The Extraordinary Adventures of a Russian Scientist Across the Solar System (Vol. 1)

by Georges Le Faure; Henri de Graffigny

  The store was empty. Voriguin had devoured the few biscuits and little meat that remained before going to sleep; it was that very excess of nourishment that had caused his death, for, gripped by the cold in the midst of a difficult digestion, he had suffered a stroke in his sleep.

  Devastated, Sharp let himself fall on to the divan. What good would it do to struggle further against the cold, since hunger had arrived, with tortures 100 times more frightful?

  For long hours, fixed in complete immobility, he waited, feeling a mortal numbness gradually invading his limbs, freezing them and stiffening them. Then, all of a sudden, the desire to lived took possession of him, and again he began to walk abut, slowly at first, then more rapidly, to make his blood circulate and regenerate a little warmth. The suffering of his stomach increased by the hour, though; soon it became intolerable, and then, to deceive his hunger, he seized a bottle of cognac and drank several gulps on after another.

  As if by magic, the pain eased; a sort of intoxication took possession of him and went to his head—and for a while, he felt quite well. Warmed by the alcohol, he was even able to sit down and get a little rest. Soon, however, the hunger pangs began again, more violent and atrocious, causing him to howl like a wild beast. Then, as he had the first time, he took refuge in alcohol and drank the rest of the bottle of cognac. Doubtless the dose was too strong, or else the alcohol, falling into the empty stomach, acted more rapidly and with greater violence. Either way, a sort of furious madness took possession of him. With his head on fire, his eyes bloody, his mouth drooling hideously and his limbs agitated by a ferocious tremor, he hurled himself, in the darkness, upon the cadaver of the unfortunate Voriguin. And he did the same every time his stomach demanded its daily nourishment.

  For hours, he struggled desperately, nauseated by these frightful feasts, horrified by himself; then, when his strength gave out, vanquished by nature, he drank—and, when drunkenness had driven him mad, he ate.

  That lasted until the moment when the Sun, climbing above the horizon again, illuminated these scenes of horror. The unfortunate’s torture then became more frightful still; while the darkness enveloped him, he could at least escape the hideous spectacle that he offered, as he crouched over the cadaver and hacking slices off it with a knife—but now…

  Then again, with the light, warmth returned—and the body, which the cold had conserved, began to decompose rapidly, infecting the air with poisonous miasmas. Sensing that there was death in the polluted atmosphere he was breathing, Sharp tried to break one of the portholes with the pick-axe, but in vain. The implement’s iron head was blunted, and the haft broke without it being able to crack the glass.

  In desperation, with his courage and strength exhausted, sensing the futility of further struggle, Sharp then lay down beside Voriguin’s corpse and waited. When Jonathan Farenheit’s piercing eyes spotted the cannonball in which his enemy was imprisoned, he had only fallen unconscious a few hours before.

  Chapter XVIII

  A solar eclipse and a lunar tide

  Fricoulet, as we know, had a smattering of medical knowledge. In spite of the horror and disgust that the ex-permanent secretary of the Academy of Sciences inspired in him, he knelt down next to Sharp, unbuttoned his clothing and carefully applied a stethoscope to his chest.

  “This man isn’t dead,” he declared, eventually. “He’s merely in a coma.”

  Scarcely had he pronounced these words than the American hurried towards him. “Save him,” he implored. “Save him, Monsieur Fricoulet, and half of what I possess is yours.”

  The young engineer looked at him in total surprise. “What!” he said. “Is that you talking, Mr. Farenheit? Whence comes this sudden interest in a scoundrel whom you wanted to strangle with your own hands a little while ago? If your hatred always transforms itself in that manner, I envy the fate of your enemies.” He had pronounced these words in a slightly mocking tone which made the American blush.

  “It’s not Fedor Sharp’s carcass that I care about,” Farenheit replied. “It’s my vengeance.” And he added, with a glint in his eye: “That man belongs to me.”

  Ossipoff came forward. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur,” he said, “but that man was my enemy before he was yours. I hope you will not dispute that priority.” The old scientist had put such authority into these words that Farenheit stared at him in surprise. “You’ll see,” he murmured, mockingly, “that I shall be obliged to put this blackguard Sharp in chains.”

  Farenheit, presumably recognizing that Ossipoff’s claim was just, turned on his heel, cursing.

  “What are you going to do?” the old man asked Fricoulet.

  “Whatever you decide.”

  “Can you save him?”

  The engineer shrugged his shoulders. “One can try, at least. When I was an intern in a Paris hospital, I saw a man who remained in a cataleptic state for several weeks. The same might happen with Sharp. I’ll put him into the spare respirol, which we brought in case of an accident.”

  “And afterwards?”

  “Afterwards, we’ll have to wait for Nature to take its course.”

  Having said that, Fricoulet and Gontran carried Fedor Sharp’s body to the aerial boat, where they laid him out on the cushions. As they were about to embark, Fricoulet noticed that their guide looked worried, and that his gaze was interrogating the horizon with an expression of evident anxiety.

  “What’s the matter?” asked the engineer.

  “I anticipate bad weather,” the Selenite replied, laconically.

  Ossipoff and his companions turned round. “Bad weather!” they repeated, in astonishment.

  “I’ve already said, and you must already have seen for yourselves,” Telinga replied, “that this is the most inhospitable part of the Moon. The cause of that is these immense forests, which condense and retain in their yellowed foliage the little humidity present in the atmosphere. It is not rare to see true clouds form here, which dissolve into rain or opaque fogs and, in the process of their condensation, produce violent displacements of air. These winds, eddying as they blow through the mountain gorges, carry off branches, small pieces of pumice-stone and even lava debris torn away from the flanks of craters.”

  “But these tempestuous rains of stone must be dangerous,” observed Gontran.

  “Very dangerous.”

  “And you anticipate something similar?”

  Telinga made an expansive gesture indicating the sky. “Everything makes me dread an imminent perturbation of the atmosphere,” he replied.

  “What can we do?” asked Ossipoff.

  “Flee, as quickly as possible.” Scarcely had he pronounced these words than Flammermont was assisting Selena to take her seat in the aerial skiff. Farenheit sat down between the two young men.

  “What direction should we take?” asked the old scientist.

  “We’ll doubtless head north-west,” replied Fricoulet, consulting his map. “When we arrive at the level of the lunar equator, we’ll cross the circle of mountains and we’ll end up, still in daylight, in the other hemisphere not far from Chuir.”

  “Still in daylight,” Ossipoff repeated. “We’ll have to hurry.”

  “Oh, have no fear of that,” said Telinga. “We have 2000 kilometers to travel…it will take less than 30 hours.”

  “Unless there’s an accident,” murmured Gontran.

  Everything was ready. Telinga was the last to embark; he turned his steering-mechanism and pressed down the control-levers. Immediately, a loud bang was heard at the stern of the boat; a jet of gas gushed into the air and the apparatus, finding its purchase on the rarefied fluid, rose up through the atmospheric layers.

  Suddenly, though, as if they had only awaiting a signal, all the humid particles held in suspension in the air condensed. Heavy ink-black spirals emerged from the vegetal masses, twisting in the air like titanic serpents and gathering into thick clouds, which soon covered the Sea of Serenity.

  Gontran leaned toward Fricoulet. “I’m
sure,” he said, “that in spite of their improved telescopes, terrestrial astronomers have not witnessed such a phenomenon; this, at least, would have convinced them of the existence of a lunar atmosphere.”

  “You’re mistaken, my dear friend,” the engineer replied. “All astronomers have observed, as you are doing at this moment, occasional clouds covering an entire region of the planet.”

  “Have these people an interest in denying the evidence, then?” cried Flammermont.

  “If you doubt what I say,” the engineer retorted, slightly piqued by his friend’s incredulity, “you can ask old Ossipoff.”

  Gontran turned to the scientists and told him about the discussion. “My God!” he replied. “Monsieur Fricoulet is not mistaken, but he’s not entirely right either. These clouds have not, strictly speaking, been seen—but that is the only rational explanation that can be given for the singular occultation of known craters that seem to disappear for irregular periods, and also for certain details of lunar orthography that have been apparent at certain times to certain astronomers while not existing at others. For instance, in the middle of the Sea of Vapors, in a passage well-known to selenographers, there’s a little crater named Hyginus, cut in two by some sort of river traced in a straight line and clearly recognizable. Now, north-west of this crater, no one has ever observed a circus measuring half a league in diameter.”

  “But the circus exists?”

  “I’ve seen it, studied and photographed it. Similarly, in the Sea of Nectar there’s a little crater six kilometers in diameter, which Mädler and Lohrmann—two conscientious observers—did not see. Schmidt perceived it for the first time in 1851 and it’s clearly distinguishable on a photograph taken by Rutherfurd in 1865. Now, in 1875 the English selenographer Neison81 examined, described and drew that same region with the most minute care and the most exact measurements, without finding any trace of that volcano. Last year, however, it was clearly discernible by means of the Pulkova equatorial.”

  “What conclusion to you draw from that?” the Comte de Flammermont asked, gravely, seemingly following the old man’s explanations with great interest.

  “The theory that I’ve always advocated and which turns out to be true—the phenomenon that we’re witnessing at present proves it—is that the lunar volcanoes emit fumes or that atmospheric vapor condenses in fogs above these regions and mask them from terrestrial observers, as is the case for an aeronaut flying a few leagues above Vesuvius during an eruption.”

  While the old scientist was furnishing these detailed explanations to Gontran, the aerial boat had quit the luxuriant regions of the Sea of Serenity. The Tumulus of Linné had disappeared over the horizon and, after going around the little crater of Bessel at a considerable altitude, our voyagers were now flying over a gigantic granite rampart that seemed to serve as an enclosure for the dark and velvety plain of the Sea of Serenity.

  “What are these mountains that we’re crossing, Father?” asked Selena.

  “To the left,” the old man replied, “We have the circus of Pliny, to the right is Menelaus.”

  That name awoke ideas in Gontran’s mind of an entirely different order than those belonging to lunar orthography. If he had been listening intently, Ossipoff would have heard the young man humming a chorus from an operetta unmistakably reminiscent of La Belle Hélène.82

  Fricoulet nudged his companion with his elbow. “Are you mad?” he muttered.

  “It’s the association of ideas,” Gontran retorted. “The crater Menelaus reminded me of Mademoiselle Schneider and her roulades.” He released a deep sigh—and, to divert himself from his dark thoughts, turned abruptly to Ossipoff and asked: “What’s that sharp peak outlined on the horizon, beyond Menelaus on the right?”

  “Sulpicius Gallus. From here you can make out the bizarre broken buttresses that connect it to the orographic system of Manilius.”

  “Manilius!” repeated Farenheit.

  “A large crater that we can’t see from here, because we’re more than 100 leagues away from it.”

  Fricoulet, who was consulting his map frequently, extended his arm towards a dark and immense stain just beginning to reveal appear in the distance. “Isn’t that the Sea of Tranquility?” he asked.

  “Indeed it is,” said Ossipoff.

  The Sun, mid-way through its course, was at its zenith at that moment, pouring torrents of hot light upon the lunar soil. Suddenly, the star appeared to darken.

  “By God!” cried Jonathan Farenheit. “We aren’t going fast enough—here’s the night.”

  Gontran and Selena, who were chatting to one another, interrupted their conversation. “Night!” repeated the young man. “It’s true, though—the horizon’s getting noticeably darker.” He tapped Ossipoff on the shoulder; the latter was utterly absorbed, along with Fricoulet, in the study of their map.

  “What is it?” the old man asked. As he spoke he raised his head, and uttered a cry of surprise. Darkness was overtaking the sky. “Am I mistaken in my calculations then?” he murmured. “The day is definitely 354 hours long, though…and only half of that has elapsed.” He turned round on hearing a loud burst of laughter behind him. He saw Fricoulet holding his sides.

  “What’s up with you?” the old man demanded, curtly. “Whence comes this hilarity?”

  “From Gontran and Farenheit’s fearful expressions.” The engineer pointed at his two companions, who were looking up, waving their arms in the air, seemingly alarmed by their consideration of the day star, whose disk was disappearing rapidly.

  Ossipoff stamped his foot angrily. “To laugh like that,” he said, “you must have an explanation of this phenomenon.”

  “An eclipse,” replied Fricoulet.

  “An eclipse?” repeated the old man, bewildered.

  “Yes, an eclipse of the Sun.”

  “Of the Moon, you mean?” retorted Gontran, mockingly.

  Fricoulet shrugged his shoulders. “No,” he said, “but by the Earth.” And he added, by way of response to the gesture of incredulity that greeted these words: “Our native planet is now in conjunction with the Sun, passing in front of the central star and masking it—because, seen from the Moon, it is four times as large. As you can see, it’s quite simple and not at all dangerous.”

  “But will it last a long time?” Farenheit asked.

  “Well, the eclipse is total, and will certainly not last less than two hours.”

  “We’ll be obliged to stop, then,” said Selena.

  “Why?” countered Fricoulet.

  “Do you think that it will be possible to navigate in such darkness?”

  The engineer turned to Telinga.

  “Dangerous,” the Selenite said, laconically. “Fog…”

  Fricoulet rummaged in a compartment built into the stern of the boat and took out a lamp, to which he attached a silvered reflector. By means of a cord he attached the lamp firmly to the skiff’s prow; then, bringing the two poles together, he produced a dazzling light, whose rays the reflector projected ten meters ahead. “Like that,” he said, “we won’t break our nose.”

  After a brief pause, Selena asked the old scientist: “Is it like this in every conjunction of the Earth, Father?”

  “No, my dear,” Ossipoff replied. “The Sun, in its daily course, usually passes to the north or south of the planet Earth, motionless in space—but it sometimes happens, by virtue of the combined movements of the two heavenly bodies, that the radiant star passes directly behind its vassal, as at the present moment. Then it becomes invisible from the Moon, which falls back into darkness. These eclipses are not frequent, though, and there’is little need to worry about them, since they take place in deserted regions.”

  Jonathan Farenheit thumped the guard-rail with his fist. “What about us?” he growled. “Do you take us for rocks, then?”

  “Not at all—but we’re in a very exceptional situation. For myself, I’m delighted by the circumstance, which will permit me to study the edges of the Sun, the luminous crow
n and the zodiacal light.” The old scientist rubbed his hands together with evident satisfaction.

  Selena was thoughtful, though. After a pause, she said: “But if the Earth is hiding the Sun from us because it’s in conjunction with it, and the two bodies are in the same alignment, the Moon must be full for the Earth’s inhabitants, mustn’t it?”

  “Yes, my love.”

  “So they’re witnessing an eclipse of the Moon?”

  “How’s that?” said Gontran.

  “Since the Earth is intercepting the solar rays, they can’t be reflected from the lunar ground; consequently, the satellite becomes dark.”

  “That’s true,” observed the young man.

  “But what are you getting at?” asked the old man.

  “I thought that terrestrial astronomers had drawn up tables predicting lunar eclipses. You ought, therefore, to have anticipated the present phenomenon.” And so saying, she smiled slyly.

  Fricoulet clapped his hands joyfully. “Bravo, Mademoiselle!” he exclaimed. “That’s logic, or I don’t know it—all my compliments, especially as logic isn’t generally the dominant quality of your sex.”

  “Oh, one can’t think of everything,” grumbled the old scientist. “While I was thinking of the danger that this initially-inexplicable phenomenon might pose to my daughter, I didn’t have that table of predictions present in my memory.” He shrugged his shoulders ill-humoredly and, picking up his binoculars, plunged himself into an attentive examination of the Sun, which presented a most peculiar appearance at that moment.

  Telinga seemed anxious, however. In spite of the rapidity with which the boat was flying through the air, it was being overtaken by the fog whose formation our friends had observed above the vegetal masses of the Selenian forests, and was now traveling in the midst of swirling dust, which would have blinded the travelers had it not been for the lenses that protected the openings in their respirols.

  “We are going off course,” murmured Telinga.

  “Wouldn’t it preferable to stop?” Fricoulet asked it. “With so little control over the vessel, you risk crashing into some unknown peak.”