The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (25 page)

The tongue of lichen
reached the promontory. I bent down carefully and seized a strand, mossy,
purple and scalloped . . . only to let go of it swiftly, with a kick that
propelled me five steps backwards. Barbicane caught me
en route,
interrupting
my grotesque leap.

“Gently, dear colleague.
Don’t forget that here weight is six times less than on our native planet. What
goes for the shell goes for us too. A trio of Herculeses, that’s what we are.”

While I was brushing my
elbows and knees, Michel in turn approached the lichen with the idea of
plucking a tuft of it. I immediately dissuaded him by brandishing my thumb and
index finger, which were turning red and stinging with a lancing pain.

As an experienced
chemist, Barbicane had, like myself, a considerable knowledge of biology, the
chemistry of life.

“What would you say of
this lichen,” I asked him, “which grows at the speed of a crystal, moves at
that of a worm, and has organic matter as its everyday fare? As what species,
or rather in which kingdom, would you classify it?

“I would say,”
interrupted Michel Ardan, “that I wouldn’t make a blanket of it!”

In the
hermetically-sealed shell, closed by an aluminium panel held fast by powerful
pressure screws, we had nothing to fear from the lichen. We decided to shut
ourselves up there and give ourselves time for several hours of rest, as we
were beginning to suffer badly from sleep-deficiency.

We had (it seemed to me)
hardly closed our eyes when a shock-wave shook the shell. Scraping noises
reached us through the twelve-inch-thick walls, indicating the enormous force
that was being exerted on the shell. The floor began to pitch. Without wishing
it, had we provoked a landslide?

I threw myself towards
the porthole and let out a cry of amazement: huge claws, shiny and black, had
seized our dwelling. We were flying over the floor of a crater at an altitude
of nearly a thousand feet.

“Look, out of the upper
porthole!”

A phenomenal abdomen,
segmented like that of an insect, was wavering close to the point of the shell
and covered us completely with its shadow. Through one of the lateral
portholes, we could see the beating of wings like cathedral windows, overhung
by wing-cases as large as ships, and, finally, part of a head with globular
eyes.

I imagined the
extraordinary strength of this creature, which was able to lift the 19,250
pounds of the projectile . . . But no, I was forgetting that on the Moon one
had to subtract five-sixths of this weight, which left 3,208 pounds. This still
remained considerable, out of all proportion for any terrestrial animal,
a
fortiori
an aerian one. To be sure, we were like Hercules in this world.
But it was one inhabited by Titans.

“Can this monster have
taken us for one of its eggs?” Michel Ardan asked.

No-one replied, for the
animal, whose general form resembled that of a
Lucanus cervus
(a beetle
commonly called a flying-kite), bent its flight towards a hole, hardly larger
than the diameter of our shell. It deposited us in this rocky declivity with
all the delicacy of an entomologist handling a rare specimen.

The fall into the
shadows was brief and, against expectation, quite gentle. Michel Ardan stood
up, pulling himself together.

“This time, I think we
have well and truly arrived.”

“Here we are under the
moon’s crust,” I murmured.

The portholes revealed
the interior of a cavern some quarter of a mile in diameter, sealed above by a
dome and pierced by holes where shadows moved. The prospect of being confronted
by the larvae of a giant insectoid cooled our enthusiasm, but Michel Ardan
remarked that there was nothing to be gained by remaining enclosed.

Barbicane opened the
shutter and we stepped outside.

I cursed myself for not
having brought a daguerreotype — or better still, a talbotype — to photograph
the Selenite who was approaching us with the hopping gait of a bird. But the
latter would doubtless not have allowed me to photograph it — something that
was confirmed later on.

Perched on spindly legs,
the Selenite was perhaps four feet high (which, by the way, reduced to nothing
my theory that their size should have been in proportion to the mass of their
globe, and consequently should not have exceeded one foot. Reality proved more
complex: a Selenite could be either Lilliputian or Brobdingnagian, according to
his role in society). It was a compact creature, which had much in common with
a cockroach raised up on its back legs, from the chitinous integument that
served simultaneously as skeleton, clothing, or armour, to the head capped by a
helmet spiked with antennae above, and mandibles below. On its chest hung what
I identified as a little fairground drum. The Selenite held out a truncated
hand towards Barbicane. Automatically, the savant seized it . . . and gave it a
vigorous handshake!

Visibly satisfied, the
Selenite proceeded to tap on his drum. It only took me a few seconds to realize
that the rhythm, had nothing in common with African tribal music, but was quite
simply Morse code! This was the method this individual had found to compensate
for its inability to articulate audible sounds. But it heard and understood
everything we said to it.

I only had the vaguest
notion of this codified language. Fortunately, Michel Ardan knew it, and agreed
to act as interpreter.

“In the name of the
people of the Moon . . . I bid you welcome . . . Soon we will be able to speak
aloud.”

I don’t know whether the
greatest surprise was that the Selenite expressed itself in perfect English, or
that it shook each of us in turn by the hand. But the frontiers of the absurd
had been crossed so long ago that we found all of this quite natural. Our guide
emitted a trill through its mandibles, at the limit of audibility. Straight
away another Selenite appeared, one of quite a different make-up, resembling a
horse (carriage included) and a beetle.

“One would swear that
its carapace had been moulded to hold us comfortably,” Ardan mumbled.

There was nothing to do
but to seat ourselves on this unusual vehicle. The seats proved comfortable,
endowed with rolls of chitin in the guise of armrests. The animal-vehicle set
off by itself. It was silent and extremely fast. Barbicane entered into
conversation with our guide, who replied without standing on ceremony. The
Selenites comprised a united society, based on the perpetual progress of
industry and aiming at the complete development of the Moon. They had learned
our language by observing us through immense telescopes. These offered a
magnification sufficient to scrutinize a fellow in the street, in London or in
Peking, and to read his lips. Consequently, our arts, history and customs were
by no means unknown to them. The Selenites had set up hundreds of such
telescopes, spread across the surface of the Moon, which transmitted their
received images with the aid of mirrors and projected them on to enormous
public screens. A highly entertaining spectacle, no doubt.

It was in this way that
they had had wind of our attempt to make a landing on the night star. Not
wishing to be discovered, they had sent an asteroid designed to throw us off
our linear trajectory. The manoeuvre had succeeded, but the plan had failed:
they had hoped that we would use the shell’s rockets to return to Earth, yet
the opposite had occurred, despite the second meteor that their pyrotechnicians
had caused to explode some hundreds of miles ahead of the shell.

“But why should you wish
to remain hidden at all cost?” Barbicane questioned.

The Selenite drummed in
reply that the Great Planner judged that humanity was not ready for a fruitful
exchange. In the light of past history, we had been compared to a rudderless
ship that no longer responded. On the other hand, certain Selenites saw the
appearance of a few frail barques, but our guide remained evasive on this
point. It did, however, make a comment that left me thoughtful, and a little
shocked: pursuing the marine analogy, some Selenites had formed the hypothesis
that the visitors — ourselves, in fact — were “rats leaving the sinking ship”.
Michel Ardan hastened to disabuse it. Moreover, added the Selenite, no
representative of the feminine gender formed part of our expedition. I must
admit that this point plunged us into embarrassment. Despite a few exceptions,
science remained, and was destined to remain, a masculine affair.

Our curious equipage
traversed a series of amphitheatres teeming with Selenites of different sizes,
occupied with various tasks. The amphitheatre appeared to be at the heart of
Selenite architecture, in imitation of the natural formations on the surface.
They had known of electricity since time immemorial, and made abundant use of
it. I wondered who this Great Planner could be, who was obeyed by thousands of
creatures, each one different from the other.

We were quite rightly
being taken to it. Before this, our equipage came to a halt in front of an
incubator, a monstrous building pierced with holes of all sizes. A Selenite
quite similar to the first came from it, to replace the latter.

This one was provided
with a phonatory organ, a muddle of palpes and mandibles that produced a voice
like an oboe. In the meantime, Michel, Impey, and I had worked out a system for
naming the Selenites we met, from the noise of their carapaces as they moved.
Thus, our new interpreter was called Krrak’ack.

“Krrak’ack . Good day,”
said Krrak’ack with an upper-class English accent. “I am charged with taking
you. to the Great Planner, so your fate may be decided.”

“Our fate?” repeated
Ardan, with an imperceptible frown.

“It has not been decided
whether it would be better to allow you to leave, or to keep you here. It is
vital that our existence remain secret.”

“By my faith,” said
Barbicane, “if the guest quarters are agreeable . . .”

Ardan and I jumped in at
these words.

“It is out of the
question! We are expected
below.
Our friends in the Gun Club would be
inconsolable . . . and they would definitely send a rescue expedition!”

Krrak’ack seemed
responsive to this argument, as far as the frantic ballet of his antennae
revealed. The reproduction of this species, which manifested a stupefying
intelligence in many respects, interested me greatly. This differed from that
of all other species on Earth. Selenite scientists were able to take a standard
egg (and they were all so) and modify the characteristics, be they physical or
mental, of the young creature prior to birth. Krrak’ack had been conceived a
few days before our arrival. His carapace was as fine and supple as a leather
suit, for he would do no manual work. Thanks to his enlarged brain, his
learning had been accelerated, and it had taken him only two hours to master
English and to assimilate the rudiments of our culture. The Selenite vehicle
that had transported us had been manipulated in the same manner. Its brain was
no more than a ganglion of nerves, hardly bigger than a nut.

Their system of reproduction,
or rather of production, assured the continuity of their society, as far as
their descendants were concerned. Each individual corresponded to a metier, or
sometimes even a specific task: there were Selenite hammers, and even Selenites
in the form of gearwheels. The disproportionate beetle that had transported our
shell had been conceived with this aim. Then it had died a natural death.

Perhaps one day, with
the power of technology, mankind would be able to achieve the same result.
Michel Ardan stared at me, horrified.

“And would you deny your
humanity? I can hardly see myself in the skin of a Selenite-tool, sensible
though it may be, for I have no such calling. At least not unless there exist
Selenite adventurers!”

Krrak’ack ignored him.

“That is not quite
accurate,” objected Barbicane, “The Selenites are tools, certainly, but also,
and inextricably, blacksmiths.”

When I asked to visit
one of these incubator-factories, in order to examine the marvellous machines
that were able to model the foetus in the egg without killing it, Krrak’ack
proved intractable. Michel Ardan had a saucy smile for my complaints.

“You Americans are
astounded at nothing . . . Would you coldly display a man and a woman in the
act of procreation just to satisfy the curiosity of a Selenite scientist
visiting us?”

“Well . . . why not?”

This time, Ardan burst
out laughing.

“All the same!
Scientists are incorrigible, no matter what planet they come from. I had
forgotten that you were lunatic by calling . . .”

I hardly paid attention
to his joke, and forgot it quickly, as our equipage had begun its mad course
again. All around us, Selenites were digging galleries and amphitheatres,
making greenhouses where they cultivated a kind of cactus that produced
quantities of air from the rocks. For me, this industrious civilization was a
marvellous symbol of progress. The variety of the Selenites seemed
inexhaustible.

We were surprised to
see, in the middle of an amphitheatre, a life-size replica of the White House
in Washington. And, further on, an Arc de Triomphe.