Part III Chapter 10 Doctor Dolittle's Garden by Hugh Lofting
TOO-TOO'S WARNING
The difference between Too-Too and Polynesia in this matter, as far as I was concerned, was very noticeable. Polynesia had seemed as though she wanted to keep things from me: Too-Too was for taking me into his confidence. I had had an uncomfortable feeling that the old parrot was looking towards some occasion where—as I mentioned before—the Doctor also might wish me to be left in ignorance regarding his plans. How far John Dolittle himself was in agreement with her in this, and how far she was acting on her own, I did not know. But it had caused me a good deal of anxiety.
To find that Too-Too was willing and anxious to be quite frank with me cheered me up considerably.
"You mean," said I, "that this moth is staying here in the hopes that he may take the Doctor back with him to the Moon?"
"What else?" said Too-Too, spreading out his wings in a funny argumentative gesture. "After all, you know the great man's reputation. There's nothing very surprising in that it should have reached the Moon. No one can say yet what their civilization up there may have grown into. But naturalists like John Dolittle are not born every day—nor every century. They want him, I suppose, to solve some problem. And you may be sure that the Doctor will not be slow to answer their call for help. And what is more, he will certainly keep his going a secret till the last possible moment."
"Humph!" I muttered. "You think then that he might hop off any minute?"
"I don't know," said Too-Too. "There is no telling. They certainly haven't let me in on any secrets. But I'm sure that giant moth came with some orders about bringing the Doctor back with him. How long it may take the Doctor to learn enough of the insect's language to know what they want, I cannot tell. But if you are interested I would advise you to keep a very close watch on John Dolittle's movements for the next few days. A word to the wise, you know—"
I pondered a moment before answering.
"All right," I said at last.—"Thank you, Too-Too, for warning me."
"It was not only on your own account," said the owl, "that I dropped this word of caution. If he goes, we animals would be much happier if he had some other human with him. Getting to the Moon is—well—a risky business, to say the least—and it is my guess that he will avoid taking any more company than he can possibly help on account of the risk."
It was only very shortly after that conversation with Too-Too that I made it my business to question the Doctor about his plans.
"So it is true," I said, "that you have hopes of getting to the Moon with the help of this moth?"
"Well," said he, "it will depend of course on how things pan out. But, yes, I think I can certainly say that I have hopes in that direction. As I told you, it seems pretty certain now that this moth was sent down specially to fetch me."
"It is a very thrilling idea," said I. "But to be quite honest, I don't see how you're going to manage it. They say there is no air there, don't they?"
The Doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"There is animal life there anyway," said he. "These moths can manage very well. It is probably a different kind of air, that is all. I am faced with the problem of finding out what sort of atmosphere it is they have there. Once I've done that I shall be in a very much better position to say whether or no the earthly human can subsist in the Moon. I am beginning to come to the conclusion that up there the vegetable kingdom is relatively much more active and important than the animal kingdom. Of course that's only guess work so far. But everything points to it. I believe that the atmosphere, whatever air they have, is created or influenced very largely by the vegetable kingdom. That is why the moth brought along with him those flowers whose perfumes seem so important to him."
"But," said I, "scientists have said there is no water there, haven't they?—That if there were there would be clouds?"
"Oh, well," said the Doctor, shrugging his shoulders, "how do they know—without having been there? Perhaps the Moon water is of a different kind—one that does not volatilize and go off into clouds—the way it does with us. Perhaps the air, the heat, is of a different kind. Who shall say? The only way to know is to go there and see."
"That's all very well," I replied. "But in the job of finding out you could, so far as I can tell, very easily give your life without anyone thanking you."
The Doctor pondered seriously a moment.
"Yes," he said at last, "I admit it may sound sort of crazy to most people. But I have a confidence in animals. The lunar animal kingdom wants me up there for something. As yet I haven't been able to find out exactly what it is. But so far all my life, as you know, I have trusted the animal kingdom and I have never had that confidence imposed on. If the Moon animals want me, I'll go. And I have no fear about their finding a way to get me there—and a way to get me back."
"Humph!" I said. "But even if there should be air—of a sort—on the Moon itself, there is none in between, is there? My understanding of this situation is that when you get away from the Earth a certain distance you come to the end of the air envelope. How can anyone fly when there is no air for his wings to beat against?"
Once more John Dolittle shrugged his shoulders. "The moth managed it," he said. "I imagine that so far as a medium for flying is concerned the gravity of the Earth, being stronger than the gravity of the Moon, he was pulled down here, without much effort on his own part, as soon as he got outside the Moon's attraction. That would make it look as though it were easier to get here from the Moon than from here to the Moon. However the most important thing would seem to carry enough atmosphere with you to support life on the voyage."
"Is it far," I asked, "to the Moon?"
"Far enough," said he. "But after all only about one fourteen-hundredth part of the distance to the Sun. As soon as I am convinced that they, that is the Moon's animal kingdom, wants to have me come, then I'll go. I'm not afraid. They will take care of me. If they can get one of their people down to me, I should be able to get up to them. It is merely a question of knowing conditions and making provisions for perfectly natural, if new, conditions."
Of course when the Doctor put it in that way there was after all very little to be said. That sublime confidence of his in the animal kingdom, whether it was of the Moon or the Earth, overcame all difficulties in a manner that left you almost gasping. If the Moon creatures wanted him, he would go. That was the end of the matter.
For the rest, everything now depended on the development of conversation between himself and the giant moth. We had successfully kept the secret of its presence with us from the outside world—so far.
"You know, Stubbins," said he to me one evening when we were talking this over, "I am not even telling the animals, my own household, I mean, about any plans I may have for a possible journey to the Moon. One cannot be too careful. If it ever leaked out that I was contemplating such a thing we would have a reporter from every paper in the country clamouring at our gates for an interview within twenty-four hours. The world may call me a crank. But anything sensational like this can start an avalanche of publicity which nothing will stop. Polynesia is about the only one I have taken into my confidence. I suspect of course that Too-Too, Chee-Chee and Jip have some idea of what is going on. But I haven't discussed the matter with them and I know I can trust them to keep their suspicions to themselves."
"Have you," I asked, "decided yet, if you do go, whom you would take with you? I presume you hadn't thought of going entirely alone?"
"Urn—er-" the Doctor murmured, "that is a bit hard to settle yet. The—er—well, the risks, you know, Stubbins, are great. There is no sense in trying to hide that. It is something so entirely new. Sometimes I feel I should take no one with me at all—that I haven't the right to. If I go alone and I fail to get back, well, I'll have given my life in a cause worth while. As I said, for my own safety I haven't much fears. But I'm not so sure that the same protection would necessarily be given to the rest of my party. I have made no final decisions yet. Polynesia I would like to take—and Chee-Chee. I feel they both might be very useful; but for the rest, much as I would like to have them with me, I think they are better off where they are—at home."
And now of course the most important question for me was: would I, Tommy Stubbins, be of the Doctor's party on the voyage to the Moon? I was almost afraid to ask the question of him direct. Never have I been so divided in my feelings about anything. One minute I was just crazy to go. The next I realized what a mad wild expedition it was and felt that the chances of anyone returning alive from such a voyage were too slight to be worth mentioning. Then followed the picture of how I would feel if I let him go alone and stayed behind myself. That finally decided me. Scared blue as I was of the whole scheme, I knew I just had to do my utmost to accompany him. I couldn't let him go without me. The following evening I broached the subject.
"Doctor," I said, "you are of course counting on taking me with you on this trip?" (I felt it best to begin by supposing that he was.) "You would find it hard to do without a secretary, wouldn't you? There is bound to be an enormous lot of note-taking to be done, eh?"
I watched his face keenly as he pondered a moment before answering.
"Well—er—Stubbins," he began at length, "you know how I feel about taking anyone with me—even those animal friends of mine, members of my household, who have no one to mourn over their loss if they should not come back. And—er—in your case, Stubbins, you must realize that it is—quite difficult. Please do not think that I don't appreciate the fact that you want to share the dangers of this entirely new enterprise with me. I admit I would be more than glad of your company. I expect to be faced with situations when the companionship of another human might be a tremendous comfort and help. But—well, you know, Stubbins, as well as I do, how your parents would feel if I took you with me on such a trip. To the Moon! Compared with that our other voyages look like a twopenny coach ride to the outskirts of London. Then again, remember, Stubbins, I am flying in the face of all scientific authority. Whatever my own doubts may be, the fact remains that all astronomers, from Newton down, who have studied the Moon emphatically declare that no life can exist there—that the Moon is a dead world. I am gambling, like Columbus, on my own opinion pitted against the rest of mankind.... No—I'm sorry. But nothing would excuse me, in my own eyes—let alone the eyes of your mother and father—for taking you with me. You—you must stay behind. You will be needed here. I—I can't take you, Stubbins."
I felt crushed. It seemed as though there was nothing more to be said. And yet his final decision left me a little unsatisfied. When I had warned him of the dangers for himself in going to the Moon he had argued one way, making light of the risk; and when I had asked to be allowed to come along he had argued the other way, and laid stress upon the dangers of the enterprise.
Resolving to make just one more try, I pointed this out to him and ended by saying:
"If the flowers the moth brought, Doctor, grew on the Moon, there must be water there. Isn't that so?"
To my surprise he did not seem embarrassed by my stroke of logic at all.
"Probably, Stubbins, that is true. But do not forget that we are facing the problems and natural history of a life wholly unknown to us. The chemistry of these plants is something utterly new to our own science. That I know by pretty thorough investigation of them. To us the idea of producing plants without water is something quite impossible. But in the Moon, again, who shall say? They may be air plants, parasites like our orchids, living on the moisture of the atmosphere. Or anything. No one can tell how they get their nourishment or carry on life till he has seen them growing in their native surroundings. Listen, Stubbins: if I had ever seen a tree growing on the Moon I would feel I could answer your question better. But I haven't. And I have no idea whatever as yet from what source these flowers derive their life."
He paused a moment, then rose and approaching my chair where I sat gloomily scowling at the table with my head in my hands, he clutched my shoulder in a kindly grasp.
"Good friend," said he in a funny chokey sort of voice, "let's not discuss it any more. You know, don't you, how much I'd love to have you. But I can't, Stubbins—I just can't take you."