Half a dozen strange beings were coming and going around the machinery, seemingly indifferent to the Terrans’ presence. As the engineer had suggested, there was a considerable difference between the convicts of Phobos—the vile creatures, half-reptile and half-bird, that they had glimpsed through the mesh of the protective net—and the individuals that were in front of them, with their proud bearing, their noble gait and the remarkable intelligence readable in their gaze. They were a little more than two meters in height. The round head was attached to a powerful neck and the remarkably large eyes shone with a vivid gleam which became fatiguing at length. The toothless jaws projected forwards in the form of a beak. The short and profound ears were hairy, as were the cheeks and the skull. The limbs were long and seemed robust, although slender, and a membrane similar to those of bats joined them together.
Fricoulet explained that this membrane served them as both wings and a parachute. At rest, as they were at present, the membrane completely replaced clothing for them, rather like a sort of toga in which they draped themselves, not without nobility. The engineer added that some among them, who moved in the highest intellectual circles, painted the membrane with highly artistic colors.
“And you dared to say, just now, that these creatures are not ugly!” said Selena.
“From your point of view, without doubt, they’re frightening,” replied the engineer, “but beauty isn’t everything, not only in this world but in the Universe entire. Now, what I’ve seen of their planet has been sufficient to convince me that these people have attained a degree of civilization that we shall not attain for several centuries.”
While chatting, the Terrans had gone into the interior of the gondola again and were heading toward the cabin in which Gontran had remained, in Farenheit’s care. Fricoulet, who went ahead of the old man and Selena, was about to cross the threshold when the sound of raised voices reached him and immobilized him. He gestured to his companions to remain silent and all three of them pricked up their ears.
“By God!” howled Farenheit, “I tell you that it was an American who discovered these satellites…or Monsieur Ossipoff doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Agreed,” replied Flammermont. “Who would think of contesting that Hall deserves credit for that discovery? I’m merelly saying that although he, being favored by the maximum proximity of the Earth and Mars, actually saw the satellites of the latter planet, others before him had foreseen them.”
“Get away!”
“There’s no get away about it, and these lines I find quoted in my illustrious namesake’s Les Continents célestes were certainly not written by Hall…they’re from the pen of Voltaire, who wrote them in his romance Micromégas in 1750: ‘On leaving Jupiter, our voyagers crossed a space of about a 100,000,000 leagues and skirted Mars. They saw two moons serving that planet, which have escaped the eyes of our astronomers. I know that Père Castel will write to dispute the existence of these two moons; but I am in agreement with those arguing by analogy. These good philosophers know how difficult it would be for Mars, being so distant from the Sun, to have less than two moons…’ ”155
Gontran shut the book firmly and asked, ironically: “What do you think of that, Mr. Farenheit?”
“I think that Voltaire, not being an astronomer, said that at random, and that an unexpected stroke of luck made his prediction come true.”
“It must be admitted, at any rate,” Gontran retorted, “that it was a truth that was in the air—no pun intended—for Swift, the celebrated author of Gulliver’s Travels, not only mentions two ‘lesser stars or satellites, which revolve around Mars,’ but even gives precise information about one of these satellites; thus, according to him, the one nearer to the planet ‘revolves in the space of ten hours, and the more distant in 21 hours.’ ”156
“I’d make the same reply as for Voltaire—Swift said that at random.”
“Not so,” declared Flammermont. “They both worked by analogy.”
“What do you mean by that?” Farenheit complained.
“I mean that from the fact that Earth has one satellite, Jupiter four and Saturn eight, it is presumable that Mars, situated between Earth and Jupiter, would have two. That’s mathematics.”
As if blinded by the evidence of this reasoning, Farenheit fell silent for a few seconds; then, finally, he muttered: “It doesn’t alter the fact that it was a man from America who discovered the satellites of Mars.”
The door opened then and Ossipoff replied: “Not a man from America, Mr. Farenheit, but a woman from America. It’s an authenticated fact that, after having spent several nights fruitlessly searching for the presumed satellites of Mars, Hall was about to renounce the continuation of his search in despair, when his wife arrived and insisted firmly that he devote ‘one more evening’ to it.”
“That’s not important,” the American replied. “What has to be established is that the honor of the discovery reverts to the United States.”
“No one thought of denying it,” my dear Mr. Farenheit, said Fricoulet in his turn.
“The moral of the story,” said Selena, darting a malicious glance at the engineer, “is that wives can sometimes be useful.”
Fricoulet was doubtless about to reply, but Gontran advanced toward him and hugged him. “Ah!” he said, in an emotional voice. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“A miracle!” cried Ossipoff. “You’ve recovered your voice!”
“In recovering Fricoulet,” replied the young Comte, with a smile addressed to Selena, “I’ve recovered everything that I had lost.” Then, after a further accolade, he added: “But by what miracle have you rejoined us?”
The engineer shrugged his shoulders slightly and replied in an affected tone that brought a slight frown to Ossipoff’s face: “No need for miracles, my dear chap; a little intelligence and skill were sufficient. Scarcely had the metallic balloon taken to the skies again than I perceived the material impossibility of my being able to come down again to join you, so I abandoned myself to Providence and let myself be carried along for a few hours. Having traveled a few 100 kilometers, the balloon turned a somersault, by virtue of which I recognized that I had just penetrated the attractive zone of Mars. From that moment on, I had a chance of being saved.”
“What—of being saved?” Farenheit interjected.
“Assuredly—for, instead of Phobos, I would be able to land on Mars. I immediately maneuvered in that direction. I pulled hard on the cable controlling the valve, opening it wide enough to let three quarters of the gas escape. Then began a frightful, vertiginous, formidable fall; in less than half an hour I fell 5000 kilometers. I was obliged to put on my respirol in order not to be stifled. As I clung to the edge, it was as if I were fascinated by the world whose force of attraction was increasing with every second, on which I would inevitably crash.”
“Poor Monsieur Fricoulet,” murmured Selena. “What terrible emotions you must have experienced…”
“My God, Mademoiselle, would I seem boastful to you if I were to confess, in all sincerity, that the thought of death never crossed my mind for an instant? On the contrary—I was very calm, and while falling, I calculated the velocity at which I was about to establish contact between my poor body and the surface of Mars. I also tried to extrapolate what the result of that encounter would be.”
“Ah, that’s the man I know you to be!” cried Gontran, taking pride himself in his friend’s courage.
“In brief,” the engineer went on, “I was barely 100 meters from the ground when my vertical fall was suddenly halted and I found myself drawn along horizontally by an unknown force with uncommon velocity. I covered 40 kilometers thus, and a vast extent of water soon appeared beneath me, shining in the sunlight. It was the Kepler Ocean. If hazard dictated that my fall would be completed in that liquid element, I had a chance of getting out of it…”
“The element?” asked Gontran.
“No, the situation I was in. Unfortunately, I continued to fl
y horizontally and, after crossing the ocean, began flying over solid ground again. Gradually, however, my speed relented, and I arrived at a sort of metallic apparatus, where I stopped.”
“What was it?” Ossipoff asked, with keen interest.
“I understood, from some summary explanations that were given to me afterwards, that the Martians have established a means of very rapid locomotion on their world, based on the formation of violent air-currents that push vehicles from one relay station to another. I had been caught in one of these air-currents and my balloon, forming a vehicle, had thus miraculously escaped the death that awaited me. As you can imagine, my first concern was to try to rejoin you. That wasn’t easy, I can tell you; finally, after much effort, I succeeded in making these people understand the situation you were in. I then persuaded them to charter this balloon in order to permit me to search for you…and here we are…” Then, letting himself fall into a chair, exhausted by his narration, the engineer added: “That, certainly, is a story compared with which that of Théramène157 is nothing at all; I’m completely out of breath.”
Farenheit, who had listened to all these explanations with great attention, went over to Fricoulet. “My dear sir,” he said, “I’d like to ask you a question.”
“Ask, Mr. Farenheit, ask.”
“You mentioned an ocean just now…so they exist on this world?”
“Indubitably, my dear Mr. Farenheit. Their areography has been known to everyone for some time.”
“Areography?” Selena repeated, interrogatively.
“The geography of Mars, if you prefer, Mademoiselle—from the Greek Ares, equivalent to the Roman Mars.”
Farenheit sniggered audibly. “The geography of the Moon was known for a long time too—selenography, as you call it in that impossible language of scientists. Seas are found there on the maps that were drawn up, but it seems that words change their meaning in astronomy, since the spaces designated on the lunar map by the name of ‘seas’ are only immense arid and desiccated plains, without the slightest trace of water…”
“But since I tell you that I have seen the Kepler Ocean with my own eyes…” protested Fricoulet.
“You’re like Saint Thomas, Mr. Farenheit,” Mikhail Ossipoff put in, mockingly, “you only believe in things you’ve seen…but if it had ever occurred to you, during your terrestrial existence, to look through a telescope, you would have been convinced of the existence of the Martian seas without actually needing to make the voyage.”158
“A little voyage,” Flammermont sniggered, “of some 19,000,000 leagues.”
“14,000,000 only, if you please,” observed the old scientist. “To study a world, one does not choose the moment when it is furthest away.”
“Let’s say 14,000,000,” said Farenheit, folding his arms. “And you want me to believe that it is possible at such a distance to establish the presence of water on a planet?”
“You admit yourself that one of your compatriots has discovered Deimos and Phobos—two worldlets a few kilometers in diameter—but you doubt that it has been possible to study Mars, whose diameter is nearly 1700 leagues and its circumference of 5375 leagues? If you take the trouble to reflect a little, you’ll avoid many unnecessary words.”
The American stamped his foot violently. “Don’t put words into my mouth that I haven’t said,” he muttered. “It’s one thing to recognize bodies existing in space—that’s what telescopes are made for—and another thing entirely to claim to study infinitely petty details.”
“But my dear Mr. Farenheit,” aid Gontran, maliciously, “telescopes are made for that too.”
“Monsieur de Flammermont is right,” Ossipoff added. “Thanks to the marvelous instruments that progress has put at the disposal of modern science, one can affirm the existence of facts occurring millions of leagues away with as much certainty as if one could lay a finger on them. Thus, I will go further still in my affirmation; not only is there water on the surface of Mars but that water has the same chemical composition as ours. Not only are there seas, but we also know their depth. We know, for example, that the deepest are in the vicinity of the equator and the torrid zone, like the Schiaparelli Sea, the Flammarion Sea, the Kepler Ocean and the Newton Ocean, while those in the polar regions, such as the Mädler, Faye and Beer Seas, are not as deep.”
Farenheit’s amazement was indescribably profound.
“On would think, I’d swear, that you’ve never gone up in a balloon!” Ossipoff exclaimed.
“My word, no,” Farenheit replied. “My trade in animal fats does not require ascensions, and my liking for solid ground has always prevented me from indulging in such perilous exercises.”
“Well, my dear Mr. Farenheit, if you had gone up in a balloon, you would not be surprised that, in spite of the 14,000,000 leagues that separate us from Mars, one can know the relative depth of its seas. It depends on the relative darkness of the color that the appearance of large masses of liquid present. The darker the hue, the greater the depth.”
“Can one not equally deduce,” asked Fricoulet, “the degree of salinity of the different seas, for it’s proven that the saltier an expanse of water is, the darker it seems? Now, as the salinity depends on evaporation, it’s quite natural that the darker seas—which is to say, the saltiest—are found in the equatorial regions.”
Ossipoff inclined his head slightly, in a movement full of approving condescension.
The American remained silent for a few moments, then suddenly clicked his fingers. “Anyway,” he said, “it doesn’t matter to me whether the seas are salty and deep or not. The man thing, for me, is that we can breathe at our ease, freely, without being obliged to shut ourselves up again in those selenium cages.” He favored the respirols piled up in a corner with a dirty look.
“In that regard,” said Fricoulet, laughing, “you can be tranquil, my dear Mr. Farenheit—the planet Mars is provided with an atmosphere whose composition is identical to ours. Spectral studies leave no doubt on that subject. If you like rain and cloud too, you will have what you need to be content, for the Martian atmosphere is rich in water vapor.”
“But in view of the lesser intensity of gravity at the Martian surface,” Gontran objected, “the density of its atmosphere must be almost ineffectual, and it probably follows that there is a rarefaction similar to that on the summits of the highest terrestrial mountains.”
The American’s radiant expression darkened again. “It’s respirols again, then?” he groaned.
Fricoulet clicked his tongue impatiently. “If what you say were the case,” he replied to Flammermont, “the Martian seas would be dry, all their contents having long been volatilized into space, instead of being transformed, after their evaporation, into vapor—clouds and fogs—to fall again thereafter on to the surface of the planet in the form of rain. Then again, the snows that surround the poles, instead of being simple caps in the polar regions, would bury the entire planet in a shroud, transforming Mars into a block of ice.”
Gontran seemed rather annoyed by this explanation, furnished in front of Ossipoff; as for Farenheit, his expression cleared again.
“Now that you’ve reassured Mr. Farenheit,” said Selena, in her turn, with a smile, “I’d like you to reassure me too, Monsieur Fricoulet.”
The engineer bowed. “Entirely at your disposal, Mademoiselle,” he murmured.
“You know that I’m sensitive to cold,” the young woman said.
“Yes, I know—and your cometary sojourn must certainly have developed that natural disposition further—but why mention it to me?”
“Because I suppose that it can’t be very warm on your Mars.”
The engineer’s eyes widened. “I’m curious to know on what you base that supposition?”
“On what I was told by Gontran.”
Scarcely had the engineer posed the question than he regretted it, for he had anticipated the response almost immediately, so he muffled the final words of her reply with a loud and obstinate fit of cou
ghing. Then he said: “Yes, yes, I see where you’re coming from. You’re one of those who believe that the temperature of the planets is determined by their distance from the Sun and that Mars, in consequence of being 19,000,000 leagues further away from the central star than Earth, must enjoy Siberian temperatures.”
The young woman indicated with a nod that this was correct.
“Well, that’s a mistake,” Fricoulet continued. “The temperature depends on the composition of the atmosphere, which acts as a greenhouse. With respect to the solar heat, it allows it to reach the surface of the ground, and then retains it, opposing itself to its dissipation in space. Air, properly speaking—that is to say, oxygen and nitrogen—only plays an insignificant role in the mechanism that I’ve just explained; only water vapor has an influence on heat, by reason of its absorbent power, 6000 times superior to that of dry air.”159
Selena clapped her hands. “I get it!” she exclaimed. “You said just now that the spectroscope had discovered a considerably quantity of water vapor in the Martian atmosphere, so the temperature…”
“May be colder or warmer than on Earth, or perhaps even equal to it, depending on circumstance—but in any event, I don’t think we’ll have to suffer overmuch.”
“Besides,” Farenheit said, “if these Martians are as advanced in their civilization as you claim, they must certainly have infallible means of protecting themselves from cold and heat.”
“It’s probable.” Having said that, Fricoulet put on his respirol, screwed on his selenium helmet and went up on deck, looking for Ossipoff—whom he found leaning over the rampart, devouring the landscape extended beneath them with his eyes.
“How well one can take account of the Martian topography, eh?” said the scientist, immediately putting himself in communication with the engineer.
The Extraordinary Adventures of a Russian Scientist Across the Solar System (Vol. 1) Page 67
