The Journey to the Moon

Presently Cavor extinguished the light. He said we had not overmuch energy stored, and that what we had we must economise for reading. For a time, whether it was long or short I do not know, there was nothing but blank darkness.

Soon, Cavor turned off the light. He said we didn't have much energy stored, and we had to save it for reading. For a time, there was nothing but complete darkness. I don't know whether it lasted a long or short time.

A question floated up out of the void. “How are we pointing?” I said. “What is our direction?”

A question came to me out of the void. “Which way are we pointing?” I said. “What direction are we going?”

“We are flying away from the earth at a tangent, and as the moon is near her third quarter we are going somewhere towards her. I will open a blind—”

“We are flying away from Earth at a tangent. Since the moon is near its third quarter, we are heading somewhere toward it. I’ll open a blind.”

Came a click, and then a window in the outer case yawned open. The sky outside was as black as the darkness within the sphere, but the shape of the open window was marked by an infinite number of stars.

There was a click, and a window in the outer casing opened wide. The sky outside was as black as the darkness inside the sphere. But an infinite number of stars outlined the open window.

Those who have only seen the starry sky from the earth cannot imagine its appearance when the vague, half luminous veil of our air has been withdrawn. The stars we see on earth are the mere scattered survivors that penetrate our misty atmosphere. But now at last I could realise the meaning of the hosts of heaven!

Those who have only seen the starry sky from Earth cannot imagine how it looks without the dim, faintly glowing veil of our atmosphere. The stars we see on Earth are only the scattered few that shine through our misty atmosphere. But now, at last, I could understand what was meant by the hosts of heaven!

Stranger things we were presently to see, but that airless, star-dusted sky! Of all things, I think that will be one of the last I shall forget.

We would soon see stranger things, but that airless sky, dusted with stars! I think it will be one of the last things I forget.

The little window vanished with a click, another beside it snapped open and instantly closed, and then a third, and for a moment I had to close my eyes because of the blinding splendour of the waning moon.

The little window vanished with a click. Another beside it snapped open and immediately closed, then a third did the same. For a moment, I had to close my eyes because of the blinding brightness of the waning moon.

For a space I had to stare at Cavor and the white-lit things about me to season my eyes to light again, before I could turn them towards that pallid glare.

For a while, I had to stare at Cavor and the white-lit things around me. My eyes needed to adjust to the light again before I could look toward that pale glare.

Four windows were open in order that the gravitation of the moon might act upon all the substances in our sphere. I found I was no longer floating freely in space, but that my feet were resting on the glass in the direction of the moon. The blankets and cases of provisions were also creeping slowly down the glass, and presently came to rest so as to block out a portion of the view. It seemed to me, of course, that I looked “down” when I looked at the moon. On earth “down” means earthward, the way things fall, and “up” the reverse direction. Now the pull of gravitation was towards the moon, and for all I knew to the contrary our earth was overhead. And, of course, when all the Cavorite blinds were closed, “down” was towards the centre of our sphere, and “up” towards its outer wall.

Four windows were open so the moon’s gravity could act on everything in our sphere. I found that I was no longer floating freely in space. My feet were resting on the glass on the side facing the moon. The blankets and cases of provisions were also slowly moving down the glass. Soon they came to rest, blocking part of the view. Of course, it seemed to me that I was looking “down” when I looked at the moon. On earth, “down” means toward the earth, the direction things fall. “Up” means the opposite direction. Now gravity was pulling toward the moon. As far as I knew, our earth was overhead. And, of course, when all the Cavorite blinds were closed, “down” was toward the center of our sphere. “Up” was toward its outer wall.

It was curiously unlike earthly experience, too, to have the light coming up to one. On earth light falls from above, or comes slanting down sideways, but here it came from beneath our feet, and to see our shadows we had to look up.

It was also strangely unlike anything on Earth to have the light coming up toward us. On Earth, light falls from above or slants down from the side. But here it came from beneath our feet, and we had to look up to see our shadows.

At first it gave me a sort of vertigo to stand only on thick glass and look down upon the moon through hundreds of thousands of miles of vacant space; but this sickness passed very speedily. And then—the splendour of the sight!

At first, I felt dizzy standing on nothing but thick glass, looking down at the moon across hundreds of thousands of miles of empty space. But the feeling passed very quickly. And then, what a magnificent sight!

The reader may imagine it best if he will lie on the ground some warm summer’s night and look between his upraised feet at the moon, but for some reason, probably because the absence of air made it so much more luminous, the moon seemed already considerably larger than it does from earth. The minutest details of its surface were acutely clear. And since we did not see it through air, its outline was bright and sharp, there was no glow or halo about it, and the star-dust that covered the sky came right to its very margin, and marked the outline of its unilluminated part. And as I stood and stared at the moon between my feet, that perception of the impossible that had been with me off and on ever since our start, returned again with tenfold conviction.

You can best imagine the view by lying on the ground on a warm summer night and looking at the moon between your raised feet. But the moon already seemed much larger than it does from Earth. This was probably because the absence of air made it much brighter. The smallest details of its surface were remarkably clear. And because we did not see it through air, its outline was bright and sharp. There was no glow or halo around it. The star-dust that covered the sky reached its very edge, tracing the outline of its darkened part. As I stood and stared at the moon between my feet, the sense of the impossible returned with ten times the force. It had come and gone ever since we started.

“Cavor,” I said, “this takes me queerly. Those companies we were going to run, and all that about minerals?”

“Cavor,” I said, “this feels strange to me. What about those companies we were going to run, and all that about minerals?”

“Well?”

“Well?”

“I don’t see ‘em here.”

“I don’t see them here.”

“No,” said Cavor; “but you’ll get over all that.”

“No,” said Cavor, “but you’ll get over all that.”

“I suppose I’m made to turn right side up again. Still, this— For a moment I could half believe there never was a world.”

“I suppose I’m meant to turn right side up again. Still, this... For a moment, I could almost believe there had never been a world.”

“That copy of Lloyd’s News might help you.”

“That copy of Lloyd’s News might help you.”

I stared at the paper for a moment, then held it above the level of my face, and found I could read it quite easily. I struck a column of mean little advertisements. “A gentleman of private means is willing to lend money,” I read. I knew that gentleman. Then somebody eccentric wanted to sell a Cutaway bicycle, “quite new and cost £15,” for five pounds; and a lady in distress wished to dispose of some fish knives and forks, “a wedding present,” at a great sacrifice. No doubt some simple soul was sagely examining these knives and forks, and another triumphantly riding off on that bicycle, and a third trustfully consulting that benevolent gentleman of means even as I read. I laughed, and let the paper drift from my hand.

I stared at the paper for a moment, then held it above my face. I found I could read it quite easily. I came across a column of shabby little advertisements. “A gentleman of private means is willing to lend money,” I read. I knew that gentleman. Then someone eccentric wanted to sell a Cutaway bicycle for five pounds. It was “quite new and cost £15.” A woman in distress wanted to sell some fish knives and forks, “a wedding present,” at a great loss. No doubt some trusting soul was wisely examining those knives and forks even as I read. Another was triumphantly riding off on that bicycle, and a third was trustfully consulting that kind gentleman of means. I laughed and let the paper drift from my hand.

“Are we visible from the earth?” I asked.

“Can we be seen from Earth?” I asked.

“Why?”

“Why?”

“I knew some one who was rather interested in astronomy. It occurred to me that it would be rather odd if—my friend—chanced to be looking through some telescope.”

“I knew someone who was rather interested in astronomy. I thought it would be rather odd if my friend happened to be looking through a telescope.”

“It would need the most powerful telescope on earth even now to see us as the minutest speck.”

“Even now, it would take the most powerful telescope on Earth to see us as the tiniest speck.”

For a time I stared in silence at the moon.

I stared silently at the moon for a while.

“It’s a world,” I said; “one feels that infinitely more than one ever did on earth. People perhaps—”

“It’s a world,” I said. “You feel that infinitely more than you ever did on earth. Perhaps people...”

“People!” he exclaimed. “No! Banish all that! Think yourself a sort of ultra-arctic voyager exploring the desolate places of space. Look at it!”

“People!” he exclaimed. “No! Forget all that! Think of yourself as an explorer traveling beyond the Arctic, through the empty reaches of space. Look at it!”

He waved his hand at the shining whiteness below. “It’s dead—dead! Vast extinct volcanoes, lava wildernesses, tumbled wastes of snow, or frozen carbonic acid, or frozen air, and everywhere landslip seams and cracks and gulfs. Nothing happens. Men have watched this planet systematically with telescopes for over two hundred years. How much change do you think they have seen?”

He waved his hand at the shining white landscape below. “It’s dead. Dead! Huge extinct volcanoes, lava wastelands, and jumbled stretches of snow, frozen carbon dioxide, or frozen air. Everywhere there are landslide scars, cracks, and chasms. Nothing happens. For over two hundred years, people have watched this planet systematically through telescopes. How much change do you think they have seen?”

“None.”

“None.”

“They have traced two indisputable landslips, a doubtful crack, and one slight periodic change of colour, and that’s all.”

“They have found two definite landslides, a possible crack, and one slight, recurring change in color. That’s all.”

“I didn’t know they’d traced even that.”

“I didn’t know they’d even traced that.”

“Oh, yes. But as for people—!”

“Oh, yes. But as for people...!”

“By the way,” I asked, “how small a thing will the biggest telescopes show upon the moon?”

“By the way,” I asked, “what is the smallest thing the biggest telescopes can show on the moon?”

“One could see a fair-sized church. One could certainly see any towns or buildings, or anything like the handiwork of men. There might perhaps be insects, something in the way of ants, for example, so that they could hide in deep burrows from the lunar light, or some new sort of creatures having no earthly parallel. That is the most probable thing, if we are to find life there at all. Think of the difference in conditions! Life must fit itself to a day as long as fourteen earthly days, a cloudless sun-blaze of fourteen days, and then a night of equal length, growing ever colder and colder under these cold, sharp stars. In that night there must be cold, the ultimate cold, absolute zero, 273° C. below the earthly freezing point. Whatever life there is must hibernate through that, and rise again each day.”

“One could see a fairly large church. One could certainly see any towns or buildings, or anything else made by people. There might perhaps be insects, like ants, for example, able to hide in deep burrows from the lunar light. Or there might be some new kind of creature unlike anything on Earth. That is the most likely possibility, if we find life there at all. Think how different the conditions are! Life must adapt to a day as long as fourteen Earth days, with fourteen days of blazing sunlight and no clouds. Then comes a night of equal length, growing colder and colder under these cold, sharp stars. During that night, there must be cold, the ultimate cold, absolute zero, 273° C. below the freezing point on Earth. Whatever life exists there must hibernate through that and come to life again each day.”

He mused. “One can imagine something worm-like,” he said, “taking its air solid as an earth-worm swallows earth, or thick-skinned monsters—”

He thought for a moment. “You can imagine something like a worm,” he said, “taking in solid air as an earthworm swallows earth, or thick-skinned monsters...”

“By the bye,” I said, “why didn’t we bring a gun?”

“By the way,” I said, “why didn’t we bring a gun?”

He did not answer that question. “No,” he concluded, “we just have to go. We shall see when we get there.”

He did not answer that question. “No,” he concluded, “we just have to go. We'll see when we get there.”

I remembered something. “Of course, there’s my minerals, anyhow,” I said; “whatever the conditions may be.”

I remembered something. “Of course, I still have my minerals,” I said, “whatever the conditions may be.”

Presently he told me he wished to alter our course a little by letting the earth tug at us for a moment. He was going to open one earthward blind for thirty seconds. He warned me that it would make my head swim, and advised me to extend my hands against the glass to break my fall. I did as he directed, and thrust my feet against the bales of food cases and air cylinders to prevent their falling upon me. Then with a click the window flew open. I fell clumsily upon hands and face, and saw for a moment between my black extended fingers our mother earth—a planet in a downward sky.

Soon he told me he wanted to change our course a little by letting the earth pull at us briefly. He was going to open one blind facing the earth for thirty seconds. He warned me that this would make my head spin. He advised me to put my hands against the glass to break my fall. I did as he said. I also braced my feet against the bundles of food cases and air cylinders to keep them from falling on me. Then, with a click, the window flew open. I fell clumsily onto my hands and face. For a moment, between my outstretched black fingers, I saw our mother earth, a planet in a sky below us.

We were still very near—Cavor told me the distance was perhaps eight hundred miles and the huge terrestrial disc filled all heaven. But already it was plain to see that the world was a globe. The land below us was in twilight and vague, but westward the vast grey stretches of the Atlantic shone like molten silver under the receding day. I think I recognised the cloud-dimmed coast-lines of France and Spain and the south of England, and then, with a click, the shutter closed again, and I found myself in a state of extraordinary confusion sliding slowly over the smooth glass.

We were still very close. Cavor told me we were perhaps eight hundred miles away, and the huge disc of Earth filled the whole sky. But already it was clear that the world was a globe. The land below us was dim in the twilight. But to the west, the vast grey stretches of the Atlantic shone like molten silver in the fading daylight. I think I recognised the coastlines of France, Spain, and southern England, dimmed by clouds. Then, with a click, the shutter closed again. I found myself sliding slowly over the smooth glass, feeling extraordinarily confused.

When at last things settled themselves in my mind again, it seemed quite beyond question that the moon was “down” and under my feet, and that the earth was somewhere away on the level of the horizon—the earth that had been “down” to me and my kindred since the beginning of things.

When my thoughts finally settled, there was no doubt that the moon was “down” beneath my feet. The earth was somewhere out at the level of the horizon. That same earth had been “down” for me and my fellow humans since the beginning of things.

So slight were the exertions required of us, so easy did the practical annihilation of our weight make all we had to do, that the necessity for taking refreshment did not occur to us for nearly six hours (by Cavor’s chronometer) after our start. I was amazed at that lapse of time. Even then I was satisfied with very little. Cavor examined the apparatus for absorbing carbonic acid and water, and pronounced it to be in satisfactory order, our consumption of oxygen having been extraordinarily slight. And our talk being exhausted for the time, and there being nothing further for us to do, we gave way to a curious drowsiness that had come upon us, and spreading our blankets on the bottom of the sphere in such a manner as to shut out most of the moonlight, wished each other good-night, and almost immediately fell asleep.

We needed so little effort, and our near weightlessness made everything so easy, that we did not think of eating or drinking for nearly six hours after we set out, according to Cavor’s chronometer. I was amazed that so much time had passed. Even then, I needed very little. Cavor checked the apparatus that absorbed carbon dioxide and water, and found it in good order. We had used extraordinarily little oxygen. We had nothing more to talk about for the moment, and nothing else to do. So we gave in to a curious drowsiness that had come over us. We spread our blankets on the bottom of the sphere to block out most of the moonlight. Then we wished each other good night and fell asleep almost immediately.

And so, sleeping, and sometimes talking and reading a little, and at times eating, although without any keenness of appetite,¹ but for the most part in a sort of quiescence that was neither waking nor slumber, we fell through a space of time that had neither night nor day in it, silently, softly, and swiftly down towards the moon.

And so we slept, sometimes talked and read a little, and at times ate, although we had little appetite.¹ But for the most part, we remained quiet, neither awake nor asleep. We fell through a stretch of time with neither night nor day, silently, gently, and swiftly down toward the moon.