An Unknown World

by Pierre de Sélènes

  “Soft, eh?” said the Englishman, sniggering.

  “Well, you’ll see,” Marcel replied.

  His hand was on the lever designed to displace the gaskets on the tubes forming the first series of liquid-oxygen rockets, and he pulled it down abruptly.

  Suddenly, the voyagers felt a shock so violent that they were thrown to the floor. The movement of recoil imparted to the projectile had been such that, gripped as it was by its vertiginous fall, it would inevitably have been shattered into tiny pieces by the two contrary forces if it had not had the solidity of a single block.

  The velocity of the descent was completely annihilated for a few seconds, and the projectile began to fall again as it that momentary arrest marked the initial point of its fall.

  “Well, Milord, what do you say to that?” said Marcel.

  “That, I agree, is a nice trick, but you’ve worked it in vain, and I can already make up the points of rocks beneath us that will tear up apart before long. For my part, I couldn’t console myself if it were otherwise.”

  “Well, it will be otherwise, I can assure you. Prepare yourself to make an entrance worthy of a gentleman in the middle of the lunar plain.”

  Jacques was entirely absorbed in the contemplation of the marvelous scene that was unfurling before his eyes. From one second to the next the summits of craters toward which the shell seemed to be heading were growing and appearing more distinctly; their sharp ridges stood out with a clarity that rendered the absence of atmosphere even more precise; dark precipices were hollowed out on their profoundly uneven flanks, filled with a shadow whose blackness was undiminished by the diffuse light. All around, the ground was streaked by crevasses and abrupt crags; one might have thought that the waves of an ocean had been suddenly taken by surprise and frozen in the midst of a raging tempest. Nowhere, however, could anything be perceived that might indicate the presence of animate beings.

  Marcel pressed the lever again. For the second time the oxygen fused. That shock was less violent than the first and the pause less noticeable. The young engineer was able to take exact account of the progress of the projectile.

  “We’re going to pass over the group of craters!” he cried. “We’re going to fall in the Marsh of Mists.”

  “Where are we going to land, then?” asked Jacques.

  “On the banks of the Acheron,” murmured Lord Rodilan.

  No one bothered to reply to that quip.

  Marcel’s face expressed a certain anxiety; Jacques was grave.

  As they were about to reach their goal, those exceedingly well-tempered men, whose audacity had not recoiled before the perils of such a voyage, were gripped by a secret anxiety. What would become of them? How would they arrive on the soil of our satellite? Would they arrive there alive?

  “Ah!” exclaimed Marcel, suddenly. “We’re going to pass between the craters of Autolycus and Aristillus, and will surely fall in the valley that extends from the foot of the craters to the last peaks of the Caucasus chain.”

  Lord Rodilan, sitting on the circular divan, did not seem to be listening to that feverish conversation; he was lost in a profound reverie, as if everything that surrounded him was completely foreign to him.

  “But what’s that?” asked Jacques, suddenly. And his finger designated a large fissure in the lunar ground, the sinuosities of which snaked through the middle of the valley. It broadened as the projectile got closer, and between its edges a somber abyss opened up, the sides of which were bristling with rocky asperities, and whose mysterious depths the eye could not fathom.

  Marcel had seen it too. His forehead creased, his eyes fixed and his face pale, he gazed at the gulf silently, which was growing from one instant to the next. Its edges seemed to be opening up as if to swallow them.

  “I’ve foreseen everything, except that,” he murmured. “It’s a fissure, and we’re falling directly into it.”

  The grandiose horror of their situation had even snatched Lord Rodilan from his imperturbable phlegm. All three of them were now on their feet, as if ready for the final sacrifice.

  Marcel had made his decision. He kept his final rockets as an ultimate resource. At the precise moment when the shell arrived with frightful rapidity at the level of the crevasse, he pressed the lever for the last time. The projectile seemed to leap backwards. At the moment of pause, the three men gripped one another forcefully, and, their eyes tranquil and their faces calm, without a single muscle quivering, they plunged proudly and resolutely into the entrails of the world they had come to conquer.

  VIII. At the Bottom of the Pit

  The most profound darkness and the most complete silence reigned in the projectile. Were the three men dead? Had Lord Rodilan’s somber presentiments been realized? Was an obscure and inglorious, but certainly original death the denouement of so much effort and courage?

  Marcel was the first to recover consciousness. He got up painfully and, unable to see anything or hear any sound, felt his heart gripped by a mortal anxiety.

  “Where are we?” he said. “What’s happened?” And he called out: “Jacques! Milord!”

  There was no reply.

  A cold sweat trickled over his limbs; he shivered in horror. He searched his surroundings, groping, and his hand soon encountered a copper button, which he pressed abruptly. A jet of electric light illuminated the interior of the shell. Jacques and Lord Rodilan were lying on the floor, motionless. First, Marcel leaned over his childhood friend; the young physician was as pale as a corpse; his heart was only beating feebly.

  “My God!” Marcel murmured. Lifting his up cautiously, he lay him down on the divan, his head supported by cushions. He loosened his clothes precipitately, baring his chest. But it was in vain that he made him breathe smelling salts, in vain that he rubbed his temples and forehead with vinegar, and in vain that he poured a few drops of a powerful cordial between his clenched teeth. Jacques remained unconscious.

  Marcel felt gripped by despair. Discouraged, he no longer knew what means to employ, when a feeble sigh escaped the invalid’s lips. Leaning over him, the shivering Marcel then started massaging him vigorously in the region of the heart.

  Soon, his respiration became stronger and the colors of life began to reappear in his cheeks.

  “Oh, my dear Jacques, you gave me a scare!” he murmured.

  “Oh well,” said Jacques, in a voice that was still weak and hesitant “What happened?”

  “Ah! As to that, I know absolutely nothing—but before we try to find out, it’s necessary to see what state our traveling companion is in.”

  “Is he injured, then?” asked Jacques.

  “I don’t know. I only thought about you to begin with. I’ll see to him now.”

  “And I’ll help you, my dear Marcel, for I’ve almost got my strength back.”

  They lifted the Englishman’s body carefully.

  As if he had only been awaiting that contact to return to life, Lord Rodilan opened his eyes abruptly and uttered a formidable oath.

  “God damn it!” he groaned, in an irritated voice. “What do they want with me now? I’m dead—leave me in peace.”

  “No, Milord,” said Jacques, laughing in spite of the fearful situation, “you’re not dead and you’ve lost your bet.”

  The Englishman pulled a face. “Well,” he said, “I have no luck at all. But wait a minute—if we’re not dead, we’re not much better off.”

  “That’s what we need to find out,” Marcel put in. “But since we’re alive, well and truly, we need to think about getting out of here.”

  They remained immobile for a moment.

  “Hold on,” said Marcel. “One might think that our shell is moving. Is our voyage not over? Is it continuing in the bowels of our satellite?”

  The projectile did indeed seem to be animated by slow and feeble oscillations, as if it were not resting on a solid base.

  Abruptly, Jacques, who could not resist his anxiety, removed the bolts retaining the aluminum plate of one of
the portholes pierced through the wall of the shell; then, seizing the electric lamp, he approached it to the widow.

  He uttered an exclamation: “But we’re in water!”

  His two companions came running. Lord Rodilan seemed to have forgotten his bad mood; keen curiosity was painted on his features.

  The electric beam, forcefully projected by the reflector with which the lamp was fitted, fell upon a tremulous surface from which it was reflected and scattered.

  There was no doubt about it; they were floating.

  The profound darkness that reigned in the place they had reached did not permit them to distinguish anything more.

  “Let’s see,” said Marcel. “For the moment, we’re afloat; that’s certain. On what, I don’t know yet, but we have time to think about it. Before anything else, we need to know whether the space in which our projectile has emerged is filled with breathable air.”

  “But we can’t open one of the portholes,” said Jacques. “All the air enclosed in the projectile would escape in the blink of an eye, and it’s a precious reserve that we might need to eke out carefully.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” said Marcel, “and I have a means to collect a sample of the gaseous environment in which we’re immersed, and to see whether it includes the elements necessary to the conservation of life.”

  So saying, he had picked up a wrench, and, gripping the end of a powerful bolt that traversed the entire thickness of the wall of the shell, he started unscrewing it.

  As the steel stem emerged from the hole that it was filing, without losing a second, he screwed in a platinum tube fitted with a tap. The operation was carried out so quickly that there was no loss of the air contained in the projectile.

  Jacques had understood. “You’re a careful man,” he said, “and I can see that you’ve thought of everything. I understand what you’re going to do, and I’ll help.”

  Lord Rodilan, completely recovered from his bewilderment, was looking at them attentively, seeming very interested.

  From one of the crates in which the scientific instruments were contained. Marcel carefully removed a simple apparatus familiar in laboratories. It consisted of a glass tube mounted vertically, maintained on a copper rod along which it was able to move, plunging into a crystal bowl. Then he picked up a long stick of phosphorus. In the meantime, Jacques has placed a shelf underneath the tap on which the apparatus was placed. The tube and the bowl were filled with water, and a rubber tube, fitted to the tap and immersed in the water, was adapted to the lower extremity of the tube, into which the stick of phosphorus had been introduced. Then the tap was opened, and the three voyagers saw the gas forming the exterior atmosphere penetrating the tube in bubbles, and gradually taking the place of the expelled water there. After a few seconds the tube was full and the tap was closed.

  “Now,” said Marcel, “while we wait for our experiment to be concluded, we have some time in hand, so we’ll have lunch.”

  “Is it lunch or dinner?” asked Jacques.

  “It would be more logical to call it supper,” said Lord Rodilan, “as we’re in pitch darkness.”

  “As you please,” Marcel replied. “For myself, I have a furious appetite. “All this excitement has made me terribly hungry.”

  “In truth,” said the Englishman, “since we’re not dead yet, I could gladly eat something.”

  “There,” said Marcel. “A tin of Crosse & Blackwell turkey, of which you can give me your opinion.”

  And all three of them, sitting on the circular divan, started to tuck into the wings and thighs of the turkey preserved in a savory jelly and strongly perfumed with truffles. First-rate biscuits served as bread. The Englishman tucked in more conscientiously than anyone else.

  “I can see, my dear lord,” said Jacques, laughing, “that for a man disgusted with life, you’re not so disdainful of the means of sustaining and prolonging it.”

  “By Jove!” Lord Rodilan replied, his mouth full. “I don’t mind being crushed, but it’s not in my program to let myself die stupidly of starvation. But when one eats, one ought to drink. What do you have to give us, Marcel, to wash down this succulent nourishment?”

  “In truth,” said Marcel, “on that point I have to ask for your indulgence. I’ve only brought a few bottles of a light wine, sufficiently digestive, which, I hope, won’t go to your head—because, you understand, I was obliged to anticipate and fear the malevolence of the juice of the grape.”

  The two friends grimaced significantly. Marcel smiled beneath his moustache. He took a tightly-sealed bottle out of a case, where it had been carefully enveloped in a straw sheath.

  “Damn!” said Jacques. “A lot of precautions for cheap wine!”

  Having carefully uncorked the bottle, Marcel poured into the glasses that his companions were holding out a liquid whose amber color and penetrating perfume caused the Englishman’s nostrils to dilate.

  “My dear Marcel,” he said, “I believe you’re making fun of us.” Savoring the precious liquid respectfully, he beamed and exclaimed: “It’s the 1865 Clos de Vougeot. Damn it, comrade, if you’ve got many like that, I’m ready to follow you to all the planets to which you might care to take us.”

  Jacques laughed quietly; he had not believed Marcel’s joke, knowing his friends practical sense too well to think that he had would have neglected such an important matter.

  The generous burgundy had restored all the strength and confidence of the three voyagers.

  “Now let’s see how our experiment is going,” said Marcel.

  They approached the apparatus. The tube that had previously been completely full of the exterior gas now appeared to be empty to the extent of about a third of its length. Marcel looked at the graduation marked on the glass; the water had risen to twenty-six degrees.

  “Oho!” he said. “We are indeed in the presence of breathable air, but rather heady air. The proportion of oxygen indicated by the tube is 26% instead of the 21% contained in the terrestrial atmosphere.”

  “Bah!” said Jacques. “All three of us have solid lungs, and we’ll make use of it.”

  “Well,” said Marcel, “it’s necessary now to think about getting out of here and finding out a little more about where we are.”

  “Yes,” said Jacques, “but it might not be prudent to expose ourselves abruptly to air supercharged with oxygen. Don’t you think we ought to take a few precautions?”

  “You’re right,” Marcel replied. “I’ll unscrew my rubber tube. The exterior air will penetrate gradually into the shell through the hole sealed by the bolt, and the substitution will be complete in a matter of minutes. Nothing prevents us, in the meantime, from trying to figure out where we are with the aid of the electric lamp.”

  The luminous beam was, indeed, shone through the portholes in various directions. In the direction is which they had first detected the liquid surface on which the projectile was floating they could make out nothing further; the luminous beam was lost in the distance in unfathomable darkness. On the opposite side, however, the light projected by the reflector encountered a wall, black in color, of rocky appearance, the height of which could not be estimated, which seemed to be to more than five cables away. Its base emerged from a strand on which the waves of the subterranean lake or sea died away.

  In the meantime, the exterior air gradually penetrated into the shell, and the three voyagers felt vivified by the oxygen-rich atmosphere, which they breathed delightedly. Jacques had feared momentarily, when Marcel had revealed the result of his analysis, that the air rich in the element of combustion might overstimulate the activity of vital phenomena, and that their organisms might have difficulty adapting to it. The precaution they had taken of measuring out the entry of the external air soon reassured him. A little cerebral excitation, a slightly more active and rapid respiration were the only physiological phenomena that he observed in himself and his two companions, whose pulse his experienced finger had interrogated.

  “We can be reas
sured,” he said. “The stimulation we’re experiencing at present, which comes from a slightly rapid transition from our ordinary atmosphere to more oxygen-rich air shouldn’t alarm us, and won’t last long. We’re all healthy and vigorous; our organs are well able to adapt to the ambient environment. We’ll even find, I’m sure, a surplus of vitality that will augment our strength, and our brains will draw an unsuspected intellectual force from it.”

  Jacques’ anticipations seemed to have been realized already. Since they had recovered the use of their senses, the three friends had found themselves in a singular state; they felt animated by an unusual vigor; their bodies seemed to have lost weight; all their movements were carried out with an ease and facility to which they were not accustomed. They were astonished to be moving without effort, able to toy with objects that would previously have seemed heavy; their feet no longer weighed upon the floor, and Lord Rodilan, having tried to reach up to take an object from a high shelf, found himself carried by his movement all the way to the top of the projectile, where he bumped his head on the superior padding.

  “Where are you going, my dear lord?” exclaimed Jacques, laughing. “Are you taking flight in order to leave us?”

  “My God!” said the Englishman, falling back gently on to the floor. “That’s bizarre! Damned if I understand it.”

  “It’s quite simple, though,” Marcel interjected. “And it’s sufficient proof, if any doubt remained, that we really have arrived on—or in—the Moon.”