Mr. MacFarlane has told, elsewhere in this book, how he helped me in my experiments with his savings—how, eventually, my coming into a considerable legacy made it possible for me to devote myself completely to the whole immense subject.
I will not weary you with an account in detail of my innumerable attempts and failures at building a ship to go through space—such a catalogue would be of interest only to the specialist. It will suffice to say that as I went on I grew more and more enthusiastic. One by one I solved the various problems—each experiment taught me something new. I learned, gradually, what shape my rocket would have to be, how I could overcome such problems as insulation (from the tremendous friction of the atmosphere in the initial part of the flight), how I could slow down my space-ship at the end of a journey and effect an easy and comfortable landing, and so on and so on. Through it all, behind and beyond every experiment, lay the real problem, the immense, the overwhelming difficulty: fuel.
Let me embark here on a short explanation of what is entailed in a space flight.
In order to cover the immense distances involved—Mars, for instance, is 35,000,000 miles away at its nearest to earth, and the moon, the closest of all the heavenly bodies, is some 239,000 miles distant—in order, as I say, to cover these vast spaces, a truly colossal initial speed is required of the rocket. Yet, by a paradox, the propelling power is not required to function throughout the entire journey. If sufficient speed can be engendered on leaving the earth, the motors can be switched off once the machine is free of the earth’s atmosphere, and thereafter the rocket will continue traveling—through infinity, in fact, if nothing is done to control it.
The trouble is, however, that the human body cannot stand too great a sudden speed. If the rocket left the earth at the final speed necessary, the travelers in it would be struck dead immediately. What, then, can be done?
Fortunately, the pull of the earth’s gravity lessens as one gets more and more distant from the center of it. Suppose that the pull of gravity on the earth’s surface (which is about 4,000 miles from the center) is represented by the unit 1. Then, at 4,000 miles from the surface—i.e., twice this distance from the center—the pull would be 1/4th. At 8,000 miles—three times the distance—it would be 1/9th—in short (if I may be permitted by Mr. MacFarlane to say so!) the force of gravity varies as the square of the distance.
All this, in brief, means that it is possible to visualize starting off from the actual surface of the earth at a speed that can, without too much discomfort, be borne by the human body. Then at some distance from the surface, when everything—including the human body—is very much lighter, and consequently not subject to the fatal increase of pressure, the speed can be stepped up. By the time the earth’s atmosphere is left behind—about 200 miles at least from the surface—the total desired speed may be begun to be reached without discomfort—a speed well above the pull of gravity (seven miles per second). It is now that the motors can be shut off, and the machine will go on traveling.
This delayed acceleration has the additional advantage that the rocket is not traveling at so great a speed through the 200 miles atmosphere belt as to be burned up by friction.
The principle that I have just outlined is the real secret of the success of the Albatross. It is so designed that there are two fuels in operation: one to give the initial start-off, and a second to provide the tremendous acceleration required before launching into space itself.
It is this second fuel that is my own patent—it is this that I regard as the keynote of my whole invention. The first fuel is, I can say frankly, a highly concentrated essence of acetylene gas. The second fuel I cannot in any detail describe, without becoming outrageously technical. Briefly, it is an adaptation of atomic hydrogen—a method of making that most dangerous of substances quite manageable.
It is capable of developing enormous power in a very short space of time. And above all, it is light and easily packed, so that enough can be stored and carried in the rocket for the return journey.
So much for the main problems of space flight, overcome, as we have been able to demonstrate, in the Albatross. Minor difficulties—such as that of providing a supply of breathable air for the journey (a problem already solved in general by submarine designers)—were dealt with as the ship was built. I will not here say anything about the innumerable calculations it was necessary for me to make to be able to assure myself that once the Albatross was traveling in space it would go in such a direction as to fall into the gravitational pull of Mars. These are abstruse things, not capable of being dealt with in a paper that has to conform to the limitations Mr. MacFarlane has set on it!
There is only one picturesque detail I would like to mention before closing this first brief essay, and that is that one problem that worried me quite considerably for a time was: what if, during the 35,000,000 mile journey, we collided with a meteor? These are, as is well known, very small—most of them are no bigger than golf balls, while some are mere grains of dust. At the same time, although they are so tiny, there is no doubt that because of their incredible velocity, they would go right through a space-ship if there were a collision: and the kinetic energy released by the impact would, more than probably, destroy the ship on the instant. For a time, as I say, I was worried by this vision—what was the use, I argued, of expending endless ingenuity in devising a rocket if it were going to be exploded by a pebble? However, in the end, I realized that the whole thing was worth risking. Space is so vast that in spite of the billions of meteors in it, the chances of a direct hit on a space-ship (and I was able to prove it irrefutably by mathematical calculation) are only one in a million!
I feel that these few remarks conform to Mr. MacFarlane’s requirements: namely, that I should write intelligibly for lay readers, stating the general problems of space flight and how they were solved in the Albatross: and, secondly, that I should be brief. I now—feeling that this is barely more than an interlude (and one that, to my own mind, might well have been dispensed with)—I now pass the pen to those more qualified than I to continue with the actual narrative part of this book.
CHAPTER IV. A JOURNEY THROUGH SPACE, by Various Hands
IMPRESSIONS OF A JOURNEY THROUGH SPACE,
BY VARIOUS HANDS
I PREFACE this collection of short contributions and fragments on what it felt like to travel through space, with a brief account of how we found the children in what they called the “tooth-paste cupboard.” (It is, as you will have gathered, Stephen MacFarlane writing again.)
The Doctor and I, expecting the sudden impression of weight that would assail us on the start-off of the Albatross, lay down on two highly-sprung mattresses we had prepared for the purpose just before the Doctor touched the lever to launch the space-ship. We also wore masks, specially designed by the Doctor, that pumped oxygen into our lungs automatically. In these ways we hoped to overcome to an extent the uncomfortable effects of the shock of leaving earth.
Nevertheless, my first feeling after seeing the Doctor press the lever, was that someone had bound steel chains round my chest and was constricting them, as it were, with a monstrous tourniquet. My head swam—there were alternating flashes of colored light and darkness before my eyes. I felt as if I weighed hundreds of pounds. I had hoped to be able to keep my gaze fixed through one of the lower side windows of the Albatross, so that I could see the earth receding from us. But I found this to be quite impossible. When my sight did clear, and my head ceased pounding, all I could see below us was a white swirling mist—a sort of milkiness—with, occasionally shining through it, pale patches of indistinct green and blue.
The first feeling of heavy helplessness seemed to last for at least half an hour; but, as it passed, I looked at the special clock that was set into the instrument panel and saw that it had lasted barely one and a half minutes. (Incidentally, I may say here in passing that because of the complete weightlessness that affected everything in the rocket once we got into outer space, this clock—although i
t had been specially designed by the Doctor, as I say—absolutely refused to function: we had no real idea throughout the journey what time it was—though, as you will see, we did manage to get a notion whether it was day or night.)
We were well through the stratosphere and it was time for the second fuel—the Doctor’s patent—to be set off.
I saw the Doctor rise from his mattress and, clinging to one of the special hand-rails, creep along the instrument panel. He took off his mask (we had started the oxygen apparatus before leaving, and the cabin was full of good breathable air) and signaled me to do the same. I did so.
“I’m setting off the second fuel,” said the Doctor, his voice sounding thin and distant in my ears, which were still buzzing a little. “Better get into the foot-straps—or better still, put on the magnetic boots.”
I nodded. The moment the second fuel was touched off we would achieve a speed wildly beyond the speed of gravity. Everything in the rocket would lose weight, ourselves included. To counteract this, the Doctor had provided straps at strategic points on the floor of the cabin into which we could slip our feet. He had also made several pairs of powerfully magnetized boots so that we could walk about. The principle was very simple. As you tugged at one foot in a walking movement, the slight jerk cut the magnetizing current and so you could lift that foot and take a step. Then, when you put the foot down again, contact was made in the sole inside by the muscular pressure, and the magnet gripped the steel floor again. I now, as the Doctor adjusted his controls, hastily put on a pair of these boots.
“Are you ready, Steve?” called the Doctor.
“All ready, Mac,” I replied.
He touched a switch. Immediately there was a powerful shuddering all through the ship. And simultaneously there was, all through me, an indescribably strange throbbing, and another attack of dizziness—but a totally different kind of dizziness this time: an incredible sense of utter lightness. I made to shout something to the Doctor, but my tongue seemed to be waving freely in my mouth like a little fluttering flag and my lips were loose and flaccid and quite uncontrollable. In a few seconds this attack lessened and I was able to say something, although it was with the utmost difficulty at first that I was able to articulate.
“Mac,” I cried, “this is incredible! This odd sort of throbbing—I’ve never experienced a sensation like this before.”
“It’ll pass in a moment,” he called back. “You’ll soon adjust yourself. It’s the heart—it’s been used to pumping blood all over you—a considerable weight in blood: and now all of a sudden your blood doesn’t weigh anything at all. Your poor old heart is just a little bit bewildered, that’s all!”
He chuckled. He was in the highest spirits—it was obvious that the Albatross’s performance was exceeding all his expectations. He stood with his feet firmly dug into a pair of the floor-straps, examining the scores of dials on the control panel.
“I’d hate to tell you the speed we’re traveling at, Steve,” he cried. “Faster than any human beings have ever traveled before! In a few hours we’ll be able to see the earth as a globe, man! Think of it—as a globe!”
I grinned at him. I caught the infection of his enthusiasm. I raised my hand to wave at him cheerily, and then suddenly had to burst out laughing. I had meant to raise it to my forehead in a sort of mock salute—instead, without my being able to control it at all, it shot right up above my head as far as it would go—and hung there, like something that was no part of me at all, wavering slightly in the air. I hauled it down. For a moment or two I stood there, practicing muscular control. I found that in a very short time I could adjust my muscular exertions, so that I could move my completely weightless fingers, arms, hands, and so on, in a reasonably normal way. By now my head had cleared, and the throbbing of my heart had stopped—I felt fine: elated, a little light-headed, as if I had just had a glass of champagne.
“Another few seconds and I shut off the motors,” said the Doctor. “We have almost all the speed we need now, and we’re well clear of the atmosphere. I say, Steve, could you go over and fetch me a pair of those boots from the locker?”
I was just moving across the cabin when, all of a sudden, and to our intense surprise, we heard the sound of hammering coming from behind the door of one of our small store closets at the back of the cabin. And, incredibly, there came to our ears very thin and muffled voices.
“Uncle Steve,” they called, “Uncle Steve! Let us out, let us out!”
I stared at Mac and he stared at me. Even as I moved clumsily across the cabin to the door in my magnetic boots, a horrible suspicion was forming in my mind.
I had almost reached the door when it suddenly wafted open (it was weightless, like everything else, and its movement can best be described as like the movement in a slow motion film). And I had the strangest surprise of my life.
Out of the open doorway floated—literally floated!—the three children I had made such elaborate plans to dispose of to my cousin in Glasgow! They were white and shaken—that much I could see as they drifted past me. Their eyes had a dazed look. They moved their arms and legs in a stupid, drunken sort of way. And all the time they floated and bounced about the cabin like little balloons. For a moment one of them would rest on the floor or against one of the walls—then, at a slight involuntary muscular movement, they would shoot off at an angle and bump gently on the ceiling. They were yelling and calling me to catch them and hold them. It was a grotesque, an idiotic sight!
“Good Lord!” I yelled. “Mike—Jacky—Paul!—what in the name of all that’s wonderful are you doing here?”
“We didn’t mean it,” shouted Mike from the ceiling. “We only came in to explore. We’d no idea you were going to—ouch!”
This exclamation came as he suddenly floated away from the ceiling and collided with Paul, who was moving in a gentle glide diagonally across the cabin. Jacky simultaneously drifted past me and I made a grab at her. But the movement she made to grab at me in return sent her shooting off at an angle, and next thing I saw she was right up in one of the corners of the cabin looking as if she was about to burst into tears.
By this time Mac had recovered from his amazement at seeing the children.
“Steve!” he cried, “for heaven’s sake get hold of them—do something! They’ll smash up my instruments!”
He made a wild lunge at Paul, who was hovering just over his head, and as he did so his feet came away from the floor-straps. And he—Andrew McGillivray, Ph.D., F.R.S., of Aberdeen, Scotland—went soaring up to join the human balloons in the air of the cabin! I alone of the party remained on my feet. And, surveying the fantastic scene, I burst into laughter. It was, undoubtedly, the funniest thing I have ever seen.
The Doctor was the first to get back to normal. He suddenly cried: “The motor, Steve—shut it off! It’s past time—if we don’t stop it we’ll develop too much speed, and we’ll use more of the fuel than we ought to, and won’t have enough for the return flight.”
This sobered me. I started to plod across to the control panel. Before I got there, however, Mac managed to push himself down from the ceiling to one of the handrails, and groped his way by means of that to the motor switch and put it off. The children, too, by this time, were beginning to get some slight control into their movements. Paul had come to earth, so to say, and was clinging to one of the mattresses on the floor I have already mentioned. Mike had got hold of the top of the open door of the store closet and was swinging gently to and fro with it. Jacky had pushed herself down from her corner towards me, and this time we both managed to grab properly. She clung to me very tightly, and I could feel her trembling and hear her breathing in deep excited gasps.
“Get me a pair of boots, Steve, for heaven’s sake,” cried Mac. “There are a couple of spares in the locker too—you can give those to two of the children—they’ll be able to tighten the straps up so as to make them fit reasonably well.”
With Jacky still round my neck I moved over to the locker for t
he boots. I gave the Doctor his pair, strapped a pair on Jacky, and handed the third pair to Paul. Mike worked his way down the closet door and we got him across the cabin to a pair of floor-straps. Then we all looked at each other in silence.
“Well!” said the Doctor at length, his face set and grim. “I suppose you children realize what you’ve done? Have you any idea how serious a situation you’re in? Do you know where we’re going?—to Mars!”
They looked at us with white scared faces.
“We didn’t mean it, sir,” said Paul tremulously. “Honestly we didn’t.”
“How did you get in here at all?” asked the Doctor in some exasperation. “That’s what I can’t understand.”
“We were . . . exploring, sir. We saw your rocket in the enclosure up at your house last Sunday, and then we heard of it from old Mr. McIntosh, the gamekeeper, and we—we thought we’d like to have a closer look at it. We didn’t mean to do any harm, sir—really we didn’t. And we’re very sorry if we’ve upset you.”
And then out it all came, the whole story as you already know it—how they arranged to get back from the picnic early, how they got over the stockade wall, how they hid in the store closet when they saw us approaching the Albatross.
“... And, of course, we went unconscious for a time,” finished Paul. “And then, when we came round, we went all light-headed. The door must have got jammed in some way, because we couldn’t open it for a bit, and we had to knock on it and call to get out. We were floating about in there, and then the door opened suddenly and we floated out.”
“You can count yourselves lucky you didn’t suffer any worse effects than a bout of harmless unconsciousness from the start-off,” grunted the Doctor. “You were young and healthy enough to get off lightly.”
The Angry Planet Page 4