Jules Verne (2 page)

Dudley at Albany, in the state of New York, and West Point, the
military academy, showed that their colleagues were wrong by an
elaborate calculation of the right ascension and declination of the
aforesaid body.

But later on it was discovered that the observers had been deceived
in the body, and that what they had seen was an aerolite. This
aerolite could not be the object in question, for how could an
aerolite blow a trumpet?

It was in vain that they tried to get rid of this trumpet as an
optical illusion. The ears were no more deceived than the eyes.
Something had assuredly been seen, and something had assuredly been
heard. In the night of the 12th and 13th of May—a very dark night—the
observers at Yale College, in the Sheffield Science School, had
been able to take down a few bars of a musical phrase in D major,
common time, which gave note for note, rhythm for rhythm, the chorus
of the Chant du Départ.

"Good," said the Yankee wags. "There is a French band well up in the
air."

"But to joke is not to answer." Thus said the observatory at Boston,
founded by the Atlantic Iron Works Society, whose opinions in matters
of astronomy and meteorology began to have much weight in the world
of science.

Then there intervened the observatory at Cincinnati, founded in 1870,
on Mount Lookout, thanks to the generosity of Mr. Kilgour, and known
for its micrometrical measurements of double stars. Its director
declared with the utmost good faith that there had certainly been
something, that a traveling body had shown itself at very short
periods at different points in the atmosphere, but what were the
nature of this body, its dimensions, its speed, and its trajectory,
it was impossible to say.

It was then a journal whose publicity is immense—the "New York
Herald"—received the anonymous contribution hereunder.

"There will be in the recollection of most people the rivalry which
existed a few years ago between the two heirs of the Begum of
Ragginahra, the French doctor Sarrasin, the city of Frankville, and
the German engineer Schultze, in the city of Steeltown, both in the
south of Oregon in the United States.

"It will not have been forgotten that, with the object of destroying
Frankville, Herr Schultze launched a formidable engine, intended to
beat down the town and annihilate it at a single blow.

"Still less will it be forgotten that this engine, whose initial
velocity as it left the mouth of the monster cannon had been
erroneously calculated, had flown off at a speed exceeding by sixteen
times that of ordinary projectiles—or about four hundred and fifty
miles an hour—that it did not fall to the ground, and that it
passed into an aerolitic stage, so as to circle for ever round our globe.

"Why should not this be the body in question?"

Very ingenious, Mr. Correspondent on the "New York Herald!" but how
about the trumpet? There was no trumpet in Herr Schulze's projectile!

So all the explanations explained nothing, and all the observers had
observed in vain. There remained only the suggestion offered by the
director of Zi-Ka-Wey. But the opinion of a Chinaman!

The discussion continued, and there was no sign of agreement. Then
came a short period of rest. Some days elapsed without any object,
aerolite or otherwise, being described, and without any trumpet notes
being heard in the atmosphere. The body then had fallen on some part
of the globe where it had been difficult to trace it; in the sea,
perhaps. Had it sunk in the depths of the Atlantic, the Pacific, or
the Indian Ocean? What was to be said in this matter?

But then, between the 2nd and 9th of June, there came a new series of
facts which could not possibly be explained by the unaided existence
of a cosmic phenomenon.

In a week the Hamburgers at the top of St. Michael's Tower, the Turks
on the highest minaret of St. Sophia, the Rouennais at the end of the
metal spire of their cathedral, the Strasburgers at the summit of
their minister, the Americans on the head of the Liberty statue at
the entrance of the Hudson and on the Bunker Hill monument at Boston,
the Chinese at the spike of the temple of the Four Hundred Genii at
Canton, the Hindus on the sixteenth terrace of the pyramid of the
temple at Tanjore, the San Pietrini at the cross of St. Peter's at
Rome, the English at the cross of St. Paul's in London, the Egyptians
at the apex of the Great Pyramid of Ghizeh, the Parisians at the
lighting conductor of the iron tower of the Exposition of 1889, a
thousand feet high, all of them beheld a flag floating from some one
of these inaccessible points.

And the flag was black, dotted with stars, and it bore a golden sun
in its center.

"And the first who says the contrary—"

"Indeed! But we will say the contrary so long as there is a place to
say it in!"

"And in spite of your threats—"

"Mind what you are saying, Bat Fynn!"

"Mind what you are saying, Uncle Prudent!"

"I maintain that the screw ought to be behind!"

"And so do we! And so do we!" replied half a hundred voices
confounded in one.

"No! It ought to be in front!" shouted Phil Evans.

"In front!" roared fifty other voices, with a vigor in no whit less
remarkable.

"We shall never agree!"

"Never! Never!"

"Then what is the use of a dispute?"

"It is not a dispute! It is a discussion!"

One would not have thought so to listen to the taunts, objurgations,
and vociferations which filled the lecture room for a good quarter of
an hour.

The room was one of the largest in the Weldon Institute, the
well-known club in Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, U. S.
A. The evening before there had been an election of a lamplighter,
occasioning many public manifestations, noisy meetings, and even
interchanges of blows, resulting in an effervescence which had not
yet subsided, and which would account for some of the excitement just
exhibited by the members of the Weldon Institute. For this was merely
a meeting of balloonists, discussing the burning question of the
direction of balloons.

In this great saloon there were struggling, pushing, gesticulating,
shouting, arguing, disputing, a hundred balloonists, all with their
hats on, under the authority of a president, assisted by a secretary
and treasurer. They were not engineers by profession, but simply
amateurs of all that appertained to aerostatics, and they were
amateurs in a fury, and especially foes of those who would oppose to
aerostats "apparatuses heavier than the air," flying machines, aerial
ships, or what not. That these people might one day discover the
method of guiding balloons is possible. There could be no doubt that
their president had considerable difficulty in guiding them.

This president, well known in Philadelphia, was the famous Uncle
Prudent, Prudent being his family name. There is nothing surprising
in America in the qualificative uncle, for you can there be uncle
without having either nephew or niece. There they speak of uncle as
in other places they speak of father, though the father may have had
no children.

Uncle Prudent was a personage of consideration, and in spite of his
name was well known for his audacity. He was very rich, and that is
no drawback even in the United States; and how could it be otherwise
when he owned the greater part of the shares in Niagara Falls? A
society of engineers had just been founded at Buffalo for working the
cataract. It seemed to be an excellent speculation. The seven
thousand five hundred cubic meters that pass over Niagara in a second
would produce seven millions of horsepower. This enormous power,
distributed amongst all the workshops within a radius of three
hundred miles, would return an annual income of three hundred million
dollars, of which the greater part would find its way into the pocket
of Uncle Prudent. He was a bachelor, he lived quietly, and for his
only servant had his valet Frycollin, who was hardly worthy of being
the servant to so audacious a master.

Uncle Prudent was rich, and therefore he had friends, as was natural;
but he also had enemies, although he was president of the club—among
others all those who envied his position. Amongst his bitterest
foes we may mention the secretary of the Weldon Institute.

This was Phil Evans, who was also very rich, being the manager of the
Wheelton Watch Company, an important manufactory, which makes every
day five hundred movements equal in every respect to the best Swiss
workmanship. Phil Evans would have passed for one of the happiest men
in the world, and even in the United States, if it had not been for
Uncle Prudent. Like him he was in his forty-sixth year; like him of
invariable health; like him of undoubted boldness. They were two men
made to understand each other thoroughly, but they did not, for both
were of extreme violence of character. Uncle Prudent was furiously
hot; Phil Evans was abnormally cool.

And why had not Phil Evans been elected president of the club? The
votes were exactly divided between Uncle Prudent and him. Twenty
times there had been a scrutiny, and twenty times the majority had
not declared for either one or the other. The position was
embarrassing, and it might have lasted for the lifetime of the
candidates.

One of the members of the club then proposed a way out of the
difficulty. This was Jem Chip, the treasurer of the Weldon Institute.
Chip was a confirmed vegetarian, a proscriber of all animal
nourishment, of all fermented liquors, half a Mussulman, half a
Brahman. On this occasion Jem Chip was supported by another member of
the club, William T. Forbes, the manager of a large factory where
they made glucose by treating rags with sulphuric acid. A man of good
standing was this William T. Forbes, the father of two charming
girls—Miss Dorothy, called Doll, and Miss Martha, called Mat, who gave
the tone to the best society in Philadelphia.

It followed, then, on the proposition of Jem Chip, supported by
William T. Forbes and others, that it was decided to elect the
president "on the center point."

This mode of election can be applied in all cases when it is desired
to elect the most worthy; and a number of Americans of high
intelligence are already thinking of employing it in the nomination
of the President of the Republic of the United States.

On two boards of perfect whiteness a black line is traced. The length
of each of these lines is mathematically the same, for they have been
determined with as much accuracy as the base of the first triangle in
a trigonometrical survey. That done, the two boards were erected on
the same day in the center of the conference room, and the two
candidates, each armed with a fine needle, marched towards the board
that had fallen to his lot. The man who planted his needle nearest
the center of the line would be proclaimed President of the Weldon
Institute.

The operation must be done at once—no guide marks or trial shots
allowed; nothing but sureness of eye. The man must have a compass in
his eye, as the saying goes; that was all.

Uncle Prudent stuck in his needle at the same moment as Phil Evans
did his. Then there began the measurement to discover which of the
two competitors had most nearly approached the center.

Wonderful! Such had been the precision of the shots that the measures
gave no appreciable difference. If they were not exactly in the
mathematical center of the line, the distance between the needles was
so small as to be invisible to the naked eye.

The meeting was much embarrassed.

Fortunately one of the members, Truck Milnor, insisted that the
measurements should be remade by means of a rule graduated by the
micrometrical machine of M. Perreaux, which can divide a millimeter
into fifteen-hundredths of a millimeter with a diamond splinter, was
brought to bear on the lines; and on reading the divisions through a
microscope the following were the results: Uncle Prudent had
approached the center within less than six fifteenth-hundredths of a
millimeter. Phil Evans was within nine fifteen-hundredths.

And that is why Phil Evans was only secretary of the Weldon
Institute, whereas Uncle Prudent was president. A difference of three
fifteen-hundredths of a millimeter! And on account of it Phil Evans
vowed against Uncle Prudent one of those hatreds which are none the
less fierce for being latent.

The many experiments made during this last quarter of the nineteenth
century have given considerable impetus to the question of guidable
balloons. The cars furnished with propellers attached in 1852 to the
aerostats of the elongated form introduced by Henry Giffard, the
machines of Dupuy de Lome in 1872, of the Tissandier brothers in
1883, and of Captain Krebs and Renard in 1884, yielded many important
results. But if these machines, moving in a medium heavier than
themselves, maneuvering under the propulsion of a screw, working at
an angle to the direction of the wind, and even against the wind, to
return to their point of departure, had been really "guidable," they
had only succeeded under very favorable conditions. In large, covered
halls their success was perfect. In a calm atmosphere they did very
well. In a light wind of five or six yards a second they still moved.
But nothing practical had been obtained. Against a miller's wind—nine
yards a second—the machines had remained almost stationary.
Against a fresh breeze—eleven yards a second—they would have
advanced backwards. In a storm—twenty-seven to thirty-three yards a
second—they would have been blown about like a feather. In a
hurricane—sixty yards a second—they would have run the risk of
being dashed to pieces. And in one of those cyclones which exceed a
hundred yards a second not a fragment of them would have been left.
It remained, then, even after the striking experiments of Captains
Krebs and Renard, that though guidable aerostats had gained a little
speed, they could not be kept going in a moderate breeze. Hence the
impossibility of making practical use of this mode of aerial
locomotion.