Chapter 3

Building the Sphere

11 min

I remember the occasion very distinctly when Cavor told me of his idea of the sphere. He had had intimations of it before, but at the time it seemed to come to him in a rush. We were returning to the bungalow for tea, and on the way he fell humming. Suddenly he shouted, “That’s it! That finishes it! A sort of roller blind!”

I remember clearly when Cavor told me his idea for the sphere. He had had hints of the idea before, but now it seemed to come to him all at once. We were returning to the bungalow for tea, and on the way he began humming. Suddenly he shouted, “That’s it! That finishes it! A kind of roller blind!”

“Finishes what?” I asked.

“Space—anywhere! The moon.”

“Space, anywhere! The moon.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mean? Why—it must be a sphere! That’s what I mean!”

“Mean? Why, it must be a sphere! That’s what I mean!”

I saw I was out of it, and for a time I let him talk in his own fashion. I hadn’t the ghost of an idea then of his drift. But after he had taken tea he made it clear to me.

I saw that I was out of my depth, so for a while I let him talk in his own way. At the time, I had no idea what he was getting at. But after he had tea, he made it clear to me.

“It’s like this,” he said. “Last time I ran this stuff that cuts things off from gravitation into a flat tank with an overlap that held it down. And directly it had cooled and the manufacture was completed all that uproar happened, nothing above it weighed anything, the air went squirting up, the house squirted up, and if the stuff itself hadn’t squirted up too, I don’t know what would have happened! But suppose the substance is loose, and quite free to go up?”

“Here’s what happened,” he said. “Last time, I poured this stuff that cuts things off from gravity into a flat tank. The tank had an overlap that held the stuff down. As soon as it had cooled and was finished, all that uproar happened. Nothing above it weighed anything. The air shot upward, and the house shot upward. If the stuff itself hadn’t shot upward too, I don’t know what would have happened! But what if the substance is loose and completely free to rise?”

“It will go up at once!”

“It will go up right away!”

“Exactly. With no more disturbance than firing a big gun.”

“Exactly. It would cause no more disturbance than firing a big gun.”

“But what good will that do?”

“I’m going up with it!”

I put down my teacup and stared at him.

“Imagine a sphere,” he explained, “large enough to hold two people and their luggage. It will be made of steel lined with thick glass; it will contain a proper store of solidified air, concentrated food, water distilling apparatus, and so forth. And enamelled, as it were, on the outer steel—”

“Imagine a sphere,” he explained, “large enough to hold two people and their luggage. It will be made of steel lined with thick glass. It will contain a good supply of solidified air, concentrated food, equipment for distilling water, and so on. And coated, so to speak, on the outer steel...”

“Cavorite?”

“Yes.”

“But how will you get inside?”

“There was a similar problem about a dumpling.”

“There was a similar problem with a dumpling.”

“Yes, I know. But how?”

“That’s perfectly easy. An air-tight manhole is all that is needed. That, of course, will have to be a little complicated; there will have to be a valve, so that things may be thrown out, if necessary, without much loss of air.”

“That’s perfectly easy. All we need is an airtight manhole. Of course, the manhole will have to be a little complicated. It will need a valve so that things can be thrown out, if necessary, without losing much air.”

“Like Jules Verne’s thing in A Trip to the Moon.”

But Cavor was not a reader of fiction.

But Cavor did not read fiction.

“I begin to see,” I said slowly. “And you could get in and screw yourself up while the Cavorite was warm, and as soon as it cooled it would become impervious to gravitation, and off you would fly—”

“I’m beginning to see,” I said slowly. “You could get in and screw yourself shut while the Cavorite was warm. As soon as it cooled, gravity would no longer affect it, and off you would fly.”

“At a tangent.”

“You would go off in a straight line—” I stopped abruptly. “What is to prevent the thing travelling in a straight line into space for ever?” I asked. “You’re not safe to get anywhere, and if you do—how will you get back?”

“You would go off in a straight line.” I stopped abruptly. “What would stop the thing from traveling in a straight line into space forever?” I asked. “You might not get anywhere, and if you do, how will you get back?”

“I’ve just thought of that,” said Cavor. “That’s what I meant when I said the thing is finished. The inner glass sphere can be air-tight, and, except for the manhole, continuous, and the steel sphere can be made in sections, each section capable of rolling up after the fashion of a roller blind. These can easily be worked by springs, and released and checked by electricity conveyed by platinum wires fused through the glass. All that is merely a question of detail. So you see, that except for the thickness of the blind rollers, the Cavorite exterior of the sphere will consist of windows or blinds, whichever you like to call them. Well, when all these windows or blinds are shut, no light, no heat, no gravitation, no radiant energy of any sort will get at the inside of the sphere, it will fly on through space in a straight line, as you say. But open a window, imagine one of the windows open. Then at once any heavy body that chances to be in that direction will attract us—”

“I’ve just thought of that,” said Cavor. “That’s what I meant when I said the design is finished. The inner glass sphere can be airtight and unbroken, except for the manhole. The steel sphere can be made in sections, each able to roll up like a roller blind. Springs can easily operate the sections. Electricity can release and stop them, carried by platinum wires fused through the glass. All that is just a matter of detail. So, except for the thickness of the blind rollers, the sphere’s Cavorite exterior will consist of windows or blinds. You can call them whichever you like. Well, when all these windows or blinds are shut, nothing will reach the inside of the sphere. No light, no heat, no gravity, no radiant energy of any kind will get in. The sphere will fly through space in a straight line, as you say. But open a window. Imagine that one of the windows is open. Then any heavy body that happens to be in that direction will immediately attract us.”

I sat taking it in.

I sat there, taking it in.

“You see?” he said.

“Oh, I see.”

“Practically we shall be able to tack about in space just as we wish. Get attracted by this and that.”

“In practice, we’ll be able to move around in space however we like, letting this or that attract us.”

“Oh, yes. That’s clear enough. Only—”

“Oh, yes. That’s clear enough. But...”

“Well?”

“I don’t quite see what we shall do it for! It’s really only jumping off the world and back again.”

“I don’t quite see why we should do it! It’s really just jumping off the world and back again.”

“Surely! For example, one might go to the moon.”

“Of course! For example, one could go to the moon.”

“And when one got there? What would you find?”

“And when you got there? What would you find?”

“We should see—Oh! consider the new knowledge.”

“We would see. Oh! Think of all the new knowledge.”

“Is there air there?”

“There may be.”

“It’s a fine idea,” I said, “but it strikes me as a large order all the same. The moon! I’d much rather try some smaller things first.”

“It’s a great idea,” I said, “but it still sounds like a huge task. The moon! I’d much rather try some smaller things first.”

“They’re out of the question, because of the air difficulty.”

“They’re not possible because of the problem with air.”

“Why not apply that idea of spring blinds—Cavorite blinds in strong steel cases—to lifting weights?”

“Why not use that idea of spring blinds, Cavorite blinds in strong steel cases, to lift weights?”

“It wouldn’t work,” he insisted. “After all, to go into outer space is not so much worse, if at all, than a polar expedition. Men go on polar expeditions.”

“It wouldn’t work,” he insisted. “After all, going into outer space is hardly worse than a polar expedition, if it’s worse at all. Men go on polar expeditions.”

“Not business men. And besides, they get paid for polar expeditions. And if anything goes wrong there are relief parties. But this—it’s just firing ourselves off the world for nothing.”

“Not businesspeople. Besides, they get paid for polar expeditions. And if anything goes wrong, rescue teams are sent out. But this is just launching ourselves off the world for nothing.”

“Call it prospecting.”

“You’ll have to call it that.... One might make a book of it perhaps,” I said.

“You’ll have to call it that.... Maybe someone could write a book about it,” I said.

“I have no doubt there will be minerals,” said Cavor.

“I’m sure there will be minerals,” said Cavor.

“For example?”

“Oh! sulphur, ores, gold perhaps, possibly new elements.”

“Oh! Sulphur, ores, perhaps gold, and possibly new elements.”

“Cost of carriage,” I said. “You know you’re not a practical man. The moon’s a quarter of a million miles away.”

“Shipping costs,” I said. “You know you’re not a practical man. The moon is a quarter of a million miles away.”

“It seems to me it wouldn’t cost much to cart any weight anywhere if you packed it in a Cavorite case.”

“It seems to me it wouldn’t cost much to transport any weight anywhere if you packed it in a Cavorite case.”

I had not thought of that. “Delivered free on head of purchaser, eh?”

I hadn't thought of that. “Delivered free onto the buyer's head, huh?”

“It isn’t as though we were confined to the moon.”

“It’s not as if we’re stuck on the moon.”

“You mean?”

“There’s Mars—clear atmosphere, novel surroundings, exhilarating sense of lightness. It might be pleasant to go there.”

“There’s Mars, with its clear atmosphere, new surroundings, and thrilling feeling of lightness. It might be pleasant to go there.”

“Is there air on Mars?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Seems as though you might run it as a sanatorium. By the way, how far is Mars?”

“It seems like you could run it as a sanatorium. By the way, how far away is Mars?”

“Two hundred million miles at present,” said Cavor airily; “and you go close by the sun.”

“Two hundred million miles right now,” Cavor said casually. “And you go close to the sun.”

My imagination was picking itself up again. “After all,” I said, “there’s something in these things. There’s travel—”

My imagination was stirring again. “After all,” I said, “there’s something to these things. There’s travel...”

An extraordinary possibility came rushing into my mind. Suddenly I saw, as in a vision, the whole solar system threaded with Cavorite liners and spheres de luxe. “Rights of pre-emption,” came floating into my head—planetary rights of pre-emption. I recalled the old Spanish monopoly in American gold. It wasn’t as though it was just this planet or that—it was all of them. I stared at Cavor’s rubicund face, and suddenly my imagination was leaping and dancing. I stood up, I walked up and down; my tongue was unloosened.

An extraordinary possibility rushed into my mind. Suddenly, I saw the whole solar system in a vision, crisscrossed by Cavorite liners and de luxe spheres. “Rights of pre-emption,” the words floated into my head. Planetary rights of pre-emption. I remembered the old Spanish monopoly on American gold. It wasn’t just this planet or that one. It was all of them. I stared at Cavor’s rosy face, and suddenly my imagination was leaping and dancing. I stood up and paced back and forth. I began to speak freely.

“I’m beginning to take it in,” I said; “I’m beginning to take it in.” The transition from doubt to enthusiasm seemed to take scarcely any time at all. “But this is tremendous!” I cried. “This is Imperial! I haven’t been dreaming of this sort of thing.”

“I’m starting to understand,” I said. “I’m starting to understand.” I went from doubt to enthusiasm in almost no time. “But this is tremendous!” I cried. “This is Imperial! I never dreamed of anything like this.”

Once the chill of my opposition was removed, his own pent-up excitement had play. He too got up and paced. He too gesticulated and shouted. We behaved like men inspired. We were men inspired.

Once my opposition no longer held him back, he let his pent-up excitement loose. He too got up and paced. He too waved his arms and shouted. We acted like inspired men. We were inspired men.

“We’ll settle all that!” he said in answer to some incidental difficulty that had pulled me up. “We’ll soon settle that! We’ll start the drawings for mouldings this very night.”

“We’ll settle all that!” he said when I raised a minor difficulty that had stopped me. “We’ll soon settle that! We’ll start drawing the plans for the mouldings tonight.”

“We’ll start them now,” I responded, and we hurried off to the laboratory to begin upon this work forthwith.

“We’ll start them now,” I replied, and we hurried to the laboratory to begin the work.

I was like a child in Wonderland all that night. The dawn found us both still at work—we kept our electric light going heedless of the day. I remember now exactly how these drawings looked. I shaded and tinted while Cavor drew—smudged and haste-marked they were in every line, but wonderfully correct. We got out the orders for the steel blinds and frames we needed from that night’s work, and the glass sphere was designed within a week. We gave up our afternoon conversations and our old routine altogether. We worked, and we slept and ate when we could work no longer for hunger and fatigue. Our enthusiasm infected even our three men, though they had no idea what the sphere was for. Through those days the man Gibbs gave up walking, and went everywhere, even across the room, at a sort of fussy run.

I was like a child in Wonderland all that night. At dawn we were both still working. We kept the electric light on, paying no attention to the daylight. I still remember exactly what those drawings looked like. Cavor drew while I shaded and tinted them. Every line was smudged and showed signs of haste, but the drawings were wonderfully accurate. From that night’s work, we placed orders for the steel blinds and frames we needed. Within a week, the glass sphere had been designed. We gave up our afternoon conversations and abandoned our old routine altogether. We worked, then slept and ate when hunger and exhaustion made it impossible to go on. Our enthusiasm spread even to our three men, though they had no idea what the sphere was for. During those days, Gibbs stopped walking and went everywhere at a kind of fussy run, even across the room.

And it grew—the sphere. December passed, January—I spent a day with a broom sweeping a path through the snow from bungalow to laboratory—February, March. By the end of March the completion was in sight. In January had come a team of horses, a huge packing-case; we had our thick glass sphere now ready, and in position under the crane we had rigged to sling it into the steel shell. All the bars and blinds of the steel shell—it was not really a spherical shell, but polyhedral, with a roller blind to each facet—had arrived by February, and the lower half was bolted together. The Cavorite was half made by March, the metallic paste had gone through two of the stages in its manufacture, and we had plastered quite half of it on to the steel bars and blinds. It was astonishing how closely we kept to the lines of Cavor’s first inspiration in working out the scheme. When the bolting together of the sphere was finished, he proposed to remove the rough roof of the temporary laboratory in which the work was done, and build a furnace about it. So the last stage of Cavorite making, in which the paste is heated to a dull red glow in a stream of helium, would be accomplished when it was already on the sphere.

And the sphere grew. December passed, then January. I spent a day sweeping a path through the snow from the bungalow to the laboratory. Then came February and March. By the end of March, completion was in sight. In January, a team of horses had brought a huge packing case. Our thick glass sphere was now ready and in position under the crane we had rigged to lift it into the steel shell. All the bars and blinds for the steel shell had arrived by February, and the lower half was bolted together. The shell was not really spherical, but had flat faces, each with a roller blind. The Cavorite was half made by March. The metallic paste had gone through two stages of manufacture, and we had plastered quite half of it onto the steel bars and blinds. It was astonishing how closely we followed Cavor’s first inspiration as we worked out the plan. Once the sphere was bolted together, he proposed removing the rough roof of the temporary laboratory where we worked. He would then build a furnace around the sphere. That way, the final stage of making Cavorite could be completed with the paste already on the sphere. In that stage, the paste is heated until it glows dull red in a stream of helium.

And then we had to discuss and decide what provisions we were to take—compressed foods, concentrated essences, steel cylinders containing reserve oxygen, an arrangement for removing carbonic acid and waste from the air and restoring oxygen by means of sodium peroxide, water condensers, and so forth. I remember the little heap they made in the corner—tins, and rolls, and boxes—convincingly matter-of-fact.

Then we had to discuss and decide what supplies to take. There were compressed foods, concentrated essences, and steel cylinders of reserve oxygen. We also needed a system to remove carbon dioxide and waste from the air and restore oxygen using sodium peroxide. Then there were water condensers and other things. I remember the little heap they made in the corner: cans, rolls, and boxes, convincingly practical.

It was a strenuous time, with little chance of thinking. But one day, when we were drawing near the end, an odd mood came over me. I had been bricking up the furnace all the morning, and I sat down by these possessions dead beat. Everything seemed dull and incredible.

It was a demanding time, and I had little chance to think. But one day, as we were nearing the end, a strange mood came over me. I had spent all morning building the brickwork around the furnace. I sat down beside these possessions, exhausted. Everything seemed dull and unbelievable.

“But look here, Cavor,” I said. “After all! What’s it all for?”

“But listen, Cavor,” I said. “What’s it all for, anyway?”

He smiled. “The thing now is to go.”

He smiled. “Now it’s time to go.”

“The moon,” I reflected. “But what do you expect? I thought the moon was a dead world.”

“The moon,” I thought. “But what do you expect? I thought the moon was a dead world.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

He shrugged.

“We’re going to see.”

“Are we?” I said, and stared before me.

“Are we?” I said, staring straight ahead.

“You are tired,” he remarked. “You’d better take a walk this afternoon.”

“You’re tired,” he said. “You’d better take a walk this afternoon.”

“No,” I said obstinately; “I’m going to finish this brickwork.”

“No,” I said stubbornly, “I’m going to finish this brickwork.”

And I did, and insured myself a night of insomnia. I don’t think I have ever had such a night. I had some bad times before my business collapse, but the very worst of those was sweet slumber compared to this infinity of aching wakefulness. I was suddenly in the most enormous funk at the thing we were going to do.

And I did, and made sure I would spend the night awake. I don’t think I’ve ever had a night like it. I had some bad nights before my business collapsed. But even the worst of them was sweet sleep compared to this endless, painful wakefulness. I was suddenly terrified of what we were going to do.

I do not remember before that night thinking at all of the risks we were running. Now they came like that array of spectres that once beleaguered Prague, and camped around me. The strangeness of what we were about to do, the unearthliness of it, overwhelmed me. I was like a man awakened out of pleasant dreams to the most horrible surroundings. I lay, eyes wide open, and the sphere seemed to get more flimsy and feeble, and Cavor more unreal and fantastic, and the whole enterprise madder and madder every moment.

I do not remember thinking at all about the risks we were taking before that night. Now the risks came like the army of ghosts that once surrounded Prague, and camped around me. I was overwhelmed by the strangeness of what we were about to do, by how unearthly it was. I felt like a man waking from pleasant dreams to find himself in the most horrible surroundings. I lay with my eyes wide open. With every passing moment, the sphere seemed more flimsy and fragile, Cavor more unreal and fantastic, and the whole enterprise more and more mad.

I got out of bed and wandered about. I sat at the window and stared at the immensity of space. Between the stars was the void, the unfathomable darkness! I tried to recall the fragmentary knowledge of astronomy I had gained in my irregular reading, but it was all too vague to furnish any idea of the things we might expect. At last I got back to bed and snatched some moments of sleep—moments of nightmare rather—in which I fell and fell and fell for evermore into the abyss of the sky.

I got out of bed and wandered around. I sat at the window and stared at the vastness of space. Between the stars was the void, the unfathomable darkness! I tried to remember the bits of astronomy I had picked up from my scattered reading. But my knowledge was too vague to give me any idea of what we might encounter. At last I went back to bed and caught a little sleep. It was more like a nightmare, in which I fell and fell and fell forever into the abyss of the sky.

I astonished Cavor at breakfast. I told him shortly, “I’m not coming with you in the sphere.”

I surprised Cavor at breakfast. I told him bluntly, “I’m not coming with you in the sphere.”

I met all his protests with a sullen persistence. “The thing’s too mad,” I said, “and I won’t come. The thing’s too mad.”

I stubbornly and sullenly resisted all his protests. “It’s too crazy,” I said, “and I won’t come. It’s too crazy.”

I would not go with him to the laboratory. I fretted about my bungalow for a time, and then took hat and stick and set out alone, I knew not whither. It chanced to be a glorious morning: a warm wind and deep blue sky, the first green of spring abroad, and multitudes of birds singing. I lunched on beef and beer in a little public-house near Elham, and startled the landlord by remarking apropos of the weather, “A man who leaves the world when days of this sort are about is a fool!”

I would not go with him to the laboratory. I wandered restlessly around my bungalow for a while. Then I took my hat and walking stick and set out alone, not knowing where I was going. It happened to be a glorious morning. A warm wind was blowing beneath a deep blue sky. The first green of spring was appearing, and countless birds were singing. I had beef and beer for lunch at a small pub near Elham. I startled the landlord by saying, apropos of the weather, “A man who leaves the world when there are days like this is a fool!”

“That’s what I says when I heerd on it!” said the landlord, and I found that for one poor soul at least this world had proved excessive, and there had been a throat-cutting. I went on with a new twist to my thoughts.

“That’s what I says when I heard of it!” said the landlord. I learned that, for at least one poor soul, this world had been too much. Someone had cut their throat. I went on, my thoughts taking a new turn.

In the afternoon I had a pleasant sleep in a sunny place, and went on my way refreshed.

In the afternoon, I slept pleasantly in a sunny spot and continued on my way feeling refreshed.

I came to a comfortable-looking inn near Canterbury. It was bright with creepers, and the landlady was a clean old woman and took my eye. I found I had just enough money to pay for my lodging with her. I decided to stop the night there. She was a talkative body, and among many other particulars I learnt she had never been to London. “Canterbury’s as far as ever I been,” she said. “I’m not one of your gad-about sort.”

I came to a comfortable-looking inn near Canterbury. It was bright with climbing plants. The landlady was a clean old woman who caught my eye. I found I had just enough money to pay her for a room. I decided to stay there for the night. She was talkative, and among many other things, I learned that she had never been to London. “Canterbury’s as far as ever I been,” she said. “I’m not one of your gad-about sort.”

“How would you like a trip to the moon?” I cried.

“How would you like to take a trip to the moon?” I exclaimed.

“I never did hold with them ballooneys,” she said evidently under the impression that this was a common excursion enough. “I wouldn’t go up in one—not for ever so.”

“I never did hold with them balloons,” she said. She evidently thought this was a fairly common outing. “I wouldn’t go up in one, not for anything.”

This struck me as being funny. After I had supped I sat on a bench by the door of the inn and gossiped with two labourers about brickmaking, and motor cars, and the cricket of last year. And in the sky a faint new crescent, blue and vague as a distant Alp, sank westward over the sun.

This struck me as funny. After dinner, I sat on a bench by the inn door. I chatted with two workers about brickmaking, cars, and last year's cricket. In the sky, a faint new crescent sank westward over the sun. It was blue and hazy as a distant Alp.

The next day I returned to Cavor. “I am coming,” I said. “I’ve been a little out of order, that’s all.”

The next day I went back to Cavor. “I’m coming,” I said. “I’ve just been feeling a little off, that’s all.”

That was the only time I felt any serious doubt our enterprise. Nerves purely! After that I worked a little more carefully, and took a trudge for an hour every day. And at last, save for the heating in the furnace, our labours were at an end.

That was the only time I had any serious doubts about our venture. Just nerves! After that, I worked a little more carefully and took an hour-long walk every day. At last, our work was finished, apart from the heating in the furnace.