Ossipoff shrugged his shoulders and muttered laconically: “One’s as likely as the other.”
“In any case,” said Fricoulet, “there’s a very simple means of finding out what’s happened, and that’s to go and see.” So saying, he climbed the ladder giving access to one of the portholes that served as doors.
He was about to leave the cabin when Gontran exclaimed: “God forgive me, but there’s someone walking around underneath us.”
“In the sphere!” exclaimed the engineer. “Go on! You’re dreaming…” Nevertheless, he came back down, knelt down at put his ear to the cabin floor.
When he got up again, his features were imprinted with profound amazement. “I don’t know if it’s walking,” he said, in a low voice, “but something unusual is happening down there, at any rate, for I can hear a noise I can’t quite define.”
He had scarcely finished speaking when a roll of thunder burst forth beneath the voyagers’ feet. In the initial moment of fright they leapt into the air.
“What’s this devilment!” cried Fricoulet.
A second roll was heard, then a third and a fourth, as dull and continuous as the first.
“My word, Messieurs,” said Gontran, “you can follow me or not, as you wish, but for myself, I want to know what I’m dealing with.” He took a revolver from the wall, which had been hung there along with several other weapons, checked that it was loaded and advanced toward the exit-hole.
“We’ll go with you,” said the engineer, “but you amuse me with your precautions. Are you expecting to find Comanche Indians down there?”
The young Comte did not react to the joke, for the good reason that he had not heard it. Without worrying about whether or not his companions were following him he had grabbed hold of the rigid ladder that ran from the cabin along the entire depth of the sphere to the lower section. Without hesitation, with the revolver in his fist, he went into the dark hole formed by the metal sphere and marched straight ahead. Suddenly, however, there was a loud bang, whose echoes, striking the selenium walls and rebounding like a volley from a tennis racket, multiplied deafeningly and terrifyingly.
Gontran was no scientist, but he was a courageous man; this assault, far from stopping him, only excited him further and set him running in the direction from which it seemed to have come. There was a second bang and he heard a bullet whistle past his ear. Then he fired his revolver six times, at hazard, threw away the useless weapon, and hurled himself forward. Suddenly, from the shadows, arms gripped him. His fingers found a throat and squeezed it vigorously. His unknown adversary tottered, dragging him down as he fell.
“Help me! Help me!” Flammermont shouted.
At that moment, Ossipoff arrived, followed by Fricoulet—who, being a careful man, had armed himself with magnesium rods. He set fire to one and the darkness immediately dissipated. The newcomers saw a confused mass comprising Gontran and his adversary, on whose stomach he was crouched.
“Great God!” cried the young man, keeping backwards. “It’s Farenheit!”
“Farenheit!” repeated Ossipoff and Fricoulet simultaneously, as they leaned over the body immobile at heir feet, dumbfounded.
It was, indeed, the American, thin and fleshless—freeze-dried, so to speak—whose livid and leathery face the magnesium illuminated. When the initial moment of stupefaction had passed, Ossipoff declared that it was vital to transport the unfortunate to the cabin as soon as possible, in order to give him the care that his condition required.
“I haven’t killed him, have I?” Gontran asked. “I fear that I might have squeezed too hard.”
Making no reply, Fricoulet threw the American on his back as if he were as light as a feather, and carried him back up to the cockpit. “The poor devil’s dying of hunger,” he said, after examining him. “First of all, let’s try to get him to absorb a little of our nutritive paste.”
With great difficulty, they succeeded in unclenching the American’s teeth and introducing a little of the aliment into his mouth, then waited anxiously to see what effect it would produce.
“How do you explain this resurrection?” asked Flammermont, who could not, even now, believe his eyes.
“Quite simply. First, it’s necessary to assume that the cartridge that scoundrel Sharp threw, rather than killing Farenheit, only wounded him. When we abandoned him, fleeing the night, the cold gripped him. Now, you know that cold preserves, and that certain animals—eels, for example—are able to stay alive even after being frozen. It’s probably a similar phenomenon that affected Farenheit.”
“It’s the sunlight that’s unfrozen him, then?” said Gontran, smiling.
“As you quite rightly say.”
“But how can his conduct be explained?”
“That’s not in the scientific domain. I can’t enlighten you as to that—but you can ask him yourself.”
At that moment, the American began to stir on his bed. His lips became pink and a little blood appeared in his cheeks, where the prominent cheekbones seemed ready to cave in. For several seconds his teeth rattled like castanets in a formidable chewing motion; then, without opening his eyes, he murmured in a cavernous voice: “Eat, eat, eat…” As Fricoulet had foreseen this demand, he had a large ball of paste ready at his fingertips. Taking advantage of a moment when the American’s mouth opened wide, he introduced it therein.
The effect was virtually instantaneous. Farenheit sat up; his eyelids lifted; his eyes fixed themselves successively on the people surrounding him—and then he extended his arms toward them. “By God!” he said. “So it wasn’t that scoundrel Sharp who built this metal balloon I was trying to destroy.”
Ossipoff could not suppress a groan. “Destroy!” he cried.
“What do you expect? On coming round, in that frightful desert, I dragged myself a few kilometers as best I could—then, all of a sudden, I saw all these preparations for departure. I thought it was Sharp, trying to escape me again. Rage took hold of me and I decided to die, if necessary, provided that I died avenging myself.”
“Then he’s the one you thought you were shooting at just now?” asked Gontran.
“Of course—fortunately, my hand was shaking. He interrupted himself, with a covetous gleam in his eye. “Oh,” he said, “I could gladly eat a beef roast washed down with a glass of port.”
Fricoulet and Gontran looked at one another, sorrowfully. “The only means of satisfying that desire,” the young engineer said, finally, “is for you to go to sleep and hope that Morpheus sends you a gastronomic dream. As for us, our larder consists of this.” And he pointed to the paste fabricated by Ossipoff.
The American pulled a face, and then, following Fricoulet’s advice, lay down on his side and went to sleep.
Chapter XXII
The fire on board
“Well, Monsieur Fricoulet, are you beginning to be convinced?” asked Ossipoff in a mocking tone.
“I’ve more than begun, my dear Monsieur, I’m convinced—absolutely convinced. That doesn’t prevent me from being amazed by the success…” The engineer turned to Flammermont. “What about you, Gontran?” he asked.
The young Comte shrugged his shoulders slightly and replied, in a rather casual tone: “Oh, as for me, you know full well that I never had the shadow of a doubt, even for an instant.”
“Besides,” said the old man, in his turn, “isn’t he the one who came up with this ingenious idea, thanks to which we can continue our voyage. It would be astonishing if he had conceived any anxieties on the subject.”
Fricoulet hid the joyful gleam that these words ignited in his eyes behind half-lowered lids, but he had difficulty not bursting into laughter when Gontran said, gravely: “What gives me great confidence in myself is the persuasion I have that the word impossible isn’t French…”
A groan was heard behind them; they turned and saw Farenheit sitting on the edge of the cushion that served him as a bunk. “The word impossible isn’t American either,” he said, churlishly.
Fricoulet smiled
slightly and replied: “You’re striking proof of that—for the Devil may take me if I ever expected to see you living after the strange adventure that overtook you…”
“You have to go to the Moon to see such things,” said Gontran, in his turn.
“Why is that?” retorted Ossipoff. “Have we not methods of conservation of foodstuffs by cold on Earth?”
“With the difference that the sheep and oxen thus conserved don’t come back to life, while Mr. Farenheit has.”
“We’ve forgotten to ask how you are,” said Gontran.
The American stretched his arms forcefully, making his joints crack like pistol shots, and replied: “Not bad, thanks. I just feel rather stiff—that’s doubtless the effect of the hibernation…but a little exercise will restore all my elasticity.” So saying, he made as if to get up.
A gesture from Fricoulet stopped him. “A little exercise,” the engineer repeated. “But where the Devil do you expect to take it? You have only the cage in which we’re located in which to take a stroll, and you’ll confess that space is severely lacking.”
A profound disappointment was painted on the Yankee’s face. “By God!” he groaned. “Indeed, it’s not much.” Then, in a one of amazement, he immediately added: “Right! Where are we?”
“In our new vehicle—the one that you were trying to destroy when Monsieur Flammermont intervened, fortunately for you and for us.”
Farenheit looked around, in frank dissatisfaction. “Pooh!” he murmured, pulling a face. “It’s less comfortable than the other one.”"
frank dissaastisfaction veneddestroy, when " Yankee'Fricoulet stopped him. d impossible is not French.and marched straight h
“What do you expect?” replied Gontran. “Needs must when the Devil drives—we should think ourselves fortunate that a providential combination of circumstances has permitted us to continue our voyage—otherwise, I would have had to renounce all hope forever of recovering my dear Selena, and you all hope of getting your hands on your friend Sharp again.”
At that name, which always had the effect of making him furious, the American sat up straight on his bed, with his teeth clenched, his fists clenched and his eyes ablaze. But then a singular phenomenon occurred; projected by the force of his impulse, he bumped his head on the upper wall of the projectile and fell back on top of Ossipoff, who was quietly occupied in writing his notes of the voyage. Taken by surprise, the old man lost his balance and tried to hold on to Gontran, whom he dragged down in his fall. All three of them rolled on the floor, while Fricoulet laughed himself to tears.
Ossipoff was the first to get up. “What’s happening?” he mumbled. “What’s all the commotion?”
The engineer held his sides, incapable of saying a word. It was Gontran who replied, while rubbing his knees. “The commotion was caused by a falling body, of course!”
“A bolide!” exclaimed Ossipoff.
Farenheit, who had also got up, went to the old man. “I was ready to make my apologies to you,” he said, “but as you’re making use of such unpleasant expressions with regard to me…”
Fricoulet’s hilarity was immediately redoubled, and it was impossible for Gontran to remain serious any longer. Farenheit and Ossipoff looked one another in the whites of the eyes, like two bulldogs ready to fight.
“But, my dear Mr. Farenheit,” the young Comte succeeded in saying, “the worthy Monsieur Ossipoff had no intention of insulting you.”
“Even so,” complained the American. “Bolide!”
“Is the name given, in astronomy, to certain errant bodies in space. Now, you’ll agree that, being in space, you played a somewhat similar role.”
The Yankee’s face cleared. He took another step forward and held out his open hand to the old man. “Shake, Monsieur Ossipoff,” he said, with dignity, “to prove that you don’t hold it against me that I fell astride your shoulders as if you were a vaulting-horse.”
“I gladly accept your apology,” replied the old scientist, shaking Farenheit’s hand, “but I’d be very grateful to you if you’d explain what caused you to make that ardent manifestation.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, and I’m as surprised by you are by what happened.”
Fricoulet, whose had finally mastered his hilarity, then explained that the American had made an abrupt movement, without reflecting that the further away they got from the Moon, the more they escaped the effects of gravity, already so feeble on the satellite’s surface.
On hearing these words, the American nearly signaled his amazement with a start no less formidable than the first; having learned from experience, though, and mistrusting his nervous nature, he clung to the cushions of the divan with both hands and exclaimed: “By God! Did I just hear you say the further away we get from the Moon?”
“You heard me perfectly well, Mr. Farenheit.”
“We’re no longer on the Moon?”
“It’s now more than an hour since we left.”
The worthy American’s alarm was comical to behold. He raced to one of the portholes and remained there for a few moments, with his nose glued to the thick glass, looking out into the immensity. Convinced of the reality, he came back. “Right!” he said. “How come you were able to leave the lunar surface, on which we seemed to be stranded forever?”
Ossipoff pointed to Gontran. “It’s Monsieur de Flammermont, again, to whom we owe this marvelous application of electrical forces.”
The American shook the young Comte’s hand vigorously. “In the name of my hatred, thanks,” he said, in a deep voice. “And I promise, if we succeed in getting our hands on that blackguard Sharp for a second time, not to let him escape. He’ll pay for all his misdeeds at a stroke.”
“Pardon me,” replied Gontran, whose face had paled slightly, “but you’ll agree that Sharp belongs partly to me now. Have I not to avenge my fiancée, my beloved Selena?”
Farenheit paused briefly, then said: “Let’s not argue about it now. There’ll be time enough to discuss the matter when the scoundrel’s at our disposal.”
“There’s a very simple means of settling it, after having discussed it,” joked Fricoulet. “You can throw dice for Sharp’s skin, or draw straws…”
While the three men were chatting in this fashion, Osssipoff attentively consulted the instruments suspended from the cabin walls. “There we go,” he said, rubbing his hands in satisfaction. “The voyage is progressing well. The barometer only marks 350 milimeters, but the weather’s good anyway. The hygrometer indicates very moderate humidity and the ozometric papers are intact.”
“Are you certain that we’re heading in the right direction?” Fricoulet asked.
“I’ve submitted all my calculations to Monsieur de Flammermont,” the old man replied, “and he’s confirmed their accuracy.”
The American studied the young man—who maintained an imperturbable seriousness—with a strange expression.
“In any case,” said the Comte, “If you doubt it, you have only to consult the compass.”
Ossipoff straightened up and looked at Flammermont in surprise. Oh good, thought the latter. I’ve just said something stupid. He was convinced of it even before Ossipoff said, in a slightly bitter tone: “You’re joking, of course...you know perfectly well that the indications of the compass don’t relate to anything in the medium we’re in, and that it’s no use to us so far from any attraction.”
Gontran bit his lip, utterly confused. Suddenly, though, he had an inspiration of genius and pointed at the portholes through which the constellations shining in the sidereal immensity were visible. “I meant those stars,” he said, in a vibrant voice, “which are as many celestial compasses by which we can track our progress.”
A smile played on the old man’s lips. Immediately, he replied: “I beg your pardon, dear boy. I must admit that such a heresy, on your part, would astonish me.” Having said that, in an affectionate tone, Ossipoff resumed his occupations, while Gontran went to sit next to Fricoulet.
&nbs
p; “I admire you sincerely, my friend,” the engineer murmured. “I’m profoundly hostile to your marriage, God knows, but I must confess that if you finally succeed in espousing the woman you love…well, you certainly won’t have stolen her.”
“Love seems to increase my imagination tenfold,” the young Comte replied.
Farenheit came over to them at that moment. “How far away are we now, in your estimation, from the Moon?” he asked.
“Pooh!” replied Fricoulet, consulting his watch. “Without being able to tell you exactly, I can testify that we must be about 100,000 kilometers away.”
The American opened his eyes wide. “100,000 kilometers!” he repeated. “But you just said that we only left an hour ago.”
“Well, at a rate of 28,000 meters a second…what’s that?”
“100,800 kilometers an hour,” replied the Yankee—who, as a tradesman, had a talent for mental arithmetic.
“So, when I told you 100,000 kilometers, I wasn’t far off.”
“But that will take us 500,000 leagues a day…or in 24 hours, at least.”
“Rigorously precise,” said the engineer, enjoying Farenheit’s amazement. He added: “In ten hours, we’ll reach the neutral point—that is to say, the one at which the attractions of the Moon and Venus are contiguous.”
The American was thoughtful; he was performing prodigies of mental arithmetic. “But on Earth, at that rate,” he murmured, “it would only take us a minute and a half to cross the Atlantic.”
“I haven’t made the calculation,” Fricoulet riposted, “but it must be about right, given the proportions.”
Gontran sighed.
“What’s the matter?” asked the engineer.
“If we’d had a similar means of locomotion at our disposal when we left Earth, we’d have reached the Moon in three hours.”
“You’re right…but since it’s done now, what have you to regret?”
“The lost time…which will never be recovered,” Flammermont replied, gravely, raising his voice so that Ossipoff could hear him.
“Time is money,” added Farenheit, no less gravely. Suddenly, the American uttered a slight exclamation of surprise. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at a corner of the cabin. “They look like diving suits….”
The Extraordinary Adventures of a Russian Scientist Across the Solar System (Vol. 1) Page 43
