Off on a Comet (32 page)

Servadac listened attentively. He was at a loss what to say; and the
only reply he made to the recital of this novel theory was to the effect
that, if it were true, he would prefer being captured by Mercury than
by Jupiter, for Mercury, being so much the younger, would probably prove
the less imperative and self-willed master.

It was on the 1st of September that the comet had crossed the orbit of
Jupiter, and on the 1st of October the two bodies were calculated to
be at their minimum separation. No direct shock, however, could be
apprehended; the demonstration was sufficiently complete that the orbit
of Gallia did not coincide with that of the planet, the orbit of Jupiter
being inclined at an angle of 1 degrees 19 mins to the orbit of the
earth, with which that of Gallia was, no doubt, coincident.

As the month of September verged towards its close, Jupiter began
to wear an aspect that must have excited the admiration of the most
ignorant or the most indifferent observer. Its salient points were
illumined with novel and radiant tints, and the solar rays, reflected
from its disc, glowed with a mingled softness and intensity upon Gallia,
so that Nerina had to pale her beauty.

Who could wonder that Rosette, enthusiast as he was, should be
irremovable from his observatory? Who could expect otherwise than that,
with the prospect before him of viewing the giant among planets, ten
times nearer than any mortal eye had ever done, he should have begrudged
every moment that distracted his attention?

Meanwhile, as Jupiter grew large, the sun grew small.

From its increased remoteness the diameter of the sun's disc was
diminished to 5 degrees 46 mins.

And what an increased interest began to be associated with the
satellites! They were visible to the naked eye! Was it not a new record
in the annals of science?

Although it is acknowledged that they are not ordinarily visible on
earth without the aid of a somewhat powerful telescope, it has been
asserted that a favored few, endued with extraordinary powers of vision,
have been able to identify them with an unassisted eye; but here,
at least, in Nina's Hive were many rivals, for everyone could so far
distinguish them one from the other as to describe them by their colors.
The first was of a dull white shade; the second was blue; the third was
white and brilliant; the fourth was orange, at times approaching to
a red. It was further observed that Jupiter itself was almost void of
scintillation.

Rosette, in his absorbing interest for the glowing glories of the
planet, seemed to be beguiled into comparative forgetfulness of the
charms of his comet; but no astronomical enthusiasm of the professor
could quite allay the general apprehension that some serious collision
might be impending.

Time passed on. There was nothing to justify apprehension. The question
was continually being asked, "What does the professor really think?"

"Our friend the professor," said Servadac, "is not likely to tell us
very much; but we may feel pretty certain of one thing: he wouldn't keep
us long in the dark, if he thought we were not going back to the earth
again. The greatest satisfaction he could have would be to inform us
that we had parted from the earth for ever."

"I trust from my very soul," said the count, "that his prognostications
are correct."

"The more I see of him, and the more I listen to him," replied Servadac,
"the more I become convinced that his calculations are based on a solid
foundation, and will prove correct to the minutest particular."

Ben Zoof here interrupted the conversation. "I have something on my
mind," he said.

"Something on your mind? Out with it!" said the captain.

"That telescope!" said the orderly; "it strikes me that that telescope
which the old professor keeps pointed up at yonder big sun is bringing
it down straight upon us."

The captain laughed heartily.

"Laugh, captain, if you like; but I feel disposed to break the old
telescope into atoms."

"Ben Zoof," said Servadac, his laughter exchanged for a look of stern
displeasure, "touch that telescope, and you shall swing for it!"

The orderly looked astonished.

"I am governor here," said Servadac.

Ben Zoof knew what his master meant, and to him his master's wish was
law.

The interval between the comet and Jupiter was, by the 1st of October,
reduced to 43,000,000 miles. The belts all parallel to Jupiter's equator
were very distinct in their markings. Those immediately north and
south of the equator were of a dusky hue; those toward the poles were
alternately dark and light; the intervening spaces of the planet's
superficies, between edge and edge, being intensely bright. The belts
themselves were occasionally broken by spots, which the records of
astronomy describe as varying both in form and in extent.

The physiology of belts and spots alike was beyond the astronomer's
power to ascertain; and even if he should be destined once again to take
his place in an astronomical congress on the earth, he would be just as
incapable as ever of determining whether or no they owed their existence
to the external accumulation of vapor, or to some internal agency. It
would not be Professor Rosette's lot to enlighten his brother
savants
to any great degree as to the mysteries that are associated with this,
which must ever rank as one of the most magnificent amongst the heavenly
orbs.

As the comet approached the critical point of its career it cannot be
denied that there was an unacknowledged consciousness of alarm. Mutually
reserved, though ever courteous, the count and the captain were secretly
drawn together by the prospect of a common danger; and as their return
to the earth appeared to them to become more and more dubious, they
abandoned their views of narrow isolation, and tried to embrace the
wider philosophy that acknowledges the credibility of a habitable
universe.

But no philosophy could be proof against the common instincts of their
humanity; their hearts, their hopes, were set upon their natural home;
no speculation, no science, no experience, could induce them to give up
their fond and sanguine anticipation that once again they were to come
in contact with the earth.

"Only let us escape Jupiter," said Lieutenant Procope, repeatedly, "and
we are free from anxiety."

"But would not Saturn lie ahead?" asked Servadac and the count in one
breath.

"No!" said Procope; "the orbit of Saturn is remote, and does not come
athwart our path. Jupiter is our sole hindrance. Of Jupiter we must say,
as William Tell said, 'Once through the ominous pass and all is well.'"

The 15th of October came, the date of the nearest approximation of the
comet to the planet. They were only 31,000,000 miles apart. What would
now transpire? Would Gallia be diverted from its proper way? or would it
hold the course that the astronomer had predicted?

Early next morning the captain ventured to take the count and the
lieutenant up to the observatory. The professor was in the worst of
tempers.

That was enough. It was enough, without a word, to indicate the course
which events had taken. The comet was pursuing an unaltered way.

The astronomer, correct in his prognostications, ought to have been the
most proud and contented of philosophers; his pride and contentment
were both overshadowed by the certainty that the career of his comet was
destined to be so transient, and that it must inevitably once again come
into collision with the earth.

"All right!" said Servadac, convinced by the professor's ill humor that
the danger was past; "no doubt we are in for a two years' excursion, but
fifteen months more will take us back to the earth!"

"And we shall see Montmartre again!" exclaimed Ben Zoof, in excited
tones that betrayed his delight in the anticipation.

To use a nautical expression, they had safely "rounded the point," and
they had to be congratulated on their successful navigation; for if,
under the influence of Jupiter's attraction, the comet had been retarded
for a single hour, in that hour the earth would have already traveled
2,300,000 miles from the point where contact would ensue, and many
centuries would elapse before such a coincidence would possibly again
occur.

On the 1st of November Gallia and Jupiter were 40,000,000 miles apart.
It was little more than ten weeks to the 15th of January, when the
comet would begin to re-approach the sun. Though light and heat were now
reduced to a twenty-fifth part of their terrestrial intensity, so that
a perpetual twilight seemed to have settled over Gallia, yet the
population felt cheered even by the little that was left, and buoyed
up by the hope that they should ultimately regain their proper position
with regard to the great luminary, of which the temperature has been
estimated as not less than 5,000,000 degrees.

Of the anxiety endured during the last two months Isaac Hakkabut had
known nothing. Since the day he had done his lucky stroke of business he
had never left the tartan; and after Ben Zoof, on the following day, had
returned the steelyard and the borrowed cash, receiving back the paper
roubles deposited, all communication between the Jew and Nina's Hive had
ceased. In the course of the few minutes' conversation which Ben Zoof
had held with him, he had mentioned that he knew that the whole soil of
Gallia was made of gold; but the old man, guessing that the orderly was
only laughing at him as usual, paid no attention to the remark, and only
meditated upon the means he could devise to get every bit of the money
in the new world into his own possession. No one grieved over the
life of solitude which Hakkabut persisted in leading. Ben Zoof giggled
heartily, as he repeatedly observed "it was astonishing how they
reconciled themselves to his absence."

The time came, however, when various circumstances prompted him to think
he must renew his intercourse with the inhabitants of the Hive. Some of
his goods were beginning to spoil, and he felt the necessity of turning
them into money, if he would not be a loser; he hoped, moreover, that
the scarcity of his commodities would secure very high prices.

It happened, just about this same time, that Ben Zoof had been calling
his master's attention to the fact that some of their most necessary
provisions would soon be running short, and that their stock of coffee,
sugar, and tobacco would want replenishing. Servadac's mind, of course,
turned to the cargo on board the
Hansa
, and he resolved, according to
his promise, to apply to the Jew and become a purchaser. Mutual interest
and necessity thus conspired to draw Hakkabut and the captain together.

Often and often had Isaac gloated in his solitude over the prospect of
first selling a portion of his merchandise for all the gold and silver
in the colony. His recent usurious transaction had whetted his appetite.
He would next part with some more of his cargo for all the paper money
they could give him; but still he should have goods left, and they would
want these. Yes, they should have these, too, for promissory notes.
Notes would hold good when they got back again to the earth; bills from
his Excellency the governor would be good bills; anyhow there would
be the sheriff. By the God of Israel! he would get good prices, and he
would get fine interest!

Although he did not know it, he was proposing to follow the practice of
the Gauls of old, who advanced money on bills for payment in a future
life. Hakkabut's "future life," however, was not many months in advance
of the present.

Still Hakkabut hesitated to make the first advance, and it was
accordingly with much satisfaction that he hailed Captain Servadac's
appearance on board the
Hansa
.

"Hakkabut," said the captain, plunging without further preface into
business, "we want some coffee, some tobacco, and other things. I have
come to-day to order them, to settle the price, and to-morrow Ben Zoof
shall fetch the goods away."

"Merciful, heavens!" the Jew began to whine; but Servadac cut him short.

"None of that miserable howling! Business! I am come to buy your goods.
I shall pay for them."

"Ah yes, your Excellency," whispered the Jew, his voice trembling like
a street beggar. "Don't impose on me. I am poor; I am nearly ruined
already."

"Cease your wretched whining!" cried Servadac. "I have told you once, I
shall pay for all I buy."

"Ready money?" asked Hakkabut.

"Yes, ready money. What makes you ask?" said the captain, curious to
hear what the Jew would say.

"Well, you see—you see, your Excellency," stammered out the Jew, "to
give credit to one wouldn't do, unless I gave credit to another. You are
solvent—I mean honorable, and his lordship the count is honorable; but
maybe—maybe—"

"Well?" said Servadac, waiting, but inclined to kick the old rascal out
of his sight.

"I shouldn't like to give credit," he repeated.

"I have not asked you for credit. I have told you, you shall have ready
money."

"Very good, your Excellency. But how will you pay me?"

"Pay you? Why, we shall pay you in gold and silver and copper, while our
money lasts, and when that is gone we shall pay you in bank notes."

"Oh, no paper, no paper!" groaned out the Jew, relapsing into his
accustomed whine.

"Nonsense, man!" cried Servadac.

"No paper!" reiterated Hakkabut.

"Why not? Surely you can trust the banks of England, France, and
Russia."

"Ah no! I must have gold. Nothing so safe as gold."

"Well then," said the captain, not wanting to lose his temper, "you
shall have it your own way; we have plenty of gold for the present.
We will leave the bank notes for by and by." The Jew's countenance
brightened, and Servadac, repeating that he should come again the next
day, was about to quit the vessel.