 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 overexcited 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 fifth 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 disk. 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, Barbican reckoned that they would land on her northern hemisphere, where stretch immense plains, and where mountains are rare. A favourable circumstance if, as they thought, the lunar atmosphere was stored only in its depths. Besides, observed Michel Ardain, a plain is easier to disembark upon than a mountain. A cellar night, deposited in Europe on the summit of Mont Blanc, or in Asia at the top of the Himalayas, would not be quite in the right place. And, added Captain Nicole, on a flat ground, the projectile would remain motionless when it is once touched, whereas on a delclivity it would roll like an avalanche, and not being scrolls, we should not come out to save and sound. So it is all for the best. Indeed, the success of the audacious attempt no longer appeared doubtful. But Barbican was preoccupied with one thought. But not wishing to make his companions uneasy, he kept silence on this subject. The direction the projectile was taking towards the moon 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 disk. If it did not land there, there must have been some deviation. What had caused it? Barbican 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 nearer the upper border of the moon, a region more suitable for landing. Without imparting his uneasiness to his companions, Barbican 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 disk should be launched into interplanetary space. At that moment the moon, instead of appearing like a flat disk, showed its convexity. If the sun's rays had struck it obliquely, the shadow throne 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 fishes which wound through the immense plains. But all relief was as yet levelled in intense brilliancy. They could scarcely distinguish those large spots which gave the moon the appearance of a human face. "'Face, indeed,' said Michel Ardain, but I am sorry for the aiming-built 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 water-course is emptying the mountain tributaries. Leaning over the abyss, they hoped to catch some sounds from that orb forever 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 to 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 the ardent sun, ought to distill even more generous wines. That is, if they existed. In any case, the far-sing Frenchman had taken care not to forget in his collection some precious cuttings of the meddock and coat door upon which he founded his hopes. Rhyset and Reginot's apparatus worked with great regularity. Not an atom of carbonic acid resisted the potache. And as to the oxygen, Captain Nicole 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, was 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 porometer. Everything had gone well up to that time, and the travellers, imitating the worthy Joseph T. Marston, began to acquire a degree of emboumpois, which would have rendered them unrecognisable 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 scutter, Barbara Cain 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 were posed on 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 eitherise him, as here Etha 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 Nicole. Ah, continued Michel. What I regret is not being able to take a walk outside. What voluptuousness to flow to mid this radiant Etha, to bathe oneself in it, to wrap oneself in the sun's pure rays. If Barbara Cain 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 top of the projectile. Well, old Michel, replied Barbara Cain, 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 forget 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 him 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, Nicole 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, Nicole? asked Barbican gravely. To ask for means to leave a country, added Michel, when we have not yet arrived there, seems to me rather an opportune. I do not say that wishing to draw back, replied Nicole, but I repeat my question, and I ask, how shall we return? I know nothing about it, answered Barbican. And I, said Michel, if I had known how to return, I would never have started. There's an answer, cried Nicole. I quite approve of Michel's words, said Barbican, and add that the question has no real interest. Later, when we think it is advisable to return, we will take counsel together. If the Colombiad is not there, the projectile will be. That is a step certainly, a ball without a gun. The gun, replied Barbican, can be manufactured. The powder can be made. Neither metals, salt, peter, nor coal can fail in the depths of the moon, and we need only go eight thousand 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 volcanoes. Well thought of, Michel, said Barbican, 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 is 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-opposite 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 juice, answered Nicole. Do you consider the weight of a thread to hundred and fifty thousand miles long nothing? As nothing. They could have trebled the Columbia's charge. They could have quadrupled or quintrupled it. exclaimed Michel, with whom the verb took a higher intonation each time. There is but one little objection to mark to your proposition. Replied Barbican. Which is that, during the rotary motion of our globe, our thread would round itself round like it's like a chain on a capstan, and that it would invariably have brought us to the ground. By the thirty-nine stars of the union, said Michel, I have nothing but impracticable ideas today, ideas worthy of J.T. Marston. But I have a notion that, if we do not return to earth, J.T. Marston will be able to come to us. Yes, he'll come, replied Barbican. He is a worthy and courageous comrade, besides what is easier, is not the Columbia still buried in the soil of Florida, as cotton and nitric acid wanted were with to manufacture the peroxial, while much the moon passes in the 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 are friends Elphinstone, Blombsbury, 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. Marston! It is probable that, if the honourable J.T. Marston 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 Longspeak, 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 roses 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, Sidney Cole, 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 Barbican, stamping with his foot as if he were in a fencing saloon. I do not know. You do not know? exclaimed Michelle, in a bella which provoked a sonorous echo in the projectile. No, I have not even thought about it. I tortured Barbican in the same loud tone. Well, I know, replied Michelle. Speak, then! cried Nicole, who could no longer contain the growling of his voice. I shall speak if it suits me, exclaimed Michelle, seizing his companion's arms with violence. It must suit you, said Barbican, 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 Michelle, jumping to a high yard. 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 Nicole, who, under the influence of this unaccountable intoxication, was very contradictory. Who said there are no selenites? exclaimed Michelle, in a threatening tone. I do, hailed Nicole. Captain, said Michelle, 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 Barbican 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 Michelle, 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 Nicole. Let us three constitute the republic. I will be the Congress, cried Michelle. And I, the Senate, retorted Nicole. And Barbican, the President, held Michelle. Not a President elected by the Nation, replied Barbican. Very well, a President elected by the Congress, cried Michelle. And as I am the Congress, you are unanimously elected. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! for President Barbican, exclaimed Nicole. Hip, hip, hip! vociferated Michelle Ardan. Then the President and the Senate struck up in a tremendous voice the popular song Yankee Doodle, while from the Congress resounded the masculine tones of the Marcellese. Then they struck up a frantic dance, with manical gestures, idiotic stampings, and somersaults like those of the bonus 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 the fantastic cock-crows, while five or six hens fluttered like bats against the walls. Then the three travelling companions acted upon by some unaccountable influence above that of intoxication, inflamed by the air which had sent their respiratory apparatus on fire, fell motionless to the bottom of the projectile. Rose. Round the Moon by Jules Verne. Chapter 8. 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 Michelle's which, fortunately, Nicole 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 annoying 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 Michelle a supplementary repast. Michelle, utterly done up, did not answer. Nicole 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 sulfur 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 Nicole's mind. That intensity of light, the physiological troubles which had arisen in him, the over-excitement 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 colorless gas to escape freely, life-giving but in its pure state producing the gravest disorders in the system. Michelle had blunderingly opened the tap of the apparatus to the full. Nicole hastened to stop the escape of oxygen with which the atmosphere was saturated, which would have been the death of the travelers, 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 Michelle learned 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 Murray 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, theaters 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. Michelle spoke with so much animation that one might have fancy that the tap was still too open. But a few words from Barbara King soon shattered his enthusiasm. That is all very well, friend Michelle, 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 Michelle. The oxygen has made them revolt. But what do you want to do with these chickens? asked Barbara King. 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 your lunar fields? You rascal! You unmitigated rascal! replied Barbara King. 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 Michelle Ardan. After this philosophical reflection, the three friends said about restoring the order of the projectile. Chickens and cock were reinstated in their coop. But while proceeding with this operation, Barbara King 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 weight the object would have lost exactly as much as the object itself. But a spring steel yard, 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 the 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 come a point where these two attractions would neutralize each other. The projectile would possess weight no longer. If the moons 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 sixtieths of the whole journey, i.e., at 78,514 leagues from the earth. At this point, a body having no principle of speed or displacement in itself would remain immovable forever, being attracted equally by both orbs, and not being drawn more toward one than toward 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. One, 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. Two, 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. Three, or lastly, animate it with sufficient speed to enable it to reach the neutral point, but not sufficient to pass it. It would remain forever suspended in that spot, like the pretended tomb of Muhammad, between the zenith and the nadir. Such was their situation, and Barbican clearly explained the consequences to his traveling companions, which greatly interested them. But how should they know when the projectile had reached this neutral point, situated at that distance, especially when either themselves, nor the objects enclosed in the projectile, would be any longer subject to the laws of weight? Up to this time, the travelers, while 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, Nicol having accidentally let a glass slip from his hand, the glass, instead of falling, remained suspended in the air. Ah! exclaimed Michel Ardenne. 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 practiced by Casten and Robert Houdine. 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. Fancy has depicted men without reflection, others without shadow. But here, reality, by the neutralizations 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 Morello's monk of the Cousine d'Anges. The two friends joined him instantly, and all three formed a miraculous ascension in the center 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 Canavus. The assumption cannot last, replied Barbican. 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 Barbican. Because the projectile's center 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 Nicole. No upset is to be feared. Not a thing will move, for the projectile's evolution will be imperceptible. Just so, continued Barbican. And when it has passed the point of equal attraction, its base, being the heavier, will draw it perpendicular 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 toward the padded side. Then 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 travelers felt themselves insensibly drawn toward the floor, and Barbican fancied that the conical end of the projectile was varying a little from its normal direction toward the moon. By an inverse motion, the base was approaching first. The lunar attraction was prevailing over the terrestrial. The fall toward 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 Michel and Michel Arden shared Barbican'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 Arden, 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 Nichollon, smiling, if we could succeed in suppressing weight as they suppress pain by anesthesia, that would change the face of modern society. Yes, cried Michel, full of his subject, destroy weight and no more burdens. Well said, replied Barbican, 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, nor a boat whose stability on the waves is only caused by weight, nor 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, contained Barbican, 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 two hundred pounds will only weigh thirty 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 Herculesies in the moon, exclaimed Michel. Yes, replied Nicole, for if the height of the selenites is in proportion to the density of their globe, they will be scarcely a foot high. Liliputians, 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 Barbican. 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 Liliputian. 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 pygmy, a shrimp. Gulliver with the giants, said Nicole. Just so replied Barbican. And it would not be quite useless to carry some pieces of artillery to defend oneself. Good, replied Nicole, your projectiles would have no effect on the sun. They would fall back upon the earth after some minutes. That is a strong remark. It is certain, replied Barbican, the attraction is so great on this enormous orb that an object weighing seventy thousand pounds on the earth would weigh but one thousand nine hundred twenty pounds on the surface of the sun. If you were to fall upon it, you would weigh, let me see, about five thousand pounds, 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 Barbican had now no fear of the issue of the journey, at least as far as the projectiles' 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 8,296 leagues on an orb, it is true, where a 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 Barbican 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 partition 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 the time of starting upon their journey 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 the sufficient means of deadening the shock of arrival. Happily Barbican, 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 discs of the cistern were mounting, and soon the reinstated discs lay on 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 travelers 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 seized 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. Barbecane 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 Nicolle. Let us act as if we were about reaching it, replied Barbecane. You are sceptical, retorted Michael Arden. We shall arrive, and that too quicker than we like. This answer brought Barbecane 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 Nicolle came forward as Barbecane's enemy and Michael Arden's adversary. To Captain Nicolle's maintaining that the projectile would smash like glass, Michael 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 an atmosphere around the moon. Barbecane had accordingly supplied himself with these fireworks, enclosed in little steel guns, which could be screwed onto 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 already been rammed into each gun. They had then nothing to do but 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 they 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 into 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 toward her. Barbican'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 Barbican, a phlegmatic being like Nickel, or an audacious adventurer like Michael Arden. Conversation was started upon this subject. Other men would have considered the question from a practical point of view. They would have asked themselves whether 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 Michael. But why? I very much fear, answered Nickel, that, in spite of all precautions taken, the Columbia'd 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 Michael. I do not think so, replied Barbican. The perpendicularity of the gun was exact, its direction to the zenith of the spot, incontestable, 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 Nickel. Too late? said Barbican. Yes, continued Nickel. 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 later it will have passed it. True, replied Barbican. But we started the first of December at thirteen minutes and twenty-five seconds to eleven at night, and we ought to arrive on the fifth at midnight, at the exact moment when the moon would be full, and we are now at the fifth of December. It is now half past three in the evening, half past eight to ought to see us at the end of our journey. Why do we not arrive? Might it not be an excess of speed? answered Nickel, for we know now that its initial velocity was greater than they supposed. No, a hundred times no, replied Barbican, 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 Nickel. I cannot say, replied Barbican. Very well then, Barbican, said Michael, 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 as a fact. Where we are going matters little, we shall soon see. Since we are being born along in space, we shall end by falling into some center of attraction or other. Michael Arden's indifference did not content Barbican. 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 massive things thrown out. Barbican could even prove, by the elevations which served as landmarks upon the moon, which was only two thousand 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 near 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 leveled under the reflection of the solar rays. They watched thus through the side windows until eight o'clock at night. The moon had 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 Barbican thought he could estimate the distance which separated them from their aim at no more than seven hundred leagues. The speed of the projectile seemed to him to be more than two hundred yards, or about one hundred seventy leagues a second. Under the centripetal force the base of the projectile tended toward 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. Barbican 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 two forces, attraction and repulsion, affecting its motion. I asked but one thing, said Michael, that we may pass near enough to penetrate her secrets. Curse would be the thing that caused our projectile to deviate from its course, cried Nickel, and as if a light had suddenly broken in upon his mind, Barbican answered. Then Curse would be the meteor which crossed our path. What? said Michael Arden. What do you mean? exclaimed Nickel. I mean, said Barbican in a decided tone, I mean that our deviation is owing solely to our meeting with this airing body. But it did not even brush us as it passed, said Michael. 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 Nickel. Yes, Nickel, but however little it might be, replied Barbican, in a distance of eighty-four thousand leagues it wanted no more to make us miss the moon. End of Chapter 9 The Consequences of a Deviation Recording by Scott Robbins Chapter 10 of Round the Moon This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Round the Moon by Jules Verne Chapter 10 The Observers of the Moon Barbican had evidently hit upon the only plausible reason of this deviation. However slight it may have been, it had suffice 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 and 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 had then separated the projectile from the satellite was estimated at about two hundred leagues. Under these conditions, as regards the visibility of the details of the disc, the travellers were further from the moon than are the inhabitants of the earth with their powerful telescopes. Indeed, we know that the instrument mounted by Lord Ross at Parsons Town, which magnifies six thousand five hundred times, brings the moon to within apparent distance of sixteen leagues. And more than that, with the powerful one set up at Longs Peak, the orb of night, magnified forty eight thousand 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 cut 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 a small end turned toward 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 center of gravity was in advance of the center 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 Ardenne some hopes of striking the lunar disk 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 Barbican, 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 Ardenne's last hope. The portion of the moon which the projectile was nearing was the northern hemisphere, that which the sullenographic 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 sullenographica of Bohr and Maudler, which Barbican 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 the course. The orb was exactly in the condition determined by the Cambridge Observatory. It was mathematically at its perigree, 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 axes of the piece would have passed through the center of the orb of night. It is needless to say that during the night of the fifth to sixth 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 centered in them. It is through their eyes that the human rays look at these lunar regions, and penetrate the secrets of their satellite. A strange motion filled their hearts, as they went from one window to the other. Their observations, reproduced by Barbican, 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 specifically constructed for this journey. They possessed magnifying powers of one hundred. They would thus have brought the moon to within a distance, apparent, of less than two thousand 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 one thousand five hundred yards. End of chapter 10 Chapter 11 of Round the Moon This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Round the Moon by Jules Verne Chapter 11 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 their 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 island 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. 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, while Franklin, Ross, Cain, Dumont, Durville, 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 parceled-out land of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, and where the Frenchmen discovered traces of the heroes of Fable, these Americans were marking the most favorable points for the establishment of stores in the interest of lunar commerce and industry. After wandering over these vast continents the eye is attracted by the 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 planes, the nature of which the travellers hope 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 Ardain was right when he compared this map to a tender card, got up by Scudiery or 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. Barbican and Nicole 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 ought 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 tranquility in which every false passion, every useless dream, every unsatisfied desire is at length absorbed, and whose waves emerge peacefully 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 while 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. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of Round the Moon This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Round the Moon by Jules Verne 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 Barbican 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, Barbican 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 14 miles. The telescope of the Rocky Mountains brought the moon much nearer, but the terrestrial atmosphere singularly lessened its power. Thus Barbican, 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 wither 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 Barbican's observations. With the help of Bower and Modeler's Mapa Salenographica, the travellers were able at once to recognize that portion of the disk enclosed within the field of their glasses. What are we looking at at this moment? asked Michael. At the northern part of the Sea of Clouds, answered Barbican, we are too far off to recognize its nature. Are these planes composed of arid sand, as the first astronomer maintained? Or are they nothing but immense force, 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 planes are strewn with blocks of lava from the neighboring 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 Michael, Copernicus, replied Barbican. Let us see Copernicus. This mount, situated in 9 degrees north latitude and 20 degrees 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 Brahe. 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 in 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 born into space, overlooked the top of this superb mount. Barbican 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 overlooked 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 neighborhood was strewn with volcanic remains which still choked some of the craters. There exist, said Barbican, 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 particular disposition? asked Nicolle. We do not know, replied Barbican. What splendid radiation, said Michael. One could hardly see a finer spectacle, I think. What would you say then, replied Barbican, if chance should bear us toward the southern hemisphere? Well, I should say that it was still more beautiful, retorted Michael Arden. 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. A round, spread-a-grayish plain of a wild aspect, on which ever 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. Toward 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, Barbican noticed a great number of less important mountains, and among others a little-ringed one called Ghilusac, the breadth of which measured twelve miles. Toward the south the plain was very flat, without one elevation, without one projection. Toward 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 Nicolle, should not these rays be simply spurs of mountains, which reflect more vividly the light of the sun? No, replied Barbican, 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 endeavored to explain these lines of light? asked Michael, for I cannot believe that savants would ever be stranded for want of an explanation. Yes, replied Barbican, 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. Do you know, my friends, what that plane seen from the height we are at resembles? said Michael. No, replied Nicolle. Very well, with all those pieces of lava lengthened like rockets, it resembles an immense game of spellicons thrown pel-mel. There once but the hook to pull them out one by one. Do be serious, said Barbican. Well, let us be serious, replied Michael quietly, and instead of spellicons, let us put bones. This plane 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 Barbican. My word, you are difficult to please, answered Michael. My worthy friend, continued the matter of fact, Barbican. It matters but little what it resembles when we do not know what it is. Well answered, exclaimed Michael, that will teach me to reason with savants. But the projectile continued to advance with almost uniform speed around the lunar disk. The travelers, 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. Barbican, consulting his map, recognized Eratosthenes. It was a ringed mountain nine thousand feet high, and one of those circles so numerous on this satellite. With regard to this, Barbican 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 Nicol. For a very natural one, replied Barbican. The selenites might have undertaken these immense works, and dug these enormous holes for refuge and shield from the solar rays which beat upon them during fifteen consecutive days. The selenites are not fools, said Michael. A singular idea, replied Nicol. 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 Michael. But if the selenites are six times smaller, retorted Nicol, and if there are no selenites, added Barbican, this put an end to the discussion. Soon, Eratosthenes disappeared under the horizon without the projectile being sufficiently near to allow close observation. This mountain separated the Eponines 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, Barbican found that they were above the twentieth lunar parallel. The distance of the projectile from the moon was not more than six hundred miles. Barbican, now perceiving that the projectile was steadily approaching the lunar disk, did not despair, if not of reaching her, at least of discovering the secrets of her configuration. At half-past two in the morning the projectile was over the thirteenth lunar parallel, and at the effective distance of five hundred miles, reduced by the glasses to five. It still seemed impossible, however, that it could ever touch any part of the disk. Its mode of speed, comparatively so moderate, was inexplicable to President Barbican. 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 disk appeared at the distance of five miles. What would an aeronaut, born to this distance from the earth, distinguish on its surface? We cannot say, since the greatest ascension has not been more than twenty-five thousand feet. This, however, is an exact description of what Barbican and his companions saw at this height. Large patches of different colours appeared on the disk. Selenographers are not agreed upon the nature of these colours. There are several, and rather vividly marked. Julia 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 planes, than those on the moon, present to a terrestrial observer. According to him, the colour common to the vast planes known by the name of Sees is a dark grey mixed with green and brown. Some of the large craters present the same appearance. Barbican knew this opinion of the German selenographer, an opinion shared by Bohr and Mordler. Observation has proved that Wright 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. Barbican 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 disk, and did not result, as some astronomers say, either from the imperfection in the objective of the glass, or from the interposition of the terrestrial atmosphere. Not a doubt existed in Barbican'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. Further 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 Lichenberg's Circle, which is situated near the Hursinian 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 disk, for they could not decide upon the cause of it. Michel Ardain 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, looked there, cultivated fields. Cultivated fields, replied Nicole, shrugging his shoulders. Ploughed at all events, retorted Michel Ardain. But what labourers those celonates must be, and what giant oxen they must harness to their plough to cut such furrows. They are not furrows, said Barbican, they are rifts. Rifts? Stuff! replied Michel mildly. But what do you mean by rifts in the scientific world? Barbican 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 disk, which was not mountainous, that these furrows, generally isolated, measured from four hundred to five hundred leagues in length, that their breath varied from one thousand to one thousand five hundred yards, and that their borders were strictly parallel, but he knew nothing more either of their formation or their nature. Barbican, 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 cellonite engineers. Of these different rifts some were perfectly straight, as of 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 patavius, 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 Havilius, Cassin, La Hire, nor Herschel seemed to have noticed them. It was Schroeder, who in 1789 first drew attention to them. Others followed, who studied them, as Pastorov, Great Heisen, Bohr, and Modler. At this time their number amounts to seventy, but if they had 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 a large amount of water. 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 Ardain 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 a phenomenon of vegetation? What do you mean? asked Barbican 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 Barbican. I like, retorted Michel Ardain, to explain what you savance 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 again when they regain them. Your explanation is ingenious, my dear companion, replied Barbican, but inadmissible. Why? Because, so to speak, there are no seasons on the moon's surface, and that, consequently, the phenomenon 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 rains a perpetual winter, spring, summer, or autumn, as in the planet Jupiter, whose axis is but little inclined upon its orbit. 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 later geological epics, they are due to the expansion of natural forces. But the projectile had now attained the fortieth degree of lunar latitude at a distance not exceeding forty miles. Through the glass's objects appear to be only four miles distant. At this point under their feet rose Mount Helicon, one thousand five hundred and twenty 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 Barbican found himself carried to a greater distance than the most powerful telescopes had ever done before—either that of Lord Ross, 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 toward 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 their 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 Ardain, a little out of continents. Then you see no one? No, answered Nicole. 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 at the opposite face of the moon, we cannot decide. Besides, added Barbican, even to the most piercing eye, a man cannot be distinguished further than three-and-a-half miles off, so that, if there are any sullenites, they can see our projectiles, but we cannot see them. Toward four in the morning, at the height of the fiftieth parallel, the distance was reduced to three hundred miles. To the left ran a line of mountains capriciously shaped, lying in 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 the west to east. This black color is rarely met with on the surface of the satellite, as yet it has only been recognized in the depth of the circle of Andimean, to the east of the cold sea, in the northern hemisphere and at the bottom of Grimaldi's circle, on the equator, toward the eastern border of the orb. Pluto is an angular mountain situated in fifty-one degrees north latitude and nine degrees east longitude. Its circuit is forty-seven miles long and thirty-two broad. Barbican 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. Toward five in the morning the northern limits of the sea of rains was at length past. The mounts of Condamine and Fontanel remained, one on the right, the other on the left. That part of the disk, beginning with sixty degrees, was becoming quite mountainous. The glasses brought them to within two miles, less than that separating the summit of Montblanc from the level of the sea. The whole region was bristling with spikes and circles. Toward the sixty degree, Filola stood predominant at a height of five thousand five hundred and fifty feet with its elliptical crater and seen from this distance. The disk showed a very fantastical appearance. Landscapes were presented to the eye under very different conditions from those on 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 our surface, night following day and day following night with the suddenness of a lamp which is extinguished or lighted amid 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 rains 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 twilight and the daybreak, which produces the umbrae and penumbrae, and all the magic of shiero oscuro, does not exist on the moon. Hence the harshness of contrasts which only admit of two colors, black and white. If a cellonite were to shade his eyes from the sun's rays, the sun would seem absolutely black, and the stars would shine to him as on the darkest night. Judge of the impression produced on Barbican and his three friends by this strange scene. Their eyes were confused. They could no longer grasp the respective distances of the different planes. A lunar landscape without the softening of the phenomenon of shiero 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 eighty degrees 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 Ardain 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 traveller's gaze one half brilliantly lit up, while 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. 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 Ardenne 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 in steeped, which lasts three hundred and fifty-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, emerged 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 Barbican 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 Ardenne, which forces us to expend gas, instead of giving us his rays gratuitously. Do not let us accuse the sun, said Nicole. 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 Nicole. An idle dispute which Barbican put an end to by saying, my friend, it is neither the fault of the sun nor 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 is so deplorably altered our first direction. Well! replied Michel Ardenne. 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 her eyes. The bold travellers, being borne away into gloomy space, without their accustomed courtage of rays, felt a vague uneasiness in 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. Barbican 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 her own globe. But on one side of her disk. 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. They would make the voyage for nothing but to see the moon, replied Michel. Very well, continued Barbican, that astonishment is reserved for the Solonites, 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 Nicole, if we had arrived here when the moon was new, that is to say, fifteen days later. I will add, to make amends, continued Barbican, that the inhabitants of the visible face are singularly favoured by nature to the detriment of the brethren on the invisible face. The latter, as you see, have dark nights of three hundred and fifty-four 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 rising on the opposite horizon. It is the Earth which is thirteen times greater than the 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 Barbican, without knitting his brows, that the visible face of the disk must be very agreeable to inhabit, since it always looks either on the sun, when the moon is full, or on the Earth when the moon is new. But, said Nicole, 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 invisible face. I say that for you, Nicole, because Michel will probably not understand. Thank you, said Michel. Indeed, continued Barbican, 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 four hundred thousand miles, so that invisible face is so much nearer to the sun when she receives its rays. Quite right, replied Nicole. On the contrary, continued Barbican. One moment, said Michel, interrupting his grave companion. What do you want? I asked to be allowed to continue the explanation, and why? To prove that I understand. Get along with you, said Barbican, 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 four hundred thousand miles, and the heat which she receives must be a little less. Very well said, exclaimed Barbican. Do you know, Michel, that, for an amateur, you are intelligent? Yes, replied Michel Cooley. We are all so on the boulevard, d'es italienne. Barbican gravely grasped the hand of his amiable companion, and continued to enumerate the advantages reserved for the inhabitants of the visible face. Among others, he mentioned eclipses of the sun, which only take place on this side of the lunar disk, 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 Nicole, there is a hemisphere, that invisible hemisphere, which is very ill-supplied, and very ill-treated, by nature. Never mind, replied Michel. If we ever become selenites, we will inhabit the visible face. I like the light. Unlast by chance, answered Nicole, 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 Barbican. 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, the 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. Where there was it going? Was it going further from or nearing the disk? Was it being born 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 Barbican 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 disk was impossible. The constellations alone claimed all their attention, and we must allow that the astronomers Phae, Sharkhanak, and Sishi 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 twelve thousand years, by reason of the succession of equinoxes, will resign their part of the polar stars, the one to Canopus in the southern hemisphere, the other to Wiga in the northern. Imagination loses itself in this sublime infinity, amid 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 luster. They did not twinkle, for there was no atmosphere which, by the intervention of its layers unequally dense and of different degrees of humidity, produced this scintillation. These stars were soft eyes looking out into the dark night amid the silence of absolute space. 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. Nikol consulted the thermometer, and saw that it had fallen to 17 degrees centigrade below 0, one degree Fahrenheit, so that, in spite of the many reasons for economizing, Barbican, after having begged light from the gas, was also obliged to beg for heat. The projectile's low temperature was no longer durable. Its tenets would have been frozen to death. Well, observed Michele, we cannot reasonably complain of the monotony of our journey. What variety we have had! At least in temperature. We are now blinded with light, and saturated with heat, like the Indians of the Pampas. Now plunged into profound darkness, amid the cold, like the Eskimo of the North Pole. No, indeed, we have no right to complain. Nature does wonders in our honour. But, asked Nikol, what is the temperature outside? Exactly that of the planet Earth. Exactly that of the planetary space, replied Barbican. Then, continued Michele Ardan, would not this be the time to make the experiment which we dared not to attempt when we were drowned in the sun's rays? It is now, or never, replied Barbican, for we are in good position to verify the temperature of space, and see if Fourier or Poulet's calculations are exact. In any case it is cold, said Michele, see the steam of the interior is condensing on the glasses of the scuttles. If the fall continues, the vapor of our breath will fall in snow around us. Let us prepare a thermometer, said Barbican. 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 42 degrees Fahrenheit, below zero, it is no longer liquid. But Barbican had furnished himself with a spirit thermometer on Wafferdon's system, which gives the minima of excessively low temperatures. Before beginning the experiment this instrument was compared with an ordinary one, and then Barbican prepared to use it. How shall we set about it? asked Nicole. Nothing is easier, replied Michele 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 Barbican. With the hand, replied Michele. Well then, my friend, do not expose yourself, answered Barbican, 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 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 Nicole. Because if we are passing through an atmosphere of the slightest density, these objects will be retarded. Again, the darkness prevents or seeing if they still float around us. But in order not to expose ourselves to the loss of a thermometer, we will fasten it, and we can then more easily pull it back again. Barbican's advice was followed. Through the scuttle rapidly opened Nicole throughout 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 suffice to let in a most intense cold. The devil! exclaimed Michel Ardain. It is cold enough to freeze a white bear. Barbican waited until half an hour had elapsed, which was more than enough time to allow the instrument to fall to the level of the surrounding temperature. Then it was rapidly pulled in. Barbican calculated the quantity of spirits of wine overflowed into the little vial, soldered to the lower part of the instrument and said, 140 degrees centigrade below zero, 218 degrees Fahrenheit below zero. Monsieur Poulet was right, and foyer wrong. That was the untold 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.