up in the club coffers. Work began under the direction of the most celebrated aeronaut in the United States, Harry W. Tinder, immortalized by three of his thousand ascensions: one in which he rose to twelve thousand meters, higher than Guy-Lussac, Coxwell, Sivel, Crocé-Spinelli, Tissandier, or Glaisher; another in which he crossed the whole of America from New York to San Francisco, surpassing by several hundred leagues the flights of Nadar, Godard, and so many others, not to mention John Wise, who traveled 1,150 miles from St. Louis to Jefferson County; the third, finally, ending in a horrific fall of fifteen hundred feet, the only injury from which was a mere sprain of the right wrist10—whereas the less fortunate Pilâtre de Rozier, after falling only seven hundred feet, was killed instantly.
At the moment this story begins, one can already judge how smoothly the Weldon Institute has handled its affairs. In the Turner construction sites in Philadelphia,11 an enormous balloon lay spread out, its sturdiness about to be tested by cramming it with air under high pressure. This, above all others, merited the name of monster-balloon.
How large in fact was Nadar’s Géant? Six thousand cubic meters. And John Wise’s balloon? Twenty thousand cubic meters. And the Giffard balloon at the Exposition of 1878? Twenty-five thousand cubic meters, with a radius of eighteen meters. Compare these three aerostats with the Weldon Institute’s balloon, whose volume figured at forty thousand cubic meters, and you shall see that Uncle Prudent and his colleagues had some right to be puffed up with pride.
The third ascension ended in a horrific fall.
This balloon, not being destined to explore the highest reaches of the atmosphere, was not named Excelsior, a designation a little too much in honor among American citizens. No! It was named simply Go Ahead—and all that remained for it to do was to justify its name by obeying all the steering commands of its captain.
At this point, the dynamoelectric machine was almost entirely completed, built from the patented plans the Weldon Institute had acquired. Before six weeks were out, the Go Ahead could be expected to take flight into space.
However, as we have seen, not all the mechanical difficulties were yet resolved. Meeting upon meeting had been devoted to discussing, not the shape of the propeller nor its dimensions, but whether it would be placed in the back of the apparatus, following the Tissandier brothers, or in the front, following Captains Krebs and Renard. It is unnecessary to add that, in this discussion, the supporters of the two systems were at each other’s throats. The group of “Frontists” was equal in number to that of the “Backists.” Uncle Prudent—whose duty it was to make the casting vote in cases of deadlock—Uncle Prudent no doubt had been a pupil in the school of Professor Buridan, for he had not managed to make up his mind.12
So it was impossible to come to terms, impossible to put the propeller in place. This could have gone on a long time, unless the government intervened. But in the United States, as everyone knows, the government does not at all enjoy meddling in private affairs, nor mixing itself up in things that do not pertain to it.
Since that was the state of affairs, the meeting on July 13 threatened to never end, or rather to end in the midst of the most horrific commotion—insults exchanged, punches following insults, stick fights following punches, gunfire following stick fights—when, at 8:37, there was an interruption.
The usher at the Weldon Institute, coolly and calmly, like a policeman amid the thunderstorms of a political meeting, had approached the president’s desk. He presented a card, and awaited whatever orders it would suit Uncle Prudent to give.
Uncle Prudent sounded the steam horn that served him as a presidential bell, for even the bell at the Kremlin would not have been enough for him!13 But the tumult only continued to increase. Then the president went so far as to doff his hat, and a half-silence was obtained, thanks to this drastic measure.
“A communication!” said Uncle Prudent, after taking an enormous pinch of snuff from the snuffbox that never left his side.
“Speak! Speak!” replied ninety-nine voices—as chance would have it, all in agreement on this point.
“A stranger, my dear colleagues, asks to be introduced into our meeting hall.”
“Never!” returned all the voices.
“He wishes to prove to us, it seems,” Uncle Prudent went on, “that to believe in the navigability of balloons is to believe in the most absurd utopia.”14
A groan greeted this declaration.
“Let him enter! … Let him enter!”
“What’s the name of this singular personage?” asked the secretary Phil Evans.
“Robur,” replied Uncle Prudent.15
“Robur! … Robur! … Robur!” bellowed the whole assembly.
And, if agreement was so rapidly given to this singular name, it was because those in the Weldon Institute had high hopes of unleashing their rage on the man who bore it in an outpouring of exasperation.
So the storm was calmed for an instant—in appearance at least. Besides, how could a storm really be calmed among a people who send two or three of them every month toward Europe, in the form of squalls at sea?
CHAPTER
3
In which a new character does not need to be presented, for he presents himself
“Citizens of the United States of America, my name is Robur. I am worthy of the name. I am forty years old, though I look younger than thirty; I am possessed of an iron constitution, indestructible health, remarkable muscular force, and a stomach that would pass for excellent even among ostriches. So much for the physical side.”
And they listened. Yes! The noisemakers were taken aback at once by the unexpectedness of this speech pro facie suâ.1 Was he a madman or a swindler, this personage? In any case, he both interposed and imposed. Not so much as another breath of air from the midst of the assembly, where a hurricane had previously been unleashed. The calm after the storm.
More than that, Robur really seemed to be the man he said he was. Average height, of geometric build—which is to say, a regular trapezoid, with the longer of its parallel sides formed by the line of the shoulders. On that line, attached by a robust neck, an enormous spheroidal head. What animal’s head would it resemble according to the theory of Passionate Analogy?2 That of a bull, but a bull with an intelligent face. Eyes that the slightest contradiction would set ablaze, and, above them, forehead muscles permanently contracted, indicating extreme energy. Short, slightly frizzy hair, of metallic sheen, as if it were a quiff of steel wool. Wide chest rising and falling with the movements of a blacksmith’s bellows. Arms, hands, legs, feet worthy of the torso.
No mustache, no sideburns, a large sailorly beard in the American style—revealing the joints of the jaw, whose masseter muscles must have been formidably powerful. It has been calculated—what has not been calculated?—that the pressure of the jaw of an ordinary crocodile can attain four hundred atmospheres, while that of a big hunting dog can reach only one hundred. The following curious formula has even been deduced: if one kilogram of dog produces eight kilograms of masseter force, one
