Chapter 12: Sunward Ho!

“By the way,” said Gazen to me, “I’ve got a new theory for the rising and sinking of the sun behind the cliffs at Womla--a theory that will simply explode Professor Possil, and shake the Royal Astronomical Society to its foundations.”

The astronomer and I were together in the observatory, where he was adjusting his telescope to look at the sun. After our misadventure with the flying ape, we had returned to our former station on the summit of the mountain, to pick up the drawing materials of Miss Carmichael; but as Gazen was anxious to get as near the sun as possible, and being disgusted with the infernal scenery as well as the foetid, malarial atmosphere of Mercury, we left as soon as we had replenished our cistern from the pools in the rock.

“Another theory?” I responded. “Thought you had settled that question.”

“Alas, my friend, theories, like political treatises, are made to be broken.”

“Well, what do you think of it now?”

“You remember how we came to the conclusion that Schiaparelli was right, and that the planet Venus, by rotating about her own axis in the same time as she takes to revolve around the sun, always keeps the same face turned to the sun, one hemisphere being in perpetual light and summer, whilst the other is in perpetual darkness and winter?”

“Yes.”

“You remember, too, how we explained the growing altitude of the sun in the heavens which culminated on the great day of the Festival, by supposing that the axis of the planet swayed to and from the sun so as to tilt each pole towards the sun, and the other from it, alternately, thus producing what by courtesy we may call the seasons in Womla?”

“Yes.”

“Well, judging from the observations I have made, we were probably right so far; but if you recollect, I accounted for the mysterious daily rise and set of the sun, if I may use the words, by changes in the density of the atmosphere bending the solar rays, and making the disk appear to rise and sink periodically, though in reality it does nothing of the kind. A similar effect is well-known on the earth. It produces the ‘after glow’ on the peaks of the Alps when the sun is far below the horizon; it sometimes makes the sun bob up and down again after sunset, and it has been known to make the sun show in the Arctic regions three weeks before the proper time. I had some difficulty in understanding how the effect could take place so regularly.”

“I think you ascribed it to the interaction of the solar heat and the evaporation from the surface.”

“Quite so. I assumed that when the sun is low the vapours above the edge of the crater and elsewhere cool and condense, thus bending the rays and seeming to lift the sun higher; but after a time the rays heat and rarefy the vapours, thus lowering the sun again. It seemed a plausible hypothesis and satisfied me for a time, but still not altogether, and now I believe I have made a discovery.”

“And it is?”

“That Venus is a wobbler.”

“A wobbler?”

“That she wobbles--that she doesn’t keep steady--swings from side to side. You have seen a top, how stiff and erect it is when it is spinning fast, and how it wobbles when it is spinning slow, just before it falls. Well, I think something of the kind is going on with Venus. The earth may be compared to a top that is whirling fast, and Venus to one that has slowed down. She is less able than the earth to resist the disturbing attraction of the sun on the inequalities of her figure, and therefore she wobbles. In addition to the slow swinging of her axis which produces her ‘seasons, ‘ she has a quicker nodding, which gives rise to day and night in some favoured spots like Womla.”

“After all,” said I, “tis a feminine trait. Souvent femme varie.“

“Oh, she is constant to her lord the sun,” rejoined Gazen. “She never turns her back upon him, but if I have not discovered a mare’s nest, which is very likely, she becks and bows to him a good deal, and thus maintains her ‘infinite variety.’”

The cloudy surface of Mercury now lay far beneath us, and the glowing disc of the sun, which appeared four or five times larger than it does on the earth, had taken a bluish tinge--a proof that we had reached a very great altitude.

“What a magnificent ‘sun-spot!’” exclaimed the professor in a tone of admiration. “Just take a peep at it.”

I placed my eye to the telescope, and saw the glowing surface of the disc resolved into a marvellous web of shining patches on a dimmer background, and in the midst a large blotch which reminded me of a quarry hole as delineated on the plan of a surveyor.

“Have you been able to throw any fresh light on these mysterious ‘spots?’” I enquired.

“I am more than ever persuaded they are breaks in the photosphere caused by eruptions of heated matter, chiefly gaseous from the interior--eruptions such as might give rise to craters like that of Womla, or those of the moon, were the sun cooler. No doubt that eminent authority, Professor Sylvanus Pettifer Possil, regards them as aerial hurricanes; but the more I see, the more I am constrained to regard Sylvanus Pettifer Possil as a silly vain asteroid.”

While Gazen was yet speaking we both became sensible of an unwonted stillness in the car.

The machinery had ceased to vibrate.

Our feelings at this discovery were akin to those of passengers in an ocean steamer when the screw stops--a welcome relief to the monotony of the voyage, a vague apprehension of danger, and curiosity to learn what had happened.

“Is there anything wrong, Carmichael?” asked Gazen through the speaking tube.

There was no response.

“I say, Carmichael, is anything the matter?” he reiterated in a louder tone.

Still no answer.

We were now thoroughly alarmed, and though it was against the rules, we descended into the machinery room. The cause of Carmichael’s silence was only too apparent. We saw him lying on the floor beside his strange machine, with his head leaning against the wall. There was a placid expression on his face, and he appeared to slumber; but we soon found that he was either in a faint or dead. Without loss of time we tried the first simple restoratives at hand, but they proved of no avail.

Gazen went and called Miss Carmichael.

She had been resting in her cabin after her trying experience with the dragon, and although most anxious about her father, and far from well herself, she behaved with calm self-possession.

“I think the heat has overcome him,” she said, after a quick examination; and truly the cabin was insufferably hot, thanks to the machinery and the fervid rays of the sun.

We could not open the scuttles and admit fresh air, for there was little or none to admit.

“I shall try oxygen,” she said on reflecting a moment.

Accordingly, while Gazen, in obedience to her directions began to work Carmichael’s arms up and down, after the method of artificial respiration which had brought me round at the outset of our journey, she and I administered oxygen gas from one of our steel bottles to his lungs by means of a makeshift funnel applied to his mouth. In some fifteen or twenty minutes he began to show signs of returning animation, and soon afterwards, to our great relief, he opened his eyes.

At first he looked about him in a bewildered way, and then he seemed to recollect his whereabouts. After an ineffectual attempt to speak, and move his limbs, he fixed his eyes with a meaning expression on the engines.

We had forgotten their stoppage. Miss Carmichael sprang to investigate the cause.

“They are jammed,” she said after a short inspection. “The essential part is jammed with the heat. Whatever is to be done?”

We stared at each other blankly as the terrible import of her words came home to us. Unless we could start the machines again, we must inevitably fall back on Mercury. Perhaps we were falling now!

We endeavoured to think of a ready and practicable means of cooling the engines, but without success. The water and oil on board was lukewarm; none of us knew how to make a freezing mixture even if we had the materials; our stock of liquid air had long been spent.

Miss Carmichael tried to make her father understand the difficulty in hopes that he would suggest a remedy, but all her efforts were in vain. Carmichael lay with his eyes closed in a kind of lethargy or paralysis.

“Perhaps, when we are falling through the planet’s atmosphere,” said I, “if we open the scuttles and let the cold air blow through the room, it will cool the engines.”

“I’m afraid there will not be time,” replied Gazen, shaking his head; “we shall fall much faster than we rose. The friction of the air against the car will generate heat. We shall drop down like a meteoric stone and be smashed to atoms.”

“We have parachutes,” said Miss Carmichael, “do you think we shall be able to save our lives?”

“I doubt it,” answered Gazen sadly. “They would be torn and whirled away.”

“So far as I can see there is only one hope for us,” said I. “If we should happen to fall into a deep sea or lake, the car would rise to the surface again.”

“Yes, that is true,” responded Gazen; “the car is hollow and light. It would float. The water would also cool the machines and we might escape.”

The bare possibility cheered us with a ray of hope.

“If we only had time, my father might recover, and I believe he would save us yet,” said Miss Carmichael.

“I wonder how much time we have,” muttered Gazen.

“We can’t tell,” said I. “It depends on the height we had reached and the speed we were going at when the engines stopped. We shall rise like a ball thrown into the air and then fall back to the ground.”

“I wonder if we are still rising,” ejaculated Gazen. “Let us take a look at the planet.”

“Don’t be long,” pleaded Miss Carmichael, as we turned to go. “Meanwhile, I shall try and bring my father round.”

On getting to the observatory, we consulted the atmospheric pressure gauge and found it out of use, a sign that we had attained an altitude beyond the atmosphere of Mercury, and were now in empty space.

We turned to the planet, whose enormous disc, muffled in cloud, was shining lividly in the weird sky. At one part of the limb a range of lofty mountain peaks rose above the clouds and chequered them with shadow.

Fixing our eyes upon this landmark we watched it with bated breath. Was it coming nearer, or was it receding from us? That was the momentous question.

My feelings might be compared to those of a prisoner at the bar watching the face of the juryman who is about to deliver the verdict.

After a time--I know not how long--but it seemed an age--the professor exclaimed,

“I believe we are still rising.”

It was my own impression, for the peak I was regarding had grown as I thought smaller, but I did not feel sure, and preferred to trust the more experienced eyes of the astronomer.

“I shall try the telescope,” he went on; “we are a long way from the planet.”