“I hope, indeed, you will, but still, I suppose I may be allowed to—”
“You are allowed to hold your tongue,” cried Professor Hardwigg, “when you talk so unreasonably as this.”
I saw at once that the old doctorial Professor was still alive in my uncle—and fearful to rouse his angry passions, I dropped the unpleasant subject.
“Now, then,” be explained, “consult the manometer. What does that indicate?”
“A considerable amount of pressure.”
“Very good. You see, then, that by descending slowly, and by gradually accustoming ourselves to the density of this lower atmosphere, we shall not suffer.”
“Well, I suppose not, except it may be a certain amount of pain in the ears,” was my rather grim reply.
“That, my dear boy, is nothing, and you will easily get rid of that source of discomfort by bringing the exterior air in communication with the air contained in your lungs.”
“Perfectly,” said I, for I had quite made up my mind in no wise to contradict my uncle. “I should fancy almost that I should experience a certain amount of satisfaction in making a plunge into this dense atmosphere. Have you taken note of how wonderfully sound is propagated?”
“Of course I have. There can be no doubt that a journey into the interior of the earth would be an excellent cure for deafness.”
“But then, Uncle,” I ventured mildly to observe, “this density will continue to increase.”
“Yes—according to a law which, however, is scarcely defined. It is true that the intensity of weight will diminish just in proportion to the depth to which we go. You know very well that it is on the surface of the earth that its action is most powerfully felt, while on the contrary, in the very center of the earth bodies cease to have any weight at all.”
“I know that is the case, but as we progress will not the atmosphere finally assume the density of water?”
“I know it; when placed under the pressure of seven hundred and ten atmospheres,” cried my uncle with imperturbable gravity.
“And when we are still lower down?” I asked with natural anxiety.
“Well, lower down; the density will become even greater still.”
“Then how shall we be able to make our way through this atmospheric fog?”
“Well, my worthy nephew, we must ballast ourselves by filling our pockets with stones,” said Professor Hardwigg.
“Faith, Uncle, you have an answer for everything,” was my only reply.
I began to feel that it was unwise of me to go any farther into the wide field of hypotheses for I should certainly have revived some difficulty, or rather impossibility, that would have enraged the Professor.
It was evident, nevertheless, that the air under a pressure which might be multiplied by thousands of atmospheres, would end by becoming perfectly solid, and that then admitting our bodies resisted the pressure, we should have to stop, in spite of all the reasonings in the world. Facts overcome all arguments.
But I thought it best not to urge this argument. My uncle would simply have quoted the example of Saknussemm. Supposing the learned Icelander’s journey ever really to have taken place—there was one simple answer to be made:
In the sixteenth century neither the barometer nor the manometer had been invented—how, then, could Saknussemm have been able to discover when he did reach the center of the earth?
This unanswerable and learned objection I, however, kept to myself and, bracing up my courage, awaited the course of events—little aware of how adventurous yet were to be the incidents of our remarkable journey.
The rest of this day of leisure and repose was spent in calculation and conversation. I made it a point to agree with the Professor in everything; but I envied the perfect indifference of Hans, who, without taking any such trouble about the cause and effect, went blindly onward wherever destiny chose to lead him.
XXIII
Alone
It must in all truth be confessed, things as yet had gone on well, and I should have acted in bad taste to have complained. If the true medium of our difficulties did not increase, it was within the range of possibility that we might ultimately reach the end of our journey. Then what glory would be ours! I began in the newly aroused ardor of my soul to speak enthusiastically to the Professor. Well, was I serious? The whole state in which we existed was a mystery—and it was impossible to know whether or not I was in earnest.