Chapter 12

A BIRD'S EYE VIEW OF THE LUNAR MOUNTAINS.

I am rather inclined to believe myself that not one word of Ardan's
rhapsody had been ever heard by Barbican or M'Nicholl. Long before he
had spoken his last words, they had once more become mute as statues,
and now were both eagerly watching, pencil in hand, spyglass to eye, the
northern lunar hemisphere towards which they were rapidly but indirectly
approaching. They had fully made up their minds by this time that they
were leaving far behind them the central point which they would have
probably reached half an hour ago if they had not been shunted off their
course by that inopportune bolide.

About half past twelve o'clock, Barbican broke the dead silence by
saying that after a careful calculation they were now only about 875
miles from the Moon's surface, a distance two hundred miles less in
length than the lunar radius, and which was still to be diminished as
they advanced further north. They were at that moment ten degrees north
of the equator, almost directly over the ridge lying between the _Mare
Serenitatis_ and the _Mare Tranquillitatis_. From this latitude all the
way up to the north pole the travellers enjoyed a most satisfactory view
of the Moon in all directions and under the most favorable conditions.
By means of their spyglasses, magnifying a hundred times, they cut down
this distance of 875 miles to about 9. The great telescope of the Rocky
Mountains, by its enormous magnifying power of 48,000, brought the Moon,
it is true, within a distance of 5 miles, or nearly twice as near; but
this advantage of nearness was considerably more than counterbalanced by
a want of clearness, resulting from the haziness and refractiveness of
the terrestrial atmosphere, not to mention those fatal defects in the
reflector that the art of man has not yet succeeded in remedying.
Accordingly, our travellers, armed with excellent telescopes--of just
power enough to be no injury to clearness,--and posted on unequalled
vantage ground, began already to distinguish certain details that had
probably never been noticed before by terrestrial observers. Even Ardan,
by this time quite recovered from his fit of sentiment and probably
infected a little by the scientific enthusiasm of his companions, began
to observe and note and observe and note, alternately, with all the
_sangfroid_ of a veteran astronomer.

"Friends," said Barbican, again interrupting a silence that had lasted
perhaps ten minutes, "whither we are going I can't say; if we shall ever
revisit the Earth, I can't tell. Still, it is our duty so to act in all
respects as if these labors of ours were one day to be of service to our
fellow-creatures. Let us keep our souls free from every distraction. We