Off on a Comet (28 page)

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; 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.

Under the still diminishing influence of the sun's attraction, but
without let or hindrance, Gallia continued its interplanetary course,
accompanied by Nerina, its captured satellite, which performed its
fortnightly revolutions with unvarying regularity.

Meanwhile, the question beyond all others important was ever recurring
to the minds of Servadac and his two companions: were the astronomer's
calculations correct, and was there a sound foundation for his
prediction that the comet would again touch the earth? But whatever
might be their doubts or anxieties, they were fain to keep all their
misgivings to themselves; the professor was of a temper far too
cross-grained for them to venture to ask him to revise or re-examine the
results of his observations.

The rest of the community by no means shared in their uneasiness.
Negrete and his fellow-countrymen yielded to their destiny with
philosophical indifference. Happier and better provided for than they
had ever been in their lives, it did not give them a passing thought,
far less cause any serious concern, whether they were still circling
round the sun, or whether they were being carried right away within the
limits of another system. Utterly careless of the future, the majos,
light-hearted as ever, carolled out their favorite songs, just as if
they had never quitted the shores of their native land.

Happiest of all were Pablo and Nina. Racing through the galleries of the
Hive, clambering over the rocks upon the shore, one day skating far
away across the frozen ocean, the next fishing in the lake that was kept
liquid by the heat of the lava-torrent, the two children led a life of
perpetual enjoyment. Nor was their recreation allowed to interfere with
their studies. Captain Servadac, who in common with the count really
liked them both, conceived that the responsibilities of a parent in
some degree had devolved upon him, and took great care in superintending
their daily lessons, which he succeeded in making hardly less pleasant
than their sports.