From the Earth to the Moon; and, Round the Moon by Jules Verne (books to read this summer .TXT) 📕
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- Author: Jules Verne
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But Nicholl and Barbicane were awake.
“A cock!” said Nicholl.
“Why no, my friends,” Michel answered quickly; “it was I who wished to awake you by this rural sound.” So saying, he gave vent to a splendid cock-a-doodledoo, which would have done honor to the proudest of poultry-yards.
The two Americans could not help laughing.
“Fine talent that,” said Nicholl, looking suspiciously at his companion.
“Yes,” said Michel; “a joke in my country. It is very Gallic; they play the cock so in the best society.”
Then turning the conversation:
“Barbicane, do you know what I have been thinking of all night?”
“No,” answered the president.
“Of our Cambridge friends. You have already remarked that I am an ignoramus in mathematical subjects; and it is impossible for me to find out how the savants of the observatory were able to calculate what initiatory speed the projectile ought to have on leaving the Columbiad in order to attain the moon.”
“You mean to say,” replied Barbicane, “to attain that neutral point where the terrestrial and lunar attractions are equal; for, starting from that point, situated about nine-tenths of the distance traveled over, the projectile would simply fall upon the moon, on account of its weight.”
“So be it,” said Michel; “but, once more; how could they calculate the initiatory speed?”
“Nothing can be easier,” replied Barbicane.
“And you knew how to make that calculation?” asked Michel Ardan.
“Perfectly. Nicholl and I would have made it, if the observatory had not saved us the trouble.”
“Very well, old Barbicane,” replied Michel; “they might have cut off my head, beginning at my feet, before they could have made me solve that problem.”
“Because you do not know algebra,” answered Barbicane quietly.
“Ah, there you are, you eaters of x1; you think you have said all when you have said ‘Algebra.’”
“Michel,” said Barbicane, “can you use a forge without a hammer, or a plow without a plowshare?”
“Hardly.”
“Well, algebra is a tool, like the plow or the hammer, and a good tool to those who know how to use it.”
“Seriously?”
“Quite seriously.”
“And can you use that tool in my presence?”
“If it will interest you.”
“And show me how they calculated the initiatory speed of our car?”
“Yes, my worthy friend; taking into consideration all the elements of the problem, the distance from the center of the earth to the center of the moon, of the radius of the earth, of its bulk, and of the bulk of the moon, I can tell exactly what ought to be the initiatory speed of the projectile, and that by a simple formula.”
“Let us see.”
“You shall see it; only I shall not give you the real course drawn by the projectile between the moon and the earth in considering their motion round the sun. No, I shall consider these two orbs as perfectly motionless, which will answer all our purpose.”
“And why?”
“Because it will be trying to solve the problem called ‘the problem of the three bodies,’ for which the integral calculus is not yet far enough advanced.”
“Then,” said Michel Ardan, in his sly tone, “mathematics have not said their last word?”
“Certainly not,” replied Barbicane.
“Well, perhaps the Selenites have carried the integral calculus farther than you have; and, by the bye, what is this ‘integral calculus?’”
“It is a calculation the converse of the differential,” replied Barbicane seriously.
“Much obliged; it is all very clear, no doubt.”
“And now,” continued Barbicane, “a slip of paper and a bit of pencil, and before a half-hour is over I will have found the required formula.”
Half an hour had not elapsed before Barbicane, raising his head, showed Michel Ardan a page covered with algebraical signs, in which the general formula for the solution was contained.
“Well, and does Nicholl understand what that means?”
“Of course, Michel,” replied the captain. “All these signs, which seem cabalistic to you, form the plainest, the clearest, and the most logical language to those who know how to read it.”
“And you pretend, Nicholl,” asked Michel, “that by means of these hieroglyphics, more incomprehensible than the Egyptian Ibis, you can find what initiatory speed it was necessary to give the projectile?”
“Incontestably,” replied Nicholl; “and even by this same formula I can always tell you its speed at any point of its transit.”
“On your word?”
“On my word.”
“Then you are as cunning as our president.”
“No, Michel; the difficult part is what Barbicane has done; that is, to get an equation which shall satisfy all the conditions of the problem. The remainder is only a question of arithmetic, requiring merely the knowledge of the four rules.”
“That is something!” replied Michel Ardan, who for his life could not do addition right, and who defined the rule as a Chinese puzzle, which allowed one to obtain all sorts of totals.
“The expression v zero, which you see in that equation, is the speed which the projectile will have on leaving the atmosphere.”
“Just so,” said Nicholl; “it is from that point that we must calculate the velocity, since we know already that the velocity at departure was exactly one and a half times more than on leaving the atmosphere.”
“I understand no more,” said Michel.
“It is a very simple calculation,” said Barbicane.
“Not as simple as I am,” retorted Michel.
“That means, that when our projectile reached the limits of the terrestrial atmosphere it had already lost one-third of its initiatory speed.”
“As much as that?”
“Yes, my friend; merely by friction against the atmospheric strata. You understand that the faster it goes the more resistance it meets with from the air.”
“That I admit,” answered Michel; “and I understand it, although your x’s and zero’s, and algebraic formula, are rattling in my head like nails in a bag.”
“First effects of algebra,” replied Barbicane; “and now, to finish, we are going to prove the given number of these different expressions, that is, work out their value.”
“Finish me!” replied Michel.
Barbicane took the paper, and began to make his calculations with great rapidity. Nicholl looked over and greedily read the work as it proceeded.
“That’s it! that’s it!” at last he cried.
“Is it clear?” asked Barbicane.
“It is written in letters of fire,” said Nicholl.
“Wonderful fellows!” muttered Ardan.
“Do you understand it at last?” asked Barbicane.
“Do I understand it?” cried Ardan; “my head is splitting with it.”
“And now,” said Nicholl, “to find out the speed of the projectile when it leaves the atmosphere, we have only to calculate that.”
The captain, as a practical man equal to all difficulties, began to write with frightful rapidity. Divisions and multiplications grew under his fingers; the figures were like hail on the white page. Barbicane watched him, while Michel Ardan nursed a growing headache with both hands.
“Very well?” asked Barbicane, after some minutes’ silence.
“Well!” replied Nicholl; every calculation made, v zero, that is to say, the speed necessary for the projectile on leaving the atmosphere, to enable it to reach the equal point of attraction, ought to be—”
“Yes?” said Barbicane.
“Twelve thousand yards.”
“What!” exclaimed Barbicane, starting; “you say—”
“Twelve thousand yards.”
“The devil!” cried the president, making a gesture of despair.
“What is the matter?” asked Michel Ardan, much surprised.
“What is the matter! why, if at this moment our speed had already diminished one-third by friction, the initiatory speed ought to have been—”
“Seventeen thousand yards.”
“And the Cambridge Observatory declared that twelve thousand yards was enough at starting; and our projectile, which only started with that speed—”
“Well?” asked Nicholl.
“Well, it will not be enough.”
“Good.”
“We shall not be able to reach the neutral point.”
“The deuce!”
“We shall not even get halfway.”
“In the name of the projectile!” exclaimed Michel Ardan, jumping as if it was already on the point of striking the terrestrial globe.
“And we shall fall back upon the earth!”
THE COLD OF SPACE
This revelation came like a thunderbolt. Who could have expected such an error in calculation? Barbicane would not believe it. Nicholl revised his figures: they were exact. As to the formula which had determined them, they could not suspect its truth; it was evident that an initiatory velocity of seventeen thousand yards in the first second was necessary to enable them to reach the neutral point.
The three friends looked at each other silently. There was no thought of breakfast. Barbicane, with clenched teeth, knitted brows, and hands clasped convulsively, was watching through the window. Nicholl had crossed his arms, and was examining his calculations. Michel Ardan was muttering:
“That is just like these scientific men: they never do anything else. I would give twenty pistoles if we could fall upon the Cambridge Observatory and crush it, together with the whole lot of dabblers in figures which it contains.”
Suddenly a thought struck the captain, which he at once communicated to Barbicane.
“Ah!” said he; “it is seven o’clock in the morning; we have already been gone thirty-two hours; more than half our passage is over, and we are not falling that I am aware of.”
Barbicane did not answer, but after a rapid glance at the captain, took a pair of compasses wherewith to measure the angular distance of the terrestrial globe; then from the lower window he took an exact observation, and noticed that the projectile was apparently stationary. Then rising and wiping his forehead, on which large drops of perspiration were standing, he put some figures on paper. Nicholl understood that the president was deducting from the terrestrial diameter the projectile’s distance from the earth. He watched him anxiously.
“No,” exclaimed Barbicane, after some moments, “no, we are not falling! no, we are already more than 50,000 leagues from the earth. We have passed the point at which the projectile would have stopped if its speed had only been 12,000 yards at starting. We are still going up.”
“That is evident,” replied Nicholl; “and we must conclude that our initial speed, under the power of the 400,000 pounds of gun-cotton, must have exceeded the required 12,000 yards. Now I can understand how, after thirteen minutes only, we met the second satellite, which gravitates round the earth at more than 2,000 leagues’ distance.”
“And this explanation is the more probable,” added Barbicane, “Because, in throwing off the water enclosed between its partition-breaks, the projectile found itself lightened of a considerable weight.”
“Just so,” said Nicholl.
“Ah, my brave Nicholl, we are saved!”
“Very well then,” said Michel Ardan quietly; “as we are safe, let us have breakfast.”
Nicholl was not mistaken. The initial speed had been, very fortunately, much above that estimated by the Cambridge Observatory; but the Cambridge Observatory had nevertheless made a mistake.
The travelers, recovered from this false alarm, breakfasted merrily. If they ate a good deal, they talked more. Their confidence was greater after than before “the incident of the algebra.”
“Why should we not succeed?” said Michel Ardan; “why should we not arrive safely? We are launched; we have no obstacle before us, no stones in the way; the road is open, more so than that of a ship battling with the sea; more open than that of a balloon battling with the wind; and if a ship can reach its destination, a balloon go where it pleases, why cannot our projectile attain its end and aim?”
“It will attain it,” said Barbicane.
“If only to do honor to the Americans,” added Michel Ardan, “the only people who could bring such an enterprise to a happy termination, and the only one which could produce a President Barbicane. Ah, now we are no longer uneasy, I begin to think, What will become of us? We shall get right royally weary.”
Barbicane and Nicholl made a gesture of denial.
“But I have provided for the contingency, my friends,” replied Michel; “you have only to speak, and I have chess, draughts, cards, and dominoes at your disposal; nothing is wanting but a billiard-table.”
“What!” exclaimed Barbicane; “you brought away such trifles?”
“Certainly,” replied Michel, “and not only to distract ourselves, but also with the laudable intention of endowing the Selenite smoking divans with them.”
“My friend,” said Barbicane, “if the moon is inhabited, its inhabitants must have appeared some thousands of years before those of the earth, for we cannot doubt that their star is much older than ours. If then these Selenites have existed their hundreds of thousands of years, and if their brain is of the same organization of the human brain, they have already invented all that we have invented, and even what we may invent in future ages. They have nothing to learn from us, and we have everything to learn from them.”
“What!” said Michel; “you believe that they have artists like Phidias, Michael Angelo, or Raphael?”
“Yes.”
“Poets like Homer, Virgil, Milton, Lamartine, and Hugo?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Philosophers like Plato, Aristotle, Descartes, Kant?”
“I have no doubt of it.”
“Scientific men like Archimedes, Euclid, Pascal, Newton?”
“I could swear it.”
“Comic writers like Arnal, and photographers like—like Nadar?”
“Certain.”
“Then, friend Barbicane, if they are as strong as we are, and even stronger—these Selenites—why have they not
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