“We can always make sure,” replied the engineer. “Ask Brahmes.”
The Venusian immediately transmitted the old man’s question to the king, who let fall an almost imperceptible murmur from his barely-open lips.
Brahmes bowed, went rapidly to the far side of the hall, and swept aside a large curtain with an abrupt gesture.
The Terrans could not retain a cry of surprise and joy. It was their sphere that had just appeared before them, sparkling in the shadows.
Forgetting the presence of His Venusian Majesty, Fricoulet performed an untidy entrechat. As for the American, he threw his cap in the air, repeating three times in a sonorous voice: “Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” In the meantime, Ossipoff and Gontran fell into one another’s arms and kissed one another on the cheeks. Finally, each of them having manifested his joy in his own fashion, Ossipoff asked the Venusian to explain his companions’ intentions to the king.
“On leaving Wourch, the beautiful double planet that you admire from here on clear nights,” he said, “we thought we would be able to rejoin the voyager that you have seen on your world a few days ago—who has already departed, you say. We ask, in consequence that you will allow us similarly to continue our voyage, by permitting us to use your reflector…”
By means of the interpreter’s voice, the king replied very graciously that he was entirely at the disposal of the bold explorers, but that the emigration would begin on the following day, and, in consequence, the Terrans would have to postpone the execution of their project for two months. On hearing this reply, Ossipoff emitted a dull groan. As for Gontran, he stamped his foot and asked what this joke signified.
Brahmes, for whom the young Comte’s observation was translated, replied: “The peoples of our world are in perpetual migration, in quest of the temperate environment indispensable to life. Twice a year we pass from one hemisphere into the other, fleeing either the destructive ardor of the solstice or the cold darkness of the pole. Tomorrow is the day on which, according to the royal statues, we must set off on the march to the southern hemisphere.”
“We aren’t subjects of His Venusian Majesty!” exclaimed Gontran, “and his statutes are a dead letter so far as we’re concerned. Emigrate if you please, but we have business here and we’ll stay.”
Brahmes did not understand Flammermont’s words, but he guessed their meaning. “I doubt,” he said, “that your companions and you have a constitution that can withstand the glacial cold that will imprison this region in a coffin of ice for two months. It’s certain death that awaits you.”
“I don’t doubt the truth of what you say,” the old man replied, sadly, “but the delay you’re demanding of us would destroy any hope of ever catching up with the man we’re pursuing. Dying of cold or dying of despair is all one to us.”
The king, for whom this heart-rending reply was translated, remained silent for a few moments; then, abandoning his impassivity for the first time, he gesticulated in an extremely excited fashion while talking to Brahmes.
The latter, when His Majesty had stopped talking, turned to the old scientist. “This,” he said, “is what is proposed to you. You will follow the emigration, for, as I told you just now, you cannot stay here. The inhabitants of the land of Boos, whom you have seen in their element and whose physical constitution can tolerate the most rigorous cold, will start dismantling the reflector on Mount Itnounh today, and will transport the sections, one by one, to the summit of the highest mountain on our globe, which is in the very center of the country to which we are going. If this is agreeable to you, orders will be given immediately for the people of Boos, who serve us as slaves, to be put at the disposal of the king.”
As one might imagine, this proposition, transmitted by Ossipoff to his companions was accepted by them with enthusiasm. They begged Brahmes to thank His Majesty warmly on their behalf. The latter topped off his generosity by declaring his desire to responsibility for meeting all the voyagers’ material needs.
The next day, as Brahmes had told them, there was an indescribable brouhaha throughout the city: a general upheaval. In front of every dwelling a cart drew up, on to which the inhabitants loaded their furniture and primitive utensils. When the house was empty, it was sealed by means of a bronze plate, and the cart went to take up its position at the foot of the hill, on the shore of the Central Ocean, where the general rendezvous was arranged.
That evening, the royal carts, each one pulled by 50 inhabitants of Boos, set off on the march. Behind them, quarter by quarter and street by street, the entire procession set off. One might have thought it a gigantic and fantastic caravan, marching tumultuously beneath the starry sky, plowing a formidable course across the desert.
That march lasted eight days, during which the Terrans might easily have believed that they were on an excursion through some Oriental country, so strong was the heat, and also by reason of the marvelous fauna and flora that they were able to admire and study.
On arrival at the destination of their journey, they found a region similar in every respect to the one they had left; on the shore of a blue and waveless sea, on the rump of a high hill, a bronze city was arrayed, deploying its fan-like avenues on the torrid ground. Not far away, cutting the horizon in a dark line, was a chain of mountains, whose summits were lost in the clouds.
“Well,” muttered Ossipoff, his eyes fixed in that direction, “that’s definitely it.”
“One might think that you recognized it,” grumbled the American, in a mocking tone.
“Certainly I recognize it,” retorted the old man. “It’s one of the regions I’ve explored most frequently—by telescope. Thus, the peak that you see there, on your right, which appears to be the highest of all, has been measured several times—first by Shröter in 1789, then in 1833 and 1836 by Beer and Mädler…and also by myself, a few years ago. Well, we all agreed in giving that peak a height of about 40 kilometers.”
“And we’ll have to climb it on foot?” Farenheit complained.
“Unless you intend to go up on a funicular railway,” retorted Fricoulet, sarcastically.
The American shrugged his shoulders furiously. “It’s so many weeks since I’ve made use of my legs,” he said, “that my joints are rusty, and I honestly don’t know whether I have the necessary strength….”
“We might be able to hire natives of the land of Boos,” Gontran said, laughing. “They could replace the mules that are used in certain ascents in Switzerland.”
Ossipoff shook his head pensively. “It’ll take us at least a week to get up there,” he murmured.
“The fact is,” Fricoulet added, “that Mont Blanc is a vulgar molehill beside that monstrous summit.”
“Will we still be able to breathe when we get to the top?” the American asked, with some slight anxiety in his voice.
“There’s nothing to fear from that point of view,” the engineer replied. “If the worst comes to the worst, we have our respirols, but I doubt that we’ll need to make use of them. The atmosphere ought to be dense enough to allow our terrestrial lungs to function with ease.” While they were talking, the Terrans, guided by Brahmes, had set off walking; they were soon engaged on a zigzag road snaking between enormous rocks.
For nearly an hour they climbed, sweating, panting, whining and cursing; then the signal to halt was abruptly given, and Ossipoff—to whom the Venusian had spoken animatedly—went over to Farenheit. “Don’t worry, Mr. Farenheit,” he said. “Your legs won’t be put to the trouble of effusing you the service that you demand of them. Thanks to the Venusians—who need, it seems, to have access to a hospital at the very top of the mountain—we shall go up without fatigue, in a very simple and comfortable vehicle.
“A vehicle!” cried Farenheit, intrigued. “What sort of vehicle?” As he spoke, a large cart emerged from a cleft in the rocks, mounted on a dozen bronze wheels, low and very large. At the front, attached to a sort of abbreviated helm, was a bronze chain that extended up the side of the mountain as far as the
eyes could see.
“But that’s the system used by the tugs that operate between Rouen and Paris,” said Gontran.
On being interrogated, Brahmes explained that, on the opposite slope of the mountain, an army of natives of Boos, harnessed to the chain, would descend to the plain, thus forming a counterweight.
All the voyagers’ luggage and equipment was rapidly loaded on to the cart, as were the various pieces of the reflector that were to be installed on the summit of the mountain. Then the signal to depart was given, and the ascent commenced.
In 24 hours, after several halts effected at various heights—doubtless to permit the human machine to get some rest—they arrived at a height of 30 kilometers. There, they abandoned the vehicle and had to continue the journey on foot, in the midst of a layer of cloud so thick that they could not see ten paces in front of them, along enormous precipices the mere sight of which gave them vertigo.
Finally, after 60 hours of superhuman fatigue, and after having miraculously avoided the death that lay in wait for them at almost every step, Ossipoff and his companions arrived on the plateau that crowned the mountain, looming 42 kilometers above the level of the Venusian oceans. There, they took a short rest before unpacking the apparatus; on the following day, the work commenced—a gigantic, insane task, to the successful completion of which the energy and the determination of the Terrans was entirely adequate. Fortunately, Brahmes, invested for the occasion with all the royal authority, had taken the mission to heart, and did not give the army of slaves working under his orders a moment’s rest.
“Alcide,” Gontran suddenly said to Fricoulet, “there’s one thing bothering me.”
“What?”
“In a voyage of the sort that we’ve undertaken, the guiding principle of getting from planet to planet is to take advantage of the moments when they’re closest to one another, isn’t it?”
“Certainly—that’s the ABC of logic.”
“So, to go from the Earth to the Moon, we took advantage of its perigee.”
“Just as Sharp, in departing in our stead, took advantage of the moment at which the Moon and Venus were at their greatest proximity to one another—which is to say, their periaphrodite…”112
“And if I’m not mistaken, he has applied the same principle in departing for Mercury a month ago?”
“Exactly—but where are you going with this?”
“To ask you this question: at what point in its orbit will Mercury be when we quit this world?”
“If, as is probable, we can leave tomorrow. Mercury will be in quadrature with the Sun—which is to say that, relative to a straight line between that star and the planet on which we find ourselves, it will form a right angle.”
“Which means,” murmured Gontran, fearfully, “that it’s no longer 9,000,000 leagues that we have to travel?”
“No, it will be 13,500,000 leagues.”113
The young Comte started violently. “In that case, there’s no point in leaving—we won’t reach Mercury.”
“Calm down. To fellows like us, a few million leagues more or less are of scant importance. Within a week, the planet of traders and thieves will give us hospitality.”
Chapter XXVI
Through Interplanetary Space
With his face glued to one of the portholes of the cabin, Mikhail Ossipoff was curiously staring into space. Fricoulet, with his inevitable notebook in his hand, was totting up columns of figures. Jonathan Farenheit was fast asleep, snoring. Gontran, sitting beside his friend on the divan, with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, was as motionless as a statue.
Suddenly, a profound and heart-rending sigh uttered by his friend made the engineer shiver. He suspended his calculations and placed a hand gently on Flammermont’s shoulder. “What’s up?” he murmured. “Are you bored?”
The young Comte shook his head. “I’ve just calculated,” he replied, “that it’s been exactly 18 months since I asked for Selena’s hand.”
Fricoulet uttered a small satanic laugh. “And you’re doubtless unhappy,” he said shrugging his shoulders, “to find yourself no further forward today than you were 18 months ago—but you don’t know how lucky you are, my friend.” And he added, in a declamatory tone, raising his eyes toward the ceiling of the cabin: “O fortunatos nimium…”114
Flammeront sat up straight. “You’ll exhaust my patience eventually, with your eternal jokes, Alcide,” he complained. “I love Selena; I mean to marry her.”
“What are you complaining about? Are not the moments in which one pays court to one’s fiancée the happiest of the marriage…?”
“Do you call this paying court?” exclaimed Flammermont. “You’re not taking this very seriously, are you?”
“That’s the only way to avoid perceiving its reciprocal faults…”
“In the meantime, I feel that I’m being ridiculed…I’m turning into the Wandering Jew.”
“Voyages are the making of youth,” said the engineer, sarcastically. “Personally, in spite of anything you might say, I persist in blessing the various incidents that delay the moment when you will put the collar of slavery about your neck.”
That phrase made Ossipoff shiver. For some moments, his attention had been distracted by the young men’s conversation; he turned his back on the porthole abruptly, and addressed himself to Fricoulet. “That’s an expression, Monsieur, which, in respect of my daughter, seems offensive.”
“Oh! You have your opinions on astronomy, Monsieur; I have mine on marriage—that’s all.”
The old man frowned and said to Flammermont: “I’m astonished, my dear Gontran, that you permit this gentleman, even though he’s your friend, to express himself in this fashion when he speaks about your fiancée.”
“His fiancée!” Fricoulet cried, comically. “You’ll admit, Monsieur Ossipoff, that she’s scarcely that. Gontran said so himself just now.”
“Alcide!” said the young Comte, severely.
“Is what Monsieur Fricoulet just said true?” demand Ossipoff, turning to Gontran.
The latter, greatly embarrassed, was scarcely able to reply. “My God!” he stammered. “You’ll agree yourself that the situation is strange. I asked you for your daughter’s hand 18 months ago, in St. Petersburg. Today, we’re…”
“1,500,000 leagues from the planet Venus,” said Fricoulet, consulting his notebook.
“1,500,000 leagues from the planet Venus,” repeated Gontran, “and I’m beginning to think that I’m not as far from St. Petersburg as I am from the cherished day when I’ll be able to lead my dear Selena to the altar.”
Mikhail Ossipoff folded his arms across his chest. “In truth,” he said, in a slightly acerbic tone, “I didn’t expect to hear you speak in that fashion. Is it me who came to find you to ask for your hand? Is it me who forced you to make the declaration that you made to me in the observatory at Pulkova, and which I recall word for word: ‘millions, billions and trillions of leagues could not intimidate a love such as mine!’ ”
The old man fell silent momentarily, crushing Gontran with a stare that made him bow his head. Then, he added, with a little snigger: “Nothing forced you to say that! You spoke of trillions of leagues, and after the few paltry millions that you’ve covered, here you are, already regretting what you said.”
“Monsieur Ossipoff,” replied Gontran, with exaggerated dignity, “you’re giving one of my friend Fricoulet’s bad jokes a meaning that he certainly did not intend to give it. I regret nothing of what I have done; I would do it again….but if you see me so somber and so anxious, do not seek the cause anywhere but in my great affection for Mademoiselle Selena.” He had pronounced these words in an earnest and profound voice, full of emotion.
Without saying a word, the old man held out his hand. Behind them, an oath burst forth; it was Farenheit, who had been listening to the conversation silently since waking up a little while before. “By God!” he groaned. “And to think that all this is the fault of that scoundrel, tha
t wretch…” His teeth grated, his cheeks trembled and his hands opened and closed convulsively in a gesture of strangulation. “We’ll never get our hands on him,” he added, furiously.
“Have patience, Mr. Farenheit,” replied Fricoulet. “In four days we’ll be on Mercury, and there’s at least a hope that you’ll be able to savor the sweetness of vengeance there.”
“Vengeance,” murmured the American, “is a dish best consumed hot, like soup.”
The engineer shook his head. “Well,” he said, “that’s a mater of taste. It’s said that gourmets prefer it cold.”
“Now then,” said Farenheit, addressing Ossipoff, “I hope that as soon as your daughter’s recovered and that rogue Sharp is punished, we’ll make tracks as fast as possible to return to Earth.”
Ossipoff shivered briefly. A dark veil extended over his face, the muscles of which suddenly contracted. He replied in a dull and indistinct voice: “If possible.”
The American started. “What do you mean, if possible? By God, it had better be! I’m not like Monsieur de Flammermont, me—I haven’t signed on for a tour of the sidereal world. Glory’s not my thing. I’m not an astronomer, I’m just a simple pig-merchant…I’ve as much use for astronomy as a fish for an apple…” He paused momentarily to draw breath and then continued: “My business needs me. Then again, the shareholders in my Lunar Diamond Company might think that I’ve done the dirty on them. Finally, it’ll soon be time for the election for the presidency of the Eccentric Club…and I’ve done enough for my election to be a sure thing. So, I warn you, as soon as I’ve settled my account with Sharp, I’ll demand to go back.”
“What about you, Monsieur Fricoulet?” asked Ossipoff, not without anxiety, “are you as impatient as Mr. Farenheit to return to our native planet?”
“To tell the truth, Monsieur Ossipoff,” the young engineer replied, “I won’t hide from you that this journey through the worlds is beginning to seem monotonous—and although I don’t fatten pigs on the Boulevard Montparnasse, have no shareholders to whom I must render my accounts and have not put forward my candidacy for the presidency of any association, eccentric or otherwise, I would gladly follow in Mr. Farenheit’s footsteps.”
The Extraordinary Adventures of a Russian Scientist Across the Solar System (Vol. 1) Page 50