Lost on the Moon, Roy Rockwood [best reads of all time .txt] 📗
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balloonist had never ventured.
Mark and Jack sat for a few minutes in the pilothouse, looking out
into the ether. But they soon tired of seeing absolutely nothing.
“I wonder what we’ll do when we get to the moon?” asked Jack of his
chum.
“Why, I suppose you’ll make a dive for a hatful of diamonds, won’t you?
That is, if you still believe that Martian newspaper account.”
“I sure do.”
The boys found the two professors busy adjusting some of the delicate
scientific instruments with which they expected to make observations on
the trip, and after they reached the moon.
“What is your opinion, Professor Roumann, of the temperature at the
moon’s surface?” asked Mr. Henderson.
“I am in two minds about it,” was the reply. “A few years ago, I see by
an astronomy, Lord Rosse inferred from his observations that the
temperature rose at its maximum (or about three days after full moon)
far above that of boiling water.”
“Boiling water!” ejaculated Mark. “Wow! That won’t be very nice. I
don’t want to be boiled like a lobster!”
“Wait a moment,” cautioned Mr. Roumann, with a smile. “Later, Lord
Rosse’s own investigations, and those of Langley, threw some doubts on
this. There is said to be no air blanket about the moon, as there is
about the earth, so that the moon loses heat as fast as it receives it;
and it now seems more probable that the temperature never rises above
the freezing point of water, just as is the case on our highest
mountains.”
“That’s better,” came from Jack. “We can stand a low temperature more
easily than we can to be boiled; eh, Jack?”
“Sure. But I don’t want to be frozen or boiled either, if I can help
it. Guess I’ll wear my fur suit that we brought back from the North
Pole with us.”
“I agree with you, Professor Roumann, about the temperature,” announced
Mr. Henderson, “so we must make up our minds to shiver, rather than
melt. But we are prepared for that.”
“What about there being no air on the moon?” asked Jack.
“Oh, we can manufacture our own oxygen,” said Mark. “We can walk around
with an air tank on our shoulders, as we did when we went beneath the
surface of the ocean. Now, I guess–-”
“Dinner am served in de dining car!” interrupted Washington White, his
black face grinning cheerfully. He used to be a waiter in a Pullman,
and he was proud of it. “First call fo’ dinner!” he went on. “Part ob
it am boiled, part am roasted, laik I done heah yo’ talkin’ ‘bout jest
now, an’ part am frozed—dat’s de ice cream,” he added hastily, lest
there be a mistake about it.
“Well, that sounds good,” observed Mark. “Come on, everybody,” and he
led the way to the dining cabin.
They had not been at the table more than a few minutes, and had begun
on the “boiled” part of the meal, which was the soup, when from the
engine room there came a curious, whining noise, as when an electric
motor slows up.
“What’s that?” cried Professor Henderson, jumping up from his seat in
alarm.
“Something wrong in the engine room,” cried Mr. Roumann.
The two scientists, followed by the boys, hurried to where the various
pieces of apparatus were sending the projectile forward through space.
Already there was an appreciable slackening of speed.
“The Cardite motor has stopped!” cried Mr. Roumann. “Something has
happened to it!”
“Can it be the result of the damage which that lunatic did?” asked Mr.
Henderson.
“Perhaps,” spoke Jack. “If I had him here–-”
“We are falling!” shouted Mark, looking at an indicator which marked
their speed and motion.
“Can’t we start some other motor?” asked Jack.
At that instant from beneath the now silent Cardite machine there came
a prolonged crow.
“My Shanghai rooster!” shouted Washington. “He am in dar!”
A second later the rooster scrambled out, scratching vigorously. Grains
of corn were scattered about. The motor started up again, and the
projectile resumed its onward way.
“The rooster stopped it!” cried Jack. “He went under it to get some
corn, and he must have deranged one of the levers. Oh, you old
Shanghai, you nearly gave us all heart disease!”
And the rooster crowed louder than before, while his colored owner
“shooed” him out of the engine room. The trouble was over speedily, and
the Annihilator was once more speeding toward the moon.
“WILL IT HIT US?”
“Well, for a trouble-maker, give me a rooster every time,” spoke Jack,
as, after an examination of the machinery, it was found that nothing
was out of order. “How do you think it happened, Professor Henderson?”
“It never could have happened except in just that way,” was the reply
of Mr. Roumann. “Underneath the motor, where they are supposed to be
out of all reach, are several self-adjusting levers. They control the
speed, and also, by being moved in a certain direction, they will shut
down the apparatus. The rooster crawled beneath the machine, an act
that I never figured on, for I knew it was too small for any of us to
reach with our hands or arms, even had we so desired. But the
Shanghai’s feathers must have brushed against the levers, and that
stopped the action of the Cardite motor. However, I’m glad it was no
worse.”
“Yes, let’s finish dinner now, if everything is all right,” proposed
Mark.
“How did the rooster get in here?” asked Jack.
“I ‘spects dat’s my fault,” answered Washington. “I took him out ob his
coop fo’ a little exercise dis mawnin’, an’ he run in heah.”
“That explains it, I think,” said Mr. Roumann. “Well, Washington, don’t
let it happen again. We don’t want to be dashed downward through space
all on account of a rooster.”
“No, indeedy; I’ll lock him up good an’ tight arter dis,” promised the
colored man.
They resumed the interrupted dinner, discussing the possibility of what
might have happened, and congratulating themselves that it did not take
place.
“It certainly seems like old times to be eating while travelling along
like a cannon-ball,” remarked Jack. “I declare, it gives me an
appetite!”
“You didn’t need any,” retorted his chum. “But say! maybe things don’t
taste good to me, after what I got while that fellow Axtell had me a
prisoner! Jack, I’ll have a little more of that cocoanut pie, if you
don’t mind.”
Jack passed over the pastry, and Mark took a liberal piece. Then
Washington brought in the ice cream, which was frozen on board by means
of an ammonia gas apparatus, the invention of Professor Henderson. The
novelty of dining as comfortably as at home, yet being thousands of
miles above the earth, and, at the same time, speeding along like a
cannon-ball, did not impress our friends as much as it had during their
trip to Mars.
“Well, we’re making a little better time now,” observed Mark, as he and
the others rose from the table and went to the engine room. “The gauge
shows that we’re making twenty-five miles a second.”
“We will soon go much faster,” announced Professor Roumann. “I have not
yet had a chance to test my Cardite motor to its fullest speed, and I
think I will do so. I wish to see if it will equal my Etherium machine.
I’ll turn on the power gradually now, and we’ll see what happens.”
“How fast do you think it ought to send us along?” asked Jack.
“Oh, perhaps one hundred and twenty-five miles a second. You know we
went a hundred miles a second when we headed for Mars. I would not be
surprised if we made even one hundred and thirty miles a second with
the Cardite.”
“Whew! If we ever hit anything going like that!” exclaimed old Andy
Sudds.
“We’d go right through it,” finished Jack fervently. The professor was
soon ready for the test. Slowly he shoved over the controlling lever.
The Cardite motor hummed more loudly, like some great cat purring.
Louder snapped the electrical waves. The air vibrated with the enormous
speed of the valve wheels, and there was a prickling sensation as the
power flowed into the positive and negative plates, by which the
projectile was moved through space.
“Watch the hand of the speed indicator, boys,” directed Professor
Roumann, “while Professor Henderson and I manipulate the motor. Call
out the figures to us, for we must keep our eyes on the valves.” Slowly
the speed indicator hand, which was like that of an automobile
speedometer, swept over the dial.
“Fifty miles a second,” read off Mark. The two professors shoved the
levers over still more.
“Seventy-five,” called Jack.
“Give it a little more of the positive current,” directed Mr. Roumann.
“Ninety miles a second,” read Mark a few moments later.
“We are creeping up, but we have not yet equalled our former speed,”
spoke Mr. Henderson. The motor was fairly whining now, as if in
protest.
“One hundred and five miles,” announced Jack.
“Ha! That’s some better!” ejaculated the German. “I think we shall do
it.” Once more he advanced the speed lever a notch.
“One hundred and thirty!” fairly shouted Mark. “We are beating all
records!”
“And we will go still farther beyond them!” cried Mr. Roumann. “Watch
the gauge, boys!”
To the last notch went the speed handle. There was a sharp crackling,
snapping sound, as if the metal of which the motor was composed was
strained to the utmost. Yet it held together.
The hand of the dial quivered. It hung on the one hundred and thirty
mark for a second, as if not wanting to leave it, and then the steel
pointer swept slowly on in a circle, past point after point.
“One hundred and thirty-five—one hundred and forty,” whispered Jack,
as if afraid to speak aloud. The two professors did not look up from
the motor. They looked at the oil and lubricating cups. Already the
main shaft was smoking with the heat of friction.
“Look! look!” whispered Mark hoarsely.
“One hundred and fifty-three miles a second!” exclaimed Jack. “You’ve
done it, Professor Roumann!”
“Yes, I have,” spoke the German, with a sigh of satisfaction. “That is
faster than mortal man ever travelled before, and I think no one will
ever equal our speed. We have broken all records—even our own. Now I
will slow down, but we must do it gradually, so as not to strain the
machinery.”
He slipped back the speed lever, notch by notch. The hand of the dial
began receding, but it still marked one hundred and twenty miles a
second.
Suddenly, above the roar and hum of the motor, there sounded the voice
of Andy.
“Professor!” he shouted. “We’re heading right toward a big, black
stone! Is that the moon?”
“The moon? No, we are not half way there,” said Mr. Henderson. “Are you
sure, Andy?”
“Sure? Yes! I saw it from the window in the pilothouse. We are
shooting right toward it.”
“Look to the motor, and I’ll see what it is,” directed Mr. Henderson to
his friend. Followed by the boys, he hurried to the steering tower. His
worst fears were confirmed.
Speeding along with a swiftness unrivalled even by some stars, the
projectile was lurching toward a great, black heavenly body. “It’s a
meteor! An immense meteor!” cried Professor Henderson, “and it’s coming
right toward us.”
“Will it hit us?” gasped Mark
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