An Unknown World Page 2

  “I observed our satellite for a long time, and was able to rectify several areas of the map made by Beer and Mädler, which was then reputed to be the most complete and the most exact. I was able to make new observations that seem to me to present all the characteristics of an exact certainty. Thus, I was able to establish that the recent astronomers who have written about the Moon were mistaken when they observed on its surface the presence of a certain quantity of water. It’s now established, so far as I’m concerned, that it isn’t water but air that they’ve seen; that’s what can be induced from the appearance presented by certain slightly blurred contours and ridges at the edges of the lunar crescent.

  “For me, the large depressions that exist on the surface of our satellite, such as the one called the Sea of Cold,2 enclose in their lowest parts a layer of air whose thickness is doubtless exceedingly slight, but sufficient in my opinion to maintain, at least in those regions, the life of animate beings. And then, who knows? In the rapid enlightenment that permitted them to glimpse the portion of the Lunar disk that is always invisible to us, didn’t the Gun Club voyagers think that they perceived water, wooded mountains and profound forests? Weren’t the fulgurant gleams of the bolide that almost pulverized them reflected from the surface of vast oceans? That would be in accordance with the hypothesis of those astronomers who maintain that what remains of the lunar atmosphere might have condensed on the invisible part of its disk. That would be, in any case, a matter for verification.

  “In brief, I sensed growing within me the desire to accomplish what the Americans had attempted, with the hope, this time, that no unwelcome bolide would arrive to throw me off course and prevent me from attaining the goal.

  “An unexpected event hastened my resolution.

  “I had for an assistant in my endeavors an Englishman named John Parker, in whom I had every confidence. Ingenious and adroit, fertile in resources, he had been a great help to me in carrying out my operations and directing the workmen I employed for drilling and assaying. It was to him that I left the supervision of the workshops and to whom I confided my plans and notes when I went away on my explorations.

  “I had always found him so faithful and reliable that I had got into the habit of prolonging my absences.

  “One day, 27 July of last year, on returning to my station after spending a month at the Lon’s Peak Observatory, I was surprised to find workers that I didn’t know installed there, and an administration functioning under the name of the Great Western Copper Mining Company. When I demanded explanations, they replied by showing me a legal document, duly drawn up, granting the exploitation of mines throughout the region I had explored to the new company. I tried to protest, but they laughed in my face; I got carried away and cried theft, but the barrel of a revolver aimed at my chest told me that I could expect nothing from the new occupants.

  “I soon had an explanation of the mystery. The day after my departure, John Parker had run off, taking all my plans and sketches, my notes, my assay reports and my specimens—everything, in short, that established the reality of my discovery. He had gone to New York and sold it all to the Great Western Copper Mining Company, whose director, with links to influential members of Congress that he had liberally bribed, had stolen the concession in a matter of days. My workers had been dismissed, with a severance payment, and new workers brought in—and as the results I’d obtained were conclusive, the preparatory work of exploitation had begun immediately.

  “I had been vilely robbed, but what could I do? To what jurisdiction could I address myself? How, above all, could I establish the priority of my claim now that I’d been completely stripped?

  “I might perhaps have attempted to obtain justice; I might at least have searched for that wretch John Parker in order to blow his brains out, if I hadn’t been tormented by the thought that I mentioned just now. I had soon made my decision, therefore, and having gone to some trouble to recover from my thieves certain objects that were of no value to them, and which I’ll show you shortly, I resolved to devote myself entirely to the realization of the project by which I was haunted. A few days later I was in Chicago, where the announcement I’ve just shown you fell before my eyes, and my project began to take on substance.”

  “That’s all very well,” Jacques put in, with a smile, “But thus far I can’t see anything that permits you to affirm that our satellite is inhabited, and given that, I can’t see that, even if you succeed in reaching it...”

  “Listen,” said Marcel, lowering his voice. “In a little while you’re going to come home with me to the Rue Taitbout, and I’ll give you undeniable proof not only that the Moon is inhabited but that its inhabitants have attempted to enter into communication with us. You can adopt an expression of incredulity if you like, but you’ll be forced to yield to the evidence.”

  “Well, so be it,” said Jacques. “Let’s see now how you count on realizing this enterprise, which, until there’s proof of the contrary, appears to me to be utterly extravagant.”

  “My plan is quite simple,” said Marcel, “and I’ve been in France for a week precisely to realize it. I’m going to found a company, under the name of the Anonymous Society for Astronomical Exploration, with a capital of five million francs, divided into a thousand shares of five thousand francs each, for our enterprise mustn’t have anything commercial about it, and the people who associate with me must only be motivated by a disinterested love of science. I have no doubt that I’ll succeed promptly in France, where every generous and noble enterprise finds numerous adherents, in obtaining the modest capital necessary to us. There’s even a well-known financier in Paris who has a passion for science, who has already given striking proof of his interest in astronomy, and to whom that science already owes important foundations. I’m sure that when he knows the details of my project, he’ll judge it practicable, and won’t refuse considerable cooperation. As soon as the funds are subscribed, I’ll leave for Baltimore, buy the Columbiad, its shell and all its accessories, which certainly won’t be disputed by many enthusiasts; I’ll repair it all, complete my preparations and, on 15 December next year, we’ll repeat, but this time with complete success, the attempt made by Barbicane, Ardan and Nicholl.”

  “Damn!” exclaimed Jacques, laughing in spite of his friend’s enthusiastic assurance. “You’re going a bit quickly—I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Doubter!” said Marcel. “Come home with me, and you’ll be convinced. Waiter—the bill!”

  The conversation we have just reported took place in Paris, in the Café Anglais, on a fine morning in August 188*. The two young men who were talking with open hearts were almost the same age, between twenty-eight and thirty, but they were different in stature and appearance.

  Marcel de Pouzé, tall and broad-shouldered, with supple and robust limbs and a head covered with a dense forest of reddish blond hair, had a highly-colored face divided by a long moustache. His big blue eyes, wide open, radiated frankness and cheerfulness. His slightly think red lips expressed a slightly disdainful bounty. One might have thought that he was just a good and joyful fellow, always disposed to look at life on the bright side, if the glint that sometimes animated his gaze and the crease that hollowed out his forehead had not denoted an energetic determination at the service of a keen intelligence capable of the highest conceptions.

  Jacques Deligny offered a striking contrast with his companion. Not as tall in stature, but elegant and well-built, he seemed to realize a type of rare distinction. His delicate and intelligent face, framed by jet-black hair and a beard, offered the mat pallor of those whom patient and difficult studies have kept enclosed in a study or a laboratory for long periods of time. His slightly tight-lipped mouth seemed to have forgotten how to smile. His high forehead was that of a thinker, and his rather deep-set eyes were ordinarily veiled by a hint of melancholy.

  They had known one another since childhood, when they had sat next to one another at the Lycée Louis-le-Grand.

  Later, when
Marcel had gone on to the École Polytechnique while Jacques had followed the course at the École de Médecine, they had never lost contact with one another, and the bonds that united them, formed by an element of protection on the part of Marcel and a great confidence on Jacques’ part, had only become tighter. Then life had separated them. Jacques had remained in Paris, pursuing his laborious studies for his examinations and his internship, while Marcel had gone to another continent in search of a vaster field in which to exercise his exuberant activity.

  Marcel was an orphan, and his personal fortune permitted him to travel and await without too much impatience the success of one of the great enterprises that his ardent imagination was always caressing.

  When they parted, they had promised to write, and had indeed corresponded for some time. The letters had soon become rarer, however, and then had ceased entirely. The two friends had often thought about one another, however; the separation had not weakened their affection, and when chance had brought them together again, it was with a veritable joy that they had fallen into one another’s arms. As they had many confidences to exchange, they had gone into the first place they had come upon and had chatted while savoring the delicious lunch that they had just finished.

  II. The Document

  As the two guests, shaking the ash from their cigars, were about to leave, a waiter came up to Marcel and presented a vellum card to him on a silver tray, saying: “the person whose name is here solicits the honor of being introduced to you.”

  “To me?” said Marcel.

  “Yes.” And with a sideways glance, the waiter indicated a neighboring table, at which Marcel directed a rapid glance.

  The man sitting at the table appeared to be between forty and forty-five years of age, and was recognizable at first glance as a native of Great Britain. His symmetrical and energetic face was imprinted with considerable nobility. His full beard was blond, striped with a few silver threads. His eyes, of a changing blue, seemed to reveal a rare firmness of mind, and yet one seemed to distinguish therein an expression of lassitude and ennui. All his features, in fact, seemed slightly fatigued and gave the same impression; spleen had passed that way.

  He was dressed very fashionably, and once sensed that he belonged to the highest society. Although he was sitting down, it was obvious that he was tall and that his limbs ere well-proportioned. His long, slender hand, which was toying with a horn-rimmed monocle, was entirely aristocratic. There was nothing common or vulgar about him; he was certainly not just anyone.

  Marcel looked down at the card that had been handed to him and red: Lord Douglas Rodilan.

  “What can that islander want with me?” he murmured.

  With the natural courtesy of a man of the world, he turned to the stranger with a smile on his lips. The latter stood up and approached the two friends.

  “Forgive me, Monsieur,” he said, bowing to Marcel and also nodding his head to Jacques, “for the irregularity of my action, and since there is no one here who can serve as an intermediary, allow me to introduce myself. “He adopted a slightly solemn tone to say: “Lord Douglas Rodilan, afflicted with an annual income of fifty thousand pounds sterling.”

  As Marcel made a haughty gesture at that brutal declaration, the Englishman added: “Excuse me, Monsieur, but that detail, to which I attach no more importance than you, will soon reveal its relevance when I’ve told you the motive that made me desire to converse with you.”

  “Speak, Milord,” said Marcel, “but first permit me to introduce my intimate friend, Dr. Jacques Deligny.”

  The two men bowed to one another.

  Marcel invited the Englishman to sit down.

  The latter continued: “First, I must beg your pardon for an involuntary indiscretion. A few words of your conversation reached me; my curiosity was provoked by the boldness of your conjectures and the audacity of the enterprise that you’re planning, and, without further deliberation, I took the resolution to enable you to realize without waiting for the establishment of a company, which might be slow in formation, and whose interested shareholders could create difficulties for you in future.”

  “What!” cried Marcel. “You want...”

  “Simply to put at your disposal the funds necessary to purchase the famous Gun Club cannon and underwrite all the expenses of the expedition.”

  “But Milord...”

  “I put only one condition on the offer—that you accept me as a traveling companion and that I go with you.”

  The two young men stared at their interlocutor in bewilderment. He perceived that, and smiled as he continued: “I can see that it’s necessary for me to explain the reasons for that proposition, which might appear singular, to say the least. My father, Lord Glennemare, died shortly after my sixteenth birthday. Left in possession of an immense fortune at a young age, I’ve traveled the world with no other care than satisfying all my whims, seeking new enjoyments—soon exhausted—from the most various countries and the most refined civilizations. I’ve drunk my fill of every kind of savant and delicate luxury that the great capitals of Europe—Paris, London, Vienna and St. Petersburg—could furnish; I’ve tasted all the pleasures invented by the over-excited Far East: India China and Japan have nothing left with which to tempt me.

  “I’ve traveled the primitive countries of Africa, where I’ve hunted ostrich and slept in a tent. I’ve even led the rude existence of gauchos and trappers in the pampas and savannahs of the New World. The diplomatic functions with which I’ve been charged on various occasions while undertaking those voyages have given me access to all courts. From those observation posts I’ve been able to study all societies, to familiarize myself with humans of all climates and all degrees of civilization. I’ve experienced the emotions of war, braved tropical cyclones and typhoons, requested from science the enjoyments that it reserves for its adepts. Nothing has been able to dissipate the immeasurable ennui with which the incomplete satisfaction of ever-renascent and always unsatisfied desires has left me.

  “Firmly decided not to prolong any further a search for happiness that I deem to be utterly unrealizable, I’ve resolved to quit this world, so poorly equipped for those tormented by a desire for infinity, and the tour of which is so rapidly completed. Only one point still made me hesitate; I sought a new and original means by which to leave this narrow valley. I wanted my death to bring me some new enjoyment, something that no man before me had been able to experience. What I overheard of your conversation appeared to respond to that secret desire of my soul.

  “I won’t hide it from you that I’m perfectly convinced that the enterprise in which you’re about to engage will end in a frightful catastrophe. If you succeed in getting out of the Earth’s zone of attraction once again, you’ll infallibly fall on to our satellite, and if the laws of gravity are accurate, you’ll be shattered into a thousand pieces on its rocky crust. Well, that’s what tempts me. That vertiginous plunge, sufficiently prolonged for one to feel oneself falling, to analyze one’s multiple sensations from second to second, attracts me invincibly. Do you want me, in the conditions that I’ve just indicated to you?”

  “He’s a madman,” Jacques murmured, leaning toward Marcel.

  The Englishman heard, or at least divined, what he had said. “No,” he continued, with the utmost calm, “I’m not mad, and I give you my word that if you refuse to accept me for your traveling companion, I shall blow out my brains this very evening. Judge now whether, in the interests of the science you love so passionately, you ought not to accept my proposal. By ensuring the realization of your project, it would save you all the difficulty that might delay its execution or render it impossible.”

  “Well, so be it, Milord,” said Marcel. “I accept, but while imposing one condition on you in my turn. You must swear to me that if, as I’m convinced, we reach the Moon safe and sound, you’ll renounce your suicidal plans.”

  “Oh, wholeheartedly,” said Lord Rodilan, “for then I’ll have found a powerful interest in life, and wi
ll no longer have any reason to renounce an existence that will bring me so many new emotions inaccessible to the vulgar. But you’ll permit me, until further notice, only to see this second voyage as a pure and simple folly, with which I’m associating myself because I shall find my reckoning therein.”

  “Well, Messieurs,” said Marcel, rising to his feet, “would you care to follow me to my home? If what I have to show you can’t triumph over your incredulity, it will be to the despair of human logic.”

  In a matter of minutes they arrived at the house in the Rue Taitbout in which Marcel occupied a small entresol apartment furnished with elegant simplicity. He left them alone in the drawing room for a moment, went into the adjoining bedroom and came back, carrying, with considerable effort, a kind of chest with solid iron reinforcements, which he deposited carefully on the table.

  His two companions got to their feet and looked at it; their faces displayed expressions of keen curiosity.

  Marcel opened the mysterious box and took out a round object about twenty centimeters in diameter, reddish brown in color, seemingly very heavy, which he placed respectfully on the table.

  “But that’s a vulgar cannonball,” said Jacques, laughing. “It dates from the taking of Quebec by the English.”

  “Wait, skeptic—you’ll see,” said Marcel.

  Picking up a screwdriver, which he had brought out along with the singular object that he was showing to his companions, he pointed out a number of small, almost imperceptible grooves; then, introducing his screwdriver successively into each of them, he drew out two tiny narrowly-threaded screws and removed a thick plate embedded in the metallic mass. That plate sealed the orifice of a rectangular hole that extended along the radius of the sphere, and with the aid of forceps he withdrew a tablet made of a bizarre violet-tinted white metal with changing reflections, about twelve centimeters long, half as wide and two centimeters thick.