The Moon-Voyage

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE PRO­JEC­TILE COM­PART­MENT.

Af­ter the cel­ebrat­ed Columbi­ad was com­plet­ed pub­lic in­ter­est im­me­di­ate­ly cen­tred up­on the pro­jec­tile, the new ve­hi­cle des­tined to trans­port the three bold ad­ven­tur­ers across space. No one had for­got­ten that in his despatch of Septem­ber 30th Michel Ar­dan asked for a mod­ifi­ca­tion of the plans laid out by the mem­bers of the com­mit­tee.

Pres­ident Bar­bi­cane then thought with rea­son that the form of the pro­jec­tile was of slight im­por­tance, for, af­ter cross­ing the at­mo­sphere in a few sec­onds, it would meet with vac­uum. The com­mit­tee had there­fore cho­sen the round form, so that the ball might turn over and over and do as it liked. But as soon as it had to be made in­to a ve­hi­cle, that was an­oth­er thing. Michel Ar­dan did not want to trav­el squir­rel-​fash­ion; he wished to go up head up and feet down with as much dig­ni­ty as in the car of a bal­loon, quick­er of course, but with­out un­seem­ly gam­bols.

New plans were, there­fore, sent to the firm of Bread­will and Co., of Al­bany, with the rec­om­men­da­tion to ex­ecute them with­out de­lay. The pro­jec­tile, thus mod­ified, was cast on the 2nd of Novem­ber, and sent im­me­di­ate­ly to Stony Hill by the East­ern Rail­way.

On the 10th it ar­rived with­out ac­ci­dent at its place of des­ti­na­tion. Michel Ar­dan, Bar­bi­cane, and Nicholl await­ed with the most live­ly im­pa­tience this “pro­jec­tile com­part­ment” in which they were to take their pas­sage for the dis­cov­ery of a new world.

It must be ac­knowl­edged that it was a mag­nif­icent piece of met­al, a met­al­lur­gic pro­duc­tion that did the great­est hon­our to the in­dus­tri­al ge­nius of the Amer­icans. It was the first time that alu­mini­um had been ob­tained in so large a mass, which re­sult might be just­ly re­gard­ed as prodi­gious. This pre­cious pro­jec­tile sparkled in the rays of the sun. See­ing it in its im­pos­ing shape with its con­ical top, it might eas­ily have been tak­en for one of those ex­tin­guish­er-​shaped tow­ers that ar­chi­tects of the Mid­dle Ages put at the an­gles of their cas­tles. It on­ly want­ed loop­holes and a weath­er­cock.

“I ex­pect,” ex­claimed Michel Ar­dan, “to see a man armed _cap-​à-​pie_ come out of it. We shall be like feu­dal lords in there; with a lit­tle ar­tillery we could hold our own against a whole army of Se­len­ites--that is, if there are any in the moon!”

“Then the ve­hi­cle pleas­es you?” asked Bar­bi­cane.

“Yes, yes! cer­tain­ly,” an­swered Michel Ar­dan, who was ex­am­in­ing it as an artist. “I on­ly re­gret that its form is not a lit­tle more slen­der, its cone more grace­ful; it ought to be ter­mi­nat­ed by a met­al group, some Goth­ic or­na­ment, a sala­man­der es­cap­ing from it with out­spread wings and open beak.”

“What would be the use?” said Bar­bi­cane, whose pos­itive mind was lit­tle sen­si­tive to the beau­ties of art.

“Ah, friend Bar­bi­cane, I am afraid you will nev­er un­der­stand the use, or you would not ask!”

“Well, tell me, at all events, my brave com­pan­ion.”

“Well, my friend, I think we ought al­ways to put a lit­tle art in all we do. Do you know an In­di­an play called _The Child's Char­iot_?”

“Not even by name,” an­swered Bar­bi­cane.

“I am not sur­prised at that,” con­tin­ued Michel Ar­dan. “Learn, then, that in that play there is a rob­ber who, when in the act of pierc­ing the wall of a house, stops to con­sid­er whether he shall make his hole in the shape of a lyre, a flow­er, or a bird. Well, tell me, friend Bar­bi­cane, if at that epoch you had been his judge would you have con­demned that rob­ber?”

“With­out hes­ita­tion,” an­swered the pres­ident of the Gun Club, “and as a bur­glar too.”

“Well, I should have ac­quit­ted him, friend Bar­bi­cane. That is why you could nev­er un­der­stand me.”

“I will not even try, my valiant artist.”

“But, at least,” con­tin­ued Michel Ar­dan, “as the ex­te­ri­or of our pro­jec­tile com­part­ment leaves much to be de­sired, I shall be al­lowed to fur­nish the in­side as I choose, and with all lux­ury suit­able to am­bas­sadors from the earth.”

“About that, my brave Michel,” an­swered Bar­bi­cane, “you can do en­tire­ly as you please.”

But be­fore pass­ing to the agree­able the pres­ident of the Gun Club had thought of the use­ful, and the means he had in­vent­ed for less­en­ing the ef­fects of the shock were ap­plied with per­fect in­tel­li­gence.

Bar­bi­cane had said to him­self, not un­rea­son­ably, that no spring would be suf­fi­cient­ly pow­er­ful to dead­en the shock, and dur­ing his fa­mous prom­enade in Sker­snaw Wood he had end­ed by solv­ing this great dif­fi­cul­ty in an in­ge­nious fash­ion. He de­pend­ed up­on wa­ter to ren­der him this sig­nal ser­vice. This is how:--

The pro­jec­tile was to be filled to the depth of three feet with wa­ter des­tined to sup­port a wa­ter-​tight wood­en disc, which eas­ily worked with­in the walls of the pro­jec­tile. It was up­on this raft that the trav­ellers were to take their place. As to the liq­uid mass, it was di­vid­ed by hor­izon­tal par­ti­tions which the de­part­ing shock would suc­ces­sive­ly break; then each sheet of wa­ter, from the low­est to the high­est, es­cap­ing by valves in the up­per part of the pro­jec­tile, thus mak­ing a spring, and the disc, it­self fur­nished with ex­treme­ly pow­er­ful buffers, could not strike the bot­tom un­til it had suc­ces­sive­ly bro­ken the dif­fer­ent par­ti­tions. The trav­ellers would doubt­less feel a vi­olent re­coil af­ter the com­plete es­cape of the liq­uid mass, but the first shock would be al­most en­tire­ly dead­ened by so pow­er­ful a spring.

It is true that three feet on a sur­face of 541 square feet would weigh near­ly 11,500 lbs; but the es­cape of gas ac­cu­mu­lat­ed in the Columbi­ad would suf­fice, Bar­bi­cane thought to con­quer that in­crease of weight; be­sides, the shock would send out all that wa­ter in less than a sec­ond, and the pro­jec­tile would soon re­gain its nor­mal weight.

This is what the pres­ident of the Gun Club had imag­ined, and how he thought he had solved the great ques­tion of the re­coil. This work, in­tel­li­gent­ly com­pre­hend­ed by the en­gi­neers of the Bread­will firm, was mar­vel­lous­ly ex­ecut­ed; the ef­fect once pro­duced and the wa­ter gone, the trav­ellers could eas­ily get rid of the bro­ken par­ti­tions and take away the mo­bile disc that bore them at the mo­ment of de­par­ture.

As to the up­per sides of the pro­jec­tile, they were lined with a thick wadding of leather, put up­on the best steel springs as sup­ple as watch-​springs. The es­cape-​pipes hid­den un­der this wadding were not even seen.

All imag­in­able pre­cau­tions for dead­en­ing the first shock hav­ing been tak­en, Michel Ar­dan said they must be made of “very bad stuff” to be crushed.

The pro­jec­tile out­side was nine feet wide and twelve feet high. In or­der not to pass the weight as­signed the sides had been made a lit­tle less thick and the bot­tom thick­er, as it would have to sup­port all the vi­olence of the gas­es de­vel­oped by the de­fla­gra­tion of the py­rox­yle. Bombs and cylin­dro-​con­ical how­itzers are al­ways made with thick­er bot­toms.

The en­trance to this tow­er of met­al was a nar­row open­ing in the wall of the cone, like the “man-​hole” of steam boil­ers. It closed her­met­ical­ly by means of an alu­mini­um plate fas­tened in­side by pow­er­ful screw pres­sure. The trav­ellers could there­fore leave their mo­bile prison at will as soon as they had reached the Queen of Night.

But go­ing was not ev­ery­thing; it was nec­es­sary to see on the road. Noth­ing was eas­ier. In fact, un­der the wadding were four thick lentic­ular foot­lights, two let in­to the cir­cu­lar wall of the pro­jec­tile, the third in its low­er part, and the fourth in its cone. The trav­ellers could, there­fore, ob­serve dur­ing their jour­ney the earth they were leav­ing, the moon they were ap­proach­ing, and the con­stel­lat­ed spaces of the sky. These sky­lights were pro­tect­ed against the shocks of de­par­ture by plates let in­to sol­id grooves, which it was easy to move by un­screw­ing them. By that means the air con­tained in the pro­jec­tile could not es­cape, and it was pos­si­ble to make ob­ser­va­tions.

All these me­chan­ical ap­pli­ances, ad­mirably set, worked with the great­est ease, and the en­gi­neers had not shown them­selves less in­tel­li­gent in the ar­range­ment of the pro­jec­tile com­part­ment.

Lock­ers solid­ly fas­tened were des­tined to con­tain the wa­ter and pro­vi­sions nec­es­sary for the three trav­ellers; they could even pro­cure them­selves fire and light by means of gas stored up in a spe­cial case un­der a pres­sure of sev­er­al at­mo­spheres. All they had to do was to turn a tap, and the gas would light and warm this com­fort­able ve­hi­cle for six days. It will be seen that none of the things es­sen­tial to life, or even to com­fort, were want­ing. More, thanks to the in­stincts of Michel Ar­dan, the agree­able was joined to the use­ful un­der the form of ob­jects of art; he would have made a ver­ita­ble artist's stu­dio of his pro­jec­tile if room had not been want­ing. It would be mis­tak­en to sup­pose that three per­sons would be re­strict­ed for space in that met­al tow­er. It had a sur­face of 54 square feet, and was near­ly 10 feet high, and al­lowed its oc­cu­piers a cer­tain lib­er­ty of move­ment. They would not have been so much at their ease in the most com­fort­able rail­way com­part­ment of the Unit­ed States.

The ques­tion of pro­vi­sions and light­ing hav­ing been solved, there re­mained the ques­tion of air. It was ev­ident that the air con­fined in the pro­jec­tile would not be suf­fi­cient for the trav­ellers' res­pi­ra­tion for four days; each man, in fact, con­sumes in one hour all the oxy­gen con­tained in 100 litres of air. Bar­bi­cane, his two com­pan­ions, and two dogs that he meant to take, would con­sume ev­ery twen­ty-​four hours 2,400 litres of oxy­gen, or a weight equal to 7 lbs. The air in the pro­jec­tile must, there­fore, be re­newed. How? By a very sim­ple method, that of Messrs. Reiset and Reg­nault, in­di­cat­ed by Michel Ar­dan dur­ing the dis­cus­sion of the meet­ing.

It is known that the air is com­posed prin­ci­pal­ly of twen­ty-​one parts of oxy­gen and sev­en­ty-​nine parts of azote. Now what hap­pens in the act of res­pi­ra­tion? A very sim­ple phe­nomenon, Man ab­sorbs the oxy­gen of the air, em­inent­ly adapt­ed for sus­tain­ing life, and throws out the azote in­tact. The air breathed out has lost near­ly five per cent, of its oxy­gen, and then con­tains a near­ly equal vol­ume of car­bon­ic acid, the defini­tive prod­uct of the com­bus­tion of the el­ements of the blood by the oxy­gen breathed in it. It hap­pens, there­fore, that in a con­fined space and af­ter a cer­tain time all the oxy­gen of the air is re­placed by car­bon­ic acid, an es­sen­tial­ly dele­te­ri­ous gas.

The ques­tion was then re­duced to this, the azote be­ing con­served in­tact--1. To re­make the oxy­gen ab­sorbed; 2. To de­stroy the car­bon­ic acid breathed out. Noth­ing eas­ier to do by means of chlo­rate of potash and caus­tic potash. The for­mer is a salt which ap­pears un­der the form of white crys­tals; when heat­ed to a tem­per­ature of 400° it is trans­formed in­to chlo­rine of potas­si­um, and the oxy­gen which it con­tains is giv­en off freely. Now 18 lbs. of chlo­rate of potash give 7 lbs of oxy­gen--that is to say, the quan­ti­ty nec­es­sary to the trav­ellers for twen­ty-​four hours.

As to caus­tic potash, it has a great affin­ity for car­bon­ic acid mixed in air, and it is suf­fi­cient to shake it in or­der for it to seize up­on the acid and form bi­car­bon­ate of potash. So much for the ab­sorp­tion of car­bon­ic acid.

By com­bin­ing these two meth­ods they were cer­tain of giv­ing back to vi­ti­at­ed air all its life-​giv­ing qual­ities. The two chemists, Messrs. Reiset and Reg­nault, had made the ex­per­iment with suc­cess.

But it must be said the ex­per­iment had on­ly been made _in an­ima vili_. What­ev­er its sci­en­tif­ic ac­cu­ra­cy might be, no one knew how man could bear it.

Such was the ob­ser­va­tion made at the meet­ing where this grave ques­tion was dis­cussed. Michel Ar­dan meant to leave no doubt about the pos­si­bil­ity of liv­ing by means of this ar­ti­fi­cial air, and he of­fered to make the tri­al be­fore the de­par­ture.

But the hon­our of putting it to the proof was en­er­get­ical­ly claimed by J.T. Mas­ton.

“As I am not go­ing with you,” said the brave ar­tillery­man, “the least I can do will be to live in the pro­jec­tile for a week.”

It would have been un­gra­cious to refuse him. His wish was com­plied with. A suf­fi­cient quan­ti­ty of chlo­rate of potash and caus­tic potash was placed at his dis­po­si­tion, with pro­vi­sions for a week; then hav­ing shak­en hands with his friends, on the 12th of Novem­ber at 6 a.m., af­ter hav­ing ex­press­ly rec­om­mend­ed them not to open his prison be­fore the 20th at 6 p.m., he crept in­to the pro­jec­tile, the iron plate of which was her­met­ical­ly shut.

What hap­pened dur­ing that week? It was im­pos­si­ble to as­cer­tain. The thick­ness of the pro­jec­tile's walls pre­vent­ed any in­te­ri­or noise from reach­ing the out­side.

On the 20th of Novem­ber, at six o'clock pre­cise­ly, the plate was re­moved; the friends of J.T. Mas­ton were rather un­easy. But they were prompt­ly re­as­sured by hear­ing a joy­ful voice shout­ing a formidable hur­rah!

The sec­re­tary of the Gun Club ap­peared on the sum­mit of the cone in a tri­umphant at­ti­tude.

He had grown fat!