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All previous hypotheses, then, were now forgotten in the presence of the
one great fact that Gallia was a comet and gravitating through remote solar
regions. Captain Servadac became aware that the huge disc that had been looming
through the clouds after the shock was the form of the retreating earth, to the
proximity of which the one high tide they had experienced was also to be
attributed.
As to the fulfillment of the professor’s prediction of an ultimate
return to the terrestrial sphere, that was a point on which it must be owned
that the captain, after the first flush of his excitement was over, was not
without many misgivings.
The next day or two were spent in providing for the accommodation of the
new comer. Fortunately his desires were very moderate; he seemed to live among
the stars, and as long as he was well provided with coffee, he cared little for
luxuries, and paid little or no regard to the ingenuity with which all the
internal arrangements of Nina’s Hive had been devised. Anxious to show
all proper respect to his former tutor, Servadac proposed to leave the most
comfortable apartment of the place at his disposal; but the professor
resolutely declined to occupy it, saying that what he required was a small
chamber, no matter how small, provided that it was elevated and secluded, which
he could use as an observatory and where he might prosecute his studies without
disturbance. A general search was instituted, and before long they were lucky
enough to find, about a hundred feet above the central grotto, a small recess
or reduct hollowed, as it were, in the mountain side, which would exactly answer
their purpose. It contained room enough for a bed, a table, an arm-chair, a
chest of drawers, and, what was of still more consequence, for the
indispensable telescope. One small stream of lava, an off-shoot of the great
torrent, sufficed to warm the apartment enough.
In these retired quarters the astronomer took up his abode. It was on
all hands acknowledged to be advisable to let him go on entirely in his own
way. His meals were taken to him at stated intervals; he slept but little;
carried on his calculations by day, his observations by night, and very rarely
made his appearance amongst the rest of the little community.
The cold now became very intense, the thermometer registering 30 degrees
F. below zero. The mercury, however, never exhibited any of those fluctuations
that are ever and again to be observed in variable climates, but continued
slowly and steadily to fall, and in all probability would continue to do so
until it reached the normal temperature of the regions of outlying space.
This steady sinking of the mercury was accompanied by a complete
stillness of the atmosphere; the very air seemed to be congealed; no particle
of it stirred; from zenith to horizon there was never a cloud; neither were
there any of the damp mists or dry fogs which so often extend over the polar
regions of the earth; the sky was always clear; the sun shone by day and the
stars by night without causing any perceptible difference in the temperature.
These peculiar conditions rendered the cold endurable even in the open
air. The cause of so many of the diseases that prove fatal to Arctic explorers
resides in the cutting winds, unwholesome fogs, or terrible snow drifts, which,
by drying up, relaxing, or otherwise affecting the lungs, make them incapable
of fulfilling their proper functions. But during periods of calm weather, when
the air has been absolutely still, many polar navigators, well-clothed and
properly fed, have been known to withstand a temperature when the thermometer
has fallen to 60 degrees below zero. It was the experience of Parry upon
Melville Island, of Kane beyond latitude 81 degrees north, and of Hall and the
crew of the Polaris, that, however intense the cold, in the absence of
the wind they could always brave its rigor.
Notwithstanding, then, the extreme lowness of the temperature, the
little population found that they were able to move about in the open air with
perfect immunity. The governor general made it his special care to see that his
people were all well fed and warmly clad. Food was both wholesome and abundant,
and besides the furs brought from the Dobryna’s stores, fresh
skins could very easily be procured and made up into wearing apparel. A daily
course of out-door exercise was enforced upon everyone; not even Pablo and Nina
were exempted from the general rule; the two children, muffled up in furs,
looking like little Esqui-meaux, skated along together, Pablo ever at his
companion’s side, ready to give her a helping hand whenever she was weary
with her exertions.
After his interview with the newly arrived astronomer, Isaac Hakkabut
slunk back again to his tartan. A change had come over his ideas; he could no
longer resist the conviction that he was indeed millions and millions of miles
away from the earth, where he had carried on so varied and remunerative a
traffic. It might be imagined that this realization of his true position would
have led him to a better mind, and that, in some degree at least, he would have
been induced to regard the few fellow-creatures with whom his lot had been so
strangely cast, otherwise than as mere instruments to be turned to his own
personal and pecuniary advantage; but no—the desire of gain was too
thoroughly ingrained into his hard nature ever to be eradicated, and secure in
his knowledge that he was under the protection of a French officer, who, except
under the most urgent necessity, would not permit him to be molested in
retaining his property, he determined to wait for some emergency to arise which
should enable him to use his present situation for his own profit.
On the one hand, the Jew took it into account that although the chances
of returning to the earth might be remote, yet from what he had heard from the
professor he could not believe that they were improbable; on the other, he knew
that a considerable sum of money, in English and Russian coinage, was in the
possession of various members of the little colony, and this, although
valueless now, would be worth as much as ever if the proper condition of things
should be restored; accordingly, he set his heart on getting all the monetary
wealth of Gallia into his possession, and to do this he must sell his goods.
But he would not sell them yet; there might come a time when for many articles
the supply would not be equal to the demand; that would be the time for him; by
waiting he reckoned he should be able to transact some lucrative business.
Such in his solitude were old Isaac’s cogitations, whilst the
universal population of Nina’s Hive were congratulating themselves upon
being rid of his odious presence.
As already stated in the message brought by the carrier pigeon, the
distance traveled by Gallia in April was 39,000,000 leagues, and at the end of
the month she was 110,000,000 leagues from the sun. A diagram representing the
elliptical orbit of the planet, accompanied by an ephemeris made out in minute
detail, had been drawn out by the professor. The curve was divided into
twenty-four sections of unequal length, representing respectively the distance
described in the twenty-four months of the Gallian year, the twelve former
divisions, according to Kepler’s law, gradually diminishing in length as
they approached the point denoting the aphelion and increasing as they neared
the perihelion.
It was on the 12th of May that Rosette exhibited this result of his
labors to Servadac, the count, and the lieutenant, who visited his apartment
and naturally examined the drawing with the keenest interest. Gallia’s
path, extending beyond the orbit of Jupiter, lay clearly defined before their
eyes, the progress along the orbit and the solar distances being inserted for
each month separately. Nothing could look plainer, and if the professor’s
calculations were correct (a point upon which they dared not, if they would,
express the semblance of a doubt), Gallia would accomplish her revolution in
precisely two years, and would meet the earth, which would in the same period
of time have completed two annual revolutions, in the very same spot as before.
What would be the consequences of a second collision they scarcely ventured to
think.
Without lifting his eye from the diagram, which he was still carefully
scrutinizing, Servadac said, “I see that during the month of May, Gallia
will only travel 30,400,000 leagues, and that this will leave her about
140,000,000 leagues distant from the sun.”
“Just so,” replied the professor.
“Then we have already passed the zone of the telescopic planets,
have we not?” asked the count.
“Can you not use your eyes?” said the professor, testily.
“If you will look you will see the zone marked clearly enough upon the
map.”
Without noticing the interruption, Servadac continued his own remarks,
“The comet then, I see, is to reach its aphelion on the 15th of January,
exactly a twelvemonth after passing its perihelion.”
“A twelvemonth! Not a Gallian twelvemonth?” exclaimed
Rosette.
Servadac looked bewildered. Lieutenant Procope could not suppress a
smile.
“What are you laughing at?” demanded the professor, turning
round upon him angrily.
“Nothing, sir; only it amuses me to see how you want to revise the
terrestrial calendar.”
“I want to be logical, that’s all.”
“By all manner of means, my dear professor, let us be
logical.”
“Well, then, listen to me,” resumed the professor, stiffly.
“I presume you are taking it for granted that the Gallian year— by
which I mean the time in which Gallia makes one revolution round the
sun—is equal in length to two terrestrial years.”
They signified their assent.
“And that year, like every other year, ought to be divided into
twelve months.”
“Yes, certainly, if you wish it,” said the captain,
acquiescing.
“If I wish it!” exclaimed Rosette. “Nothing of the
sort! Of course a year must have twelve months!”
“Of course,” said the captain.
“And how many days will make a month?” asked the professor.
“I suppose sixty or sixty-two, as the case may be. The days now
are only half as long as they used to be,” answered the captain.
“Servadac, don’t be thoughtless!” cried Rosette, with
all the petulant impatience of the old pedagogue. “If the days are only
half as long as they were, sixty of them cannot make up a twelfth part of
Gallia’s year— cannot be a month.”
“I suppose not,” replied the confused captain.
“Do you not see, then,” continued the astronomer,
“that if a Gallian month is twice as long as a terrestrial month, and a
Gallian day is only half as long as a terrestrial day, there must be a hundred
and twenty days in every month?”
“No doubt you are right, professor,” said Count Timascheff;
“but do you not think that the use of a new calendar such as this would
practically be very troublesome?”
“Not at all! not at all! I do not intend to use any other,”
was the professor’s bluff reply.
After pondering for a few moments, the captain spoke again.
“According, then, to this new calendar, it isn’t the middle of May
at all; it must now be some time in March.”
“Yes,” said the professor, “to-day is the 26th of
March. It is the 266th day of the Gallian year. It corresponds with the 133d
day of the terrestrial year. You are quite correct, it is the 26th of
March.”
“Strange!” muttered Servadac.
“And a month, a terrestrial month, thirty old days, sixty new days
hence, it will be the 86th of March.”
“Ha, ha!” roared the captain; “this is logic with a
vengeance!”
The old professor had an undefined consciousness that his former pupil
was laughing at him; and as it was growing late, he made an excuse that he had
no more leisure. The visitors accordingly quitted the observatory.
It must be owned that the revised calendar was left to the
professor’s sole use, and the colony was fairly puzzled whenever he
referred to such unheard-of dates as the 47th of April or the 118th of May.
According to the old calendar, June had now arrived;
[illustration omitted] [page intentionally blank] and by the
professor’s tables Gallia during the month would have advanced 27,500,000
leagues farther along its orbit, and would have attained a distance of
155,000,000 leagues from the sun. The thermometer continued to fall; the
atmosphere remained clear as heretofore. The population performed their daily
avocations with systematic routine; and almost the only thing that broke the
monotony of existence was an occasional visit from the blustering, nervous,
little professor, when some sudden fancy induced him to throw aside his
astronomical studies for a time, and pay a visit to the common hall. His arrival
there was generally hailed as the precursor of a little season of excitement.
Somehow or other the conversation would eventually work its way round to the
topic of a future collision between the comet and the earth; and in the same
degree as this was a matter of sanguine anticipation to Captain Servadac and
his friends, it was a matter of aversion to the astronomical enthusiast, who
had no desire to quit his present quarters in a sphere which, being of his own
discovery, he could hardly have cared for more if it had been of his own
creation. The interview would often terminate in a scene of considerable
animation.
On the 27th of June (old calendar) the professor burst like a
cannon-ball into the central hall, where they were all assembled, and without a
word of salutation or of preface, accosted the lieutenant in the way in which
in earlier days he had been accustomed to speak to an idle school-boy,
“Now, lieutenant! no evasions! no shufflings! Tell me, have you or have
you not circumnavigated Gallia?”
The lieutenant drew himself up stiffly. “Evasions! shufflings! I
am not accustomed, sir—” he began in a tone evidencing no little
resentment; but catching a hint from the count he subdued his voice, and simply
said, “We have.”
“And may I ask,” continued the professor, quite unaware of
his previous discourtesy, “whether, when you made your voyage, you took
any account of distances?”
“As approximately as I could,” replied the lieutenant;
“I did what I could by log and compass. I was unable to take the altitude
of sun or star.”
“At what result did you arrive? What is the measurement of our
equator?”
“I estimate the total circumference of the equator to be about
1,400 miles.”
“Ah!” said the professor, more than half speaking to
himself, “a circumference of 1,400 miles would give a diameter of about
450 miles. That would be approximately about one-sixteenth of the diameter of
the earth.”
Raising his voice, he continued, “Gentlemen, in order to complete
my account of my comet Gallia, I require to know its area, its mass, its
volume, its density, its specific gravity.”
“Since we know the diameter,” remarked the lieutenant,
“there can be no difficulty in finding its surface and its volume.”
“And did I say there was any difficulty?” asked the
professor, fiercely. “I have been able to reckon that ever since I was
born.”
“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” cried Ben Zoof, delighted at any
opportunity of paying off his old grudge.
The professor looked at him, but did not vouchsafe a word. Addressing
the captain, he said, “Now, Servadac, take your paper and a pen, and find
me the surface of Gallia.”
With more submission than when he was a school-boy, the captain sat down
and endeavored to recall the proper formula.
“The surface of a sphere? Multiply circumference by
diameter.”
“Right!” cried Rosette; “but it ought to be done by
this time.”
“Circumference, 1,400; diameter, 450; area of surface,
630,000,” read the captain.
“True,” replied Rosette, “630,000 square miles; just
292 times less than that of the earth.”
“Pretty little comet! nice little comet!” muttered Ben Zoof.
The astronomer bit his lip, snorted, and cast at him a withering look,
but did not take any further notice.
“Now, Captain Servadac,” said the professor, “take
your pen again, and find me the volume of Gallia.”
The captain hesitated.
“Quick, quick!” cried the professor, impatiently;
“surely you have not forgotten how to find the volume of a sphere!”
“A moment’s breathing time, please.”
“Breathing time, indeed! A mathematician should not want breathing
time! Come, multiply the surface by the third of the radius. Don’t you
recollect?”
Captain Servadac applied himself to his task while the by-standers
waited, with some difficulty suppressing their inclination to laugh. There was
a short silence, at the end of which Servadac announced that the volume of the
comet was 47,880,000 cubic miles.
“Just about 5,000 times less than the earth,” observed the
lieutenant.
“Nice little comet! pretty little comet!” said Ben Zoof.
The professor scowled at him, and was manifestly annoyed at having the
insignificant dimensions of his comet pointed out in so disparaging a manner.
Lieutenant Procope further remarked that from the earth he supposed it to be
about as conspicuous as a star of the seventh magnitude, and would require a
good telescope to see it.
“Ha, ha!” laughed the orderly, aloud; “charming little
comet! so pretty; and so modest!”
“You rascal!” roared the professor, and clenched his hand in
passion, as if about to strike him. Ben Zoof laughed the more, and was on the
point of repeating his satirical comments, when a stern order from the captain
made him hold his tongue. The truth was that the professor was just as
sensitive about his comet as the orderly was about Montmartre, and if the
contention between the two had been allowed to go on unchecked, it is
impossible to say what serious quarrel might not have arisen.
When Professor Rosette’s equanimity had been restored, he said,
“Thus, then, gentlemen, the diameter, the surface, the volume of my comet
are settled; but there is more to be done. I shall not be satisfied until, by
actual measurement, I have determined its mass, its density, and the force of
gravity at its surface.”
“A laborious problem,” remarked Count Timascheff.
“Laborious or not, it has to be accomplished. I am resolved to find
out what my comet weighs.”
“Would it not be of some assistance, if we knew of what substance
it is composed?” asked the lieutenant.
“That is of no moment at all,” replied the professor;
“the problem is independent of it.”
“Then we await your orders,” was the captain’s reply.
“You must understand, however,” said Rosette, “that
there are various preliminary calculations to be made; you will have to wait
till they are finished.”
“As long as you please,” said the count.
“No hurry at all,” observed the captain, who was not in the
least impatient to continue his mathematical exercises.
“Then, gentlemen,” said the astronomer, “with your
leave we will for this purpose make an appointment a few weeks hence. What do
you say to the 62d of April?”
Without noticing the general smile which the novel date provoked, the
astronomer left the hall, and retired to his observatory.
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