"Those," shouted Edmund in our ears, "are power houses. I knew already
that these people had learned the mechanical uses of electricity; and if
we have seen no electric lights as yet, it is because, in a world of
perpetual daylight, they have little or no use for them. They employ the
power for other purposes."
"But how do you account for this incredible fountain?" I asked.
"It must be due to geological causes, if I may use a terrestrial term.
You observe that the land all has a slope hitherward from the distant
range of mountains, and that between us and the sea there is a chain of
hills. The metropolis lies at the lower edge of a vast basin, and it must
be that the relatively porous surface, over many thousands of square
miles, is underlain by an almost unbroken shell of rock, impermeable to
water. The result is that the drainage of this whole immense region,
after being collected under ground, flows together to this point, where
the existence of a huge vent in the upper layer offers it a way of
escape, and it comes spouting out of the great crater with the
consequences which you behold."
Many objections to Edmund's theory occurred to my mind; but he spoke so
confidently, the course of things on this strange planet had so often
followed his indications, and I felt myself so incapable of suggesting a
more satisfactory hypothesis, that I made no reply, as a geologist,
perhaps, would have done.
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