Twain looked. The Martian machines were running through the water toward them. And they were running fast. Twain could see at least five machines. White foam splashed up around the legs of the machines. One of them stumbled, fell, disappeared beneath the water, rose up again and continued its pursuit.
“This way, we can keep watch on what’s behind us,” Verne said. “The good thing is, they are behind us.”
“They’re catching up,” Twain said.
“Yes,” Verne said. “They are fast. But, can they manage the deep water?”
As if in answer, out of the heads of the machines came the hot rays. The beams hit all around Verne’s racing craft, and where they hit, the water steamed and hissed.
“They may not need to catch us,” Twain said, looking into the relay mirror. “They can boil us in here like sardines in a can.”
“I hardly think we would boil, sir,” Passepartout said. “I think we would explode.”
OKAY. THERE’S NO SOUP. BUT SARDINES WERE MENTIONED. DO WE POSSIBLY HAVE ANY OF THOSE? ANY KIND OF FISH? I’M WRITING HERE.
Twain patted Ned on the head. “Later, Ned. Later.”
They went far out fast and furious, and the water grew deep, and the silver machine rode up high on the waves and dipped and reared, and finally the walking machines began to fall deep. Pretty soon the water was up to the bulk of the machines, up to the windows that showed the tentacled aliens working at the controls as desperately as one-armed paperhangers.
Then one machine went under and did not come up. Then another went down. Metal legs thrashed. One tried to rise. A wave took it and washed it back and under. It rose up again. All that could be seen was the top of the machine. The window. Green-gray heads behind it, flashing tentacles.
One of the beasts pressed its double anus against the glass. It and its companion Martian, its copilot, screamed and cursed. But the sleek silver craft darted over the waves, out of sight and sound of their grunts and sneezes, coughs and wheezes, and pretty soon the speedy boat, as Verne called it, was just a silver line, a shiny needle shooting through water, sewing up the ocean like a Neptunian tailor.
All of the Martian crafts floated to the surface. None was lost. They had crashed in the sea and had come out of the sea. They were prepared for that business. But they weren’t ready to race across water. They could slide out of their “meteors” inside their little watertight, air-filled suits, click the machines together as fast as a kid could line up jacks. They could enter into their machines through their watertight, air-controlled hatches. And they could make the machines crawl across the bottom until they could stand tall and step on shore.
But that crossing the water bit, on the surface and fast, they had left that out of their plans. Someone had snoozed.
They stalked back to shore. The machines stood there on the sand. Tall, wet and shiny. Inside the machines, the Martians, their critter faces pressed to their windows, looked out at the ocean and the world they intended to conquer, and they were seriously pissed off.
Nine: A Warm, Sweet Day off the Coast of Spain, Followed by Disaster and Further Surprise
Twain thought: Could he actually be back in Morocco, dozing, wine-sodden, out of his head, Huck on a shelf, shitted all over, fly-swarmed and dead?
He pinched himself.
Ouch.
Didn’t seem that way.
The craft went bumping over the waves. It made Twain sick at first, but in time, his stomach settled. There was the smell of the ocean being channeled through the top of the machine by a whirligig that pulled the air throughout, and in the beginning made the interior too cool and too strong with the smell of salt. But in time it became refreshing.
The stalking machines were long left behind, and now there was only the water and the jumping craft, bouncing up the waves and down them, in the ocean that was home to Gibraltar and the Pillars of Hercules. Just the thought of that made the historical-minded Twain happy. He could envision himself and his companions as ancient Greek heroes who had sailed this stretch of sea.
He tried to recall which heroes he had read about, which ones had sailed the sea on which they bounced.
Who was it?
Jason?
Odysseus?
Theseus?
All of the above?
He couldn’t remember, but it was fun trying. And it was better than thinking about the machines. Twain was certain there were many more of them, and that they were spotted about the world. Had to be. If the meteors were in fact not meteors, but machines, craft from space, then there were many more. And had it not been for this fact, he would have enjoyed his trip.
That was nice to consider.
His life had been so miserable for so long, so lost without his wife and daughters, he had not considered the possibility of fun. Solace maybe, out of the contents of a bottle.
But fun?
Who would have thought? He actually felt good to be alive.
Of course, it was a partial kind of fun. The boat ride was nice. But what had gone on before, and might go on after, was bound to be less than fun.
Another snag was that Verne and Passepartout kept exchanging looks; Verne looking over his shoulder at the butler, his face scrunched up like fruit too long on the vine.
“What’s wrong?” Twain said. “Something’s wrong? Am I right? There’s a snag. Right?”
“There is a snag that is small,” Verne said. “Or, to say it another way. We are about to be snagged.”
“How’s that?”
“This craft, it is a prototype.”
“So.”
“So, it isn’t designed to be…permanent.”
“How’s that?”
“The sides, the bolts, they are screwed in, okay, but not great.”
“Why? Why would you do that?”
“Well,” Verne said, looking at Passepartout, “we thought there were other things needed. So, the sides were designed to come loose easily, until certain changes were made inside. Designs, decorating.”
“Decorating?”
Ned made a seal sound and twisted his mouth so that one side seemed to be wadded up. He slapped his pad, wrote, held it up. It said: I NEVER EVEN GOT TO TRY THE SHITTER.
Passepartout said, “It may hold long enough for us to reach land. Farther along, closer to Italy, that’s our goal. But it’s quite a ways, and though I think we’ll arrive safely —”
The left side of the craft came off and water gushed up over the side. Passepartout said, “And maybe we shall not.”
Ned wrote:
SHIT!
“To the rear,” Verne said, “I shall hold its course. Hurry!”
Harnesses were unsnapped. Verne leaned the boat on its right side. More water crashed in from the left, rushed about their ankles. The top blew off and Twain and Passepartout and Ned were thrown to the rear.
Passepartout gestured to the circular couch, said, “Grab one end.”
Twain struggled to his feet, did as he was told.
“Now push your end toward mine.”
Twain did as he was told. The couch stretched as a partition came out of it, and it continued around until it clicked into the other end, forming a circle. Twain noted that there were thick rings placed strategically all around the top of the couch.
“The craft is losing its right side,” Verne yelled.
Ned wrote on his pad: SNAPPY, SNAPPY, SNAPPY.
But no one was paying attention.
Passepartout climbed into the ring of the couch, sat on the cushioned seat, bid Twain and Ned to do the same. Twain helped Ned climb over, then they hoisted the cruiser into place. Passepartout took hold of the bottom edge of the couch and pulled. Thick wooden sections sprang out, snapped together, filled the gap.
“What good is a couch pulled into a circle?” Twain said.
Ned whistled and wrote. NOW IT HAS A BOTTOM. IT’S A BOAT.
Passepartout made no comment to either.
The right side of the boat shredded, just cru
nched up like an invisible hand had squeezed it. Verne righted it just in time to keep from being swamped. They were essentially jetting across the water now on a leaky, silver V.
The couch slid precariously to the left.
Passepartout lifted up one of the couch cushions. There was a box under it. He took out the box and set it in the center of the couch bottom he had made, opened it quickly. It was full of cables and the cables had snaps.
Passepartout snapped them into the rings around the top of the couch. The cables went from the couch, into the box, and in the box was something folded up. It was bright orange and of an odd texture.
“Stand back,” Passepartout said, reaching into the box. He yanked something, a lever perhaps, and up jumped a balloon, hissing and filling and swelling up large. The cables struggled as they might yank the balloon back into the box.
“Jumping Horny Toads,” Twain said. “All that was in that little box?”
“Sir,” Passepartout yelled. “Master Verne. Please. It is time. It is past time.”
The balloon was throwing off the boat’s balance even worse, slowing it down, causing it to wobble. The back end dipped, the front end rose.
Verne unfastened his harness, careened and wobbled from his seat, lunged over the side of the couch onto its cushions.
“Grab your nuts, monsieurs,” Passepartout said. “Master Verne, if you will assist me.”
What happened next happened very quickly.
Verne leaned over one side of the couch, as did Passepartout, and grabbed at something.
Twain peeked, saw on Verne’s side that the couch was fastened to the floor by a cable and bolts, and there was a lift lever attached to the cable.
“One,” said Passepartout, clutching a similar lever on the other side.
“Two,” said Passepartout.
“Three,” they said together.
Verne and Passepartout pulled the levers and the cables let go of the bolt.
They sprang to the heavens.
The motion was so hard Twain’s neck was popped and he and Ned were nearly tossed out of the craft.
An instant later, beneath them, the boat wadded up and went to pieces in a million silver directions.
Out in the distance Twain saw an enormous swordfish jump, as if it were triumphant about the whole dang deal.
Ten: The Nature of the Device, Sailing Along, High Up, Full of Bread and Honey
“I can’t believe it held as long as it did,” Twain said. “With the balloon tugging, the wind, the speed.”
“It may be a strange thing to say,” Verne said, “considering it has come apart beneath us, but it was of an extremely sound design. Just wish we had not left the bolts loose.
“Yes, Passepartout. I do believe that furniture and decoration could have waited. But, alas. Millions of francs down the old shit hole.”
“How does the balloon work?” Twain said. “It’s not hot air.”
“When the box was opened,” Verne said, “the lever was pulled, and it was rushed full of the helium.”
“Helium?”
“A gas. It works very good to make things float. Passepartout designed it so that a small compressor filled the balloon instantly.”
“All of that helium out of that little box.”
“A new design,” Verne said. “A new way to condense helium. You will note the compressor in the bottom of the box.”
“Amazing,” Twain said.
“Yes,” Verne said. “It is. The gas is very hard to come by, and it is very seriously compressed. Passepartout’s design is years and years ahead of anything anyone else is doing.”
“Thank you, sir,” Passepartout said.
“You are quite welcome, my friend.”
“It’s certainly obvious that it is advanced,” Twain said. “Like the boat.”
Verne nodded, “Like the boat.”
That got Twain to thinking.
“Is this a prototype too?” he asked.
“In a way, my friend, it is. Yes,” Verne said. “We have never used it before, but, it is better constructed… But…”
“But what?”
“There is a problem.”
“Figures. And that is?”
“It is not designed for the too long flight, you know. It will lose its buoyancy after a time.”
“A short time?” Twain asked.
“Maybe not so short,” Verne said.
“Maybe?”
“Who knows?”
“Great,” Twain said. “We might as well shit on ourselves and call it lilac water.”
The balloon kept rising and the sun was high and yellow and dripping over their balloon like a runny egg yolk. They sat in the shadow made by the balloon, and the wind carried them along, very fast, along the coast of Spain. Down below they could see the stalking machines.
Many of them.
Rays flashed. Farmhouses burned. They could see people running.
“Sweet Virgin,” said Verne.
“I hope they don’t look up,” Twain said. “Those rays have quite a range.”
They didn’t look up.
Our heroes sailed along for some time, and then from under one of the cushions, Passepartout brought out a container of water, some food, bread and honey, utensils, and they ate and drank.
“How do we know we’re going in the right direction?” Twain asked.
“That is one of the drawbacks,” Passepartout said. “We do not. We have no navigational equipment on board.”
“Oh, good,” Twain said. “And, for that matter, what is the right direction? Where are we going? If we had a compass, at least, we could chart a course.”
“If we could control the balloon’s direction,” Verne said. “We can not.”
“No,” Passepartout said. “We can not.”
“Priceless,” Mr. Twain said. “You don’t have a plan?”
“My plan was to save our asses,” Verne said. “Our asses are saved. At least for the moment.”
“We won’t go any higher, will we?” Twain said.
“No,” Verne said. “Or, we shouldn’t. And, in time, when land is near, we will leak the helium, bring us down. The important thing is we are away from those machines and our dissolving boat.”
“I suppose,” Twain said, finishing off a slice of bread with honey, “that is for the better.”
In time they all lay about on the cushions and slept, Ned snuggled up close with Twain, his nose under Twain’s chin.
The balloon, a giant tangerine in the sky, sailed on.
The storm hit them like a fist.
It came down out of the sky like the howling vengeance of Zeus, wrapped itself around the balloon and tossed it this way and that, nearly throwing them all into the foaming ocean below. They managed from one of the containers under the couch cushions a large tarp that fitted almost snugly over the top of the basket. They fastened it there with the ties sewn to it, cowered under it, fearing any moment the balloon would be snapped from its cables. Or the basket would rip. Or the tarp would be torn off and they would be tossed like dice into the ocean.
The storm raged on and the balloon sailed on, making Ned so sick he stuck his nose out between tarp and basket and let loose with a stream of fish-smelling vomit.
The smell of long-ago eaten fish came back to him on the wind, and strangely, made him a bit peckish.
When Ned was finished with this, he poked his head completely free of the tarp and looked out and tried to determine most anything there might be to determine. This proved no small feat.
He could not tell if they were directly over the water or high in the sky. The storm had become so furious it had balled up the world.
All Ned knew was that the ball he was in was a mixture of black and gray and bursts of lightning. And that in some manner, shape or form, they were between sea and sky, but if they were high or low, he could not determine.
He thought that if it were not for gravity, they could be flying upside down and he would neve
r know it. He listened for the crash of his friend, the sea, but nothing.
There was just the howl and cry of the wind, the pounding rain and the strips of lightning that tossed about them as if they were spears being thrown from heaven.
How long before one hits, thought Ned? How long?
After a particularly ugly chain-reaction of hot lightning, so close the smell of ozone stuffed his nostrils like a rag, the wet-nosed seal pulled his head in under the tarp and lay down and tried to sleep to the toss and whirl of the basket. The sleep of the exhausted and the fearful overcame him as it did the others, and he spiraled down deep. In his dreams he was tossed into the sea, his home. The sea, though turbulent and frothed with storm, was smooth and silent beneath the waves. Full of fish. Great fish. And he took the fish, and he ate the fish, and finally he dreamed not at all.
The basket became a kind of bassinet, rocked by Mother Wind, rolled to the slam-pat-whammy of the cold, driving rain, the unmelodious lullaby given voice by the loud mouth of Captain Thunder and the snap crackle pop percussion of Old Man Lightning.
Sometime while they slept, the storm ran its course. The sun poked out and it grew warm, finally hot. Twain rose up in a sweat and removed the tarp, folded it, put it away. The air was dry and heavy as chains.
None of the others moved. Ned lay on his back, his tail flipper in the air, his arm flippers folded over his chest. Twain thought the look on his face was one of satisfaction, as if he had just gobbled a tuna. Verne and Passepartout lay back to back like an old married couple.
Twain peeked over the side. A calm blue sea. He looked out, up and around. A calm, clear, blue sky and a huge yellow sun. But there was one peculiarity.
The sky seemed to have a rip in it. Like a painting of the sky that had been torn and pushed back together. Between the edges of the rip, Twain thought he could see movement, but he couldn’t identify it. The rip went from way on high, down to the sea, dropped into the horizon.
Peculiar, to say the least, Twain thought.
Cloud formation?
He couldn’t decide. Gave it up.
They lived. That was the important thing. They lived.
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