surface?”
Traveller sighed and, to my discomfiture, he reached up and removed the platinum nose from his face; with one thumb he rubbed the rim of the dark cavity so revealed, and then replaced the nose into his skull. “Ned, every time I discern some glimmering of intelligence in that bullet-shaped cranium of yours I am disappointed by a crass remark. I have explained this to you at least twice.”
“Then I apologize, sir, for the point is still unclear to me.”
“Is specific impulse such a difficult concept? Dear God… Very well, Ned. To enable the
“A cheerful prospect. But if it is so impossible to land on Earth, how can we hope to land safely on the Moon?”
Traveller’s face was turned up to the Moon, and I imagined him struggling for patience. “Because the pull of gravity is only one-sixth that at Earth’s surface. And so our enfeebled rockets can bring us safely out of orbit and to a soft landing on the lunar plains long before we run out of water.”
I turned my face up to the Moon; I let its pale light fill my eyes, and I voiced my darkest fear. “Sir Josiah, let us face the truth. The Moon is a desolate, airless planet; we are no more likely to find water down there, frozen or otherwise, than we are to find a Cockney urchin selling hot chestnuts.”
Traveller snorted laughter, his nose giving the sound a disconcerting metallic ring. “Forgive me, Professor Lord Ned; I did not realize you were such an expert on lunar and planetary theories.”
“I am not, sir,” I said with some dignity, “but nor am I a fool; and I am capable of following the newspapers.”
“Very well. There are three counters to your objections to my plan. First, that we have no alternative! There is nowhere else accessible to us which offers even the prospect of water, or any other suitable liquid. So it is the Moon or nothing, Ned.
“Second, the opinion of the savants on the composition of the lunar surface is not as united as you appear to believe.”
“But surely the accepted wisdom is that the Moon is barren, inert, lifeless, and without atmosphere.”
“Pah!” Traveller snorted. “And what observations are such theories based on? For every sighting of a sharp occultation of a star by the limb of the Moon—’demonstrating’ by the absence of dimming or refraction, you see, that there is no air—I can quote another in direct contradiction. Only twenty years ago the Frenchman Laussedat noted a refraction of the solar disc during an eclipse.” Traveller, lying prone in his couch, held out his arms as if to embrace the lunar goddess above him. “I accept that our own eyes show us now that the Moon cannot have a blanket of atmosphere as thick as that of Earth; for surely if she did, her mountains and valleys would be hidden by a swirling layer of clouds and haze. And the lighter gravity, so advantageous to us in other ways, does not lend itself to the retention of a heavy atmosphere. But it is surely not beyond the bounds of possibility that we may find pockets of air in the deeper valleys, or even that a rarefied air might linger over the entire surface?
“And besides, recall that we have only observed one side of the Moon. The satellite dances about the Earth, keeping one face modestly turned away. Even from this vantage point we have not yet seen the hidden face, Ned! Who knows what we may find?”
“Craters, and mountains, and seas of dust.”
“Mr. Wickers, your mind is like a shriveled prune, dry and incapable of surprise. What if the theories of Hansen are verified? Eh?” Hansen, it emerged, was a Danish astronomer who had suggested that the Moon had been pulled, by Earth’s gravity, into an egg-shape, and circled the Earth with the fatter end averted; and that a layer of thick atmosphere had accumulated over this heavier hemisphere, conveniently hidden from the view of inquisitive astronomers.
“Well, Sir Josiah,” I said, “we must wait and see.”
He snorted again. “Spoken like a feeble scientist, lad. You must learn to think like an engineer! To a scientist nothing is proven until it is demonstrated, every way up, before the eyes of a dozen of his sober-suited peers. But an engineer seeks what is possible. I don’t care if this theory is right or wrong; I ask instead what I can do with it.”
“Sir Josiah, you listed three counters to my objection. What is the third?”
Now he twisted in his chair and craned his neck; his deformed face, half-silhouetted by the moonlight, was alive with excitement. “Ah, Ned, the third counter is simply this: whether we live or die, what fun it will be to walk among the mountains of the Moon!”
I peered up at the forbidding world rotating slowly above me and wished I could find it in my young heart to share Traveller’s enthusiasm for the exotic and the spectacular; but, at that moment, I would have given all my astonishing experiences to be safely back in the snug bar of a Manchester club.
After the excitement of the reclaiming of the Bridge we had returned to our settled routine—with the exception that poor Bourne sat in his chair in the Cabin now, a silent, resentful specter—and the remaining hours of our voyage wore away rapidly.
But at last I awoke, as usual with the homely smell of Pocket’s toast and tea in my nostrils, knowing instantly that this was the twentieth day of our flight—the day on which Sir Josiah Traveller would land us on the surface of the Moon itself, or else take us to our deaths!
Traveller had assured us that we would land at around eight in the morning; and so Pocket awoke us a little earlier than usual, at five. We washed quickly and ate a healthy breakfast. Traveller insisted on this, even though I for one could scarcely swallow a mouthful. I fed Bourne and allowed him to wash sketchily. Pocket climbed through the hatch to bring Traveller this last breakfast at his station on the Bridge.
With the meal completed and the debris hastily stowed away, we prepared for our descent. Traveller had explained to us that at ten minutes past seven his engines would fire one almighty burst, designed to knock us into a path which must inevitably meet the lunar surface.
I ensured that Bourne was correctly restrained by his safety straps. The Frenchman’s feet and hands were also knotted together by leather belts; pale, obviously frightened, he averted his eyes with a trace of defiance. I pushed away from him, reached my own seat, and began to haul the straps around me—and then, with an oath, pulled myself across the Cabin once more and, with fingers stiffened by anger, loosened the bindings around Bourne’s wrists. Bourne neither aided nor abetted me.
Holden, already in his place, shouted angrily, “Ned! What in God’s name are you doing? Will you loose that animal amongst us, at such a moment?”
I turned on him, feeling my face flush with fury. “He is not an animal, George. He is a human being, a brother to any of us here. We may be going to our deaths today. Whatever his crimes, Bourne deserves to meet his fate with dignity.”
Holden made to protest further, but Pocket, strapped tightly in his own chair, called out, “Please postpone your debate, sirs, for I fear that the engines are about to ignite, and the young gentleman will be injured if he does not resume his seat forthwith.”
A glance at Traveller’s
Then the great engines spoke once more.
I was pressed deep into my seat, and I envisaged our precious water being thrust as freezing steam into space. The rockets fired for perhaps two minutes—and then, as suddenly as they had awoken, they fell silent. An ominous quiet descended on the Cabin, and we stared at each other wildly.
From the Bridge there was no sound.
“Holden, what has happened?” I hissed. “Do you think it worked? Are we heading to the Moon?”
Holden bit his lip, his round face red and moist with fear. “The engines fired on cue, at any rate,” he said.
