On October 20, at nine o’clock in the morning, signal stations on the Straits of Florida reported thick smoke on the horizon. Two hours later, a big steamer exchanged recognition signals with them. The name of the Atlanta was immediately sent to Tampa. At four o’clock the English ship entered Tampa Bay. At five she steamed into the channel at full speed. At six she dropped anchor in the port of Tampa.
Before the anchor had bitten into the sandy bottom, the Atlanta was surrounded by five hundred boats and taken by storm. Barbicane was the first to step on board. He cried out in a voice whose emotion he tried to control:
“Michel Ardan!”
“Present!” replied a man standing on the poop deck.
With crossed arms, questioning eyes, and sealed lips, Barbicane scrutinized the Atlanta’s passenger.
He was a man of forty-two, tall but already a little round-shouldered, like those caryatids that hold balconies on their backs. He had a strong, leonine head, and he occasionally shook his mane of fiery hair. A short face, broad at the temples, a mustache that bristled like a cat’s whiskers, cheeks adorned with little tufts of yellowish hair, and round, distracted, rather nearsighted eyes completed that eminently feline physiognomy. But his nose was boldly drawn, his mouth was particularly humane, his forehead was high, intelligent, and furrowed like a field that never lies fallow. Finally, his well-developed torso firmly planted on a pair of long legs, his powerful, muscular arms, and his resolute bearing made him a vigorous, solidly built man, “forged rather than cast,” to borrow a phrase from the metallurgical art.
Disciples of Lavater or Gratiolet would easily have seen on his skull and face the incontestable signs of combativeness, that is, courage in danger and a tendency to break down obstacles. They would also have seen signs of kindness and a highly developed imagination, a faculty which inclines certain temperaments to have a passion for superhuman things. But the bumps of acquisitiveness, the need to possess and acquire, were totally lacking.
To finish describing his physical appearance, we must mention his loose, comfortable clothes, his shirt collar generously opened on his robust neck, and his invariably unbuttoned cuffs, from which his restless hands emerged. He gave the impression that, even in the middle of winter or at the peak of danger, he was never cold, and that he particularly never had cold feet.
On the deck of the steamer, in the midst of the crowd, he paced back and forth, never staying in one place, “dragging his anchor,” as the sailors said, gesticulating, speaking familiarly to everyone, and biting his nails with nervous avidity. He was one of those originals whom the Creator invents in a moment of whimsy, then immediately breaks the mold.
Michel Ardan’s personality offered a broad field to observation and analysis. He was unfailingly inclined to exaggeration and had not yet passed the age of superlatives. Objects were registered on his retina with inordinate dimensions, and this led to his associations of gigantic ideas. He saw everything bigger than natural, except difficulties and men.
He had a luxuriant nature; he was an artist by instinct, and a witty man who used sniper tactics rather than keeping up a running fire of clever remarks. In a discussion he cared little for logic and was hostile to the syllogism, which he would never have invented, but he had his own methods of attack. He was a master of the deadly ad hominem argument, and he liked to defend hopeless causes tooth and claw.
Among other idiosyncrasies, he proclaimed himself to be “sublimely ignorant,” like Shakespeare, and he professed to despise scientists and scholars, who were, he said, “people who do nothing but keep score while we play the game.” He was a Bohemian from Wonderland, adventurous but not an adventurer, a daredevil, a Phaëthon driving the sun chariot at breakneck speed; an Icarus with spare wings. He never shrank from personal risk, he threw himself into insane ventures with his eyes wide open, he burned his ships behind him with more enthusiasm than Agathocles, and, ready to break his neck at any time, he invariably landed on his feet, like those little wooden acrobats that children play with.
In two words, his motto was “Even so!” and love of the impossible was his ruling passion, to use Pope’s excellent expression.
But he also had the defects that went with his good qualities. Nothing ventured, nothing gained; he ventured often, but he still had little. He was a spendthrift, a wastrel. He was completely unselfish and obeyed his heart as often as he did his head. Obliging and chivalrous, he would not have signed the death warrant of his cruelest enemy, and he would have sold himself into slavery in order to free a slave.
In France and all over Europe, everyone knew that sparkling, noisy man. The hundred voices of fame had talked themselves hoarse about him. He lived in a glass house and confided his most intimate secrets to the whole world. He also had an admirable collection of enemies among those whom he had jostled, bruised, or mercilessly knocked down as he elbowed his way through the crowd.
Generally, however, he was liked and treated as a spoiled child. He had to be taken as he was or not at all, and he was taken. Everyone was interested in his bold ventures and watched him with concern. He was so recklessly daring! Whenever a friend tried to stop him by predicting imminent catastrophe, he would smile graciously and answer, “The forest is burned only by its own trees,” without realizing that he was quoting the prettiest of all Arab proverbs.
Such was Michel Ardan as he stood on the deck of the Atlanta, always agitated, always boiling from the heat of an inner fire, deeply excited, not about what he had come to do in America—he was not even thinking about it—but simply because of his feverish nervous system. If ever two men presented a striking contrast, it was the Frenchman Michel Ardan and the American Barbicane, though each was enterprising, bold, and daring in his manner.
Barbicane’s contemplation of that rival who had just thrust him into the background was interrupted by the cheers of the crowd. Their shouting became so frenzied, and their enthusiasm took such personal forms, that Michel Ardan, after having shaken a thousand hands at the risk of losing all his fingers, had to take refuge in his cabin.
Barbicane accompanied him without having said a word.
“You’re Barbicane?” Ardan asked as soon as they were alone together. His tone was the same as he would have used in speaking to a friend he had known for twenty years.
“Yes.”
“Then hello, Barbicane! How are you?”
“Are you determined to go through with it?” Barbicane asked without wasting time on preliminaries.
“Absolutely determined.”
“Nothing will make you change your mind?”
“Nothing. Have you altered your projectile the way I asked you to in my cablegram?”
“I was waiting for you to come … But tell me,” Barbicane said insistently, “have you thought it over carefully?”
“Thought it over? I can’t waste time on that. I’ve found a chance to visit the moon, I’m going to take it, and that’s all there is to it. I see no reason why I should think it over.”
Barbicane stared avidly at that man who spoke of his planned trip to the moon so lightly and casually, and with such a complete lack of anxiety.
“But you must at least have some definite plan in mind,” he said.
“Yes, I have an excellent plan. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather tell my story once and for all, to everyone, and never go into it again. That way, I won’t have to repeat myself. So let me ask you to summon your friends, your colleagues, the whole town, the whole state, the whole country if you like, and tomorrow I’ll be ready to describe my plan and answer any objections that may be raised. Don’t worry: I’ll be waiting for them with confidence. Does that suit you?”
“It does,” replied Barbicane.
He left the cabin and told the crowd about Ardan’s suggestion. His words were received with a joyous uproar. The arrangement would cut short all difficulty. The next day, everyone would be able to examine the European hero at leisure. Some of the more stubborn onlookers, however, refused t
o leave the deck of the Atlanta and spent the night on board. Among them was J. T. Maston, who had screwed his hook into the poop rail; it would have taken a winch to pull him loose.
“He’s a hero! A hero!” he shouted fervently. “We’re nothing but a bunch of old women compared to him!”
As for Barbicane, after having asked the visitors to leave he went back into Ardan’s cabin and stayed there till the ship’s bell struck midnight.
Then the two rivals in popularity warmly shook hands and Ardan bade Barbicane an affectionate good night.
CHAPTER 19
A MEETING
THE NEXT day the sun rose too late to suit the impatient public. They felt it was behaving sluggishly for a sun that was to illuminate such a great occasion. Fearing that Michel Ardan might be asked indiscreet questions, Barbicane would have liked him to limit the audience to a small number of informed people, to his colleagues, for example. It would have been easier to dam up Niagara Falls. He had to give up the idea and let his new friend run the risks of a public appearance. The main room of Tampa’s new stock exchange building was judged insufficient despite its colossal size, for the planned assembly was taking on the proportions of a mass meeting.
The place chosen was a vast plain outside the town. Within a few hours it was sheltered from the rays of the sun: the ships in the harbor, rich in sails, rigging, spare masts and yards, supplied the material for a gigantic tent. A canvas sky soon stretched over the baked earth and defended it against the attacks of the sun. Three hundred thousand people gathered under it and braved the stifling heat for several hours, waiting for the Frenchman to arrive. A third of the crowd could see and hear, another third could see little and hear nothing, and the final third could neither see nor hear, though they were no less eager to applaud.
At three o’clock Michel Ardan made his appearance, accompanied by the principal members of the Gun Club. On his right was Barbicane, and on his left was J. T. Maston, more radiant than the noonday sun. Ardan mounted the platform, from where he looked out over an ocean of black hats. He seemed quite relaxed and not at all embarrassed; he was gay, familiar, and amiable, as though he felt perfectly at home. He bowed gracefully to the cheers that greeted him. Then, after raising his hand to ask for silence, he began speaking in admirably correct English:
“Gentlemen, although it’s very hot I’m going to take up some of your time to tell you a few things about my plans, which apparently interest you. I’m neither an orator nor a scientist, and I wasn’t expecting to speak in public, but my friend Barbicane told me it would please you, so I’m glad to do it. Listen to me with your six hundred thousand ears and please excuse any mistakes I may make.”
The crowd liked this straightforward beginning. They expressed their appreciation by an immense murmur of satisfaction.
“Feel free to express your approval or disapproval in any way,” he went on. “First of all, you must bear in mind that you’re dealing with an ignorant man. But my ignorance is so vast that I’m even ignorant of difficulties. So it seemed to me a simple, natural, and easy matter to reserve passage in a projectile and go to the moon. It’s a trip that has to be made sooner or later. As for the means of making it, it simply follows the law of progress. Man began by traveling on all fours, then on two feet, then in a cart, then in a wagon, then in a carriage, then in a railroad car. And the vehicle of the future is the projectile. The planets themselves are merely projectiles, cannon balls set in motion by the hand of the Creator. But let’s come back to our vehicle. Some of you, gentlemen, may feel that the speed which will be given to it is excessive. That’s by no means true. All the heavenly bodies move faster. The earth is now carrying us three times as fast in its motion around the sun.
“Let me give you the speeds at which the various planets move. I must admit that, despite my ignorance, I know that little astronomical detail quite well; but within two minutes you’ll be as learned on the subject as I am. Neptune moves at the rate of 12,500 miles an hour; Uranus at 17,500; Saturn at 22,145; Jupiter at 29,190; Mars at 55,030; Earth at 68,750; Venus at 80,080; and Mercury at 131,300. Some comets have a velocity of 3,500,000 miles an hour at their perihelion! As for us in our projectile, we’ll be loafing along at a leisurely pace of only 24,400 miles an hour at the beginning, and our speed will be constantly decreasing! Is that anything to be excited about? Isn’t it obvious that all this will be surpassed some day by still greater speeds, whose mechanical agents will probably be light or electricity?”
No one seemed to have any doubt about the matter.
“If we’re to believe certain narrow-minded people—I don’t know what else to call them—mankind is enclosed in a circle from which there’s no escape, and doomed to vegetate on this globe without ever being able to soar into interplanetary space! It’s not true! We’re about to go to the moon, and someday we’ll go to the planets or the stars as easily and quickly as we now go from New York to Liverpool! The oceans of space will soon be crossed as the oceans of the earth are crossed today! Distance is only a relative term, and it will eventually be reduced to zero.”
Though strongly inclined in favor of the French hero, the crowd was a little taken aback by this daring theory. Ardan apparently sensed their reaction.
“You don’t seem convinced,” he said with a charming smile. “Well, let’s reason a little. Do you know how long it would take an express train to reach the moon? Three hundred days. That’s all. The distance is 214,000 miles, but what does that amount to? It’s less than nine times the circumference of the earth, and there’s no experienced sailor or traveler who hasn’t covered more distance than that in his life. Think of it: my trip will take only ninety-seven hours! You may think that the moon is far away and that a man ought to think twice before trying to go there, but what would you say if it were a question of going to Neptune, which moves in an orbit 2,867,500,000 miles from the sun! There’s a trip that not many people could afford to make, even if it cost only a dime a mile! Baron Rothschild himself, with his $200,000,000, would be $86,750,000 short of having enough to pay his fare, and would have to stay behind!”
This line of reasoning seemed to please the crowd greatly. Full of his subject, Michel Ardan threw himself into it with superb gusto; feeling that he was being avidly listened to, he continued with admirable self-assurance:
“Well, my friends, the distance from Neptune to the sun is nothing at all compared to the distances from here to the stars. To express those distances, we must enter that awesome realm where the smallest numbers have ten digits, and take the billion as our unit. Excuse me for being so well up on this subject, but it’s fascinating. Listen and judge for yourselves. Alpha Centauri is 20,000 billion miles away; Sirius 125,000 billion; Arcturus 130,000 billion; Polaris 292,000 billion; Capella 425,000 billion; and other stars are thousands, millions, and billions of billions of miles away! How can anyone even consider the wretched little distances that separate the planets from the sun? How can anyone even maintain that they exist? What an error! What an aberration of the senses! Do you know what I think of the world that begins with the sun and ends with Neptune? Would you like to know my theory? It’s quite simple. To me, the solar system is a solid, homogenous body; the planets that compose it touch, press against, and adhere to one another, and the space between them is only the space that separates the molecules of the most compact metals, such as silver, iron, gold, or platinum. I therefore have a right to maintain, and I repeat it with a conviction that will be communicated to all of you: ‘Distance’ is an empty word, distance does not exist!”
“Well said! Bravo! Hurrah!” cried the audience, electrified by his gestures, his tone, and the boldness of his concepts.
“No,” J. T. Maston said more forcefully than the others, “distance doesn’t exist!”
Carried away by the violence of his movements, by the impetus of his body, which he was scarcely able to control, he nearly fell off the platform. But he succeeded in catching his balance, thus avoiding a fall which wo
uld have brusquely proved to him that distance was not an empty word. Then the stirring speech continued:
“My friends, I think that question is settled now. If I haven’t convinced all of you, it’s because I’ve been timid in my demonstrations and weak in my arguments, and you’ll have to blame the insufficiency of my theoretical studies. Be that as it may, I repeat that the distance from the earth to the moon is truly unimportant and unworthy of preoccupying a serious mind. I don’t think I’m going too far in saying that in the near future there will be trains of projectiles in which one can travel comfortably from the earth to the moon. There will be neither collisions nor derailments to fear, and the passengers will reach their destination rapidly, without fatigue, in a straight line—as the crow flies, so to speak. Within twenty years, half the people on earth will have visited the moon!”
“Hurray! Hurrah for Michel Ardan!” cried his listeners, even the least convinced.
“Hurrah for Barbicane!” he replied modestly.
This expression of gratitude toward the promoter of the enterprise was greeted with unanimous applause.
“And now, my friends,” he said, “if you have any questions to ask, you’ll embarrass a poor man like me, of course, but I’ll try to answer them nevertheless.”
So far Barbicane had every reason to be satisfied with the direction the discussion had taken. It had dealt with speculative theories, in which Michel Ardan, carried along by his lively imagination, had made a brilliant impression. Barbicane felt he must prevent it from turning to practical matters because Ardan would probably make a much poorer showing in them. He hastened to ask him if he thought the moon or the planets were inhabited.