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claimed to have built an apparatus which had detected 'propagating electro-magnetic emissions': a
phenomenon first described by James Clerk Maxwell, and related, apparently, to the more recent
wireless-telegraphy demonstrations of Marconi. If this were not enough, Maston also claimed that the
'emissions' were in fact signals, encoded after the fashion of a telegraph message.
And these signals said Maston and Ardan had emanated from a source beyond the terrestrial
atmosphere: from a space voyager, en route to Mars!
When I got the gist of this, I laughed out loud. I dashed off a quick note instructing Newnes not to pass
on to me any further communications from the same source.
Fifth Day. Two Hundred and Ninety Seven Thousand Leagues. Through my lenticular glass
scuttles, the Earth now appears about the size of a Full Moon. Only the right half of the terrestrial
globe is illuminated by the Sun. I can still discern clouds, and the differentiation of ocean blue
from the land's brown, and the glare of ice at the poles.
Some distance from the Earth a luminous disklet is visible, aping the Earth's waxing phase. It is
the Moon, following the Earth on its path around the Sun. It is to my regret that the configuration
of my orbit was such that I passed no closer to the satellite than several hundred thousand
leagues.
The projectile is extraordinarily convenient. I have only to turn a tap and I am furnished with fire
and light by means of gas, which is stored in a reservoir at a pressure of several atmospheres. My
food is meat and vegetables and fruit, hydraulically compressed to the smallest dimensions; and I
have carried a quantity of brandy and water. My atmosphere is maintained by means of chlorate
of potassium and caustic potash: the former, when heated, is transformed into chloride of
potassium, and the oxygen thus liberated replaces that which I have consumed; and the potash,
when shaken, extracts from the air the carbonic acid placed there by the combustion of elements
of my blood.
Thus, in inter-planetary space, I am as comfortable as if I were in the smoking lounge of the Gun
Club itself, in Union Square, Baltimore!
Michel Ardan was perhaps seventy-five. He was of large build, but stoop-shouldered. He sported
luxuriant side-whiskers and moustache; his shock of untamed hair, once evidently red, was largely a mass
of grey. His eyes were startling: habitually he held them wide open, so that a rim of white appeared above
each iris, and his gaze was clear but vague, as if he suffered from near-sight.
He paced about my living room, his open collar flapping. Even at his advanced age Ardan was a
vigorous, restless man, and my home, Spade House spacious though it is seemed to confine him like
a cage. I feared besides that his booming Gallic voice must awaken Gip. Therefore I invited Ardan to
walk with me in the garden; in the open air I fancied he might not seem quite so out of scale.
The house, built on the Kent coast near Sandgate, is open to a vista of the sea. The day was brisk, lightly
overcast. Ardan showed interest in none of this, however.
He fixed me with those wild eyes. 'You have not replied to my letters.'
'I had them stopped.'
'I have been forced to travel here unannounced. Sir, I have come here to beg your help.'
I already regretted allowing him into my home of course I did! but some combination of his
earnestness, and the intriguing content of those unsolicited missives, had temporarily overwhelmed me.
Now, though, I stood square on my lawn, and held up the newest copy of his letter.
'Then perhaps, M. Ardan, you might explain what you mean by transmitting such romantic nonsense in
my direction.'
He barked laughter. 'Romantic it may be. Nonsense never!'
'Then you claim this business of "propagating emissions" is the plain and honest truth, do you?'
'Of course. It is a system of communication devised for their purposes by Impey Barbicane and Col.
Maston. They seized on the electro-magnetic discoveries of James Maxwell with the vigour and
inventiveness typical of Americans for America is indeed the Land of the Future, is it not?'
Of that, I was not so certain.
'Col. Maston had built a breed of mirror but of wires, do you see? in the shape of that geometric
figure called a hyperbola no, forgive me! a parabola, for this figure, I am assured, collects all
impinging waves into a single point, thus making it possible to detect the weakest '
'Enough.' I was scarcely qualified to judge the technical possibilities of such a hypothetical apparatus.
And besides, the inclusion of apparently authentic detail is a technique I have used in my own romances,
to persuade the reader to accept the most outrageous fictive lies. I had no intention of being deceived by
it myself!
'These missives of yours received by Maston purport to be from the inhabitant of a projectile,
beyond the terrestrial atmosphere. And this projectile, you claim, was launched into space from the
mouth of an immense cannon, the Columbiad, embedded in a Florida hill-side.'
'That is so.'
'But, my poor M. Ardan, you must understand that these are no more than the elements of a fiction,
written three decades ago by M. Verne your countryman with whom I, myself, have
corresponded '
Choleric red bloomed in his battered cheeks. 'Verne indeed now claims his lazy and sensational books
were fiction. It is convenient for him to do so. But they were not! He was commissioned to write truthful
accounts of our extraordinary voyage!'
'Well, that's as may be. But see here. In M. Verne's account the projectile was launched towards the
Moon. Not to Mars.' I shook my head. 'There is a difference, you know.'
'Sir, I pray you resist treating me as imbecilic. I am well aware of the difference. The projectile was sent
towards the Moon on its first journey in which I had the honour of participating...'
The afternoon was extending, and I had work to do; and I was growing irritated by this boorish
Frenchman. 'Then, if this projectile was truly built, perhaps you would be good enough to show it to me.'
'I cannot comply.'
'Why so?'
'Because it is no longer on the Earth.'
'Ah.'
Of course not! It was buried in the red dust of Mars, with this Barbicane inside.
'But '
'Yes, M. Ardan?'
'I can show you the cannon.'
The Frenchman regarded me steadily, and I felt an odd chill grow deep within me.
Seventy-Third Day. Four Million One Hundred And Eighty Four Thousand Leagues.
Today, through my smoked glass, I have observed the passage of the Earth across the face of the
Sun.
The planet appeared first as a mar in the perfect rim of the parent star. Later it moved into the
full glare of the fiery ball, and was quite visible as a whole disc, dwarfed by the Sun's mighty
countenance. After perhaps an hour another spot appeared, even smaller than the first: it was the
Moon, following its parent towards the Sun's centre.
After perhaps eight hours the passage was done.
I took several astronomical readings of this event. I measured the angles under which Earth and
Moon travelled across the Sun's disc, so that I might determine the deviation of my voyaging
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