spring steelyard for example, the tension of

which was independent of the attraction, would have given a just estimate

of this loss.

We know that the attraction, otherwise called the _weight_, is in

proportion to the densities of bodies, and inversely as the squares of

the distances. Hence this effect: If the earth had been alone in space, if

the other celestial bodies had been suddenly annihilated, the projectile,

according to Newton's laws, would weigh less as it got farther from the

earth, but without ever losing its weight _entirely_, for the terrestrial

attraction would always have made itself felt, at whatever distance.

But, in reality, a time must come when the projectile would no longer

be subject to the law of weight, after allowing for the other celestial

bodies whose effect could not be set down as zero. Indeed, the

projectile's course was being traced between the earth and the moon.

As it distanced the earth, the terrestrial attraction diminished: but

the lunar attraction rose in proportion. There must then come a point

where these two attractions would neutralize each other: the projectile

would possess weight no longer. If the moon's and the earth's densities

had been equal, this point would have been at an equal distance between

the two orbs. But taking the different densities into consideration, it

was easy to reckon that this point would be situated at 47-60ths of the

whole journey, i.e. at 78,114 leagues from the earth. At this point, a

body having no principle of speed or displacement in itself, would remain

immovable for ever, being attracted equally by both orbs, and not being

drawn more towards one than towards the other.

Now if the projectile's impulsive force had been correctly calculated, it

would attain this point without speed, having lost all trace of weight,

as well as all the objects within it. What would happen then? Three

hypotheses presented themselves.

1. Either it would retain a certain amount of motion, and pass the point

of equal attraction, and fall upon the moon by virtue of the excess of

the lunar attraction over the terrestrial.

2. Or, its speed failing, and unable to reach the point of equal

attraction, it would fall upon the moon by virtue of the excess of the

lunar attraction over the terrestrial.

3. Or, lastly, animated with sufficient speed to enable it to reach the

neutral point, but not sufficient to pass it, it would remain for ever

suspended in that spot like the pretended tomb of Mahomet, between the

zenith and the nadir.

Such was their situation; and Barbicane clearly explained the consequences

to his travelling companions, which greatly interested them. But how

should they know when the projectile had reached this neutral point

situated at that distance, especially when neither themselves, nor the

objects enclosed in the projectile, would be any longer subject to the

laws of weight?

Up to this time, the travellers, whilst admitting that this action was

constantly decreasing, had not yet become sensible to its total absence.

But that day, about eleven o'clock in the morning, Nicholl having

accidentally let a glass slip from his hand, the glass, instead of

falling, remained suspended in the air.

"Ah!" exclaimed Michel Ardan, "that is rather an amusing piece of natural

philosophy."

And immediately divers other objects, firearms and bottles, abandoned

to themselves, held themselves up as by enchantment. Diana too, placed

in space by Michel, reproduced, but without any trick, the wonderful

suspension practised by Caston and Robert Houdin. Indeed the dog did not

seem to know that she was floating in air.

The three adventurous companions were surprised and stupefied, despite

their scientific reasonings. They felt themselves being carried into the

domain of wonders! they felt that _weight_ was really wanting to their

bodies. If they stretched out their arms, they did not attempt to fall.

Their heads shook on their shoulders. Their feet no longer clung to the

floor of the projectile. They were like drunken men having no stability

in themselves.

Illustration: "AH! IF RAPHAEL HAD SEEN US THUS."

Fancy has depicted men without reflection, others without shadow. But

here _reality,_ by the neutralisation of attractive forces, produced men

in whom nothing had any weight, and who weighed nothing themselves.

Suddenly Michel, taking a spring, left the floor and remained suspended

in the air, like Murillo's monk of the _Cusine des Anges._

The two friends joined him instantly, and all three formed a miraculous

"Ascension" in the centre of the projectile.

"Is it to be believed? is it probable? is it possible?" exclaimed Michel;

"and yet it is so. Ah! if Raphael had seen us thus, what an 'Assumption'

he would have thrown upon canvas!"

"The 'Assumption' cannot last," replied Barbicane. "If the projectile

passes the neutral point, the lunar attraction will draw us to the moon."

"Then our feet will be upon the roof," replied Michel.

"No," said Barbicane, "because the projectile's centre of gravity is very

low; it will only turn by degrees."

"Then all our portables will be upset from top to bottom, that is a

fact."

"Calm yourself, Michel," replied Nicholl; "no upset is to be feared; not

a thing will move, for the projectile's evolution will be imperceptible."

"Just so," continued Barbicane; "and when it has passed the point of equal

attraction, its base, being the heavier, will draw it perpendicularly to

the moon; but, in order that this phenomenon should take place, we must

have passed the neutral line."

"Pass the neutral line!" cried Michel; "then let us do as the sailors do

when they cross the equator."

A slight side movement brought Michel back towards the padded side;

thence he took a bottle and glasses, placed them "in space" before his

companions, and, drinking merrily, they saluted the line with a triple

hurrah. The influence of these attractions scarcely lasted an hour;

the travellers felt themselves insensibly drawn towards the floor, and

Barbicane fancied that the conical end of the projectile was varying a

little from its normal direction towards the moon. By an inverse motion

the base was approaching first; the lunar attraction was prevailing

over the terrestrial; the fall towards the moon was beginning, almost

imperceptibly as yet, but by degrees the attractive force would become

stronger, the fall would be more decided, the projectile, drawn by its

base, would turn its cone to the earth, and fall with ever-increasing

speed on to the surface of the Selenite continent; their destination

would then be attained. Now nothing could prevent the success of their

enterprise, and Nicholl and Michel Ardan shared Barbicane's joy.

Then they chatted of all the phenomena which had astonished them one

after the other, particularly the neutralization of the laws of weight.

Michel Ardan, always enthusiastic, drew conclusions which were purely

fanciful.

"Ah, my worthy friends," he exclaimed, "what progress we should make

if on earth we could throw off some of that weight, some of that chain

which binds us to her; it would be the prisoner set at liberty; no more

fatigue of either arms or legs. Or, if it is true that in order to fly

on the earth's surface, to keep oneself suspended in the air merely by

the play of the muscles, there requires a strength a hundred and fifty

times greater than that which we possess, a simple act of volition, a

caprice, would bear us into space, if attraction did not exist."

"Just so," said Nicholl, smiling; "if we could succeed in suppressing

weight as they suppress pain by anæsthesia, that would change the face

of modern society!"

"Yes," cried Michel, full of his subject, "destroy weight, and no more

burdens!"

"Well said," replied Barbicane; "but if nothing had any weight, nothing

would keep in its place, not even your hat on your head, worthy Michel;

nor your house, whose stones only adhere by weight; not a boat, whose

stability on the water is caused only by weight; not even the ocean,

whose waves would no longer be equalized by terrestrial attraction; and

lastly, not even the _atmosphere,_ whose atoms, being no longer held in

their places, would disperse in space!"

"That is tiresome," retorted Michel; "nothing like these matter-of-fact

people for bringing one back to the bare reality."

"But console yourself, Michel," continued Barbicane, "for if no orb

exists from whence all laws of weight are banished, you are at least

going to visit one where it is much less than on the earth."

"The moon?"

"Yes, the moon, on whose surface objects weigh six times less than on

the earth, a phenomenon easy to prove."

"And we shall feel it?" asked Michel.

"Evidently, as 200 lbs. will only weigh 30 pounds on the surface of the

moon."

"And our muscular strength will not diminish?"

"Not at all; instead of jumping one yard high, you will rise eighteen

feet high."

"But we shall be regular Herculeses in the moon!" exclaimed Michel.

"Yes," replied Nicholl; "for if the height of the Selenites is in

proportion to the density of their globe, they will be scarcely a foot

high."

"Lilliputians!" ejaculated Michel; "I shall play the part of Gulliver.

We are going to realize the fable of the giants. This is the advantage

of leaving one's own planet and overrunning the solar world."

"One moment, Michel," answered Barbicane; "if you wish to play the part

of Gulliver, only visit the inferior planets, such as Mercury, Venus, or

Mars, whose density is a little less than that of the earth; but do not

venture into the great planets, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune; for

there the order will be changed, and you will become Lilliputian."

"And in the sun?"

"In the sun, if its density is thirteen hundred and twenty-four thousand

times greater, and the attraction is twenty-seven times greater than

on the surface of our globe, keeping everything in proportion, the

inhabitants ought to be at least two hundred feet high."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Michel; "I should be nothing more than a pigmy, a

shrimp!"

"Gulliver with the giants," said Nicholl.

"Just so," replied Barbicane.

"And it would not be quite useless to carry some pieces of artillery to

defend oneself."

"Good," replied Nicholl; "your projectiles would have no effect on the

sun; they would fall back on the earth after some minutes."

"That is a strong remark."

"It is certain," replied Barbicane; "the attraction is so great on this

enormous orb, that an object weighing 70,000 lbs. on the earth would

weigh but 1920 lbs. on the surface of the sun. If you were to fall upon

it you would weigh—let me see—about 5000 lbs., a weight which you

would never be able to raise again."

"The devil!" said Michel; "one would want a portable crane. However, we

will be satisfied with the moon for the present; there at least we shall

cut a great figure. We will see about the sun by and by."

CHAPTER IX.

THE CONSEQUENCES OF A DEVIATION.

Barbicane had now no fear of the issue of the journey, at least as far

as the projectile's impulsive force was concerned; its own speed would

carry it beyond the neutral line; it would certainly not return to earth;

it would certainly not remain motionless on the line of attraction. One

single hypothesis remained to be realized, the arrival of the projectile

at its destination by the action of the lunar attraction.

It was in reality a fall of 8296 leagues on an orb, it is true, where

weight could only be reckoned at one-sixth of terrestrial weight; a

formidable fall, nevertheless, and one against which every precaution

must be taken without delay.

These precautions were of two sorts, some to deaden the shock when the

projectile should touch the lunar soil, others to delay the fall, and

consequently make it less violent.

To deaden the shock, it was a pity that Barbicane was no longer able to

employ the means which had so ably weakened the shock at departure, that

is to say, by water used as springs and the partition-breaks.

The partitions still existed but water failed, for they could not use

their reserve, which was precious, in case during the first days the

liquid element should be found wanting on lunar soil.

And indeed this reserve would have been quite insufficient for a spring.

The layer of water stored in the projectile at their departure, and on

which the waterproof disc lay, occupied no less than three feet in depth,

and spread over a surface of not less than fifty-four square feet. Besides,

the cistern did not contain one fifth part of it; they must therefore

give up this efficient means of deadening the shock of arrival. Happily,

Barbicane, not content with employing water, had furnished the movable

disc with strong spring plugs, destined to lessen the shock against the

base after the breaking of the horizontal partitions. These plugs still

existed; they had only to readjust them and replace the movable disc;

every piece, easy to handle, as their weight was now scarcely felt, was

quickly mounted.

The different pieces were fitted without trouble, it being only a matter

of bolts and screws; tools were not wanting, and soon the reinstated

disc lay on its steel plugs, like a table on its legs. One inconvenience

resulted from the replacing of the disc, the lower window was blocked

up; thus it was impossible for the travellers to observe the moon from

that opening while they were being precipitated perpendicularly upon

her; but they were obliged to give it up; even by the side openings they

could still see vast lunar regions, as an aeronaut sees the earth from

his car.

This replacing of the disc was at least an hour's work. It was past twelve

when all preparations were finished. Barbicane took fresh observations

on the inclination of the projectile, but to his annoyance it had not

turned over sufficiently for its fall; it seemed to take a curve parallel

to the lunar disc. The orb of night shone splendidly into space, while

opposite, the orb of day blazed with fire.

Their situation began to make them uneasy.

"Are we reaching our destination?" said Nicholl.

"Let us act as if we were about reaching it," replied Barbicane.

"You are sceptical," retorted Michel Ardan. "We shall arrive, and that,

too, quicker than we like."

This answer brought Barbicane back to his preparations, and he occupied

himself with placing the contrivances intended to break their descent.

We may remember the scene of the meeting held at Tampa Town, in Florida,

when Captain Nicholl came forward as Barbicane's enemy and Michel Ardan's

adversary. To Captain Nicholl's maintaining that the projectile would

smash like glass, Michel replied that he would break their fall by means

of rockets properly placed.

Thus, powerful fireworks, taking their starting-point from the base and

bursting outside, could, by producing a recoil, check to a certain degree

the projectile's speed. These rockets were to burn in space, it is true;

but oxygen would not fail them, for they could supply themselves with

it, like the lunar volcanoes, the burning of which has never yet been

stopped by the want of atmosphere round the moon.

Barbicane had accordingly supplied himself with these fireworks, enclosed

in little steel guns, which could be screwed on to the base of the

projectile. Inside, these guns were flush with the bottom; outside, they

protruded about eighteen inches. There were twenty of them. An opening

left in the disc allowed them to light the match with which each was

provided. All the effect was felt outside. The burning mixture had been

already rammed into each gun. They had, then, nothing to do but to raise

the metallic buffers fixed in the base, and replace them by the guns,

which fitted closely in their places.

This new work was finished about three o'clock, and after taking all

these precautions there remained but to wait. But the projectile was

perceptibly nearing the moon, and evidently succumbed to her influence

to a certain degree; though its own velocity also drew it in an oblique

direction. From these conflicting influences resulted a line which might

become a tangent. But it was certain that the projectile would not fall

directly on the moon; for its lower part, by reason of its weight, ought

to be turned towards her.

Barbicane's uneasiness increased as he saw his projectile resist the

influence of gravitation. The Unknown was opening before him, the Unknown

in interplanetary space. The man of science thought he had foreseen the

only three hypotheses possible—the return to the earth, the return to

the moon, or stagnation on the neutral line; and here a fourth hypothesis,

big with all the terrors of the Infinite, surged up inopportunely. To

face it without flinching, one must be a resolute savant like Barbicane,

a phlegmatic being like Nicholl, or an audacious adventurer like Michel

Ardan.

Conversation was started upon this subject. Other men would have

considered the question from a practical point of view; they would have

asked themselves whither their projectile carriage was carrying them.

Not so with these; they sought for the cause which produced this effect.

"So we have become diverted from our route," said Michel; "but why?"

"I very much fear," answered Nicholl, "that, in spite of all precautions

taken, the Columbiad was not fairly pointed. An error, however small,

would be enough to throw us out of the moon's attraction."

"Then they must have aimed badly?" asked Michel.

"I do not think so," replied Barbicane. "The perpendicularity of the gun

was exact, its direction to the zenith of the spot incontestible; and

the moon passing to the zenith of the spot, we ought to reach it at the

full. There is another reason, but it escapes me."

"Are we not arriving too late?" asked Nicholl.

"Too late?" said Barbicane.

"Yes," continued Nicholl. "The Cambridge Observatory's note says that the

transit ought to be accomplished in ninety-seven hours thirteen minutes

and twenty seconds; which means to say, that _sooner_ the moon will _not_

be at the point indicated, and that _later_ it will have passed it."

"True," replied Barbicane. "But we started the 1st of December, at

thirteen minutes and twenty-five seconds to eleven at night; and we

ought to arrive on the 5th at midnight, at the exact moment when the moon

would be full; and we are now at the 5th of December. It is now half past

three in the evening; half past eight ought to see us at the end of our

journey. Why do we not arrive?"

"Might it not be an excess of speed?" answered Nicholl; "for we know now

that its initial velocity was greater than they supposed."

"No! a hundred times, No!" replied Barbicane. "An excess of speed, if the

direction of the projectile had been right, would not have prevented us

reaching the moon. No, there has been a deviation. We have been turned

out of our course."

"By whom? by what?" asked Nicholl.

"I cannot say," replied Barbicane.

"Very well, then, Barbicane," said Michel, "do you wish to know my

opinion on the subject of finding out this deviation?"

"Speak."

"I would not give half a dollar to know it. That we have deviated is a

fact. Where we are going to matters little; we shall soon see. Since we

are being borne along in space we shall end by falling into some centre

of attraction or other."

Michel Ardan's indifference did not content Barbicane. Not that he was

uneasy about the future, but he wanted to know at any cost _why_ his

projectile had deviated.

But the projectile continued its course sideways to the moon, and with

it the mass of things thrown out. Barbicane could even prove, by the

elevations which served as landmarks upon the moon, which was only 2000

leagues distant, that its speed was becoming uniform—fresh proof that

there was no fall. Its impulsive force still prevailed over the lunar

attraction, but the projectile's course was certainly bringing it nearer

to the moon, and they might hope that at a nearer point the weight,

predominating, would cause a decided fall.

The three friends, having nothing better to do, continued their

observations; but they could not yet determine the topographical position

of the satellite; every relief was levelled under the reflection of the

solar rays.

They watched thus through the side windows until eight o'clock at night.

The moon had then grown so large in their eyes that it filled half of

the firmament. The sun on one side, and the orb of night on the other,

flooded the projectile with light.

At that moment Barbicane thought he could estimate the distance which

separated them from their aim at no more than 700 leagues. The speed of

the projectile seemed to him to be more than 200 yards, or about 170

leagues a second. Under the centripetal force, the base of the projectile

tended towards the moon; but the centrifugal still prevailed; and it was

probable that its rectilineal course would be changed to a curve of some

sort, the nature of which they could not at present determine.

Barbicane was still seeking the solution of his insoluble problem. Hours

passed without any result. The projectile was evidently _nearing_ the

moon, but it was also evident that it would never _reach_ her. As to the

nearest distance at which it would pass her, that must be the result of

the two forces, attraction and repulsion, affecting its motion.

"I ask but one thing," said Michel; "that we may pass near enough to

penetrate her secrets."

"Cursed be the thing that has caused our projectile to deviate from its

course," cried Nicholl.

And, as if a light had suddenly broken in upon his mind, Barbicane

answered, "Then cursed be the meteor which crossed our path."

"What?" said Michel Ardan.

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Nicholl.

"I mean," said Barbicane in a decided tone, "I mean that our deviation

is owing solely to our meeting with this erring body."

"But it did not even brush us as it passed," said Michel.

"What does that matter? Its mass, compared to that of our projectile,

was enormous, and its attraction was enough to influence our course."

"So little?" cried Nicholl.

"Yes, Nicholl; but however little it might be," replied Barbicane, "in a

distance of 84,000 leagues, it wanted no more to make us miss the moon."

CHAPTER X.

THE OBSERVERS OF THE MOON.

Barbicane had evidently hit upon the only plausible reason of this

deviation. However slight it might have been, it had sufficed to modify

the course of the projectile. It was a fatality. The bold attempt had

miscarried by a fortuitous circumstance; and unless by some exceptional

event, they could now never reach the moon's disc.

Would they pass near enough to be able to solve certain physical and

geological questions until then insoluble? This was the question, and

the only one, which occupied the minds of these bold travellers. As to

the fate in store for themselves, they did not even dream of it.

But what would become of them amid these infinite solitudes, these who

would soon want air? A few more days, and they would fall stifled in

this wandering projectile. But some days to these intrepid fellows was a

century; and they devoted all their time to observe that moon which they

no longer hoped to reach.

The distance which then separated the projectile from the satellite

was estimated at about 200 leagues. Under these conditions, as regards

the visibility of the details of the disc, the travellers were farther

from the moon than are the inhabitants of the earth with their powerful

telescopes.

Illustration: THE TELESCOPE AT PARSONTOWN.

Indeed, we know that the instrument mounted by Lord Rosse at Parsonstown,

which magnifies 6500 times, brings the moon to within an apparent

distance of sixteen leagues. And more than that, with the powerful one

set up at Long's Peak, the orb of night, magnified 48,000 times, is

brought to within less than two leagues, and objects having a diameter

of thirty feet are seen very distinctly. So that, at this distance, the

topographical details of the moon, observed without glasses, could not

be determined with precision. The eye caught the vast outline of those

immense depressions inappropriately called "seas," but they could not

recognize their nature. The prominence of the mountains disappeared

under the splendid irradiation produced by the reflection of the solar

rays. The eye, dazzled as if it was leaning over a bath of molten silver,

turned from it involuntarily; but the oblong form of the orb was quite

clear. It appeared like a gigantic egg, with the small end turned towards

the earth. Indeed the moon, liquid and pliable in the first days of its

formation, was originally a perfect sphere; but being soon drawn within

the attraction of the earth, it became elongated under the influence

of gravitation. In becoming a satellite, she lost her native purity of

form; her centre of gravity was in advance of the centre of her figure;

and from this fact some savants draw the conclusion that the air and

water had taken refuge on the opposite surface of the moon, which is

never seen from the earth. This alteration in the primitive form of the

satellite was only perceptible for a few moments. The distance of the

projectile from the moon diminished very rapidly under its speed, though

that was much less than its initial velocity,—but eight or nine times

greater than that which propels our express trains. The oblique course

of the projectile, from its very obliquity, gave Michel Ardan some hopes

of striking the lunar disc at some point or other. He could not think

that they would never reach it. No! he could not believe it; and this

opinion he often repeated. But Barbicane, who was a better judge, always

answered him with merciless logic.

"No, Michel, no! We can only reach the moon by a fall, and we are not

falling. The centripetal force keeps us under the moon's influence, but

the centrifugal force draws us irresistibly away from it."

This was said in a tone which quenched Michel Ardan's last hope.

The portion of the moon which the projectile was nearing was the northern

hemisphere, that which the Selenographic maps place below; for these

maps are generally drawn after the outline given by the glasses, and we

know that they reverse the objects. Such was the _Mappa Selenographica_

of Bœer and Moedler which Barbicane consulted. This northern hemisphere

presented vast plains, dotted with isolated mountains.

At midnight the moon was full. At that precise moment the travellers

should have alighted upon it, if the mischievous meteor had not diverted

their course. The orb was exactly in the condition determined by the

Cambridge Observatory. It was mathematically at its perigee, and at the

zenith of the twenty-eighth parallel. An observer placed at the bottom

of the enormous Columbiad, pointed perpendicularly to the horizon, would

have framed the moon in the mouth of the gun. A straight line drawn

through the axis of the piece would have passed through the centre of

the orb of night. It is needless to say, that during the night of the

5th—6th of December, the travellers took not an instant's rest. Could

they close their eyes when so near this new world? No! All their feelings

were concentrated in one single thought:—See! Representatives of the

earth, of humanity, past and present, all centred in them! It is through

their eyes that the human race look at these lunar regions, and penetrate

the secrets of their satellite! A strange emotion filled their hearts as

they went from one window to the other.

Their observations, reproduced by Barbicane, were rigidly determined. To

take them, they had glasses; to correct them, maps.

As regards the optical instruments at their disposal, they had excellent

marine glasses specially constructed for this journey.

They possessed magnifying powers of 100. They would thus have brought the

moon to within a distance (apparent) of less than 2000 leagues from the

earth. But then, at a distance which for three hours in the morning did

not exceed sixty-five miles, and in a medium free from all atmospheric

disturbances, these instruments could reduce the lunar surface to within

less than 1500 yards!

CHAPTER XI.

FANCY AND REALITY.

"Have you ever seen the moon?" asked a professor, ironically, of one of

his pupils.

"No, sir!" replied the pupil, still more ironically, "but I must say I

have heard it spoken of."

In one sense, the pupil's witty answer might be given by a large majority

of sublunary beings. How many people have heard speak of the moon who

have never seen it—at least through a glass or a telescope! How many

have never examined the map of their satellite!

In looking at a selenographic map, one peculiarity strikes us. Contrary

to the arrangement followed for that of the Earth and Mars, the continents

occupy more particularly the southern hemisphere of the lunar globe.

These continents do not show such decided, clear, and regular boundary

lines as South America, Africa, and the Indian peninsula. Their angular,

capricious, and deeply indented coasts are rich in gulfs and peninsulas.

They remind one of the confusion in the islands of the Sound, where the

land is excessively indented. If navigation ever existed on the surface

of the moon, it must have been wonderfully difficult and dangerous; and

we may well pity the Selenite sailors and hydrographers; the former,

when they came upon these perilous coasts, the latter when they took the

soundings of its stormy banks.

Illustration: HOW MANY PEOPLE HAVE HEARD SPEAK OF THE MOON.

We may also notice that, on the lunar sphere, the south pole is much more

continental than the north pole. On the latter, there is but one slight

strip of land separated from other continents by vast seas. Towards the

south, continents clothe almost the whole of the hemisphere. It is even

possible that the Selenites have already planted the flag on one of

their poles, whilst Franklin, Ross, Kane, Dumont d'Urville, and Lambert

have never yet been able to attain that unknown point of the terrestrial

globe.

As to islands, they are numerous on the surface of the moon. Nearly

all oblong or circular, and as if traced with the compass, they seem to

form one vast Archipelago, equal to that charming group lying between

Greece and Asia Minor, and which mythology in ancient times adorned with

most graceful legends. Involuntarily the names of Naxos, Tenedos, and

Carpathos, rise before the mind, and we seek vainly for Ulysses' vessel

or the "clipper" of the Argonauts. So at least it was in Michel Ardan's

eyes. To him it was a Grecian Archipelago that he saw on the map. To

the eyes of his matter-of-fact companions, the aspect of these coasts

recalled rather the parcelled-out land of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia;

and where the Frenchman discovered traces of the heroes of fable, these

Americans were marking the most favourable points for the establishment

of stores in the interests of lunar commerce and industry.

After wandering over these vast continents, the eye is attracted by still

greater seas. Not only their formation, but their situation and aspect

remind one of the terrestrial oceans; but again, as on earth, these seas

occupy the greater portion of the globe. But in point of fact, these

are not liquid spaces, but plains, the nature of which the travellers

hoped soon to determine. Astronomers, we must allow, have graced these

pretended seas with at least odd names, which science has respected up to

the present time. Michel Ardan was right when he compared this map to a

"Tendre card," got up by a Scudary or a Cyrano de Bergerac. "Only," said

he, "it is no longer the sentimental card of the seventeenth century, it

is the card of life, very neatly divided into two parts, one feminine,

the other masculine; the right hemisphere for woman, the left for man."

In speaking thus, Michel made his prosaic companions shrug their

shoulders. Barbicane and Nicholl looked upon the lunar map from a very

different point of view to that of their fantastic friend. Nevertheless,

their fantastic friend was a little in the right. Judge for yourselves.

In the left hemisphere stretches the "Sea of Clouds," where human reason

is so often shipwrecked. Not far off lies the "Sea of Rains," fed by all

the fever of existence. Near this is the "Sea of Storms," where man is

ever fighting against his passions, which too often gain the victory.

Then, worn out by deceit, treasons, infidelity, and the whole body of

terrestrial misery, what does he find at the end of his career? that vast

"Sea of Humours," barely softened by some drops of the waters from the

"Gulf of Dew!" Clouds, rain, storms, and humours,—does the life of man

contain aught but these? and is it not summed up in these four words?

The right hemisphere, "dedicated to the ladies," encloses smaller seas,

whose significant names contain every incident of a feminine existence.

There is the "Sea of Serenity," over which the young girl bends; "The

Lake of Dreams," reflecting a joyous future; "the Sea of Nectar," with its

waves of tenderness and breezes of love; "The Sea of Fruitfulness;" "The

Sea of Crises;" then the "Sea of Vapours," whose dimensions are perhaps

a little too confined; and lastly, that vast "Sea of Tranquillity," in

which every false passion, every useless dream, every unsatisfied desire

is at length absorbed, and whose waves emerge peaceably into the "Lake

of Death!"

What a strange succession of names! What a singular division of the moon's

two hemispheres, joined to one another like man and woman, and forming

that sphere of life carried into space! And was not the fantastic Michel

right in thus interpreting the fancies of the ancient astronomers? But

whilst his imagination thus roved over "the seas," his grave companions

were considering things more geographically. They were learning this new

world by heart. They were measuring angles and diameters.

CHAPTER XII.

OROGRAPHIC DETAILS.

The course taken by the projectile, as we have before remarked, was

bearing it towards the moon's northern hemisphere. The travellers were

far from the central point which they would have struck, had their course

not been subject to an irremediable deviation. It was past midnight; and

Barbicane then estimated the distance at 750 miles, which was a little

greater than the length of the lunar radius, and which would diminish

as it advanced nearer to the North Pole. The projectile was then not

at the altitude of the equator; but across the tenth parallel, and from

that latitude, carefully taken on the map to the pole, Barbicane and his

two companions were able to observe the moon under the most favourable

conditions. Indeed, by means of glasses, the above named distance was

reduced to little more than fourteen miles. The telescope of the Rocky

Mountains brought the moon much nearer; but the terrestrial atmosphere

singularly lessened its power. Thus Barbicane, posted in his projectile,

with the glasses to his eyes, could seize upon details which were almost

imperceptible to earthly observers.

"My friends," said the president, in a serious voice, "I do not know

whither we are going; I do not know if we shall ever see the terrestrial

globe again. Nevertheless, let us proceed as if our work would one day

be useful to our fellow-men. Let us keep our minds free from every other

consideration. We are astronomers; and this projectile is a room in the

Cambridge University, carried into space. Let us make our observations!"

This said, work was begun with great exactness; and they faithfully

reproduced the different aspects of the moon, at the different distances

which the projectile reached.

At the time that the projectile was as high as the tenth parallel,

north latitude, it seemed rigidly to follow the twentieth degree, east

longitude. We must here make one important remark with regard to the map

by which they were taking observations. In the selenographical maps where,

on account of the reversing of the objects by the glasses, the south

is above and the north below, it would seem natural that, on account of

that inversion, the east should be to the left hand, and the west to the

right. But it is not so. If the map were turned upside down, showing the

moon as we see her, the east would be to the _left_, and the west to the

_right_, contrary to that which exists on terrestrial maps. The following

is the reason of this anomaly. Observers in the northern hemisphere

(say in Europe) see the moon in the south,— according to them. When

they take observations, they turn their backs to the north, the reverse

position to that which they occupy when they study a terrestrial map. As

they turn their backs to the north, the east is on their left, and the

west to their right. To observers in the southern hemisphere (Patagonia

for example), the moon's west would be quite to their left, and the east

to their right, as the south is behind them. Such is the reason of the

apparent reversing of these two cardinal points, and we must bear it in

mind in order to be able to follow President Barbicane's

observations.

With the help of Bœer and Moedler's _Mappa Selenographica_, the travellers

were able at once to recognise that portion of the disc enclosed within

the field of their glasses.

"What are we looking at, at this moment?" asked Michel.

"At the northern part of the 'Sea of Clouds,'" answered Barbicane. "We

are too far off to recognize its nature. Are these plains composed of

arid sand, as the first astronomer maintained? Or are they nothing but

immense forests, according to M. Warren de la Rue's opinion, who gives

the moon an atmosphere, though a very low and a very dense one? That we

shall know by and by. We must affirm nothing until we are in a position

to do so."

This "Sea of Clouds" is rather doubtfully marked out upon the maps. It

is supposed that these vast plains are strewn with blocks of lava from

the neighbouring volcanoes on its right, Ptolemy, Purbach, Arzachel.

But the projectile was advancing, and sensibly nearing it. Soon there

appeared the heights which bound this sea at this northern limit. Before

them rose a mountain radiant with beauty, the top of which seemed lost

in an eruption of solar rays.

"That is—?" asked Michel.

"Copernicus," replied Barbicane.

"Let us see Copernicus."

This mount situated in 9° north latitude and 20° east longitude,

rose to a height of 10,600 feet above the surface of the moon. It is

quite visible from the earth; and astronomers can study it with ease,

particularly during the phase between the last quarter and the new

moon, because then the shadows are thrown lengthways from east to west,

allowing them to measure the heights.

This Copernicus forms the most important of the radiating system, situated

in the southern hemisphere, according to Tycho Brahé. It rises isolated

like a gigantic lighthouse on that portion of the Sea of Clouds, which is

bounded by the "Sea of Tempests," thus lighting by its splendid rays two

oceans at a time. It was a sight without an equal, those long luminous

trains, so dazzling in the full moon, and which, passing the boundary

chain on the north, extends to the "Sea of Rains." At one o'clock of the

terrestrial morning, the projectile, like a balloon borne into space,

overlooked the top of this superb mountain. Barbicane could recognize

perfectly its chief features. Copernicus is comprised in the series of

ringed mountains of the first order, in the division of great circles.

Like Kepler and Aristarchus, which overlook the Ocean of Tempests,

sometimes it appeared like a brilliant point through the cloudy light,

and was taken for a volcano in activity. But it is only an extinct

one,—like all on that side of the moon. Its circumference showed a

diameter of about twenty-two leagues. The glasses discovered traces of

stratification produced by successive eruptions, and the neighbourhood

was strewn with volcanic remains which still choked some of the craters.

"There exist," said Barbicane, "several kinds of circles on the surface

of the moon, and it is easy to see that Copernicus belongs to the

radiating class. If we were nearer, we should see the cones bristling on

the inside, which in former times were so many fiery mouths. A curious

arrangement, and one without an exception on the lunar disc, is that

the interior surface of these circles is the reverse of the exterior,

and contrary to the form taken by terrestrial craters. It follows, then,

that the general curve of the bottom of these circles gives a sphere of

a smaller diameter than that of the moon."

"And why this peculiar disposition?" asked Nicholl.

"We do not know," replied Barbicane.

"What splendid radiation!" said Michel. "One could hardly see a finer

spectacle, I think."

"What would you say, then," replied Barbicane, "if chance should bear us

towards the southern hemisphere?"

"Well, I should say that it was still more beautiful," retorted Michel

Ardan.

At this moment the projectile hung perpendicularly over the circle. The

circumference of Copernicus formed almost a perfect circle, and its steep

escarpments were clearly defined. They could even distinguish a second

ringed enclosure. Around spread a greyish plain, of a wild aspect, on

which every relief was marked in yellow. At the bottom of the circle,

as if enclosed in a jewel case, sparkled for one instant two or three

eruptive cones, like enormous dazzling gems. Towards the north the

escarpments were lowered by a depression which would probably have given

access to the interior of the crater.

In passing over the surrounding plains, Barbicane noticed a great number

of less important mountains; and among others a little ringed one called

Guy Lussac, the breadth of which measured twelve miles.

Towards the south, the plain was very flat, without one elevation,

without one projection. Towards the north, on the contrary, till where it

was bounded by the Sea of Storms it resembled a liquid surface agitated

by a storm, of which the hills and hollows formed a succession of waves

suddenly congealed. Over the whole of this, and in all directions, lay

the luminous lines, all converging to the summit of Copernicus.

The travellers discussed the origin of these strange rays; but they could

not determine their nature any more than terrestrial observers.

"But why," said Nicholl, "should not these rays be simply spurs of

mountains which reflect more vividly the light of the sun?"

"No," replied Barbicane; "if it was so, under certain conditions of the

moon, these ridges would cast shadows, and they do not cast any."

And indeed, these rays only appeared when the orb of day was in opposition

to the moon, and disappeared as soon as its rays became oblique.

"But how have they endeavoured to explain these lines of light?" asked

Michel; "for I cannot believe that savants would ever be stranded for

want of an explanation."

"Yes," replied Barbicane; "Herschel has put forward an opinion, but he

did not venture to affirm it."

"Never mind. What was the opinion?"

"He thought that these rays might be streams of cooled lava which shone

when the sun beat straight upon them. It may be so; but nothing can

be less certain. Besides, if we pass nearer to Tycho, we shall be in a

better position to find out the cause of this radiation."

Illustration: "THIS PLAIN WOULD THEN BE NOTHING BUT AN IMMENSE

CEMETERY."

"Do you know, my friends, what that plain, seen from the height we are

at, resembles?" said Michel.

"No," replied Nicholl.

"Very well; with all those pieces of lava lengthened like rockets, it

resembles an immense game of spelikans thrown pell-mell. There wants but

the hook to pull them out one by one."

"Do be serious," said Barbicane.

"Well, let us be serious," replied Michel quietly; "and instead of

spelikans, let us put bones. This plain would then be nothing but an

immense cemetery, on which would repose the mortal remains of thousands

of extinct generations. Do you prefer that high-flown comparison?"

"One is as good as the other," retorted Barbicane.

"My word, you are difficult to please," answered Michel.

"My worthy friend," continued the matter-of-fact Barbicane, "it matters

but little what it _resembles_, when we do not know what it _is_."

"Well answered," exclaimed Michel. "That will teach me to reason with

savants."

But the projectile continued to advance with almost uniform speed around

the lunar disc. The travellers, we may easily imagine, did not dream of

taking a moment's rest. Every minute changed the landscape which fled

from beneath their gaze. About half-past one o'clock in the morning, they

caught a glimpse of the tops of another mountain. Barbicane, consulting

his map, recognized Eratosthenes.

It was a ringed mountain 9000 feet high, and one of those circles so

numerous on this satellite. With regard to this, Barbicane related

Kepler's singular opinion on the formation of circles. According to that

celebrated mathematician, these crater-like cavities had been dug by the

hand of man.

"For what purpose?" asked Nicholl.

"For a very natural one," replied Barbicane. "The Selenites might have

undertaken these immense works and dug these enormous holes for a refuge

and shield from the solar rays which beat upon them during fifteen

consecutive days."

"The Selenites are not fools," said Michel.

"A singular idea," replied Nicholl; "but it is probable that Kepler did

not know the true dimensions of these circles, for the digging of them

would have been the work of giants quite impossible for the Selenites."

"Why? if weight on the moon's surface is six times less than on the

earth?" said Michel.

"But if the Selenites are six times smaller?" retorted Nicholl.

"And if there are no Selenites?" added Barbicane.

This put an end to the discussion.

Soon Eratosthenes disappeared under the horizon without the projectile

being sufficiently near to allow of close observation. This mountain

separated the Apennines from the Carpathians. In the lunar orography they

have discerned some chains of mountains, which are chiefly distributed

over the northern hemisphere. Some, however, occupy certain portions of

the southern hemisphere also.

About two o'clock in the morning Barbicane found that they were above the

twentieth lunar parallel. The distance of the projectile from the moon

was not more than 600 miles. Barbicane, now perceiving that the projectile

was steadily approaching the lunar disc, did not despair, if of reaching

her, at least of discovering the secrets of her configuration.

CHAPTER XIII.

LUNAR LANDSCAPES.

At half-past two in the morning, the projectile was over the thirteenth

lunar parallel and at the effective distance of 500 miles, reduced by

the glasses to five. It still seemed impossible, however, that it could

ever touch any part of the disc. Its motive speed, comparatively so

moderate, was inexplicable to President Barbicane. At that distance from

the moon it must have been considerable, to enable it to bear up against

her attraction. Here was a phenomenon the cause of which escaped them

again. Besides, time failed them to investigate the cause. All lunar

relief was defiling under the eyes of the travellers, and they would not

lose a single detail.

Under the glasses the disc appeared at the distance of five miles. What

would an aeronaut, borne to this distance from the earth, distinguish on

its surface? We cannot say, since the greatest ascension has not been

more than 25,000 feet.

This, however, is an exact description of what Barbicane and his companions

saw at this height. Large patches of different colours appeared on the

disc. Selenographers are not agreed upon the nature of these colours.

There are several, and rather vividly marked. Julius Schmidt pretends

that, if the terrestrial oceans were dried up, a Selenite observer could

not distinguish on the globe a greater diversity of shades between the

oceans and the continental plains than those on the moon present to a

terrestrial observer. According to him, the colour common to the vast

plains known by the name of "seas" is a dark grey mixed with green and

brown. Some of the large craters present the same appearance. Barbicane

knew this opinion of the German selenographer, an opinion shared by Bœer

and Moedler. Observation has proved that right was on their side, and not

on that of some astronomers who admit the existence of only grey on the

moon's surface. In some parts green was very distinct, such as springs,

according to Julius Schmidt, from the seas of Serenity and Humours.

Barbicane also noticed large craters, without any interior cones, which

shed a bluish tint similar to the reflection of a sheet of steel freshly

polished. These colours belonged really to the lunar disc, and did not

result, as some astronomers say, either from the imperfection in the

objective of the glasses or from the interposition of the terrestrial

atmosphere.

Not a doubt existed in Barbicane's mind with regard to it, as he observed

it through space, and so could not commit any optical error. He considered

the establishment of this fact as an acquisition to science. Now, were

these shades of green, belonging to tropical vegetation, kept up by a

low dense atmosphere? He could not yet say.

Farther on, he noticed a reddish tint, quite defined. The same shade had

before been observed at the bottom of an isolated enclosure, known by

the name of Lichtenburg's circle, which is situated near the Hercynian

mountains, on the borders of the moon; but they could not tell the nature

of it.

They were not more fortunate with regard to another peculiarity of the

disc, for they could not decide upon the cause of it.

Michel Ardan was watching near the president, when he noticed long

white lines, vividly lighted up by the direct rays of the sun. It was

a succession of luminous furrows, very different from the radiation of

Copernicus not long before; they ran parallel with each other.

Michel, with his usual readiness, hastened to exclaim,— "Look there!

cultivated fields!"

Illustration: "WHAT GIANT OXEN."

"Cultivated fields!" replied Nicholl, shrugging his shoulders.

"Ploughed, at all events," retorted Michel Ardan; "but what labourers

those Selenites must be, and what giant oxen they must harness to their

plough to cut such furrows!"

"They are not furrows," said Barbicane; "they are _rifts_."

"Rifts? stuff!" replied Michel mildly; "but what do you mean by 'rifts'

in the scientific world?"

Barbicane immediately enlightened his companion as to what he knew about

lunar rifts. He knew that they were a kind of furrow found on every part

of the disc which was not mountainous; that these furrows, generally

isolated, measured from 400 to 500 leagues in length; that their breadth

varied from 1000 to 1500 yards, and that their borders were strictly

parallel; but he knew nothing more either of their formation or their

nature.

Barbicane, through his glasses, observed these rifts with great attention.

He noticed that their borders were formed of steep declivities; they

were long parallel ramparts, and with some small amount of imagination

he might have admitted the existence of long lines of fortifications,

raised by Selenite engineers. Of these different rifts some were perfectly

straight, as if cut by a line; others were slightly curved, though still

keeping their borders parallel; some crossed each other, some cut through

craters; here they wound through ordinary cavities, such as Posidonius or

Petavius; there they wound through the seas, such as the Sea of Serenity.

These natural accidents naturally excited the imaginations of these

terrestrial astronomers. The first observations had not discovered these

rifts. Neither Hevelius, Cassim, La Hire, nor Herschel seemed to have

known them. It was Schroeter who in 1789 first drew attention to them.

Others followed who studied them, as Pastorff, Gruithuysen, Bœer, and

Moedler. At this time their number amounts to seventy; but, if they

have been counted, their nature has not yet been determined; they are

certainly not fortifications, any more than they are the ancient beds of

dried-up rivers; for, on one side, the waters, so slight on the moon's

surface, could never have worn such drains for themselves; and, on the

other, they often cross craters of great elevation.

We must, however, allow that Michel Ardan had "an idea," and that,

without knowing it, he coincided in that respect with Julius Schmidt.

"Why," said he, "should not these unaccountable appearances be simply

phenomena of vegetation?"

"What do you mean?" asked Barbicane quickly.

"Do not excite yourself, my worthy president," replied Michel; "might it

not be possible that the dark lines forming that bastion were rows of

trees regularly placed?"

"You stick to your vegetation, then?" said Barbicane.

"I like," retorted Michel Ardan, "to explain what you savants cannot

explain; at least my hypothesis has the advantage of indicating why these

rifts disappear, or seem to disappear, at certain seasons."

"And for what reason?"

"For the reason that the trees become invisible when they lose their

leaves, and visible when they regain them."

"Your explanation is ingenious, my dear companion," replied Barbicane,

"but inadmissible."

"Why?"

"Because, so to speak, there are no seasons on the moon's surface, and

that, consequently, the phenomena of vegetation of which you speak cannot

occur."

Indeed, the slight obliquity of the lunar axis keeps the sun at an almost

equal height in every latitude. Above the equatorial regions the radiant

orb almost invariably occupies the zenith, and does not pass the limits

of the horizon in the polar regions; thus, according to each region,

there reigns a perpetual winter, spring, summer, or autumn, as in the

planet Jupiter, whose axis is but little inclined upon its orbit.

Illustration: HE COULD DISTINGUISH NOTHING BUT DESERT BEDS.

What origin do they attribute to these rifts? That is a question difficult

to solve. They are certainly anterior to the formation of craters and

circles, for several have introduced themselves by breaking through their

circular ramparts. Thus it may be that, contemporary with the latter

geological epochs, they are due to the expansion of natural forces.

But the projectile had now attained the 40° of lunar lat., at a distance

not exceeding 400 miles. Through the glasses objects appeared to be only

four miles distant.

At this point, under their feet, rose Mount Helicon, 1520 feet high,

and round about the left rose moderate elevations, enclosing a small

portion of the "Sea of Rains," under the name of the Gulf of Iris. The

terrestrial atmosphere would have to be one hundred and seventy times more

transparent than it is, to allow astronomers to make perfect observations

on the moon's surface; but in the void in which the projectile floated

no fluid interposed itself between the eye of the observer and the

object observed. And more, Barbicane found himself carried to a greater

distance than the most powerful telescopes had ever done before, either

that of Lord Rosse or that of the Rocky Mountains. He was, therefore,

under extremely favourable conditions for solving that great question

of the habitability of the moon; but the solution still escaped him; he

could distinguish nothing but desert beds, immense plains, and towards

the north, arid mountains. Not a work betrayed the hand of man; not a

ruin marked his course; not a group of animals was to be seen indicating

life, even in an inferior degree. In no part was there life, in no part

was there an appearance of vegetation. Of the three kingdoms which share

the terrestrial globe between them, one alone was represented on the

lunar and that the mineral.

"Ah, indeed!" said Michel Ardan, a little out of countenance; "then you

see no one?"

"No," answered Nicholl; "up to this time not a man, not an animal, not

a tree! After all, whether the atmosphere has taken refuge at the bottom

of cavities, in the midst of the circles, or even on the opposite face

of the moon, we cannot decide."

"Besides," added Barbicane, "even to the most piercing eye a man cannot

be distinguished farther than three miles and a half off; so that, if

there are any Selenites, they can see our projectile, but we cannot see

them."

Towards four in the morning, at the height of the fiftieth parallel, the

distance was reduced to 300 miles. To the left ran a line of mountains

capriciously shaped, lying in the full light. To the right, on the

contrary, lay a black hollow resembling a vast well, unfathomable and

gloomy, drilled into the lunar soil.

This hole was the "Black Lake;" it was Pluto, a deep circle which can be

conveniently studied from the earth, between the last quarter and the

new moon, when the shadows fall from west to east.

This black colour is rarely met with on the surface of the satellite. As

yet it has only been recognized in the depths of the circle of Endymion,

to the east of the Cold Sea, in the northern hemisphere, and at the

bottom of Grimaldi's circle, on the equator, towards the eastern border

of the orb.

Pluto is an annular mountain, situated in 51° north latitude, and 9°

east longitude. Its circuit is forty-seven miles long and thirty-two

broad.

Barbicane regretted that they were not passing directly above this vast

opening. There was an abyss to fathom, perhaps some mysterious phenomenon

to surprise; but the projectile's course could not be altered. They must

rigidly submit. They could not guide a balloon, still less a projectile,

when once enclosed within its walls. Towards five in the morning the

northern limits of the Sea of Rains was at length passed. The mounts

of Condamine and Fontenelle remained—one on the right, the other on

the left. That part of the disc beginning with 60° was becoming quite

mountainous. The glasses brought them to within two miles, less than

that separating the summit of Mont Blanc from the level of the sea. The

whole region was bristling with spikes and circles. Towards the 60°

Philolaus stood predominant at a height of 5550 feet with its elliptical

crater, and seen from this distance, the disc showed a very fantastical

appearance. Landscapes were presented to the eye under very different

conditions from those on the earth, and also very inferior to

them.

The moon having no atmosphere, the consequences arising from the absence

of this gaseous envelope have already been shown. No twilight on her

surface; night following day and day following night with the suddenness

of a lamp which is extinguished or lighted amidst profound darkness,—no

transition from cold to heat, the temperature falling in an instant from

boiling point to the cold of space.

Another consequence of this want of air is that absolute darkness

reigns where the sun's rays do not penetrate. That which on earth is

called diffusion of light, that luminous matter which the air holds in

suspension, which creates the twilight and the daybreak, which produces

the _umbræ_ and the _penumbræ_, and all the magic of _chiaro-oscuro_,

does not exist on the moon. Hence the harshness of contrasts, which only

admit of two colours, black and white. If a Selenite were to shade his

eyes from the sun's rays, the sky would seem absolutely black, and the

stars would shine to him as on the darkest night. Judge of the impression

produced on Barbicane and his three friends by this strange scene! Their

eyes were confused. They could no longer grasp the respective distances

of the different plains. A lunar landscape without the softening of the

phenomena of _chiaro-oscuro_ could not be rendered by an earthly landscape

painter: it would be spots of ink on a white page—nothing

more.

This aspect was not altered even when the projectile, at the height of

80°, was only separated from the moon by a distance of fifty miles; nor

even when, at five in the morning, it passed at less than twenty-five

miles from the mountain of Gioja, a distance reduced by the glasses to

a quarter of a mile. It seemed as if the moon might be touched by the

hand! It seemed impossible that, before long, the projectile would not

strike her, if only at the north pole, the brilliant arch of which was

so distinctly visible on the black sky.

Michel Ardan wanted to open one of the scuttles and throw himself on to

the moon's surface! A very useless attempt; for if the projectile could

not attain any point whatever of the satellite, Michel, carried along by

its motion, could not attain it either.

At that moment, at six o'clock, the lunar pole appeared. The disc only

presented to the travellers' gaze one half brilliantly lit up, whilst

the other disappeared in the darkness. Suddenly the projectile passed

the line of demarcation between intense light and absolute darkness, and

was plunged in profound night!

CHAPTER XIV.

THE NIGHT OF THREE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-FOUR HOURS

AND A HALF.

At the moment when this phenomenon took place so rapidly, the projectile

was skirting the moon's north pole at less than twenty-five miles

distance. Some seconds had sufficed to plunge it into the absolute

darkness of space. The transition was so sudden, without shade, without

gradation of light, without attenuation of the luminous waves, that the

orb seemed to have been extinguished by a powerful blow.

"Melted, disappeared!" Michel Ardan exclaimed, aghast.

Indeed, there was neither reflection nor shadow. Nothing more was to be

seen of that disc, formerly so dazzling. The darkness was complete, and

rendered even more so by the rays from the stars. It was "that blackness"

in which the lunar nights are insteeped, which last three hundred and

four hours and a half at each point of the disc, a long night resulting

from the equality of the translatory and rotary movements of the moon. The

projectile, immerged in the conical shadow of the satellite, experienced

the action of the solar rays no more than any of its invisible points.

In the interior, the obscurity was complete. They could not see each

other. Hence the necessity of dispelling the darkness. However desirous

Barbicane might be to husband the gas, the reserve of which was small,

he was obliged to ask from it a fictitious light, an expensive brilliancy

which the sun then refused.

"Devil take the radiant orb!" exclaimed Michel Ardan, "which forces us

to expend gas, instead of giving us his rays gratuitously."

"Do not let us accuse the sun," said Nicholl, "it is not his fault, but

that of the moon, which has come and placed herself like a screen between

us and it."

"It is the sun!" continued Michel.

"It is the moon!" retorted Nicholl.

An idle dispute, which Barbicane put an end to by saying,—

"My friends, it is neither the fault of the sun nor of the moon; it is

the fault of the _projectile_, which, instead of rigidly following its

course, has awkwardly missed it. To be more just, it is the fault of that

unfortunate meteor which has so deplorably altered our first direction."

"Well," replied Michel Ardan, "as the matter is settled, let us have

breakfast. After a whole night of watching it is fair to build ourselves

up a little."

This proposal meeting with no contradiction, Michel prepared the repast

in a few minutes. But they ate for eating's sake, they drank without

toasts, without hurrahs. The bold travellers being borne away into gloomy

space, without their accustomed cortège of rays, felt a vague uneasiness

at their hearts. The "strange" shadow so dear to Victor Hugo's pen bound

them on all sides. But they talked over the interminable night of three

hundred and fifty-four hours and a half, nearly fifteen days, which the

law of physics has imposed on the inhabitants of the moon.

Barbicane gave his friends some explanation of the causes and the

consequences of this curious phenomenon.

"Curious indeed," said they; "for, if each hemisphere of the moon is

deprived of solar light for fifteen days, that above which we now float

does not even enjoy during its long night any view of the earth so

beautifully lit up. In a word she has no moon (applying this designation

to our globe) but on one side of her disc. Now if this were the case

with the earth,—if, for example, Europe never saw the moon, and she

was only visible at the Antipodes, imagine to yourself the astonishment

of a European on arriving in Australia."

Illustration: "IT IS THE FAULT OF THE MOON."

"They would make the voyage for nothing but to see the moon!" replied

Michel.

"Very well!" continued Barbicane, "that astonishment is reserved for the

Selenites who inhabit the face of the moon opposite to the earth, a face

which is ever invisible to our countrymen of the terrestrial globe."

"And which we should have seen," added Nicholl, "if we had arrived here

when the moon was new, that is to say fifteen days later."

"I will add, to make amends," continued Barbicane, "that the inhabitants

of the visible face are singularly favoured by nature, to the detriment

of their brethren on the invisible face. The latter, as you see, have

dark nights of 354 hours, without one single ray to break the darkness.

The other, on the contrary, when the sun which has given its light for

fifteen days sinks below the horizon, see a splendid orb rise on the

opposite horizon. It is the earth, which is thirteen times greater than

that diminutive moon that we know;—the earth which develops itself

at a diameter of two degrees, and which sheds a light thirteen times

greater than that qualified by atmospheric strata—the earth which only

disappears at the moment when the sun reappears in its turn!"

"Nicely worded!" said Michel, "slightly academical perhaps."

"It follows, then," continued Barbicane, without knitting his brows,

"that the visible face of the disc must be very agreeable to inhabit,

since it always looks on either the sun when the moon is full, or on the

earth when the moon is new."

"But," said Nicholl, "that advantage must be well compensated by the

insupportable heat which the light brings with it."

"The inconvenience, in that respect, is the same for the two faces, for

the earth's light is evidently deprived of heat. But the invisible face

is still more searched by the heat than the visible face. I say that for

_you_, Nicholl, because Michel will probably not understand."

"Thank you," said Michel.

"Indeed," continued Barbicane, "when the invisible face receives at

the same time light and heat from the sun, it is because the moon is

new; that is to say, she is situated between the sun and the earth. It

follows, then, considering the position which she occupies in opposition

when full, that she is nearer to the sun by twice her distance from the

earth; and that distance may be estimated at the two-hundredth part of

that which separates the sun from the earth, or in round numbers 400,000

miles. So that invisible face is so much nearer to the sun when she

receives its rays."

"Quite right," replied Nicholl.

"On the contrary," continued Barbicane.

"One moment," said Michel, interrupting his grave companion.

"What do you want?"

"I ask to be allowed to continue the explanation."

"And why?"

"To prove that I understand."

"Get along with you," said Barbicane, smiling.

"On the contrary," said Michel, imitating the tone and gestures of the

president, "on the contrary, when the visible face of the moon is lit by

the sun, it is because the moon is full, that is to say, opposite the

sun with regard to the earth. The distance separating it from the radiant

orb is then increased in round numbers to 400,000 miles, and the heat

which she receives must be a little less."

"Very well said!" exclaimed Barbicane. "Do you know, Michel, that, for

an amateur, you are intelligent."

"Yes," replied Michel coolly, "we are all so on the Boulevard des

Italiens."

Barbicane gravely clasped the hand of his amiable companion, and continued

to enumerate the advantages reserved for the inhabitants of the visible

face.

Amongst others, he mentioned eclipses of the sun, which only take place

on this side of the lunar disc; since, in order that they may take place,

it is necessary for the moon to be _in opposition_. These eclipses,

caused by the interposition of the earth between the moon and the sun,

can last _two hours_; during which time, by reason of the rays refracted

by its atmosphere, the terrestrial globe can appear as nothing but a

black point upon the sun.

"So," said Nicholl, "there is a hemisphere, that invisible hemisphere

which is very ill supplied, very ill treated, by nature."

"Never mind," replied Michel; "if we ever become Selenites, we will

inhabit the visible face. I like the light."

"Unless, by any chance," answered Nicholl, "the atmosphere should be

condensed on the other side, as certain astronomers pretend."

"That would be a consideration," said Michel.

Breakfast over, the observers returned to their post. They tried to

see through the darkened scuttles by extinguishing all light in the

projectile; but not a luminous spark made its way through the darkness.

One inexplicable fact preoccupied Barbicane. Why, having passed within

such a short distance of the moon—about twenty-five miles only—why

the projectile had not fallen? If its speed had been enormous, he could

have understood that the fall would not have taken place; but, with

a relatively moderate speed, that resistance to the moon's attraction

could not be explained. Was the projectile under some foreign influence?

Did some kind of body retain it in the ether? It was quite evident that

it could never reach any point of the moon. Whither was it going? Was

it going farther from, or nearing, the disc? Was it being borne in that

profound darkness through the infinity of space? How could they learn,

how calculate, in the midst of this night? All these questions made

Barbicane uneasy, but he could not solve them.

Certainly, the invisible orb was _there_, perhaps only some few miles

off; but neither he nor his companions could see it. If there was any

noise on its surface, they could not hear it. Air, that medium of sound,

was wanting to transmit the groanings of that moon which the Arabic

legends call "a man already half granite, and still breathing."

One must allow that that was enough to aggravate the most patient

observers. It was just that unknown hemisphere which was stealing from

their sight. That face which fifteen days sooner, or fifteen days later,

had been, or would be, splendidly illuminated by the solar rays, was then

being lost in utter darkness. In fifteen days where would the projectile

be? Who could say? Where would the chances of conflicting attractions

have drawn it to? The disappointment of the travellers in the midst of

this utter darkness may be imagined. All observation of the lunar disc

was impossible. The constellations alone claimed all their attention;

and we must allow that the astronomers Faye, Charconac, and Secchi, never

found themselves in circumstances so favourable for their

observation.

Indeed, nothing could equal the splendour of this starry world, bathed

in limpid ether. Its diamonds set in the heavenly vault sparkled

magnificently. The eye took in the firmament from the Southern Cross to

the North Star, those two constellations which in 12,000 years, by reason

of the succession of equinoxes, will resign their part of polar stars,

the one to Canopus in the southern hemisphere, the other to Wega in

the northern. Imagination loses itself in this sublime Infinity, amidst

which the projectile was gravitating, like a new star created by the

hand of man. From a natural cause, these constellations shone with a soft

lustre; they did not _twinkle_, for there was no atmosphere which, by

the intervention of its layers unequally dense and of different degrees

of humidity, produces this scintillation. These stars were soft eyes,

looking out into the dark night, amidst the silence of absolute

space.

Illustration: NOTHING COULD EQUAL THE SPLENDOR OF THIS STARRY WORLD.

Long did the travellers stand mute, watching the constellated firmament,

upon which the moon, like a vast screen, made an enormous black hole.

But at length a painful sensation drew them from their watchings. This

was an intense cold, which soon covered the inside of the glass of the

scuttles with a thick coating of ice. The sun was no longer warming the

projectile with its direct rays, and thus it was losing the heat stored

up in its walls by degrees. This heat was rapidly evaporating into space

by radiation, and a considerably lower temperature was the result. The

humidity of the interior was changed into ice upon contact with the

glass, preventing all observation.

Nicholl consulted the thermometer, and saw that it had fallen to seventeen

degrees (centigrade) below zero.* So that, in spite of the many reasons

for economizing, Barbicane, after having begged light from the gas, was

also obliged to beg for heat. The projectile's low temperature was no

longer endurable. Its tenants would have been frozen to death.

*1° Fahr. (Ed.)

"Well!" observed Michel, "we cannot reasonably complain of the monotony

of our journey! What variety we have had, at least in temperature. Now

we are blinded with light and saturated with heat, like the Indians of

the Pampas! now plunged into profound darkness, amidst the cold like the

Esquimauxs of the north pole. No, indeed! we have no right to complain;

nature does wonders in our honour."

"But," asked Nicholl, "what is the temperature outside?"

"Exactly that of the planetary space," replied Barbicane.

"Then," continued Michel Ardan, "would not this be the time to make the

experiment which we dared not attempt when we were drowned in the sun's

rays?"

"It is now or never," replied Barbicane, "for we are in a good position

to verify the temperature of space, and see if Fourier or Pouillet's

calculations are exact."

"In any case it is cold," said Michel. "See! the steam of the interior

is condensing on the glasses of the scuttles. If the fall continues, the

vapour of our breath will fall in snow around us."

"Let us prepare a thermometer," said Barbicane.

We may imagine that an ordinary thermometer would afford no result under

the circumstances in which this instrument was to be exposed. The mercury

would have been frozen in its ball, as below forty-two degrees below

zero* it is no longer liquid. But Barbicane had furnished himself with

a spirit thermometer on Wafferdin's system, which gives the minima of

excessively low temperatures.

*-44° Fahr.

Before beginning the experiment, this instrument was compared with an

ordinary one, and then Barbicane prepared to use it.

"How shall we set about it?" asked Nicholl.

"Nothing is easier," replied Michel Ardan, who was never at a loss.

"We open the scuttle rapidly; throw out the instrument; it follows the

projectile with exemplary docility; and a quarter of an hour after, draw

it in."

"With the hand?" asked Barbicane.

"With the hand," replied Michel.

"Well then, my friend, do not expose yourself," answered Barbicane, "for

the hand that you draw in again will be nothing but a stump frozen and

deformed by the frightful cold."

"Really!"

"You will feel as if you had had a terrible burn, like that of iron at

a white heat; for whether the heat leaves our bodies briskly or enters

briskly, it is exactly the same thing. Besides, I am not at all certain

that the objects we have thrown out are still following us."

"Why not?" asked Nicholl.

"Because, if we are passing through an atmosphere of the slightest

density, these objects will be retarded. Again, the darkness prevents

our seeing if they still float around us. But in order not to expose

ourselves to the loss of our thermometer, we will fasten it, and we can

then more easily pull it back again."

Illustration: "THE VAPOR OF OUR BREATH WILL FALL IN SNOW

AROUND US."

Barbicane's advice was followed. Through the scuttle rapidly opened,

Nicholl threw out the instrument which was held by a short cord, so that

it might be more easily drawn up. The scuttle had not been opened more

than a second, but that second had sufficed to let in a most intense

cold.

"The devil!" exclaimed Michel Ardan, "it is cold enough to freeze a white

bear."

Barbicane waited until half an hour had elapsed, which was more than time

enough to allow the instrument to fall to the level of the surrounding

temperature. Then it was rapidly pulled in.

Barbicane calculated the quantity of spirits of wine overflowed into the

little phial soldered to the lower part of the instrument, and said,—

"A hundred and forty degrees centigrade* below zero!"

*-218° Fahr. (Ed.)

M. Pouillet was right and Fourier wrong. That was the undoubted temperature

of the starry space. Such is, perhaps, that of the lunar continents, when

the orb of night has lost by radiation all the heat which fifteen days

of sun have poured into her.

CHAPTER XV.

HYPERBOLA OR PARABOLA.

We may, perhaps, be astonished to find Barbicane and his companions so

little occupied with the future reserved for them in their metal prison

which was bearing them through the infinity of space. Instead of asking

where they were going, they passed their time making experiments, as if

they had been quietly installed in their own study.

We might answer that men so strong-minded were above such anxieties—that

they did not trouble themselves about such trifles—and that they had

something else to do than to occupy their minds with the future.

The truth was that they were not masters of their projectile; they could

neither check its course, nor alter its direction.

A sailor can change the head of his ship as he pleases; an aeronaut can

give a vertical motion to his balloon. They, on the contrary, had no power

over their vehicle. Every maneuver was forbidden. Hence the inclination

to let things alone, or as the sailors say, "let her run."

Where did they find themselves at this moment, at eight o'clock in the

morning of the day called upon the earth the 6th of December? Very

certainly in the neighbourhood of the moon, and even near enough for her

to look to them like an enormous black screen upon the firmament. As to

the distance which separated them, it was impossible to estimate it. The

projectile, held by some unaccountable force, had been within four miles

of grazing the satellite's north pole.

Illustration: A DISCUSSION AROSE.

But since entering the cone of shadow these last two hours, had the

distance increased or diminished? Every point of mark was wanting by

which to estimate both the direction and the speed of the projectile.

Perhaps it was rapidly leaving the disc, so that it would soon quit the

pure shadow. Perhaps, again, on the other hand, it might be nearing it

so much that in a short time it might strike some high point on the

invisible hemisphere, which would doubtlessly have ended the journey much

to the detriment of the travellers.

A discussion arose on this subject, and Michel Ardan, always ready with

an explanation, gave it as his opinion that the projectile, held by the

lunar attraction, would end by falling on the surface of the terrestrial

globe like an aërolite.

"First of all, my friend," answered Barbicane, "every aërolite does not

fall to the earth; it is only a small proportion which do so; and if we

had passed into an aërolite, it does not necessarily follow that we

should ever reach the surface of the moon."

"But how if we get near enough?" replied Michel.

"Pure mistake," replied Barbicane. "Have you not seen shooting stars rush

through the sky by thousands at certain seasons?"

"Yes."

"Well, these stars, or rather corpuscules, only shine when they are

heated by gliding over the atmospheric layers. Now, if they enter the

atmosphere, they pass at least within forty miles of the earth, but they

seldom fall upon it. The same with our projectile. It may approach very

near to the moon, and yet not fall upon it."

"But then," asked Michel, "I shall be curious to know how our erring

vehicle will act in space?"

"I see but two hypotheses," replied Barbicane, after some moments'

reflection.

"What are they?"

"The projectile has the choice between two mathematical curves, and it

will follow one or the other according to the speed with which it is

animated, and which at this moment I cannot estimate."

"Yes," said Nicholl, "it will follow either a parabola or a hyperbola."

"Just so," replied Barbicane. "With a certain speed it will assume the

parabola, and with a greater the hyperbola."

"I like those grand words," exclaimed Michel Ardan; "one knows directly

what they mean. And pray what is your parabola, if you please?"

"My friend," answered the captain, "the parabola is a curve of the

second order, the result of the section of a cone intersected by a plane

parallel to one of its sides."

"Ah! ah!" said Michel, in a satisfied tone.

"It is very nearly," continued Nicholl, "the course described by a bomb

launched from a mortar."

"Perfect! And the hyperbola?"

"The hyperbola, Michel, is a curve of the second order, produced by the

intersection of a conic surface and a plane parallel to its axis, and

constitutes two branches separated one from the other, both tending

indefinitely in the two directions."

"Is it possible!" exclaimed Michel Ardan in a serious tone, as if they

had told him of some serious event. "What I particularly like in your

definition of the hyperbola (I was going to say hyperblague) is that it

is still more obscure than the word you pretend to define."

Nicholl and Barbicane cared little for Michel Ardan's fun. They were deep

in a scientific discussion. What curve would the projectile follow? was

their hobby. One maintained the hyperbola, the other the parabola. They

gave each other reasons bristling with _x_. Their arguments were couched

in language which made Michel jump. The discussion was hot, and neither

would give up his chosen curve to his adversary.