Across the Zodiac (3 page)

"This," said my friend, opening the volume, "is a manuscript which was
contained in this case when I took it from among the debris of the
crater. I should have told you that I found there what I believed to
be fragments of human flesh and bone, but so crushed and mangled that
I could form no positive conclusion. My next care was to escape from
the island, which I felt sure lay far from the ordinary course of
merchant vessels. A boat which had brought me ashore—the smaller of
the two belonging to the ship—had fortunately been left on the end of
the island furthest from that on which the vessel had been driven, and
had, owing to its remoteness, though damaged, not been fatally injured
by the shock. I repaired this, made and fixed a mast, and with no
little difficulty contrived to manufacture a sort of sail from strips
of bark woven together. Knowing that, even if I could sustain life on
the island, life under such circumstances would not be worth having, I
was perfectly willing to embark upon a voyage in which I was well
aware the chances of death were at least as five to one. I caught and
contrived to smoke a quantity of fish sufficient to last me for a
fortnight, and filled a small cask with brackish but still drinkable
water. In this vessel, thus stored, I embarked about a fortnight after
the day of the mysterious shock. On the second evening of my voyage I
was caught by a gale which compelled me to lower the sail, and before
which I was driven for three days and nights, in what direction I can
hardly guess. On the fourth morning the wind had fallen, and by noon
it was a perfect calm. I need not describe what has been described by
so many shipwrecked sailors,—the sufferings of a solitary voyager in
an open boat under a tropical sun. The storm had supplied me with
water more than enough; so that I was spared that arch-torture of
thirst which seems, in the memory of such sufferers, to absorb all
others. Towards evening a slight breeze sprang up, and by morning I
came in sight of a vessel, which I contrived to board. Her crew,
however, and even her captain, utterly discredited such part of my
strange story as I told them. On that point, however, I will say no
more than this: I will place this manuscript in your hands. I will
give you the key to such of its ciphers as I have been able to make
out. The language, I believe, for I am no scholar, is Latin of a
mediæval type; but there are words which, if I rightly decipher them,
are not Latin, and hardly seem to belong to any known language; most
of them, I fancy, quasi-scientific terms, invented to describe various
technical devices unknown to the world when the manuscript was
written. I only make it a condition that you shall not publish the
story during my life; that if you show the manuscript or mention the
tale in confidence to any one, you will strictly keep my secret; and
that if after my death, of which you shall be advised, you do publish
it, you will afford no clue by which the donor could be confidently
identified."

"I promise," said I. "But I should like to ask you one question. What
do you conceive to have been the cause of the extraordinary shock you
felt and of the havoc you witnessed? What, in short, the nature of the
occurrence and the origin of the manuscript you entrust to my care?"

"Why need you ask me?" he returned. "You are as capable as myself of
drawing a deduction from what I have told you, and I have told you
everything, I believe, that could assist you. The manuscript will tell
the rest."

"But," said I, "an actual eye-witness often receives from a number of
little facts which he cannot remember, which are perhaps too minute to
have been actually and individually noted by him, an impression which
is more likely to be correct than any that could be formed by a
stranger on the fullest cross-questioning, on the closest examination
of what remains in the witness's memory. I should like to hear, before
opening the manuscript, what you believe to have been its origin.

"I can only say," he answered, "that what must be inferred from the
manuscript is what I had inferred before I opened it. That same
explanation was the only one that ever occurred to me, even in the
first night. It then seemed to me utterly incredible, but it is still
the only conceivable explanation that my mind can suggest."

"Did you," asked I, "connect the shock and the relics, which I presume
you know were not on the island before the shock, with the meteor and
the strange obscuration of the sun?"

"I certainly did," he said. "Having done so, there could be but one
conclusion as to the quarter from which the shock was received."

The examination and transcription of the manuscript, with all the help
afforded me by my friend's previous efforts, was the work of several
years. There is, as the reader will see, more than one
hiatus valde
deflendus
, as the scholiasts have it, and there are passages in
which, whether from the illegibility of the manuscript or the
employment of technical terms unknown to me, I cannot be certain of
the correctness of my translation. Such, however, as it is, I give it
to the world, having fulfilled, I believe, every one of the conditions
imposed upon me by my late and deeply regretted friend.

The character of the manuscript is very curious, and its translation
was exceedingly difficult. The material on which it is written
resembles nothing used for such purposes on Earth. It is more like a
very fine linen or silken web, but it is far closer in texture, and
has never been woven in any kind of loom at all like those employed in
any manufacture known to history or archaeology. The letters, or more
properly symbols, are minute, but executed with extraordinary
clearness. I should fancy that something more like a pencil than a
pen, but with a finer point than that of the finest pencil, was
employed in the writing. Contractions and combinations are not merely
frequent, but almost universal. There is scarcely an instance in which
five consecutive letters are separately written, and there is no
single line in which half a dozen contractions, often including from
four to ten letters, do not occur. The pages are of the size of an
ordinary duodecimo, but contain some fifty lines per page, and perhaps
one hundred and fifty letters in each line. What were probably the
first half dozen pages have been utterly destroyed, and the next half
dozen are so mashed, tattered, and defaced, that only a few sentences
here and there are legible. I have contrived, however, to combine
these into what I believe to be a substantially correct representation
of the author's meaning. The Latin is of a monastic—sometimes almost
canine—quality, with many words which are not Latin at all. For the
rest, though here and there pages are illegible, and though some
symbols, especially those representing numbers or chemical compounds,
are absolutely undecipherable, it has been possible to effect what I
hope will be found a clear and coherent translation. I have condensed
the narrative but have not altered or suppressed a line for fear of
offending those who must be unreasonable, indeed, if they lay the
offence to my charge.

One word more. It is possible, if not likely, that some of those
friends of the narrator, for whom the account was evidently written,
may still be living, and that these pages may meet their eyes. If so,
they may be able to solve the few problems that have entirely baffled
me, and to explain, if they so choose, the secrets to which,
intentionally or through the destruction of its introductory portion,
the manuscript affords no clue.

I must add that these volumes contain only the first section of the
MS. record. The rest, relating the incidents of a second voyage and
describing another world, remains in my hands; and, should this part
of the work excite general attention, the conclusion will, by myself
or by my executors, be given to the public. Otherwise, on my death, it
will be placed in the library of some national or scientific
institution.

... For obvious reasons, those who possessed the secret of the
Apergy
[1]
had never dreamed of applying it in the manner I proposed.
It had seemed to them little more than a curious secret of nature,
perhaps hardly so much, since the existence of a repulsive force in
the atomic sphere had been long suspected and of late certainly
ascertained, and its preponderance is held to be the characteristic of
the gaseous as distinguished from the liquid or solid state of matter.
Till lately, no means of generating or collecting this force in large
quantity had been found. The progress of electrical science had solved
this difficulty; and when the secret was communicated to me, it
possessed a value which had never before belonged to it.

Ever since, in childhood, I learnt that the planets were worlds, a
visit to one or more of the nearest of them had been my favourite
day-dream. Treasuring every hint afforded by science or fancy that
bore upon the subject, I felt confident that such a voyage would be
one day achieved. Helped by one or two really ingenious romances on
this theme, I had dreamed out my dream, realised every difficulty,
ascertained every factor in the problem. I had satisfied myself that
only one thing needful was as yet wholly beyond the reach and even the
proximate hopes of science. Human invention could furnish as yet no
motive power that could fulfil the main requirement of the
problem—uniform or constantly increasing motion
in vacuo
—motion
through a region affording no resisting medium. This must be a
repulsive
energy capable of acting through an utter void. Man,
animals, birds, fishes move by repulsion applied at every moment. In
air or water, paddles, oars, sails, fins, wings act by repulsion
exerted on the fluid element in which they work. But in space there is
no such resisting element on which repulsion can operate. I needed a
repulsion which would act like gravitation through an indefinite
distance and in a void—act upon a remote fulcrum, such as might be
the Earth in a voyage to the Moon, or the Sun in a more distant
journey. As soon, then, as the character of the apergic force was made
known to me, its application to this purpose seized on my mind.
Experiment had proved it possible, by the method described at the
commencement of this record, to generate and collect it in amounts
practically unlimited. The other hindrances to a voyage through space
were trivial in comparison with that thus overcome; there were
difficulties to be surmounted, not absent or deficient powers in
nature to be discovered. The chief of these, of course, concerned the
conveyance of air sufficient for the needs of the traveller during the
period of his journey. The construction of an air-tight vessel was
easy enough; but however large the body of air conveyed, even though
its oxygen should not be exhausted, the carbonic acid given out by
breathing would very soon so contaminate the whole that life would be
impossible. To eliminate this element it would only be necessary to
carry a certain quantity of lime-water, easily calculated, and by
means of a fan or similar instrument to drive the whole of the air
periodically through the vessel containing it. The lime in solution
combining with the noxious gas would show by the turbid whiteness of
the water the absorption of the carbonic acid and formation of
carbonate of lime. But if the carbonic acid gas were merely to be
removed, it is obvious that the oxygen of the air, which forms a part
of that gas, would be constantly diminished and ultimately exhausted;
and the effect of highly oxygenated air upon the circulation is
notoriously too great to allow of any considerable increase at the
outset in the proportion of this element. I might carry a fresh supply
of oxygen, available at need, in some solid combination like chlorate
of potash; but the electricity employed for the generation of the
apergy might be also applied to the decomposition of carbonic acid and
the restoration of its oxygen to the atmosphere.

But the vessel had to be steered as well as propelled; and in order to
accomplish this it would be necessary to command the direction of the
apergy at pleasure. My means of doing this depended on two of the
best-established peculiarities of this strange force: its rectilinear
direction and its conductibility. We found that it acts through air or
in a vacuum in a single straight line, without deflection, and
seemingly without diminution. Most solids, and especially metals,
according to their electric condition, are more or less impervious to
it—antapergic. Its power of penetration diminishes under a very
obscure law, but so rapidly that no conceivable strength of current
would affect an object protected by an intervening sheet half an inch
in thickness. On the other hand, it prefers to all other lines the
axis of a conductive bar, such as may be formed of
(undecipherable)
in
an antapergic sheath. However such bar may be curved, bent, or
divided, the current will fill and follow it, and pursue indefinitely,
without divergence, diffusion, or loss, the direction in which it
emerges. Therefore, by collecting the current from the generator in a
vessel cased with antapergic material, and leaving no other aperture,
its entire volume might be sent into a conductor. By cutting across
this conductor, and causing the further part to rotate upon the
nearer, I could divert the current through any required angle. Thus I
could turn the repulsion upon the resistant body (sun or planet), and
so propel the vessel in any direction I pleased.

I had determined that my first attempt should be a visit to Mars. The
Moon is a far less interesting body, since, on the hemisphere turned
towards the Earth, the absence of an atmosphere and of water ensures
the absence of any such life as is known to us—probably of any life
that could be discerned by our senses—and would prevent landing;
while nearly all the soundest astronomers agree in believing, on
apparently sufficient grounds, that even the opposite hemisphere
(of
which small portions are from time to time rendered visible by the
libration, though greatly foreshortened and consequently somewhat
imperfectly seen)
is equally devoid of the two primary necessaries of
animal and vegetable life. That Mars has seas, clouds, and an
atmosphere was generally admitted, and I held it to be beyond
question. Of Venus, owing to her extraordinary brilliancy, to the fact
that when nearest to the Earth a very small portion of her lighted
surface is visible to us, and above all to her dense cloud-envelope,
very little was known; and though I cherished the intention to visit
her even more earnestly than my resolve to reach the probably less
attractive planet Mars, I determined to begin with that voyage of
which the conditions and the probable result were most obvious and
certain. I preferred, moreover, in the first instance, to employ the
apergy as a propelling rather than as a resisting force. Now, after
passing beyond the immediate sphere of the Earth's attraction, it is
plain that in going towards Mars I should be departing from the Sun,
relying upon the apergy to overcome his attraction; whereas in seeking
to attain Venus I should be approaching the Sun, relying for my main
motive power upon that tremendous attraction, and employing the apergy
only to moderate the rate of movement and control its direction. The
latter appeared to me the more delicate, difficult, and perhaps
dangerous task of the two; and I resolved to defer it until after I
had acquired some practical experience and dexterity in the control of
my machinery.