The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (63 page)

More panels of ancient art revealed an ongoing march of progress, if progress it might be called, as both humans and piscines advanced. Cities appeared, and great sky-going machines. The two civilizations developed side by side but there was little commerce and no friendship between them, until in a series of paintings portraying a terrible war the human civilization was destroyed and that of the fish-men emerged triumphant.

There was a yowl from the end of the gallery and White whirled to see My Lady Bast rising on her hind legs, her coat standing on end to give her the appearance of a beast three times her actual size. Her paws were raised and her sabre-like claws were extended. Her needle-sharp teeth seemed to have grown into the fangs of a feline many times her size but no less outraged than was My Lady Bast.

She stood poised before the great statue that ended the gallery, and as Colonel White and his companions stood in stupefaction she dropped to all fours, ran forward, launched herself into the air and caught at the convolutions of the lowermost part of the statue.

The brilliant beams of four Curie lanterns followed the cat as she clawed and fought her way upward on the statue. The thing was monstrous, a variant of the horrible image that Speranza Verde had shown Colonel White the night before.

The thing was fitted with tentacle-like stalks, uncounted numbers of them, some terminating in sucker-like mouths, others in shining eyes. It had a head, or what must serve as a head, shaped like a five-pointed star, each extremity of this bearing a great, dark eye.

Most horrifying of all, David White stood paralyzed with shock and fear. And know well, even the noblest of men know fear; it is the overcoming of this experience that comprises true courage. That which had paralyzed White was the sight of the five points of the statue’s face writhing and turning, turning horribly, until the eyes focused upon My Lady Bast the cat.

From all directions, tentacles tipped with horrid mouths and rows of teeth resembling those of giant, extinct sharks, wove toward My Lady Bast. From the cat there came a blood-freezing scream of raging ferocity as the pleasantly disposed ship’s mascot was transformed into a whirlwind of fury and violence.

My Lady Bast flew from the grasping, mouth-tipped tentacles, the points of her claws leaving a trail of punctures from which there spurted a steaming green ichor. Blobs of the foul liquid splashed on the great paving stones with which the room was floored. Each point of contact was transformed into a miniature cauldron that seethed and bubbled and from which a noxious greenish vapour arose.

The cat by now had reached the star-shaped head of the monstrous living statue. Using the claws of two paws while she clung to the monstrous visage with the others, she shredded one baleful eye, then moved to the next and the next. The monstrous living statue yielded to a series of spasms.

David White, watching the incredible battle of a feline analog of his Biblical namesake against this titanic alien Goliath, realized to his astonishment that the star-headed monster was actually terrified. He was aware that Siegfried Schwartz had drawn his Bergmann automatic and was firing at the monstrosity. Other members of the exploring party, Rouge, Speranza Verde, had drawn their own weapons and were pointing them upward.

Bounding forward to place himself between his comrades and the monster, David White waved his arms and cried out, “Careful! Careful! Don’t hit the cat!”

Even as the sound of two revolvers and an automatic pistol echoed off the walls and ceiling of the chamber, the great monstrosity, blinded now and bleeding green ichor from its wounds, gave forth a mighty roar that echoed and re-echoed through the hall. It gave a mighty spasm and My Lady Bast, the grey and white warrior, her grasp on the star-shaped head broken by the jolt, was flung from the monster. As if fully accustomed to flight she soared through the darkened reaches of the tomb, falling at last into the welcoming arms of Colonel David White.

But this was no gentle pussy. My Lady Bast. had been transformed into a warrior-goddess and she was not so quick to resume her domestic mien. Raking claws shredded White’s military tunic and suddenly terrifying fangs snapped within millimetres of his eye, removing a gobbet of flesh just at his cheekbone. Then My Lady Bast flexed powerful legs, launched herself from his torso and disappeared into the darkness of the tomb.

Rouge, Schwartz and Verde had advanced cautiously toward the monster. In its great spasm it had flung itself from its plinth and lay thrashing on the stone floor. Its mouths seemed to possess the power of speech independent of one another, and they uttered sounds that resembled human speech as a horrid parody of the human form might resemble a beautiful woman.

Siegfried Schwartz, surely crude and perhaps cruel as well, was by no means lacking in courage. He had advanced to within an arm’s reach of the monster and was speaking to it in a language which David White did not understand, but which he inferred to be that of ancient Egypt. Astonishingly, the monster seemed to hear and understand the German archaeologist, and to reply in a strange and terrible variant of the same language.

Without warning the monster managed to raise itself halfway to a vertical position. It turned its eye-tipped tentacles toward the roof of the chamber.

There, its rays focused through a lens of tinted mica, the sun casting a single, bright beam into the chamber. The beam had obviously been aimed, how many millennia before there was no way of calculating. In its light one of the painted panels on the tomblike wall seemed almost to come to life.

A row of half-human figures knelt in postures of worship. There was a man with the head of a falcon, a woman with the features of a lioness, a hawk-man, a woman in the grotesque form of a hippopotamus, a being with a human body and the head of a crocodile. David White did not know their names, but he recognized them as Egyptian deities. And they were kneeling in submission.

Before them stood a party of star-headed, tentacled monsters like the one whose statue had seemingly come to life only to be slain by the ferocity of a ship’s grey and white mascot. And behind the alien beings could be seen a sleek machine, obviously a vehicle that had brought its occupants from some home unimaginable to mere humanity.

From the shadowed passageway through which the explorers had entered the tomb there came an echoing voice. “It’s time,” came the voice of Sir Shepley Sidwell-Blue. “We’d b-best get back to
Rosny.
Our t-time is r-running out.”

The explorers turned toward the passageway. Jemond Jules Rouge leading the way, followed by Speranza Verde and Siegfried Schwartz, preceded Colonel Dwight David White into the passage. White realized that they had all been so busy in dealing with the wonders and terrors of the tomb that they had forgotten the time. It was a good thing that the Englishman had stayed outside the tomb, keeping track of the passing hours.

Once outside the tomb the party formed up and moved off in the direction of the temporarily dry bed of the Fleuve Triste.

They had gone only a score of paces when Sidwell-Blue cried out, “Halt!” The decisive and authoritarian utterance from the hitherto timid and uncertain Englishman startled the others into obedience. To their disbelieving eyes Sidwell-Blue ran back toward the dark opening in the rock. He disappeared into the shadowed passageway. Minutes passed. David White studied his own pocket watch, performed a rapid mental calculation and said, “If we don’t move quickly we’ll be trapped by the returning Marée.”

“But we cannot leave poor Sir Shepley in that tomb!” Speranza Verde cried. She started back toward the rock sepulchre, followed by the others, but before she could reach the opening Sir Shepley Sidwell-Blue emerged into the Saharan sunlight, My Lady Bast nestled comfortably in his arms.

As they approached the submersible
Rosny
a mighty aqueous roar was heard and two walls of water became visible, speeding toward them from both directions. The explorers ran at top speed to the submersible and scrambled up
Rosny’s
boarding ladder. Captain Alexandre herself had awaited them, and followed them into the submersible, counting off as they descended:

“Rouge.

“Schwartz.

“Blue.

“Verde.

“White.

“My Lady Bast.

Even as the first spray of the onrushing waters spattered her midnight-tinted uniform sleeve, the Captain slammed the hatch shut and turned its dogs to seal the submersible against the waters of the Saharan Sea.

Soon all had refreshed themselves and reassembled in the Captain’s conference room. Hot coffee spiked with strong brandy was served, along with nourishing sandwiches. Outside
Rosny’s
oblong panels of glass, marine creatures swam up to this strange invader of their realm and studied its occupants with as much curiosity as the men and women of
Rosny
exhibited toward them.

In a corner of the room, My Lady Bast, her coat now restored to its proper state, enjoyed a treat of fresh fish and rich cream.

At the table, the explorers gave their complementary reports on their experiences in the ancient tomb. Speranza Verde took special note of Sidwell-Blue’s unexpected heroism. “Beneath this
senza pretese,
how you say, unassuming exterior, eh, there beats the heart of a lion. I salute you, Sir Shepley.”

The Englishman turned away shyly. “One c-couldn’t abandon that splendid c-cat, you know.” Even in the artificial light of
Rosny’s
cabin, his furious blush was obvious.

At the end, it was Colonel White who asked Herr Siegfried Schwartz, “What was it that the monster said before it died?”

The German stroked his beard as if in deep thought. “To understand what said the creature, Mein Herr White, it was for me not easy. Its language that of ancient Egypt was almost, but certain differences there were.”

He paused and drained his cup. When it was refilled he instructed the crew member to omit the coffee.

“I think it said, ‘My parents for me will come. Someday my father and mother for me will come.’ You see, Herr Colonel, to us a great monster it was, but in truth that sleeping creature that we awakened, that we killed, of its own kind was a baby.”

THE GOLDEN QUEST by Sharan Newman

Few of Verne’s posthumously published novels are of much interest, but two do have science-fictional content. La
Chasse au mètèore,
was serialized in 1908 and published in England the next year as
The Chase of the Golden Meteor.
Though not very well written (some believe it may have been a collaboration with Verne’s son, Michel, who helped his father on several of the last novels) it does contain a fascinating idea. The inventor Zéphyrin Xirdal has created a machine that emits a ray which can capture and control any object, rather like the tractor beam of later science fiction (and of which a prototype was invented in 2001). Xirdal uses this machine to capture a meteorite of solid gold. When Xirdal realizes the financial consequences of this he ensures that the meteorite falls into the sea. Once again Verne did not believe that mankind could cope with scientific progress. But was Xirdal right? Sharan Newman plays back the events of the story to see what might have really happened.

The young man clutched his felt fedora with sweaty hands. He gazed at the thick oak-panelled door before him as if it were the gateway to Hell. He reflected that for him it might be. And that was only if his request were granted. It’s no wonder that Jean Lecoeur needed to screw up all his courage before knocking.

Therefore his heart nearly stopped when he raised his fist to knock and, before he tapped the wood, the door was opened with a jerk and he found himself face to face with a portly man in his late sixties.

“Hello!” the man said in surprise, as he bent down to pick up the afternoon paper.

“Mr W W. . . Wells?” Jean could barely get the words out, he was so nervous.

“That depends,” the man answered. “Are you a reporter?”

“Oh, no, sir! I am Jean Lecoeur, of Lecoeur Bank, Paris, London, New York, Berlin, Cairo and Buenos Aires.” Jean handed the man his letters of introduction.

The man glanced at the letters with disdain and sighed. “I suppose you’d better come in,” he said. “Yes, I’m Herbert Wells. Now what does the owner of the richest bank in the world want with me? You do know I’m a Socialist, don’t you? I don’t invest in capitalist schemes.”

“I am aware of that, sir,” Jean said. “I’m counting on it.”

Wells gave him a suspicious glance but ushered him in.

When they had settled in comfortable chairs before the fire, Jean’s nervousness ebbed a bit. However, he couldn’t stop himself from giving a jerk when Wells said firmly, “So, tell me your business, young man..”

Jean Lecoeur squirmed like a schoolboy sent to the headmaster. The fact that he was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world didn’t seem to help in this situation. He took a deep breath and started.