Chapter XIV: Between Two Worlds

“For thousand perils lie in close await
That none except a god, or God him guide,
May them avoid, or remedy provide.”
(+Spenser.+)

There were no inhabitants anywhere in sight, and the general appearance of the landscape was flat, the country stretching away in beautiful rolls of heath, broken only by the small, stunted trees and shrubs on which were seen the millions and millions of strange insects, their shining bodies causing the landscape to look as if covered with corn golden to harvest, and shaking with vivid green dewdrops.

After roaming about for several miles, disturbing these insects at every step, at each further step to find that those last disturbed had settled down again, the wanderers returned to the ship, most of them weary with the monotony.

As there was now no danger of damage from outer heat, the net had been drawn back from before the windows, and with everything open and most of the explorers on the outer deck, the vessel sailed along some twenty feet above the ground. For some distance the country continued flat, but before very long the ship had to rise to avoid some hills over which they passed; then came a wooded valley where their presence startled thousands of birds not unlike our wild pigeons, which rose out of the trees and encircled the ship, many of them entering fearlessly. Beyond the momentary alarm at the enclosed place, they seemed not in the least afraid, when several of the fellows stroked their heads and their tiny ears almost hidden by minute feathers. They followed the ship for miles, flying inside and out, devouring the food offered them with avidity, and making themselves so perfectly at home that a dozen or more, finding things to their liking, stayed and became general favourites, walking and flying about in all parts of the ship except the laboratory and engine-room; either the aroma or a sense of danger caused them to shun these two places. They, like terrestrial creatures, required sleep, during which they crushed up together in circles with their heads and bodies touching.

In a short time there dawned on the horizon a long, dark streak of blue-grey, with touches of white, unmistakably sea, and here they pulled up for a day or so, during which they obtained dredgings and samples of the water at various depths. The water was salt and contained a considerable quantity of iodine. Several small fishes had found their way into the boxes which collected the samples of water, and amongst them were numbers of many new varieties of spirilla, radiata and the like, while the dredgings in various places brought up corals, pearl-oysters, granite, gravel, iron pyrites and the like, as well as many new forms of deep-sea life, all of which added considerably to the unique collection already on board.

The sea-shore was bounded by rocks, sand and shingle, on and amongst which were found sea-urchins and sea-squirts, also jelly-fish and many other forms of amœbæ. The water was wonderfully clear, showing deep grey-blue when in bulk, and though the waves were apparently the same as those of Earth-seas, they were found to go to the very bottom, yet there seemed to be no tide. The rocks were covered with barnacles, limpets, sea-weeds and other sea-growths; they were wet to a fixed level only, except where splashed by the lapping water or the waves driven by the wind; there had been no evidence anywhere of a tide, and the water was in a state of calm, but as they approached the further hemisphere, the character and motion gradually changed, and at that portion almost opposite the place where they had first landed, although there were still no tides, the waves were so awful and so mighty as to make the sea altogether unnavigable. It seemed as if each wave was a great tidal wave caused by the eruption of volcanoes under the sea-bed, or some other upheaval of the ocean, for so far as the eye could reach were waves rising in blocks, as if great slabs of water had been cut out of the ocean, and these were being pushed along the top as solid things which tore along in walls seventy or eighty feet high, rolling great rocks before them as if they were seeds, their crests for ten or twenty feet deep white with foam. Straight up from the beach a wave would roar till its energy was spent, when suddenly breaking, it fell, an avalanche of water, in an overwhelming flood, and the shore became a huge cauldron of foam. Quickly this subsided, leaving the rocky bed as if filtered through, its place soon to be taken by the next wave, and so on unceasingly, without any abatement, the sea from its inmost depths being lifted up and almost turned upside down. So powerful was the force of these waves and so sudden their break, that though the travellers spent several days trying to get samples of deep-sea water and dredgings of the ocean bed, everything they let down was lost, wrenched away by the awful rush of these terrible waves, which were wonderful even in calm, but when driven by the wind they were beyond description, and one could not keep the thought out of the mind that if on the shore, and in search of some of the wondrous stones and seaweed brought up with each wave, a rush had been made between the waves to snatch the treasure before it was reclaimed by the ocean, once the safe ground had been left, the sudden inrush of the succeeding wave would be so appalling as to terrify into inaction, though but a stride from safety, for these waves did not flow as do those of Earth, but came to their limits as a solid, and then suddenly stood and fell. Any one venturing too near and seeing this wall of water come towering along would become rooted to the spot with fear, powerless to do aught but give an agonised cry for help—the help that could never come to any one on that lonely shore; nothing but a pounding to pulp under the thousands of tons of water that must fall, striking like an almighty hammer.

Such is the inner sun-sea—an awful thing—a thing to remember with dread—a thing which to think of precludes sleep or, entering into it, produces a horrible nightmare, in which the feet are fast in a rock, or held there by some rock-wedged crab, or sunk in the sand, or as heavy as lead; and the eyes start and the body becomes damp with agony, a mere foretaste of the watery grave which is even then preparing—the nerves so shaken as to be temporarily paralysed, and, unable to run, crawl or move, or even to shout, the victim stands inert and hopeless; unable to do anything but think and watch the avalanche rush forward and mount high overhead; and just when the wave breaks, and the tons of water are falling and crushing the very limbs apart, the capacity to step aside returns, too tardily to benefit; the voice comes too late to save, for no help is possible; yet help does come, for the cry brings wakefulness again, and one is thankful to live a little longer and go to one’s long home in some more restful way. Yet it is only fancy, and a matter of little moment whether, when that time comes, we cross the river with a wild and agonising wrench, or enter into rest lying on our own bed, nestled in some loving arms, our hands held by those whom only, in the whole of creation, it is hard to leave. In either case we go, and though this world is so hard for many that it is a matter of very little concern _how_ the end comes, providing it does come, and quickly, so that the rest and quietness found on the bosom of dear, kind Mother Earth are granted; yet somehow, we are all of us weak, and life is so hard, so full of pain and suffering, with so little comfort, that we cannot keep down the hope that the end will be quiet and happy, merely “a sleeping and a forgetting,” and surely a hard and cruel fate will not deny that one isolated happiness to its victims.

Such thoughts come to many, not that they show a morbid or unhealthy fancy, but because life, though apparently full of glowing happiness, is, to the majority of those who are strictly honest, but a weary time of toil and trouble, a time of endless struggle and pain; all battle and strife and strenuous effort to exist, till actually to ‘live’ would seem paradise: life to such is a period of giving up with a smile all that it holds dear, though the throat chokes and the eyes blind with scalding tears at every recollection; a period in which the close friend may prove to be the devil; a period in which those in whom trust is placed, and from whom advice is sought, betray their trust, and add to treachery counsel that will enable them to plunder their confiding victim, sinking every spark of honour, along with all people with whom they come in contact, if by so doing they can benefit themselves or rise higher. When friends prove false and age creeps on, and both soul and body are less able to bear the strain, it becomes harder and ever harder to keep both together, and torn and tired hearts cry, “O Lord, how long!” and the soul is overwhelmed till it “longs for rest, yet rest can never find”; longs for love and sympathy, and instead,

“The purposes of life misunderstood
Baffle and wound us”—

and the honest are ever the tiny flowers, whilst the callous and wicked are the spreading bay-tree, and the unsolvable problem—Why? makes the injustice of it the more keenly felt. For are not all precepts, from childhood onwards, to the effect that honesty is the best policy? Yet in real life, the honest, straight man always comes off worst in his dealings with unscrupulous people, and he is invariably the loser, for he will not stoop to their actions, so the conditions are not equal, and as Longfellow so aptly says,—

“Force rules the world still.
Has ruled it, shall rule it;
Meekness is weakness,
Strength is triumphant;
Over the whole earth
Still is it Thor’s Day!”

To such contemplations did the appearance of the awful sun-sea give rise, for it was like the friend, the counsellor, and any or all of those who mean to grow rich anyhow, even at the price of another’s blood; it waged a terrible and one-sided fight, itself always the victor—it would relentlessly crush and batter and overwhelm all in its path; rise it must; progress it must; and woe to that which stood in its way, for without feeling, without an atom of sentiment or veneration, that obstacle would be swept away, or if that were not possible, because too firmly rooted (by honesty, say, to carry forward the simile), it would be absorbed and covered, and though it might to a slight extent retard the onward rush, it would be unceasingly beaten and torn, and if not forced aside, worn away and, throughout, be virtually non-existent.

The _Regina_ sailed round this strange world, encountering sea, land, moor and wood; birds, animals and insects innumerable, none greatly differing from those of Earth, but apparently it was a world given up to all forms of life except man, and was undoubtedly the purer and better for it.

Finding no trace of human beings, the explorers turned their attention to the study of the physical conditions of the world; its natural history, biology, climate, geology, and the scores of other matters on which they were anxious to glean information, although this could only be done in a superficial way, seeing they were human and the span of their lives was limited.

While they were looking for human beings, they found none, but as the weeks passed they were conscious, at times, of having seen strange figures in a kind of mist, or haze. In each case the travellers made no mention of the incident, fearing to incur the ridicule of their companions and putting the matter down to an excess of ‘bile’ in the system, or to fancy, produced, perhaps, by the state of excitement in which they had lived for some months past. However, it came out at last. One evening—if a constant light can have an evening—they were all assembled in the saloon for their usual discussion on the day’s work and the progress made, preparatory to going to rest, when the subject of ghosts was mentioned, and there were many furtive looks around.

“I suppose we are safe?” asked Kelman of Dennis, who was seated beside him.

“Certainly; we are closed up—fifty feet from the ground with the protecting current outside; nothing could reach us, and we could not be successfully attacked. These precautions are never omitted under any circumstances, no matter which of us chances to be in charge.”

“I am glad of that,” said Kelman, and then remained silent, absorbed in thought.

“Why, what makes you ask that?” questioned Ingle.

“Nothing much,” replied Kelman, “only I had an idea.”

“Well, out with it, then!” cried several.

“I expect you will say I am dreaming, or need a restoring tablet,” said Kelman, reluctantly, “but several times lately I have had hallucinations and have seen ghosts!”

“Well, that’s curious,” said Heriot Field, “for I have too!”

“So have I.”

“And I!” “And I!” And so it went round.

“Thanks for the information,” exclaimed Kelman, more brightly. “I am much relieved! And now the ice is broken, we are all free to compare notes and discuss the question, because I, personally, do not believe in ghosts, and yet I cannot refute what I see myself.”

Here he paused for some others to recount their experience, but as all were looking to him to continue, he proceeded,—“For several weeks past, when I have been intent on some work and completely absorbed, I have suddenly looked aside to find close by me, one or two, or perhaps half a dozen or more, strange beings, not human and not inhuman but a kind of glorified ‘essence’—a ‘nebula’—out of focus, tangible and yet ethereal—and I have looked, lost in amazement, thinking our hard work and close application had upset my nerves, and to be frank with you all, I began to wonder if I was going mad!”

He looked round, and Coombes rejoined,—“I have had similar visions and I wondered what was the import of it, judging it was my imagination, purely and simply”; and most of the others said the same.

“Have any of you ever seen these beings except when completely engrossed in other matters?” asked Reeve.

“No!” no one had.

“Then it seems to me,” continued Reeve, “that these beings are not under our influence, or we under theirs unless our minds are blank, so to speak.” “Something like that,” agreed Rutherford. “I should say the people are much better than ourselves—angels, in fact—for they have a kind of ‘glory’ round them, and when addressed they become fainter and die away.”

“It’s a strange thing,” observed Godfrey, “if in the future life we have to become nebulous and float about doing nothing particular except frighten any folk who chance to come along by turning up when they’re not expecting us, and vanish when they ask us what the deuce we mean by it—as I did several lots of them. The idea is rather thin and unsatisfactory to my mind, and I should have thought there would be something better for us to do!”

“We ought to get to the bottom of this mystery!” remarked Farrant, seriously. “When we look for beings they are not there; we none of us see them, unless our minds are, not a blank, but entirely preoccupied to _their_ total exclusion; when we accost them they begin to fade. All this seems to me to point to hallucinations, brought on by our experiences, close application, and the perhaps somewhat morbid influence of this inhabited, but unpeopled world.”

“I think the same,” assented Ingle; “and the fact that we have been so eager to find man has, in some mysterious way, stamped itself on our minds to such an extent that when strained or much preoccupied, there comes a reaction in a vision of the things desired.”

“Yes, that may be granted in an isolated case, perhaps,” argued Field, “but when _all_ have the same experience, I fail to see how you obtain your case.”

“To me that seems its strongest point,” responded Ingle, “for though we experience no strain, as a physical sensation, there is no possible doubt that the tension of the last few months must have told on us, and made us fanciful.”

“But all seeing the same?” repeated Field.

“A mere matter of telepathy,” replied Ingle. “All being in the same physical condition at the particular moment of total abstraction, ready to be impressed by the same thing, by pure transmission of thought.”

“I agree with you, Ingle,” said Reeve, “yet such impressions usually are only transmissible and receivable when the mind is a blank.”

“That is so,” continued Ingle, “but the acme of receptiveness is reached at the identical moment of the acme of concentration, whether that state is brought about by the concentration of nothingness or that of serious abstraction. The result is the same: for that identical moment the mind is a blank.”

“And that moment is when the hallucination takes place, you think?” asked Reeve.

“So it seems to me,” Ingle replied.

“I do not see it,” observed Rutherford, quietly; “neither in dreams nor in any other manner do people see what is beyond or, I should say, ‘above’ their actual experience.”

“I fear you’ll have to explain that,” said Coombes.

“What I mean is this,” continued Rutherford; “you never, say, dream of what is _beyond_ your experience, or of doing something you do not previously know how to do, or of seeing correctly something of which no previous and similar object has come within your experience or crossed your vision; when that point comes,—when all previous knowledge or suggestion ceases, then you will wake. Nor is there evidence, even in telepathy with excellent mediums, of going beyond scenes and objects which have come within the knowledge of the medium by sight or description.”

“What about mediums telling of heaven—of angels—by actual sight?” queried Ingle.

“Nothing of the kind! they merely relate the impressions given, and in this age of telepathy, when we can transmit thought all over the world, it is _known_ thought, and we do not get beyond it.”

“But angels!”

“Exactly the same thing. We cannot soar above our own knowledge, yet we want to show human beings in a higher beatitude, so we make them sexless and there arises a difficulty as to which sex they shall be like, so we clothe the body with a long, white robe, and show only the feet, making the faces clear so as to stand either for a woman or a beardless man, for you must all admit that it would look incongruous to represent angels with strongly marked features and nicely trimmed beards and waxed moustachios!”

“How would you represent an angel, then, Rutherford?” asked Coombes, laughing.

“I could not do better. No one could, for the simple reason I gave before. We cannot soar beyond actual experience without being ridiculous; we have never seen higher beings, and therefore what they are like we cannot even imagine, for our fancy stops at ourselves, and the best we can do is to make spirits, angels, and all higher beings, like ourselves, but shorn of our carnal portions, and compromise the matter.”

“Then you think angels and spirits are not like us, and need not be of anything like our form?” questioned Ingle.

“Certainly not necessarily so,” answered Rutherford, and looking across at Godfrey, he went on,—“I don’t want to intrude on the ground of the biological section, but in the case of the caterpillar it does not follow, necessarily, that its next life shall be that of another and better caterpillar, and yet if it could answer the question it would be sure to say that it would be a better caterpillar, with perhaps a few more legs, for being accustomed to crawl all its life, it would scarcely be likely to imagine that a future phase would be flying in the sunshine, or the twilight, as the case might be, in an element of which it could not know the existence as a crawling grub, or resting pupa. This is a wonderful feature, and a few moments’ thought will show how exceedingly difficult it is to conceive of a glorified human being in any different shape to ourselves, without mutilating or degrading the race. If we take the mental qualities and glorify them, we but make the figure a brainy idiot, with a palsied body, his appearance revolting to every sense of feeling and delicacy. If we take his skill in work and glorify this by extending the power to exercise that skill and confer on man a multiplicity of arms and legs, we merely form a Hindoo idol; if his sight, and increase that, or in any way tamper with him mentally or physically, we make nothing more than a revolting heathen god. If we try to alter his shape and mode of movement, adding a few more limbs, and make him creep, crawl or fly, we degrade him. Finding all these things ruled out we take his limitless thought and soul, and, knowing that thought can travel up to God, we give him wings and make an angel of him, as mentioned at first—and that is man as he is, with scarcely any alteration; because no one can suggest any beautifying and ennobling variation apart from the present figure of man, and yet there _is_ a Power in Creation which is not figure or flesh. No man has seen this Power at any time, yet no one who has eyes or a thinking brain can do other than feel it everywhere. For instance, who can define ‘space’ in the universe? We get instrument after instrument, each more powerful than the last, and in each one we may begin another and more distant space where the previous instrument ended, and when we have discovered millions of miles of space in all directions, we are only at the beginning of it—if space can have a beginning—and our finite brains almost burst at the effort to grasp and actually realise ‘Infinity’—to understand how far it can extend and what it contains. We know the Spirit of God is there and is part of, and _in_, all Creation; but because no man has seen God, or can form the slightest idea of describing such a Spirit without being profane, he can only regard the conception in the abstract, as a ‘Spirit,’ or ‘Influence’—yet is it only ‘Influence’ that makes and orders the universe, our knowledge of which is so infinitesimal that the combined learning of the whole Earth is not so much as one grain in comparison with the weight of our world. And because of this incapacity of the human mind to grasp the idea of higher beings, we are compelled to represent them as ourselves, slightly improved—as we think it.

“Still one more instance. Many will have been present at the death of some near relation or friend, and as the end draws near, the sight seems to enter futurity, and yet not one of these has been able to tell us a single word of what is beyond this life, or to what the soul is going. Yet the dying spirit _would_ be glad to do so, _would_ gladly do us all the good possible, but the lips are sealed, and we shall never know till the same psychical moment has arrived for each of us, and our own dissolution is near. All that we know is that whatever the ‘home’ is, or wherever it is situated, the mere sight of it fills the departing soul with an indescribable peace and a longing for possession so holy, so lovely, and so welcome, that mere mortal lips cannot speak of it, neither can the heart conceive of it—only the ‘soul’ understands and grudges every moment spent out of the ‘rest,’ which would be too disturbing for us to see, or to do aught but conjecture about before we are almost entering. For it would be too disturbing to our peace of mind to be compelled to live out our allotted time in this existence, knowing positively all the while that in each after-phase we should be working at that for which we are most fitted, and all this without any of the storm, strife and turmoil of this life. Under these conditions, such future work would be perfect rest and peace to us, in comparison with the present, and would also be in such a transcendently higher degree as to be altogether inconceivable to us while in this life.”

Rutherford ceased, and for a few minutes no one broke the silence, when Reeve asked,—“Then what do you infer from that in the present case?”

“That beings are here,” answered Rutherford; “real spirits, of a far higher grade than ourselves!”

“And that being so, we can only see them in our higher and more serious moments of thought?” suggested Godfrey.

“Yes,” replied Rutherford, “and because of our inferiority, in that peculiar psychical moment when our brain is at its zenith of concentration, as Ingle put it, we are elevated out of ourselves, and see those beings who are even now around us in a way we can neither describe nor recall. Kelman hit it on exactly by his simile of a ‘nebulous glory,’ an ‘indescribable something’—and that is all I can say.”

“From that point of view, the return to a lower psychical state or zone causes them to vanish by the inferiority of ourselves?” said Sorrel.

“I should say so, for they are beyond our ken, except in the rare moments when we, mentally, get nearer their level, and then a faint radiance of their glory becomes visible to us!”

“And you would take it, Rutherford,” questioned Rollsborough, “that we, as we are normally, never could get more than a nebulous idea, or vision, of a higher life, even under favourable circumstances?”

“I do not see that it is possible, but of course I have never given the subject a thought before; this is only my own idea, deduced from the present experience.”

“It would, of course, naturally follow that at the very best, the glimpse we get might be nebulous, but never _could_ be sufficiently distinct to enable us to form even a mental idea of what a spirit really is, seeing we are mortal?” pursued Rollsborough.

“I should say not, myself, judging from past experience and the ever-present impossibility of the human mind to explain the unknown.”

“Possibly there may be something in the air, or in the spirit of this world, that renders us more susceptible to outside influences,” put in Godfrey.

“The magnetic influence is very strong,” said Dennis, as he stepped back from looking at the dial.

“It is possible,” remarked Sorrel, “that the tremendous forces above are here diverted to make the world habitable.”

“That opens out another difficulty—a difficulty to me, that is,” said Godfrey. “I remember what you told me about the creation of worlds, Sorrel, and if the sun is so much younger than our own Earth—in its infancy, in fact—how can you account for a staid old world like this being in his stomach—a world which is quite the age of our own, judging from the landscape, trees and animals, all of which are practically of our period—and if this has been formed like Earth, what is it doing here?”

“That is, indeed, a mystery,” said Sorrel; “strange to say, Rollsborough mentioned the very same thing to me a few days ago. He said it had been troubling him for a week or two, but I must confess the idea never occurred to me till he spoke of it. Since then we have had a good deal of talk on the subject between ourselves, but we are not certain of our ground yet.”

“But have you no idea?” asked Godfrey. “It seems to me inexplicable. What do you think about it, Rollsborough?”

“I must confess myself at sea, Spenser,” was the reply. “I am like Sorrel; for want of proof, there is only conjecture, and conjecture is not safe.”

“Could we get proof?”

“I fear not; it would mean staying here for years and years. You see, Spenser, on Earth each succeeding generation adds a little knowledge to that left by its predecessors, but only a little, and in our work and studies, we of the present time reap the benefit of the experience and discovery of ages,—of history which was mere ‘happenings’ at the time, though we of later date see all these fit in like segments of a wheel, and so the world wags! but to begin studying geological structure and scores of other sciences, from _nothing_, would take many a lifetime to get any kind of results. Is not that so, Sorrel?”

“I regret to say it is,” Sorrel replied; “it would be just as hopeless for you, in your life-time, to hunt up, classify, and elucidate the life-history of every fly and grub and bacillus on this planet, from the very beginning.”

“Just so, Sorrel, but tell us what you think; how it _may_ have come here. Has the sun blown out and the internal nitrogen and what not developed this kernel more rapidly?”

“I don’t like stating mere theories, Spenser,” answered Sorrel, smiling, “but as you press me I will tell you what I imagine has been the case. The only thing I can conceive as being in any way possible is that the sun may have been formed by an extremely large planet attracting to its mass another large planet of less gravity, the impact forming this present sun. If a portion of one of the worlds, however, embedded itself in the centre by probably an earthquake at the moment of impact, there would be no immediate contact, and consequently no immediate fusion of this portion, but directly the contact came, perhaps less than a second later, there would be instant cohesion, and also instant expansion of the parts brought into contact, which would allow the embedding portion to touch nothing; it would strike to the centre and remain there, because it would then have reached equally opposing forces all round, and would commence to float and revolve in space enveloped by the atmosphere projected with it, and probably some instant conversion of some of the nitrates, or metallic portions of the immense globule, would create a crust and generate a deep layer of nitrogen, which would prevent further combustion downwards; the ordinary breathable air below would remain there, with only a slight intermingling in the extreme upper strata, which are further held in place and away from the atmosphere here by that wonderful zone of thick clouds which so deceived us, they forming natural shields, or vanes. In any case, the cold centre would cause the outer crust to move away from it, and expand, and conduce to the cooling of the crust, as would also the nitrogen, being a non-supporter of combustion; the world itself would become comparatively round and revolve as our Earth does, in its own atmosphere. Then the usual cycle of waste and repair would follow, and the air be made and kept sweet and fresh; the animal kingdom would give out carbonic-acid gas and inhale oxygen, whilst the vegetable kingdom would inhale carbonic acid and exhale oxygen, thus each kingdom giving out as a waste product that which was necessary to the existence of the other, as on Earth, the general health and safety of both kingdoms being thus maintained, for each is indispensable to the other.

“This is my explanation, and though it may seem to you at first thought somewhat fanciful, I believe it is the one and only correct solution, and it is at least a scientific possibility that will bear argument.”

After airing opinions, and discussing the pros and cons of every argument brought forward, they all retired, soon to be lost in slumber.

For several weeks longer they continued their work of observation and the collecting of specimens, still feeling, and at times seeing, their nebulous friends, and in vain they tried to solve the problem “why had they not felt the presences before, when they had been working so long under similar conditions?”

As the weeks sped on, there began to be signs of failing health in the party; for the first time, first one and then another had to take a day’s rest, lying in his cabin. Although no pain was felt, there was prostration. Then this increased, and the day off extended into two or three at a time, the usual remedies altogether failing to restore chemical and physical balance. Finally, this came to such a pass that only half the number were working, Dennis himself being too ill to leave his cabin. Connecting this strange occurrence with something unknown in the air or emanating from the ground, they decided that it would be wise to leave, and bringing the work in hand to a speedy close, they entered the ship, fastened the net securely, and started the return journey with Dennis and half a dozen others ill in their berths. They had made all aërial observations in coming, so there was nothing to retard their progress; Ross took first turn at the switchboard, and a few minutes later they were rapidly ascending to the terrible heat and pressures and turbulence of the sun’s surface.

Even as they ascended, the conditions of the invalids improved, and by the time the windows needed further masking they were able to sit up for a while, from which it was evident they had left behind something inimical to them.

It had long been a subject of keen controversy whether the sun was solid, liquid or gaseous. It had been proved previously not to be solid, at least not entirely so, and, consequently, was generally accepted as being part gaseous and part either solid. or liquid, excellent and almost indisputable scientific proof having been forthcoming from the exponents of both theories, and as there was so much that was doubtful, the partisans of both beliefs could each make their case good in unanswerable argument. The adventures of the explorers, the continuous photographs in colour, and the spectrum photographs of the whole of the travels over the sun’s surface and the actual descent, would, when reproduced on the scoposolograph machine, show living, moving pictures in colour of the whole voyage, thus elucidating completely many of the mysteries of the sun, the mighty ruler and light-giver of the Solar system.