CHAPTER XVII.A BOLD PROPOSITION.
On his return Servadac communicated to the count the
result of his expedition, and, though perfectly silent on
the subject of his personal project, did not conceal the fact
that the Spaniards, without the smallest right, had sold
Ceuta to the English.
Having refused to quit their post, the Englishmen had
virtually excluded themselves from any further consideration;
they had had their warning, and must now take the
consequences of their own incredulity.
Although it had proved that not a single creature
either at Gourbi Island, Gibraltar, Ceuta, Madalena, or
Formentera had received any injury whatever at the time
of the first concussion, there was nothing in the least to
make it certain that a like immunity from harm would
attend the second. The previous escape was doubtless
owing to some slight, though unaccountable, modification
in the rate of motion; but whether the inhabitants of the
earth had fared so fortunately, was a question that had still
to be determined.
The day following Servadac's return, he and the count
and Lieutenant Procope met by agreement in the cave,
formally to discuss what would be the most advisable
method of proceeding under their present prospects. Ben
Zoof was, as a matter of course, allowed to be present, and
Professor Rosette had been asked to attend; but he
declined on the plea of taking no interest in the matter.
Indeed, the disappearance of his moon had utterly disconcerted
him, and the probability that he should soon lose
his comet also, plunged him into an excess of grief which
he preferred to bear in solitude.
Although the barrier of cool reserve was secretly increasing
between the captain and the count, they scrupulously
concealed any outward token of their inner feelings,
and without any personal bias applied their best energies
to the discussion of the question which was of such mutual,
nay, of such universal interest.
Servadac was the first to speak.
“In fifty-one days, if Professor Rosette has made no
error in his calculations, there is to be a recurrence of
collision between this comet and the earth. The inquiry
that we have now to make is whether we are prepared for
the coming shock. I ask myself, and I ask you, whether
it is in our power, by any means, to avert the evil consequences
that are only too likely to follow?”
Count Timascheff, in a voice that seemed to thrill with
solemnity, said:
“In such events we are at the disposal of an overruling
Providence; human precautions cannot sway the
Divine will.”
“But with the most profound reverence for the will of
Providence,” replied the captain, “I beg to submit that
it is our duty to devise whatever means we can to escape
the threatening mischief. Heaven helps them that help
themselves.”
“And what means have you to suggest, may I ask?”
said the count, with a faint accent of satire.
Servadac was forced to acknowledge that nothing
tangible had hitherto presented itself to his mind.
“I don't want to intrude,” observed Ben Zoof, “but
I don't understand why such learned gentlemen as you
cannot make the comet go where you want it to go.”
“You are mistaken, Ben Zoof, about our learning,”
said the captain; “even Professor Rosette, with all his
learning, has not a shadow of power to prevent the comet
and the earth from knocking against each other.”
“Then I cannot see what is the use of all this learning,”
the orderly replied.
“One great use of learning,” said Count Timascheff,
with a smile, “is to make us know our own ignorance.”
While this conversation had been going on, Lieutenant
Procope had been sitting in thoughtful silence. Looking
up, he now said:
“Incident to this expected shock, there may be a
variety of dangers. If, gentlemen, you will allow me, I
will enumerate them; and we shall, perhaps, by taking
them seriatim, be in a better position to judge whether we
can successfully grapple with them, or in any way mitigate
their consequences.”
There was a general attitude of attention. It was surprising
how calmly they proceeded to discuss the circumstances
that looked so threatening and ominous.
“First of all,” resumed the lieutenant, “we will specify
the different ways in which the shock may happen.”
“And the prime fact to be remembered,” interposed
Servadac, “is that the combined velocity of the two bodies
will be about 21,000 miles an hour.”
“Express speed, and no mistake!” muttered Ben Zoof.
“Just so,” assented Procope. “Now, the two bodies
may impinge either directly or obliquely. If the impact is
sufficiently oblique, Gallia may do precisely what she did
before: she may graze the earth; she may, or she may
not, carry off a portion of the earth's atmosphere and
substance, and so she may float away again into space;
but her orbit would undoubtedly be deranged, and if we
survive the shock, we shall have small chance of ever
returning to the world of our fellow-creatures.”
“Professor Rosette, I suppose,” Ben Zoof remarked,
“would pretty soon find out all about that.”
“But we will leave this hypothesis,” said the lieutenant;
“our own experience has sufficiently shown us its advantages
and its disadvantages. We will proceed to consider
the infinitely more serious alternative of direct impact; of
a shock that would hurl the comet straight on to the earth,
to which it would become attached.”
“A great wart upon her face!” said Ben Zoof,
laughing.
The captain held up his finger to his orderly, making
him understand that he should hold his tongue.
“It is, I presume, to be taken for granted,” continued
Lieutenant Procope, “that the mass of the earth is comparatively
so large that, in the event of a direct collision,
her own motion would not be sensibly retarded, and that
she would carry the comet along with her, as part of
herself.”
“Very little question of that, I should think,” said
Servadac.
“Well, then,” the lieutenant went on, “what part of this
comet of ours will be the part to come into collision with
the earth? It may be the equator, where we are; it may
be at the exactly opposite point, at our antipodes; or it
may be at either pole. In any case, it seems hard to
foresee whence there is to come the faintest chance of
deliverance.”
“Is the case so desperate?” asked Servadac.
“I will tell you why it seems so. If the side of the
comet on which we are resident impinges on the earth, it
stands to reason that we must be crushed to atoms by the
violence of the concussion.”
“Regular mincemeat!” said Ben Zoof, whom no admonitions
could quite reduce to silence.
“And if,” said the lieutenant, after a moment's pause,
and the slightest possible frown at the interruption—“and
if the collision should occur at our antipodes, the sudden
check to the velocity of the comet would be quite equivalent
to a shock in situ; and, another thing, we should
run the risk of being suffocated, for all our comet's atmosphere
would be assimilated with the terrestrial atmosphere,
and we, supposing we were not dashed to atoms, should be
left as it were upon the summit of an enormous mountain
(for such to all intents and purposes Gallia would be), 450
miles above the level of the surface of the globe, without
a particle of air to breathe.”
“But would not our chances of escape be considerably
better,” asked Count Timascheff, “in the event of either of
the comet's poles being the point of contact?”
“Taking the combined velocity into account,” answered
the lieutenant, “I confess that I fear the violence of the
shock will be too great to permit our destruction to be
averted.”
A general silence ensued, which was broken by the
lieutenant himself.
“Even if none of these contingencies occur in the way
we have contemplated, I am driven to the suspicion that
we shall be burnt alive.”
“Burnt alive!” they all exclaimed in a chorus of
horror.
“Yes. If the deductions of modern science be true, the
speed of the comet, when suddenly checked, will be transmuted
into heat, and that heat will be so intense that the
temperature of the comet will be raised to some millions of
degrees.”
No one having anything definite to allege in reply to
Lieutenant Procope's forebodings, they all relapsed into
silence.
Presently Ben Zoof asked whether it was not possible
for the comet to fall into the middle of the Atlantic.
Procope shook his head.
“Even so, we should only be adding the fate of drowning
to the list of our other perils.”
“Then, as I understand,” said Captain Servadac, “in
whatever way or in whatever place the concussion occurs,
we must be either crushed, suffocated, roasted, or drowned.
Is that your conclusion, lieutenant?”
“I confess I see no other alternative,” answered Procope,
calmly.
“But isn't there another thing to be done?” said Ben
Zoof.
“What do you mean?” his master asked.
“Why, to get off the comet before the shock comes.”
“How could you get off Gallia?”
“That I can't say,” replied the orderly.
“I am not sure that that could not be accomplished,”
said the lieutenant.
All eyes in a moment were riveted upon him, as, with
his head resting on his hands, he was manifestly cogitating
a new idea.
“Yes, I think it could be accomplished,” he repeated.
“The project may appear extravagant, but I do not know
why it should be impossible. Ben Zoof has hit the right
nail on the head; we must try and leave Gallia before the
shock.”
“Leave Gallia! How?” said Count Timascheff.
The lieutenant did not at once reply. He continued
pondering for a time, and at last said, slowly and
distinctly:
“By making a balloon!”
Servadac's heart sank.
“A balloon!” he exclaimed. “Out of the question!
Balloons are exploded things. You hardly find them in
novels. Balloon, indeed!”
“Listen to me,” replied Procope. “Perhaps I can
convince you that my idea is not so chimerical as you
imagine.”
And, knitting his brow, he proceeded to establish the
feasibility of his plan.
“If we can ascertain the precise moment when the
shock is to happen, and can succeed in launching ourselves
a sufficient time beforehand into Gallia's atmosphere, I
believe it will transpire that this atmosphere will amalgamate
with that of the earth, and that a balloon whirled
along by the combined velocity would glide into the
mingled atmosphere and remain suspended in mid-air
until the shock of the collision is overpast.”
Count Timascheff reflected for a minute, and said—
“I think, lieutenant, I understand your project. The
scheme seems tenable; and I shall be ready to co-operate
with you, to the best of my power, in putting it into
execution.”
“Only, remember,” continued Procope, “there are many
chances to one against our success. One instant's obstruction
and stoppage in our passage, and our balloon is
burnt to ashes. Still, reluctant as I am to acknowledge it,
I confess that I feel our sole hope of safety rests in our
getting free from this comet.”
“If the chances were ten thousand to one against
us,” said Servadac, “I think the attempt ought to be
made.”
“But have we hydrogen enough to inflate a balloon?”
asked the count.
“Hot air will be all that we shall require,” the lieutenant
answered; “we are only contemplating about an hour's
journey.”
“Ah, a fire balloon! A montgolfier!” cried Servadac.
“But what are you going to do for a casing?”
“I have thought of that. We must cut it out of the
sails of the Dobryna; they are both light and strong,”
rejoined the lieutenant.
Count Timascheff complimented the lieutenant upon
his ingenuity, and Ben Zoof could not resist bringing the
meeting to a conclusion by a ringing cheer.
Truly daring was the plan of which Lieutenant Procope
had thus become the originator; but the very existence of
them all was at stake, and the design must be executed
resolutely.
For the success of the enterprise it was absolutely
necessary to know, almost to a minute, the precise time at
which the collision would occur, and Captain Servadac
undertook the task, by gentle means or by stern, of extracting
the secret from the professor.
To Lieutenant Procope himself was entrusted the
superintendence of the construction of the montgolfier,
and the work was begun at once. It was to be large
enough to carry the whole of the twenty-three residents in
the volcano, and, in order to provide the means of floating
aloft long enough to give time for selecting a proper place
for descent, the lieutenant was anxious to make it carry
enough hay or straw to maintain combustion for a while,
and keep up the necessary supply of heated air.
The sails of the Dobryna, which had all been carefully
stowed away in the Hive, were of a texture unusually close,
and quite capable of being made airtight by means of a
varnish, the ingredients of which were rummaged out of
the promiscuous stores of the tartan. The lieutenant himself
traced out the pattern and cut out the strips, and all
hands were employed in seaming them together. It was
hardly the work for little fingers, but Nina persisted in
accomplishing her own share of it. The Russians were
quite at home at occupation of this sort, and having initiated
the Spaniards into its mysteries, the task of joining
together the casing was soon complete. Isaac Hakkabut
and the professor were the only two members of the
community who took no part in this somewhat tedious
proceeding.
A month passed away, but Servadac found no opportunity
of getting at the information he had pledged himself
to gain. On the sole occasion when he had ventured to
broach the subject with the astronomer, he had received
for answer that as there was no hurry to get back to the
earth, there need be no concern about any dangers of
transit.
Indeed, as time passed on, the professor seemed to
become more and more inaccessible. A pleasant temperature
enabled him to live entirely in his observatory, from
which intruders were rigidly shut out. But Servadac
bided his time. He grew more and more impressed with
the importance of finding out the exact moment at which
the impact would take place, but was content to wait for a
promising opportunity to put any fresh questions on the
subject to the too reticent astronomer.
Meanwhile, the earth's disc was daily increasing in
magnitude; the comet travelled 50,000,000 leagues during
the month, at the close of which it was not more than
78,000,000 leagues from the sun.
A thaw had now fairly set in. The breaking up of the
frozen ocean was a magnificent spectacle, and “the great
voice of the sea,” as the whalers graphically describe it,
was heard in all its solemnity. Little streams of water
began to trickle down the declivities of the mountain and
along the shelving shore, only to be transformed, as the
melting of the snow continued, into torrents or cascades.
Light vapours gathered on the horizon, and clouds were
formed and carried rapidly along by breezes to which
the Gallian atmosphere had long been unaccustomed. All
these were doubtless but the prelude to atmospheric disturbances
of a more startling character; but as indications
of returning spring, they were greeted with a welcome
which no apprehensions for the future could prevent being
glad and hearty.
A double disaster was the inevitable consequence of
the thaw. Both the schooner and the tartan were entirely
destroyed. The basement of the icy pedestal on which
the ships had been upheaved was gradually undermined,
like the icebergs of the Arctic Ocean, by warm currents of
water, and on the night of the 12th the huge block collapsed
en masse, so that on the following morning nothing
remained of the Dobryna and the Hansa except the fragments
scattered on the shore.
Although certainly expected, the catastrophe could not
fail to cause a sense of general depression. Well-nigh one
of their last ties to Mother Earth had been broken: the
ships were gone, and they had only a balloon to replace
them!
To describe Isaac Hakkabut's rage at the destruction
of the tartan would be impossible. His oaths were simply
dreadful; his imprecations on the accursed race were full
of wrath. He swore that Servadac and his people were
responsible for his loss; he vowed that they should be
sued and made to pay him damages; he asserted that he
had been brought from Gourbi Island only to be plundered;
in fact, he became so intolerably abusive, that Servadac
threatened to put him into irons unless he conducted himself
properly; whereupon the Jew, finding that the captain
was in earnest, and would not hesitate to carry the threat
into effect, was fain to hold his tongue, and slunk back
into his dim hole.
By the 14th the balloon was finished, and, carefully
sewn and well varnished as it had been, it was really a
very substantial structure. It was covered with a network
that had been made from the light rigging of the yacht,
and the car, composed of wicker-work that had formed
partitions in the hold of the Hansa, was quite commodious
enough to hold the twenty-three passengers it was intended
to convey. No thought had been bestowed upon comfort
or convenience, as the ascent was to last for so short a
time, merely long enough for making the transit from
atmosphere to atmosphere.
The necessity was becoming more and more urgent to
get at the true hour of the approaching contact, but the
professor seemed to grow more obstinate than ever in his
resolution to keep his secret.
On the 15th the comet crossed the orbit of Mars, at the
safe distance of 56,000,000 leagues; but during that night
the community thought that their last hour had taken
them unawares. The volcano rocked and trembled with
the convulsions of internal disturbance, and Servadac and
his companions, convinced that the mountain was doomed
to some sudden disruption, rushed into the open air.
The first object that caught their attention as they
emerged upon the open rocks was the unfortunate professor,
who was scrambling down the mountain-side,
piteously displaying a fragment of his shattered telescope.
It was no time for condolence.
A new marvel arrested every eye. A fresh satellite,
in the gloom of night, was shining conspicuously before
them.
That satellite was a part of Gallia itself!
By the expansive action of the inner heat, Gallia, like
Gambart's comet, had been severed in twain; an enormous
fragment had been detached and launched into space!
The fragment included Ceuta and Gibraltar, with the
two English garrisons!