He had given himself the task of studying in depth everything that concerned religion, mores, and political and civil institutions, and he intended to summarize the results of his research in a monograph, which, combined with the summaries made by Marcel and Jacques, would certainly constitute the most unexpected, most unusual and most interesting of treatises. What a marvel it would be for the scientific world of the Earth to receive that strange book one day, printed on the Moon, full of photographs, drawings and paintings—the masterpieces of lunar artists—representing human beings, animals, monuments and unknown landscapes!
How could such a work reach the cognizance of those for whom it was intended? The English diplomat did not worry about that, for the moment, but worked on it ardently.
His task, in any case, was easy.
The political institutions that he had undertaken to study were uncomplicated; there was no meddlesome authority jealous of its prerogatives, ever ready to measure its importance by the annoyances and difficulties caused to those it administrates. Bureaucratic tyranny was unknown, as were the vexations of paperwork and the odious inquisitions to which the poor humans of Earth are subjected, cleverly composed and disguised under the soft euphemisms of liberties and administrative guarantees.
There, one did not have before one’s eyes the afflicting spectacle presented, among the Earthly peoples who claim to be the most civilized, by the organization of repressive justice. Disputes between individuals were rare and easy to settle, the equity and good faith of the contracting parties was amply sufficient to regulate them. As for crimes against persons or the public good, most often products of the bitter struggle for existence, they were completely unknown. Hence, there were no courts, no police, no jails and no executioners. No one had to fear perfidious denunciations, interested accusations, to tremble for himself or his loved ones, to dread the surprises of the law or the traps of chicanery.
Everyone lived openly, without having anything to hide, and hence nothing to fear.
XVIII. A Gigantic Ascent
While occupying themselves with their important research, however, the three voyagers had been obliged to worry about a problem that was of the greatest importance for them: that of ensuring their survival in an environment so different from the one in which they had lived thus far. Undoubtedly, the provisions with which they had taken care to equip themselves when they left the Earth—tinned food of every sort, biscuits and various beverages—would be sufficient for quite a long time, but in the six months that they had been living in the lunar world they had already made large inroads, and could see the time approaching, not without anxiety, when their stock would be exhausted.
On the other hand, the phenomenon of living beings being nourished other than by the simple absorption of air, with the aid of material elements, had intrigued the inhabitants of the Moon. The three strangers had been the object of a study that, without their profound sentiment of propriety, might have become indiscreet. It will be remembered, however, that among the documents contained in the shell was a recent and complete atlas of anatomy. It had therefore been easy for the scientists to take an exact account of the physiology of terrestrial humankind, and they too had thought about finding the simplest and most effective means of supplying their guests with the means of survival.
Marcel, who had examined the important question with them, had manifested the desire to use for that purpose the various seeds of cereals and legumes that he had brought from Earth, and also to attempt the cultivation of fruit-producing species, with which he was also provided. A fairly large area had been set aside for that purpose. On Marcel’s instructions, the Diemides put at his disposal had manufactured agricultural implements, and the three exiles from Earth were soon able to contemplate a cultivated field reminiscent of their native planet.
There was one of them, however, who only raised a mediocre smile at the prospect of that vegetarian nourishment, and that was Lord Rodilan.
“Tins of corned beef, ham and game are all right,” he said, in a pitiful tone, “although they can’t compare to a large slice of bloody roast beef, but your cabbages and carrots—pooh! Sad fare. I’m not a rabbit, to live in that fashion, and I can’t do it.”
He often darted covetous glances at the lovely and graceful animals bounding in the plains, or the fish with glittering scales that moved like silver streaks through the clear water of the sea and the streams. He said that with a good hunting rifle or one of the improved fishing lines that were presently on display in the palace museum, he would soon be able to procure a tasty meal.
He had not been able to resist the temptation to mention it to Rugel, but the latter had responded, smiling, as if he understood the exigencies of that British stomach: “It’s necessary, alas, for you to renounce that hope. Murder is unknown here; all beings live in complete security; life, the emanation of the omnipotence of the Sovereign Being, is sacred. The fact that in your own world, where sad necessity obliges you to feed on animate beings, you’re led to imitate the example that nature itself provides, is understandable and excusable, but nothing can render such a crime against the order and harmony of our world admissible. Don’t worry, though; our scientists have been thinking about you; they now know the elements indispensable to your existence; they have anticipated the possibility that the experiments attempted by our friend Marcel might not furnish you with everything you need, and they’re studying the composition of an aliment that can replace the animal nourishment to which you’re accustomed, in a much reduced volume.”
The Englishman pulled a face and murmured to himself: “That’s all well and good, but reeks damnably of pharmacy. We shall see.”
It was not long, in fact, before he did see. A few days after that conversation, Jacques, who was spending almost all of his time with the lunar scientists in their laboratories, came back triumphantly and presented his two friends with a flask filed with a clear liquid, as transparent as pure water.
“Good God, what’s that?” asked Marcel. “And why are you so cheerful?”
“My friend,” said Jacques, “we’re now assured of never having to regret the succulent meals whose memory still haunts our dear Rodilan.”
“What!” said the Englishmen. “Are you claiming that your mixture can efficaciously replace Durham beef, Yorkshire mutton and Westphalian ham—the mere mention of which makes my mouth water?”
“Exactly, my dear chap. To begin with, what you call, profanely, a mixture, is the result of a marvelous combination in which are united, in scientifically determined proportions, the nitrogenous elements with which animal flesh furnishes us on Earth. There’s enough in this little flask to nourish all three of us for several weeks, but if we were to make exclusive use of this aliment, we’d soon be victims of a superabundance of life and harmful congestions. Fortunately, the fields sown by Marcel will furnish us with a sufficient quantity of fresh nourishment. The elixir that I have the honor of presenting to you will be our meat.”
“Pooh!” said the Englishmen. “I knew that it would all finish with drugs.”
“Just taste it,” said Jacques, laughing. “Pass judgment afterwards.” And he poured a few drops of the precious nectar into a glass.
Lord Rodilan peered at the unknown liquid, sniffed it, and then, closing his eyes and pulling a face, like a child about to swallow medicine, he swiftly absorbed the contents of the glass. Collecting himself, he said: “One can’t say that it’s excellent, but, all things considered, it’s not bad. I very much doubt, however, that it has what it takes to replace a steak!”
“Wait a few minutes,” said Jacques, “And tell me what you think. Look at our friend Marcel—he’s not making as much fuss.”
In fact, scarcely half an hour had gone by when Lord Rodilan, completely sated, felt full of a new vigor, as if he had sat down at an abundantly served table.
The experiment was decisive; the new aliment was adopted with no further difficulty, and the three friends felt reassured against the fear
of dying of hunger. It even seemed to them that the almost immaterial nourishment in question brought them a little closer, in their own eyes, to the superior condition of the inhabitants of the Moon. More than once, in fact, they had felt humiliated by the sad necessities imposed on them by terrestrial nature, and they thought that they had glimpsed expressions of surprise and pity in the gazes of the witnesses to their meals, so they frequently made provision to take their nourishment in private.
Since they had been living in the lunar world, Marcel, Jacques and Lord Rodilan had observed a great deal and learned a great deal. Nevertheless, Marcel had not forgotten the mysterious remarks that Rugel had made on the subject of the observatories from which the scientists of the Moon were able to follow the courses of the stars. He wondered how they were able to sound the depths of space from the depths of the gigantic cavern were they lived.
The granitic vault that imprisoned the humankind in question did not present any breach in its continuity; furthermore, even if some communication with the exterior had existed, he knew from his own experience that the atmospheric column did not extend as far as the surface of the satellite, and that the rarefied air soon became unbreathable. Several times he had reminded Rugel of his promise; the time was near when he was to be completely informed on the subject.
The profound studies to which he had devoted himself had not distracted Jacques from thinking about the woman he had left behind on Earth. He was in haste to let her know that he had emerged from the redoubtable enterprise alive. He often talked about that to Marcel, and his preoccupation had not escaped the sage Rugel, who, interrogating him affectionately, had had no difficulty discovering the cause of his sadness. The love, so noble and so pure, for which Jacques had not hesitated to risk his life, was one of the sentiments that the elevated soul of their new friend understood; he had encouraged Jacques benevolently not to despair. From a few remarks that he had allowed to escape, Jacques thought he had understood that people were investigating means of informing the inhabitants of the Earth of the safe arrival of the bold voyagers. It seemed to him to be taking a long time, though, and he was becoming impatient.
One day, Rugel appeared smiling. “I’m bringing you good news,” he told them. “In a few minutes, if you wish, we can go to visit the observatory that I’ve already mentioned to you. The moment is propitious; the part of the Moon facing the Earth is now in shadow, and you’ll see your homeland brightly lit.
“Finally!” said Marcel, with a surge of joy, shaking the hand that Rugel held out to him energetically.
“Thank you, friend,” said Jacques, his face radiant with pleasure.
“All right!” said Lord Rodilan. “I’m going to see joyous England again. What a pity, friend Rugel, that we can’t empty together, in her honor, the last bottle of champagne we have left.”
“Empty it,” said Rugel. “I’ll be with you in heart, not only for England, but also for France—for the entire world that you have left behind.”
The wine was soon sparkling in the glasses; cried of “Vive la France!” and “Hurrah for England!” were heard, and Rugel contemplated with a tender gaze the joy that he seemed to feel himself, and which, in spite of his impassive serenity, touched his heart.
In the meantime, an aeroscaph had come forward; it was an elegant and solid vehicle.
Marcel, who had familiarized himself with the mechanism of such craft some time before, took the tiller, and set a course for the point on the horizon that Rugel indicated. The apparatus rose upwards, cleaving through the air rapidly.
After a few hours, the interior sea that extended across the center of the immense cavern had been crossed, and they arrived at the foot of a colossal mountain of granite: a kind of sheer wall that seemed absolutely insurmountable. Between the foot of the mountain and the strand where the waves broke there was a small town, severe and tranquil in appearance. The people who lived there, in order to be close to the place where they usually worked, were members of the class of Meolicenes with a particular responsibility for astronomical observation. Their functions were highly prized in lunar society; they were the ones whose mission was to maintain a kind of communication between that subterranean humankind and the exterior universe. Without them, and their constant endeavors, the inhabitants of the Moon would have been completely estranged from what was happening in the sidereal world, as if enclosed in the darkness of an eternal prison.
Bulletins emerged from that scientific research center incessantly, identifying all manner of celestial phenomena as they were produced, thus maintaining among the highly intelligent people—who knew that the end of the world they inhabited was already marked within a space of time that could already be calculated—the desire to enter into communication with the neighboring humankind.
Rugel and his three companions were welcomed on arrival with the most benevolent cordiality. Although they had never been to that distant region, Marcel, Jacques and Lord Rodilan were sufficiently well-known. They renewed their acquaintance with some of the eminent people with whom they had already conversed in the capital, and all the rest were informed as to their endeavors. The room in which they were received was vast, and almost entirely decorated with sidereal maps, in great detail and the most perfect accuracy.
Marcel noticed, however, that there were no instruments of astronomical observation.
“Where is your observatory, then?” he said to Rugel. “It’s not from here that you can study the sky!”
“Patience, friend,” Rugel replied. “We’ll get there.”
One of the scientists surrounding them made a sign. A large door opened at the back of the room, giving access to an electrically-lighted corridor.
“Follow me,” said Rugel.
The corridor led to a small room, circular in form, furnished with seats and divans. An electric lamp in the ceiling illuminated it with a soft and even light; save for the door by which they had entered there did not seem to be any trace of an opening.
“Sit down for a moment,” said their guide, “and you’ll be satisfied before long.”
The three friends, surprised and passably intrigued, obeyed without further response.
“Our observatories,” said Rugel, “will not offer you any surprises from the viewpoint of the instruments you’re doubtless expecting to see. Given the drawings that you’ve shown us and the explanations you’ve provided, we’ve been able to ascertain that the theory on which your astronomical instruments are based consists of the laws of reflection and reflection of luminous rays. Those laws are general; only their applications can vary in accordance with different environments. Our eyes are like yours, the phenomenon of vision occurs in the same way among us as among you; all the optical apparatus that has the objective of extending the field of observation into the infinitely large and the infinitely small are merely eyes magnified or refined. If other means exist—and we have no evidence that they do—of sounding the depths of space or scrutinizing the secrets of life in their most infimal manifestations, those means must only be accessible to beings whose conformation is different from ours. Already, before our humankind was reduced to taking refuge inside our world, important research had been carried out and serious results obtained. I shall soon show you the entire series of preliminary endeavors through which we passed.”
For a few moments Marcel had seemed preoccupied; slight tremors seemed to be agitating the chair on which he was seated, in an almost imperceptible fashion, and the floor on which his feet were set. At the same time, he could hear a faint, almost ungraspable noise. One might have thought that he was searching for the cause of that movement and sound.
Rugel, who had noticed that, went on more urgently, as if to distract him from his reflections: “You’ll see that, like you, we’ve been using reflecting and refracting telescopes for a long time; but you know that reflecting telescopes are always difficult to handle and don’t support magnifications as considerable as those founded on the principle of refraction. We’ve succe
eded in manufacturing lenses of such perfection and have been able to construct refractors of such a diameter that we’ve renounced the use of reflecting telescopes.”
Rugel obligingly explained, at length and in great detail, the ingenious and precise methods with whose aid they obtained marvelous and gigantic objective lenses, and the simple and powerful mechanisms that moved the apparatus without difficulty, the proportions of which surpassed anything that terrestrial science had so far been able to realize.
Marcel and his two friends, keenly interested by the descriptions that Rugel was giving, by the memories of distant ages that he was evoking, and by the successive phases of the scientific progress obtained over the centuries, that they did not notice the time passing, and that several hours had already gone by since they had entered the strange redoubt in which they were still present.
“All that is very curious and very instructive, friend Rugel,” said Marcel, cheerfully, “But is it only to give us a lecture on the history of lunar astronomy that you’ve brought us here?”
“Always impatient,” Rugel replied smiling. “Don’t worry—we’ve arrived.”
“Arrived?” exclaimed Marcel, Jacques and Lord Rodilan. “Where? How?”
“On the surface of the Moon,” replied Rugel, simply.
XIX. The Observatory
The door was open; the three inhabitants of Earth, under the influence of a sharp emotion, followed Rugel into a broad tunnel, rather dimly lit, which opened before them. At the far end another door yielded to their guide’s pressure; they took a few more steps and stopped, wonderstruck. They were on a vast terrace inundated with light, whose brightness, slightly veiled by a blue tint, was not reminiscent that of the Sun, but rather resembled that with which the Moon, when full, illuminates terrestrial nights, but with an infinitely superior intensity.
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