CHAPTER XV We may, perhaps, be astonished to find Barbican and his companions so little occupied with the future reserved for them in their metal prison which was bearing them through the infinity of space. Instead of asking where they were going, they passed their time making experiments, as if they had been quietly installed in their own study. We might answer that men so strong-minded were above such anxieties, that they did not trouble themselves about such trifles, and that they had something else to do than to occupy their minds with the future. The truth was that they were not masters of their projectile. They could neither check its course nor alter its direction. A sailor can change the head of his ship as he pleases.  They, on the contrary, had no power over their vehicle. Every maneuver was forbidden. Hence, the inclination to let things alone, or as the sailors say, let her run. Where did they find themselves at this moment, at eight o'clock in the morning of the day called upon the earth the sixth of December? Very certainly in the neighborhood of the moon, and even near enough for her to look to them like an enormous black screen upon the firmament. As to the distance which separated them, it was impossible to estimate it. The projectile, held by some unaccountable force, had been within four miles of grazing the satellite's north pole. But since entering the cone of shadow these last two hours, had the distance increased or diminished? Every point of mark was wanting by which to estimate both the direction and the speed of the projectile. Perhaps it was rapidly leaving the disk, so that it would soon quit the pure shadow. Perhaps again, on the other hand, it might be nearing it so much that in a short time it might strike some high point on the invisible hemisphere, which would doubtlessly have ended the journey much to the detriment of the travelers. A discussion arose on this subject, and Michael Ardan, always ready with an explanation, gave it as his opinion that the projectile, held by the lunar attraction, would end by falling on the surface of the terrestrial globe like an arrow-light. First of all, my friend, answered Barbican, every arrow-light does not fall to the earth, it is only a small proportion which do so, and if we had passed into an arrow-light, it does not necessarily follow that we should ever reach the surface of the moon. But how, if we get near enough? replied Michael. Pure mistake, replied Barbican, have you not seen shooting stars rush through the sky by thousands at certain seasons? Yes. Well, these stars, or rather, corpuscles, only shine when they are heated by gliding over the atmospheric layers. Now, if they enter the atmosphere, they pass at least within forty miles of the earth, but they seldom fall upon it. The same with our projectile. It may approach very nearer to the moon, and not yet fall upon it. But then asked Michael, I shall be curious to know how our airing vehicle will act in space. I see but two hypothesis, replied Barbican, after some moment's reflection. What are they? The projectile has the choice between two mathematical curves, and it will follow one or the other according to the speed with which it is animated, and which at this moment I cannot estimate. Yes, said Nickel, it will follow either a parabola or a hyperbola. Just so, replied Barbican, with a certain speed it will assume the parabola, and with a greater the hyperbola. I like those grand words, exclaimed Michael Ardon.  My friend, answered the captain, the parabola is a curve of the second order, the result of the section of a cone intersected by a plane parallel to one of the sides. Ah, ah, said Michael in a satisfied tone. It is very nearly, continued Nickel, the course described by a bomb launched from a mortar. Perfect! And the hyperbola? The hyperbola, Michael, is a curve of the second order produced by the intersection of a conic surface and a plane parallel to its axis, and constitutes two branches separated one from the other, both tending indefinitely in the two directions. Is it possible, exclaimed Michael Ardon, in a serious tone, as if they had told him of some serious event? What I particularly like in your definition of the hyperbola, I was going to say hyperblog, is that it is still more obscure than the word you pretend to define. Nickel and Barbican cared little for Michael Ardon's fun. They were deep in a scientific discussion. What curve would the projectile follow, was their hobby? One maintained the hyperbola, the other the parabola. They gave each other reasons bristling with X. Their arguments were couched in language which made Michael jump. The discussion was hot, and neither would give up his chosen curve to his adversary. This scientific dispute lasted so long that it made Michael very impatient. Now, gentlemen cosines, will you cease to throw parabolas and hyperbolas at each other's heads? I want to understand the only interesting question in the whole affair. We shall follow one or the other of these curves? Good, but where will they lead us to? Nowhere, replied Nickel. How Nowhere! Evidently, said Barbican, they are open curves which may be prolonged indefinitely. Ah, savants, cried Michael, and what are either the one or the other to us from the moment we know that they equally lead us into infinite space? Barbican and Nickel could not forbear smiling. They had just been creating art for art's sake. Never had so idle a question been raised at such an inopportune moment. The sinister truth remained that, whether hyperbolically or parabolically born away, the projectile would never again meet either the earth or the moon. What would become of these bold travelers in the immediate future? If they did not die of hunger, if they did not die of thirst, in some days when the gas failed they would die from want of air, unless the cold had killed them first. Still, important as it was to economize the gas, the excessive lowness of the surrounding temperature obliged them to consume a certain quantity. Really speaking, they could do without its light, but not without its heat. Fortunately, the caloric generated by research and Regnaut's apparatus raised the temperature of the interior of the projectile a little, and without much expenditure they were able to keep it bearable. But observations had now become very difficult. The dampness of the projectile was condensed on the windows and congealed immediately. This cloudiness had to be dispersed continually. In any case they might hope to be able to discover some phenomena of the highest interest.  It did not answer the multiplicity of questions put by these ardent minds, a matter which drew this reflection from Michael, apparently a just one. If ever we begin this journey over again we shall do well to choose the time when the moon is at the full. Certainly, said Nicol, that circumstance will be more favorable. I allow that the moon immersed in the sun's rays will not be visible during the transit, but instead we should see the earth which would be full. And what is more, if we were drawn round the moon as at this moment, we should at least have the advantage of seeing the invisible part of her disc magnificently lit. Well said, Nicol, replied Michael Ardon, what do you think, Barbican? I think this, answered the grave president, if ever we begin this journey again we shall start at the same time and under the same conditions. Suppose we had attained our end, would it not have been better to have found continents in broad daylight than a country plunged in utter darkness? Would not our first installation have been made under better circumstances? Yes, evidently. As to the invisible side, we could have visited it in our exploring expeditions on the lunar globe, so that the time of the full moon was well chosen. But we ought to have arrived at the end, and in order to have so arrived we ought to have suffered no deviation on the road. I have nothing to say to that, answered Michael Ardon. Here is, however, a good opportunity lost of observing the other side of the moon. But the projectile was now describing in the shadow that incalculable course which no sight mark would allow them to ascertain. Had its direction been altered, either by the influence of the lunar attraction or by the action of some unknown star? Barbican could not say. But a change had taken place in the relative position of the vehicle, and Barbican verified it about four in the morning. The change consisted in this, that the base of the projectile had turned toward the moon's surface, and was so held by a perpendicular passing through its axis. The attraction, that is to say the weight, had brought about this alteration, the heaviest part of the projectile inclined toward the invisible disk as if it would fall upon it. Was it falling? Were the travelers attaining that much desired end? No. And the observation of a sign point, quite inexplicable in itself, showed Barbican that his projectile was not nearing the moon, and that it had shifted by following an almost concentric curve. This point of mark was a luminous brightness which nickel sighted suddenly on the limit of the horizon formed by the black disk. This point could not be confounded with a star. It was a reddish incandescence which increased by degrees, a decided proof that the projectile was shifting toward it and not falling normally on the surface of the moon. A volcano! It is a volcano in action, cried nickel. A disemboweling of the interior fires of the moon. That world is not quite extinguished. Yes, an eruption, replied Barbican, who was carefully studying the phenomenon through his night glass. What should it be if not a volcano? But then, said Michael Ardon, in order to maintain that combustion there must be air, so the atmosphere does surround that part of the moon. Perhaps so, replied Barbican, but not necessarily. The volcano by the decomposition of certain substances can provide its own oxygen and thus throw flames into space. It seems to me that the deflagration by the intense brilliancy of the substances in combustion is produced in pure oxygen. We must not be in a hurry to proclaim the existence of a lunar atmosphere. The fiery mountain must have been situated about the forty-five degree south latitude on the invisible part of the disk, but, to Barbican's great displeasure, the curve which the projectile was describing was taking it far from the point indicated by the eruption. Thus he could not determine its nature exactly. Half an hour after being sighted, this luminous point had disappeared behind the dark horizon, but the verification of this phenomenon was of considerable consequence in their selenographic studies. It proved that all heat had not yet disappeared from the bowels of this globe, and where heat exists, who can affirm that the vegetable kingdom, nay even the animal kingdom itself, has not up to this time resisted all destructive influences. The existence of this volcano in eruption, unmistakably seen by these earthly savants, would doubtless give rise to many theories favorable to the grave question of the habit ability of the moon. Barbican allowed himself to be carried away by these reflections. He forgot himself in a deep reverie in which the mysterious destiny of the lunar world was uppermost. He was seeking to combine together the facts observed up to that time, when a new incident recalled him briskly to reality. This incident was more than a cosmic old phenomenon, it was a threatened danger, the consequence of which might be disastrous in the extreme. Suddenly, in the midst of the ether, in the profound darkness, an enormous mass appeared. It was like a moon, but an incandescent moon whose brilliancy was all the more intolerable as it cut sharply on the frightful darkness of space. This mass, of a circular form, threw a light which filled the projectile. The forms of Barbican, Nickel and Michael Ardan, bathed in its white sheets, assumed that livid spectral appearance which physicians produce with the fictitious light of alcohol impregnated with salt. �By Jove!� cried Michael Ardan. �We are hideous. What is that ill-conditioned moon?� A meteor, replied Barbican. �A meteor burning in space?� Yes. This shooting globe suddenly appearing in shadow at a distance of almost two hundred miles, ought, according to Barbican, to have a diameter of two thousand yards. It advanced at a speed of about one mile and a half per second. It cut the projectile's path and must reach it in some minutes. As it approached, it grew to enormous proportions. �Imagine, if possible, the situation of the travelers. It is impossible to describe it. In spite of their courage, their song-frawl, their carelessness of danger, they were mute, motionless with stiffened limbs, a prey to frightful terror. Their projectile, the course of which they could not alter, was rushing straight on this ignited mass, more intense than the open mouth of an oven. It seemed as though they were being precipitated toward an abyss of fire. Brain had seized the hands of his two companions, and all three looked through their half-open eyelids upon that asteroid heated to a white heat. If thought was not destroyed within them, if their brains still worked amidst all this awe, they must have given themselves up for lost. Two minutes after the sudden appearance of the meteor, to them two centuries of anguish, the projectile seemed almost about to strike it when the globe of fire burst like a bomb, but without making any noise in that void where sound, which is but the agitation of the layers of air, could not be generated. Still uttered a cry, and he and his companions rushed to the scuttle. What a sight! What pen can describe it? What palette is rich enough in colors to reproduce so magnificent a spectacle? It was like the opening of a crater, like the scattering of an immense conflagration. Signs of luminous fragments lit up in a radiated space with their fires. Every size, every color, was there intermingled. There were rays of yellow and pale yellow, red, green, gray, a crown of fireworks of all colors.  These incandescent blocks crossed and struck each other, scattering still smaller fragments, some of which struck the projectile. Its left scuttle was even cracked by a violent shock. It seemed to be floating amid a hail of howitzer shells, the smallest of which might destroy it instantly. The light which saturated the ether was so wonderfully intense that Michael, drawing Barbican and Nicol to his window, exclaimed, The invisible moon, visible at last! And through a luminous emanation which lasted some seconds, the whole three caught a glimpse of that mysterious disk which the eye of man now saw for the first time. What could they distinguish at a distance which they could not estimate? Some lengthened bands along the disk, real clouds formed in the midst of a very confined atmosphere from which emerged not only all the mountains, but also projections of less importance, its circles, its yawning craters, as capriciously placed as on the visible surface. Then immense spaces no longer arid plains but real seas, oceans widely distributed, reflecting on their liquid surface all the dazzling magic of the fires of space. And lastly, on the surface of the continent's large dark masses looking like immense forests under the rapid illumination of a brilliance. Was it an illusion, a mistake, an optical illusion? Could they give a scientific ascent to an observation so superficially obtained? Dare they pronounce upon the question of its habitability after so slight a glimpse of the invisible disk? But the lightnings in space subsided by degrees, its accidental brilliancy died away, the asteroids dispersed in different directions and were extinguished in the distance. The aether returned to its accustomed darkness, the stars eclipsed for a moment, again twinkled in the firmament, and the disk, so hastily discerned, was again buried in impenetrable night. CHAPTER XVI. The projectile had just escaped a terrible danger, and a very unforeseen one. Who would have thought of such an encounter with meteors? These airing bodies might create serious perils for the travellers. They were to them so many sand-banks upon that sea of aether which, less fortunate than sailors, they could not escape. But did these adventurers complain of space? No. Not since nature had given them the splendid sight of a cosmical meteor bursting from expansion, since this inimitable firework, which no reguria could imitate, had lit up for some seconds the invisible glory of the moon. In that flash, continents, seas, and forests had become visible to them. Did an atmosphere then bring to this unknown face its life-giving atoms? Humans still insoluble, and forever closed against human curiosity. It was then half-past three in the afternoon. The projectile was following its curvilinear direction around the moon. Had its course again been altered by the meteor? It was to be feared so, but the projectile must describe a curve unalterably determined by the laws of mechanical reasoning. The line was inclined to believe that this curve would be rather a parabola than a hyperbola. But admitting the parabola, the projectile must quickly have passed through the cone of shadow projected into space opposite the sun. This cone indeed is very narrow, the angular diameter of the moon being so little when compared with the diameter of the orb of day, and up to this time the projectile had been floating in this deep shadow. Whatever had been its speed, and it could not have been insignificant, its period of oculation continued. That was evident, but perhaps that would not have been the case in a supposedly rigid parabolical trajectory, a new problem which tormented Barbican's brain, imprisoned as he was in a circle of unknowns which he could not unravel. The diameter of the travellers thought of taking an instance repose. Each one watched for an unexpected fact, which might throw some new light on their eranographic studies. About five o'clock, Michel Ardall distributed under the name of dinner some pieces of bread and cold meat which were quickly swallowed without either of them abandoning their scuttle, the glass of which was incessantly encrusted by the condensation of vapor. About forty-five minutes past five in the evening, Nicole, armed with his glass, sighted toward the southern border of the moon, and in the direction, followed by the projectile, some bright points cut upon the dark shield of the sky. They looked like a succession of sharp points, lengthened into a tremulous line. They were very bright. Such appeared the terminal line of the moon went in one of her octents. They could not be mistaken. It was no longer a simple meteor. This luminous ridge had neither color nor motion, nor was it a volcano interruption, and Barbican did not hesitate to pronounce upon it. "'The sun,' he exclaimed. "'What? The sun?' answered Nicole and Michel Ardall. "'Yes, my friends. It is the radiant orb itself lighting up the summit of the mountains situated on the southern borders of the moon. We are evidently nearing the south pole.' "'After having passed the north pole?' replied Michel. "'We have made the circuit of our satellite, then.' "'Yes, my good Michel.' "'Then no more hyperbolas, no more parabolas, no more open curves to fear. No, but a closed curve, which is called an ellipse. Instead of losing itself in interplanetary space, it is probable that the projectile will describe an elliptical orbit around the moon.' "'Indeed.' "'And that it will become her satellite.' "'Moon of the moon,' cried Michel Ardall. "'Only I would have you observe, my worthy friend,' replied Barbican, "'that we are nonetheless lost for that.' "'Yes, in another manner, and much more pleasantly,' answered the careless Frenchman, with his most amiable smile.' CHAPTER XVII. At six in the evening the projectile passed the south pole at less than forty miles off, a distance equal to that already reached at the north pole. The elliptical curve was being rigidly carried out. At this moment the travellers once more entered the blessed rays of the sun. They saw once more those stars which move slowly from east to west. The radiant orb was saluted by a triple hurrah. With its light it also sent heat which soon pierced the metal walls. The glass resumed its accustomed appearance. The layers of ice melted as if by enchantment, and immediately, for economy's sake, the gas was put out, the air apparatus alone consuming its usual quantity. "'Ah!' said Nicole, these rays of heat are good. With what impatience must the solonite wait the reappearance of the orb of day?' "'Yes,' replied Michel Ardall, imbibing as it were, the brilliant either, light and heat, all life is contained in them.' At this moment the bottom of the projectile deviated somewhat from the lunar surface in order to follow the slightly lengthened elliptical orbit. From this point had the earth been at the full, Barbican and his companions could have seen it, but immersed in the sun's irradiation she was quite invisible. Another spectacle attracted their attention. That of the southern part of the moon, brought by glasses to within four hundred and fifty yards. They did not again leave the scuttles, and noted every detail of this fantastical continent. Mounts doerful and libnets formed two separate groups very near the south pole. The first group extended from the pole to the eighty-fourth parallel, on the eastern part of the orb. The second occupied the eastern border, extending from the sixty-five degree of latitude to the pole. On their capriciously formed ridge appeared dazzling sheets, as mentioned by Per, says she, with more certainty than the illustrious Roman astronomer, Barbacane was enabled to recognize their nature. "'They are snow,' he exclaimed. "'Snow,' repeated Nicole, "'Yes, Nicole, snow, the surface of which is deeply frozen. See how they reflect the luminous rays. Cooled lava would never give out such intense reflection. There must then be water. There must be air on the moon. As little as you please, but the fact can no longer be contested.' "'No, it could not be. And if ever Barbacane should see the earth again, his notes will bear witness to this great fact in his selenographic observations.' These mountains, Durfall and Leibniz, rose in the midst of planes of a medium extent, which were bounded by an indefinite succession of circles and annular ramparts. These two chains are the only ones met with in this region of circles. Comparatively, but slightly marked, they threw up here and there some sharp points, the highest summit of which attains an altitude of twenty-four thousand six hundred feet. But the projectile was high above all this landscape, and the projections disappeared in the intense brilliancy of the disc. And to the eyes of the travellers there reappeared that original aspect of the lunar landscapes, raw in tone, without gradation of colors and without degrees of shadow, roughly black and white, from the want of diffusion of light. But the sight of this desolate world did not fail to captivate them by its very strangeness. They were moving over this region as if they had been born on the breadth of some storm, watching heights defile under their feet, piercing the cavities with their eyes, going down into the rifts, climbing the ramparts, sounding these mysterious holes and levelling all cracks. But no trace of vegetation, no appearance of cities, nothing but stratification, beds of lava, overflowing, polished like immense rivers, reflecting the sun's rays with overpowering brilliancy. Nothing belonging to a living world, everything to a dead world, where avalanches rolling from the summits of the mountains would disperse noiselessly at the bottom of the abyss, retaining the motion but wanting the sound. In any case, it was the image of death, without its being possible, even to say that life had ever existed there. Michel Ardain, however, thought he recognized a heap of ruins to which he drew Barbican's attention. It was about the eightieth parallel in thirty degrees longitude. This heap of stones, rather regularly placed, represented a vast fortress, overlooking a long rift which, in former days, had served as a bed to the rivers of prehistorical times. Not far from that rose to a height of seventeen thousand four hundred feet, the annular mountain of short, equal to the Asiatic Caucasus. Michel Ardain, with his accustomed ardor, maintained the evidences of his fortress. With it he discerned the dismantled ramparts of a town, here the still intact arch of a porticole, there two or three columns lying under their base. Further on a succession of arches which must have supported the conduit of an aqueduct. In another part the sunken pillars of a gigantic bridge run into the thickest parts of the rift. He distinguished all this, but with so much imagination in his glance, and through glasses so fantastical, that we must mistrust his observation. But who could affirm, who would dare to say, that the amiable fellow did not really see that which his two companions would not see? Moments were too precious to be sacrificed in idle discussion. The Selenite city, whether imaginary or not, had already disappeared afar off. The distance of the projector from the lunar disk was on the increase, and the details of the soil were being lost in a confused jumble. The reliefs, the circles, the craters, and the planes alone remained, and still showed their boundary lines distinctly. At this moment to the left lay extended one of the finest circles of lunar orography, one of the curiosities of this continent. It was Newton which Barbican recognized without trouble by referring to the Mapa Solonografica. Newton is situated in exactly seventy-seven degrees south latitude and sixteen degrees east longitude. It forms an annular crater, the ramparts of which, rising to a height of twenty-one thousand three hundred feet, seem to be impassable. Einstein made his companions observe that the height of this mountain above the surrounding plain was far from equaling the depth of its crater. This enormous hole was beyond all measurement, and formed a gloomy abyss, the bottom of which the sun's rays could never reach. There, according to Humboldt, rains utter darkness which the light of the sun and the earth cannot break. could well have made it the mouth of hell. Newton, said Barbican, is the most perfect type of these annular mountains of which the earth possesses no sample. They prove that the moon's formation, by means of cooling, is due to violent causes. For while under the pressure of internal fires the reliefs rise to considerable height, the depths withdraw far below the lunar level. I did not dispute the fact, replied Michel Ardais. Some minutes after passing Newton the projectile directly overlooked the annular mountains of Moret. It skirted at some distance the summits of Blancanus, and at about half-past seven in the evening reached the circle of Clavius. This circle, one of the most remarkable of the disc, is situated in fifty-eight degrees south latitude and fifteen degrees east longitude. Its height is estimated at twenty-two thousand nine hundred and fifty feet. The travellers, at a distance of twenty-four miles, reduced to four by their glasses, could admire this vast crater in its entirety. Terrestrial volcanoes, said Barbican, are but mole-hills compared to those of the moon, measuring the old craters formed by the first eruptions of Vesuvius and Etna. We find them little more than three miles in breadth. In France the circles of the Cantal measure six miles across. At Seiland the circles of the island is forty miles, which is considered the largest on the globe. What are these diameters against that of Clavius, which we overlook at this moment? What is its breadth, asked Nicole? What is one hundred and fifty miles? replied Barbican. This circle is certainly the most important on the moon. But many others measure one hundred and fifty hundred or seventy-five miles. Ah! my friends! exclaimed Michel. Can you picture to yourselves what this now peaceful orb of night must have been when its craters, filled with thunderings, vomited at the same time smoke and tongues of flame? What a wonderful spectacle, then! And now what decay? This moon is nothing more than a thin carcass of fireworks, whose squibs, rockets, serpents and suns, after a superb brilliancy, have left but sadly broken cases. Who can say the cause, the reason, the motive force of these cataclysms? Barbican was not listening to Michel Ardenne. He was contemplating these ramparts of Clavius, formed by large mountains spread over several miles. At the bottom of the immense cavity burrowed hundreds of small extinguished craters riddling the soil like a colander, and overlooked by a peak fifteen thousand feet high. Around the plain appeared desolate. Nothing so arid as these reliefs, nothing so sad as these ruins of mountains, and, if we may so express ourselves, these fragments of peaks and mountains which strewed the soil. The satellite seemed to have burst at this spot. The projectile was still advancing, and this movement did not subside. Circles, craters, and uprooted mountains succeeded each other incessantly. No more planes, no more seas, a never-ending Switzerland and Norway. And lastly, in the canter of this region of Crevices, the most splendid mountain on the lunar disk, the dazzling Tycho, in which posterity will ever preserve the name of the illustrious Danish astronomer. In observing the full moon in a cloudless sky, no one has failed to remark this brilliant point of the southern hemisphere. Michel Ardenne used every metaphor that his imagination could supply to designate it by. To him this Tycho was a focus of light, a center of irradiation, a crater vomiting rays.  Tycho forms such a concentration of light that the inhabitants of the earth can see it without glasses, though at a distance of two hundred and forty thousand miles. Imagine then its intensity to the eye of observers placed at a distance of only fifty miles. Seen through this, pure either, its brilliancy was so intolerable that Barbican and his friends were obliged to blacken their glasses with the gas-smoke before they could bear the splendor. Then silent, scarcely uttering an interjection of admiration, they gazed, they contemplated. All their feelings, all their impressions were concentrated in that look, as under any violent emotion all life is concentrated at the heart. Tycho belongs to the system of radiating mountains like Aristarchus and Copernicus. But it is of all the most complete and decided, showing unquestionably the frightful volcanic action to which the formation of the moon is due. Tycho is situated in forty-three degrees south latitude and twelve degrees east longitude. Its center is occupied by a crater fifty miles broad. It assumes a slightly elliptical form and is surrounded by an enclosure of annular ramparts which on the east and west overlook the outer plain from a height of fifteen thousand feet. It is a group of monts-blancs placed round one common center and crowned by radiating beams. What this incomparable mountain really is with all the projections converging towards it and the interior excursances of its crater. Photography itself could never represent. Indeed it is during the full moon that Tycho is seen in all its splendor. Then all shadows disappear, the foreshortening of perspective disappears, and all proofs become white, a disagreeable fact. For this strange region would have been marvelous if reproduced with photographic exactness. It is but a group of hollows, craters, circles, a network of crests. And as far as the eye could see a whole volcanic network cast upon this encrusted soil. One can then understand that the bubbles of this central eruption have kept their first form. Crystallized by cooling they have stereotyped that aspect which the moon formally presented when under the Plutonian forces. The distance which separated the travellers from the annular summits of Tycho was not so great, but that they could not catch the principal details, even on the causeway forming the fortifications of Tycho, the mountains hanging on to the interior and exterior sloping flanks, rows, and stories like gigantic terraces. They appeared to be higher by three hundred or four hundred feet to the west than to the east. No system of terrestrial encampment could equal these natural fortifications. A town built at the bottom of this circular cavity would have been utterly inaccessible, inaccessible and wonderfully extended over this soil covered with picturesque projections. Indeed nature had not left the bottom of this crater flat and empty. It possessed its own peculiar orography, a mountainous system making it a world in itself. The travellers could distinguish clearly cones, central hills, remarkable positions of the soil, naturally placed to receive the chef duvre of selenite architecture.  Ah! exclaimed Michel Ardain, enthusiastic at the sight. What a grand town might be constructed within that ring of mountains, a quiet city, a peaceful refuge beyond all human misery.  All, it would be too small for them, replied Barbican simply. End of CHAPTER XVII of CHAPTER XVIII ROUND THE MOON This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. To learn more or volunteer visit LibriVox.org. ROUND THE MOON by Jules Verne CHAPTER XVIII GRAVE QUESTIONS But the projectile had passed the unsaint of Tico, and Barbican and his two companions watched with scrupulous attention the brilliant rays which the celebrated mountains shed so curiously over the horizon. What was this radiant glory? What geological phenomenon had designed these ardent beams? This question occupied Barbican's mind. Under his eyes ran, in all directions, luminous furrows, raised at the edges and concave in the center, some twelve miles, others thirty miles broad. These brilliant trains extended in some places to within six hundred miles of Tico, and seemed to cover particularly toward the east, the northeast, and the north, the half of the southern hemisphere. One of these jets extended as far as the circle of Neander, situated on the fortieth meridian. Another by a slight curve furrowed the Sea of Nectar, breaking against the chain of Pyrenees after a circuit of eight hundred miles. Others toward the west covered the Sea of Clouds and the Sea of Humors with a luminous network. What was the origin of these sparkling rays, which shone on the plains as well as on the reliefs at whatever height they may be? All started from a common center, the crater of Tico. They sprang from him. Herschel attributed their brilliancy to currents of lava congealed by the cold, an opinion, however, which has not been generally adopted. Other astronomers have seen in these inexplicable rays a kind of moraines, rows of erratic blocks which had been thrown up at the period of Tico's formation. And why not? asked Nicole of Barbican, who was relating and rejecting these different opinions. Because the regularity of these luminous lines and the violence necessary to carry volcanic matter to such distances is inexplicable. Eh? By Jove, replied Michel Ardenne, it seems easy enough for me to explain the origin of these rays. Indeed, said Barbican. Indeed, continued Michel, it is enough to say that it is a vast star, similar to that produced by a ball or a stone thrown at a square of glass. Well, replied Barbican, smiling, and what hand would be powerful enough to throw a ball to give such a shock is that. The hand is not necessary, answered Nicole, not at all confounded, and as to the stone, let us suppose it to be a comet. Those much abused comets, exclaimed Barbican.  The shock which produced that rent must have come from inside the star. A violent contraction of the lunar crust while cooling might suffice to imprint this gigantic star. A contraction, something like a lunar stomach ache, said Michel Ardenne. Besides, added Barbican, this opinion is that of an English savant, Nasmith, and seems to me to sufficiently explain the radiation of these mountains. That Nasmith was no fool, replied Michel. Long did the travelers whom such a sight could never weary admire the splendors of Tico. Their projectile saturated with luminous gleams in the double irradiation of sun and moon must have appeared like an incandescent globe. They passed suddenly from excessive cold to intense heat. Nature was thus preparing them to become selenites. Become selenites. That idea brought up once more the question of the habitability of the moon. After what they had seen, could the travelers solve it? Would they decide for or against it? Michel Ardenne persuaded his two friends to form an opinion and asked them directly if they thought that men and animals were represented in the lunar world. I think that we can answer, said Barbican. But according to my idea, the question ought not to be put in that form. I ask it to be put differently. But at your own way, replied Michel, here it is, continued Barbican. The problem is a double one and requires a double solution. Is the moon habitable? Has the moon ever been inhabitable? Good, replied Nicole, first let us see whether the moon is habitable. To tell the truth, I know nothing about it, answered Michel. And I answer in the negative, continued Barbican, in her actual state with her surrounding atmosphere certainly very much reduced. Her seas for the most part dried up, her insufficient supply of water restricted, vegetation, sudden alternations of cold and heat, her days and nights of 354 hours. The moon does not seem habitable to me, nor does she seem propitious to animal development, nor sufficient for the wants of existence, as we understand it. Agreed, replied Nicole, but is not the moon habitable for creatures differently organized from ourselves? That question is more difficult to answer, but I will try. And I asked Nicole if motion appears to him to be a necessary result of life, whatever be its organization. Without a doubt, answered Nicole. Then, my worthy companion, I would answer that we have observed the lunar continent at a distance of 500 yards at most, and that nothing seemed to us to move on the moon surface. The presence of any kind of life would have been betrayed by its attendant marks, such as diverse buildings and even by ruins. And what have we seen? Everywhere and always the geological works of nature never the work of man. If then there exist representatives of the animal kingdom on the moon, they must have fled to those unfathomable cavities which the eye cannot reach, which I cannot admit, for they must have left traces of their passage on those planes which the atmosphere must cover, however slightly raised it may be. These traces are nowhere visible. There remains but one hypothesis, that of a living race to which motion, which is life, is foreign. One might as well say living creatures which do not live, replied Michelle. Just so, said Barbican, which for us has no meaning. Then we may form our opinion, said Michelle. Yes, replied Nicole. Very well, continued Michelle Ardenne. The scientific commission assembled in the projectile of the gun club, after having founded their argument on facts recently observed, decide unanimously upon the question of the habitability of the moon. No, the moon is not habitable. The decision was consigned by President Barbican to his notebook where the process of the sitting of the 6th of December may be seen. Now, said Nicole, let us attack the second question, an indispensable complement of the first. I ask the Honorable Commission, if the moon is not habitable, has she ever been inhabited? Citizen Barbican? My friends, replied Barbican, I did not undertake this journey in order to form an opinion on the past habitability of our satellite, but I will add that our personal observations only confirm me in this opinion. I believe, indeed, I affirm that the moon has been inhabited by a human race organized like our own. She has produced animals anatomically formed like the terrestrial animals. But I add that these races, human and animal, have had their day, and are now forever extinct. Then, asked Michael, the moon must be older than the earth? No, said Barbican decidedly, but a world which has grown old quicker and whose formation and deformation have been more rapid. Relatively, the organizing force of matter has been much more violent in the interior of the moon than in the interior of the terrestrial globe. The actual state of this crack-twisted and burst disk abundantly proves this. The moon and the earth were nothing but gaseous masses originally. These gases have passed into a liquid state under different influences, and the solid masses have been formed later. Most certainly, our sphere was still gaseous or liquid when the moon was solidified by cooling and had become habitable. I believe it, said Nicole. Then, continued Barbican, an atmosphere surrounded it. The waters contained within this gath, CS envelope, could not evaporate. Under the influence of air, water, light, solar heat, and central heat, vegetation took possession of the continents prepared to receive it, and certainly life showed itself about this period. For nature does not expend herself in vain, and a world so wonderfully formed for habitation must necessarily be inhabited. But, said Nicole, many phenomena inherent to our satellite might cramp the expansion of the animal and vegetable kingdom. For example, it stays in nights of 354 hours. At the terrestrial poles they last six months, said Michelle. An argument of little value since the poles are not inhabited. Let us observe, my friends, continued Barbican, that if in the actual state of the moon its long nights and long days created differences of temperature insupportable to organization, it was not so at the historical period of time. The atmosphere enveloped the disk with a fluid mantle. Vapor deposited it itself in the shape of clouds. This natural screen tempered the order of the solar rays and retained the nocturnal radiation. Light, like heat, can diffuse itself in the air, hence an equality between the influences which no longer exists. Now that atmosphere has almost entirely disappeared. And now I'm going to astonish you. Astonish us, said Michelle Ardenne. I firmly believe that at the period when the moon was inhabited, nights and days did not last 354 hours. And why? asked Nicole quickly. Because most probably then the rotary motion of the moon upon her axis was not equal to a revolution and a equality which presents each part of her disk during 15 days to the action of the solar rays. Granted, replied Nicole, but why should not these two motions have been equal as they are really so? Because that equality has only been determined by terrestrial attraction. And who can say that this attraction was powerful enough to alter the motion of the moon at that period when the earth was still fluid? Just so, replied Nicole, and who can say that the moon has always been a satellite of the earth? And who can say, exclaimed Michelle Ardenne, that the moon did not exist before the earth? Their imaginations carried them away into an indefinite field of hypothesis. Barbican sought to restrain them. Those speculations are too high, said he, problems utterly insoluble. Let us not enter upon them. Let us only admit the insufficiency of the primordial attraction, and then by the inequality of the two motions of rotation and revolution, the days and nights could have succeeded each other on the moon as they succeed each other on earth. Besides, even without these conditions, life was possible. And so, asked Michelle Ardenne, humanity has disappeared from the moon? Yes, replied Barbican, after having doubtless remained persistently for millions of centuries, by degrees the atmosphere becoming rarefied, the disk becoming uninhabitable, as the terrestrial globe will one day become by cooling. By cooling, certainly, replied Barbican, as the internal fires became extinguished, and the incandescent matter concentrated itself, the lunar crust cooled. By degrees the consequences of these phenomena showed themselves in the disappearance of organized beings, and by the disappearance of vegetation. Soon the atmosphere was rarefied, probably withdrawn by terrestrial attraction, then aerial departure of respirable air, and disappearance of water by means of evaporation. At this period the moon, becoming uninhabitable, was no longer inhabited. It was a dead world, such as we see today. And you say that the same fate is in store for the earth? Most probably. But when? When the cooling of the crust shall have made it uninhabitable, and have they calculated the time which our unfortunate sphere will take to cool? Certainly. And you know these calculations. Perfectly. But speak then, my clumsy savant, exclaimed Michelle Ardan, for you make me boil with impatience. Very well, my good Michelle, replied Barbican quietly. We know what diminution of temperature the earth undergoes in the laps of a century. And according to certain calculations, this mean temperature will, after a period of 400,000 years, be brought down to zero. 400,000 years, exclaimed Michelle, I breathe again. Really, I was frightened to hear you. I imagined that we had not more than 50,000 years to live. Barbican and Nicole could not help laughing at their companion's uneasiness. Then Nicole, who wished to end the discussion, put the second question, which had just been considered again. Has the moon been inhabited? He asked. The answer was unanimously in the affirmative. But during this discussion, fruitful and somewhat hazardous theories, the projectile was rapidly leaving the moon. The lineaments faded away from the traveler's eyes, mountains were confused in the distance, and of all the wonderful, strange, and fantastical form of the earth satellite there soon remain nothing but the imperishable remembrance. End of Chapter 18, Round the Moon, by Jules Verne. Read today by Webb Webster, www.webslog.com. Franklin, Tennessee, May 31st, 2007. Chapter 19 of Round the Moon. This is 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 19. A Struggle Against the Impossible. For a long time, Barbicanan and his companions looked silently and sadly upon that world which they had only seen from a distance, as Moses saw the land of Canaan, and which they were leaving without a possibility of ever returning to it. The projectile's position with regard to the moon had altered, and the base was now turned to the earth. This change, which Barbicanan verified, did not fail to surprise them. If the projectile was to gravitate round the satellite in an elliptical orbit, why was not its heaviest part turned toward it, as the moon turns hers to the earth? That was a difficult point. When watching the course of the projectile, they could see that on leaving the moon it followed a coarse analogous to that traced in approaching her. It was describing a very long ellipse, which would most likely extend to the point of equal attraction, where the influences of the earth and its satellite are neutralized. Such was the conclusion which Barbican very justly drew from facts already observed, a conviction which his two friends shared with him. And when arrived at this dead point, what will become of us? asked Michael Arden. We don't know, replied Barbican. But one can draw some hypotheses, I suppose. Two, answered Barbican, either the projectile's speed will be insufficient and it will remain forever immovable on this line of double attraction. I prefer the other hypothesis, whatever it may be, interrupted Michael. For, continued Barbican, its speed will be sufficient and it will continue its elliptical course to gravitate forever around the orb of night. A revolution not at all consoling, said Michael, to pass to the state of humble servants to a moon whom we are accustomed to look upon as our own handmaid. So that is the fate in store for us? Neither Barbican nor Nicol answered. You do not answer, continued Michael impatiently. There is nothing to answer, said Nicol. Is there nothing to try? No, answered Barbican, do you pretend to fight against the impossible? Why not? Do one Frenchman and two Americans shrink from such a word? But what would you do? Subdue this motion which is burying us away. Subdue it? Yes, continued Michael, getting animated, or else alter it and employ it to the accomplishment of our own ends. And how? That is your affair. If artillerymen are not masters of their projectile, they are not artillerymen. If the projectile is to command the gunner, we had better ram the gunner into the gun. My faith finds avance. Who do not know what is to become of us after inducing me? Inducing you, cried Barbican and Nicol, inducing you, what do you mean by that? No recrimination, said Michael, I do not complain, the trip has pleased me and the projectile agrees with me, but let us do all that is humanly possible to do the fall somewhere, even if only on the moon. We ask no better, my worthy Michael, replied Barbican, but means fail us. We cannot alter the motion of the projectile? No. Nor diminish its speed? No. Not even by lightning it, as they lighten an overloaded vessel? What would you throw out? said Nicol. We have no ballast on board, and indeed it seems to me that if we lightened it would go much quicker. Slower. Quicker. Neither slower nor quicker, said Barbican, wishing to make his two friends agree, for we float in space and must no longer consider specific weight. Very well, cried Michael Arden in a decided voice. Then there remains but one thing to do. What is it? asked Nicol. Breakfast. answered the cool audacious Frenchman, who always brought up this solution at the most difficult juncture. In any case, if this operation had no influence on the projectile's course, it could at least be tried without inconvenience, and even with success from a stomachic point of view, certainly Michael had none but good ideas. They breakfasted, then, at two in the morning. The hour mattered little. Michael served his usual repast, crowned by a glorious bottle drawn from his private cellar. If ideas did not crowd on their brains, we must despair of the chambertun of 1853. The repast finished, observation began again. Around the projectile, at an invariable distance, were the objects which had been thrown out. Evidently, in its translatory motion round the moon, it had not passed through any atmosphere, for the specific weight of these different objects would have checked their relative speed. On the side of the terrestrial sphere, nothing was to be seen. The earth was but a day old, having been new the night before at twelve, and two days must elapse before its crescent, freed from the solar rays, would serve as a clock to the selenites, as in its rotary movement each of its points after twenty-four hours repasses the same lunar meridian. On the moon's side the sight was different. The orb shone, and all her splendor amid innumerable constellations, whose purity could not be troubled by her rays. On the disk the planes were already returning to the dark tint, which is seen from the earth. The other part of the nimbus remained brilliant, and in the midst of this general brilliancy Tycho shone prominently like a sun. Arbacain had no means of estimating the projectile's speed, but reasoning showed that it must uniformly decrease according to the laws of mechanical reasoning. Having admitted that the projectile was describing an orbit around the moon, this orbit must necessarily be elliptical. Science proves that it must be so. No motive body circulating round an attracting body fails in this law. Every orbit described in space is elliptical. And why should the projectile of the gun-club escape this natural arrangement? In elliptical orbits the attracting body always occupies one of the foci, so that at one moment the satellite is nearer, and at another farther from the orb around which it gravitates. When the earth is nearest the sun, she is in her perihelion, and in her aphelion at the farthest point. Speaking of the moon, she is nearest to the earth in her perigee, and farthest from it in her apogee. To use analogous expressions, with which the astronomer's language is enriched, if the projectile remains as a satellite of the moon, we must say that it is in its apoceline at its farthest point, and in its periceline at its nearest. In the latter case the projectile would attain its maximum of speed, and in the former its minimum. It was evidently moving toward its apocelineitical point, and Barbican had reason to think that its speed would decrease up to this point, and then increase by degrees as it neared the moon. This speed would even become nil if this point joined that of equal attraction. Barbican studied the consequences of these different situations, and thinking what inference he could draw from them, when he was roughly disturbed by a cry from Michael Arden. By Jove, he exclaimed, I must admit we are downright simpletons. I do not say we are not, replied Barbican, but why? Because we have a very simple means of checking the speed which is burying us from the moon, and we do not use it. And what is the means? To use the recoil contained in our rockets. Done, said Nicol. We have not used this force yet, said Barbican. It is true, but we will do so. When, asked Michael, when the time comes, observe my friends that in the position occupied by the projectile, an oblique position with regard to the lunar disk, our rockets, in slightly altering its direction, might turn it from the moon instead of drawing it nearer? Just so, replied Michael. Let us wait, then. By some inexplicable influence, the projectile is turning its base toward the earth. It is probable that at the point of equal attraction its conical cap will be directed rigidly toward the moon. At that moment we may hope that its speed will be nil. Then will be the moment to act, and with the influence of our rockets we may perhaps provoke a fall directly on the surface of the lunar disk. Bravo, said Michael. What we did not do. What we could not do on our first passage, at the dead point, because the projectile was then endowed with too great a speed. Very well reasoned, said Nicol. Let us wait patiently, continued Barbican, putting every chance on our side, and after having so much despaired, I may say I think we shall gain our end. This conclusion was a signal for Michael Arden's hips and hurrahs, and none of the audacious boobies remembered the question that they themselves had solved in the negative. No, the moon is not inhabited. No, the moon is probably not habitable, and yet they were going to try everything to reach her. One single question remained to be solved. At what precise moment the projectile would reach the point of equal attraction, on which the travellers must play their last card. In order to calculate this to within a few seconds, Barbican had only to refer to his notes, and to reckon the different heights taken on the lunar parallels. Thus the time necessary to travel over the distance between the dead point and the south pole would be equal to the distance separating the north pole from the dead point. The hours representing the time travelled over were very carefully noted, and the calculation was easy. Barbican found that this point would be reached at one in the morning on the night of the seventh, eighth of December, so that, if nothing interfered with its course, it would reach the given point in twenty-two hours. The rockets had primarily been placed to check the fall of the projectile upon the moon, and now they were going to employ them for a directly contrary purpose. In any case, they were ready, and they had only to wait for the moment to set fire to them. Since there is nothing else to be done, said Nicol, I make a proposition. What is it? asked Barbican. I propose to go to sleep. What a motion! exclaimed Michael Arden. It is forty hours since we closed our eyes, said Nicol. Some hours of sleep will restore our strength. Never, interrupted Michael. Well, continued Nicol, everyone to his taste. I shall go to sleep.  That Nicol has a good deal of sense, said Barbican. Presently I shall follow his example. Some moments after, his continued base supported the captain's baritone. Certainly, said Michael Arden, finding himself alone, these practical people have sometimes most inopportune ideas. And with his long legs stretched out, and his great arms folded under his head, Michael slept in his turn. But this sleep could be neither peaceful nor lasting. The minds of these three men were too much occupied, and some hours after, about seven in the morning, all three were on foot at the same instant. The projectile was still leaving the moon, and turning its conical point more and more toward her. An explicable phenomenon, but one which happily served Barbican's ends. Seventeen hours more, and the moment for action would have arrived. The day seemed long. However bold the travelers might be, they were greatly impressed by the approach of that moment which would decide all. Either precipitate their fall onto the moon, or forever chain them in an immutable orbit. They counted the hours as they passed too slow for their wish. Barbican and Nicol were obstinately plunged in their calculations, Michael going and coming between the narrow walls, and watching that impassive moon with a longing eye. At times recollections of the earth crossed their minds. They saw once more their friends of the gun club, and the dearest of all J. T. Maston. At that moment the Honorable Secretary must be filling his post on the Rocky Mountains. If he could see the projectile through the glass of his gigantic telescope, what would he think? After seeing it disappear behind the moon's south pole, he would see them reappear by the north pole. They must therefore be a satellite of a satellite. Had J. T. Maston given this unexpected news to the world, was this the denouement of this great enterprise? But the day passed without incident. The terrestrial midnight arrived. The 8th of December was beginning. One hour more and the point of equal attraction would be reached. What speed would then animate the projectile? They could not estimate it. But no error could vitiate Barbican's calculations. At one in the morning, this speed ought to be and would be nil. Besides, another phenomenon would mark the projectile's stopping point on the neutral line. At that spot the two attractions, Lunar and Terrestrial, would be annulled. Objects would weigh no more. This singular fact, which had surprised Barbican and his companion so much in going, would be repeated on their return under the very same conditions. At this precise moment they must act. Already the projectile's conical top was sensibly turned toward the lunar disk, presented in such a way as to utilize the whole of the recoil produced by the pressure of the rocket apparatus. The chances were in favor of the travelers. If its speed was utterly annulled on this dead point, a decided movement toward the moon would suffice, however slight, to determine its fall. Five minutes to one, said Nickel. All is ready, replied Michael Arden, directing a lighted match to the flame of the gas. Wait, said Barbican, holding his chronometer in his hand. At that moment, wait had no effect. The travelers felt in themselves the entire disappearance of it. They were very near the neutral point, if they did not touch it. One o'clock, said Barbican. Michael Arden applied the lighted match to a train in communication with the rockets. No detonation was heard in the inside, for there was no air. But through the scuttles, Barbican saw a prolonged smoke, the flames of which were immediately extinguished. The projectile sustained a certain shock, which was sensibly felt in the interior. The three friends looked and listened without speaking, and scarcely breathing. One might have heard the beating of their hearts amid this perfect silence. Are we falling? asked Michael Arden at length. No, said Nickel, since the bottom of the projectile is not turning to the lunar disk. At this moment, Barbican, quitting his scuttle, turned to his two companions. He was frightfully pale, his forehead wrinkled, and his lips contracted. We are falling, said he. Ah! cried Michael Arden. On to the moon. On to the earth. The devil, exclaimed Michael Arden, adding philosophically. Well, when we came into this projectile, we were very doubtful as to the ease with which we should get out of it. And now this fearful fall had begun. The speed retained had borne the projectile beyond the dead point. The explosion of the rockets could not divert its course. This speed and going had carried it over the neutral line, and in returning had done the same thing. The laws of physics condemned it to pass through every point which it had already gone through. It was a terrible fall, from a height of 160,000 miles, and no springs to break it. According to the laws of gunnery, the projectile must strike the earth with the speed equal to that with which it left the mouth of the Columbia, a speed of 16,000 yards in the last second. But to give some figures of comparison, it has been reckoned that an object thrown from the top of the towers of Notre Dame, the height of which is only 200 feet, will arrive on the pavement at a speed of 240 miles per hour. Here the projectile must strike the earth with a speed of 115,200 miles per hour. We are lost, said Michael Cooley. Very well, if we die, answered Barbican with a sort of religious enthusiasm, the results of our travels will be magnificently spread. It is his own secret that God will tell us. In the other life the soul will want to know nothing, either of machines or engines. It will be identified with eternal wisdom. In fact, interrupted Michael Arden, the whole of the other world may well console us for the loss of that inferior orb called the moon. Barbican crossed his arms on his breast with a motion of sublime resignation, saying at the same time, the will of heaven be done. End of Chapter 19, A Struggle Against the Impossible, Recording by Scott Robbins. Chapter 20, Around 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. Around the Moon by Jules Verne. Chapter 20, The Soundings of the Susquehanna. Well, Lieutenant, and our soundings? I think, sir, that the operation is nearing its completion, replied Lieutenant Bronzefield. But who would have thought of finding such a depth so near and sure, and only two hundred miles from the American coast? Certainly, Bronzefield, there is a great depression, said Captain Bloomsbury. In this spot there is a submarine valley worn by Humboldt's current, which skirts the coast of America as far as the Straits of Magellan. These great depths, continued the Lieutenant, are not favorable for laying telegraphic cables. A level bottom like that supporting the American cable between Valentia and Newfoundland is much better. I agree with you, Bronzefield. With your permission, Lieutenant, where are we now? Sir, at this moment we have 3,508 fathoms of line-out, and the ball which draws the sounding lead has not yet touched the bottom, for if so, it would have come up of itself. Brooks's apparatus is very ingenious, said Captain Bloomsbury. It gives us very exact soundings. Touch! cried at this moment one of the men at the four-wheel, who was superintending the operation. The Captain and the Lieutenant mounted the quarter-deck. What depth have we, asked the Captain. 3,627 fathoms, replied the Lieutenant, entering it in his notebook. Well, Bronzefield, said the Captain, I will take down the result. Now haul in the sounding line. It will be the work of some hours. In that time the engineer can light the furnaces, and we shall be ready to start as soon as you have finished. It is ten o'clock, and with your permission, Lieutenant, I will turn in. Do so, sir, do so, replied the Lieutenant, bludgingly. The Captain of the Susquehanna, as brave a man as need be, and the humble servant of his officers, returned to his cabin, took a brandy grog which earned for the steward no end of praise, and turned in, not without having complimented his servant upon making his beds, and slept a peaceful sleep. It was then ten at night. The eleventh day of the month of December was drawing to a close in a magnificent night. The Susquehanna, a corvette of five hundred horsepower of the United States Navy, was occupied in taking soundings in the Pacific Ocean about two hundred miles off the American coast, following that long peninsula which stretches down the coast of Mexico. The wind had dropped by degrees. There was no disturbance in the air. The pennant hung motionless from the main top-gallant mass-truck. Captain Jonathan Blomsbury, cousin German of Colonel Blomsbury, one of the most ardent supporters of the Gun Club, who had married an aunt of the captain and daughter of an honourable Kentucky merchant, Captain Blomsbury could not have wished for finer weather in which to bring to a close his delicate operations of sounding. His corvette had not even felt the great tempest, which by sweeping away the groups of clouds on the Rocky Mountains had allowed them to observe the course of the famous projectile. Everything went well, and with all the fervour of a Presbyterian he did not forget to thank heaven for it. The series of soundings taken by the Susquehanna had for its aim the finding of a favourable spot for the lane of a submarine cabled to connect the Hawaiian islands with the coast of America. It was a great undertaking, due to the instigation of a powerful company. Its managing director, the intelligent Cyrus Field, proposed even covering all the islands of Oceanica with a vast electrical network, an immense enterprise and one worthy of American genius. To the corvette Susquehanna had been confided the first operations of sounding. It was on the night of the eleventh-twelfth of December. She was in exactly twenty-seven degrees seven minutes north latitude, and forty-one degrees thirty-seven minutes west longitude, on the meridian of Washington. The moon, then in her last quarter, was beginning to rise above the horizon. After the departure of Captain Blomsbury the Lieutenant and some officers were standing together on the poop. On the appearance of the moon their thoughts turned to that orb which the eyes of a whole hemisphere were contemplating. The best naval glasses could not have discovered the bridge-actile wandering around its hemisphere, and yet all were pointed toward that brilliant disk which millions of eyes were looking at at the same moment. They've been gone ten days, said Lieutenant Bronzefield at last. What has become of them? They have arrived, Lieutenant, exclaimed a young midshipman, and they are doing what all travelers do when they arrive in a new country, taking a walk. Oh, I am sure of that if you tell me so, my young friend, said Lieutenant Bronzefield, smiling. But, continued another officer, their arrival cannot be doubted. The projectile was to reach the moon when full on the fifth at midnight. We are now at the eleventh of December which makes six days, and in six times twenty-four hours, without darkness, one would have time to settle comfortably. I fancy I see my brave countrymen encamped at the bottom of some valley on the borders of a cellar-night stream, near a projectile half-buried by its fall amid volcanic rubbish. Captain Nicol, beginning his levelling operations, President Barbican writing out his notes, and Michael Arden embalming the lunar solitudes with the perfume of his— Yes, yes, it must be so, it is so, exclaimed the young midshipman, worked up to a pitch of enthusiasm by this ideal description of his superior officer. I should like to believe it, replied the Lieutenant, who was quite unmoved. Unfortunately, direct news from the lunar world is still wanting. Beg pardon, Lieutenant, said the midshipman, but cannot President Barbican write? A burst of laughter greeted this answer. No letters, continued the young man quickly, the postal administration has something to see to there. Might it not be the telegraphic service that is at fault, asked one of the officers ironically. Not necessarily, replied the midshipman, not at all confused, but it is very easy to set up a graphic communication with the earth. By means of the telescope it longspeak. You know, it brings the moon to within four miles of the rocky mountains, and that it shows objects on its surface of only nine feet in diameter. Very well, let our industrious friends construct a giant alphabet, let them write words three fathoms long and sentences three miles long, and then they can send us news of themselves. The young midshipman, who had a certain amount of imagination, was loudly applauded. President Bronzefield allowing that the idea was possible, but observing that if by these means they could receive news from the lunar world they could not send any from the terrestrial, unless the selenites had instruments fit for taking distant observations at their disposal. Evidently, said one of the officers, but what has become of the travellers? What have they done? What have they seen? That above all must interest us. Besides if the experiment has succeeded, which I do not doubt, they will try it again. The Columbia d is still stuck in the soil of Florida. It is now only a question of powder and shot, and every time the moon is at her zenith a cargo of visitors may be sent to her. It is clear, replied Lieutenant Bronzefield, that J. T. Maston will one day join his friends. If he will have me, cried the midshipman, I am ready. Oh, volunteers will not be wanting, answered Bronzefield, and if it were allowed half of the earth's inhabitants would emigrate to the moon. This conversation between the officers of the Susquehanna was kept up until nearly one in the morning. We cannot say what blundering systems were broached, what inconsistent theories advanced by these bold spirits. Since Barbecain's attempt nothing seemed impossible to the Americans. They had already designed an expedition not only of savants, but of a whole colony toward the selenite borders, and a complete army consisting of infantry, artillery, and cavalry to conquer the lunar world. At one in the morning the hauling in of the sounding line was not yet completed. One thousand six hundred seventy fathoms were still out, which would entail some hour's work. According to the commander's orders the fires had been lighted, and steam was being got up. The Susquehanna could have started that very instant. At that moment, it was seventeen minutes past one in the morning, Lieutenant Bronzefield was preparing to leave the watch and return to his cabin, when his attention was attracted by a distant hissing noise. His comrades in himself first thought that this hissing was caused by the letting off of steam, but, lifting their heads, they found that the noise was produced in the highest regions of the air. They had not time to question each other before the hissing became frightfully intense, and suddenly there appeared to their dazzled eyes an enormous meteor, ignited by the rapidity of its course and its friction through the atmospheric strata. This fiery mass grew larger to their eyes and fell with the noise of thunder upon the bowsprit, which it smashed close to the stem, and buried itself in the waves with a deafening roar. A few feet nearer in the Susquehanna would have foundered with all on board. At this instant Captain Bloomsbury appeared, half dressed and rushing on to the four-castle deck, wither all the officers had hurried, exclaimed, �With your permission, gentlemen, what has happened?� And the midshipman, making himself, as it were, the echo of the body, cried, �Commander, it is they come back again!� End of CHAPTER XXI 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 XXI J. T. Maston recalled, �It is they come back again!� the young midshipman had said, and every one had understood him, no one doubted, but that the meteor was the projectile of the gun-club. As to the travellers, which had enclosed, opinions were divided regarding their fate. �They are dead� said one. �They are alive� said another. �The crater is deep, and the shock was deaden�t. �But they must have wanted air� continued a third speaker. �They must have died of suffocation� burned, replied a fourth. The projectile was nothing but an incandescent mass as it crossed the atmosphere. �It doesn�t matter� they exclaimed unanimously, �living or dead, we must pull them out.� But Captain Bloomsbury had assembled his officers, and, with their permission, was holding a council. They must decide upon something to be done immediately. The more hasty ones were for fishing up the projectile. A difficult operation, though not an impossible one. But the corvette had no proper machinery, which must be both fixed and powerful, so it was resolved that they should put in, at the nearest port, and give information to the gun-club of the projectile�s fall. This determination was unanimous. The choice of the port had to be discussed. The neighbouring coast had no anchorage on twenty-seven degrees latitude. Higher up, above the peninsula of Monterey, stands the important town from which it takes its name. That seated on the borders of a perfect desert, it was not connected with the interior by a network of telegraph wires, and electricity alone could spread these important news fast enough. Some degrees above opened the bay of San Francisco. Through the capital of the Gold Country, communication would be easy with the heart of the Union. And in less than two days the Susquehanna, by putting on high pressure, could arrive in that port. She must therefore start at once. The fires were made up. They could set off immediately. Two thousand fathoms of line were still out, which Captain Bloomsbury, not wishing to lose, precious time in hauling in, resolved to cut. �We will fasten the end to a boy,� said he, �and that boy will show us the exact spot where the projectile fell.� �Besides� replied Lieutenant Bronzefield, �we have our situation exact, twenty-seven degrees, seven hours north latitude, and forty-one degrees, thirty-seven hours west longitude.� �Well� Mr. Bloomsfield,� replied the Captain, �now with your permission we will have the line cut.� A strong boy, strengthened by a couple of spars, was thrown into the ocean. The end of the rope was carefully lashed to it, and left solely to the rise and fall of the billows. The boy would not sensibly deviate from the spot. At this moment the engineer sent to inform the Captain that the steam was up, and they could start, for which agreeable communication the Captain thanked him. The course was then given north-northeast, and the corvette, wearing, steered at full steam, direct for San Francisco. It was three in the morning. Four hundred and fifty miles to cross. It was nothing for a good vessel, like the Sescajana. In thirty-six hours she had covered that distance, and on the fourteenth of December, at twenty-seven minutes, past one at night, she entered the bay of San Francisco. At the sight of a ship of the national navy, arriving at full speed, with her bowsprit broken, public curiosity was greatly aroused. A dense crowd soon assembled on the key, waiting for them to disembark. After casting anchor, Captain Bloomsbury and Lieutenant Bromsfield entered an eight-part cutter which soon brought them to land. They jumped on to the key. The telegraph, they asked, without answering one of the thousand questions addressed to them. The officer of the port conducted them to the telegraph office through a concourse of spectators. Bloomsbury and Bromsfield entered, while the crowd crushed each other at the door. Some minutes later a four-fold telegram was sent out. The first to the naval secretary at Washington. The second to the vice-president of the gun-club, Baltimore. The third to Honorable J. T. Maston. Longs Peak, Rocky Mountains. And the fourth to the sub-director of the Cambridge Observatory, Massachusetts. It was worded as follows. In twenty degrees seven hours north latitude and forty-one degrees thirty-seven hours west longitude, on the twelfth of December, at seventeen minutes past one in the morning, the projectile of the Columbia fell into the Pacific, send instructions, Bloomsbury, Commander, Susquehanna. Five minutes afterward the whole town of San Francisco learned the news. Before six in the evening the different states of the Union had heard the great catastrophe, and after midnight by the cable the whole of Europe knew the result of the great American experiment. We will not attempt to picture the effect produced on the entire world by that unexpected denouement. On receipt of the telegram the naval secretary telegraphed to Susquehanna to wait in the Bay of San Francisco without extinguishing her fires. Day and night she must be ready to put to sea. The Cambridge Observatory called a special meeting, and with that composure which distinguishes learned bodies in general, peacefully discussed the scientific bearings of the question. At the gun-club there was an explosion. All the gunners were assembled. This President, the Honourable Wilcombe, was in the act of reading the premature dispatch in which J. T. Maston and Belfast announced that the projectile had just been seen in the gigantic reflector of Long's Peak, and also it was held by lunar attraction, and was playing the part of under-satellite to the lunar world. We know the truth on that point. But on the arrival of Bloomsbury's dispatch, so decidedly contradicting J. T. Maston's telegram, two parties were formed in the bosom of the gun-club. On one side were those who admitted the fall of the projectile, and consequently the return of the travellers. On the other those who believed in the observations of Long's Peak concluded that the Commander of the Susquehanna had made a mistake. To the latter the pretended projectile was nothing but a meteor, nothing but a meteor, a shooting globe, which in its fall had smashed the boughs of the Corvette. It was difficult to answer this argument, for the speed with which it was animated must have made observation very difficult. The Commander of the Susquehanna and her officers might have made a mistake, in all good faith. One argument, however, was in their favour. Unfortunately that if the projectile had fallen on earth, its place of meeting with the terrestrial globe could only take place on this twenty-seven degree north latitude, and, taking into consideration the time that had elapsed, and the rotary motion of the earth, between the forty-one degree and the forty-two degree of west longitude. In any case it was decided in the gun-club that Bloomsbury Brothers, Billsby and Major Elphinstone should go straight to San Francisco and consult as to the means of raising the projectile from the depths of the ocean. These devoted men set off at once, and the railroad, which will soon cross the whole of Central America, took them as far as St. Louis, where the swift mail-coaches awaited them, almost at the same moment in which the Secretary of Marine, the Vice President of the Gun-Club, and the Sub-Director of the Observatory, received the dispatch from San Francisco. The Honorable J. T. Maston was undergoing the greatest excitement he had ever experienced in his life. An excitement which even the bursting of his pet gun, which had more than once nearly cost him his life, had not caused him. We may remember that the Secretary of the Gun-Club had started soon after the projectile, and almost as quickly, for the station on Long's peak in the Rocky Mountains. J. Belfast, Director of the Cambridge Observatory, accompanying him. Arrived there the two friends had installed themselves at once, never quitting the summit of their enormous telescope. We know that this gigantic instrument had been set up according to the reflecting system, called the English Front View. This arrangement subjected all objects to but one reflection, making the view consequently much clearer. The result was that, when they were taking observation, J. T. Maston and Belfast were placed in the upper part of the instrument and not in the lower, which they reached by a circular staircase. A masterpiece of lightness, while below them, opened a metal well terminated by the metallic mirror, which measured 280 feet in depth. It was on a narrow platform, placed above the telescope, that the two savants passed their existence, executing the day which hid the moon from their eyes, and the clouds which obstinately veiled her during the night. What then was their delight, when, after some days of waiting, on the night of the 5th of December, they saw the vehicle which was bearing their friends into space. To this delight succeeded a great deception, when, trusting to a cursory observation, they launched their first telegram to the world, erroneously affirming that the projectile had become a satellite of the moon, gravitating in an immutable orbit. From that moment it had never shown itself to their eyes. A disappearance, all the more easily explained, as it was then passing behind the moon's invisible disk. But when it was time for it to reappear on the visible disk, one may imagine the impatience of the fuming J. T. Maston, and his not less impatient companion. Each minute of the night they thought they saw the projectile once more, and they did not see it. Hence constant discussions and violent disputes between them. Belfast affirming that the projectile could not be seen, J. T. Maston, maintaining that, it had put his eyes out. It is the projectile, repeated J. T. Maston. No, answered Belfast. It is an avalanche detached from a lunar mountain. Well, we shall see it to-morrow. No, we shall not see it any more. It is carried into space. Yes. No. And at these moments when contradictions reigned like hail, the well-known irritability of the secretary of the gun-club constituted a permanent danger for the honorable Belfast. The existence of these two, together, would soon have become impossible. But an unforeseen event cut short their everlasting discussions. During the night, from the fourteenth to the fifteenth of December, the two irreconcilable friends were busy observing the lunar disk, J. T. Maston abusing the learned Belfast as usual, who was by his side, the secretary of the gun-club maintaining for the thousandth time that he had just seen the projectile, and adding that he could see Michel Ardain's face looking through one of the scuttles, at the same time enforcing his argument by a series of gestures which his formidable hook rendered very unpleasant. At this moment Belfast's servant appeared on the platform. It was ten at night, and gave him a dispatch. It was the commander of the Ciscajana's telegram. Belfast tore the envelope and read, and uttered a cry. What, said J. T. Maston, the projectile, well, has fallen to the earth. Another cry, this time a perfect howl, answered him. He turned toward J. T. Maston. The unfortunate man, imprudently leaning over the metal tube, had disappeared in the immense telescope. A fall of two hundred and eighty feet, Belfast, dismayed, rushed to the orifice of the reflector. He breathed. J. T. Maston, caught by his metal hook, was holding on by one of the rings which bound the telescope together, uttering fearful cries. Belfast called. Help was brought, tackle was let down, and they hoisted up, not without some trouble, the imprudent secretary of the gun-club. He reappeared at the upper orifice, without hurt. Ah! said he, if I had broken the mirror, you would have paid for it, replied Belfast, severely. And that cursed projectile has fallen, asked J. T. Maston, into the Pacific, let us go. A quarter of an hour after the two savants were descending the declivity of the Rocky Mountains, and two days after, at the same time as their friends of the gun-club, they arrived at San Francisco, having killed five horses on the road. Elphinstone, the brothers Bloomsbury and Billsby, rushed towards them on their arrival. What shall we do? they exclaimed. Fish up the projectile, replied J. T. Maston, and the sooner the better.