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“Yes, my comet!” repeated the professor, and from time to
time he knitted his brows, and looked around him with a defiant air, as though
he could not get rid of the impression that someone was laying an unwarranted
claim to its proprietorship, or that the individuals before him were intruders
upon his own proper domain.
But for a considerable while, Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant
remained silent and sunk in thought. Here then, at last, was the unriddling of
the enigma they had been so long endeavoring to solve; both the hypotheses they
had formed in succession had now to give way before the announcement of the
real truth. The first supposition, that the rotatory axis of the earth had been
subject to some accidental modification, and the conjecture that replaced it,
namely, that a certain portion of the terrestrial sphere had been splintered
off and carried into space, had both now to yield to the representation that
the earth had been grazed by an unknown comet, which had caught up some
scattered fragments from its surface, and was bearing them far away into
sidereal regions. Unfolded lay the past and the present before them; but this
only served to awaken a keener interest about the future. Could the professor
throw any light upon that? they longed to inquire, but did not yet venture to
ask him.
Meanwhile Rosette assumed a pompous professional air, and appeared to be
waiting for the entire party to be ceremoniously introduced to him. Nothing
unwilling to humor the vanity of the eccentric little man, Servadac proceeded
to go through the expected formalities.
“Allow me to present to you my excellent friend, the Count
Timascheff,” he said.
“You are very welcome,” said Rosette, bowing to the count
with a smile of condescension.
“Although I am not precisely a voluntary resident on your comet,
Mr. Professor, I beg to acknowledge your courteous reception,” gravely
responded Timascheff.
Servadac could not quite conceal his amusement at the count’s
irony, but continued, “This is Lieutenant Procope, the officer in command
of the Dobryna.”
The professor bowed again in frigid dignity.
“His yacht has conveyed us right round Gallia,” added the
captain.
“Round Gallia?” eagerly exclaimed the professor.
“Yes, entirely round it,” answered Servadac, and without
allowing time for reply, proceeded, “And this is my orderly, Ben
Zoof.”
“Aide-de-camp to his Excellency the Governor of Gallia,”
interposed Ben Zoof himself, anxious to maintain his master’s honor as
well as his own.
Rosette scarcely bent his head.
The rest of the population of the Hive were all presented in succession:
the Russian sailors, the Spaniards, young Pablo, and little Nina, on whom the
professor, evidently no lover of children, glared fiercely through his
formidable spectacles. Isaac Hakkabut, after his introduction, begged to be
allowed to ask one question.
“How soon may we hope to get back?” he inquired,
“Get back!” rejoined Rosette, sharply; “who talks of
getting back? We have hardly started yet.”
Seeing that the professor was inclined to get angry, Captain Servadac
adroitly gave a new turn to the conversation by asking him whether he would
gratify them by relating his own recent experiences. The astronomer seemed
pleased with the proposal, and at once commenced a verbose and somewhat
circumlocutory address, of which the following summary presents the main
features.
The French Government, being desirous of verifying the measurement
already made of the arc of the meridian of Paris, appointed a scientific
commission for that purpose. From that commission the name of Palmyrin Rosette
was omitted, apparently for no other reason than his personal unpopularity.
Furious at the slight, the professor resolved to set to work independently on
his own account, and declaring that there were inaccuracies in the previous
geodesic operations, he determined to re-examine the results of the last
triangulation which had united Formentera to the Spanish coast by a triangle,
one of the sides of which measured over a hundred miles, the very operation
which had already been so successfully accomplished by Arago and Biot.
Accordingly, leaving Paris for the Balearic Isles, he placed his
observatory on the highest point of Formentera, and accompanied as he was only
by his servant, Joseph, led the life of a recluse. He secured the services of a
former assistant, and dispatched him to a high peak on the coast of Spain,
where he had to superintend a rever-berator, which, with the aid of a glass,
could be seen from Formentera. A few books and instruments, and two
months’ victuals, was all the baggage he took with him, except an excellent
astronomical telescope, which was, indeed, almost part and parcel of himself,
and with which he assiduously scanned the heavens, in the sanguine anticipation
of making some discovery which would immortalize his name.
The task he had undertaken demanded the utmost patience. Night after
night, in order to fix the apex of his triangle, he had to linger on the watch
for the assistant’s signal-light, but he did not forget that his
predecessors, Arago and Biot, had had to wait sixty-one days for a similar purpose.
What retarded the work was the dense fog which, it has been already mentioned,
at that time enveloped not only that part of Europe, but almost the entire
world.
Never failing to turn to the best advantage the few intervals when the
mist lifted a little, the astronomer would at the same time cast an inquiring
glance at the firmament, as he was greatly interested in the revision of the
chart of the heavens, in the region contiguous to the constellation Gemini.
To the naked eye this constellation consists of only six stars, but
through a telescope ten inches in diameter, as many as six thousand are
visible. Rosette, however, did not possess a reflector of this magnitude, and
was obliged to content himself with the good but comparatively small instrument
he had.
On one of these occasions, whilst carefully gauging the recesses of
Gemini, he espied a bright speck which was unregistered in the chart, and which
at first he took for a small star that had escaped being entered in the
catalogue. But the observation of a few separate nights soon made it manifest
that the star was rapidly changing its position with regard to the adjacent
stars, and the astronomer’s heart began to leap at the thought that the
renown of the discovery of a new planet would be associated with his name.
Redoubling his attention, he soon satisfied himself that what he saw was
not a planet; the rapidity of its displacement rather forced him to the
conjecture that it must be a comet, and this opinion was soon strengthened by
the appearance of a coma, and subsequently confirmed, as the body approached
the sun, by the development of a tail.
A comet! The discovery was fatal to all further progress in the
triangulation. However conscientiously the assistant on the Spanish coast might
look to the kindling of the beacon, Rosette had no glances to spare for that
direction; he had no eyes except for the one object of his notice, no thoughts
apart from that one quarter of the firmament.
A comet! No time must be lost in calculating its elements.
Now, in order to calculate the elements of a comet, it is always deemed
the safest mode of procedure to assume the orbit to be a parabola. Ordinarily,
comets are conspicuous at their perihelia, as being their shortest distances
from the sun, which is the focus of their orbit, and inasmuch as a parabola is
but an ellipse with its axis indefinitely produced, for some short portion of
its pathway the orbit may be indifferently considered either one or the other;
but in this particular case the professor was right in adopting the supposition
of its being parabolic.
Just as in a circle, it is necessary to know three points to determine
the circumference; so in ascertaining the elements of a comet, three different
positions must be observed before what astronomers call its
“ephemeris” can be established.
But Professor Rosette did not content himself with three positions;
taking advantage of every rift in the fog he made ten, twenty, thirty
observations both in right ascension and in declination, and succeeded in
working out with the most minute accuracy the five elements of the comet which
was evidently advancing with astounding rapidity towards the earth.
These elements were:
l. The inclination of the plane of the cometary orbit to the plane of
the ecliptic, an angle which is generally considerable, but in this case the
planes were proved to coincide.
2. The position of the ascending node, or the point where the comet
crossed the terrestrial orbit.
These two elements being obtained, the position in space of the
comet’s orbit was determined.
3. The direction of the axis major of the orbit, which was found by
calculating the longitude of the comet’s perihelion.
4. The perihelion distance from the sun, which settled the precise form
of the parabola.
5. The motion of the comet, as being retrograde, or, unlike the planets,
from east to west.
Rosette thus found himself able to calculate the date at which the comet
would reach its perihelion, and, overjoyed at his discovery, without thinking
of calling it Palmyra or Rosette, after his own name, he resolved that it
should be known as Gallia.
His next business was to draw up a formal report. Not only did he at
once recognize that a collision with the earth was possible, but he soon
foresaw that it was inevitable, and that it must happen on the night of the
31st of December; moreover, as the bodies were moving in opposite directions,
the shock could hardly fail to be violent.
To say that he was elated at the prospect was far below the truth; his
delight amounted almost to delirium. Anyone else would have hurried from the
solitude of Formentera in sheer fright; but, without communicating a word of
his startling discovery, he remained resolutely at his post. From occasional
newspapers which he had received, he had learnt that fogs, dense as ever,
continued to envelop both hemispheres, so that he was assured that the
existence of the comet was utterly unknown elsewhere; and the ignorance of the
world as to the peril that threatened it averted the panic that would have
followed the publication of the facts, and left the philosopher of Formentera
in sole possession of the great secret. He clung to his post with the greater
persistency, because his calculations had led him to the conclusion that the
comet would strike the earth somewhere to the south of Algeria, and as it had a
solid nucleus, he felt sure that, as he expressed it, the effect would be
“unique,” and he was anxious to be in the vicinity.
The shock came, and with it the results already recorded. Palmyrin
Rosette was suddenly separated from his servant Joseph, and when, after a long
period of unconsciousness, he came to himself, he found that he was the
solitary occupant of the only fragment that survived of the Balearic
Archipelago.
Such was the substance of the narrative which the professor gave with
sundry repetitions and digressions; while he was giving it, he frequently
paused and frowned as if irritated in a way that seemed by no means justified
by the patient and good-humored demeanor of his audience.
“But now, gentlemen,” added the professor, “I must
tell you something more. Important changes have resulted from the collision;
the cardinal points have been displaced; gravity has been diminished: not that
I ever supposed for a minute, as you did, that I was still upon the earth. No!
the earth, attended by her moon, continued to rotate along her proper orbit.
But we, gentlemen, have nothing to complain of; our destiny might have been far
worse; we might all have been crushed to death, or the comet might have
remained in adhesion to the earth; and in neither of these cases should we have
had the satisfaction of making this marvelous excursion through untraversed
solar regions. No, gentlemen, I repeat it, we have nothing to regret.”
And as the professor spoke, he seemed to kindle with the emotion of such
supreme contentment that no one had the heart to gainsay his assertion. Ben
Zoof alone ventured an unlucky remark to the effect that if the comet had
happened to strike against Montmartre, instead of a bit of Africa, it would
have met with some resistance.
“Pshaw!” said Rosette, disdainfully. “A mole-hill like
Montmartre would have been ground to powder in a moment.”
“Mole-hill!” exclaimed Ben Zoof, stung to the quick.
“I can tell you it would have caught up your bit of a comet and worn it
like a feather in a cap.”
The professor looked angry, and Servadac having imposed silence upon his
orderly, explained the worthy soldier’s sensitiveness on all that
concerned Montmartre. Always obedient to his master, Ben Zoof held his tongue;
but he felt that he could never forgive the slight that had been cast upon his
beloved home.
It was now all-important to learn whether the astronomer had been able
to continue his observations, and whether he had learned sufficient of
Gallia’s path through space to make him competent to determine, at least
approximately, the period of its revolution round the sun. With as much tact
and caution as he could, Lieutenant Procope endeavored to intimate the general
desire for some information on this point.
“Before the shock, sir,” answered the professor, “I
had conclusively demonstrated the path of the comet; but, in consequence of the
modifications which that shock has entailed upon my comet’s orbit, I have
been compelled entirely to recommence my calculations.”
The lieutenant looked disappointed.
“Although the orbit of the earth was unaltered,” continued
the professor, “the result of the collision was the projection of the
comet into a new orbit altogether.”
“And may I ask,” said Procope, deferentially, “whether
you have got the elements of the fresh orbit?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you know—”
“ I know this, sir, that at 47 minutes 35.6 seconds after two
o’clock on the morning of the 1st of January last, Gallia, in passing its
ascending node, came in contact with the earth; that on the 10th of January it
crossed the orbit of Venus; that it reached its perihelion on the 15th; that it
re-crossed the orbit of Venus; that on the 1st of February it passed its
descending node; on the 13th crossed the orbit of Mars; entered the zone of the
telescopic planets on the 10th of March, and, attracting Nerina, carried it off
as a satellite.”
Servadac interposed:
“We are already acquainted with well-nigh all these extraordinary
facts; many of them, moreover, we have learned from documents which we have
picked up, and which, although unsigned, we cannot entertain a doubt have
originated with you.”
Professor Rosette drew himself up proudly and said: “Of course,
they originated with me. I sent them off by hundreds. From whom else could they
come?”
“From no one but yourself, certainly,” rejoined the count,
with grave politeness.
Hitherto the conversation had thrown no light upon the future movements
of Gallia, and Rosette was disposed apparently to evade, or at least to
postpone, the subject. When, therefore, Lieutenant Procope was about to press
his inquiries in a more categorical form, Servadac, thinking it advisable not
prematurely to press the little savant too far, interrupted him by
asking the professor how he accounted for the earth having suffered so little
from such a formidable concussion.
“I account for it in this way,” answered Rosette: “the
earth was traveling at the rate of 28,000 leagues an hour, and Gallia at the
rate of 57,000 leagues an hour, therefore the result was the same as though a
train rushing along at a speed of about 86,000 leagues an hour had suddenly
encountered some obstacle. The nucleus of the comet, being excessively hard,
has done exactly what a ball would do fired with that velocity close to a pane
of glass. It has crossed the earth without cracking it.”
“It is possible you may be right,” said Servadac,
thoughtfully.
“Right! of course I am right!” replied the snappish
professor. Soon, however, recovering his equanimity, he continued: “It is
fortunate that the earth was only touched obliquely; if the comet had impinged
perpendicularly, it must have plowed its way deep below the surface, and the
disasters it might have caused are beyond reckoning. Perhaps,” he added,
with a smile, “even Montmartre might not have survived the
calamity.”
“Sir!” shouted Ben Zoof, quite unable to bear the unprovoked
attack.
“Quiet, Ben Zoof!” said Servadac sternly.
Fortunately for the sake of peace, Isaac Hakkabut, who at length was
beginning to realize something of the true condition of things, came forward at
this moment, and in a voice trembling with eagerness, implored the professor to
tell him when they would all be back again upon the earth.
“Are you in a great hurry?” asked the professor coolly.
The Jew was about to speak again, when Captain Servadac interposed:
“Allow me to say that, in somewhat more scientific terms, I was about to
ask you the same question. Did I not understand you to say that, as the
consequence of the collision, the character of the comet’s orbit has been
changed?”
“You did, sir.”
“Did you imply that the orbit has ceased to be a parabola?”
“Just so.”
“Is it then an hyperbola? and are we to be carried on far and away
into remote distance, and never, never to return?”
“I did not say an hyperbola.”
“And is it not?”
“It is not.”
“Then it must be an ellipse?”
“Yes.”
“And does its plane coincide with the plane of the earth?”
“Yes.”
“Then it must be a periodic comet?”
“It is.”
Servadac involuntarily raised a ringing shout of joy that echoed again
along the gallery.
“Yes,” continued the professor, “Gallia is a periodic
comet, and allowing for the perturbations to which it is liable from the
attraction of Mars and Jupiter and Saturn, it will return to the earth again in
two years precisely.”
“You mean that in two years after the first shock, Gallia will
meet the earth at the same point as they met before?” said Lieutenant
Procope.
“I am afraid so,” said Rosette.
“Why afraid?”
“Because we are doing exceedingly well as we are.” The
professor stamped his foot upon the ground, by way of emphasis, and added,
“If I had my will, Gallia should never return to the earth again!”
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