From the Earth to the Moon (19 page)

“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 little 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.

“The man who organized this whole absurd, impossible project!”

This was a direct attack. Ever since the stranger’s intervention, Barbicane had been making violent efforts to control himself and “burn his smoke,” as certain boiler furnaces do, but when he heard himself referred to so outrageously he leapt to his feet. He was about to walk over to the adversary who was staring defiantly at him when he was suddenly separated from him.

The platform was abruptly picked up by a hundred vigorous arms and Barbicane had to share the honors of triumph with Michel Ardan. The platform was heavy, but the bearers were constantly relieved because each man was arguing, struggling, and fighting for the privilege of giving the demonstration the support of his shoulders.

Meanwhile the stranger had not taken advantage of the tumult to leave. Would he have been able to make his way through that dense crowd? Probably not. In any case, he
stood in the front row, with his arms crossed, looking intently at Barbicane.

Barbicane never lost sight of him. The two men’s gazes remained engaged like two quivering swords.

The shouting of the immense crowd continued unabated all through that triumphal march. Michel Ardan was obviously enjoying it. His face was radiant. Now and then the platform seemed to pitch and roll like a ship in a storm, but the two heroes of the meeting had their sea legs; they never faltered, and their ship safely reached port in Tampa. Michel Ardan fortunately succeeded in escaping the last embraces of his robust admirers. He fled to the Hotel Franklin, hurried up to his room, and quickly slipped into bed while an army of a hundred thousand men kept watch under his windows.

During this time a short, grave, and decisive scene took place between the mysterious stranger and Barbicane.

Free at last, Barbicane went straight up to his adversary.

“Come,” he said curtly.

The stranger followed him to the waterfront and they were soon alone at the entrance to a wharf. There the two enemies looked at each other.

“Who are you?” asked Barbicane.

“Captain Nicholl.”

“I thought so. Till now our paths hadn’t crossed …”

“I’ve deliberately crossed yours!”

“You’ve insulted me!”

“Yes, publicly.”

“And you’re going to give me satisfaction for that insult.”

“Immediately.”

“No. I want everything to take place secretly between
us. There’s a forest known as the Skersnaw Woods, three miles outside of Tampa. Do you know where it is?”

“Yes.”

“Are you willing to walk into one side of it tomorrow morning at five o’clock?”

“Yes, if you’ll walk into the other side of it at the same time.”

“And you won’t forget your rifle, will you?” asked Barbicane.

“No, and I’m sure you won’t forget yours,” replied Nicholl.

With these coldly spoken words, the two men parted. Barbicane went home, but instead of getting a few hours’ sleep he spent the night trying to think of a way to soften the initial jolt inside the projectile and solve the difficult problem raised by Michel Ardan during the discussion at the meeting.

W
HILE THE
conditions of this duel—a terrible, savage kind of duel in which each adversary becomes a manhunter—were being discussed by Barbicane and Nicholl, Michel Ardan was resting from the fatigue of his triumph. “Resting” is not a very accurate word, because American beds can rival any marble or granite tabletop for hardness.

Ardan was sleeping rather badly, tossing and turning between the napkins that served as his sheets. He was dreaming of installing a more comfortable bed in his projectile when a violent noise awakened him. His door was being shaken by disorderly blows, apparently struck with some sort of metal instrument. Loud shouting was mingled with this early morning uproar.

“Open your door!” cried a voice. “In the name of heaven, open your door!”

Ardan had no reason to grant such a loudly stated request. However, he got up and opened the door just as it was about to yield to the efforts of his obstinate visitor. J. T. Maston burst into the room. An artillery shell could not have entered with less ceremony.

“Yesterday Barbicane was publicly insulted at the meeting,” he said abruptly. “He challenged his adversary, who’s none other than Captain Nicholl! They’re fighting
this morning in the Skersnaw Woods! I learned about it from Barbicane himself. If he’s killed, it will mean the end of our project. The duel mustn’t be fought! There’s only one man with enough influence over Barbicane to make him stop, and that man is Michel Ardan!”

While J. T. Maston was speaking, Ardan, realizing the futility of trying to interrupt him, had quickly pulled on his loose trousers. Less than two minutes later, the two men were hurrying toward the outskirts of Tampa.

On the way J. T. Maston told Ardan the details of the situation. He explained the real causes of the enmity between Barbicane and Nicholl, how it had existed for a long time, and why till now, thanks to mutual friends, the two rivals had never met face to face. He added that it was entirely a matter of rivalry between armor plate and projectiles, and that the scene at the meeting had been only an opportunity to satisfy his rancor which Nicholl had been seeking for a long time.

Nothing could be more terrible than those duels peculiar to America, in which each adversary looks for the other in the woods, lies in wait for him and tries to shoot him down like a wild animal. Each of them must envy the wonderful qualities so natural to the Indians: their quick intelligence, their craftiness, their tracking skill, their ability to sense the presence of an enemy. A mistake, a hesitation, or a misstep can bring death. During these duels the adversaries are often accompanied by their dogs, and, hunters and hunted at the same time, they pursue each other for hours on end.

“What devilish people are you!” Ardan exclaimed when J. T. Maston had given him a description of the whole procedure.

“That’s how we are,” J. T. Maston replied modestly. “But let’s hurry.”

Although he and Ardan ran across rice fields and dewy meadows, forded creeks and took every shortcut they could, they were not able to reach the Skersnaw Woods until half past five. Barbicane was to have entered it half an hour earlier.

They soon saw a backwoodsman chopping firewood. J. T. Maston ran up to him, shouting:

“Have you seen a man with a rifle come into the woods? It’s Barbicane, the president of the Gun Club, my best friend!”

He naively assumed that Barbicane was known to everyone in the world. But the backwoodsman did not seem to understand.

“A hunter,” said Ardan.

“A hunter? Yes, I saw one.”

“How long ago?”

“About an hour.”

“Too late!” cried J. T. Maston.

“And have you heard any shots?” asked Ardan.

“No.”

“Not a single one?”

“Not a single one. Your hunter doesn’t seem to be having good hunting!”

“What shall we do?” asked J. T. Maston.

“Go on into the woods,” replied Ardan, “at the risk of getting a bullet that’s not meant for us.”

“Ah,” cried J. T. Maston in a tone that left no room for doubt, “I’d rather have ten bullets in my head than one in Barbicane’s!”

“Then let’s go!” said Ardan, pressing J. T. Maston’s hand.

A few seconds later the two friends disappeared into the woods. It was a thick forest made of cypresses, sycamores, tulip trees, olive trees, tamarinds, live oaks,
and magnolias. The branches of all these trees were mingled in a dense tangle that made it impossible to see very far. Ardan and J. T. Maston walked side by side, passing through vigorous vines, peering into the bushes hidden in the heavy shadows of the foliage, and expecting to hear a rifle shot at every step. They were unable to recognize any of the traces that Barbicane must have left as he passed; they walked blindly along the almost invisible trails, on which an Indian would have been able to follow an adversary step by step.

After an hour of unsuccessful searching, they stopped. Their apprehension redoubled.

“It must be all over,” J. T. Maston said, discouraged. “A man like Barbicane wouldn’t have tried to trap his enemy or use any kind of trickery with him. He’s too straightforward, too brave. He must have gone straight ahead, into the teeth of danger, and he must have gone so far that the man we talked to wasn’t able to hear the shot.”

“Surely
we
would have heard a shot in all the time we’ve been in the woods!”

“But what if we came too late?” J. T. Maston said in despair.

Ardan could think of no reply. They began walking again. Now and then they loudly called either Barbicane or Nicholl, but neither of them answered. Joyful flocks of birds, roused by the noise, vanished between the branches, and a few frightened deer ran off into the thickets.

They searched for another hour. They had already explored most of the forest. There was no trace of either Barbicane or Nicholl. They were beginning to doubt what the backwoodsman had told them, and Ardan was about to give up the futile search, when J. T. Maston stopped abruptly.

“Sh! I see someone!”

“Someone?”

“Yes, a man. He’s not moving. He’s not holding his rifle. What can he be doing?”

“Do you recognize him?” asked Ardan, whose nearsighted eyes were of little use in such circumstances.