by Jules Verne
“You’ve just asked me a big question,” Ardan replied, smiling. “However, if I’m not mistaken, men of great intelligence, such as Plutarch, Swedenborg, Bernardin de Saint-Pierre, and many others, have answered it in the affirmative. Looking at it from the viewpoint of natural history, I’d be inclined to agree with them; I’d tell myself that nothing useless exists in this world, and, answering your question by raising another, I’d say that if those worlds are inhabitable, they either are, have been, or will be inhabited.”
“You’re right!” shouted the first row of spectators, whose opinion had the force of law for the last ones.
“No one could give a more logical or precise answer,” said Barbicane. “The question comes down to this: Are the worlds inhabitable. For my part, I believe they are.”
“And I’m certain of it,” said Ardan.
“But there are arguments against it,” said one of the spectators. “Most of the principles of life would have to be modified. On the planets, for example, it must be either burning hot or fantastically cold, depending on how far they are from the sun.”
“I’m sorry I don’t know my honorable contradictor personally,” said Ardan, “because I’d try to answer him if I did. His objection has a certain validity, but I think that it and all other objections to the inhabitability of other worlds can be countered rather successfully. If I were a physicist I’d say that if less heat is set in motion on planets near the sun, and more on those farther away, that is enough to balance the temperatures of the planets and make them bearable for beings like us. If I were a naturalist, I’d say, in agreement with many famous scientists, that nature on our own earth gives us examples of animals living in greatly diversified conditions of inhabitability: fish breathe in a medium that’s lethal to other animals; amphibians have a double life that’s rather difficult to explain; deep-sea creatures live under pressures of fifty or sixty atmospheres without being crushed; certain aquatic insects, insensitive to temperature, are found in springs of boiling hot water as well as in polar seas; and finally I’d say that we must recognize in nature a diversity in her means of action which is often incomprehensible but none the less real, and which borders on omnipotence. If I were a chemist, I’d say that meteorites, which were obviously formed outside our terrestrial world, have shown undeniable traces of carbon, that this substance owes its origin only to living organisms, and that, according to Reichenbach’s experiments, it must necessarily have been ‘animalized.’ If I were a theologian, I’d say that, according to Saint Paul, divine redemption seems to have been applied not only to earth but to all celestial worlds. But I’m not a theologian, a chemist, a naturalist, or a physicist, so in my total ignorance of the great laws that govern the universe I’ll limit myself to this answer: I don’t know if other worlds are inhabited, and since I don’t know, I’ll go there to find out!”
Did the opponent of Ardan’s theories venture other arguments? It is impossible to say, for the frenzied shouts of the crowd would have prevented any opinion from being heard. When silence had returned to even the furthest groups, the triumphant orator added these final considerations:
“As I’m sure you realize, my friends, I’ve done no more than scratch the surface of this great question. I’m not here to teach you a course or defend a thesis on it. There’s a whole series of other arguments in favor of the inhabitability of other worlds. I won’t even mention them. Allow me to stress only one point. If someone maintains that the planets are uninhabited, he may be answered as follows: ‘You may be right, if it can be proved that the earth is the best of all possible worlds. But that’s not the case, no matter what Voltaire’s Dr. Pangloss may have said. The earth has only one satellite, whereas Jupiter, Uranus, Saturn, and Neptune have several in their service, an advantage that’s not to be scorned. But the main thing that makes our globe uncomfortable is the inclination of its axis in relation to the plane of its orbit. That’s what causes the inequality of our days and nights, and the unfortunate diversity of our seasons. On our wretched spheroid it’s always either too hot or too cold. We freeze in winter and swelter in summer. Ours is the planet of colds, pneumonia, and consumption, while on the surface of Jupiter, for example, whose axis has little inclination,* the inhabitants can enjoy unvarying temperatures. There are permanent zones of spring, summer, fall, and winter. Each Jovian can choose the climate he likes and spend his whole life in freedom from variations of temperatures. You’ll have to admit that that’s one way in which Jupiter is superior to the earth, not to mention the fact that its years are twelve years long! Furthermore, it’s obvious to me that, living under such marvelous conditions, the inhabitants of that fortunate world are superior beings, that their scholars are more scholarly, their artists more artistic, their bad people less bad, and their good people better. And what does our globe lack in order to attain that perfection? Very little! Only an axis of rotation less inclined with respect to the plane of its orbit.”
“Well, then,” cried an impetuous voice, “let’s unite our efforts, invent machines, and straighten the earth’s axis!”
A thunder of applause greeted this bold proposal, whose author was and could only have been J. T. Maston. His engineering instincts probably led him to make it without reflecting, but it must be said, for it is true, that many of the spectators backed him with their shouts, and if they had had the point of support requested by Archimedes, the Americans would no doubt have constructed a lever capable of moving the earth and straightening its axis. But a point of support was precisely what those daring mechanics lacked.
Nevertheless this “eminently practical” idea was enormously successful. The discussion was suspended for a good quarter of an hour, and for a long time afterward people all over the United States talked of the plan so forcefully put forward by the secretary of the Gun Club.
* Only 3° 5’.
CHAPTER 20
THRUST AND COUNTERTHRUST
IT SEEMED for a long time that this incident was going to put an end to the discussion. No one could have thought of a better way to climax it. But when the agitation had died down, these words were spoken in a loud, stern voice:
“Now that the speaker has given free rein to his imagination, will he please return to his subject, do less theorizing and discuss the practical aspects of his expedition?”
All eyes turned to the man who had just spoken. He was hard and gaunt, with an energetic face and an American-style beard growing abundantly under his chin. Taking advantage of the various waves of agitation that had gone through the audience, he had made his way to the front row. There, with his arms crossed and his eyes shining boldly, he was staring imperturbably at the hero of the meeting. After having asked his question, he fell silent and was apparently affected by neither the thousands of gazes converging on him nor the murmur of disapproval stirred up by his words. When an answer was not forthcoming, he asked his question again with the same sharp, precise intonation, then he added:
“We’re here to deal with the moon, not with the earth.”
“You’re right,” replied Michel Ardan, “the discussion has wandered. Let’s come back to the moon.”
“Mr. Ardan,” said the stranger, “you claim that the moon is inhabited. Maybe so, but one thing is sure: if there are any people up there, they live without breathing, because—I’m giving you this warning for your own good—there isn’t one single molecule of air on the moon’s surface.”
When he heard this, Ardan shook his tawny mane; he realized that this man was turning the discussion to the heart of the matter. He stared back at him and said:
“So there’s no air on the moon! Would you mind telling me who says so?”
“Scientists.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Sir,” said Ardan, “all joking aside, I have deep respect for scientists who know, but deep disdain for those who don’t.”
“Do you know any who belong in that latter category?”
“Yes. I
n France there’s one who maintains that, ‘mathematically,’ birds can’t fly, and there’s another one whose theories demonstrate that fish aren’t made to live in water.”
“I’m not concerned with them, Mr. Ardan. To support what I’m saying, I could cite names that you wouldn’t reject.”
“I’d be highly embarrassed if you did, sir. I’m an ignorant man and I ask nothing better than to learn.”
“Then why do you deal with scientific matters if you haven’t studied them?” the stranger asked rather bluntly.
“Why? Because a man is always brave if he’s unaware of danger! I know nothing, it’s true, but my weakness is precisely what makes my strength.”
“Your weakness goes to the point of madness!” the stranger said irritably.
“If my madness takes me to the moon, so much the better!”
Barbicane and his colleagues had been scrutinizing the intruder who was trying so audaciously to thwart Ardan’s plan. None of them knew him. Uncertain about the results of such a frank discussion, Barbicane looked at Ardan with a certain apprehension. The spectators were attentive and seriously concerned, for the dispute was calling their attention to the dangers or perhaps even the impossibilities of the expedition.
“The arguments against the existence of an atmosphere on the moon are numerous and unassailable,” said the stranger. “First of all, I can say that if the moon ever did have an atmosphere, it was necessarily drawn away from it by the earth. But I prefer to confront you with undeniable facts.”
“Please do,” Ardan replied gallantly. “Confront me with as many of them as you like.”
“As you know,” said the stranger, “when light rays pass through a medium such as air they’re deflected from a straight line; in other words, they undergo refraction. Now when stars are occulted by the moon, the light from them never shows the slightest deviation or gives any sign of refraction when it passes by the moon’s edge. This clearly means that the moon has no atmosphere.”
Everyone looked at Ardan, for if he granted the point its consequences would be obvious.
“That’s your best argument,” he replied, “not to say your only one, and a scientist might be at a loss to answer it. As for me, I’ll say only that it isn’t absolutely conclusive because it presupposes that the angular diameter of the moon has been perfectly determined, which it hasn’t. But let’s not dwell on that. Tell me, do you admit the existence of volcanoes on the moon?”
“Extinct ones, yes; active ones, no.”
“Even so, it certainly isn’t illogical to assume that those volcanoes were active at some time in the past, is it?”
“Of course not, but since they themselves could have supplied the oxygen necessary for combustion, the fact of their eruption doesn’t prove the presence of an atmosphere.”
“Then let’s go on,” said Ardan, “and leave that kind of argument in favor of direct observation. But I warn you that I’m going to mention names.”
“Go ahead and mention them.”
“I will. In 1715 when the astronomers Louville and Halley were observing the eclipse of May 3, they noticed some strange, rapid flashes that were repeated often. They attributed them to storms raging in the moon’s atmosphere.”
“In 1715,” said the stranger, “the astronomers Louville and Halley mistook purely terrestrial phenomena taking place in the earth’s atmosphere, such as meteorites, for lunar phenomena. That’s what scientists answered when they first made their announcement, and I make the same answer.”
“Let’s go on,” said Ardan, undisturbed. “Isn’t it true that in 1787 Herschel observed many points of light on the surface of the moon?”
“Yes, but he didn’t try to explain them and he didn’t conclude that they indicated the existence of a lunar atmosphere.”
“That was an excellent answer,” said Ardan, complimenting his adversary. “I see that your knowledge of the moon is very great.”
“Yes, it is, and I’ll add that the most skillful observers, those who have studied the moon more than anyone else, namely, Beer and Moelder, agree in maintaining that it has no atmosphere whatever.”
The crowd stirred, apparently deeply affected by the stranger’s arguments.
“Let’s still go on,” Ardan said with great calm, “and now let’s come to an important fact. When he was observing the solar eclipse of July 18, 1860, Laussedat, an able French astronomer, noted that the points of the sun’s crescent were blunted and rounded. It was a phenomenon that could have been produced only by the deviation of the sun’s rays passing through the moon’s atmosphere. There’s no other possible explanation.”
“But is the fact certain?” the stranger asked sharply.
“Absolutely certain!”
The crowd stirred again, this time with a surge of renewed confidence in its hero. His adversary remained silent. Without gloating over his advantage, Ardan said simply:
“You can see, sir, that we mustn’t rule out the possibility of an atmosphere on the moon. It’s probably quite rarefied, but nowadays science generally grants that it exists.”
“Not on the mountains, with all due respect to your learning,” said the stranger, reluctant to back down.
“No, but it exists in the valleys, though it doesn’t go higher than a few hundred feet.”
“In any case, you’ll do well to take precautions, because that air will be terribly thin.”
“Oh, there’ll surely be enough for one man! Besides, once I’m up there I’ll try to economize by breathing only on great occasions.”
A formidable burst of laughter thundered in the mysterious stranger’s ears. He looked over the crowd with proud defiance.
“Since we agree on the presence of a certain amount of air,” Ardan went on cheerfully, “we’re forced to admit the presence of a certain amount of water. It’s a conclusion I’m glad to draw, for my own sake. And let me point out something else to you: we know only one side of the moon, and while there’s probably not much air on the side facing us, it’s possible that there’s a lot of it on the other side.”
“Why?”
“Because the pull of the earth’s gravity has made the moon take the shape of an egg with its small end toward us. This means, according to Hansen’s calculations, that its center of gravity is in the other hemisphere, and so we can conclude that all its air and water must have been drawn to its other side from the first days of its creation.”
“Pure fantasy!” cried the stranger.
“No, it’s pure theory based on the laws of mechanics, and I think it would be hard to refute it. I appeal to this assembly. Let’s put the question to a vote: Is life, as it exists on earth, possible on the moon?”
Three hundred thousand people voiced their affirmation. The stranger tried to speak, but was unable to make himself heard. He was deluged with shouts and threats:
“Enough! Enough!”
“Get out, you intruder!”
“Throw him out!”
But, firmly gripping the platform, he stood his ground and let the storm pass. It would have taken on alarming proportions if Michel Ardan had not quelled it with a gesture. He was too chivalrous to abandon his adversary in such a predicament.
“Would you like to add a few words?” he asked graciously.
“Yes, a hundred, a thousand!” the stranger replied heatedly. “Or rather no, only a few. To persist in your plan, you must be …”
“Imprudent? How can you call me that when I’ve asked my friend Barbicane for a cylindro-conical shell so I won’t spin around like a squirrel in a cage?”
“But, you poor fool, the terrible jolt will smash you flat as soon as you start!”
“You’ve just put your finger on the only real difficulty! However, I have too high an opinion of American industrial genius not to believe that it won’t be resolved.”
“But what about the heat developed by the projectile as it passes through the air?”
“Its walls will be thick, and it will take so li
ttle time to get through the earth’s atmosphere!”
“What about food and water?”
“I’ve calculated that I can take along enough for a year, and my journey will last only four days!”
“And what about air?”
“I’ll make it by chemical processes.”
“And your fall on the moon, assuming you ever get there?”
“It will be only a sixth as fast as a fall on the earth, since the pull of gravity is only a sixth as strong on the moon.”
“But it will still be enough to break you like a glass!”
“What’s to stop me from slowing down my fall by igniting properly placed rockets at the right time?”
“All right, suppose we say all those difficulties are resolved, all those obstacles are overcome; suppose we put all the chances in your favor and say you arrive safe and sound on the moon. How will you get back?”
“I won’t.”
At this reply, which reached the sublime by its simplicity, the crowd remained silent. But its silence was more eloquent than its shouts of enthusiasm would have been. The stranger took advantage of it to protest one last time:
“You’re sure to be killed, and your senseless death won’t even have served science!”
“Go on,” said Ardan, “continue with your pleasant predictions!”
“This is too much! I don’t know why I go on with such a ridiculous discussion! Persist in your insane plan if you want to! You’re not the one who’s to blame!”
“Don’t be afraid of offending me!”
“No, another man will bear the responsibility of your acts!”
“Who is that man?” Ardan asked imperiously.