A Trip to Venus. John Munro
the next place," went on Gazen, ignoring my remark, "the old astronomer's plan of signalling by strong lights was quite impracticable. No artificial light is capable of reaching to Mars. Think of the immense distance and the two atmospheres to penetrate! The man was mad, as mad as a March hare! though why a March hare is mad I'm sure I don't know."
"I read the other day of an electric light in America which can be seen 150 miles through the lower atmosphere. Such a light, if properly directed, might be visible on Mars; and, for aught we know, the Martians may have discovered a still stronger beam."
"And if they have, the odds against their signalling just when we are alive to the possibility of it are simply tremendous."
"I see nothing incredible in the coincidence. Two heads often conceive the same idea about the same time, and why not two planets, if the hour be ripe? Surely there is one and the same inspiring Soul in all the universe. Besides, they may have been signalling for centuries, off and on, without our knowing it."
"Then, again," said Gazen, with a pawky twinkle in his eye, "our electric light may have woke them up."
"Perhaps they are signalling now," said I, "while we are wasting precious time. I wish you would look."
"Yes, if you like; but I don't think you'll see any 'luminous projections,' human or otherwise."
"I shall see the face of Mars, anyhow, and that will be a rare experience. It seems to me that a view of the heavenly bodies through a fine telescope, as well as a tour round the world, should form a part of a liberal education. How many run to and fro upon the earth, hunting for sights at great trouble and expense, but how few even think of that sublimer scenery of the sky which can be seen without stirring far from home! A peep at some distant orb has power to raise and purify our thoughts like a strain of sacred music, or a noble picture, or a passage from the grander poets. It always does one good."
Professor Gazen silently turned the great refracting telescope in the direction of Mars, and peered attentively through its mighty tube for several minutes.
"Is there any light?" I inquired.
"None," he replied, shaking his head. "Look for yourself."
I took his place at the eye-piece, and was almost startled to find the little coppery star, which I had seen half-an-hour before, apparently quite near, and transformed into a large globe. It resembled a gibbous moon, for a considerable part of its disc was illuminated by the sun.
A dazzling spot marked one of its poles, and the rest of its visible surface was mottled with ruddy and greenish tints which faded into white at the rim. Fascinated by the spectacle of that living world, seen at a glance, and pursuing its appointed course through the illimitable ether, I forgot my quest, and a religious awe came over me akin to that felt under the dome of a vast cathedral.
"Well, what do you make of it?"
The voice recalled me to myself, and I began to scrutinise the dim and shadowy border of the terminator for the feeblest ray of light, but all in vain.
"I can't see any 'luminous projection'; but what a magnificent object in the telescope!"
"It is indeed," rejoined the professor, "and though we have not many opportunities of seeing it, we know it better than the other planets, and almost as well as the moon. Its features have been carefully mapped like those of the moon, and christened after celebrated astronomers."
"Yourself included, I hope."
"No, sir; I have not that honour. It is true that a man I know, an enthusiastic amateur in astronomy, dubbed a lot of holes and corners in the moon after his private friends and acquaintances, myself amongst them: 'Snook's Crater,' 'Smith's Bottom,' 'Tiddler's Cove,' and so on; but I regret to say the authorities declined to sanction his nomenclature."
"I presume that bright spot on the Southern limb is one of the polar ice-caps," said I, still keeping my eye on the planet.
"Yes," replied the professor, "and they are seen to wax and wane in winter and summer. The reddish-yellow tracts are doubtless continents of an ochrey soil; and not, as some think, of a ruddy vegetation. The greenish-grey patches are probably seas and lakes. The land and water are better mixed on Mars than on the earth—a fact which tends to equalise the climate. There is a belt of continents round the equator: 'Copernicus,' 'Galileo,' 'Dawes,' and others, having long winding lakes and inlets. These are separated by narrow seas from other islands on the north or south, such as: 'Haze Land, 'Storm Land,' and so forth, which occupy what we should call the temperate zones, beneath the poles; but I suspect they are frigid enough. If you look closely you will see some narrow streaks crossing the continents like fractures. These are the famous 'Canals' of Schiaparelli, who discovered (and I wish I had his eyes) that many of them were 'doubled,' that is, had another canal alongside. Some of these are nearly 2,000 miles long, by fifty miles broad, and 300 miles apart."
"That beats the Suez Canal."
"I am afraid they are not artificial. The doubling is chiefly observed at the vernal equinox, our month of May, and is perhaps due to spring floods, or vegetation in valleys of the like trend, as we find in Siberia. The massing of clouds or mists will account for the peculiar whiteness at the edge of the limb, and an occasional veiling of the landscape."
While he spoke, my attention was suddenly arrested by a vivid point of light which appeared on the dark side of the terminator, and south of the equator.
"Hallo!" I exclaimed, involuntarily. "There's a light!"
"Really!" responded Gazen, in a tone of surprise, not unmingled with doubt. "Are you sure?"
"Quite. There is a distinct light on one of the continents."
"Let me see it, will you?" he rejoined, hastily; and I yielded up my place to him.
"Why, so there is," he declared, after a pause. "I suspect it has been hidden under a cloud till now."
We turned and looked at each other in silence.
"It can't be the light Javelle saw," ejaculated Gazen at length. "That was on Hellas Land."
"Should the Martians be signalling they would probably use a system of lights. I daresay they possess an electric telegraph to work it."
The professor put his eye to the glass again, and I awaited the result of his observation with eager interest.
"It's as steady as possible," said he.
"The steadiness puzzles me," I replied. "If it would only flash I should call it a signal."
"Not necessarily to us," said Gazen, with mock gravity. "You see, it might be a lighthouse flashing on the Kaiser Sea, or a night message in the autumn manoeuvres of the Martians, who are, no doubt, very warlike; or even the advertisement of a new soap."
"Seriously, what do you think of it?" I asked.
"I confess it's a mystery to me," he answered, pondering deeply; and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he added: "I wonder if it's any good trying the spectroscope on it?"
So saying, he attached to the telescope a magnificent spectroscope, which he employed in his researches on the nebulæ, and renewed his observation.
"Well, that's the most remarkable thing in all my professional experience," he exclaimed, resigning his place at the instrument to me.
"What is?" I demanded, looking into the spectroscope, where I could distinguish several faint streaks of coloured light on a darker background.
"You know that we can tell the nature of a substance that is burning by splitting up the light which comes from it in the prism of a spectroscope. Well, these bright lines of different colours are the spectrum of a luminous gas."
"Indeed! Have you any idea as to the origin of the blaze?"
"It may be electrical—for instance, an aurora. It may be a volcanic eruption, or a lake of fire such as the crater of Kilauea. Really, I can't say. Let me see if I can identify the bright lines