David White, watching the incredible battle of a feline analog of his Biblical namesake against this titanic alien Goliath, realized to his astonishment that the star-headed monster was actually terrified. He was aware that Siegfried Schwartz had drawn his Bergmann automatic and was firing at the monstrosity. Other members of the exploring party, Rouge, Speranza Verde, had drawn their own weapons and were pointing them upward.
Bounding forward to place himself between his comrades and the monster, David White waved his arms and cried out, “Careful! Careful! Don’t hit the cat!”
Even as the sound of two revolvers and an automatic pistol echoed off the walls and ceiling of the chamber, the great monstrosity, blinded now and bleeding green ichor from its wounds, gave forth a mighty roar that echoed and re-echoed through the hall. It gave a mighty spasm and My Lady Bast, the grey and white warrior, her grasp on the star-shaped head broken by the jolt, was flung from the monster. As if fully accustomed to flight she soared through the darkened reaches of the tomb, falling at last into the welcoming arms of Colonel David White.
But this was no gentle pussy. My Lady Bast. had been transformed into a warrior-goddess and she was not so quick to resume her domestic mien. Raking claws shredded White’s military tunic and suddenly terrifying fangs snapped within millimetres of his eye, removing a gobbet of flesh just at his cheekbone. Then My Lady Bast flexed powerful legs, launched herself from his torso and disappeared into the darkness of the tomb.
Rouge, Schwartz and Verde had advanced cautiously toward the monster. In its great spasm it had flung itself from its plinth and lay thrashing on the stone floor. Its mouths seemed to possess the power of speech independent of one another, and they uttered sounds that resembled human speech as a horrid parody of the human form might resemble a beautiful woman.
Siegfried Schwartz, surely crude and perhaps cruel as well, was by no means lacking in courage. He had advanced to within an arm’s reach of the monster and was speaking to it in a language which David White did not understand, but which he inferred to be that of ancient Egypt. Astonishingly, the monster seemed to hear and understand the German archaeologist, and to reply in a strange and terrible variant of the same language.
Without warning the monster managed to raise itself halfway to a vertical position. It turned its eye-tipped tentacles toward the roof of the chamber.
There, its rays focused through a lens of tinted mica, the sun casting a single, bright beam into the chamber. The beam had obviously been aimed, how many millennia before there was no way of calculating. In its light one of the painted panels on the tomblike wall seemed almost to come to life.
A row of half-human figures knelt in postures of worship. There was a man with the head of a falcon, a woman with the features of a lioness, a hawk-man, a woman in the grotesque form of a hippopotamus, a being with a human body and the head of a crocodile. David White did not know their names, but he recognized them as Egyptian deities. And they were kneeling in submission.
Before them stood a party of star-headed, tentacled monsters like the one whose statue had seemingly come to life only to be slain by the ferocity of a ship’s grey and white mascot. And behind the alien beings could be seen a sleek machine, obviously a vehicle that had brought its occupants from some home unimaginable to mere humanity.
From the shadowed passageway through which the explorers had entered the tomb there came an echoing voice. “It’s time,” came the voice of Sir Shepley Sidwell-Blue. “We’d b-best get back to Rosny. Our t-time is r-running out.”
The explorers turned toward the passageway. Jemond Jules Rouge leading the way, followed by Speranza Verde and Siegfried Schwartz, preceded Colonel Dwight David White into the passage. White realized that they had all been so busy in dealing with the wonders and terrors of the tomb that they had forgotten the time. It was a good thing that the Englishman had stayed outside the tomb, keeping track of the passing hours.
Once outside the tomb the party formed up and moved off in the direction of the temporarily dry bed of the Fleuve Triste.
They had gone only a score of paces when Sidwell-Blue cried out, “Halt!” The decisive and authoritarian utterance from the hitherto timid and uncertain Englishman startled the others into obedience. To their disbelieving eyes Sidwell-Blue ran back toward the dark opening in the rock. He disappeared into the shadowed passageway. Minutes passed. David White studied his own pocket watch, performed a rapid mental calculation and said, “If we don’t move quickly we’ll be trapped by the returning Marée.”
“But we cannot leave poor Sir Shepley in that tomb!” Speranza Verde cried. She started back toward the rock sepulchre, followed by the others, but before she could reach the opening Sir Shepley Sidwell-Blue emerged into the Saharan sunlight, My Lady Bast nestled comfortably in his arms.
As they approached the submersible Rosny a mighty aqueous roar was heard and two walls of water became visible, speeding toward them from both directions. The explorers ran at top speed to the submersible and scrambled up Rosny’s boarding ladder. Captain Alexandre herself had awaited them, and followed them into the submersible, counting off as they descended:
“Rouge.
“Schwartz.
“Blue.
“Verde.
“White.
“My Lady Bast.
Even as the first spray of the onrushing waters spattered her midnight-tinted uniform sleeve, the Captain slammed the hatch shut and turned its dogs to seal the submersible against the waters of the Saharan Sea.
Soon all had refreshed themselves and reassembled in the Captain’s conference room. Hot coffee spiked with strong brandy was served, along with nourishing sandwiches. Outside Rosny’s oblong panels of glass, marine creatures swam up to this strange invader of their realm and studied its occupants with as much curiosity as the men and women of Rosny exhibited toward them.
In a corner of the room, My Lady Bast, her coat now restored to its proper state, enjoyed a treat of fresh fish and rich cream.
At the table, the explorers gave their complementary reports on their experiences in the ancient tomb. Speranza Verde took special note of Sidwell-Blue’s unexpected heroism. “Beneath this senza pretese, how you say, unassuming exterior, eh, there beats the heart of a lion. I salute you, Sir Shepley.”
The Englishman turned away shyly. “One c-couldn’t abandon that splendid c-cat, you know.” Even in the artificial light of Rosny’s cabin, his furious blush was obvious.
At the end, it was Colonel White who asked Herr Siegfried Schwartz, “What was it that the monster said before it died?”
The German stroked his beard as if in deep thought. “To understand what said the creature, Mein Herr White, it was for me not easy. Its language that of ancient Egypt was almost, but certain differences there were.”
He paused and drained his cup. When it was refilled he instructed the crew member to omit the coffee.
“I think it said, ‘My parents for me will come. Someday my father and mother for me will come.’ You see, Herr Colonel, to us a great monster it was, but in truth that sleeping creature that we awakened, that we killed, of its own kind was a baby.”
THE GOLDEN QUEST by Sharan Newman
Few of Verne’s posthumously published novels are of much interest, but two do have science-fictional content. La Chasse au mètèore, was serialized in 1908 and published in England the next year as The Chase of the Golden Meteor. Though not very well written (some believe it may have been a collaboration with Verne’s son, Michel, who helped his father on several of the last novels) it does contain a fascinating idea. The inventor Zéphyrin Xirdal has created a machine that emits a ray which can capture and control any object, rather like the tractor beam of later science fiction (and of which a prototype was invented in 2001). Xirdal uses this machine to capture a meteorite of solid gold. When Xirdal realizes the financial consequences of this he ensures that the meteorite falls into the sea. Once again Verne did not believe that mankind could cope with scientifi
c progress. But was Xirdal right? Sharan Newman plays back the events of the story to see what might have really happened.
The young man clutched his felt fedora with sweaty hands. He gazed at the thick oak-panelled door before him as if it were the gateway to Hell. He reflected that for him it might be. And that was only if his request were granted. It’s no wonder that Jean Lecoeur needed to screw up all his courage before knocking.
Therefore his heart nearly stopped when he raised his fist to knock and, before he tapped the wood, the door was opened with a jerk and he found himself face to face with a portly man in his late sixties.
“Hello!” the man said in surprise, as he bent down to pick up the afternoon paper.
“Mr W W. . . Wells?” Jean could barely get the words out, he was so nervous.
“That depends,” the man answered. “Are you a reporter?”
“Oh, no, sir! I am Jean Lecoeur, of Lecoeur Bank, Paris, London, New York, Berlin, Cairo and Buenos Aires.” Jean handed the man his letters of introduction.
The man glanced at the letters with disdain and sighed. “I suppose you’d better come in,” he said. “Yes, I’m Herbert Wells. Now what does the owner of the richest bank in the world want with me? You do know I’m a Socialist, don’t you? I don’t invest in capitalist schemes.”
“I am aware of that, sir,” Jean said. “I’m counting on it.”
Wells gave him a suspicious glance but ushered him in.
When they had settled in comfortable chairs before the fire, Jean’s nervousness ebbed a bit. However, he couldn’t stop himself from giving a jerk when Wells said firmly, “So, tell me your business, young man..”
Jean Lecoeur squirmed like a schoolboy sent to the headmaster. The fact that he was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the world didn’t seem to help in this situation. He took a deep breath and started.
“You are assuredly aware, Mr Wells, that the fortunes of my family were greatly expanded at the beginning of the century with the landing and subsequent loss of the Golden Meteor.”
“I remember it,” Wells said coldly. “Although I doubt you were even alive then. The world believed that the meteor would make gold as common as iron. Your father bought mining stock at bargain prices and, when the meteor fell into the North Sea, his holdings increased tenfold.”
Jean winced. “That is correct, Sir, to my deep shame. And it is in the hope of undoing that great wrong that I have come to you.”
Wells gave him a sharp look. Lecoeur was very young, not more than twenty-five. He radiated earnest naiveté. In this world such innocence was almost a crime.
“And how do you propose to rectify this social injustice?” he asked.
Lecoeur took a deep breath. “I intend to see to it that the Golden Meteor never falls into the sea,” he announced.
Wells raised his bushy eyebrows. “Don’t you think it would be more practical simply to donate your fortune to those in need?”
“No,” Lecoeur said firmly. “Although that is certainly a laudable endeavour. It’s not just a matter of redistributing wealth now. The damage was done nearly thirty years ago.”
He leaned forward, his hands clasped in entreaty.
“My father thought he was getting rich, doing his duty as a banker to increase the wealth of his clients,” he continued. “But you know what happened. With the cornering of the gold market, social unrest increased. Anarchy became rampant. Eventually the powder keg was lit. You know the results: assassination, revolution, the Great War. Mr Wells, what do you think the world would be like if the War had been avoided? We are now in the midst of an economic depression. Communists run Russia and Germany is starting to rearm. What would England and France be like if the best of our young men had lived to fulfil their potential? Sir, my own two older brothers died at the Somme. I would do anything to prevent that.”
He gazed at Wells with great brown puppy-like eyes. Despite himself, Wells was touched. But he knew what was coming.
“M. Lecoeur,” he began. “I know what you are going to ask me and it is literally impossible. The time machine is highly imperfect. The one time it was used, the operator was nearly lost.”
“I understand you have been working on the machine since then,” Jean answered. “My informants tell me that it now might be able to manage short trips through time with an astonishing degree of accuracy.”
Wells leapt to his feet, knocking over a vase full of chrysanthemums. “Just who have you been talking to, Sir?” he asked in astonishment. “And what right have you to invade my privacy in this manner?”
Lecoeur remained calm. “An unlimited amount of money will buy almost any information,” he said sadly. “I am prepared to commit such gross insults to social custom in order to achieve my goal.”
“Are you also prepared to die?” Wells glared down at him.
“Of course,” Jean blinked away his tears. “I would give my life if my brothers could be spared as well as the millions of others who died because of my father’s greed.”
Wells collapsed back into his chair like a punctured zeppelin.
“You realize that, even if you succeed, the War may come all the same,” he asked.
“I must try,” Jean answered. “My studies indicate that it was this one event that led to all the human disasters of this century.”
From the experience of a lifetime, Wells was fairly sure this wasn’t true. It took more than one avaricious banker to destroy the world. It needed at least two. But Lecoeur’s argument was persuasive. Wells thought back on the horrors of the past years and the fear that the worst was yet to come. Perhaps the man should be given the chance. The recent tests of the machine did indicate that short jumps through time might be completed with some accuracy It was possible that Jean Lecoeur could go and come back alive.
Two weeks later Jean Lecoeur sat in the cellar of Wells’ house, staring in awe at the fabled time machine. Jean was dressed in the clothes of 1904. He had also procured a large amount of pre-war money from various countries.
“I imagine life has not changed that much,” he explained.
“Money seems to make everything much easier. In the event of success, I shall be sorry to lose my fortune, but it is for the greater good.”
Wells grunted as he twiddled with various controls.
“You’ll arrive in London,” he said. “In the basement of this house. After that it’s up to you to get to Greenland where the meteor landed. If you succeed, you’ll need to get back here and into the machine without anyone, especially my younger self, seeing you. Otherwise, you may change history even more, perhaps undoing the good you intended.”
“I understand,” Jean tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. “You are certain that you can get me there two weeks before the event?”
“Approximately,” Wells answered. “Remember, this machine is still experimental.”
“I’m trying not to remember,” Jean said. “Are you ready?” Without answering, Wells threw a switch and the world around Jean Lecoeur turned inside out.
He woke up in the blackness of the cellar, retching and cold. It took him a few moments to remember where he was and that Wells had cautioned him to make no noise.
There was another moment of complete terror as Jean groped his way to the door near the coal chute. What if he had gone too far back? His money would be worthless if he arrived before it was printed.
The cool rain of a London summer evening greeted his exit into the alleyway. The clop of hooves and the creak of coach wheels came from the street. There were no auto brakes squealing, nor the blare of radios. He hurried out into the street. There was a newsstand on the corner. Jean ran to it and gave a cry of joy. It was 1904 and July 19th! He had a month before the fateful day.
Jean inhaled the moist air. He had done it. Now to arrange passage to Greenland. He still had to arrive before the meteor fell and then stop his father from sending it to the bottom of the sea.
Even with the large supply of antique
cash he had brought, Jean found it difficult to book passage to Greenland. Treasure seekers, government officials, and the curious were all eager to see the landing of a meteor made of gold. At last he managed to get a berth on a fishing boat for a price that would normally have bought him a suite on an ocean liner.
The port of Upernevik, in Greenland was equally chaotic. Jean had never heard so many languages spoken at the same time or with such urgency. It seemed that everyone in the world had come to see the meteor.
But, while the others were all fixated on reaching the predicted landing site of the meteor, Jean went at cross purposes to the crowd. He was desperate to find his father, Robert Lecoeur, and the instigator of the event, Zéphyrin Xirdal.
Jean had never met M. Xirdal. His father had explained that the man was very rich, very brilliant and completely mad. M. Xirdal was also a recluse, not from any particular misanthropy, but because, if he were invited to join a party, he would forget about it immediately upon returning home. Consequently, he received few invitations.
It was Zéphyrin Xirdal who had first noticed the meteor, although others claimed that honour. It was also Zéphyrin who had invented a machine to attract the golden orb toward the earth, not for any particular desire for gain, but to see if he could. Jean’s father, Robert, was possibly Zéphyrin’s best friend, as well as his banker and godfather. So it was to Robert Lecoeur that Xirdal applied when he decided to set the meteor down in Greenland. Robert had purchased the landing site for Zéphyrin.
It was this advance knowledge of the landing that allowed Robert Lecoeur to speculate in gold mines. Somehow, Robert had convinced Zéphyrin to use his machine to send the meteor into the ocean, thus causing mining stock, at an all time low, to increase to a hundred times the price Robert had paid. Jean had heard the story many times as a child.
The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures Page 48