The Navigators of Space

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  Presently, its obscure forces favor the ferromagnetal realm. It cannot be said that the ferromagnetals have participated in our destruction; at the most, they have assisted in the annihilation—fatal after all—of wild birds. Although their appearance dates back to a distant epoch, the new beings have scarcely evolved. Their movements are surprisingly slow; the most agile cannot travel ten meters an hour—and the bismuth-plated stainless steel enclosures of the oases are an insurmountable obstacle to them. To do us any immediate harm they would require an evolutionary leap entirely out of keeping with their anterior development.

  The existence of the ferromagnetal realm was first discovered during the decline of the radioactive era. They were bizarre violet stains on “human iron”—which is to say, the kinds of iron and iron compounds that had been modified for industrial usage.41 The phenomenon only appeared on products that had been recycled many times over; ferromagnetal patches were never discovered on “primitive iron.” The new realm was, therefore, only capable of birth in the human environment. That important fact gave our ancestors much to think about. Perhaps we had been in an analogous situation with regard to some anterior life, whose decline had permitted the hatching of the protoplasmic egg.

  Be that as it may, humanity had observed the existence of the ferromagnetals in good time. Once scientists had described their rudimentary manifestations, no one doubted that they were organized beings. Their composition is odd; it comprises only one substance: iron; if other substances are sometimes mingled with it in very small quantities, they are so many impurities, harmful to ferromagnetal development; the organism disposes of them, unless it is very weak or infected by some mysterious malady. The structure of iron in the living state is, however, very variable: fibrous or granular, soft or hard, etc. The whole is plastic and does not contain any liquid. What characterizes the new organisms most of all, however, is an extreme complication and continual instability of their magnetic state.

  That instability and that complication are such that the most stubborn researchers have been obliged to renounce, not only the calculation of precise laws, but even approximate rules. It is probably in this feature that it is necessary to see the dominant manifestation of ferromagnetal life. When a superior intelligence reveals itself in the new realm, I think that it will primarily reflect that strange phenomenon—or, rather, that it will be a blossoming of it. In the meantime, if ferromagnetal consciousness exists at all, it is still elementary. They are still at a stage when the need to multiply dominates all others.

  Even so, they have already been subject to a few important transformations. The writers of the radioactive age inform us that each individual consists of three groups, with a marked tendency in each group to helicoid forms. They could not, at that time travel faster than five or six centimeters in 24 hours. When their agglomerations were broken up, they took several weeks to re-form. Nowadays, as previously noted, they can attain speeds of two meters an hour; moreover, they comprise agglomerations of three, five, seven or even nine groups, the forms of the groups having acquired considerable variety.

  One group, composed of a considerable number of ferromagnetal corpuscles, cannot subsist in isolation; it requires completion by two, four, six or eight other groups. A series of groups evidently involves cohesive forces, without it being possible to specify how. Apart from the sevenfold agglomerations, ferromagnetals perish if any one of their groups is killed. On the other hand, a ternary series can re-form with the aid of only one group, and a quinquenary series with the aid of three groups.

  The reconstitution of a mutilated series is very similar to the reproductive mechanism of ferromagnetals; that mechanism retains a profoundly enigmatic character so far as humans are concerned. It operates at a distance. When a ferromagnetal is born, one invariably observes the presence of several other ferromagnetals. According to the species, the formation of an individual takes between six hours and ten days; it seems to be exclusively due to phenomena of induction. The reconstitution of an injured ferromagnetal is carried out by means of analogous processes.

  Presently, the presence of ferromagnetals is almost harmless. Things would doubtless be different if humankind expanded.

  At the same time as they were thinking of combating the ferromagnetals, our ancestors sought some method of turning their activity to the advantage of our species. Nothing seemed opposed to the possibility that ferromagnetals might, for example, serve industrial purposes. Had that been the case, it would have been sufficient to protect machinery—which once appeared to have been achieved without overmuch expense—in a manner analogous to that in which we protect our oases. That seemingly elegant solution was attempted; the ancient annals report that it failed.

  Iron transformed by the new life demonstrated a resistance to any human use. Its structure and its exceedingly variable magnetism made it into a substance that was unamenable to any combination or any directed work. The structure seemed to become uniform and the magnetism to disappear at temperatures close to melting point—and, of course, when melting actually occurred—but when the metal was cooled again, the harmful properties reappeared.

  In addition, people were unable to stay for very long in ferromagnetal regions of any size. In a short time, they became anemic. After a day and a night, they found themselves in a state of extreme weakness; they were not long delayed in falling unconscious, and if they were not rescued, they would die.

  The immediate cause of this fact is not unknown: the proximity of ferromagnetals tends to rob us of our red blood corpuscles. These corpuscles, almost reduced to the state of pure hemoglobin, accumulate at the surface of the epidermis and are then extracted by the ferromagnetals, which seemingly decompose and assimilate them.

  Various measures can counteract or slow down this phenomenon. It is sufficient to keep walking to have nothing to fear; it is even better to travel by electric car. If one clothes a tissue in bismuth fibers, one may brave the enemy influence for at least two days. It is weaker if one lies down with one’s had pointing northwards. It weakens spontaneously when the sun is close to its zenith.

  As the number of ferromagnetals decreases, of course, the phenomenon is proportionately less intense; a point comes at which it is annulled, for the human organism is not without resistance. Finally, the ferromagnetal influence diminishes in proportion to the inverse square of distance, and becomes insensible beyond ten meters.

  One can readily imagine that the disappearance of ferromagnetals seemed necessary to our ancestors. They entered the conflict methodically. In the era when the great catastrophes began, that conflict demanded heavy sacrifices; a selective regime became operative among the ferromagnetals; it was necessary to deploy immense forces to restrict their rapid reproduction.

  The planetary modifications that ensued handed the advantage to the new realm; in compensation, their presence became less disturbing, for the quantity of metal necessary to industry decreased periodically, and the seismic disorders brought forth vast masses of native iron that was intangible to the invaders. Thus, the war against them relented to the point of becoming negligible. What did the organic peril matter, by comparison with the immense sidereal peril?

  Presently, the ferromagnetals scarcely bother us. With our encircling walls of red hematite, limonite or feldspar, coated with bismuth, we believe ourselves to be impregnable—but if some improbable revolution brought water close to the surface again, the new realm would oppose incalculable obstacles to human development, at least on any large scale.

  Targ darted a long glance over the plain; everywhere, he could see the violet tint and peculiarly sinusoidal forms of ferromagnetal agglomerations.

  “Yes,” he murmured, “If humans were to spread out again, it would require the recommencement of the ancestors’ work. It would be necessary to destroy the enemy or make use of it. I fear that destruction might be impossible; a new realm ought to bear within it elements of success that defy the expectations and forces of an old realm. On the other han
d, why should we not find a means of permitting the two realms to coexist, and even to assist one another? Yes, why not, since the origins of the ferromagnetal world lie in our industry? Is that not an indication of a profound compatibility?”

  Then, raising his eyes toward the great peaks of the Occident, he continued: “Alas, my dreams are ridiculous. And yet…and yet…do they not help me to survive? Do they not give me a little of that youthful happiness that the human soul has lost forever?”

  He straightened up, as his heart skipped a beat. In the distance, in a cleft in the Mount of Shadows, three large white gliders had just appeared.

  III. The Homicidal Planet

  The gliders seemed to brush the Purple Tooth, which was inclined over the abyss. An orange shadow enveloped them; then they gleamed silver in the midday sun.

  “Messengers from Redlands!” Mano exclaimed.

  He did not learn anything from his companions on the road—their first words were, in fact, no more than a cry for help. The two squadrons increased their speed; soon, the pale masses were sinking down toward the emerald aircraft from High Springs. Greetings were exchanged, followed by a silence; their hearts were heavy; they heard nothing more but the faint hum of the engines and the whirr of the propellers. They felt the cruel strength of the deserts, over which they seemed to be flying as masters.

  Finally, Targ asked, in a fearful voice: “Does anyone know how bad the disaster is?”

  “No,” replied a pilot with a swarthy face. “That won’t be known for some time. We only know that the numbers of dead and wounded are considerable—and that’s not all! We fear the loss of several springs.” He bowed his head with a calm bitterness. “Not only is the crop lost, but many provisions have disappeared. Even so, if there are no further quakes, with the aid of High Springs and Devastation, we can survive for a few years. The race will temporarily suspend its reproduction, and perhaps we won’t need to sacrifice anyone.”

  For a little while longer, the squadrons flew in convoy; then the pilot with the swarthy face changed direction; those from High Springs drew away.

  They passed between the redoubtable peaks, above gulfs and along a slope that had once been covered in meadows; now, the ferromagnetals were multiplying their generations there.

  Which proves, Targ thought, that the slope is rich in human ruins!

  Again they flew over vales and hills; about two-thirds of the way through the day, they were 300 kilometers from Redlands.

  “One more hour!” Mano exclaimed.

  Targ searched the distance with his telescope. He perceived, still blurrily, the oasis and the scarlet region that had given it his name. The spirit of adventure, inflated after the encounter with the big gliders, reawakened in the young man’s heart. He accelerated the velocity of his machine and overtook Mano.

  Flocks of birds where circling over the red zone; several advanced toward the squadron. Fifty kilometers from the oasis, they arrived in considerable numbers; their calls confirmed the disaster and predicted imminent quakes. Targ, his heart contracted, listened and watched, without being able to say a word.

  The desert earth seemed to have been subjected to the bite of an enormous plough; as they came closer, the oasis displayed its collapsed houses, its broken wall, its almost-buried crops, and wretched human ants swarming over the debris.

  Suddenly, an immense racket split the air; the flight of the birds was strangely interrupted; a frightful quiver shook the expanse.

  The homicidal planet was completing its work!

  Only Targ and Arva uttered cries of pity and horror. The other aviators continued their course, with the calm sadness of the Last Men. The oasis was still there. It resounded with ominous plaints. Pitiful creatures could be seen running, crawling or shivering; others remained motionless, struck dead. Sometimes, a bloody head seemed to emerge from the ground. The spectacle became more hideous as they were better able to make out its episodes.

  The Nine hovered, uncertainly—but the flight of the birds, initially enfevered by fear, calmed down. No further shock was imminent; they were able to land.

  A few members of the Grand Council received the delegates from High Springs. The speeches were sparse and rapid. As the new disaster demanded all available efforts, the Nine joined in with the rescuers.

  The lamentations seemed intolerable at first. Atrocious wounds had defied the fatalism of adults, and the screams of children were like the strident and savage soul of Pain.

  Finally, anesthetics brought their benevolent aid. Acute suffering sank into the depths of unconsciousness. They only heard rare screams, the cries for help of those who were trapped beneath the ruins.

  One of these cries attracted Targ’s attention. It was fearful rather than painful; it had an enigmatic and youthful charm. For some time, the young man could not pinpoint its source. Finally, he discovered a hole from which it emerged more clearly. Blocks of stone interrupted the watchman; he had to move them aside carefully. It was continually necessary to pause in the work before muted mineral threats: holes formed abruptly, stones collapsed, or suspect vibrations were heard.

  The cries had fallen silent; nervous tension and fatigue covered Targ’s forehead with sweat.

  Suddenly, all seemed lost; a section of wall crumbled. The digger, sensing that he was at the mercy of the mineral, bowed his head and waited. A block brushed him; he accepted destiny—but the silence and immobility were resumed. Looking up, he saw that a huge cavity, almost a cave, had opened up to his left. In the shadows, a human form was lying. The young man lifted up the living wreckage, with difficulty, and emerged from the debris, just as a new collapse rendered the tunnel impassable.

  It was a young woman, or a girl, dressed in the silvery one-piece costume of Redlands. Before anything else, it was her hair that caught her savior’s attention; it was the luminous sort that atavism hardly brought back to humankind once in every 100 years. As bright as precious metal, as fresh as water gushing from a deep spring, it seemed the very fabric of love, a symbol of the grace that had adorned womankind through the ages.

  Targ’s heart swelled, and a heroic tumult filled his skull. He glimpsed magnanimous and glorious deeds, which were never accomplished any more among the Last Men. And while he was admiring the red flower of her lips, the delicate line of her cheeks and their nacreous rosiness, her eyes opened, which were the color of mornings when the Sun is vast and a gentle breeze blows over the wilderness.

  IV. In the Depths of the Earth

  Dusk had fallen. The constellations had lit their delicate flames. The taciturn oasis was hiding its distress and pain. Targ was walking near the encircling wall with a feverish soul.

  It was a dreadful moment for the Last Men. The planetaries had announced a series of immense disasters. Devastation had been destroyed; the waters had disappeared from Two Equatorials, Great Dale and Blue Sands; they were decreasing at High Springs; Bright Oasis and Brimstone Valley announced that they had experienced ruinous quakes or rapid deletions of liquid.

  Humankind entire had suffered disaster.

  Targ climbed over the ruined wall and went into the mute and terrible desert.

  The Moon, almost full, rendered the fainter stars invisible; it lit up the red granites and violet batteries of the ferromagnetals; a pale phosphorescence undulated periodically, a mysterious sign of the activity of the new beings.

  The young man advanced into the wilderness, heedless of its funereal grandeur.

  A shining image dominated the heartbreak of the catastrophe. It carried him away like a “double” of the vermilion hair; the star Vega was twinkling like a blue eye. Love became the very essence of his life, and that life was more intense, more wonderfully profound. It revealed to him, in its plenitude, the world of beauty that he had anticipated, and for which it would be better to die than to live for the dismal ideals of the Last Men. Periodically, like a name that had become sacred, the name of the woman he had pulled from the rubble came to his lips: “Erê!”


  In the grim silence—the silence of the eternal desert, comparable to the silence of the great ether in which the stars sparkled—he advanced further. The air was as motionless as the granite; time seemed dead, space represented another space than that of human beings: an inexorable, glacial space full of ominous images.

  There was, however, life there, abominable in being that which would succeed human life: sly, terrific and unknowable. Twice, Targ stopped to watch the phosphorescent forms in action. Darkness did not put them to sleep at all. They were moving, for mysterious ends. The fashion in which they slid over the ground was unexplained by any organ. He quickly lost interest in them, though. The image of Erê captivated him; there was a confused relationship between this walk in the wilderness and the heroism awakened in his soul. He was vaguely in search of adventure: an impossible, chimerical adventure—the discovery of Water.

  Water alone could give him Erê. All human laws separated him from her. Yesterday, he would still have been able to dream of marrying her; it would have been sufficient for a daughter of High Springs to be welcomed, in exchange, in Redlands. Since the catastrophe, the exchange had become impossible. High Springs would receive exiles, but would condemn them to celibacy. The law was inexorable; Targ accepted it as a superior necessity.

  The Moon was bright; it displayed its disk of nacre and silver over the western hills. Hypnotized, Targ steered toward it. He came into a rocky region. The traces of the disaster were there too: several had toppled, others had split; there were crevices everywhere in the sandy ground.

  “One might think,” the young man murmured, “that the quake had attained its greatest violence here. Why?” His dream retreated slightly; the environment excited his curiosity. Why? he asked himself, again. Yes, why…?