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 the 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 over-ruling 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 collision 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 with an 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!
“By all the names!” cried Captain Servadac. “Be quiet, Master Isaac, or I shall put you into irons!”
Isaac Hakkabut returned to his cave.
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!
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