José Moselli: The Eternal Voyage; or, The Prospectors of Space

(1923)

 

 

I

 

Sitting at a table made of planks supported by two trestles, Professor Daniel Vorels, round-shouldered, with long graying hair, was checking his calculations once again. It was a long job.

Although it was only January, in the heart of winter, there was no fire in the grate. No shutters of the windows; not even curtains. No carpet on the worn and disjointed tiles. Everything in the room reeked of misery, the most complete deprivation.

The wallpaper was reduced to damp tatters, exposing the damp-soaked plaster to view. The ceiling had several yawning cracks. No furniture, except for that table and the staved-in wicker chair serving a scientist as a seat.

Against the walls, badly-planed wooden shelves were bending under the weight of enormous folio volumes and badly-stitched pamphlets.

Through the dirty, cracked windows, patched in places by strips of paper, the black sky, dotted with stars, could be made out, as if veiled by a fog.

Further away, the calm and shining sea.

Professor Daniel Vorels’ house—or, rather, hovel—was situated on one of the hills that overlooked Nice from the north-west: a peasant’s hut with crumbling walls.

Many years before, Daniel Vorels had owned a château in the region, with hundreds of hectares of land, and a numerous staff.

The land, the château and the fortune had all melted away. Daniel Vorels, physicist and astronomer, had commissioned telescopes built to his own design, incessantly modified, destroyed and replaced. He had imagined increasingly complicated instruments. He had sent long papers to various scientific societies throughout the world—merely to end up ruining himself and having himself treated as a madman and a maniac.

His two daughters had died of consumption and poverty. Presently, his wife was dying in the kitchen—a kitchen that also served as a bedroom.

Daniel Vorels had reserved one of the two rooms for himself—the one in which he was in the process of checking his calculations. He loved his wife, his life’s companion, but he preferred science to her.

The coughs and moans of the unfortunate woman broke the silence of the night intermittently and Daniel Vorels, disturbed in his meditations, made a movement of ferocious impatience: the impatience of the scientist for everything that is not science.

Abruptly, he got to his feet. His ravaged features, emaciated and hollowed out by deep wrinkles, stretched. His blue eyes shone with a pure and candid joy. His thin, colorless lips parted in a smile that uncovered the few yellow stumps that served him as teeth.

He brandished the crumpled pieced of paper covered with equations that he held in his fleshless and parchment-like hand.

“And it took sixty-eight years!” he murmured, in a discouraged tone. “If only...”

A louder choking sound resonated, drowning out his voice.

“Charlotte!” he exclaimed, bounding toward the door separating the two rooms.

He opened it and went into a little kitchen with smoky walls, in a corner of which a thin straw mattress was placed on the floor. On that meager bed, an old woman wrapped in two worn and frayed cotton blankets was coughing violently. A coarse tallow candle, set on the ground, illuminated her features—and the somersaults of the flame made fantastic shadows dance on that face, already marked by death.

The unfortunate woman was raised up on her elbows. Only her dark eyes were alive in her pale face. “Daniel!” she breathed, in a hoarse voice, while her fingernails raked the covers.

“Charlotte, my darling!” the old man cried, brandishing his piece of paper. “We’re going to be richer than Croesus…untold wealth that will make our fortune! I’ve redone my calculations! Do you hear? It’s really radium. The spectral analysis proves it. And the other invention is quite ready. Yesterday, I dispatched a lump of lead. Took off like a balloon! You hear? A month to construct the apparatus! Six days for the voyage, and we’ll come back with a kilogram of radium. Count up what that will bring, at a hundred thousand francs a gram…and that’s assuming less than half the market price. A hundred million! Do you hear? I’ll set aside half for your cousins. That leaves us fifty million. We can buy back the château, the land. You’ll be cared for, happy. And people will finally realize that I was right. Tomorrow, I’ll…oh!”

In his mental excitement, Daniel Vorels had ceased looking at his wife.

His eyes suddenly lowered toward her, and he saw that she had fallen backwards, inert, her eyes vitreous, her jaw distended—dead. While the companion of her existence was taking flight into new dreams, the old woman had left him forever.

“Charlotte!” cried the scientist, falling to his knees on the flagstones. “Charlotte! Listen!”

He grabbed his wife’s bony hands, and reality abruptly imposed itself upon him. Charlotte Vorels was dead. Two tears sprang from his reddened eyelids, burned by late nights and insomnia.

Gently, piously, he folded the old woman’s hands over her breast, kissed her forehead tenderly, and got to his feet.

“Everything has its price,” he murmured. “It’s fate that decided that I should experience the greatest grief of my existence today, at the same time as my greatest joy. Poor Charlotte!”

 

II

 

Nine o’clock in the morning had just sounded at Nice Cathedral. In spite of the winter chill, bright sunlight gilded the city.

An automobile—the latest model, all varnish and nickel—stopped in front of the William Olson Bank in the Avenue de Verdun.

William Olson, a fat bald man with yellow side-whiskers, green eyes bordered by flaccid bags, ruddy cheeks and a square jaw, leapt lightly on to the sidewalk, which he crossed in three strides.

Greeted by the doorman, he went across the great hall, where a few clients were already waiting, and plunged into his office. Having taken off his overcoat, he installed himself behind the vast mahogany desk and pulled the heap of papers constituting his mail toward him.

William Olson had principles. He wanted to see everything, read everything; he annotated the most unimportant letters and nothing left his bank without him applying his own signature to it.

Armed with a silver-bladed paper-knife, he began to open the letters piled in front of him. Almost immediately, however, the sound of voices and footsteps reached him through the padded door. He frowned, and pressed the ivory button of an electric bell fitted to his desk.

The door opened; a red-faced uniformed employee appeared. “Monsieur le Directeur,” he began, “there’s a sort of madman who...”

He did not finish. A tall, bare-headed old man sent him spinning against the desk, to which he had to cling on to prevent himself from falling.

“Madman! Me?” muttered the intruder, whose eyes were shining like hot coals. “That’s the last straw! Yes, Olson, it’s me. I have great news to tell you, and this imbecile tries to stop me getting to you. If you knew...”

William Olson was calm now. “That’s all right,” he said to the employee—who, having recovered his composure, was looking at him. “You can go.”

The man withdrew, more alarmed than ever.

“And now, Monsieur Vorels, what do you want?” the banker demanded, in a tone that was not very welcoming. “You know what I said to you. I’m sticking to it!”

“I haven’t come to ask you for anything,” Daniel Vorels assured him, sitting down casually in one of the comfortable leather armchairs facing the desk. “I’ve simply come to tell you that Madame Vorels, your cousin, died the day before yesterday, in the morning, and that I buried her yesterday evening.”

Olson frowned. “Died of poverty, eh? By your fault.”

“Perhaps. I haven’t come here to find out how you feel about me. Madame Vorels died of consumption. I tell you that in case you want to know the exact cause of your cousin’s death.”

The banker made a gesture, simultaneously evasive and interrogative. His expression was clearly asking the question: “What do you want with me, then?”

Daniel Vorels understood perfectly.

“I’ve come to make you a business proposal,” he explained. “Don’t look so disgusted. Hear me out. I’ll be brief. I’ve come to you because you know me and, if you accept, the matter can be settled more rapidly. If you don’t, I’ll go to see other capitalists.

“Here it is: my research, which I’ve been pursuing for more than forty years, have permitted me to determine the composition of the Sun and the Moon, thanks to the spectroscope. I’ve invented a new spectroscope of a sensitivity and precision compared to which Fraunhofer’s spectroscope is a child’s toy. I’ve thus been able to determine that the surface of the Moon is strewn with rare metals, including rubidium and thallium—which also exist, as you know, in the sun. Only one of those metals remained an enigma to me, because of the nature of the luminous rays it emits. The discovery of radium, and the spectral analysis of emitted by that metal, has proved to me that the unknown metal that exists on the surface of the Moon is none other than radium...

“There is a formidable deposit there, in a pure state. According to my calculations, there must be hundreds of tons, located in one of the protuberances—or craters, if you prefer—in the Sea of Clouds. The crater is designated by astronomers by the name of Ptolemy.

“Can you see the extraordinary speculation that one might make by going out there to fetch a kilogram or two of that radium?”

“I can see that you’re mad, Monsieur Vorels, and that you’re causing me to waste my time, which is precious,” said William Olson, tranquilly. “Let’s leave it at that, if you please.” He reached for the button of the electric bell.

“Precious as your time might be, you will, I suppose, allow me to finish?” the scientist replied, in the same tone. “I am mad, but not mad enough to talk about a deposit of radium on the Moon if I didn’t know a means of getting there easily. For that, it’s necessary to spend a hundred thousand francs, in all. And I’ll prove it to you.

“Are you familiar with the effect of light on selenium? Light has the property of attracting that metal, a property primarily utilized by toymakers to make little, extremely light windmills turn, the sails of which are coated with a selenium-based compound.

“I have discovered a metal—or, rather, an element—that possesses the property of being attracted to light like iron to a magnet. That metal exists in a colloidal state in certain plants—heliotropes, for example—and that is what explains why they invariably turn toward the sun. I won’t enter into further explanations because you wouldn’t understand. I’ve brought a little of my product with me. I’ll coat any object whatsoever, of your own choice, and you’ll see what will happen. Would you like to hand me that paperweight?”

Daniel Vorels pointed to the base of a nickel-plated shell set on the banker’s desk. Without saying a word, Olson nodded his head.

“Close the shutters, please,” the scientist ordered.

William Olson as so completely nonplussed that he obeyed, mechanically. The room was lunged into obscurity.

Thanks to the feeble light filtering through the slats of the shutters, the banker was able to see Daniel Vorels take a lead flask from his pocket, which he uncorked, and whose contents he poured over the paperweight. The object in question immediately emitted a phosphorescent glow so intense that the office was lit up by it, as if by an arc-lamp.

Vorels placed the object on the external windowsill.

“Open up,” he said. “And watch carefully!”

William Olson, excite in spite of his Anglo-Saxon phlegm, looked at the paperweight and saw it quiver, as if agitated by tremors. The banker lifted up the sash-window and opened the shutters.

He heard a whistling sound, as the paperweight, with the velocity of a stone launched by a slingshot, passed before his eyes and rose toward the ether, in the direction of the sun. Within an instant, it had disappeared.

“Am I mad?” Daniel Vorels demanded.

“No, no!” murmured William Olson, looking at the scientist with a hint of fear.

“Thank you. Well, if you don’t think I’m mad, perhaps we can make a deal. Radium is undoubtedly the only remedy against cancer and numerous skin diseases. It’s worth nearly two hundred thousand francs a gram. We’ll lower that price to ten thousand francs, and we’ll bring back ten kilograms—ten thousand grams—from the moon! That’s a hundred million francs. Half for you, the other half for me. I’ll distribute it to scientists myself…to scientists who aren’t members of Academies, to researchers…to madmen…that’s my business.

“I’ll give you the plans of the apparatus I’ve designed for going to the Moon. According to my calculations, it will take three days to get there, and a little less to come back. The apparatus consists of two concentric spheres; between them is a few thousand liters of glycerine, in which the interior sphere bathes. That glycerine will serve as a shock-absorber for the landing on Earth…and also on the Moon.66

“Two hermetically sealed doors, connected by a conduit, will permit entry to the apparatus and exit therefrom. One of the two men forming the crew of the machine will collect the radium, which exists in the state of a powder, and fill two lead bottles with it. That man will be equipped with a diving suit of my design, which will permit him to move while conserving his equilibrium in spite of the difference between the effects of gravity on the Earth and the Moon. He’ll be able to breathe by means of a cylinder of compressed air.

“The handling of the apparatus and its steering will be...”

Daniel Vorels interrupted himself. The door of the banker’s office opened to give passage to a tall young man, apparently about twenty-six years old—a veritable athlete, with his square shoulders, his enormous biceps and his jutting jaw.

“Hi, Pop!” he said, in a lazy voice, while negligently smoothing out a crease in his nut-brown waistcoat. “Hi, Mr. Vorels. I heard some of what you were saying about your little deal. You know, I’d quite like to go to the Moon. Ha ha! Usually, it’s bankers who do moonlight flits; now, it’ll be their sons. And you’ll cut me a slice of the cake, eh, Pop? Two or three little millions!”

Having pronounced these words in a vulgar drawl, Tom Olson let himself fall heavily into an armchair, whose springs groaned beneath him.

Without responding, Daniel Vorels looked the newcomer up and down. The latter presented the most perfect specimen of a playboy: cynicism, thirst for enjoyment and brutality mingled amiably in his clean-shaven face.

The scientist shrugged his shoulders. “It makes no difference to me,” he said, without bringing up the indiscretion committed by Tom Olson. “But if you come in on the deal, you have to promise to follow the instructions you’re given scrupulously. The success of the enterprise, and your life itself, will depend on it.”

“Oh, me, I’ll take any risk—won’t I, Pop?” the young man assured him.

“Let Monsieur Vorels speak,” said the banker, considering his son with pride and affection.

“I’ve finished,” the scientist declared. “The two spheres will be made of nickel-plated steel. Inside, electric lighting, provisions for ten days, a machine-gun for defense, in the unlikely event that the Moon is inhabited and the natives want to attack us. A sidereal compass, of my own invention, for navigation. And for steering apparatus, exterior segments permitting the mathematical regulation of the exposure of the surface coated with my product to luminous rays.

“Thanks to a little table I’ve drawn up, which will be fixed next to the controls, no error can be made. I’ve calculated the weight of the machine at different stages of the journey, while it’s submissive to the attraction of the Earth and then that of the Moon. The velocity will be such that the journey there and back can be completed in less than a week, in the absence of any untoward incident. The specific gravity of the apparatus, with its crew and its provisions, will be slightly less than that of sea-water, so that it will float if it happens to land in the ocean. According to my calculations, though, it will land in India, slightly to the north of the island of Ceylon, and, as the landing will take place in broad daylight in the tropical zone, the Sun’s rays should be sufficiently luminous to cancel out the effects of weight, which will permit a landing as gentle as possible. So...”

“I’m going, right, Pop?” Tom Olson, put in.

“You’re mad,” the banker complained, shrugging his shoulders violently. “Let us talk!”

“But since Mr. Vorels says that there’s no danger...”

“Leave us in peace! We’ll see! According to what you’ve just said, Monsieur Vorels, it seems to me that the affair is viable. The conditions suggested by you seem reasonable. But before signing, I’ll ask you for permission to have your plans and calculations examined by an expert: Professor Joachim Goats of the University of Cambridge, is in Nice at present. He....”

“I’m sure of myself!” Vorels cut in.

“I don’t doubt that—but business is business, and I’m risking my money. Besides, you’re not risking anything. I’ll give you a receipt for all your plans and calculations...”

“It’s just that I don’t have duplicates, and if they were lot, my entire life’s work would be annihilated!” Vorels protested.

“I’ll promise, on the receipt, to pay you ten million francs if a single one of the items you’ve given me is lost. Your papers won’t leave my office and will be locked in my safe. Go and fetch them, then, and come back. We’ll draw up a contract today. I’ll telephone Professor Goats. He’s at the Imperial Palace.”

Daniel Vorels got to his feet. He looked at the banker and his son, with an imperceptible hesitation. The idea that his work would be submitted to the criticism of one of the official scientists that he detested was extremely disagreeable to him, but a rapid reflection convinced him of the uselessness of any protest. Any businessman he approached would want to be sure, before making a deal, of the efficacy of his calculations and his formulas.

“Agreed,” he said. “I’ll be here this afternoon.”

He shook hands with the father and son and went out.

William Olson and his son exchanged smiles. The banker’s was slightly cynical.

“Tall stories, eh, Pop?” Tom sniggered.

“No—it’s serious. He carried out an experiment in front of me that…but it will be a pity if that madman benefits from the affair...”

“Sure! But you’ll let me go up there, won’t you, Pop? It’ll set me up.”

“That depends on what Goats says. I have every confidence in him. If there’s no danger, you can go; otherwise, we’ll send some poor hero. Remember that you’re all I have, my boy. Come on—give me a hug!”

“You, know, Pop, I was going…I came to ask you for a few sous. I got cleaned out last night in Monte Carlo—a run of bad luck. Five hundred louis should suffice,”

William Olson suppressed a slight grimace, which concluded with a smile in which pride and affection were mingled. “You’re a naughty boy, Tom,” was all that he murmured.

 

III

 

At three o’clock that afternoon, Daniel Vorels returned to the bank. Orders had been given. He had no obstacles to overcome this time in order to get to William Olson.

“Do you have the papers?” the banker asked, as soon as the clerk had closed the door behind Vorels.

“Yes—all of them. The spectral analyses of the lunar region where the radium is; analyses made at different times, always identical; the experiments carried out with the aid of siderite...”

“Siderite?”

“Yes—the product attracted by light. These experiments prove that siderite is sensitive to the action of any light source. That produced by the Moon will suffice, if it’s utilized according to my indications. Here, finally, are the plans and schematics for the apparatus that will permit the Moon to be reached in three days. I’ve determine the exact mass of the machine, including the crew and equipment, the coefficients of resistance of the metal, and the mechanism permitting the external screens to be maneuvered. And here are the blueprints of my sidereal compass, permitting navigation in space without any calculation, taking account of the simultaneous motion of the Earth and the Moon. I’ve also brought the plans and description of my protective suit. You shall see.”

Having emptied a stout, scarred and frayed moleskin document-case on to the desk, taking out the various files that he had placed in front of the banker, whose contents he had identified, the scientist said: “That’s all. Nothing missing.”

“Thank you,” said William Olson. “If you care to remind me once again of the numbers of the files, with the list of items that they contain, I’ll write them down. That will permit me to give you a detailed receipt, in which your intentions will be minutely described; that way, you won’t have any surprise to fear. I like to do things correctly. I’ll sign and date it. You won’t need to come back for three days—just long enough to allow Professor Goats to examine your formulas rapidly. If, as I’m convinced, they’re viable, I’ll pay you a hundred thousand francs by way of an advance and give you carte blanche to begin the construction of the apparatus. Is that all right?”

“Yes—except that I want it stipulated that I will take part in the expedition. I’m ready to die, but I’m curious to see for myself whether certain hypotheses I’ve formulated concerning the nature of the lunar soil are correct, and...”

“You want to make the voyage?” the banker exclaimed.

“Yes. I’m absolutely set on it. You can choose the second voyager—that’s a matter of indifference to me.”

“But…you’re old! Oh, I believe that you’re in good health and likely to live for a long time, but, after all…if you had a heart attack or a stroke…fell ill…at your age, anything is possible. You understand?”

“Yes, but what does it matter? Thanks to the explanations I shall give you, and the tables attached to the interior of the machine, my companion would still be able to carry out the necessary maneuvers, which are quite simple and easy. I shall merely be a passenger, so to speak.”

William Olson gave a slight shrug. “As you wish!” he agreed. “Now, let’s get started. Would you care to dictate to me, and go swiftly—I’m used to taking rapid notes.”

Daniel Vorels bowed. Methodically, with careful gestures, he brought out his schematics, plans and formulas one after another, omitting nothing, specifying the nature of each document. There were a great many!

It was after five o’clock in the evening, and the banker had switched on the electric light some time before, when the inventory was finally concluded. William Olson read it back, collating each item, finished his list and signed it.

“We’re in accord!” he concluded. “Now I’ll give you a document in which all our conditions will be set out; fifty per cent each of the products of the expedition, whatever they might be. All expenses my exclusive responsibility, up to a hundred thousand francs. That’s all right?”

“Yes, and the absolute right for me to make the voyage,” the scientist insisted.

“Naturally,” said Olson, smiling.

He drew up the receipt, signed it, added the bank’s stamp, and pinned the list of papers to it. “There!” he said. “Do you need any money now?”

“No, thank you. I still have thirty francs. That’s more than I need for three days.” With these words, Daniel Vorels shook the banker’s hand and went out. William Olson followed him with a cynical gaze.

An hour later, the old scientist had returned to his hovel. Although it was dark, he did not light any source of illumination. He did not have any, having burned his last candle to maintain a vigil over his wife’s body. He had nothing to eat. It was pride that had made him tell the banker that he had money. He did not have a centime.

He let himself fall on to the mattress that had served as Charlotte’s death-bed and, with his eyes half-closed, sank into a long reverie. In spite of his impatience to see his life’s work take on substance, he waited for the third day to return to the bank.

Finally, the longed-for moment arrived.

“Monsieur William Olson is away!” the clerk replied, looking him up and down scornfully.

“But he told me that…he…he’s expecting me!” the unfortunate man stammered, unable to believe his ears. “He must have given instructions.”

“He hasn’t left anything. And you’d better clear the floor, old man! That’s all you can do!” the clerk advised, charitably.

Daniel Vorels stiffened. “Oh, but this is shameful. It’s a mistake! I’m Daniel Vorels, and I agreed with...”

The door of the antechamber of the room where this scene was taking place opened abruptly, and Tom Olson appeared, frowning, his eyes hostile, an ominous snigger twisting his clean-shaven lips.

“What’s all this noise?” he demanded, pretending not to see Vorels.

“It’s…this man, who wants to see Monsieur le Directeur, even though I’ve told him that Monsieur le Directeur is away!”

“Well, my man, you’ll have to go—my father isn’t here,” said Tom Olson, simply.

The old scientist started in protest. “What! But, Tom—don’t you recognize me? I’m Daniel Vorels, who…who...”

“Daniel Vorels? Don’t know him. You’ll have to write to my father—he’ll reply if there’s any need.”

“But…but…I came here three days ago—you know that very well, Tom. You were here, and...”

“Are you mad, friend? Go on, get out—or I’ll teach you to come and play the fool in a respectable place of business! Simon! Throw this pilgrim out for me, and in future, don’t let this kind of vagabond in, all right?”

Stupefied and indignant, Daniel Vorels could make no reply. The employee, profiting from his distress, seized him by the shoulders and shoved him brutally out into the street.

Overwhelmed, Daniel Vorels remained motionless for a few seconds, open-mouthed, his tall thin body quivering.

Eventually, he calmed down. Already, passers-by were staring at him. He understood that he was being taken for a madman, and succeeded in getting control of himself.

“Fortunately, I have the papers,” he murmured. “I won’t allow myself to be robbed like this.”

Forgetting his fatigue and his weakness, he headed for his miserable dwelling. He reached it, lifted up the mattress under which he had hide the portfolio containing the inventory of the papers handed over to the banker and the draft of the contract signed by the latter.

The portfolio was empty.

As if struck by lightning, Daniel Vorels collapsed on to the mattress.

He had been robbed. All his hopes, the fruit of his entire life’s work, the results for which he had ruined his family, caused the death of his children and his wife, had been wiped out.

 

IV

 

For nearly five months, the newspapers had been taking about nothing but Joachim Goats’ lunar expedition. First, short articles had appeared announcing that Dr. Joachim Goats of the University of Cambridge had invented a marvelous machine that, thanks to the utilization of light, had succeeded in conclusively vanquishing the laws of gravity.

Naturally, innumerable letters had come to the professor from the four corners of the world; he had limited himself to replying that he deplored the indiscretion, that the information was true but that his discovery had not yet been perfected.

A few weeks had passed. Then Joachim Goats had announced that the work was complete, and that, thanks to the generosity of an English Maecenas, he was about to utilize his discovery to construct an apparatus designed to explore the Moon.

That news had been greeted with unanimous incredulity. Joachim Goats’ colleagues had assured him that the idea was an unrealizable chimera; others had quietly insinuated that Joachim Goats, by dint of looking at the stars, must have lost contact with material reality—in brief, that he must be a trifle deranged…or, to put it another way, mad.

Interviews had appeared ridiculing Joachim Goats’ project; jokes were made about the scientist in music hall revues; actresses had made entire audiences laugh at the expense of the man who wanted to go to the Moon. Songwriters got mixed up in it.

In brief, no one had taken the scientist seriously, some because they were jealous of him, others out of ignorance, the great majority, as usual, by virtue of snobbery.

People do not like novelties or innovations. Now, it was accepted that it was impossible to go to the Moon. Thus, anyone who talked about doing so was a lunatic. If America had not been discovered and Christopher Columbus came back in the twentieth century, he would have had great difficulty finding the money to equip his vessels. Some people would have made fun of him, others would have taken him for a mere swindler.

Joachim Goats, however, let people say what they wished. He did not even deign to protest.

The newspapers had tried to make him reveal the name of his generous Maecenas—that innocent fool, it was whispered—but in vain.

And the weeks had passed. Joachim Goats had disappeared.

He had simply gone to the north of Scotland. There, on a high mountain in the county of Sutherland, a minuscule construction-yard had been set up, not far from Loch Shin. Thirty specialists carefully chosen from the principal nations of the world—particularly Germany, England and the United States—had been put to work: engineers, physicists, mechanics and electricians. A few steelworkers helped them to construct the mysterious apparatus designed by Daniel Vorels.

While this work was being carried out under the direction of Joachim Goats, building the two concentric spheres separated by a layer of glycerine, an expedition comprising twenty botanists had been traveling though equatorial Africa gathering supplies of certain plants described by Daniel Vorels, the sap of which, distilled by special procedures and added to colloidal metals, would form the mysterious siderite that was so sensitive to light.

Joachim Goats had personally supervised the distillation of these plants, and had thus manufactured a supply of siderite adequate to coat the external sphere of the lunar apparatus completely. Experiments he had carried out had proved, without any possible doubt, the Daniel Vorels’ formulas were sound. Several objects, coated with siderite by Goats, had risen up and disappeared into the sky, toward the Sun or toward the Moon.

And the weeks had gone by.

One morning, William Olson, who had stayed in Nice, had received a coded telegram, which he had been expecting for some time. The apparatus was ready. In five days’ time, the Moon would be in the most favorable position, relative to the Earth, for the success of the adventurous voyage.

William Olson had taken the express, and within forty-eight hours had arrived in Inverness, from which he had traveled to Ben Kilbreck.

The same day, the newspapers, not merely of the United Kingdom but of the entire world, published the following note, eloquent in its laconism:

Sir William Olson and Professor Joachim Goats announce that, within forty-eight hours, at five o’clock in the morning on the day after tomorrow, the apparatus invented by Joachim Goats and financed by William Olson will leave the Earth for a short voyage to study the surface of the Moon. It will be piloted by Joachim Goats in person, assisted by the well-known sportsman Tom Olson, the son of William Olson. The point of departure is situated on Ben Kilbreck, near Helmsdale in the county of Sutherland.

That was all, but it was enough.

From everywhere in Europe, thousands of curiosity-seekers, skeptics and envious individuals, raced toward the north of Scotland. Trains, boats and automobiles converged on the county of Sutherland. Special trains had to be put on. Traffic was jammed on several of the major roads of Great Britain. Hundreds of aircraft, chartered at fabulous prices, plowed through the skies. There were seven accidents on the railway, dozens of people crushed by automobiles and two airplane collisions.

Journalists flocked to Ben Kilbreck in hundreds—and the stories sent by the first reporters to arrive in Scotland increased the curiosity of the entire world.

Scientists—the very ones who had ridiculed Joachim Goats’ invention—let it be known that, after all, nothing was impossible for human beings, and that, personally, they would not be astonished…that they had always predicted…that science had limitless possibilities...

In sum, the individuals in question gave evidence of a prudent opportunism.

One last detail: numerous tradesmen installed themselves on the slopes of Ben Kilbreck, erecting tents and setting up benches and tables, and posting prices: ten pounds sterling per night to sleep in a hammock, three pounds for breakfast, six for lunch!

Commerce never surrenders its entitlements.

 

V

 

The departure of the Britannia—as William Olson, a patriot above all else, had baptized the machine—was to take place at five o’clock in the morning, which was two hours after sunrise, for it was the middle of summer, and the nights are very short at that time of year in the north of Scotland.

Needless to say, the hundreds of curiosity-seekers gathered for the occasion had not slept at all that night.

On the slopes of the surrounding mountains, in the valleys, amid the heather and the gorse, the ground disappeared under a veritable human sea that spread out, with currents like those of the ocean, and as just as noisy. At intervals, there were automobiles, like little islets, whose owners were perched on their roofs. Cries, howls, murmurs and appeals, including whistle-blasts, formed a confused rumor like that of surf.

On the vast rocky esplanade forming the top of Ben Kilbreck, platforms had been set up. They were plastered with Britannic flags and formed three sides of a square, facing north, west and south respectively. The direction of the Orient had been left free, because that was the one in which the Britannia would be taking off. The apparatus was standing in the center of the square, maintained in equilibrium by a light wooden framework. At its summit, the circular hatchway was visible that would permit the voyagers in space to take their places inside.

A kind of carapace, formed by mobile segments around a common axis, made of pieces of black-painted canvas, covered the sphere. By maneuvering thee segments from inside the machine, a greater or lesser extent of the sphere’s surface could be exposed to the light, which thus permitted its velocity and direction to be regulated.

A light bamboo ladder was leaning against the apparatus. At the foot of the ladder a group of five individuals had gathered: William Olson, his son Tom, Professor Joachim Goats, and two gentlemen in black suits: the Under-Secretary of State for Aeronautics, Sir Archibald Munro, and the Minister of War, General Lord Algernon Kimball. They were talking in low voices, seemingly impassive. From time to time, Joachim Goats, a stout clean-shaven man in gold-rimmed spectacles, consulted his chronometer.

Tom Olson was radiant. He had had difficulty obtaining his father’s permission to undertake the adventurous voyage, and had ended up overcoming the banker’s resistance by force of insistence, and also by remarking that, in order to harvest the radium, it was better, for reasons of prudence, that a member of the Olson family should be present. It is necessary to expect anything. Joachim Goats was an honest man, to be sure, but it was better to make sure that he would be obliged to be. William Olson allowed himself to be convinced.

Tom, clad in a warm aviation-costume, affected a detached air, although he was rather anxious; he was thinking about the perils of the voyage and wondering whether he would come back. It would not have taken much insistence for him to renounce his part in it. He darted clandestine glances at the pale sky into which he was about to plunge.

William Olson was even more anxious that he was. Bandit as he was, the banker knew no pity or scruple, but he had one weakness: his son. He loved him with a savage affection, and would have set fire to the world in order to boil him an egg. At present, he was bitterly regretting having authorized him to go, but everything was settled. The ministers were there; the entire world knew that Tom Olson was about to launch into the ether. It was impossible to back out.

The Minister of War exchanged glances with Professor Joachim Goats. A few more minutes...

In spite of his sixty years, Lord Algernon Kimball slowly climbed up on a small podium draped with the Union Jack. Silence fell instantaneously.

In a curt and harsh voice, General Kimball delivered a eulogy to British science, British courage and British generosity:

“Not only have the English explored and colonized the world,” he said, “but now they are going to explore the Moon. This apparatus has been invented by an English scientist, and constructed by English engineers with English capital. It is crewed by Englishmen!

“I have no commentary to add. England, which has always been the foremost of the civilized nations, will be the first to explore interplanetary space. Thanks to the generosity of William Olson and the science of Joachim Goats, new possibilities will be opened up for our industrialists, our unemployed, our emigrants and our businessmen.

“The future of England is opening up, more brilliantly than ever. Either the Moon is inhabited, which will allow us to trade with it, or it is deserted, in which case we shall colonize it, like Australia.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I have the great honor to have been charged by His Gracious Majesty to announce to William Olson his elevation to the dignity of Companion of the Order of the Bath, and to Professor Goats his elevation to a baronetcy! Ladies and Gentlemen, three cheers in honor of Old England, and its intrepid voyagers!”

A tempest of cheers burst forth, and lasted for several minutes, prolonged by surrounding echoes. William Olson had paled slightly. His appointment to the Order of the Bath put a lid on his life’s ambition. He was ennobled—him! And he was about to make millions! Everything was smiling on him.

The memory of Daniel Vorels imposed itself upon his mind for half a second. “Imbecile!” he thought, with all sincerity.

But Joachim Goats looked at his chronometer one last time. The moment of departure...

An energetic handshake, an accolade, and the professor slowly climbed the steps of the bamboo ladder leaning against the apparatus.

“Goodbye, Pop!” murmured a voice, rendered anxious by the thought of the perils that its owner was about to run.

“God protect you. Son!” said the banker, forcing himself to remain calm. Look after yourself—no imprudence! Listen to the professor! I’ve given him my recommendations. You will pay attention, won’t you? And come back safely. You…see you soon, Tom! See you soon!”

People watched them in respectful silence. They drew apart.

Tom Olson marched to the ladder. He turned round to look at his father one last time, and climbed up with the tread of a condemned man mounting the scaffold. One last glance at the blue sky and the Scottish mountains, and Tom Olson disappeared inside the sphere.

The ladder was removed. A slight grating sound within the reigning silence; from inside the machine, the voyagers were closing the hatch. The metal lid descended.

A long minute went by.

Several of the segments covering the sphere slid over one another, uncovering a smooth, polished surface that seemed incandescent. There was a sort of hoarse whistling sound; the sphere pivoted slightly in its wooden cradle, and shot away into the blue, as if drawn by a formidable invisible magnet.

It remained visible for a few seconds, climbing with vertiginous rapidity. It dwindled, and finally disappeared.

It was only then that the cheers resounded again.

 

VI

 

After a few hours rest in Inverness, William Olson had departed for Nice, where he spent the entire year.

“Someone telephoned several times today for Monsieur le Directeur,” his secretary told him. as soon as he returned to the bank, “but the person in question didn’t want to leave his name.”

“No matter!” said Olson. For the moment, his bank was a matter of indifference to him. He had but one thought: the Britannia, which would bring him back his son, ad a few kilograms of radium…worth millions...

He installed himself behind his vast desk and started opening his mail, but without taking any interest in the task. He had scarcely opened half a dozen letters when the telephone set in front of him rang.

He put the receiver to his ear—and went pale. He had recognized the voice of Daniel Vorels.

“Hello? Is that really Monsieur William Olson with whom I’m in communication? Don’t hang up. This will interest you.

“As I had counted on piloting the apparatus whose plans you stole from me myself. I didn’t mention to you that the coating of siderite can only last for four days at the most—which is to say, enough to reach the Moon. I intended to take a supply with me, in order to replace the coating once I had arrived on the Moon’s surface.

“Naturally, Professor Goats hasn’t thought of that—which will ensure that the Britannia cannot and will not return. As for the formula for siderite, it no longer exists. Prudently, you and Professor Goats, that thief, didn’t want to have any copies made…and I’ve joined your school.

“I’ve been to Scotland. I introduced myself into your camp, and I succeeded in stealing the formula of siderite, which I destroyed. As the product was already prepared, you had no more need of the papers. They no longer exist. That cost me the few sous I got from the sale of my miserable hovel. I’m avenged...”

Haggard and open-mouthed, William Olson heard the metallic click indicating that his interlocutor had hung up.

He remained motionless for a few seconds, listening, as if he were expecting further explanations.

Suddenly, the blood rushed to his brain; he uttered a howl like a wild beast, and collapsed on his desk, felled by apoplexy.

The Britannia never came back.

No more was ever heard of Daniel Vorels.

William Olson is still alive, a resident in a lunatic asylum.