The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (65 page)

“I have spent my life learning how to keep money out of the hands of the government,” his father responded. “I shall do the same for M. Xirdal, the owner of this land and the meteor.”

Jean gave a great sigh of relief. “Yes, yes!” he grabbed his father’s hand and shook it with enthusiasm. “You must do that! Don’t forget.”

He spun about and nearly danced his way back to the town. He had always heard that it was his father who had agreed to let the meteor sink. But now he would refuse to do so. War would be averted and the family would still retain their wealth.

As he drew closer to Upernevik, his steps began to drag.

It shouldn’t have been that easy. This was the nineteenth of August. The meteor hadn’t been pushed over the cliff into the ocean until the third of September. What if something happened between now and then to change his father’s mind?

The thought of spending several more days in Greenland, in the past depressed Jean considerably. However, he must be certain that the meteor remained on land so that it could be divided fairly among the nations. Otherwise all his efforts would be in vain.

The next few days made him increasingly alarmed. As the world waited for the meteor to cool enough to plant a flag on it, gunboats began arriving from every country. Marines from America, France, Argentina, Japan, Italy, Chile and other nations marched into the town of Upernevik, all under orders to protect the meteor from thieves and to preserve the peace.

Jean began to fear that, instead of stopping the Great War, he had caused it to begin ten years early. What was he to do? Mr Wells had warned him that tampering with time was dangerous. But there was no turning back now.

His training in international banking meant that Jean spoke several languages and was accustomed to the use of diplomacy. He offered his services as a translator to the French and American delegations. Although he could produce no references, he had an air of confidence and authority that impressed the admirals. His talents were soon apparent to them, as well. For the next twelve days he talked his throat sore in an attempt to convince the representatives of the various countries that the meteor should be put in a trust and administered by an international council, such as the one already meeting in Washington.

“Think how much goodwill you would earn,” he pleaded, “if each nation used a share of the gold to set up an institute for the eradication of disease or to promote scientific research?”

His conviction impressed the various representatives enough that telegraph messages began flying back to capital cities with his proposal. The conference in Washington was disposed to agree to it. Jean had some hope that his efforts were succeeding. Then, on the second of September, came a shocking announcement.

“The meteor is moving! It is heading for the cliff!” “No!” jean cried. “It can’t be!”

Unlike the rest of the observers, he knew what was causing the sudden movement. Zéphyrin Xirdal had activated his machine again and was pushing the meteor to its doom. But why? He had always assumed that the plan had been totally his father’s. What could have changed his mind?

Arriving at the hut, Jean heard the whir and clatter of Xirdal’s machine. He pounded on the door.

“Let me in!” he shouted. “You must stop! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

The door remained shut. Jean looked about for a way in.

On one side of the hut was a crude window. It only took a moment to shatter it and carefully climb in.

“You again!” Robert Lecoeur exclaimed. “Zéphyrin, it’s that madman I told you of. The one who thought we were going to destroy the meteor. The one who gave me the idea to buy up the mining stock first.”

The inventor looked at Jean calmly. “If he knew that before we did, he’s not mad but gifted with amazing foresight. Tell me, Monsieur, how did you know I would decide to get rid of it? I only made up my mind when I saw how unhappy those two Americans were. They couldn’t be married as long as the meteor was a source of dispute between their families.”

Jean had no time to fabricate a lie.

“I know because I have seen the result of your action,” he said. “You and my . . . M. Lecoeur become tremendously wealthy since you alone controlled, that is, will control the gold market. You upset the economic balance of the planet. Monsieur Lecoeur, if you allow this to happen there will be a war the like of which the earth has never seen. Philippe and Marc will both be killed in it.”

“What?” Robert Lecoeur went pale at the mention of his sons. “How do you know about my boys? What madness is this?”

“I know it sounds insane,” Jean was weeping. “But you must believe me; I’ve seen it.”

Zéphyrin stared at Jean for a long time. He hadn’t much experience of emotions but he recognized the passion in the man before him. He looked at Robert Lecoeur.

Robert patted Jean gingerly on the shoulder.

“There, there,” he said. “Perhaps you have had some sort of vision, but there’s no reason to think it will come true.”

Jean raised his head and gazed into his father’s eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “It will. I am your third son, Jean, named after your grandfather. I have come back in time to save the lives of my brothers and millions more. Only leave the meteor as it is. You can still make money from it. Your lives won’t change. I beg you. Please!”

Zéphyrin Xirdal considered a moment, then turned around and twiddled knobs on his machine. The whirring slowed and then stopped.

“Zéphyrin!” Robert cried. “You can’t do that now. It will ruin us! My gold mine stocks will be worthless! This man is clearly a saboteur, sent to thwart us.”

He rounded on Jean.

“Speak up, young man! Who sent you?”

One by one the lights went out on the machine. Jean felt a surge of joy.

“Father,” he said. “I’m . . .”

He vanished.

Jean had neglected to learn the first rule of time travel: never do anything that might prevent your own birth.

Herbert Wells thought he heard someone at the door. When he opened it, no one was there. The paper was on the stoop. He bent and picked it up, glancing at the headlines. Crown Prince Edward had just become engaged to a princess of Greenland. The writer seemed delighted that the matter was settled. There had been talk of marrying him to the Grand Duchess Anastasia but the relationship was too close, especially with the spectre of haemophilia in the family. She had made do with a duke from Austria-Hungary.

Wells sniffed in disgust. Royalty! They seemed to be taking over the earth. It was all because of that damned meteor. With all the fancy talk about doing good with the gold, it had only made the rich, richer and the powerful, more powerful. Countries that had once freed themselves from oppression were now colonies again. There was even talk in the United States of rejoining the Empire for the trade advantages.

He sighed. It would have been better for everyone if the thing had fallen to the bottom of the ocean.

THE TRUE STORY  OF WILHELM STORITZ by Michel Pagel

Verne’s other late novel of interest is
Le Secret de Wilhelm Storitz,
serialized in 1910, but not translated (unless later research proves otherwise) until 1963. The novel had been completed in 1904 but Michel Verne thought it paled in comparison to H. G. Wells’s
The Invisible Man
(1897) and so delayed its publication. Once again Verne considered man’s misuse of science, in this case a somewhat archaic creation of an elixir of invisibility. Here Michel Pagel explores the links between Verne’s and Wells’s stories.

1

Spremberg, 18 May 1754

My dearest son,

I take advantage of a respite in my fever to write you these lines. By the time you read them, I will have succumbed to the illness which is eating me away. I cannot tell you how much it pains me to leave this world when, far from being an old man, I could still have served Germany through my work. But it is God’s will, and since I have enjoyed a full and pleasant life, I suppose that I should not complain. My last months in particular have counted among the happiest and most eventful of my whole life, and this thanks to a marvellous discovery which I wish to bequeath to you today. Indeed, who else but you, my beloved Wilhelm, whose character is so akin to mine, who else would know how to make the most profitable use of it?

As much as my pride suffers to admit it, I cannot claim this discovery for myself, although it does owe certain of its refinements to me. The manner in which I came into possession of the original formula is so extraordinary that I must recount it to you in a few short words.

This all came about a little more than a year ago, when you had just settled in Hungary. One winter’s evening I was returning to the château after having dined with Dr Hebäcker, when I surprised a burglar in the dining room. At least, I believed him to be a burglar. This strangely-dressed man entreated me, first in English, then in a stumbling German, not to be afraid of him. Although he did not appear menacing, I was unwilling to take any risk: the poker from the fireplace was within my reach and I dealt him a vigorous blow to the head. Luckily, he was only stunned.

I was on the brink of ringing for Hermann so that he could go and fetch the police when I discovered the incredible sight which my initial surprise had concealed from me:

there, in a corner of the dining room, sat an enormous machine whose function I could not guess at. It had evidently been conceived to carry a man, for a padded seat occupied its centre. Apart from that, it posed a complete mystery — and no less mysterious was the means by which the stranger could have brought it here, for it possessed no wheels and was far too heavy for a single man to lift. I’ll spare you the preposterous story he later told me in order to justify his presence here: this man was either a liar or a madman, maybe even both.

Nonetheless he was a scholar; I was convinced of this by my search of the baggage strapped to his machine. Aside from several changes of clothing, just as excessive as those he was wearing, there were predominantly books on science and philosophy — some were known to me, others were not — and three large manuscript notebooks full of diagrams and mathematical or chemical equations. These latter above all caught my attention, for, although myself a chemist — plague upon modesty! — a brilliant chemist, I failed to surmise what kind of experiment they concerned.

My curiosity aroused, I set about returning my visitor to consciousness, if not to reason, with the aim of questioning him. He never revealed his true name to me. “Call me Ishmael”, was all I could gain from him, and the tone he used suggested that this was a quip beyond my understanding, something which contributed to the annoyance he quickly provoked in me.

Initially, he refused point blank to answer my questions. Courtesy having produced nothing, I confined him in one of the château’s dungeons, which had not been used for more than a century, and there I left him to meditate on the wisdom of his conduct, while I devoted myself to a close study of his notebooks. Without penetrating all their secrets, I quickly realized that they referred to one of the oldest fantasies of man: becoming invisible — but through science, not through sorcery. You may imagine into what state of excitement this discovery plunged me. From then onward, I could have no rest until Ishmael (let us call him such, for want of anything better) agreed to assist me in producing this wonder, of which several essential elements escaped me. In order to attain this result, I found it necessary to keep him chained up for several weeks in his dungeon, on dry bread and water, and still he did not falter in his resolve, save after a visit to the torture chamber where our ancestor, Gottfried, Commander of the Teutonic Order, was accustomed to entertain his captives. (He claimed that invisibility could bring nothing good to humanity, particularly if it fell into the wrong hands, but it is my conviction that he desired to be its only beneficiary.) I was thus not obliged to bring the rack or the irons back into service, but believe you me, if it had proved necessary, I would have brought myself to do it.

Ishmael himself was not the author of the notebooks: they had come into his possession by good fortune, he assured me — I deduced from this that he had stolen them — and thus he was obliged to spend long hours studying them in order to gain their secrets. Gifted with a brilliant intelligence, despite his duplicity, he was also able to use his powers of deduction and his experience to reinvent certain crucial details which the original author had omitted to put to paper, doubtless preferring to consign them to memory so that no one could reproduce them.

Once he had provided me with a detailed formula, I could easily concoct the potion in my laboratory, and could even work out alone the antidote which the potion’s inventor had neglected to provide. If it is at times highly useful to be invisible, you may imagine how awkward it would be to be so permanently. My coffer will provide you with a substantial reserve of the potion itself and its antidote, in the bottles labelled respectively no. 1 and no. 2. When this is exhausted, well, you will have the choice of interesting yourself in science (I will leave you all the necessary notes) or engaging the services of a discreet chemist — to whom, if you mark my words, you will not reveal the final outcome of his work; my secret should therefore remain yours: the secret of Wilhelm Storitz.