An Unknown World

by Pierre de Sélènes

  But the president of the committee, an old scientific stick-in-the-mud who lived on his reputation far more than any real merit, and who disliked any discovery of which he was not the author, got to his feet and, dominating the tumult, shouted: “Enough discussion! We’re the strict guardians of funds that the State has put at our disposal. We don’t have the right to risk them in insensate enterprises and squander them for the satisfaction of stupid vanities. Let someone give us a precious and definite goal to attain, and we’ll see what it’s appropriate do, but one doesn’t bring nonsense here, the cracked dreams of a sick brain. We’d be culpable if we lent our ears to it for a moment longer.”

  “Well, so be it!” exclaimed Mathieu-Rollère, exasperated. “I bring you definite results, scientifically established, checked by repeated experiments. There’s none so blind as those who will not see. Oh, you can talk about squandering, of making a show of prudence and economy! Isn’t French money poured out every day by the handful to content paltry ambitions or to furnish cumbersome mediocrities with the opportunity to make themselves known? And today, when it’s a matter of the most important work that modern science has ever attempted, you talk about scruples and conscience! You’re unworthy of the name of scientists—you’re wretches!”

  Anger blinded him; he had to be dragged away.

  “Oh well,” he said, while he was being removed, “I’ll do without you. It won’t be said that the stupid obstinacy of a few encrusted minds made me renounce my projects. I’ll succeed without and in spite of you...”

  In speaking thus the old scientist firmly believed in his success, but when it was necessary to bring about the realization of his project, he ran into difficulties that he had not foreseen. At first he thought about a public subscription, but to do that successfully would require advertising—a great deal of advertising—and that is something, in the present condition of journalism, that costs a great deal. The editors of the scientific journals considered him, in the main, to be an old fool, and did not want to compromise the name and dignity of their periodicals by associating themselves with such a utopia. As for other organs of publicity, they only accepted articles at exorbitant prices.

  Mathieu-Rollère, who had begun by paying with an unalterable confidence, saw his personal resources diminishing rapidly. The subscription had been open for a month and had brought in exactly 1,967.50 francs.

  The astronomer did not understand it at all.

  How could people be insensible to the solution of such a problem? He was indignant to see people coming and going, hastening to their pleasures and business affairs, spending considerable sums on futilities, without giving any thought to furnishing science with the means to achieve the most magnificent conquest of which the human mind could dream: that of a world.

  It did not take him long to fall into a state of profound depression. He had lost the exuberance of life and the almost juvenile activity that had thus far kept him youthful; he thought in a melancholy fashion about al his disappointments; the fears and the remorse that he had already confided to Sir William Burnett came back to his mind and tormented him.

  His daughter, who had never quit him since Jacques’ departure, had maintained a firmer determination. The love that filled her heart seemed to close it to any other sentiment than faith and hope. When she saw the old man thus discouraged, she simply said to him: “Why despair, Father? If it’s a miserable question of money that’s stopping you, take the fortune that my mother left me and make use of it as you please. I’ll sacrifice it with joy and I’m certain that the man I love, when I see him again—because I will see him again, I’m sure of it—will approve of my decision. We’ll live in poverty, if we must, glad to have accomplished a great task.

  “Child,” said Mathieu-Rollère, emotionally, hugging his daughter and kissing her forehead, “you have a noble heart; you’re a worthy daughter of a scientist and you deserve the great love of an honest man. But my darling, what is the seventy or eighty thousand francs of which you can dispose? It’s hundreds of thousands of francs, perhaps millions, that we’ll need. That’s what the egotism and cupidity of a century devoted to the vilest interests is refusing us obstinately. Oh, I feel profoundly afflicted, and fear that I’ll die before having brought our great work to a successful conclusion.”

  “Don’t talk like that!” Hélène cried. “Take the money that I scorn, and which now fills me with horror. Perhaps you can find a means of using it to shake the apathy of the indifferent.”

  The old man shook his head without making any reply.

  He was consumed by his sad reflections, and his discouragement was increasing every day when he suddenly received a dispatch from Long’s Peak announcing that the three luminous letters M, J and R had reappeared in the south of the Ocean of Storms, in the vicinity of the crater Hansteen.

  That news rendered the old astronomer all his ardor and energy; he swore that he would succeed.

  IV. The Return to the Observatory

  Access to the observatory had been reopened.

  The work had been long and difficult. First of all it had been necessary to find the fissure through which the mephitic gases were escaping, which, after having filled the elevator’s chimney, had invaded the entire edifice and almost caused the death of Merovar and the three foreigners. To that effect, men dressed in the kinds of apparatus that permitted them to explore the lunar surface had carefully traveled the length of the chimney, examining its walls minutely.

  Long days had gone by in that research, but they had ended up establishing that at a height of about six terrestrial leagues, the rocky wall had given way under the pressure of contained gases. A crack had been produced, and it was through an enormous gaping hole that the gas had rushed out and invaded the whole shaft. Fortunately, that initial outburst had not been followed by any other; otherwise, nothing would have resisted the pressure of the formidable torrent, and the upper part of the observatory would have exploded. However, the poisonous vapors had replaced the breathable air everywhere; they occupied the entire space and compelled the workers to take the most scrupulous precautions.

  In order to block the large opening, it had been necessary to hoist up numerous stone blocks, embed them profoundly in the wall where the crack had developed, and seal them with a tenacious cement. That titanic labor had not been completed without hard and painful efforts. Thus was constituted a thick artificial wall forming a solid mass with the rock face.

  When that was done, they had been obliged to think about clearing out the vitiated air that filled the chimney and the observatory.

  In order to succeed in that, openings had been made in the upper windows of the hall occupied by the large telescopes and in the bays illuminating the inferior part of the monument. Then powerful ventilators, disposed at the bottom of the chimney and functioning relentlessly, adding their action to the pumps in everyday use, had gradually replaced the mortal air filing the shaft with pure air. That had taken a long time, and while that work of purification was taking place the observatory had passed through the period of daylight into darkness again.

  It was a strange spectacle to see that torrent of gas and vapors condensing instantly under the action of the cold of space and falling to the ground in snowy flakes.

  The work had finally run its course, and the sage Rugel had hastened to go to Marcel, who, after his decisive conversation with Orealis, had returned without delay to the lunar capital, where he was waiting impatiently for the moment to arrive when he could renew his attempts.

  Jacques and Lord Rodilan, who had not had the same reasons as Marcel to forget the goal they were pursuing, were in even more haste than he was to resume a more active life. All three of them received the news that Rugel brought them joyfully, and they returned to the observatory. Orealis’ father, although he welcomed the three foreigners with equal affability appeared to testify a greater affection for Marcel, which had something paternal about it. In his frequent visits, he had not failed to notice the st
ate of mind in which the young engineer had found himself, and as his daughter could have no secrets from him, he had been able to follow the passion through which Marcel had passed throughout its development.

  Undoubtedly, he had never been anxious with regard to his daughter, only fearing that the sentiment of which she was the object might trouble the peace of her soul, but he had been unable to help feeling a secret sympathy for the mental suffering that the great intelligence understood; he had admired the strength with which Marcel had triumphed over it, and the energy with which that virile soul had pulled itself together. Now, in fact, Marcel seemed to have completely forgotten that moment of weakness.

  The truth is that his heart was still bleeding, but he had sworn to Orealis to be worthy of her, and was determined to keep his oath.

  Scarcely had they returned to the observatory than the three friends went to visit the apparatus that they had used to send their luminous signals. Everything was in good condition; there was nothing to prevent communications being resumed at the point at which they had been interrupted.

  When the examination was over, Marcel and his companions had gone into the observation hall. The two worlds were in their first quarter, and the concordance of darkness was complete between the two points from which the signals were made. At that moment, however, the American continent was still illuminated, and it would be necessary to wait for several hours before night fell there and it would be possible to see the luminous point already glimpsed.

  All three were prey to the keenest impatience.

  “Believe it or not, my dear Marcel,” said Lord Rodilan, “I’d give a thousand guineas to know what they’re thinking about us on Earth. Do they regard us as madmen or do they take us for audacious scientists who have just revolutionized everything known or believed to be known about the Moon?”

  “You do too much honor to our terrestrial compatriots,” Marcel replied. “You can be certain that, except for our friends at Long’s Peak, and doubtless also Jacques’ uncle, no one, or almost no one in interested in us. I’m convinced that if the news of the appearance of our luminous letters has been communicated to the scientific world by the honorable Burnett, it will only have encountered the most stupid incredulity. Too many people would be distu6rbed in their habits and routines, and it’s simpler to deny what one doesn’t understand.”

  “Certainly,” said Jacques. “Remember what happened before. Was the scientific world excited about the voyage, already so marvelous, of Barbicane, Michel Ardan and Nicholl when the experiment was attempted? The audacious explorers were carried in triumph, and there was a pretext for lavish banquets and long speeches, but that enthusiasm didn’t last, and in order for the memory of it to be preserved, it was necessary for an illustrious French writer to become the historian of that incredible event, and describe its exciting incidents with his habitual talent. But for him, that whole fantastic history would have been forgotten and would be completely unknown today.”

  “Jacques is right,” said Lord Rodilan, “but you’re forgetting that no Englishman featured in that first voyage. Otherwise, England wouldn’t have permitted such an exploit to remain unknown.”

  “Well,” said Marcel, smiling, “this time we have a citizen of free England with us, and are assured of remaining immortal henceforth.”

  There had been a certain amount of irony in that reply, but as it contained a sufficiently direct eulogy, the noble lord did not think it appropriate to protest.

  “In any case,” he said, instead, “it won’t be long now before we can be certain on that point, for you are, I assume, thinking about the return journey?”

  Marcel’s expression darkened. “I have, indeed, given it some thought. To tell the truth, if I only had my own inclinations to consider, I’d be glad to conclude my days in the midst of this human race, which holds such an elevated rank in the scale of living beings. To leave this near-perfect world, where everything is noble and great, to fall back to Earth, where everything is paltry, crude and small, doesn’t tempt me very much. Many other motives could attach me to the lunar world, but I can’t think only of myself. I’m fully aware of the reasons recalling the two of you, and when the moment comes, I’ll go with you.”

  Jacques shook his hand.

  “However,” Marcel continued, “I believe it will be some time yet before we can think seriously about making preparations for our return. Above all, it’s necessary to establish communication with the Earth. That’s our task, and we must devote ourselves to it completely. In my opinion, it will take a long time. Judge for yourselves: since we were sent the signal to which we were unable to reply, our friends have had no news of us, but they obviously can’t attempt anything without being sure that we’re still alive. They’ll shortly have the certainty, of course, that we haven’t perished and have perceived them. Like me, you know them; we can’t doubt that they’ll immediately begin doing what’s necessary for communications to become regular, continuous and useful. They’ll look for the system that is both rapid and practical. What will that system be? We don’t know yet.”

  “Indeed,” said Jacques. “I’ll add that it’s improbable that they’ll choose the region of the Rocky Mountains to send us continuous signals. They couldn’t be easily established and function reliably in that tortuous country and at such an altitude.”

  “That’s true,” Marcel continued. “It’s impossible for us to divine the region of the terrestrial globe from which the imminent appeals will reach us. What plain will they choose for that purpose? Only the future can inform us on that matter. In any case, we won’t be able to attempt anything other than what we’ve already done before such questions are completely fixed.

  While Marcel was speaking, night had gradually enveloped the Atlantic, and had already attained Long’s Peak. The three observers took their place again at the oculars of the telescopes. Their emotion was great and the profoundest silence reigned in the hall.

  An hour, and then two, passed with nothing appearing.

  Suddenly, a luminous point lit up the midst of the darkness.

  A triple cry of joy was heard.

  This time, no doubt was possible; the signal was there, before their eyes, immobile and fixed. It was not an illusion, a dream of their overexcited imagination. It was a living reality.

  And it seemed to them that those rays of light were bringing the voices of those who had launched them into space; they felt them quivering and vibrating; the souls of their friends were trembling therein. It was no longer just a luminous message; it was like a magnetic current making hearts beat in unison.

  The problem was resolved; their signals, patiently awaited, had been perceived and understood. A reply had been sent, and without being discouraged by the long period of inaction that had followed, the response signal had been untiringly renewed.

  What admirable constancy the observers at Long’s Peak had shown! What sublime faith in the future of science! And how grateful the three voyagers were to them on recognizing today that that they had not allowed themselves to fall into despair.

  The light was still shining; after an hour, it was extinguished.

  “Quickly,” said Marcel. “They’ve been waiting anxiously, for nearly four months, for us to show signs of life. Let’s not leave out friends in suspense any longer.”

  So saying, he grasped the handle of the commutator, placed within arm’s reach.

  The profound darkness enveloping the lunar plain was suddenly illuminated. A gigantic blazing J was outlined on the ground.

  “To you, friend,” he said, turning to Jacques, “the honor of being the first to reveal our presence to those awaiting us. If your uncle and the one your heart has never forgotten are still in the Rocky Mountains, I want them to be reassured on your account without delay.”

  “Thank you,” said Jacques, shaking his hand.

  “You’ll excuse me, my dear lord,” Marcel added, smiling. “But neither of us is in love...”

  “Oh, for myse
lf,” said Lord Rodilan, “it’s a long time since my heart ceased to beat rapidly, if it ever did. But for you, my friend, it might be reckless to affirm that only the love of science has ever reigned in your soul.” At that allusion, benevolent as it was, a cloud passed over Marcel’s face. The Englishman pretended not to notice it and continued: “No one on Earth is waiting for me or missing me. I won’t accord a few indifferent individuals with whom I’ve rubbed shoulders the honor of reckoning them as friends. At least I owe to this voyage the good fortune of encountering two, and that’s enough for me.”

  The amity that united the three men was now indissoluble. Born of chance, of the common idea of during something unprecedented, it had been fortified in the midst of redoubtable ordeals and the most various fortunes experienced together; now, the success obtained thanks to their indomitable energy had consecrated it forever. From the day when all three had embarked into the Columbiad’s shell and had confided themselves to the hazards of the immensity, they had never been apart. It was while always supporting one another that they had confronted unknown perils, risked their lives a hundred times, and finally triumphed over nature, whose laws they seemed to have vanquished. Whatever happened henceforth, they were united by unbreakable bonds.

  The magical letters succeeded one another at regular intervals, and every time their flamboyant brightness succeeded darkness, they saw the Long’s Peak signal, immutable and fixed, gleaming in the distance.

  “Our friends decidedly lack imagination,” murmured Lord Rodilan. Their sentences aren’t long. A full stop, that’s all.”

  “You’re joking, my dear Rodilan,” said Marcel, “but even that confirms my expectations. It’s certain, in my opinion, that if they intended to send us signals from America permitting useful correspondence, they’d already have found a means of ensuring communications. Obviously, they’re making preparations. How long will they take to complete? Only they can know. But I’m convinced that at a given moment, perhaps soon, we’ll see something new appear that will give us full satisfaction. I repeat that we have only to wait.”