The black one immediately got up and replied in exactly the same manner: “Ulla!” And its eyes also slid from left to right.
Xavière and the other spectators held their breath. What was passing through the minds of the two Martians?
Since the moment when the tripods had captured them, they had not lost their senses, for it is now established that a kephale never falls unconscious. They had, therefore, observed everything. They had had time to reflect, to understand that a Terran is an intelligent being, that Terrans have ideas, a will, a language—and, in consequence, morality and law. Moreover, the relative liberty that they now enjoyed, the attitude of the Terran bipeds standing before them, the mechanical devices fixed to the wall of the room in which they found themselves, many of whose components had some analogy with the workings of Martian inventions, were all indicative of an attempt to understand and a capacity to do so. They had observed that the Terrans communicated with one another by means of the very various sounds emitted by their mouths, and were probably asking themselves how they might grasp, assimilate, decipher and reproduce those sounds…
Prodigious efforts on either side! Divine spectacle! Here were two intelligent species, which centuries, millions of leagues and false conceptions had separated until now, in one another’s presence, without antagonism, with a common desire to talk!
“Ulla!” repeated the yellow kephale, with a different modulation. It turned to the black one, which was obviously looking at it.
White, rapid, tiny and clear, two geometrical figures were inscribed one after the other in its right eye, and another geometrical figure was immediately inscribed in its left eye.
“Wait!” cried Flammarion instinctively, raising his arm.
With his keen eyes, however, coolly put at the service of an observant and prompt intelligence, Maurice Reclus had seen. In a dry, very brisk tone, he said: “Right eye, two triangles; left, diamond with…. Allow me, dear maître!”
With an abrupt gesture, he snatched the chalk from Flammarion’s fingers and traced the following figures on the blackboard:
And, with a sudden surge of inspiration he leapt towards the yellow kephale, presented his left had to the gesticulating tentacles and, pointed at the blackboard with his right hand….
What could be more astonishing?
And what more memorable discovery could there be than that of the first moment of mutual comprehension between a Terran and a Martian?
Yes, in response to the successive gestures of Reclus, the two kephales understood that their means of communicating their thoughts was known, that their eyes were being read, and that the symbols expressing their thoughts were being reproduced!
There was a moment of solemn immobility.
Suddenly, turning to face Reclus squarely, the yellow Martian opened its immense eyes very wide, and Xavière and the men saw figures inscribed successively in the left eye and the right. They succeeded one another with a slowness that was evidently deliberate and calculated.
Flammarion’s emotion was such that the aged scientist, incapable of making a gesture, sat down, with his hands flat on his knees and his head forward, watching the kephale excitedly.
Coolly, precisely, elegantly and neatly, Reclus transcribed the figures the emerged in white in the Martian’s black eyes on to the blackboard.
XIII. What Has Become of the Nyctalope?
The waves raised by the discharges of compressed air from the victorious tripod had snatched Saint-Clair out of his turret, dragged him away, rolled him over and over, and hurled him into the distance.
When he sensed that he was no longer the plaything of impersonal forces, he was beneath the surface, with his eyes open. Half-suffocated, he swam vigorously until the moment when the lack of air was about to make him lose consciousness. Then, with a thrust of his body, he went upwards.
With his mouth out of the water, he breathed voluptuously and looked around. To his right, in front of him, was the shore of the island, and the victorious tripod; behind, the descending edge of the artificial cloud. He measured the distances with his eye, traced the diagonal to follow, and swiftly dived again.
When he emerged for a second time, he was in darkness. That part of the shore, extraordinarily steep, was in the shadow of the artificial night.
I’m invisible here behind the curtain they’ve extended themselves, the Nyctalope thought.
Catching hold of a tree-root that jutted out of the slope, he rested, with his head, shoulders and arms out of the water. At first, he could not hear anything; then there was a splashing sound.
The tripod’s leaving, he thought.
He continued waiting, for some considerable time. His eyes piercing the darkness, he studied in advance the route he would have to take in order to scale the escarpment. At the same time, his mind wandered.
Xavière is safe, along with the two kephale prisoners. The submarine had time to seal its conning-tower and dive. Perfect! On the Franc, Xavière, Klepton, Flammarion, Damprich and that charming Reclus, who is highly intelligent, will succeed in talking to the Martian. My objective has been attained. There’s nothing more for me to do but stay alive and wait, without weakness or imprudence.
But wait for what?
Saint-Clair could not hope that Xavière might send him effective aid in the form of aircraft, since the artificial cloud rendered any exploration of the island impossible. How, then, could anyone find him? On the other hand, he knew how much Xavière loved him, and he also knew that the young woman would not sacrifice any man uselessly.
The most probable thing, he said to himself, is that a submarine will come to cruise around the island, exploring the shore—unless Flammarion can reach an understanding with the two kephales and use them as intermediates to secure an armistice that will permit Xavière, Klepton and Damprich to rescue me…
While these thoughts went through his mind, he had scaled the escarpment, using his knees and feet as he crawled. Standing on the summit of the tiny cliff, between two trees, he rubbed himself down and shook himself. When he had finished, he murmured: “Why wait? It’s stupid. After all, I’m armed. I can see in the artificial night. Why not head back to the clearing? The tripod that knocked mine down must have rejoined the rest; they know that a Terran has been able to take possession of a tripod and operate it. That fact, extraordinary in their eyes, must have caused something of a sensation. What if I go see? Perhaps I can take account of it myself. That would be interesting.”
He took a revolver with electric bullets from his holster and checked the mechanism. “Yes, that’s all right. After all, if Xavière sends me a submarine, it won’t arrive for an hour or two. I have time. I’ll come back!”
He put the revolver back in its holster, taking care to leave the butt well outside, easily sizable—and, turning his back to the shore, he strode off into the forest.
An idea occurred to him. If I can bring down a biped, so that I can examine the strange animal, he thought, I might learn something useful.
He stopped, raised his head and peered into the tree-branches. They’re nearer to the clearing, he thought. And he resumed his march. From time to time, he looked upwards without pausing in his stride.
The air was stifling. Under the blanket of artificial cloud, the Martian atmosphere, already rarefied for terrestrial lungs, seemed even more insufficient, while simultaneously appearing unbearably heavy. A vague malaise was manifest in Saint-Clair’s body; his march—ordinarily so easy because of the reduced gravity—became painful and tiring. The sudden oppression, malaise and fatigue alike, disappeared entirely, though, so unexpected and startling was the spectacle that struck the Nyctalope’s eyes.
Saint-Clair stopped, and instinctively hid himself behind a tree.
Twenty paces away from him, a group of individuals surrounded a wood fire. There were about 15. Some were leaning nonchalantly on the trunks of trees, others were lying on the ground, gazing the flames with squinting eyes, or crouching down, warming their hands
—and a clearly perceptible murmur of voices indicated that they were talking to one another.
But they were not humans.
When the initial astonishment had passed, Saint-Clair saw that he was confronted by a group of food-bipeds.
Bipeds! he thought. And they’re talking—that’s indisputable. But then…
An extraordinary emotion disturbed his mind for a few minutes. He remained there, behind the tree, indecisively, with his neck extended and his eyes glued to the strange group—but he soon took conscious control of that emotion. He pulled himself together, recovering all of his will-power and his precision of thought.
Come on, he said to himself. I need to know.
Around the fire, small as it was, the darkness was profound and the fire itself must have made it seem even more profound to the bipeds. There was, in consequence, no risk of Saint-Clair being seen if he could approach without being heard. He, the Nyctalope, could see perfectly. Lightly, lithely and carefully, after assuring himself that the helmet suspended from his belt was securely attached and could neither swing loose nor fall off, he moved slowly towards the group.
Twenty paces is not very many; they took him at least ten minutes—at the 20th, however, without having attracted the attention or the suspicion of the bipeds, he stopped dead. He was two meters away from the fire, directly behind a tree with low branches; leaning his head forwards between two branches, he watched the bizarre creatures—but most of all, he listened to them. And his recent emotion took hold of him again.
Indisputably, the bipeds were talking among themselves. They were chatting calmly, as tourists might do while resting beside a camp fire on Earth. Their voices were singularly guttural and low. Their speech had no animation but their short arms occasionally made a calm gesture. Their language, although incomprehensible, was slightly reminiscent in its assonances of German.
Prodigiously interested, the Nyctalope listened and observed—and his thoughts moved forward rapidly.
They’re talking! he thought. These are beings similar to human beings, degenerate or interrupted at a certain point in their intellectual progress. Over a long period of time, their bodies have been subject to a fatal transformation, in consequences of their living conditions.
Saint-Clair recalled a particularly suggestive episode in Wells’ story. The historian of England’s invasion by the Martians had recounted that an artilleryman, obliged to take refuge in the cellars of an isolated house, had remained there alone. Then a companion had arrived—and, while talking to that companion, the artilleryman had envisaged the situation of humankind once the Earth was conquered and occupied by the Martians.
“Human beings,” said the artilleryman, “will be reduced to the role of animals, the greater number of them domestic, a few, stronger, remaining in a state of revolt and passing into the wild state—rather like domestic pigs and wild boars. And men, in these two forms, will serve as the nourishment of the Martian masters of the Earth.” 15
This was what the Nyctalope recalled—and he admired the sort of double vision that great writers have. Wells’ hypothetical account of Earth’s future was a Martian reality. Once, a long time ago, a uniform race had lived on Mars. Then, little by little, the rich and powerful—the aristocracy of that race—had obtained totalitarian power over the common people. First, no doubt, the strong made their slave-workers feeble. Then, thanks to the progress of the Martian sciences, particularly the mechanical, the slaves became useless from the viewpoint of labor. At the same time, the anatomy and physical condition of the strong were transformed as they adapted to their intellectual progress. The superior Martians became, by virtue of successive transformations, kephales, while the inferior Martians, by virtue of contrasted transformations, declined to the rank of food-bipeds. In redescending the scale of Martian progress, however, the bipeds had kept a few “human” prerogatives, including language expressive of thought—which, on Earth, puts such a vast distance between a monkey and a Pacific islander.
Humans! Saint-Clair concluded. These are inferior humans! And a sudden resolution took over his thoughts, so seductive that he carried it out straight away. Gently, without making a noise, he sat down on the ground. Then, with marvelous slowness, by imperceptible movements—a sort of slide which allowed him, so to speak, to displace himself without the progression of his displacement being visible—he drew nearer to the irregular circle of bipeds.
When his right foot intruded into the circle of light, he felt his heart beat with abnormal haste. They would see him. What would happen? Slowly, more slowly still, he crept on. Soon, he was right beside one of the crouching bipeds. Then he resolved not to advance any further—and, with an entirely understandable overexcitement, but with calm nerves and a stern will, he waited.
He looked at the bizarre individuals, asking himself: Which of them will see me first?
It was his neighbor to the left, a biped lying on his side. First, the biped saw the elongated legs, and the two booted feet. His eyes widened, he shivered, then leapt to his feet, crying: “Och!”
“Och!” the Nyctalope hastened to repeat, imitating the intonation and the accent.
All the bipeds turned their heads, leapt up and scattered, disappearing behind the trees, releasing stifled cries of “Och!”
“Och!” repeated Saint-Clair—and did not move.
Long minutes went by. After a period of absolute immobility, the Nyctalope risked a few slow movements. He put a dry branch on the fire, moved his legs, lay down on his side, got up, leaned his back against a tree, and made appealing gestures towards the bipeds, fearfully grouped a few paces away, still repeating: “Och! Och!”
And they came nearer. They took up positions on the other side of the fire, in the light—first one, the boldest, then two together, then a fourth, then the rest. There were 16 in all.
Then Saint-Clair extended his right hand over the low fire, and he was immensely pleased when he saw the first biped that had come closer take one more step, raise his short arm and open a hand whose five webbed fingers terminated in powerful talons.
At that instant, however, a bright beam of light passed diagonally between the man and the biped, while a mighty “Ulla!” resounded.
Saint-Clair turned his head. Between the trees, an auto-serpent carrying two kephales was approaching rapidly. The kephale in front was operating the machine; the one in the rear was holding up the searchlight.
The Nyctalope did not hesitate. For the moment, he had to master the bipeds—who, were looking at him indecisively with their sheep-like eyes. Abruptly, he drew his revolver, aimed, and fired four shots at the kephales. He had aimed at the enormous black eyes. The explosive bullets burst. The electric charge that they contained blasted the two kephales, which collapsed, limp.
Promptly, as the petrified bipeds looked on, Saint-Clair leapt on to the auto-serpent, plied the controls, and steered it to a halt beside the fire—and, with an exceedingly gentle gesture towards the bipeds, laughing heartily, he shouted: “Och!”
XIV. Damprich’s Anguish
“Hello? Hello? How much depth?” asked Damprich, leaning towards the trumpet of the telephone communicating with the sounding-cabin.
“Twenty fathoms,” replied the telephonograph.
“And the cliff?”
“Scarcely ten fathoms from the spur.”
“Steer a quarter to starboard!” And, a minute after the submarine had responded the rudder: “Hello? How much depth?”
“Six fathoms…. Hello?”
“I’m listening.”
“Four fathoms….”
“Yes, that’s fine. Stop! We’ll go up.”
The submarine stopped. Damprich abandoned his post and ran to the conning-tower, followed by Pary O’Brien, the vessel’s Commander. Young Jolivet, preceding them, had just opened the hatch. He had the rank of Ensign now and was second-in-command of the submarine. The three officers gathered at the extremity of the narrow platform that formed the dorsal spine of the subm
arine, from the aft conning-tower to the prow.
“Damned cloud!” groaned Damprich, in a low voice. “These Martians are diabolically inventive. How the Devil can we find our way through an unknown forest in the midst of that darkness? Can’t see two paces in there…” He fell silent, examining the forest with his eyes. It only required a jump to reach the ground, over some tufts of red vegetation, in the middle of which, adjacent to the low cliff, the submarine had emerged.
“The men?” said Damprich.
“They’re here,” O’Brien replied.
Indeed, men were emerging one by one from the submarine, their heads and then their arms surging from the conning-tower. They jumped down, stood up straight and silently arranged themselves on the platform. Twenty emerged in three minutes. Each one was clad in insulating metal, with a helmet, armed with a cutlass, and electric revolver and an electro-mirror.
“Are we ready?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Wait!” This last word was spoken by Ensign Jolivet. Leaning over the red vegetation, holding on to the rim of the forward conning-tower with one hand while the other directed the luminous beam of an electric lamp, he examined the escarpment.
“What do you see?” asked Damprich.
“Traces…”
“Of what?”
“Climbing…”
“What?”
“Yes—and there, look, on that ledge: an entire footprint!”
“Of course—it’s…”
“Yes, sir! There’s no doubt. Bipeds or kephales, the Martians don’t wear shoes. The Master came this way. This is where he came aground, and climbed or leapt on to the shore—and look, higher up: that rounded indentation with the check-marks is the imprint of a knee, ridged by the metallic fabric.”
“Go ahead, Ensign! Hold your position, Commander O’Brien and be ready to submerge and move away within 20 seconds.”
“How long shall I wait for you?”
The Nyctalope on Mars 2: The Triumph of Love Page 21