THE HEART OF THE MOON
Norton, whose watch it was, had already hurried toward the pilot room
where were located the controls and the various instruments. This room,
which was just forward of the engine-room, was in effect a circular
conning-tower which projected about twelve inches above the upper hull.
The entire circumference of this twelve inch superstructure was set with
small ports of thick crystal glass.
As I turned to follow Norton I spoke to West. “Mr. West,” I said, “you
and Mr. Jay will place Lieutenant Commander Orthis in irons immediately.
If he resists, kill him.”
As I hurried after Norton I heard a volley of oaths from Orthis and a
burst of almost maniacal laughter. When I reached the pilot house I
found Norton working very quietly with the controls. There was nothing
hysterical in his movements, but his face was absolutely ashen.
“What is wrong, Mr. Norton?” I asked. But as I looked at the compass
simultaneously I read my answer there before he spoke. We were moving at
right angles to our proper course.
“We are falling toward the Moon, sir,” he said, “and she does not
respond to her control.”
“Shut down the engines,” I ordered, “they are only accelerating our
fall.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” he replied.
“The Lunar Eighth Ray tank is of sufficient capacity to keep us off the
Moon,” I said. “If it has not been tampered with, we should be in no
danger of falling to the Moon’s surface.”
“If it has not been tampered with, sir; yes, sir, that is what I have
been thinking.”
“But the gauge here shows it full to capacity,” I reminded him.
“I know, sir,” he replied, “but if it were full to capacity, we should
not be falling so rapidly.”
Immediately I fell to examining the gauge, almost at once discovering
that it had been tampered with and the needle set permanently to
indicate a maximum supply. I turned to my companion.
“Mr. Norton,” I said, “please go forward and investigate the Lunar
Eighth Ray tank, and report back to me immediately.”
The young man saluted and departed. As he approached the tank it was
necessary for him to crawl through a very restricted place beneath the
deck.
In about five minutes Norton returned. He was not so pale as he had
been, but he looked very haggard.
“Well?” I inquired as he halted before me.
“The exterior intake valve has been opened, sir,” he said, “the rays
were escaping into space. I have closed it, sir.”
The valve to which he referred was used only when the ship was in dry
dock, for the purpose of refilling the buoyancy tank, and, because it
was so seldom used and as a further precaution against accident, the
valve was placed in an inaccessible part of the hull where there was
absolutely no likelihood of its being accidentally opened.
Norton glanced at the instrument. “We are not falling quite so rapidly
now,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied, “I had noted that, and I have also been able to adjust
the Lunar Eighth Ray gauge—it shows that we have about half the
original pressure.”
“Not enough to keep us from going aground,” he commented.
“No, not here, where there is no atmosphere. If the Moon had an
atmosphere we could at least keep off the surface if we wished to. As it
is, however, I imagine that we will be able to make a safe landing,
though, of course that will do us little good. You understand, I
suppose, Mr. Norton, that this is practically the end.”
He nodded. “It will be a sad blow to the inhabitants of two worlds,” he
remarked, his entire forgetfulness of self indicating the true nobility
of his character.
“It is a sad report to broadcast,” I remarked, “but it must be done, and
at once. You will, please, send the following message to the Secretary
of Peace:
“U. S. S. _The Barsoom_, January 6, 2026, about twenty thousand miles
off the Moon. Lieutenant Commander Orthis, while under the influence of
liquor, has destroyed auxiliary engine and opened exterior intake valve
Lunar Eighth Ray buoyancy tank. Ship sinking rapidly. Will keep you—”
Norton who had seated himself at the radio desk leaped suddenly to his
feet and turned toward me. “My God, sir,” he cried, “he has destroyed
the radio outfit also. We can neither send nor receive.”
A careful examination revealed the fact that Orthis had so cleverly and
completely destroyed the instruments that there was no hope of repairing
them. I turned to Norton.
“We are not only dead, Norton, but we are buried, as well.”
I smiled as I spoke and he answered me with a smile that betokened his
utter fearlessness of death.
“I have but one regret, sir,” he said, “and that is that the world will
never know that our failure was not due to any weakness of our
machinery, ship or equipment.”
“That is, indeed, too bad,” I replied, “for it will retard
transportation between the two worlds possibly a hundred years—maybe
forever.”
I called to West and Jay who by this time had placed Orthis in irons and
confined him to his stateroom. When they came I told them what had
happened, and they took it as coolly as did Norton. Nor was I surprised,
for these were fine types selected from the best of that splendid
organization which officered the International Peace Fleet.
Together we immediately made a careful inspection of the ship, which
revealed no further damage than that which we had already discovered,
but which was sufficient as we well knew, to preclude any possibility of
our escaping from the pull of the Moon.
“You gentlemen realize our position as well as I,” I told them. “Could
we repair the auxiliary generator we might isolate the Lunar Eighth Ray,
refill our tank, and resume our voyage. But the diabolical cleverness
with which Lieutenant Commander Orthis has wrecked the machine renders
this impossible. We might fight away from the surface of the Moon for a
considerable period, but in the end it would avail us nothing. It is my
plan, therefore, to make a landing. In so far as the actual lunar
conditions are concerned, we are confronted only by a mass of theories,
many of which are conflicting. It will, therefore, be at least a matter
of consuming interest to us to make a landing upon this dead world where
we may observe it closely, but there is also the possibility, remote, I
grant you, that we may discover conditions there which may in some
manner alleviate our position. At least we can be no worse off. To live
for fifteen years cooped in the hull of this dead ship is unthinkable. I
may speak only for myself, but to me it would be highly preferable to
die immediately than to live on thus, knowing that there was no hope of
rescue. Had Orthis not destroyed the radio outfit we could have
communicated with Earth and another ship been outfitted and sent to our
rescue inside a year. But now we cannot tell them, and they will never
know our fate. The emergency that has arisen has, however, so altered
conditions that I do not feel warranted in taking this step without
consulting you gentlemen. It is a matter now largely of the duration of
our lives. I cannot proceed upon the mission upon which I have been
dispatched, nor can I return to Earth. I wish, therefore, that you would
express yourselves freely concerning the plan which I have outlined.”
West, who was the senior among them, was naturally the one to reply
first. He told me that he was content to go wherever I led, and Jay and
Norton in turn signified a similar willingness to abide by whatever
decision I might reach. They also assured me that they were as keen to
explore the surface of the Moon at close range as I, and that they could
think of no better way of spending the remainder of their lives than in
the acquisition of new experiences and the observation of new scenes.
“Very well, Mr. Norton,” I said, “you will set your course directly
toward the Moon.”
Aided by lunar gravity our descent was rapid.
As we plunged through space at a terrific speed, the satellite seemed to
be leaping madly toward us, and at the end of fifteen hours I gave
orders to slack off and brought the ship almost to a stop about nine
thousand feet above the summit of the higher lunar peaks. Never before
had I gazed upon a more awe-inspiring scene than that presented by those
terrific peaks towering five miles above the broad valleys at their
feet. Sheer cliffs of three and four thousand feet were nothing
uncommon, and all was rendered weirdly beautiful by the variegated
colors of the rocks and the strange prismatic hues of the
rapidly-growing vegetation upon the valley floors. From our lofty
elevation above the peaks we could see many craters of various
dimensions, some of which were huge chasms, three and four miles in
diameter. As we descended slowly we drifted directly over one of these
abysses, into the impenetrable depths of which we sought to strain our
eyesight. Some of us believed that we detected a faint luminosity far
below, but of that we could not be certain. Jay thought it might be the
reflected light from the molten interior. I was confident that had this
been the case there would have been a considerable rise of temperature
as we passed low across the mouth of the crater.
At this altitude we made an interesting discovery. There is an
atmosphere surrounding the Moon. It is extremely tenuous, but yet it was
recorded by our barometer at an altitude of about fifteen hundred feet
above the highest peak we crossed. Doubtless in the valleys and deep
ravines, where the vegetation thrived, it is denser, but that I do not
know, since we never landed upon the surface of the Moon. As the ship
drifted we presently noted that it was taking a circular course
paralleling the rim of the huge volcanic crater above which we were
descending. I immediately gave orders to alter our course since, as we
were descending constantly, we should presently be below the rim of the
crater and, being unable to rise, be hopelessly lost in its huge maw.
It was my plan to drift slowly over one of the larger valleys as we
descended, and make a landing amidst the vegetation which we perceived
growing in riotous profusion and movement beneath us. But when West,
whose watch it now was, attempted to alter the course of the ship, he
found that it did not respond. Instead it continued to move slowly in a
great circle around the inside rim of the crater. At the moment of this
discovery we were not much more than five hundred feet above the summit
of the volcano, and we were constantly, though slowly, dropping. West
looked up at us, smiled, and shook his head.
“It is no use, sir,” he said, addressing me. “It is about all over, sir,
and there won’t even be any shouting. We seem to be caught in what one
might call a lunar whirlpool, for you will have noticed, sir, that our
circles are constantly growing smaller.”
“Our speed does not seem to be increasing,” I remarked, “as would follow
were we approaching the vortex of a true whirlpool.”
“I think I can explain it, sir,” said Norton. “It is merely due to the
action of the Lunar Eighth Ray which still remains in the forward
buoyancy tank. Its natural tendency is to push itself away from the
Moon, which, as far as we are concerned, is represented by the rim of
this enormous crater. As each portion of the surface repels us in its
turn we are pushed gently along in a lessening circle, because, as we
drop nearer the summit of the peak the greater the reaction of the
Eighth Lunar Ray. If I am not mistaken in my theory our circle will
cease to narrow after we have dropped beneath the rim of the crater.”
“I guess you are right, Norton,” I said. “At least it is a far more
tenable theory than that we are being sucked into the vortex of an
enormous whirlpool. There is scarcely enough atmosphere for that, it
seems to me.”
As we dropped slowly below the rim of the crater the tenability of
Norton’s theory became more and more apparent, for presently, though our
speed increased slightly, the diameter of our circular course remained
constant, and, at a little greater depth, our speed as well. We were
descending now at the rate of a little over ten miles an hour, the
barometer recording a constantly increasing atmospheric pressure, though
nothing approximating that necessary to the support of life upon Earth.
The temperature rose slightly, but not alarmingly. From a range of
twenty-five or thirty below zero, immediately after we had entered the
shadow of the crater’s interior, it rose gradually to zero at a point
some one hundred and twenty-five miles below the summit of the giant
extinct volcano that had engulfed us.
During the next ten miles our speed diminished rapidly, until we
suddenly realized that we were no longer falling, but that our motion
had been reversed and we were rising. Up we went for approximately eight
miles, when suddenly we began to fall again. Again we fell, but this
time for only six miles, when our motion was reversed and we rose again
a distance of about four miles. This see-sawing was continued until we
finally came to rest at about what we estimated was a distance of some
one hundred and thirty miles below the summit of the crater. It was
quite dark, and we had only our instruments to tell us of what was
happening to the ship, the interior of which was, of course, brilliantly
illuminated and comfortably warm.
Now below us, and now above us, for the ship had rolled completely over
each time we had passed the point at which we came finally to rest, we
had noted the luminosity that Norton had first observed from above the
mouth of the crater. Each of us had been doing considerable thinking,
and at last young Norton could contain himself no longer.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said deferentially, “but you tell us what
you think of it; what your theory is as to where we are and why we hang
here in mid-air, and why the ship rolled over every time we passed this
point?”
“I can only account for it,” I replied, “upon a single and rather
preposterous hypothesis, which is that the Moon is a hollow sphere, with
a solid crust some two hundred and fifty miles in thickness. Gravity is
preventing us from rising above the point where we now are, while
centrifugal force keeps us from falling.”
The others nodded. They too had been forced to accept the same
apparently ridiculous theory, since there was none other that could
explain our predicament. Norton had walked across the room to read the
barometer which he had rather neglected while the ship had been
performing her eccentric antics far below the surface of the Moon. I saw
his brows knit as he glanced at it, and then I saw him studying it
carefully, as though to assure himself that he had made no mistake in
the reading. Then he turned toward us.
“There must be something wrong with this instrument, sir,” he said. “It
is registering pressure equivalent to that at the Earth’s surface.”
I walked over and looked at the instrument. It certainly was registering
the pressure that Norton had read, nor did there seem to be anything
wrong with the instrument.
“There is a way to find out,” I said. “We can shut down the insulating
generator and open an air-cock momentarily. It won’t take five seconds
to determine whether the barometer is correct or not.” It was, of
course, in some respects a risky proceeding, but with West at the
generator, Jay at the air-cock and Norton at the pump I knew that we
would be reasonably safe, even if there proved to be no atmosphere
without. The only danger lay in the chance that we were hanging in a
poisonous gas of the same density as the earthly atmosphere, but as
there was no particular incentive to live in the situation in which we
were, we each felt that no matter what chance we might take it would
make little difference in the eventual outcome of our expedition.
I tell you that it was a very tense moment as the three men took their
posts to await my word of command. If we had indeed discovered a true
atmosphere beneath the surface of the Moon, what more might we not
discover? If it were an atmosphere, we could propel the ship in it, and
we could, if nothing more, go out on deck to breathe fresh air. It was
arranged that at my word of command West was to shut off the generator,
Jay to open the air-cock, and Norton to start the pump. If fresh air
failed to enter through the tube Jay was to give the signal, whereupon
Norton would reverse the pump, West start the generator, and immediately
Jay would close the air-cock again.
As Jay was the only man who was to take a greater chance than the
others, I walked over and stood beside him, placing my nostrils as close
to the air-cock as his. Then I gave the word of command. Everything
worked perfectly and an instant later a rush of fresh, cold air was
pouring into the hull of _The Barsoom_. West and Norton had been
watching the effects upon our faces closely, so that they knew almost as
soon as we did that the result of our test had been satisfactory. We
were all smiles, though just why we were so happy I am sure none of us
could have told. Possibly it was just because we had found a condition
that was identical with an earthly condition, and though we might never
see our world again we could at least breathe air similar to hers.
I had them start the motors again then, and presently we were moving in
a great spiral upward toward the interior of the Moon. Our progress was
very slow, but as we rose the temperature rose slowly, too, while the
barometer showed a very-slightly-decreasing atmospheric pressure. The
luminosity, now above us, increased as we ascended, until finally the
sides of the great well through which we were passing became slightly
illuminated.
All this time Orthis had remained in irons in his stateroom. I had given
instructions that he was to be furnished food and water, but no one was
to speak to him, and I had taken Norton into my stateroom with me.
Knowing Orthis to be a drunkard, a traitor and a potential murderer I
had no sympathy whatsoever for him. I had determined to court-martial
him and did not intend to spend the few remaining hours or years of my
life cooped up in a small ship with him, and I knew that the verdict of
any court, whether composed of the remaining crew of _The Barsoom_ or
appointed by the Judge Advocate General of the Navy, could result in but
one thing, and that was death for Orthis. I had left the matter,
however, until we were not pressed with other matters of greater
importance, and so he still lived, though he shared neither in our
fears, our hopes, nor our joys.
About twenty-six hours after we entered the mouth of the crater at the
surface of the Moon we suddenly emerged from its opposite end to look
upon a scene that was as marvelous and weird, by comparison with the
landscape upon the surface of the Moon, as the latter was in comparison
with that of our own Earth. A soft, diffused light revealed to us in
turn mountains, valleys and sea, the details of which were more slowly
encompassed by our minds. The mountains were as rugged as those upon the
surface of the satellite, and appeared equally as lofty. They were,
however, clothed with verdure almost to their summits, at least a few
that were within our range of vision. And there were forests,
too—strange forests, of strange trees, so unearthly in appearance as to
suggest the weird phantasmagoria of a dream.
We did not rise much above five hundred feet from the opening of the
well through which we had come from outer space when I descried an
excellent landing place and determined to descend. This was readily
accomplished, and we made a safe landing close to a large forest and
near the bank of a small stream. Then we opened the forward hatch and
stepped out upon the deck of _The Barsoom_, the first Earth Men to
breathe the air of Luna. It was, according to Earth time, eleven A.M.,
January 8, 2026.
I think that the first thing which engaged our interest and attention
was the strange, and then, to us, unaccountable luminosity which
pervaded the interior of the Moon. Above us were banks of fleecy clouds,
the undersurfaces of which appeared to be lighted from beneath, while,
through breaks in the cloud banks we could discern a luminous firmament
beyond, though nowhere was there any suggestion of a central
incandescent orb radiating light and heat as does our sun. The clouds
themselves cast no shadows upon the ground, nor, in fact, were there any
well-defined shadows even directly beneath the hull of the ship or
surrounding the forest trees which grew close at hand. The shadows were
vague and nebulous, blending off into nothingness at their edges. We
ourselves cast no more shadows upon the deck of _The Barsoom_ than would
have been true upon a cloudy day on Earth. Yet the general illumination
surrounding us approximated that of a very slightly hazy Earth day. This
peculiar lunar light interested us profoundly, but it was some time
before we discovered the true explanation of its origin. It was of two
kinds, emanating from widely different sources, the chief of which was
due to the considerable radium content of the internal lunar soil, and
principally of the rock forming the loftier mountain ranges, the radium
being so combined as to diffuse a gentle perpetual light which pervaded
the entire interior of the Moon. The secondary source was sunlight,
which penetrated to the interior of the Moon through the hundreds of
thousands of huge craters penetrating the lunar crust. It was this
sunlight which carried heat to the inner world, maintaining a constant
temperature of about eighty degrees Fahrenheit.
Centrifugal force, in combination with the gravity of the Moon’s crust,
confined the internal lunar atmosphere to a blanket which we estimated
at about fifty miles in thickness over the inner surface of this buried
world. This atmosphere rarefies rapidly as one ascends the higher peaks,
with the result that these are constantly covered with perpetual snow
and ice, sending great glaciers down mighty gorges toward the central
seas. It is this condition which has probably prevented the atmosphere,
confined as it is within an almost solid sphere, from becoming
superheated, through the unthinkable ages that this condition must have
existed. The Earth seasons are reflected but slightly in the Moon, there
being but a few degrees difference between summer and winter. There are,
however, periodic wind-storms, which recur with greater or less
regularity once each sidereal month, due, I imagine, to the unequal
distribution of crater openings through the crust of the Moon, a fact
which must produce an unequal absorption of heat at various times and in
certain localities. The natural circulation of the lunar atmosphere,
affected as it is by the constantly-changing volume and direction of the
sun’s rays, as well as the great range of temperature between the
valleys and the ice-clad mountain peaks, produces frequent storms of
greater or less violence. High winds are accompanied by violent rains
upon the lower levels and blinding snowstorms among the barren heights
above the vegetation line. Rains which fall from low-hanging clouds are
warm and pleasant; those which come from high clouds are cold and
disagreeable, yet however violent or protracted the storm, the
illumination remains practically constant—there are never any dark,
lowering days within the Moon, nor is there any night.