Scientific Romance

by Brian Stableford

  A few minutes more, and then it was gone—but the light over the Tornadre plateau persisted, as if emanating from the Zenith: only a few degrees to the north, according to the indication of its shadow. Was it from the Zenith, then, that the phenomenon was coming? He turned his face to it, slowly. There, an amethyst glow, a lenticular glimmer, was thinly displayed like a slender cloud, with a maximum radiance toward the North.

  Sévère thought that these things would have been a delight to behold, without the creeping of the flesh, the sepulchral threat and the presentiment of death falling from the Heavens upon the Earth.

  III.

  The Appearance of the Aigue

  “Look!” said Luce. She had perceived the light in her turn; more affected than Lestang, she was pointing at it.

  Victor, clinging to the window on the outside, was shivering with fever, as if he were drunk, occasionally coming round with a sigh, and ever-increasing horror.

  Up above, the light was increasing. As it did so, the whispering voices of the firmament faded away, and an enormous silence weighed upon the Tornadre plateau. Then, faint at first, a light from below appeared to reply to the other, light fringes floating over the treetops and over all the plants. It was delicately and wildly heart-rending. On the three people, so dissimilar, it made an almost identical impression, of funerary lamps or a pyre, an immense conflagration that was about to engulf Tornadre and all its inhabitants.

  Luce moaned, almost unconsciously, and uttered a desperate plaint: “Oh, I’m thirsty!”

  Sévère turned toward her; the tenderness of his heart, his love for the Celtic mountain woman, gave him strength. He fought against his desire not to move, to end his existence there, at the window, with the bottom frame in his clenched hands. Swaying, he went to fetch a glass of water—but he continued questioning himself, astonished that the atmosphere was cool, almost cold, in spite of all the subtle fire in the heavens and on earth.

  He had great difficulty bringing back the water; the glass in his hand was so light that he had no sensation of holding anything, and had to grip its base with all his might. He lost half the liquid en route.

  Luce took a gulp, and spat it out, nauseated. “It tastes like iron filings . . . like rust!”

  Sévère sipped the water, and had to spit it out in his turn; it was metallic and powdery. They both looked at one another for a long time, desperately. The veils of memory lifted, across so many charming years, on the moment when they had glimpsed one another for the first time in the Real World, the appeal of their nervous systems, amorous thereafter. Delicate and indefatigable periods of adoration. (Oh, what long, elevated, immense hours, woven of divinity, revive beneath the nebulous portico of the past!) And their gazes embraced, in an infinite pity for one another. Was this truly the death-agony? Would they have to leave their young lives behind like this, dying of asphyxia, thirst and that hideous impression of antigravity, that non-contact with matter. Oh Lord!

  Personally, Sévère, so full of vital force, did not want to admit it, in spite of everything. Curiosity subsisted in his skull through the knell, making it attentive to the exterior again. The marvelous and lamentable drama continued to evolve; an opera of subtle fires, colossal corposants, lit up the distant landscape; at the summits of the tall trees, slender and flickering at first, and displaying the infinite scale of the spectrum, flames multiplied, trembling on every twig and the tip of every leaf, and then spread to the lower vegetation, the bushes, the grass, the stubble.

  Every protrusion of vegetation thus had its glow, directed upwards at the sky.

  Above the dream-like glimmers of that fiery landscape, birds were flying in flocks. They had finally decided to flee. Super-electric creatures, they had initially resisted these phenomena, which were doubtless less antipathetic to their organisms than those of terrestrial animals. Crows, with somber cries; sparse but infinite flocks of sparrows, goldfinches, chaffinches and warblers; intelligent groups of magpies, swifts, swallows, in traveling formation; and raptors in ones or twos, all headed southwards with an excited chirping and twittering that was almost speech.

  Again, Sévère concentrated on the innumerable flames, which were neither fusing with one another nor giving out any appreciable heat; they were also, as he looked at them so directly, elongating into fine strips, building towers and Gothic monuments with billions of dazzling spires.

  He was interrupted by a raucous cry, emitted by Luce.

  “Hold me down! Hold me down . . . I’m being carried away!”

  He saw his companion delirious, livid and cramped, her breast rising in a pitiful attempt to breathe. His own heart became weak; he was overcome by an absolute and infinite desperation, while he held on to Luce with a mechanical gesture. Shivering, she gazed at the shining plateau, and spoke confusedly:

  “It’s the other world, Sévère—it’s the immaterial world . . . the Earth is about to die. . . .”

  “No, no,” he whispered, aware of the vanity of his words, “it’s a Force . . . a magnetism . . . a transformation of movement.”

  A lower voice made him start: that of the hypnotized Victor, who had woken up: “The Roge Aigue!”

  Sévère leaned out. Less than twenty degrees from the north he saw a large rectangle the color of rust, with an irregular border, as if excavated from abysms of sulfur. Gradually, it became brighter, as transparent as a wave, a veritable lake extended over the north, over which ran wrinkles of a paler red, similar to waves. And around the red lake, over the entire sky, a green darkness appeared, which turned blue and darkened, casting a profound jade shadow over the southern extremity.

  The stars had died away. Nothing remained but that sky of red water and green water, of green gem and jade darkness.

  What was it? Where had it come from? And why this enormous influence on the Tornadre? What power of special induction, and what affinities, were prowling around the firmament? These questions racked Sévère’s brain, but did not spare him at all from the stupor that had taken hold of Luce and Victor on seeing the peasant prophecy fulfilled. He no longer doubted that death would come swiftly, that the heart which was galloping so terribly in his breast was about to burst and shut down forever. . . .

  Meanwhile, her dying face raised toward the heavens, Luce began to recite, with a poignant solemnity:

  “When the Silver goes green,

  “The Roge Aigue will come

  “Devouring the moon and stars . . .”

  Releasing a heavy sigh, she collapsed against the window-sill, rigid, with her eyes closed.

  IV.

  Toward the Iaraze

  Motionless at first, devoid of strength, Sévère drew his wife toward him. Was she dead? Had she vanished forever? Black laughter—the laughter of unavoidable destiny—rose to his lips, and the word “forever” circulated in his skull in an ironic manner—that “forever” which, so far as his own existence was concerned, might not extend beyond the next hour.

  His grip on Luce grew tighter then, becoming unhealthy. He lifted the poor woman up, holding her across his chest. . . .

  Then, suddenly, bizarrely and delightfully, a kind of relief overwhelmed his entire body: firmness on the ground, weight, had returned!

  What! Chance must have told him to do it; he had not arrived theoretically at the idea of combining someone else’s weight with his in order to recover a sense of material security.

  Reanimated and solidified, in spite of the oppression in his breast, a flood of courage and hope ran through him now, which further augmented the consequences of the event, including the singular ease with which he was holding Luce in his arms like a little child. Then, his heart skipping a beat, his memory reverted to the catastrophe, forgotten in the shock of glad emotion. Was Luce dead?

  He listened carefully, with his ear upon the young woman’s breast; the inconvenient sound of his own arteries prevented him from hearing anything. She was not stiff, though—but she was so pale! Her eyelids opened upon unmoving eyes.


  “Luce! My darling Luce!”

  A sigh; a slight movement of the head. He discerned a very faint breath—of life! His will-power was reinforced; he resolved to make every effort to save her.

  He stood there for a few minutes, thinking, and then shrugged his shoulders. What good was calculation? It was necessary to act like a brute, the least of organized beings, and flee straight ahead until he reached the banks of the Iaraze. And with no further hesitation, taking the shortest route, he climbed on to the window and leapt through it nimbly, shouting to Victor:

  “Get hold of something heavy. Release the dog and go to warn your comrades. See how I’m carrying my burden. That’s how anyone might save himself. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  And Sévère ran off at a trot, his tread steady but oppressed, his breath whistling, troubled by the electricity, which was livelier and more debilitating outside. He went out of the garden gate, and found himself in open country. In its prodigious majesty, the red lake seemed to magnify the stellar abysses even further. Its glory, at its palpitating edges, with the softness of stained glass, delicate and resplendent, terminating in lace, orange cinders and dendrites, almost overwhelmed the Zenith. No other stars could be seen any longer. Here and there, a fine serpentine line—a streak of fire—ran from the extreme north to the extreme south. On the ground, on the flat surface of the Tornadre plateau, the fires persevered everywhere, a taciturn inferno: an inferno without heat, or even consumption.

  The colossal candles of large trees and the torches—infinite in number—of the short grass, the steep ascensions, the great never-ending polychromatic bows devoured by the neutralization of forces and indefatigably recomposed, filled Space with a terrible and beautiful life. Sévère marched on, going through it, closing his eyes periodically when he had to cross excessively flamboyant zones. Luce’s hair emitted a torrent of sparks which dazzled and blinded Sévère. Instinct guided him south-westwards.

  Every few minutes, a farm appeared, which served him as a landmark, but one in which he had no great confidence, so uncertain were appearances rendered by the infernal transfiguration.

  A moment came when he thought he had gone astray; in front of him there was a pool, with reeds rising up like avenging blades, and willows with pale emerald leaves. Fireflies were moving continually over the surface. There was a suffocating odor of phosphorus and ozone. He felt the soft ground beneath his feet, the confused attraction of hidden water. He tried to get his bearings, but in vain. He knew, however, that it was Cilleuses pond, less than five hundred meters from the edge of the plateau. He went around it and marched for ten minutes—and found himself back at his point of departure.

  If he remained there miserably, his great effort would be wasted.

  “Come on, Sévère!”

  He gets under way again, striving to recognize some landmark, some familiar sight, but weakening in that research, convinced that he will fall unconscious within an hour, to die in the open countryside.

  Suddenly, he makes a discovery: a sharp little promontory, the only one on the pond, from which he can deduce which direction to take. From then on, it seems that he has wings, progressing in a straight line, and ending up finding a little path that he knows well, which he never leaves thereafter. He cannot estimate the duration of the journey—perhaps half an hour, perhaps ten minutes, or even five—but he has come to a halt, overwhelmed by amazement, before a black gulf parallel with the blazing Tornadre: an abyss of darkness beneath his feet, which something separates from the phosphorescent outpouring flooding the plateau.

  “The slope! The slope!” He repeats the word; full of strength, he begins to go down a sinuous path at a run.

  Already, he feels a physical well-being; the induction is decreasing, the lights are becoming steadily sparser, as gentle as will-o’-the-wisps, and the moist and tepid air is more breathable. On the other hand, Luce’s weight is becoming harder to bear. It is breaking his arms and slowing him down.

  He falls down, collapsing on the slope without the interposition of any root or branch. Then, as he resumes his course, out of breath, indomitable instinct masters his nerves.

  Eventually, to his immense joy, he hears the running of the Iaraze, and perceives imminent salvation through his every pore. Only a few more steps! Already, the peril can scarcely reach him in this environment, where, the mysterious influence having been reduced to a minimum, there is already the healthy, vital terrestrial nature of old, hospitable to humankind.

  He does not stop, sweating and haggard but full of strength. Finally, the vale arrives, with the river sobbing in the darkness. With a loud cry, a violent and dolorous delight, he lets himself go.

  Luce is lying across his knees. Momentarily, he turns his head to look back and upwards, irresistibly. A vague glimmer is wandering over the slope, brighter toward the edge of the plateau; that is all he can see of the vast conflagration, which is little enough compared with the glare of the nocturnal sea in the era of its fecundation. The firmament is especially astonishing, the Aigue having vanished, leaving only the redness—a kind of aurora borealis. The shower of bolides continues to fall.

  “What’s going on?” he wonders. “Why that enormous dissimilarity between the Tornadre and the Iaraze?”

  Eventually, he leans over Luce. She is still pale and motionless, but her breath is perceptible—the breath of sleep rather than unconsciousness. He calls out to her, raising his voice: “Luce! Luce!”

  She shivers, and moves her head gently. That is an infinite joy amid the gloom, and, with sobs of happiness, he embraces her, and continues calling out to her. He murmurs a few tender words.

  Finally, the eyelids open and the young woman’s gaze, full of dreams and darkness, falls upon Sévère .

  “Ah!” he cries. “We’re finally victorious. The Tornadre has not devoured you.”

  Standing up, with his arms folded, he conceives a desire—the promise of climbing up again, alone, toward the south-west, to follow the story of the cataclysm. Voices are raised on the slope however, and the sound of barking.

  Understanding that it is the Corne’s servants, Luce and Sévère wait for them, embracing one another, in a bliss so great that tears are streaming down their cheeks.

  *

  Note

  Monsieur Sévère Lestang has, in fact, published the story of the Tornadre cataclysm (chez Germer-Ballière). For seven days the Aigue was visible over the plateau, and the conflagration with neither heat nor consumption persisted for those seven days—as attested, in addition to Monsieur Lestang and the inhabitants of the plateau, by a scientific commission that arrived on the final day of the phenomenon. There were some dead to mourn, but relatively few, the majority of individuals having fled after the beginning of the night of August tenth.

  As for the conclusions of the scientific investigation, it must be confessed that they were entirely negative; no plausible theory was offered. The one interesting fact, which might prove, at a later date, to lead to some discovery, is this: the Tornadre plateau rests on a rocky mass of about 150,000,000,000 cubic meters, which is evidently of stellar origin; it is a colossal bolide, fallen near the Iaraze valley in prehistoric times.

  * * *

  1 The key words are deliberately misrendered in such a way as to conserve a certain ambiguity. Roge is only one letter away from rouge [red] or rogue [arrogant], while aigue is subtly distinct from both the masculine and feminine forms of aigu/aiguë, whose usual meaning is “pointed” or “sharp”, although the term is also used as a noun to signify a diamond, referring to its “water” rather than its facets, by analogy with aigu-marine [aquamarine]. The readiest inference to be drawn, therefore, might be reckoned as “red gem”—but the other possible implications should not be left out of account.

  2 August 10th is the usual peak of the Perseid meteor shower, consisting of particles left behind by Comet Swift-Tuttle; the shower has been observed for the last 2,000 years, and is sometimes known as
“St. Lawrence’s tears” because 10 August was the day of his martyrdom.

  PROFESSOR BAKERMANN’S MICROBE

  CHARLES EPHEYRE

  Charles Epheyre was the pseudonym of the Nobel Prize-winning neurophysiologist Charles Richet (1850–1935). One of the pioneers of the study of multiple personality, he wrote an early “case study” story featuring the phenomenon, “Soeur Marthe” (1889; tr. as “Sister Marthe”). He also produced two Berthoudesque studies of the working of the scientific mind, “Le Mirosaurus” (1885; tr. as “The Mirosaurus”), and “Le Microbe de Professeur Bakermann,” a translation of which follows.

  “Professor Bakermann’s Microbe,” which first appeared in the January 1890 issue of the Revue Bleue, is one of the more melodramatic French scientific romances of the fin-de-siècle period, but retains a sharp cutting edge in spite of its extravagance by reason of the confidence with which the author is able to improvise the scientific background of the story and his account of the obsessive psychology of its innocent but dangerous protagonist.

  In the latter days of the month of December 1935 Professor Hermann Bakermann returned joyfully to his lodgings, striding through the streets of the little town of Brunnwald as rapidly as his generous girth would permit.

  He was rubbing his hands as he walked, a sign of profound satisfaction—a legitimate satisfaction, for, after long labor, Professor Hermann Bakermann had finally found the means of creating a new microbe, more redoubtable than all the known microbes.

  It will doubtless be remembered that in the last half-century, microbial science had made extraordinary progress. In the mid-nineteenth century, a celebrated Frenchman, Louis Pasteur, had proved that certain minuscule creatures exist, which penetrate surreptitiously into the bodies of humans and animals. He had called these perfidious parasites “microbes.” He had even indicated ingenious methods of recognizing them, collecting them and cultivating them. Now, in 1935, the works of Pasteur had been long surpassed. Obedient to the impulse provided by the master, all the scientists of Europe, America, Australia, and even Africa, had set to work. Thanks to them, the most difficult problems had been clarified, the most obscure problems resolved; there was no longer any disease that did not have its microbe, labeled, classified and stored. The forms, the behavior, the habits and the tastes of all terrestrial, marine and airborne microbes were known, and microbial science had become the basis of medicine in all the universities.