But the old man shook his head, his face cheered up by a smile. “I shall make no use of chemistry,” he said,
“You’ve found a new method, then?”
“Not me, but compatriots of yours whose renown in universal: Messieurs Cailletet and Raoul Pictet, who have each succeeded, by different methods, in liquefying gases previously reputed to be incompressible: hydrogen and oxygen. Inspired by them, I’ve done the same but on a larger scale. With the aid of powerful pressure and a considerable decrease in temperature, I shall liquefy oxygen; if need be, I can solidify it and carry a provision of air in tablet form, but I’d prefer to carry it in steel containers.”
“But do you know how much of it you’ll need?” said Fricoulet, a trifle anxiously.
“Have no fear, my dear friend. I’ve calculated that one liter of liquefied oxygen represents 15 cubic meters—15,000 liters, that is—of vital gas. With 100 liters of the liquid, we’ll have sufficient provision; in 24 hours we’ll only expend a liter of liquid, each of us requiring 150 liters of vital gas per hour.”
“But have you considered,” Fricoulet objected, “that the air will deteriorate during the voyage.”
“To combat that deterioration I’ll employ caustic potash, which will absorb the carbon dioxide, and every 48 hours, I’ll expel the miasmas produced by pulmonary and cutaneous respiration. What do you think of that, Monsieur de Flammermont?”
“I think, Monsieur,” the young man replied, gravely, “that you’ve thought of everything.” So saying, he shook the old man’s hands vehemently.
Meanwhile, Selena had headed for the door. Showing Fricoulet the footstep that served to reach the floor of the circular space surrounding them, she asked: “How far above the ground are we?”
“One meter, Mademoiselle.”
“And what’s in there?” she asked, tapping the inferior part of the shell with the tip of her umbrella.
“Compressed air, Mademoiselle, whose escape will diminish the counter-shock of the departure.”
Gontran suddenly slapped his forehead. “There’s one thing you haven’t thought of, Monsieur Ossipoff.”
“What?”
“That it’s quite possible that your shell won’t be the right caliber.”
The scientist’s eyes widened. “Not the right caliber?” he repeated. “What do you mean by that?”
“As a hunter, I know that one of the fundamental principles of ballistics is that, in order to utilize all the energy of an expanding gas, it’s absolutely necessary to oppose a resistant surface to it, completely blocking the barrel of the revolver, rifle or cannon in order to avoid leakage causing a diminution of speed.”
“Well?”
“Well, your shell is six meters in diameter. Do you know how wide the chimney we’ll be using will be?”
Ossipoff grabbed his head in both hands. “God in Heaven!” he exclaimed. “You’re right! Why didn’t I think of that sooner?” Veritably stunned, he looked at Gontran despairingly, seemingly asking him for a means of countering this inconvenience, which he had not foreseen.
For his part, Gontran looked at Fricoulet, begging him mutely to come to his rescue. A leaden silence weighed upon their shoulders, until the young engineer put the index finger of his right hand to his forehead in a gesture of inspiration. “What’s stopping us,” he said, speaking slowly, “from setting the caisson of compressed air comprising the base of our shell on a second caisson of greater capacity than the first, all the elements of whose construction we’ll take from here, and whose diameter we’ll fit exactly to that of the chimney of the volcano.”
Everyone listened to him speaking without saying a word.
Fricoulet went on: “In addition to this adjunct countering the objection judiciously raised by my friend Gontran, it will offer a further advantage: under the enormous pressure of subterranean gases, the inferior walls of these caissons will be driven back with such force that the air will escape through tightly-fitted valves set in the superior bulkhead; in that manner, the escape will be gradual and not instantaneous, and our chances of impact will be proportionately diminished.”
A smile came to Ossipoff’s lips. He looked at the young engineer silently for a moment, then leaned towards Gontran and said: “This young man seems to know his business; if he knew how to talk less and listen more, he might get somewhere.” Then, addressing Fricoulet, he said, a trifle disdainfully: “Will you be able to make a design for this caisson and the system of valves?”
Humiliated, Fricoulet replied, dryly: “Monsieur de Flammermont will give you the design tomorrow.” And, turning on his heel, he went down the three steps that led down from the projectile.
“Make sure,” Ossipoff said to Gontran, “to give me that fellow’s design exactly as he gives it to you, without adding anything whatsoever; I want to see what he can do.”
The ex-diplomat made a hand gesture indicating that he would conform to his interlocutor’s request. Then, after a pause, he said: “But Monsieur Ossipoff, have you considered that once it’s in the zone of lunar gravitational attraction, it will fall from a height of almost 30,000 kilometers? Have you thought about deadening the impact?”
The old scientist smiled, and shrugged his shoulders slightly. “Bah!” he said. We’ll only be falling at a velocity of 2500 meters per second on impact. Now, in view of the rarefaction of the air, it’s not necessary to think about any physical means; I thought that we’d simply furnish the bottom of our wagon with tampons equipped with powerful springs, in order that the shock will be deprived of all its violence for us, enclosed in the interior.”
While speaking, Ossipoff darted one last approving glance around the interior of the projectile; then he went down the steps, followed by his daughter and Gontran. “My dear boy,” he said, shaking the young Comte’s hand warmly, “permit me to congratulate you in all sincerity on having succeeded, in such a short time, in bringing this important part of our plan to fruition. This vehicle is perfectly conceived in every particular, and its interior reflects its exterior. Nothing has been forgotten, and, I repeat, you have progressed with a rapidity that does the greatest honor to your activity and your intelligence.”
Alcide Fricoulet had moved closer; he smiled complacently, with his hands behind his back, taking for himself the compliments that were not addressed to him, but to which he was entitled.
“And you haven’t seen everything,” Gontran said, drawing the scientist toward another part of the workshop. “Here are the machines designed to render the chimney of the volcano cylindrical and calibrate it exactly. Here are the pumps and our workmen’s tools—they’re all specialists in the tasks for which they’ll be employed—and here are the projectile’s guide-rails.”
Ossipoff could not restrain himself from looking at all the items Gontran pointed out to him, examining them in detail one after another. “But on what plans were all these machines constructed?” he said, finally. “I can’t see any here that don’t seem to have been specially designed with a view to the role that they’re to play within our work.”
Flammermont was about to reply—doubtless to tell the truth—when an energetic gesture from Fricoulet commanded him to be silent.
“Well? You’re not answering,” said the astonished Ossipoff.
“Come on, Gontran,” said the young engineer. “Why are you ashamed to say that you are the author of the plans according to which all this has been constructed?”
The old man raised his arms to the heavens. “What genius!” he exclaimed. “And what modesty!” Addressing Fricoulet, he added: “There you are, Monsieur Fricoulet. True scientists are all like that: modest and taciturn—while the others…”
The young engineer frowned slightly. “You’re repeating yourself, Monsieur Ossipoff,” he grumbled. “You’ve already told me that.”
Ossipoff looked him straight in the eyes and wagged his finger at him. “You’re jealous of Monsieur de Flammermont’s merit,” he murmured. “Which doesn’t surprise me at
all.”
Fricoulet remained silent momentarily, amazed and doubtful that he had heard correctly. Then he suddenly burst out laughing. “Me!” he cried. “Me, jealous of Gontran’s scientific merit! Ah, Monsieur Ossipoff, scorn my humble worth and my petty scientific knowledge if you will, but don’t suspect my sincere friendship for Monsieur de Flammermont!”
Mademoiselle Ossipoff, who, while roaming around the workshop, had nevertheless kept an ear on the conversation, understood that things were at risk of being spoiled if she did not create a diversion. “Oh, what a strange machine!” she cried, pointing into a corner of the hangar, at a sort of gigantic iron horseshoe enclosing a dial equipped with a stout mobile needle. What’s that?”
The old scientist turned round in response to the young woman’s exclamation. “It is indeed,” he said, joining her, “a bizarre construction.”
Fricoulet darted a singular glance at Gontran de Flammermont and whispered in his ear: “Be careful. Do you know what you’re doing?”
The ex-diplomat shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “You’ll see,” he said. Then, not without a certain self-importance, he said aloud: “That, Mademoiselle, is the apparatus that your father asked me to invent.”
“A seismograph!” exclaimed Ossipoff.
Gontran inclined his head gravely. “Yes, Monsieur Ossipoff, a seismograph. “The two limbs of the iron horseshoe are nothing less than electromagnets; the telluric currents pass through the coils of these spools and magnetize them. According to the intensity of that magnetization, the needle on the dial deviates to a greater or lesser degree, indicating variations in the intensity of terrestrial magnetism, which an unknown law links to volcanic manifestations and eruptive phenomena.”
“Bravo!” cried Fricoulet, who had followed his friend’s explanation with some trepidation.
Selena looked at the young engineer and thanked him with a smile for providential role that he consented to play with so much self-abnegation.
Ossipoff, for his part, was overcome with joy. “Ah, my boy!” he exclaimed, in a voice tremulous with emotion, what a scientist you are! I tell you, in truth—me, who has grown old in harness, worn down by scientific research—that I admire you! What ingenuity! What depths of insight! What diversity of knowledge!” In his enthusiasm, he seized Gontran’s hands and shook them vigorously.
“So you think this instrument will be able to do what you expect of it?” Fricoulet enquired, to render the comedy even more plausible.
“What!” cried Flammermont. “By this means, I will undertake to inform you, a month in advance, of the fermentation of the deep layers of the globe, and predict the next eruption of Cotopaxi for you.”
“All my compliments, my dear chap,” the engineer replied.
Doubtless Ossipoff thought he perceived an element of irony in these words, for he looked at Fricoulet furiously and asked him, rather sharply: “Are you, perchance, insulting Monsieur de Flammermont by doubting his success, Monsieur Fricoulet?”
The later raised his arms to the heavens. “Absolutely not,” he hastened to retort, “but my friend Gontran’s science always plunges me into profound amazement.”
The ex-diplomat, who feared that Fricoulet’s continual mockery would attract the old scientist’s attention, hastened to intervene. “Now, Monsieur Ossipoff,” he said, “it only remains for me to take my leave of you.”
The old man and the young woman uttered simultaneous exclamations of surprise. “You’re leaving!”
“Of course! Isn’t it necessary for me to go on ahead of you in order to test my seismograph in the very bosom of Cotopaxi. Besides, if I can rely on the information I’ve received, means of locomotion are by no means abundant over there, and it will take a full month to organize and gather all the material and personnel necessary to transport my luggage to the summit of Cotopaxi.”
“Ah,” said Ossipoff, enveloping the young man with his affectionate gaze, “what a precious collaborator! You think of everything. You’re right, 100 times over. I never thought about these details.” And he added, in a mischievous tone: “You’d never have thought of that, Monsieur Fricoulet.”
The engineer bowed his head. “That, no,” he said. “I admit it humbly.”
Suddenly, Ossipoff leaned towards Gontran’s ear. “Why, then, is it you that’s going?” he asked. “Wouldn’t it be better to send your friend Fricoulet over there? That wouldn’t cause us any inconvenience.”
Selena, whose face had acquired a veil of sadness on hearing Gontran mention his departure, started to smile. “Indeed,” she said, “that’s an excellent idea.” Without waiting for her fiancé’s response, she spoke to the engineer, gazing at him pleadingly. “Monsieur Fricoulet,” she said, “surely you won’t let your friend leave—you know how much pleasure he’ll derive from remaining with me.”
Gontran frowned slightly, while a moue of discontent creased his lips. He made an imperceptible signal to Fricoulet, who replied: “My God, Mademoiselle, I’m entirely ready to do whatever Gontran tells me to do. If he tells me to leave, I’ll leave; if he wants me to stay, I’ll stay. It’s for him to judge where I’ll be most useful to Monsieur Ossipoff’s project.” He had pronounced these words with an affected humility that won him the privilege of a slightly softer gaze from the scientist.
Selena clapped her hands. “In that case…” she said, joyfully, turning to Flammermont.
“In that case,” the latter replied, “my friend Fricoulet will stay here and I shall leave for South America, the day after tomorrow.”
Ossipoff and his daughter started.
“Fricoulet will be a great help to you here,” Gontran went on. “He’s a mechanic, and you’ll need someone like him to supervise the dismantling and packing of all the pieces of machinery that we’ll need over there.”
The old scientist nodded his head approvingly.
“Then again,” said Gontran, “I know the apparatus I’ve constructed better than anyone, and no one can test it better than I can.” With a gesture, he drew Selena to one side. “Dear Selena,” he murmured, “you have no idea of the grief that this separation will cause me…but it’s for the sake of prudence and in the interests of our love that I’m acting thus.”
“Prudence!” repeated the young woman.
“I’m afraid of finding myself alone in Monsieur Ossipoff’s presence. Without Fricoulet, my good genius, your father wouldn’t take long to strip me of the borrowed vestment in which I’ve dressed up, and he wouldn’t need to scratch very deeply for his finger to scrape away the layer of scientific varnish with which I’ve coated myself. In going away, on the other hand, my heart will suffer, to be sure—but my prestige will remain intact.” He paused momentarily; then, narrowing his eyes in an expression of finality, he went on: “Isn’t that wisely calculated?”
A slight smile brightened Selena’s sad expression. “Perhaps you’re right,” she murmured. “But it’s very annoying that you’re only a fake scientist.” She emphasized her regret with a deep sigh.
Ossipoff turned to the young man at that moment. “When are you planning to leave?” he asked.
“I’ve booked a cabin aboard an American ship that’s leaving Le Havre in the morning, the day after tomorrow.”
“So soon!” exclaimed Selena.
“In a fortnight I’ll be at Colon. I’ll cross the isthmus of Panama by rail and re-embark for Guayaquil on the far side. From there I’ll go on horseback to Quito, where I’ll organize the convoy that you’ll need to transport your material. By the first of February next I’ll be on the summit of Cotopaxi. I’ll test the seismograph and let you know the result of my experiment, whatever it is.”
“In code, of course!” cried Ossipoff.
“Naturally. If Martinez da Campadores isn’t mistake in his calculations, and if I recognize the precursory signs of an imminent eruption, you’ll immediately set out to sea with the ship you’ve chartered. By doubling Cape Horn at full steam, you can be at Guayaquil by March 1, and on
March 10, we’ll be reunited in the crater of Cotopaxi…”
Darting a singular glance at the ex-diplomat, which would doubtless have given the old scientist much to think about, Fricoulet added: “Provided, at least, that nothing unforeseen happens…”
Ossipoff shrugged his shoulders. Following on from Flammermont’s remarks without paying any heed to the engineer’s observation, he said: “Allowing 12 days for the appropriation of the chimney, the reassembly of the shell and all the metallic pieces, we’ll be ready, three days before the predicted explosion, to launch ourselves into sidereal space!”
As he pronounced these words, he raised his arms vertically toward the sky in a truly magnificent gesture: the action of a warrior designating the countries he is ready to conquer.
Chapter VIII
In which it is demonstrated once again that Fedor Sharp is a scoundrel.
It was 2 p.m. on January 29. In the dining-room of the Hotel Royal in Brest, Monsieur Ossipoff was smoking his cigar, accompanied by Fricoulet. Selena, sitting by the window, let her gaze wander over the forest of masts bristling on the horizon, but her thoughts were far away beyond the sea, with her absent beloved.
“Do you know, Father,” she said, suddenly turning round, “that it’s nearly a month since Monsieur de Flammermont left.”
“A month, indeed, my girl,” the aged scientist replied. “It surely won’t be more than a week before we have news.”
The young woman pulled a slight face. “It seems to me,” she said, “that he might have sent us some already!”
Fricoulet, who was leaning over a map of the Atlantic, raised his head. “Assuming that the voyage was effected without hindrance and that no unexpected difficulty has delayed him, Gontran will only have arrived the day before yesterday. Well, he needs time to carry out the seismographic experiment and send a message—and then, there’s the telegraphic transmission. In brief, we can’t possibly receive any news for another 48 hours, at least.”
The Extraordinary Adventures of a Russian Scientist Across the Solar System (Vol. 1) Page 18
