Round the Moon - Jules Verne (books to read in your 20s .TXT) 📗

“Do you know, my friends,” said Michel Ardan, “that if one of us had succumbed to the recoil shock at departure we should have been much embarrassed as to how to get rid of him? You see the accusing corpse would have followed us in space like remorse!”

“That would have been sad,” said Nicholl.

“Ah!” continued Michel, “what I regret is our not being able to take a walk outside. What delight it would be to float in this radiant ether, to bathe in these pure rays of the sun! If Barbicane had only thought of furnishing us with diving-dresses and air-pumps I should have ventured outside, and have assumed the attitude of a flying-horse on the summit of the projectile.”

“Ah, old fellow!” answered Barbicane, “you would not have stayed there long in spite of your diving-dress; you would have burst like an obus by the expansion of air inside you, or rather like a balloon that goes up too high. So regret nothing, and do not forget this: while we are moving in the void you must do without any sentimental promenade out of the projectile.”

Michel Ardan allowed himself to be convinced in a certain measure. He agreed that the thing was difficult, but not “impossible;” that was a word he never uttered.

The conversation passed from this subject to another, and never languished an instant. It seemed to the three friends that under these conditions ideas came into their heads like leaves in the first warm days of spring.

Amidst the questions and answers that crossed each other during this morning, Nicholl asked one that did not get an immediate solution.

“I say,” said he, “it is all very well to go to the moon, but how shall we get back again?”

“What do you mean by that, Nicholl?” asked Barbicane gravely.

“It seems to me very inopportune to ask about getting away from a country before you get to it,” added Michel.

“I don’t ask that question because I want to draw back, but I repeat my question, and ask, ‘How shall we get back?’ ”

“I have not the least idea,” answered Barbicane.

“And as for me,” said Michel, “if I had known how to come back I should not have gone.”

“That is what you call answering,” cried Nicholl.

“I approve of Michel’s words, and add that the question has no actual interest. We will think about that later on, when we want to return. Though the Columbiad will not be there, the projectile will.”

“Much good that will be, a bullet without a gun!”

“A gun can be made, and so can powder! Neither metal, saltpetre, nor coal can be wanting in the bowels of the moon. Besides, in order to return you have only the lunar attraction to conquer, and you will only have 8,000 leagues to go so as to fall on the terrestrial globe by the simple laws of weight.”

“That is enough,” said Michel, getting animated. “Let us hear no more about returning. As to communicating with our ancient colleagues upon earth, that will not be difficult.”

“How are we to do that, pray?”

“By means of meteors hurled by the lunar volcanoes.”

“A good idea, Michel,” answered Barbicane. “Laplace has calculated that a force five times superior to that of our cannons would suffice to send a meteor from the moon to the earth. Now there is no volcano that has not a superior force of propulsion.”

“Hurrah!” cried Michel. “Meteors will be convenient postmen and will not cost anything! And how we shall laugh at the postal service! But now I think⁠—”

“What do you think?”

“A superb idea! Why did we not fasten a telegraph wire to our bullet? We could have exchanged telegrams with the earth!”

“And the weight of a wire 86,000 leagues long,” answered Nicholl, “does that go for nothing?”

“Yes, for nothing! We should have trebled the charge of the Columbiad! We could have made it four times⁠—five times⁠—greater!” cried Michel, whose voice became more and more violent.

“There is a slight objection to make to your project,” answered Barbicane. “It is that during the movement of rotation of the globe our wire would have been rolled round it like a chain round a windlass, and it would inevitably have dragged us down to the earth again.”

“By the thirty-nine stars of the Union!” said Michel, “I have nothing but impracticable ideas today⁠—ideas worthy of J. T. Maston! But now I think of it, if we do not return to earth J. T. Maston will certainly come to us!”

“Yes! he will come,” replied Barbicane; “he is a worthy and courageous comrade. Besides, what could be easier? Is not the Columbiad still lying in Floridian soil? Is cotton and nitric acid wanting wherewith to manufacture the projectile? Will not the moon again pass the zenith of Florida? In another eighteen years will she not occupy exactly the same place that she occupies today?”

“Yes,” repeated Michel⁠—“yes, Maston will come, and with him our friends Elphinstone, Blomsberry, and all the members of the Gun Club, and they will be welcome! Later on trains of projectiles will be established between the earth and the moon! Hurrah for J. T. Maston!”

It is probable that if the Honourable J. T. Maston did not hear the hurrahs uttered in his honour his ears tingled at least. What was he doing then? He was no doubt stationed in the Rocky Mountains at Long’s Peak, trying to discover the invisible bullet gravitating in space. If he was thinking of his dear companions it must be acknowledged that they were not behindhand with him, and that, under the influence of singular exaltation, they consecrated their best thoughts to him.

But whence came the animation that grew visibly greater in the inhabitants of the projectile? Their sobriety could not be questioned. Must this strange erethismus of the brain be attributed to the exceptional circumstances of the time, to that proximity of the Queen of Night from which a few hours only separated them, or to some secret influence of the moon acting on