An Unknown World

by Pierre de Sélènes

  “All this is marvelous,” Marcel murmured.

  The optical instruments whose formidable power the three friends had observed became the object of an attentive examination on their part. The great difficulty that had presented itself initially to the lunar astronomers consisted of the impossibility of operating in the open on the surface of the Moon. On the other hand, observations were only possible with instruments articulated in such a fashion as to be moved in all directions and capable of searching all the regions of the celestial vault. It had therefore been necessary to find a combination such that the observer, remaining in a rigorously sealed environment filled with breathable air, could nevertheless maneuver his instrument in the external void without effort and without displacement.

  The system of equatorial telescopes, which is the one most commonly used on Earth, could not meet that objective, the observer being obliged to move at the same time as the telescope. But they had found the means they sought in jointed telescopes, and it was not the least of Marcel’s astonishments to observe that the kinds of optical apparatus to which terrestrial astronomers had been led by the sole desire to render their observations more comfortable, and hence more precise, were exactly those to which their colleague on the Moon had had recourse by reason of the very special conditions to which they were subjected.

  The kind of telescope devised by Monsieur Loewy, one of the most ingenious and knowledgeable astronomers at the Observatoire de Paris, is well-known.20 The body of the instrument is formed by two cylindrical sections mounted at a right angle; one, which bears the ocular, is parallel to the axis of the world; the other, the one equipped with the objective, is parallel to the equator. A kind of rectangular bolt is fitted to that objective, enclosing a silvered glass mirror inclined at 45°, able to rotate in such a fashion as to face all the points of the sky above the horizon.

  The image of any star whatsoever, reflected by that mirror and refracted by the objective, encounters a second mirror similarly inclined at 45° and positioned at the point where the two parts of the instrument form a elbow. That mirror, in its turn, reflects the image thus received and transmits it to the ocular, which is nothing but a powerful microscope—and it is that image, thus amplified, which the observer’s eye examines.

  It was on that principle that the telescopes used by the lunar astronomers were founded, with the particularity that the tube bearing the ocular, which projected from the interior of the observation hall, penetrated it through a cylindrical opening that was hermetically sealed, while being able to pivot on its axis, along with the entire body of the instrument.

  As for the telescope itself, which was almost entirely outside, it rested, at the extremity of its horary axis, on a solid mass in which a system of gears, activated by an electric motor of extreme precision, permitted it to follow any star in its course, at the observer’s whim.

  Another mechanism permitted the astronomer to direct the objective mirror at the star he wished to study. One of the four faces of the observation hall, disposed in the meridian plane, had been adapted in such a way as to receive three of those items of apparatus of equal dimension and similar in all respects, with regard to disposition, to those in use on Earth, but differing on one essential point: their colossal proportions and their absolute perfection. The objectives, in fact, measured no less than 3.5 meters in diameter, and could support magnifications up to a factor of 25,000. That explained the prodigious effect produced on the three voyagers by the sight of Earth so close to them. Three other telescopes of similar construction but not equatorial were disposed symmetrically on the opposite face, permitting all points of the sky to be swept and astronomical research completed.

  It was to render possible the simultaneous observations required to ensure effective checking that the lunar scientists, who counted neither time not effort, had multiplied the number of those gigantic telescopes. As for other astronomical instruments—divided circles, meridional circles, etc.—they offered considerable analogies with ours, and necessarily so, astronomy being an exact science founded on mathematical laws that are the same throughout the universe.

  Such expert astronomers could not have neglected the fecund source of observations furnished by the spectral analysis of stars, and in that domain of physical astronomy, as in that of the pure science, the results they had obtained far surpassed those attained on Earth. That part of the science, very recent among us, had been familiar to them for a long time, and they had been able, thanks to the excellence of their methods and the superiority of their instruments, to analyze much more completely the physical constitution of the worlds comprising our planetary system.

  It had also not escaped Marcel’s attention that the lunar observers were working in unique conditions much more favorable than those on Earth. The long nights of three hundred and fifty-four hours that the rotation of the Moon provided for them every month, offered the marvelous facilities. They were, in fact, able to devote themselves to long and sustained observations, the course of which was untroubled and uninterrupted. In that immutably pure sky, never thickened by any vapors or veiled by any cloud, from which light always arrived clearly and frankly, the stars could be discerned with the most rigorous precision. In addition, in consequence of the slowness of rotation, the apparent motion of the stars was extremely slight, almost the same as that of our pole star. They were, therefore, able to follow with exactitude the movement of the star that the visual field of their telescope embraced, and none of its potential variations could escape them.

  In such conditions, they had found the solutions to a considerable number of problems that terrestrial astronomers were still posing.

  Thus, they had been able for a long time to draw complete maps of Mercury and Venus; they had discovered that the axial rotation of the former planet was effected in a time effectively equal to that of its rotation around the sun, and that strange astronomical phenomenon, which the scientists of Earth had not yet suspected, had caused Marcel profound surprise.21

  Mars, with its continents, its gigantic canals and its polar ice caps, no longer had any mystery for them. The thick atmosphere that envelops Jupiter had veiled its surface from them, as from us, and their studies of that planet were little more advanced than ours, but they had resolved the rings of Saturn, and Marcel was able to convince himself with the evidence of his own eyes that each one is composed of an infinite number of tiny bodies, tightly packed, rotating around a central nucleus with such rapidity that the light reflected appears continuous. As for Uranus and Neptune, lost in the profundities of the sky, they had been able to discern different hues on their disks that led them to believe in the presence of continents and oceans, but the extreme distance of those worlds had not permitted them to make any precise determination. Finally, at the extreme limits of our planetary system, they had discovered, initially by the power of calculation and then by direct observation, the hypothetical world whose existence our scientists can only suspect.

  They had taken their sidereal astronomical research far in advance, and the results obtained had been no less fecund. Around a considerable number of the nearer stars they had been able, thanks to the powerful means of investigation at their disposal, to observe numerous satellites—or, rather, veritable planets—effecting their orbits around the central star, as in our solar system.

  When Marcel, abandoning himself to his taste for astronomy, searched the celestial vault resplendent with stars with those gigantic telescopes, his wonderstruck gaze contemplated those myriads of suns strewn in the immensity, some white like ours, other blood red, emerald green, deep blue or golden yellow, he wondered with amazement what inconceivable power maintained those worlds suspended in infinite space, and regulated their various revolutions with an immutable harmony.

  And his imagination, exalted by that dazzling spectacle, was launched beyond the planets that he had seen orbiting the nearest suns; he told himself that around all the others—those which astronomical instruments could distinguish
clearly, those that can only be vaguely glimpsed in the confused mass, those even more distant, the faint light of which is revealed on sensitive plates, and those, finally, that the mind alone divines, succeeding one another endlessly in incommensurable spaces—other worlds are gravitating.

  And there again, always and everywhere, he sensed that humankinds lived, how various and how different from ours and that of the Moon! His imagination exhausted itself relentlessly trying to picture them, and life in its multiple forms, from the most rudimentary and the most primitive types to superior conceptions drawing ever closer to perfection, circulating everywhere in the boundless universe, celebrating the glory and the grandeur of the unique and sovereign force from which everything emanates.

  And his soul lost itself in an ineffable delight.

  XXI. On the Lunar Surface

  While Marcel plunged into the contemplation of so many scientific marvels and admired the genius with which so many great problems had been resolved, his two companions, who were not animated with an equal zeal by the passion of astronomy, began to feel more personal preoccupations. During the first phase of their sojourn in the observatory, they could not detach their gaze from the terrestrial globe, but at length, the constant uniformity of that spectacle and the impossibility of being able to see more, had begun to give birth to certain surges of impatience in their souls.

  Jacques, in particular, who was attached to Earth by such strong bonds, suffered in seeing his friend forget what, in his eyes, ought to be the sole objective at which they were to aim—which is to say, the establishment of regular communications with the terrestrial world.

  He broached the subject with Marcel one day.

  “All these studies in which we’re absorbing ourselves,” he said, “are very interesting, and like you, I’m glad to have been able to get to know this superior world in which we’ve learned so much, and where there doubtless remains a lot more for us to learn. Don’t you remember, though, that we’ve left friends behind us who have been keeping their eyes avidly attached to the lunar disk for months, believing us to be definitively lost and doubtless mourning us?”

  “I beg your pardon, my friend,” Marcel replied. “My passion for knowledge hasn’t rendered me egotistical, and I have thought about the problem that’s troubling you. But you know that outside of the enclosure in which, thanks to artificial means, we’re able to live at present, like is impossible on the lunar surface. It seems to me to be very difficult, from this narrow enclave, to contrive signals that might be perceptible on Earth. Nevertheless, we ought to try everything, even the impossible, to reassure our friends, and I’ve decided to talk to Merovar about it—for it’s quite evident that, in order to construct this observatory and dispose their optical instruments outside, they must have found a means of moving and acting in the ambient void. Your anxiety, which I share, has served to prompt me to act. We’ll go right away, with a clear conscience.”

  Lord Rodilan, when informed, shrugged his shoulders.

  “You’re wrong to worry about it,” he said, smiling. “We’ve been assumed to be dead for a long time, and our names figure among those of all the lunatics who wanted to render their name immortal by some insane enterprise—Herostratus, Empedocles and many others. Take my word for it, don’t be in such a rush; it’s not as if you don’t have anything else to worry about than reassuring people who are surely no longer sparing us a thought.”

  “I have more confidence in the hearts of those who live us,” Jacques replied, hotly. Turning to Marcel, he added: “Let’s go find the astronomer right away.”

  As soon as the two friends began to speak, Merovar, seemingly unsurprised, replied: “I’ve been expecting you. From the day when the prudent Aldeovaze, in welcoming you, expressed the hope of soon seeing, thanks to you, communications established between your world and ours, we’ve been preoccupied with practical means of achieving that result, and we’ll be able to give you satisfaction very shortly.”

  He deployed before their eyes a highly detailed map of the region in which the observatory was located. The crater on which it was constructed, one of the smallest that the eyes of astronomers have distinguished on the surface of our satellite, which they have not seen fit to designate by a particular name and is not marked by an symbol on the most complete maps, was situated at 9°31´south latitude and 49°16´ west longitude, and was isolated in the middle of an immense plain in the southern part of the Ocean of Storms. The vast depression to which astronomers have given that name, after being extended from the radiant crater Kepler to the large circus of Hevelius, plunges southwards in a sort of gulf in the depths of which rise the crater Hansteen and, even further away, that of Billy. It was a little to the north-west of the former crater, and on a line linking it to that of Flamsteed that the narrow chimney was hollowed out that the genius of the lunar scientists had adapted to facilitate their communications with the exterior.

  Hazard had served them marvelously; nothing impeded their observations, and it was on a distant horizon that the jagged summits or tormented walls of mountains and craters appeared, which the absence of atmosphere permitted them to attain. Around it extended a large flat space on which none of the blisters was observable that ordinarily render the surface of the Moon so irregular. One might have thought it a vast liquid plain suddenly frozen during calm weather.

  “It’s there,” Merovar said to them, “that we count on establishing the apparatus with the aid of which we’ll send news of you to those who are doubtless awaiting for it anxiously.”

  “There, on the surface of the Moon, in the void!” Marcel exclaimed. “But no one can live there.”

  “Oh,” said Merovar, “you haven’t run out of surprises yet. A long time ago we found the means of traveling on the desolate surface of our world, and if you care to follow us there, you can make some curious observations.”

  “We’re ready,” said the three friends.

  They went down to the lower floor of the observatory and went into a vast room, in which mannequins of a vaguely human form were arranged along the walls.

  “That,” Merovar said to them, “is the apparatus that permits us to live and move in the exterior void.”

  “But they’re ordinary diving suits!” exclaimed Lord Rodilan, laughing.

  “Yes,” said Merovar, “but inverted diving suits. When it’s a matter for human beings of living under water, the apparatus in which they enclose themselves has to be able to resist the pressure of the ambient environment, which increases as one descends through the liquid layers. Here the problem is the inverse; as it’s impossible to live, as you now, without an exterior pressure establishing an equilibrium with the forces of expansion with which our organism is animated, it’s necessary that we are, in a permanent manner, enveloped by an atmosphere carrying sufficient tension. It’s for that reason that we’re obliged to enclose our entire body in an apparatus of this sort. On the lunar surface, there’s no pressure that can counterbalance the pressure of the air that fills them, so it’s necessary to construct them with materials sufficiently resistant and flexible to permit the person who puts one on to move and act in complete freedom. In any case, you can judge for yourselves.”22

  And, setting them an example, he started putting on one of the suits disposed along the wall.

  “Each of you chose one appropriate to his height,” he said, “but be careful to close all the openings hermetically, for the slightest crack might expose you to serious danger, by letting the air the surrounds you escape.”

  Soon, the three travelers and their guide were clad in the costumes, whose strangeness provoked Lord Rodilan’s laughter. Only their heads were still free,

  “If my friends on Earth could see me in such an outfit, they’d certainly have difficulty recognizing me,” he said.

  “None of them, at any rate,” Jacques retorted, “could boast of having attempted an expedition similar to the one we’re about to undertake.”

  The apparatus in with the
y were tightly enclosed was made of a material that was both supple and tenacious, and coated with a substance that rendered it absolutely impermeable. The traveler’s head was imprisoned in a sort of metal sphere equipped in the front and at the sides by crystal plates permitting the gaze to scan almost all of the horizon. In that sphere the orifice of a conduit opened, which brought the air necessary for respiration. The air came from a metallic reservoir placed on the back, in which it was compressed under considerable pressure; thanks to an automatic mechanism regulated with rigorous precision, it escaped in a continuous fashion at a constant tension. The quantity was calculated in such a way as to be able to maintain life for a duration of ten hours.

  To furnish an exit for the air that escaped from the reservoir, whose accumulation would have ended up causing the apparatus to burst, and which, moreover, charged with the products of expiration—which is to say, carbonic acid and water vapor—would not have taken long to become unbreathable, a special valve had been fitted into the middle of the torso. When the interior pressure exceeded a certain level, the valve opened of its own accord, and then closed again thanks to a powerful spring, and the occlusion was complete.

  After being diverted for a few moments by that new disguise, Marcel, Jacques and Lord Rodilan were astonished to retain, within that seemingly rigid envelope, the free use of their limbs and the facility of all their movements.

  “Not only can we act and move,” Merovar told them, “But we’ll be able to communicate with one another.” And he drew their attention to small microphone receivers at the level of the ears in the sphere, and a transmitter in front of the mouth; the whole was a marvel of delicacy and economy. A metal wire linked the receivers to a small electric accumulator fixed to the air reservoir.

  Externally, a mobile wire about two meters long and furnished at its extremity with a ring, permitted each tourist, by fixing his ring to his neighbor’s sphere with the aid of a hook provided for that purpose, to enter into continuous conversation with him, speaking to him and hearing his responses.