They looked around in surprise, and contemplated admiringly the strange landscape that extended before their eyes: an immense plain with a cracked and profoundly tormented surface, in the center of which rose up the gigantic edifice in which they were standing. On the distant horizon, there were formidable masses of mountains and capriciously-formed rocks: denuded peaks with sharp ridges, raising their summits toward the sky and projecting long, fantastic shadows.
They were still under the influence of that emotion when Rugel, raising his arm, pointed at the sky extended above their heads.
They raised their eyes. A sudden tremor agitated their limbs, and with an irresistible impulse, they hugged one another ardently, their eyes bathed with tears. As if under the impression of an unspeakable anguish, they were only able to stammer: “The Earth! The Earth!”
In the profoundly black sky, at an angle of 1°54ʹ, was an immense round globe, as bright as fourteen full moons, which was pouring over the lunar landscape waves of a intense but soft and tranquil light.
It was the world they had left six months before.
The Earth, full at that moment, was turning the hemisphere containing the old continent toward the Moon. The three friends could make out with the naked eye the brilliant contours of the land and the darker masses of the oceans, recognizing Europe, with its profoundly indented coasts, the vast surface of Asia, with the peninsulas that terminated it, and triangular Africa to the south. But it was specifically on France that Jacques and Marcel fixed their avid eyes, while Lord Rodilan repeated, in a voice that tension rendered hoarse: “England! England!”
Rugel watched them silently, seeming to share their emotion.
“Come on, friends,” he said to them. “You’re going to see the Earth at closer range.”
They tore themselves away from their contemplation, as if with regret, and marched behind Rugel, not without turning their heads and raising their eyes toward the enormous disk shining above their heads.
The terrace on which they were walking was on top of an imposing construction that stood in the middle of a vast depression within the Ocean of Storms, in the vicinity of the crater Hansteen. It was a kind of palace of colossal proportions, square in form, composed of several stories. The lower part, surrounded by massive walls about fifteen meters high, was pierced by large bays fitted with thick crystal, extremely transparent, and separated by tall columns half-integrated into the wall. Large rooms had been accommodated there, which served as libraries, museums and work-rooms for the astronomers who spent their lives observing the sky.
A tapering construction rose up to the height of the frieze supported by the columns, around which was a terrace ten meters broad, hermetically sealed by huge glass panels, arched in the upper sections to form a dome, supported on the platform on top of the central block and serving itself as the base of a final story, where the instruments of observation were installed.
It was to that glazed terrace that the travelers had been brought initially, and from which they had contemplated the Earth, the sudden sight of which had thrown them into such sharp emotion.
There were more surprises to come.
Soon, an electric elevator transported them, with Rugel, to the upper floor. They emerged in to the ultimate platform, and again, through the glass framework that formed a completely airtight cupola about twelve meters in diameter, they saw the world to which all their thoughts reported.
Their visit had undoubtedly been announced, for when they appeared they were surrounded by scientists attached to the observatory, who hastened to wish them welcome. People were looking at them with curiosity mingled with respect.
The man who appeared to be the foremost in that elite company stepped forward. “We are glad to salute your arrival among us,” he said. “We know of your heroic adventures; we rejoice, along with the entire lunar population, in the coming of our terrestrial brothers. We share the hope that your presence has inspired in the eminent man who governs us, and we shall do everything in our power to assist its realization. For the moment, however, while awaiting something better, we’re going to bring the sight of the globe that is so dear to you closer.”
And he designated with his hand three chairs in which each of them found themselves in close proximity with an enormous cylinder projecting from the interior of the cupola and terminating in a lens set in a metal tube, similar to the oculars with which Earthly astronomical instruments are fitted.
“Look,” he said to them.
Three exclamations sprang forth at the same time.
“France!”
“Paris!”
“London!”
Thanks to the power of the instruments put at their disposal, the Earth had drawn nearer in an incredible fashion; it was so close that one could distinguish all the geographical details, as if a vast map had been extended before their gaze: mountains, forests, rivers and cities.
A precise mechanism permitted the apparatus to be moved effortlessly, and paraded over the entire surface of the terrestrial globe—and their insatiable eyes could not detach themselves from the places where they had lived.
While Lord Rodilan searched the gigantic city of London, which appeared to him as a large gray patch striped with imperceptible lines that must have been streets, and divided by the black line of the Thames, Marcel and Jacques palpitating with emotion, kept their eyes obstinately fixed on Paris. Although the magnification furnished by the marvelous instruments, which Marcel estimated at about twenty thousand times, was such that it ought to have been possible to make out all the monuments, the thickness of the terrestrial atmosphere singularly diminished its clarity. A kind of veil was extended between the observers and the surface of the Earth, which blurred all the contours, caused lines to oscillate, and prevented the eye from bringing things into focus.
For the astronomers of the Moon, who had only been able to establish conjectures on the basis of those troubled and uncertain impressions, it was difficult to orientate themselves in that indecisive milieu, but Marcel and Jacques easily located the places where they had spent such a large part of their lives and which they knew so well. A few moments had sufficed for them to get their bearings. They could now distinguish, to the west of the great city, a starry point that was obviously the Place de l’Étoile, with its dozen broad radiating streets, and with that reference-point established, they had soon assigned to each monument, in that almost alarming map, the location that it ought to occupy.
Thus, one of them saw once again, or at least thought that he saw, the Observatoire quarter where he had tasted such sweet pleasures, experienced such cruel dolors and left behind all his hopes. The other, whose attention was not attracted to any particular point of the capital, scanned France affectionately in its entirety. He went from Dunkerque, bathing in the waves of the North Sea, to the cities of the Midi that were mirrored in the transparent waters of the Mediterranean; from the extreme tip of Brittany to the snowy mass of the Alps, whose summits, profiled in a less dense atmosphere and above the region of the clouds, stood out with a dazzling whiteness. He never wearied of following the course of rivers and recognizing in passing the cities they traversed: Rouen, Nantes, Bordeaux and Lyon attracted his gaze in their turn.
Then, while Lord Rodilan, after having cast a glance over London, delighted in passing in review all the points on the surface of the globe where the avid English nation had planted its flag, and felt his heart swelling with an insolent pride. Marcel, crossing the frontiers of France, paused—not without a melancholy regret—on the provinces violently separated from the fatherland.
Soon, however, wrenching himself from that contemplation, which revived such cruel memories, he crossed the Rhine, passed over Germany, at that moment covered in clouds but which, with the aid of his imagination, seemed to him to be bristling with weapons, to run along the banks of the Neva, where his patriotic soul seemed to divine future allies. Soon, descending again to southern Europe, he followed the picturesquely-indented coasts
that the atmosphere, more transparent in that region, permitted him to distinguish with greater clarity.
There was Greece, displayed like a mulberry leaf, Italy reaching toward the Africa continent, Spain striped with chains of mountains, Algeria sandwiched between the Mediterranean and the Atlas, and the Sahara unfurling its long yellow plains all the way to central Africa, with its unfathomable mysteries.
But his gaze always returned to France, the beloved fatherland that one could quit but never forget.
As time marched on, however, the terrestrial globe rotated on its axis; Europe gradually disappeared, and already the coasts of the American continent seemed to be emerging from the Atlantic.
“Friends,” said Rugel then, “forgive me for tearing you away from that spectacle, which, I understand, is charming your hearts, but you’re at home here and you’ll have time to contemplate the Earth in all its phases at your leisure—for your sojourn in our observatory can be extended for as long as you deem necessary. Let me show you the apartments reserved for you, and then I’ll abandon you to the care of the savant Merovar, my colleague on the Supreme Council, who directs the astronomical observations here. He has already studied, as you will soon discover, a means of putting you in communication with those you left behind. As for me, the demands of my responsibilities oblige me to separate myself from you for some time.”
He took them to the lower floor, where spacious rooms had been prepared for the voyagers, furnished with a severe and elegant luxury. Everything there had been arranged with an attentive care to satisfy all the needs of the strangers, so different from those of the inhabitants of the Moon.
The three friends bid farewell, not without a certain sentiment of sadness, to the man who had been their faithful and voted guide since their arrival, and had testified a veritable and sincere amity toward them. Then they took possession of the places where they were going to live for some time. It was with a real satisfaction that they found themselves alone, for, after the violent emotions through which they had just passed, they felt gripped by an invisible need for repose.
In the days that followed they were the object of the attention and thoughtfulness of all the astronomers of the marvelous observatory. Everyone was enthusiastic to initiate the visitors into the secrets of his work and have them admire the perfect instruments that they employed. Jacques, and even Lord Rodilan, ended up with a strong interest in the superior science of astronomy, the privilege of the boldest minds, in which the results furnished by observation aided by calculation put on all the colors and have all the charm of the most brilliant and fantastic fantasies of the imagination. How, in any case, could they have remained indifferent when it was to that very science that they owed the visual connection that they maintained to the world to which they were still linked by such powerful bonds?
XX. Mechanics and Optics
A problem of mechanics was troubling Marcel. He was wondering by what means it had been possible to transport him and his companions from the depths of the lunar world to its surface. As he already knew, the immense excavation that served as an abode for the refugees from a world that had become uninhabitable was situated at a depth of about fifteen terrestrial leagues. What powerful methods did the engineers of that strange humankind have at their disposal to raise such considerable weights vertically to such heights? It seemed to him that it required, in fact, that everything required in the construction and equipment of the observatory must have been transported to the periphery. That was enough to trouble the most audacious mind profoundly.
He had soon ascertained, and remained amazed, by the simplicity of the means employed to obtain such astonishing results. He remade with the savant Merovar the journey that he had already accomplished with Rugel, and with that enlightened guidance he examined everything and took account of everything.
It was the chimney of an ancient volcano that the inhabitants of the Moon had used to install the mechanical apparatus that permitted them to communicate with the exterior world. They had an inexhaustible motive force at their disposal in electricity; they had only to establish an elevator cage about five meters wide within the long, almost vertical corridor, whose walls they had evened out. The uprights and cross-pieces were formed of highly resistant steel plate; the various sections were linked together by solidly riveted bolts, which gave the ensemble the rigidity of a solid body. At intervals, sheet metal beams extended to the four corners of the cage, similarly bolted, necessarily of variable length, in accordance with the distance separating the uprights from the rocky wall, and profoundly embedded in that wall.
The elevator that traveled up and down that chimney was equipped, at each of its corners, with two toothed wheels, one at the top and one at the bottom, which engaged with four hooks disposed along the uprights. Movement was imparted to them, with a velocity of about twenty kilometers an hour, by a powerful electric motor with a relatively small volume, fitted to the bottom of the elevator. That motor, propulsive when it was a matter of taking the elevator up, served during the descent as a moderator and brake. Everything was calculated with such mathematical rigor, the materials employed were so homogeneous and so resistant, and the operation was so perfect, that it all functioned with the safety and softness of a precision apparatus, and the probability of any accident had been reduced to an infinitesimal proportion.
For greater security, and in order to leave nothing to the unexpected—always possible in human endeavors—the lunar engineers’ foresight had disposed, beneath the elevator’s point of departure, in the same axis as the cage, a profound cavity filled with water, the density of which was increased by the addition of a chemical mixture, and the elasticity of which would, in case of a fall, deaden the terminal shock.
Marcel was gripped by admiration for that colossal endeavor, which extended to a height of fifteen leagues, the mere conception of which seemed frightful.
How had human beings, limited in strength, been able to imagine and carry out such a project?
On reflection, he reminded himself that the prodigious quantity of material employed represented, on the Moon, a weight six times less than on Earth; he knew, from having seen remarkable applications, that the lunar engineers had succeeded in solving important problems of mechanics as if they were child’s play, and that their scientific genius, triumphing over the resistance of matter, had invented the most powerful and varied machines, reducing the individual labor of humans to virtual negligibility.
Nevertheless, what he had before him was so extraordinary, and seemed to surpass all expectations to such an extent that he could not believe his eyes.
Merovar appeared to enjoy his astonishment.
“Fortunately,” he said, “we have been favored by circumstances. When our humankind, constrained to quit the surface of our globe, retreated into the subterranean regions that it occupies today and which the Sovereign Spirit seemed to have prepared for us as a last refuge, our scientists did not resign themselves to being separated forever from the external world and the infinite space in which the stars pursue heir immutable courses. They directed their investigations everywhere; no accessible location remained unexplored. Thus, we were able to observe the existence of numerous chimneys of extinct volcanoes.
“Almost all of them were irregular in form and oblique in direction; their sinuous courses did not lend themselves to the establishment of apparatus permitting us to communicate with the surface—but we eventually found the one through which you have just traveled. Its vertical direction and narrow diameter made it marvelously appropriate to the usage we wanted to make of it. Unfortunately, it was, like all the other craters of the Moon, obstructed some distance from the surface by a thick layer of lava and accumulated volcanic ejections. It was necessary for us to bore a passage through those extremely hard materials, and we had to have recourse to explosives with a considerable expansive force to do that. To even out, as far as possible, the asperities with which the walls were bristling in many places, we employed powe
rful rams.”
“I’m amazed,” Marcel put in, “by the magnificent results obtained by your industry, but I wonder how you managed to create a respirable atmosphere in this chimney, of such prodigious height, and especially in the observatory, which is on the very surface of the Moon. I know from my own experience that it isn’t necessary to rise very far above the level of the cavern into which we fell to arrive at levels where the air is rarefied and incapable of sustaining life.”
“That’s true, but you’ll understand how the problem was solved, as easily as the others. At the bottom of the chimney in which our elevator moves, powerful pumping machines are established, alimented by the air that forms the atmosphere in which we live; that air, aspired by them, is incessantly pumped into the chimney with a pressure that raises it to the surface and accumulates it in the observatory. The force of the machines in calculated in such a fashion that the ascendant column and the atmosphere that fills the entire edifice, hermetically closed in all its parts, is maintained at a constant pressure virtually identical to the one we experience in our subterranean world. The action of the machines, functioning incessantly, furnishes the chimney and the edifice at the top with a current of air that is incessantly renewed and always respirable. The unnecessary elements are drawn away and rejected into general circulation, where it is purified and retransformed. You can see for yourselves that respiration is easy on all that all the floors of the observatory and that life at this height has lost none of its activity.”
An Unknown World Page 17
