The Story of the Heavens, Sir Robert Stawell Ball [snow like ashes series TXT] 📗

started from the earth on a journey to the moon; as he proceeded, the air would gradually become more and more rarefied, until at length, when he was a few hundred miles above the earth's surface, he would have left the last perceptible traces of the earth's envelope behind him. By the time he had passed completely through the atmosphere he would have advanced only a very small fraction of the whole journey of 240,000 miles, and there would still remain a vast void to be traversed before the moon would be reached. If the moon were enveloped in the same way as the earth, then, as the traveller approached the end of his journey, and came within a few hundred miles of the moon's surface, he would meet again with traces of an atmosphere, which would gradually increase in density until he arrived at the moon's surface. The traveller would thus have passed through one stratum of air at the beginning of his journey, and through another at the end, while the main portion of the voyage would have been through space more void than that to be found in the exhausted receiver of an air-pump.

Such would be the case if the moon were coated with an atmosphere like that surrounding our earth. But what are the facts? The traveller as he drew near the moon would seek in vain for air to breathe at all resembling ours. It is possible that close to the surface there are faint traces of some gaseous material surrounding the moon, but it can only be equal to a very small fractional part of the ample clothing which the earth now enjoys. For all purposes of respiration, as we understand the term, we may say that there is no air on the moon, and an inhabitant of our earth transferred thereto would be as certainly suffocated as he would be in the middle of space.

It may, however, be asked how we learn this. Is not air transparent, and how, therefore, could our telescopes be expected to show whether the moon really possessed such an envelope? It is by indirect, but thoroughly reliable, methods of observation that we learn the destitute condition of our satellite. There are various arguments to be adduced; but the most conclusive is that obtained on the occurrence of what is called an "occultation." It sometimes happens that the moon comes directly between the earth and a star, and the temporary extinction of the latter is an "occultation." We can observe the moment when the phenomenon takes place, and the suddenness of the disappearance of the star is generally remarked. If the moon were enveloped in a copious atmosphere, the interposition of this gaseous mass by the movement of the moon would produce a gradual evanescence of the star wholly wanting the abruptness which marks the obscuration.[9]

Let us consider how we can account for the absence of an atmosphere from the moon. What we call a gas has been found by modern research to be a collection of an immense number of molecules, each of which is in exceedingly rapid motion. This motion is only pursued for a short distance in one direction before a molecule comes into collision with some other molecule, whereby the directions and velocities of the individual molecules are continually changed. There is a certain average speed for each gas which is peculiar to the molecules of that gas at a certain temperature. When several gases are mixed, as oxygen and nitrogen are in our atmosphere, the molecules of each gas continue to move with their own characteristic velocities. So far as we can estimate the temperature at the boundary of the earth's atmosphere, we may assume that the average of the velocities of the oxygen molecules there found is about a quarter of a mile per second. The velocities for nitrogen are much the same, while the average speed of a molecule of hydrogen is about one mile per second, being, in fact, by far the greatest molecular velocity possessed by any gas.

A stone thrown into the air soon regains the earth. A rifle bullet fired vertically upwards will ascend higher and higher, until at length its motion ceases, it begins to return, and falls to the ground. Let us for the moment suppose that we had a rifle of infinite strength and gunpowder of unlimited power. As we increase the charge we find that the bullet will ascend higher and higher, and each time it will take a longer period before it returns to the ground. The descent of the bullet is due to the attraction of the earth. Gravitation must necessarily act on the projectile throughout its career, and it gradually lessens the velocity, overcomes the upward motion, and brings the bullet back. It must be remembered that the efficiency of the attraction decreases when the height is increased. Consequently when the body has a prodigiously great initial velocity, in consequence of which it ascends to an enormous height, its return is retarded by a twofold cause. In the first place, the distance through which it has to be recalled is greatly increased, and in the second place the efficiency of gravitation in effecting its recall has decreased. The greater the velocity, the feebler must be the capacity of gravitation for bringing back the body. We can conceive the speed to be increased to that point at which the gravitation, constantly declining as the body ascends, is never quite able to neutralise the velocity, and hence we have the remarkable case of a body projected away never to return.

It is possible to exhibit this reasoning in a numerical form, and to show that a velocity of six or seven miles a second directed upwards would suffice to convey a body entirely away from the gravitation of the earth. This speed is far beyond the utmost limits of our artillery. It is, indeed, at least a dozen times as swift as a cannon shot; and even if we could produce it, the resistance of the air would present an insuperable difficulty. Such reflections, however, do not affect the conclusion that there is for each planet a certain specific velocity appropriate to that body, and depending solely upon its size and mass, with which we should have to discharge a projectile, in order to prevent the attraction of that body from pulling the projectile back again.

It is a simple matter of calculation to determine this "critical velocity" for any celestial body. The greater the body the greater in general must be the initial speed which will enable the projectile to forsake for ever the globe from which it has been discharged. As we have already indicated, this speed is about seven miles per second on the earth. It would be three on the planet Mercury, three and a half on Mars, twenty-two on Saturn, and thirty-seven on Jupiter; while for a missile to depart from the sun without prospect of return, it must leave the brilliant surface at a speed not less than 391 miles per second.

Supposing that a quantity of free hydrogen was present in our atmosphere, its molecules would move with an average velocity of about one mile per second. It would occasionally happen by a combination of circumstances that a molecule would attain a speed which exceeded seven miles a second. If this happened on the confines of the atmosphere where it escaped collision with other molecules, the latter object would fly off into space, and would not be recaptured by the earth. By incessant repetitions of this process, in the course of countless ages, all the molecules of hydrogen gas would escape from the earth, and in this manner we may explain the fact that there is no free hydrogen present in the earth's atmosphere.[10]

The velocities which can be attained by the molecules of gases other than hydrogen are far too small to permit of their escape from the attraction of the earth. We therefore find oxygen, nitrogen, water vapour, and carbon dioxide remaining as permanent components of our air. On the other hand, the enormous mass of the sun makes the "critical velocity" at the surface of that body to be so great (391 miles per second) that not even the molecules of hydrogen can possibly emulate it. Consequently, as we have seen, hydrogen is a most important component of the sun's atmospheric envelope.

If we now apply this reasoning to the moon, the critical velocity is found by calculation to be only a mile and a half per second. This seems to be well within the maximum velocities attainable by the molecules of oxygen, nitrogen, and other gases. It therefore follows that none of these gases could remain permanently to form an atmosphere at the surface of so small a body as the moon. This seems to be the reason why there are no present traces of any distinct gaseous surroundings to our satellite.

The absence of air and of water from the moon explains the sublime ruggedness of the lunar scenery. We know that on the earth the action of wind and of rain, of frost and of snow, is constantly tending to wear down our mountains and reduce their asperities. No such agents are at work on the moon. Volcanoes sculptured the surface into its present condition, and, though they have ceased to operate for ages, the traces of their handiwork seem nearly as fresh to-day as they were when the mighty fires were extinguished.

"The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples" have but a brief career on earth. It is chiefly the incessant action of water and of air that makes them vanish like the "baseless fabric of a vision." On the moon these causes of disintegration and of decay are all absent, though perhaps the changes of temperature in the transition from lunar day to lunar night would be attended with expansions and contractions that might compensate in some slight degree for the absence of more potent agents of dissolution.

It seems probable that a building on the moon would remain for century after century just as it was left by the builders. There need be no glass in the windows, for there is no wind and no rain to keep out. There need not be fireplaces in the rooms, for fuel cannot burn without air. Dwellers in a lunar city would find that no dust could rise, no odours be perceived, no sounds be heard.

Man is a creature adapted for life under circumstances which are very narrowly limited. A few degrees of temperature more or less, a slight variation in the composition of air, the precise suitability of food, make all the difference between health and sickness, between life and death. Looking beyond the moon, into the length and breadth of the universe, we find countless celestial globes with every conceivable variety of temperature and of constitution. Amid this vast number of worlds with which space is tenanted, are there any inhabited by living beings? To this great question science can make no response: we cannot tell. Yet it is impossible to resist a conjecture. We find our earth teeming with life in every part. We find life under the most varied conditions that can be conceived. It is met with under the burning heat of the tropics and in the everlasting frost at the poles. We find life in caves where not a ray of light ever penetrates. Nor is it wanting in the depths of the ocean, at the pressure of tons on the square inch. Whatever may be the external circumstances, Nature generally provides some form of life to which those circumstances are congenial.

It is not at all probable that among the million spheres of the universe there is a single one exactly like our