The Extraordinary Adventures of a Russian Scientist Across the Solar System (Vol. 1)

by Georges Le Faure; Henri de Graffigny

  “With the result,” Fricoulet added, “that if the tail follows the comet, or very nearly, when it is before its aphelion, it precedes it, by contrast, after that point.”

  “With the result,” Gontran added, “that, in the situation presently occupied by the comet. In relation to the Sun, it’s to our right that we need to seek the luminous trail.”

  The American folded his arms furiously. “By God!” he howled. “Am I blind, then, since I’ve seen none—absolutely none?”

  “No, my dear Mr. Farenheit, you’re not blind—but it might perfectly well be that the comet serving us as a mount has no tail…that it’s one of those.”

  “And of what is the tail made, Father dear?” asked Selena.

  The old man shook his head.

  “That’s a very embarrassing question, my dear child,” he replied, “given that, until now, everyone has been reduced to mere conjectures.”

  “But at the end of the day, you must have an opinion.”

  “For me, I think that it’s a matter of mere appearance, of a special mode of the vibration of the ether, compressed by the comet—something like a cloud incessantly forming and evaporating in the wake of the comet.”

  “That’s the opinion of the author of L’Astronomie du peuple,” Gontran put in, with imperturbable self-composure.

  “In truth,” replied Ossipoff, “it’s not the first time I’ve found myself in accord with that great mind, and that gives me great pleasure.” He shrugged his shoulders and added: “Besides, as I was just saying, at present we know very little about these strange worlds, which circulate through the Universes, putting them in touch with one another, like celestial messengers. It’s only a century and a half since the study of comets was initiated, and what can one learn in 150 years?”

  With these words, he went inside the sphere and laboriously climbed the steps leading to his observatory.

  “There goes a man who will fall back into his Vulcanesque contemplation,” murmured Fricoulet, lightly.

  Gontran shivered, and drew him aside. “Tell me,” he said, “do you think a planet can affect any other form than a spherical one?”

  The engineer looked at his friend in astonishment. “Why are you asking me that?” he said.

  “Because of Vulcan. The word has a bizarre shape, and I can’t deny that it makes me anxious.”

  “Ah!” said Fricoulet. “You’re no longer as convinced as you were a little while ago of he existence of the intramercurial planet.”

  “Errare humanum est,” said our headmaster at the Lycée Henri IV.

  “But he added: Perseverare autem diabolicum—do you remember that?”139

  “Of course, as I have nothing diabolicum in my nature.”

  “So you don’t persist in your opinion?”

  “I don’t say that, only…”

  “Only you’re strongly tempted to ditch Le Verrier and Dr. Lescarbault, no?”

  “I’d like you to give me your opinion—because, you see, if what I saw wasn’t Vulcan…”

  “It will put paid to your marriage to Mademoiselle Selena—yes, that’s true…Ossipoff would send you packing, and he’d be right; you’ve humiliated him with your discovery.”

  “Eh? It was that imbecile Farenheit and his observatory, most of all. Anyway, I want to ask you for a favor.”

  “What?”

  “To go up and look through the telescope.”

  “What good will that do you?”

  “To be subsequently informed of my fate. This uncertainty’s torturing me…”

  “Gladly…give me a moment.”

  Flammermont accompanied his friend to the foot of the stairway and sat down anxiously on the bottom step.

  Inside the sphere, rolled up in his blanket, Farenheit was already sound asleep. Behind the tent-canvas that provided Selena with a kind of separate bedroom, the young woman’s calm and gentle breathing could be heard, similar to the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings.

  “Oh, my happiness,” Gontran murmured, “what shall I have had to endure in order to attain you?”

  A whispered appeal caused him to raise his head; in the clear square of sky outlined in the shadows of the sphere by the upper aperture of the stairway he saw Fricoulet’s silhouette leaning toward him. “Psst! Psst!” said the engineer.

  Flammermont stood up. “What is it?” he asked, in a low voice.

  “Come up quickly, without making any noise. Monsieur Ossipoff’s asleep.”

  As lightly as a sylph, the young Comte climbed the steps and was soon on the stairhead, at Fricoulet’s side. With a nod of the head, the latter indicated Mikhail Ossipoff, crouching by the telescope with his hands on his knees and his chin on his chest. Heavy breathing passed through his slightly open lips, troubling the silence with a sonorous hum.

  “Shh!” said the engineer, putting his finger to his mouth. “Keep an eye on him while I examine Vulcan.” He went to the telescope, stepping over the old man’s body, and aimed the instrument in the direction in which the planet had been seen.

  He observed for a long time; then he shivered abruptly and muttered, in a dull voice: “Unbelievable! It’s not possible.”

  “What?” Gontran demanded, gripped by anxiety. “What’s not possible?”

  The engineer did not reply immediately. Crouched over the telescope, he was staring as intently as he could.

  “Tell me, then!” begged the young Comte.

  Fricoulet stood aside, took his friend by the arm and dragged him to the stairway, saying only one word, imperatively: “Come on!” A few seconds later, they were down below. “Fool!” said the engineer, then. “Do you know what that pretended planet that you have discovered is? It’s the cannonball that Sharp stole from us!”

  Gontran started violently. “Are you quite sure?” he murmured, in a strangled voice.

  “As sure as I see you standing there…it’s our cannonball, falling with vertiginous speed—and, what’s more, falling on our comet.”

  “Great God! What can we do? I’m doomed. Ossipoff will never forgive me.”

  Fricoulet rubbed his hands together. “So much the better!” he muttered. “In losing the amity of the father, you’ll also lose the affection of the daughter, and you’ll avoid the chains with which you were preparing to weigh yourself down.” And in his enthusiasm he threw his cap in their air, crying: “Long live liberty!”

  Gontran grabbed him by the arms and shook him roughly. “Shut up, you fool!” he growled. “Shut up—and if you don’t want me to kill myself in front of you, find a way to get me out of this.”

  “Eh?” grumbled the engineer, impressed in spite of himself by the somber force with which Flammermont had pronounced these words. “You’re obviously mistaking me for your Newfoundland dog; since we’ve undertaken this celestial excursion I’ve already plunged into the water several times to save you—it’s getting rather boring, to tell the truth…especially as it’s a matter of facilitating something contrary to my principles: your marriage.”

  Gontran took his hands. “I’m begging you,” he said. “You’re my friend, almost my brother.”

  “It’s for exactly that reason…”

  “Would you rather I were dead or married?” Flammermont demanded.

  “Dead!”

  “I swear to you that if you haven’t found a way to save me by sunrise, I’ll kill myself.”

  Fricoulet seemed to be prey to a profound indecision. “Listen,” he said, finally. “Yet again, I’ll do the impossible…for it’s truly impossible to persuade old Ossipoff that black is white.”

  “Oh, you’re a good fellow!” stammered the young Comte.

  “Rather say I’m stupid,” the engineer replied, sullenly.

  “Then let’s say that you’re stupid, for I can’t contradict you—and tell me how you’re going to get me out of this.”

  “I’ll begin by making it impossible for the old man to observe the transformation of the so-called Vulcan into Sharp’s shell.”
<
br />   “How will you do that?”

  “To do that, I’ll have to go back upstairs. If chance decides that Ossipoff’s continuing his little nap, all will be well…”

  He came back after five minutes, holding a little object in his hand that he showed to Flammermont, smiling.

  “What’s that thing?” the latter asked, squinting.

  “Merely the objective lens of the telescope.”

  “What will he say when he finds out?”

  “He can say whatever he likes; the important thing is that he won’t be able to track the shell in its fall.” The lens disappeared into his pocket, and he added: “Now, we must get ready to leave.”

  “What? Leave!” cried Gontran, with a start.

  “Yes—we’re going to confront Sharp.”

  Flammermont clenched is fists in fury. “Oh, the scoundrel!” he growled. “We’re finally going to get our hands on him.”

  “Uh oh!” replied the engineer. “If you want to get a result, you’ll have to put a muffler on your rancor. Sharp might be anything you like—a thief, a murderer, a creature unworthy of any pity—but as it’s him who holds your happiness in his hands, it’s necessary to treat him gently.”

  Gontran listened to Fricoulet speaking, doubting what his ears were hearing. “I confess,” he said, “that I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  “We’ll discuss that as we travel,” replied the engineer. “The most urgent thing is to get under way.”

  A few moments later the two friends silently left the camp; they had each put on a respirol. Gontran was carrying the American’s marine binoculars; Fricoulet had his portable electric lamp in his hand, whose reflector projected a luminous beam 50 meters ahead, thanks to which they could navigate as easily as in broad daylight.

  When the first solar darts were launched over the horizon, Gontran and his companion had covered about 60 kilometers. In front of them, a vast extent of grayish liquid, sparkling like a burnished silver mirror, barred their way. Gontran uttered an exclamation of disappointment. “What are we to do?” he murmured.

  Fricoulet, who was scanning the horizon with the aid of the binoculars, made an abrupt movement, then remained motionless for a few more minutes, leaning forward as if attracted by a spectacle of the greatest interest. Then he passed he instrument to his companion and simply said: “Look.”

  In the distance, floating on the surface of that bizarre ocean, a mass appeared, its whitish hue standing out against the dark liquid surrounding it. One might have thought it a gigantic marine buoy, reflecting the Sun’s rays like a metallic mirror.

  “Sharp!” exclaimed Flammermont.

  “Yes,” replied the engineer, applying his speaking tube to the opening built into the upper part of Gontran’s helmet. “It’s Sharp’s cannonball—which, in accordance with my anticipations, has fallen into that cometary ocean.”

  The young Comte launched into a chaotic pantomime.

  Fricoulet nodded his head to indicate that he had understood. “What are we going to do, you’re asking, to take possession of the vehicle and its contents? That’ll be the simplest thing in the world. Now, either this sheet of water that we have in front of us, and which I’ve baptized, perhaps mistakenly, with the name of ocean, is only a shallow marsh—in which case, we can reach the shell on foot, pedibus cum jambis—or we’ll sink, and then we’ll pause to build some sort of raft.”

  “A raft!” retorted Flammermont. “But for that we’ll have to go back to the camp, cut trees from the Mecurian forest and transport them here. Apart from the fact that it’ll be a formidable task, Ossipoff will get his hands on us.”

  “Come on,” said the engineer. “Don’t lost heart in advance. There’ll be time for that if we can’t employ the simpler and more natural means, which is to make use of our legs.”

  This dialogue had taken place at the top of rather high cliffs, which fell sheer from their black and powdery crests to the mirror-like liquid. Using footholds and handholds in the bizarre rocks, the two companions were soon able to arrive at the bottom, where small grey waves beat heavily and silently.

  Fricoulet bent down and cupped a few drops of the strange liquid in the palm of his hand, which he studied attentively for a few minutes. “It’s not water,” he murmured into Gontran’s helmet.

  The latter shrugged his shoulders, indicating that the chemical composition of the liquid was of no interest to him.

  “Imprudent,” replied Fricoulet, “Since an opportunity is presenting itself for you to prepare your reply to one of the questions that Ossipoff might ask you—so take advantage of the opportunity and remember if you can that what you have before your eyes is a combination of hydrogen, carbon and oxygen. The light mist that you see floating on the surface is carbon dioxide…in brief, it’s a sort of foaming soda-water.”

  Fricoulet continued talking, but he talked in vain; Gontran, uninterested in these scientific questions, had taken a few strides forward, which had immediately taken him 100 meters from the shore. At that distance, the liquid scarcely came up to his ankles, so he waved his arms in the air triumphantly, inviting the engineer to join him.

  Fricoulet lengthened his stride and rapidly caught up with his friend, who resumed his forward march. As they advanced, they sank more deeply into the mobile sheet, which sparkled like a sheet of mercury, but they only sank only gradually as they descended a gentle slope—perhaps a tenth of a millimeter per meter—with the result that after some two hours, the liquid reached the level of their chests.

  The further they advanced, the more difficult their march became, but reason of the heavy liquid mass through which they had to move—which lifted them up like corks from time to time, by reason of their lightness, making them lose their footing and their equilibrium, forcing them to resort to uncomfortable gymnastics. It was also the case, however, that the shell was now clearly visible in every detail: an enormous mass sparkling in the ardent rays of the Sun, floating on the surface with surprising lightness.

  Fricoulet signaled to his friend to stop. Then, adjusting his speaker to his helmet, he said: “If you ask me, you should stay here while I go on. There’s no need for us both to tire ourselves out, when one of us can do the job—all the more so as it might be very easy to lose one’s footing out there and have to start swimming. Now, I think I recall that you’re not a strong swimmer.”

  “At school,” Flammermont replied, “they only put us in a cold bath once a week, with the result that I was unable to make measurable progress—but I can do it well enough to get myself out of trouble.”

  “That’s not necessary at present. Stay here and rest, for you’ll need all your muscular strength soon enough.”

  “Have you got your revolver?” Gontran asked.

  “Yes, I have—why ask?”

  “Because that wretch is capable of ambushing you.”

  “You can rest easy on that subject. According to what old Ossipoff has told me, Fedor Sharp possesses enough scientific acumen to know what would happen to him if he even stuck his nose out of one of the portholes. Whatever his evil intentions toward me might be, therefore, it will be absolutely impossible for him to make them manifest. On that note, I’m going—wait for me, and be ready to join me as soon as I give the signal.” He drew away and, as resumed his progress toward the shell as rapidly as possible.

  After an hour of troublesome effort, sometimes walking, sometimes swimming, he finally reached it, weary and exhausted, almost ready to drop. With a final effort, he grabbed hold of one of the machine’s exterior bolts just as his strength ran out. When he had recovered his breath, he hoisted himself up to one of the portholes in order to look inside the cannonball, and found himself face to face with Sharp, only separated from his enemy by the thick glass against which the other’s face was plastered as he examined with extreme curiosity the being whose selenium helmet gave him a fantastic and terrifying appearance. “Ha ha!” muttered Fricoulet. “The worthy Fedor seems to me to be considerab
ly less than reassured. So much the better—we’ll bring things to an end more easily.”

  With these words, he attached the extremity of a metal wire that he had taken the precaution of bring with him to one of the shell’s flaps, and retraced his steps, unreeling the cable behind him as he went. After covering 100 meters, he came to a sudden halt. He had just felt solid ground beneath his feet and the extremity of the tether was now in his hands. He tied it around his body and made a signal to Gontran, inviting him to rejoin him.

  The young Comte, whose curiosity multiplied his strength and courage tenfold, caught up with him rapidly. Then, following his friend’s instructions, he also harnessed himself to the wire. Both of them, demanding from their muscles all the force of which they were capable, set out for the shore, dragging behind them the enormous metal mass, which, by reason of its low weight and the extreme density of the liquid, slid over the surface like a sled on ice.

  Finally, after two hours of dogged effort, out of breath, with their bodies soaked in sweat and sunburned, they fell exhausted on to the shore, where they remained inert for some time.

  A slight noise made them prick up their ears and drew them out of their torpor. Fricoulet sat up on his elbow and listened; then he leaned toward Flammermont. “If I’m not mistaken,” he said, “Sharp’s unscrewing the bolts and getting ready to come out.”

  Gontran started violently.

  The engineer seized him by the arm. “If you love Selena,” he said, authoritatively, “you’ll swear to me not to do anything or say anything that I haven’t authorized you to do or say. With respect to this wretch, remain as calm and as indifferent as if you did not know him. If not, I’ll leave you to it and you can sort things out with Ossipoff as best you can.”

  Gontran put out his hand mutely.

  “I have your oath,” Fricouet went on. “That’s enough for me. Now, listen to me. Sharp will come out, but as soon as he sets foot outside, what happened to you and Farenheit will happen to him. He’ll fall down, asphyxiated. We’ll run to him immediately, and put him back in his shell, into which we’ll accompany him. There, we’ll bring him round and have a chat at our ease.”