“Verneuil!”
“Master?”
“Stay with me, and be attentive! We have to maneuver every handle, turn or press every switch… Every time, take careful note of the effect produced…”
“Master,” said Verneuil, “I hope that none of the switches commands a mechanism designed to make the machine blow up!”
“It’s a possibility!” murmured the Nyctalope. “But it’s a risk we have to take. It’s necessary to know everything, or nothing, and to confess defeat. If, by dawn, I know the workings of his tripod as well as those of one of my aircraft, for example, victory is ours—for I have a plan! To work, Verneuil…”
On first inspecting the levers, switches and buttons, the Commander and the soldier noticed their disposition in five distinct groups. After a quarter of an hour of prudent experiments, they ascertained that the five groups correspondent to five functions: the engine; the movement of the feet; the movement of the arms, trenchant chains, sledgehammers and articulated pincers; the launch-tubes for projectiles; and the external lighting, by means of fixed or mobile, white or colored spotlights.
The engine—to which a trapdoor gave access—and the controls of the external lighting, were quickly elucidated. In order to recognize them without any possibility of error, the Nyctalope marked each lever, switch or button with a mnemonic symbol by means of an exceedingly delicate jet from an electro-mirror.
The cannon-tubes, however, posed greater difficulties. First of all, where were the projectiles themselves? After careful research, aided by what they had learned from the XV’s reports, Saint-Clair and Verneuil discovered that the tubes were all loaded. To make use of them, the Martian tripod-operator had to grab the tube with two pincer-arms, point it by maneuvering the two arms precisely, and discharge it by making one of the fingers of the pincer touch a certain shiny circle surrounding the barrel of the tube.
There were 24 tubes; there were, therefore, 24 shots to fire. The projectiles were elongated shells which seemed to be made of pulped leather. What did they contain? What effects did their explosion produce? A mystery.
As for the heat-ray generator, there was none aboard this tripod.
“No matter!” said the Nyctalope. “We have the electro-mirror.”
He made the tripod move backwards and forwards; he practiced in the restricted space offered by the gap in the heart of the forest until he could guide it impeccably. The machine’s legs were retractable; he quickly accustomed himself to withdrawing them to the point at which the platform supporting the engine, below the turret, touched the ground.
By the time the first light of dawn insinuated a little light through the interstices of the foliage, Saint-Clair and Verneuil were perfectly familiar with the mechanism of the tripod.
“That’s done,” said the Nyctalope. “We can go.” He took a notebook from one of his jacket pockets, tore out a sheet of paper, wrote 20 lines, folded the paper and gave it to Verneuil. “Run back to the hydroplane,” he ordered. “Climb into your fly and take this to Klepton, then return immediately. Wait! I’ll set you down at the far end of the path the Martians made yesterday evening—you’ll be close to the shore.”
That was a matter of five minutes. Taking great strides, the tripod retraced the course that it had followed under the direction of the Martian blasted by Saint-Clair. When it stopped, he retracted the legs and set the turret on the ground.
“Go!” said the Nyctalope. “I’ll wait here. Hurry!”
Verneuil was already at the top of the interior parrot-ladder; there was a duplicate mast on the outside. The young man clambered down to the ground, ran off and disappeared. Alone at last, Saint-Clair and Xavière embraced, the former happy with his unexpected success, the latter tormented by the apprehension of imminent danger.
Half an hour went by in the most absolute silence. What surprised the two lovers most of all was that not a single bird called or sang in the trees. No animal was visible on the ground; no movement betrayed itself by one of the multitudinous small noises that greet the sunrise in terrestrial forests.
“The race of food-bipeds must have destroyed the petty fauna of the Martian woods a long time ago,” said Saint-Clair—and he recounted the horrors of the night to Xavière.
She shuddered, having become a sensitive woman again now that the determination to fight to recover her lover had given way to a fearful anxiety that she might lose him again. “What do the bipeds eat?” she asked, in order to think about something else.
“Those cones, perhaps, which hang in such profusion from the branches of some of the trees.”
They fell silent. Talking was extraordinarily painful to them. The silence lasted a long time, but Xavière was finally driven to ask the question that had been on her mind since Verneuil’s departure. “Leo, what did you write on the piece of paper that you sent to Klepton?”
Saint-Clair replied immediately. “I ordered the immediate retreat of the entire army and its return half-way to Argyre Island—a noisy retreat made with a great racket of whistles and sirens, in order that the Martian will know that we’re abandoning the conflict, at least temporarily.”
“We’ll be completely isolated, then?”
“No—the hydroplane that landed us and its submarine will remain hidden where they have been since yesterday evening. In addition, the Franc will come back tonight to hover directly above our present location. It will let down a series of strong mooring-ropes from every side, linked at their extremity by a ring of chains. I’ll attach my tripod to that ring by means of its artificial pincers, and the Franc will lift the machine into the air. Its wings and its ascensional airscrew can generate enough power to do that.”
“And what shall we do until nightfall?”
“We’ll take our tripod for a walk around the clearing, in order to study the Martians at close range. After nightfall, it should be very easy to set a trap and capture one or two. We’ll tie their tentacles together so that they won’t get in our way, and we’ll stuff their beaks with the underclothes that Ruart and Depas were wearing—they’re still in the chain-mail basket. Verneuil can undress them and bury them soon.”
“What if the Martians discover, during our exploration, that this tripod is occupied by…”
“Consider the psychology of the Martians briefly, Xavière, and you’ll be somewhat reassured. Remember that what we did last night is something absolutely impossible for them to imagine, so superior to us do they believe themselves to be. For very powerful reasons, they will not be able to formulate the thought that humans, the entire Terran army having disappeared, would dare or be able to establish themselves in a tripod and walk openly around a Martian camp. Unless our enemies actually see our bodies, and see them clearly, we’re perfectly safe.”
“But if you’re given an order that the Martian would have carried out, you won’t understand it—you won’t even know that it’s addressed to you. Your disobedience and your demeanor will excite astonishment and curiosity. They’ll want to know why this tripod isn’t entering into the communal routine.”
“I kept watch yesterday, Xavière. In the clearing, the mechanical hands do the work; the tripods stand guard and watch the sky. I noticed that they either have complete freedom of movement or stand immobile around the clearing. The two tripods that responded to my prisoner’s cries of ‘Ulla! Ulla!’—one of which was destroyed and the other is in our power—were very probably the only ones who heard them, the others having their ears too close to the work of the mechanical hands. We cannot, therefore, be given away by anything except the absence of the tripod demolished by Verneuil. That might give rise to a summons and question-which, naturally, we will only partly understand and to which it will be impossible to reply—that’s a risk we must take.”
“Yes, it’s a risk we must take,” murmured Xavière.
Almost immediately, they heard the sound of footsteps. They looked out through a loophole. Verneuil came into sight. Two minutes later, the brave young man put his head over the rim of
the turret.
“It’s done, Master!”
“Good. Get down into the basket and undress the two bodies. When you’ve finished, call me. I’ll help you get them out of the box and bury them.”
A sad task! It took a good half-hour. Saint-Clair used an electro-mirror to hollow out the ditch in which the two cadavers were laid. Xavière, in the turret, murmured a prayer and a farewell, but Saint-Clair and Verneuil were unable to waste time on sorrow or regret. This was war! They too had risked death, and they were going to risk it again!
“Embark!”
Verneuil obeyed. He deposited the bundles of clothing removed from the dead men in a corner of the turret. The Nyctalope was the last to leave the ground. The tripod rose up, its legs extending. Verneuil took the controls; the Master assumed command and undertook surveillance.
“Forward march!”
The tripod oscillated, and moved off—and Saint-Clair saw that Xavière, having furtively wiped away a tear, stood up straight, dry-eyed, with a resolute expression and also murmured: “Forward march!” He took her head in both hands, and gave her a long kiss with trembling lips.
During their journey through the forest they did not say a word. Their minds were anxiously anticipating what would happen when their tripod appeared in the clearing where the Martians were working.
Suddenly, the clearing came into view. On Saint-Clair’s order, Verneuil slowed the tripod’s march. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, it took two slow steps out of the woods and stopped.
“There!” said the Nyctalope. “Let’s play the sentinel, like the others.”
Eight tripods were, in fact, immobile on the edge of the clearing, at equal distances apart. They formed a circle of watchers, which Saint-Clair completed. The first minutes were spent in veritable anguish. What signal, summons or interrogation might one of the eight tripods address to the new arrival? The three adventurers peered out through the loopholes. They listened.
Nothing! Nothing happened. The tripods remained immobile, exhibiting no other activity than the rapid rotation of their ventilators.
In the middle of the clearing, though, something was happening that greatly intrigued the Terrans. The cannons that Saint-Clair had seen were no longer there. The mechanical hands and serpents formed a large and shiny circle, at the center of which a huge hole opened in the ground, and from this hole a mast suddenly emerged, bearing a sort of weather-vane at its tip, whose four long branches each had a vertical mirror on the end, at least a meter in radius. Above each mirror gaped the black maw of a broad, short cannon. The mast continued rising. A narrow platform appeared, from the middle of which the mast sprang, then four metallic pillars supporting the platform. These pillars were linked to one another horizontally by buttresses.
Slowly, evenly, with the monotonous noise of some enormous clock-mechanism, it rose into the air, emerging from the mysterious depths of the shaft.
“What can that be?” said Verneuil.
The four gleaming mirrors had already reach the height of the tripod’s turret; they continued rising. The four pillars terminated at a second, larger platform, which rose up, supported in its turn by six more pillars—and that rose up too, growing continuously.
“It’s a veritable tower!” said Xavière.
“Where the Devil is it coming from? That hole must be very deep, to contain all that!” exclaimed Verneuil.
“It’s already more than 200 meters high,” said Saint-Clair. “No, I think that the pieces are held in readiness in the subterranean workings and that, by means of some prodigy of technology, the Martians are placing them and assembling them as the ascension proceeds. It seems to be articulated. It might well be closely-packed, rolled up like a cable. As it unrolls and extends, propelled by some mechanical force, the Martians are assembling the platforms and pillars around it.”
“Marvelous, marvelous!”
“But what can it be?”
Slowly, evenly, the metallic tower rose up. It might well have been three hundred meters in height now, and it was still extending. Around it, the serpents remained immobile, empty of Martians, but the mechanical hands, at the center of which the Terrans saw the oily skins of the planet’s natives gleaming, were moving their numerous arms and delicate or robust pincers incessantly. It was obvious that, as the metallic stalks rose up and multiplied, the active pincers were checking the solidity of the joints and the rigidity of the buttresses, tightening the bolts throughout the structure of the extraordinary tower.
Finally, the polygon formed by the multiplied pillars filled the entire circumference of the shaft, and the ascension came to an abrupt halt. The tower measured a good seven hundred meters in height! The mast was no longer distinguishable; Saint-Clair had calculated the height by means of the rate of ascension.
“But what can it be?” said Verneuil, for the third time.
Through the gap between the ventilator-cap and the circular rim of the turret, the Terrans gazed upwards. They could see nothing, save for the slender tower losing itself in the sky like the tip of a lightning-conductor. Suddenly, a loud grating sound drew their attention back to the shaft—but nothing appeared. The only modification was that no Martian was visible any longer in the mechanical hands; they were empty.
“The Martians have gone down into the shaft,” said Saint-Clair.
Inexplicably, Verneuil started laughing. Xavière and the Nyctalope looked at him in surprise.
“What are you laughing at?” the young woman asked, anxiously.
“Permission to speak, Master?” said Verneuil, suddenly becoming serious and turning to Saint-Clair.
“Permission granted.”
“My mind was wandering for a couple of minutes—that often happens—and I was saying to myself, as I watched: ‘Martians, Martians, always Martians!’ Isn’t there another term? We say human and Terran. Martian is analogous to Terran. But what about human? How should we describe an inhabitant of the planet Mars with a corresponding generic term? A Martian isn’t a human, a body; it’s a head. In Greek, head is kephale. Why not adopt that and say kephale as one says human? That would add some variety to our conversations, and it would clearly differentiate those Martians there from the other Martians which are the food-bipeds. What do you think, Master?”
Saint-Clair and Xavière admired a young man who, in such strange, serious and extraordinary circumstances, had sufficient nervous tranquility and freedom of thought to occupy himself very intelligently with terminology.
“Kephale it is!” said the Nyctalope, smiling. “I don’t have such literary anxieties, Verneuil, and I congratulate you on being able to think about the propriety and the variety of terms in circumstances in which many humans, and even kephales, would only be anxious about their lives and the danger they were in. I’ll tell Flammarion and Reclus about it—they’ll be delighted. In the meantime, let’s observe the kephales!”
Satisfied, Paul Verneuil went back to his loophole.
The grinding noise had not ceased. It was coming from the entrails of the island, where the Martians hatched their prodigies—but nothing emerged; no smoke, no projectile, no flying machine, no mechanical monster.
With a passionate attention that soon became breathless and anxious, the three Terrans watched the mysterious shaft from which the tower had surged.
At least a quarter of an hour went by.
“What’s this?” said Verneuil, suddenly. “It’s getting dark! Is it an eclipse of the Sun?”
“That’s true,” said Xavière.
They looked up, and Saint-Clair, whose nyctalopia rendered him less sensitive to slow and progressive darkening, could not prevent himself from uttering a muffled exclamation.
High in the sky, at the very summit of the tower, a cloud was growing, with the tower at its center, in concentric waves projected in regular succession. At each projection, and each circular enlargement of the cloud, the cloud itself became blacker and more opaque, evidently thicker and more compact.
“What’s going on?” murmured Verneuil.
After a pause, the Nyctalope said: “They’re creating artificial night over the island.”
“Why?”
The Terrans were confounded, exasperated—this Martian enigma was becoming unbearable, as incomprehensible things continued to occur.
“They’re creating night!” Verneuil repeated. “What for?”
It was indeed night that was emerging from the heights of the tower. The landscape was already crepuscular. Under the trees it was pitch-dark. The clearing became blurred. Ten minutes passed.
Immobile and tremulous, the Terrans were subject to this abnormal darkness.
“By the way,” Verneuil said, “irrelevant though it may be, what’s become of the flying machine that you mentioned, Master? It isn’t in the clearing.”
“No.”
Xavière pressed herself against Leo, instinctively.
The night had become absolute, everywhere. The artificial cloud had enlarged sufficiently to inundate the horizon formed by the crowns of distant trees. A heavy and stifling funereal shroud weighed down upon the entire island.
The Nyctalope observed nervously. He squeezed Xavière’s feverish hands. With his knee he nudged Verneuil—who was seated in front of him—in the back.
Suddenly, an eye of light opened abruptly in the blackness, then another, and another…eight in all: eight searchlights, concentrating their powerful beams on the shaft.
“Verneuil!” said Saint-Clair.
The young man got up, obedient to the commanding voice, which said: “The tripods have lit their searchlights. Do likewise.” And a ninth ray of vivid light struck the shaft and the mechanical hands surrounding it.
“What are we doing?” asked Xavière, in a voice whose determination to be calm was evident.
“We need to know!” said the Nyctalope. “I don’t want to wait any longer. The kephales have taken their places in the mechanical hands again. Let’s capture one or two and go!”
“But the Franc won’t come until nightfall—the natural night.”
The Nyctalope on Mars 2: The Triumph of Love Page 19