The Germans on Venus

by Brian Stableford

  Spain protested timidly. Was it not encroaching upon the rights of God to go to these worlds, doubtless placed so far away by design? The Italians composed many sonnets. The intellectual fraction of Russia took a great interest in the question, as did the United States, which only regretted that there was no America in the story. In Austria, opinions were divided, mainly because no one was listening, as usual. The smaller states bordering Germany were very pleased that she was thinking about the stars rather than them. All England, however, burst out in a gale of laughter, which resounded everywhere the leopard and the unicorn reigned.80 Let Heinrich have his way! It would not lead to worldly hegemony—that was the main thing. Punch mocked—but Germany took no notice. No one was in doubt, no one asked the opinion of a neighbor; a unanimous pride dilated the heart of Deutschdom.

  “We have found our way,” proclaimed all the newspapers, “the way dimly foreseen for so many centuries! Not the vanished dream of eastward or westward, northwards or southward expansion! No, expansion into the skies, expansion towards the stars, where no one shall bar our route! The founders of our national unity are dead, alas, else they would have brought us this idea, with God’s aid! We Germans have always succeeded in doing what we desired to do. In this too we shall succeed!”

  At that time, the formidable confusion of interests, even more than the rising tide of socialism and the actions of trades unions, Sovietized pacifists and Freemasonry, had forced a Franco-German entente. The Empire would not lose by it, said its financiers, and at least Heinrich and Jacques Bonhomme would keep some of their cash, instead of seeing it spent on cannons and other trinkets.

  Voltaire, prince of mockers, wrote: “The art of government consists of taking as much money as possible from the many in order to give it to the few.” The definition rang true once, but once is not always. This explains how a liberal vote of the Reichstag and a national subscription by an enriched populace warmed to white heat by enthusiasm—in addition to the Emperor’s personal gift—brought the millions of marks that were necessary, and more. It was a one-time expense. The apparatus and engines constructed would last 200 years and more, and the kilometric tonnage of the interplanetary journey would descend to a price inferior to that of cargo boats, according to the calculations of Professor Reuler.

  It was then that an unknown poet, in a single hour, incarnated the soul of a race and produced a famous hymn, the most formidable affirmation of a man and a people that the world had ever known:

  The future of Germany is in the stars.

  O Germany extend thy hand

  And dress yourself in a crown of Suns!

  Tenebrous worlds roll in endless space

  Waiting for you to impose on them

  The good and just law of loyal man and God Himself.

  Germany, reign over the Ether

  And conquer the very stars

  And break out on this petty Earth

  Which is no more than a footstool

  Of your thought and your will,

  In a colossal and joyful burst of laughter,

  For man must surpass himself.

  A sage has said:

  Aspire to renew the work,

  That God has set himself

  For His love is with us.

  Thousands and thousands of men had these verses of Ludwig Mayer’s on their lips.81

  III. The City of Stars

  Far away, near the equator, beneath the torrid Sun and deluges of rain, the Wheel grew, day by day and hour by hour. The effort and the will of a people were forged in its titanic structure of steel, looming up into the clear sky where the stars scintillated. Neither gold nor sweat, nor even good human blood—the finest cement for anything higher than ourselves—was lacking in its birth.

  Now it was raised above the town and men, beneath its framework, raised their heads, full of pride in the work that was finally complete. Out to sea, steamers with breathless engines were proceeding slowly towards the violet horizon, with the mountains of Cameroon in the distance.

  First, there was the arrival of a swarm of workmen and their supervisors, whose invincible discipline changed the appearance of the region for miles around within a month. The tall ships, sounding their sirens, unloaded enormous quantities of steel, manufactured under other skies by other men. Great electric spotlights then lit up like nocturnal hawk-moths, the arms of cranes were extended and the screech of machinery became never-ending. Then a flock of fast-moving wagons began their whining course beneath their loads, and the dream became slid, rivet by rivet, piece by piece, in such sturdy metal that the storm-winds blew at it in vain. One morning, the huge scaffolding, the thousand arms of chains, the far-reaching electric cables, the stiff shafts of elevators and the whirling pulleys all felt the fatigue and tiredness of the workers bearing them, for the Wheel, the Port of the Zenith, the Emporium of Interplanetary Exchange, reflected the glory of the rising Sun—and when evening came, it threatened the sky and its multitude of stars.

  The town had grown up around it: a new town, clean and tidy, in which the effort of a century was concentrated. That too sprang from the ground, with its houses cast from molds, its rapid tramways, its verdant parks and its running streams—for years, science had subjugated the obscure force of great rivers, and the docile energy of cataracts ran through slender steel wires across the dark continent. The white man’s burden is as heavy as the planet, but he accepts it, bears it and molds it, now that he is no longer divided against himself, brother against brother, mouth against mouth, hand against hand. The great illusion of peoples has been swept away by the force of gold, and their hatreds have become weaker as their interests have become confused, to the extent that any blow struck at the heart of one stabs all the others.

  The people of the town gravitated around the three men who launched this dream into the world. They tasted the powerful joy of the hard work that leaves its mark more profoundly with every passing day. Now they had earned their reward, they gathered beneath the impassive stars in the sky, peacefully awaiting the passages of the planets through the shoreless seas of the void, fixed since time immemorial.

  Of the experiments they have undertaken, of the days of passion when, for the first time, the steel spindle that emerged solely from the hands of men, will penetrate the inaccessible ether, there is no need to tell the story, for it belongs to the history of science. No more shall I describe the East African airfield that Heinrich von Reinhardt built, on which the German airfleet, an immense eagle, sank down at every point; or even Doctor Hauchet’s “by-product,” the astonishing Aeracs: aeroplanes with massive hulls propelled at 300 kilometers an hour by the furious expulsion of their reaction-gases, capable with their variable wings of flying higher than condors soar above the Andes. I shall say no more, for this history is only concerned with the conquest of another world.

  It was a great day when the Congress of Charlottenburg opened, for it was a simple matter of choosing a world for humankind’s first step. The monstrous range of the Wheel embraced an almost-unlimited expanse of space, but it was necessary not only to reign over the dark black desert where even the stars are dust. Our bodies are made of flesh, although we wish to be gods. We can, however, only believe with difficulty in other humankinds higher than ourselves, across that extent, and—if they are there—the magnificent opportunities of a new science and perhaps other intelligences than intelligence.

  Three worlds were under discussion: the Moon, Mars and Venus. Earth’s satellite was set aside straight away, good for fantastic voyages, but certainly insufficient for a nation like Germany, narrowly confined on its own world. Water, air and aliments, if they were not entirely lacking there, would only be sufficient for the most sober of nations. Vegetation there seemed limited, the conditions of life hardly tenable.

  Nevertheless, Professor Heimar defended the Moon on five counts:

  Firstly, the astronomical: no air or troublesome vapor; a night of 354 hours, during which one might study the sky with the maximum
magnification, employing a spectroscope without atmospheric intrusion—in brief, the ideal observatory.

  Secondly, the meteorological: from there, with our large telescopes, we can follow the descent of icebergs and the movement of clouds, reporting them by wireless telegraph.

  Thirdly, that of military exploration: every 24 hours the Earth turns before a telescope installed on the Moon; one can see and signal the progress of an ironclad battleship or a large body of troops—and from an armchair, one could set up a global map at one’s ease.

  Fourthly, the industrial: daughter of the Earth, the Moon contains the same minerals, hence ores, soda, potash, pumice-stone, lava etc.—and a Lunar cubic meter is six times lighter to shift. After all, there is the surface area of two Americas up there: more than a hectare for every inhabitant of Earth.

  Fifthly, the colonial. There is no air, but it can be manufactured! Then, again, to return to our planet from up there only requires an initial velocity of 2600 meters per second. Timorous people hesitant to entrust themselves to the Wheel of the City of Stars will go up there; the limiting velocity is 3000 mps instead of 12,000! It will be the Hamburg of Space, the way-station of the stars, the Sterndeutscher Lloyd.

  The jurist Zuben, for his part, put forward the idea of an industrial and penal colony of the Prussian state. The difficulty of escape militated in its favor—and he proposed that the Moon should initially be used to lodge the victims of article 175 of the German penal code. This suggestion was received with the seriousness that it merited, and white Phoebe was held in reserve, solely in order to demand compensation if anyone else wanted to go there.82

  Mars, the enigma of our solar system, better known than Venus, had serious partisans, but it too seemed too small, with a diminished atmosphere and narrow seas. The interested public was nevertheless deluged with statistics and documents relating to the red planet, and mouths from Bavaria or Brandenburg gravely discussed the pros and cons over beer-glasses and succulent meal—but the Simplicissimus rallied all the votes, saying, quite accurately: “Since we can, for once, choose at our ease from the Heavens, without anyone snatching from our mouths what we thought we had, as has happened before, let us take the fattest.” These wise comments were illustrated by a cheerful cartoon, The Modern Judgment of Paris, and although presented in a slightly mocking manner, it was well-received.

  Jupiter was colossal, but distant; it seemed to offer nothing for an extended sojourn, but water boiling under gases at 300 atmospheres of pressure, and only an Empire of Tritons or Sirens could be founded there until further notice.

  There remained Venus, the morning star, the star of love, our sister world. These appellations, and others just as sweet, distributed in the newspapers and magazines, won the hearts of all sentimental Germans to her cause. It is something, in any land, to have women behind you; Venus, goddess and planet alike, knew that.

  At the Congress, Hauchet pleaded her cause, soberly, clearly and justly. “Venus is similar to the Earth, with snowy Himalayas, overflowing Amazons, titanic plateaus, storm-tossed oceans, beneath a hotter Sun. Life must be abundant there, swarming. Oppositions occur every 19 months, as opposed to 26 for Mars. Although the calculation of the trajectory is more delicate because of the increasing attraction of the Sun, there is no danger from any wandering planet like Eros. And, in the case of conquest, note this: if current theories regarding the life and death of elements are true, there is more radium and other similar substances on Venus than on Earth—and perhaps other, unknown, elements.”

  The chemists and physicists felt their hearts flutter at these words. Of 500 votes, 458 guaranteed Venus an interplanetary flight at the earliest possible opportunity. As usual, the Congress was concluded by a banquet, for a satisfied stomach communicates to be brain a love for what is to come, and forgetfulness of even courteous disputes.

  IV. The Departure

  The final months separating von Reinhardt and his companions from the flight to Venus were magnificently calm. It was a matter of arriving at the great adventure with clean minds and unperturbed muscles—and, according to Hauchet’s advice, they ought not to regret anything left behind on Earth. He talked about that easily, the Doctor. Having filled their eyes filled with the multiple beauties of this world, measured its extent and found it insufficient, they would be able to attempt such a risk, a leap into the unknown.

  The Devil took a hand, however, and stirred up two blue eyes and blonde hair for the desolation of Rosenwald—“for love is a malicious archer, who strikes at an even greater range than the Wheel itself,” as a French reporter dispatched by Le Journal wrote, somewhat satirically. Otto swore to leave even so, however. Frauleïn Hilda Liebfen agreed, despite everything. After their engagement, time passed for them six times faster than it should have.

  The great day arrived, in glorious sunlight.

  That morning, the Wheel was set in motion, with an acceleration no greater than a meter per second. The mist disappeared, and an anxious crowd—thousand of eyes, vast, dense, profound, come from all over the world—covered the camp, the surrounding fields and the roofs of the town. The ironclads of the Atlantic squadron lined upon out to sea, surrounded by other warships, fully manned. Yet, more men were heaped up in a prodigious crescent of sailing ships, steamships and huge barges. The breath of that crowd created a vapor in the warm air; its murmur was like the sound of the sea.

  The flags of 20 nations flapped in the wind, and chimneys rising up into the sky discharged steam. The monumental Wheel inclined slowly, and one foot of shining steel took the place of another. The most distant ranks of the crowd saw nothing at first. Then, after two hours, the noise of the alternating motor extended into the distance, immediately expelling turbulent clouds of steam.

  Suddenly, the racket of the pistons ceased, for the Wheel now seemed like a shield against the fiery sky. A murmur of anxiety ran through the crowd, and in the silence the whistling of the Wheel was audible. A crown of steam surrounded it, a tremulous white aureole, scattered with sparks.

  Brunschweig, the chief engineer, thought for a second that the life of the travelers was a feeble little thing amid that chaos of flame and noise. He leaned over the telephone that linked him to the projectile, but reassuring words replied to his call. And the hours went by. The clear day proclaimed the joy of life. The spectators thought of the men who, within the shell of steel, sensed that their projectile was ready to take fight. One sole man on the ground, the engineer at the mechanism triggering their departure, was the master of their destiny.

  Then, lamps lit up in the dusk, and the air filled with the buzz of the crowd and the machine, for the turbine was working almost at top speed. A few more minutes passed by. Astronomers and engineers huddled around items of apparatus. Everyone’s hearts beat a little faster.

  In the distance, the squadron’s cannons thundered a last salute. Everyone took off their hats. The town’s orchestras had been playing heroic marches all day, but now there was silence. Brunschweig raised his eyes towards the starry shy, put his finger on the control-button, and pressed it. A bell rang. A detachment mechanism was activated. Twenty seconds more—and suddenly a streak of light streaked the sky, at a stroke, in the direction of the dark zenith.

  They were on their way.

  V. The Heavenly Road

  Novels of space travel imagine a feverish activity among the travelers at the moment of departure: the intoxication of velocity; a rush to the windows; rapidly-beating hearts; cries of enthusiasm. In reality, it was not like that. When the hatchway had been sealed over their heads, the voyagers heard the workmen’s hammers for another minute applying fusible cladding to the last few square centimeters left uncovered for their entry. Then there was calm.

  The projectile, visited 20 times before, no longer had the attraction of novelty. They sat in their recreation-room, beneath the observatory, and Rosenwald uncorked a bottle of good Rhenish whine. They honored it according to its merits, and immediately afterwards von Reinhardt observ
ed that it was time to go back to the gyroscopic cabin—for it will not have escaped the intelligent reader that, in the course of their regular rotation, the voyager would find themselves upside-down at every turn, not to mention that the frightful development of the centrifugal force would crush them against the walls. This had been averted by mounting a central cabin in a gyroscope. This heavy ring of steel launched at great speed maintained a constant position for itself and its occupants. Similar items of apparatus have been developed for other purposes, for the direction of submarines and the automatic equilibration of torpedoes and aircraft, and have not similar seats, immobile during the worst turbulence, been envisaged for protection against sea-sickness?

  The cabin was small and padded, almost cramped. As soon as they were there, the gyroscope commenced its rotation. Various ingenious mechanisms prevented them from being inconvenienced. Rosenwald switched on the little electric lamp and aid; “Let’s eat”—which they did, to get their breath back. The gyroscope hummed.

  After coffee and cigars, they chatted. The cheerful Otto and Hauchet, rich in talk of science or mockery, made the time pass agreeably. Von Reinhardt listened, which was easy for him. He saw himself on his way, piloting his projectile—his Sirius, as it had been baptized—with an almost imperial hand.

  They departed thus without being aware of it; the rotation of the gyroscope accelerated with that of the Wheel. The tremors of the hull could not reach them, only the noises of the gigantic machine in operation.

  Suddenly, von Reinhardt said: “We’re moving—there’s nothing audible.”

  They looked at the chronometers. They were still turning in the little cabin, and it was necessary to wait. They could stop the gyroscope from their position, but that would be dangerous at top speed. Now that external energy was lacking, it would slow down gradually. Time passed while they advanced with planetary velocity into unlimited space.