by Rhys Hughes
Harris said coldly, “They aren’t called dwarf planets for that reason. I suppose that gas giants are full of—”
“Hydrogen and helium whales!” nodded Castor.
Paddy shook his head. “I know for sure you lied. Your postcards were covered in chip and beer stains when they reached us, but you said there was nowhere near Southerndown to buy beer and chips, so you couldn’t have posted them at that time.”
Castor said nothing. Finally he shrugged.
He took a crumpled newspaper out of his pocket and began reading it while Paddy and Harris savoured their victory. Castor read the newspaper all the way through, from the front page to the back, then he put it down on the table. He yawned and his stomach rumbled. Reaching into one of his pockets he withdrew a tube.
It was made of glass and glowed like a neon sign. It said: CHIPS. Just like a sign in the average chip shop. Castor unscrewed one end and the light died. Then he tilted back his head and emptied the contents into his mouth. Straightening, he belched.
Nemo’s Omen
“I have always enjoyed sending messages in bottles,” said Castor Jenkins as he lifted his drink to his lips, “and I’ve been quite an innovator when it comes to the art of choosing a suitable medium and message. As well as throwing illuminated neon signs into the waves, I’ve often toyed with the idea of entering a bottle myself.”
He gulped slowly and lowered his pint glass. “I’m now going to relate a story about the other inventor who lives and works in Porthcawl. He’s a rival to Karl Mondaugen and some say he’s no less clever and only a tiny bit dafter: I’ll let you judge that for yourselves. It happened when I was a member of the local Nemo Club.”
* * * *
Although Boppo Higgins was introduced to the entire membership of our society all at once, the inventor came prepared to instantly make a good impression. I remember it well. Attached to his arm was a device capable of shaking thirty hands simultaneously and he simply leaned forward and skilfully employed it for that purpose.
Some of the older members were dismayed by the whimsicality of the contraption. “I doubt he would have tolerated such a frivolity!” sneered Idris Gecko, jerking a thumb at the large portrait hanging on the wall directly above the fireplace.
“Merely a toy, gentlemen,” conceded Boppo, detaching the automatic handshaker and laying it on the table.
But his eyes strayed to the indicated portrait and he nodded slowly. Captain Nemo returned his gaze impassively, blankly, as befits a dead man, or rather a man who has never lived. The nobility of the painted face, however, was indubitably real and inspiring. The artist who had rendered it had worked with unwavering respect, as if the subject of his study was a genuine demigod rather than a fictional character. This was secular art at its most religious.
Idris Gecko intruded into that paradox with a cough. “Toys are for children. Our society is an adult institution.”
“I’m acutely aware of that fact,” responded Boppo.
“Then why bring that gadget here?”
“A simple mistake. A minor error of judgement.”
The other members murmured amongst themselves and I quietly bit my lower lip, for the ultimate responsibility for this encounter was mine. Membership of the Nemo Club was not a privilege to be regarded lightly and new members could only be proposed on the understanding that the member who made the proposal would be expelled if anything went wrong. I still felt confident about Boppo’s abilities but it seemed I had miscalculated the present mood of the senior members, who clearly were disinclined on principle to swell the club’s ranks.
The Nemo Club was in danger of allowing elitism to dominate its methodology. I ventured the observation that Boppo was not a crank but an experienced engineer, a man who made things happen, and that those things might well be great or even magnificent, as truly profound as the automatic handshaker was trivial, and that the patronage of our society would surely expand his ambitions.
“That is all very well, Mr Jenkins,” sighed Idris Gecko, “but your protégé hasn’t even given us a hint that he knows who Captain Nemo was. We advocate a set of unique ethics, we have precise political and social aspirations. Will this Boppo fellow contribute to the spirit of our institution and help it to evolve?”
“He seems just a mechanic,” sniffed Caradoc Weasel.
“A sham,” growled Paddy Deluxe.
“Perhaps even – an ignoramus!” sneered Frothing Harris.
This last insult was too much for Boppo. With an accusing glance at me, as if I had somehow betrayed or tricked him by bringing him here, he spoke bitterly and yet with an undertone of triumph. “Certainly I’m familiar with Captain Nemo. 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea is one of my favourite titles. My house is full of books.”
“He knows,” I added uselessly.
“This is not enough. What else can he offer?” demanded Idris Gecko.
The inventor winked at the portrait, sharing a joke with the stern figure on the canvas. “I can build a fully functional replica of his vessel and I can do so in less than a week.”
“The Nautilus?” cried Collective Will.
“The Nautilus!” echoed the other incredulous members.
“If you like,” shrugged Boppo.
I disguised my own astonishment and wondered if the inventor had abruptly gone mad. His coolness was inhuman, his claim so implausible it was almost offensive. In less than a week? For an instant my faith in him faltered, then I pulled myself together and began applauding. For half a long minute my solitary clapping sounded thin and sad in the hall, but another pair of hands finally mimicked mine, then another. Caradoc was clapping now; so was Icarus Evans; and Paddy Deluxe and Frothing Harris added their own reverberations to the rhythm. At last even Idris Gecko, Collective Will and Sunstew Mynci joined in.
Boppo inclined his head slightly in a nod of appreciation.
“You will launch your vessel from the harbour at the exact same hour one week from today?” asked Idris Gecko as the applause faded, but it was a challenge rather than a question and Boppo was evidently bemused. He frowned deeply.
“As you wish. From the harbour.”
“And the six most senior members of our institution will serve as her crew,” specified Frothing Harris above the grumbles of the less hallowed members.
“Perfectly reasonable,” returned Boppo.
“I’ll also be coming along for the ride,” I said quickly.
Idris Gecko raised an imperious hand to provoke a general hush. He pointed a yellow finger at Boppo’s chest, as if to impale the inventor’s heart on a long invisible fingernail. “If you fail to create a vehicle that can do everything the Nautilus did, in precisely the same way, the Nemo Club will exert its power and influence to hound you out of town, nor will Mr Jenkins be permitted to remain. Both of you will be exiled from Porthcawl forever. Do you understand?”
“We do,” answered Boppo without consulting me.
It was decided to defer the question of the inventor’s membership of the Nemo Club until after the maiden voyage of his craft. I accompanied Boppo to the door and rubbed my jaw anxiously as he set off into the night. There was no time to be lost, he explained, if the vessel was to be ready on the arranged day. He would have to live and sleep in his workshop until his version of the Nautilus was finished. As his figure diminished into the dim haze of distant streetlights, I heard him muttering ruefully, “Why the harbour?”
I returned to the hall and enjoyed the vintage brandy and soft chairs with the resignation of a man who strongly suspects they will soon no longer be available to him.
At no point during the following week did I meet Boppo Higgins. I knew better than to disturb him at work. Along the esplanade I strolled, casting my nets into the waves of high tide. I am a collector of messages in bottles as well as a sender of them, it’s a hobby that serves to take my mind off my daily cares, but I discovered no new specimens over those seven fraught days. Finally the allotted time loomed and I made my way to
the harbour, arriving fifteen minutes early.
Porthcawl harbour is small and quaint and dominated by the last gas-powered lighthouse in the country. Sleek and unbelievable, Boppo’s submarine lay supine on the black water like a monster about to devour the brightly painted yachts that also bobbed in this liquid enclosure. Boppo himself was standing on his deck. The hatch on top of the conning tower was open. Seagulls wheeled.
“Castor!” he called as he spotted me. “Come here.”
I eased myself down the rusty iron ladder bolted to the harbour wall and reached the deck. As I did so, the other passengers turned up, the senior six, Idris Gecko in the lead, though technically he had no more authority than the others. The Nemo Club was supposed to be dedicated to egalitarianism.
“Well now,” said Idris. “So it was true after all!”
His tone was a complex audio wave that carried excitement, dismay, envy, admiration and irony all at the same time, but he descended to the deck and nodded politely at Boppo. Then down came his colleagues. Caradoc Weasel snorted.
“Why have you written the words ‘Nemo’s Omen’ on the side?”
“It’s the name of my vessel,” replied Boppo.
“Not Nautilus? Why not?”
“Captain Nemo has already claimed that name. In his honour I decided to call my own craft Nemo’s Omen.”
“But an omen is something bad, isn’t it?”
“This name is merely a palindrome, it reads the same backwards as forwards, that’s all. A wordgame.”
Reluctant to waste time with more idle banter, Idris Gecko snapped, “Shouldn’t we go below and commence our great voyage?”
Boppo nodded and one at a time we entered the hatch in the conning tower and descended into the riveted belly of the vessel. Idris went first; followed by Caradoc; then Paddy Deluxe, Icarus Evans, Collective Will and Frothing Harris. Then there was Castor Jenkins, who is me, and finally the inventor himself, Boppo Higgins. We stood together in the soft glow of ambient lighting while Boppo secured the hatch from within. Our environment was slightly less cramped than I had feared it might be.
“Gentlemen, I’m ready,” said Boppo. “I’m not sure why you insisted our voyage had to begin from the harbour. Departing from my own house would have spared me the effort of conveying the vessel here.”
“Of course it has to be from the harbour!” spluttered Idris. “How else can we begin a journey twenty thousand leagues under the sea? The word ‘sea’ is very important in this case. Not that I mean to be sarcastic.”
“I understand. My apologies.”
“Hurry up! We’re wasting time!”
“Very well. Brace yourselves, gentlemen,” said Boppo.
And he pulled a smooth lever.
There was a slight shudder, a glow and a sparkle through one of the portholes, then stillness and silence. Boppo stood back and smiled. “We have arrived,” he announced.
“What do you mean?” roared Idris.
“Is this some kind of joke?” bellowed Caradoc.
“Dear Boppo,” I said as lightly as I could. “It seems there has been a misunderstanding. We are supposed to travel twenty thousand leagues in total, marvelling at the sights on the way and experiencing adventures, exactly as Captain Nemo did. It should be a protracted process, not an instantaneous one.”
The inventor rubbed his jaw. “I see. For the sake of safety I deemed it better to cover the entire distance in less than one second. The engine is a type of matter transmitter. We have arrived now, so it’s pointless to argue.”
And he indicated the nearest porthole.
I went forward to it, peered out and blinked. I saw no fish.
“Stars!” I rasped. “Stars!”
“Starfish, you mean?” demanded Idris Gecko.
“Real stars!” I gurgled.
“What?” He roughly pushed me aside. “I don’t believe it! The Earth is above us. We’re in space! How did we get here?” He turned savagely on the inventor as his colleagues crowded the circular window. “What has happened?”
Boppo frowned. “I did what you asked. I took you where you wanted to go.”
“You took us up – into space!” shrieked Idris.
“No, no! I took you down. Twenty thousand leagues under the sea. Naturally we passed right through the Earth on the way. The brief glow you witnessed earlier was the molten core of our planet. The sparkle was radiation from the Van Allen belts. But now we’re in a stable orbit and I’m sure our altitude will remain fixed.”
“Will you divulge your calculations?” I breathed.
He nodded. “Certainly. A ‘league’ is a somewhat archaic measurement that corresponds to three miles. So twenty thousand leagues is equivalent to sixty thousand miles. The diameter of the Earth is 7,918 miles, which means that our present altitude is 52,082 miles above the antipodes of the town of Porthcawl. We are therefore more than twice the height of the so-called Clarke Belt, the elevation of geostationary satellites. In fact we are higher than almost every other satellite that has ever been launched.”
Idris collapsed onto a nearby chair. “Why?”
Boppo mistook his wail of despair for an authentic question. “Because there’s little scientific, commercial or military advantage in sending satellites higher than the Clarke Belt. True, the Vela group of satellites were placed in orbits above 60,000 miles in order to monitor compliance with various nuclear test ban treaties, but they fell obsolete decades ago. Currently the only operational satellite higher than us is the Solar and Heliospheric Observatory in orbit around the First Sun-Earth Lagrange Point, the point between the sun and our own planet where there is gravitational balance between the two bodies, approximately 879,975 miles higher than we are…”
“You fool!” spat Caradoc Weasel.
“Twenty thousand leagues horizontally under the sea, not vertically!” cried Frothing Harris. “The distance is supposed to be lateral. How could you make such a stupid error? You told us it was one of your favourite books!”
Boppo looked confused. “I said it was one of my favourite titles. I never claimed to have read it.”
He glanced at me for support.
“You haven’t read it!!!” I screamed.
He pouted. “I based this vessel on the picture on the cover.”
There was a long silence.
Finally Idris said, “You must take us back now.”
“Yes – back home!” I cried.
Boppo arched his eyebrows, stroked the lever set into the wall, shook his head slowly. “No reverse gear.”
“What did you say?”
“Exactly that. Nemo’s Omen doesn’t go backwards.”
“So we’re entombed in this metal coffin until the air runs out and we all suffocate?” demanded Paddy.
“Oh no!” laughed Boppo. “That won’t happen!”
We all laughed too, nervously. “Won’t it?” The desperate entreaty in our voices was tangible. “Are you sure it won’t? Quite sure?”
“Absolutely,” said Boppo. “We won’t get the chance to suffocate. At this altitude we are above the magnetosphere, the magnetic force field that protects the Earth from lethal doses of solar radiation. To be more precise, we are within the magnetosphere at this moment but won’t be for much longer.”
“Kindly elaborate,” I urged.
“Well, on the side facing the sun, our planet’s magnetic field extends to a height of 43,496 miles, which is 8,586 miles lower than we are. On the Earth’s dark side the field extends twenty times further than that, because the solar wind doesn’t compress it. The magnetosphere is an enormously stretched teardrop shape, in fact. But to return to my original point, we won’t have time to asphyxiate because as we orbit the Earth we’ll emerge into the full force of the sun’s gamma rays. The hull of my vessel isn’t adequately shielded and we’ll all be baked alive.”
“How could you do this to us?” I stammered.
His reply was infuriating. “A simple mistake. A minor error of judgement.” Th
en he smiled innocently. I realised at that moment he would never be accepted as a member of our club. And my own dismissal was imminent.
As if reading my mind, Idris Gecko said, “In that case I suggest we quickly convene a meeting to correctly attribute blame.”
“Good idea!” cried Boppo.
“What’s wrong with you? Don’t you realise who is responsible?” I hissed.
“Certainly,” he replied. “The guilty party is Jules Verne, author of the book in question. He had a duty to make the meaning of his title more obvious. I suggest we ban him from future meetings!”
I rolled my eyes in exasperation and retreated to a quiet corner while the senior members of the Nemo Club voted unanimously to heap all the blame on the shoulders of the inventor and myself. I believe that two thirds of it went to Boppo and the remaining third was awarded to me. I can’t be sure because I was only half listening. I had discovered a few sheets of paper and a pen lying on a desk.
All my life I have sent and collected trivial messages in bottles. Now it was time to write an important one, the very story before you. This manuscript is the message and the interior of Boppo’s vessel must serve for an empty bottle. How it will ever reach a shore is beyond my conjecture but if you are reading this now, and I feel sure you must be, then clearly it did. That’s a consolation.
Far away on Earth, an abandoned automatic handshaking machine has probably started clapping.
Or thumbing a nonexistent nose.
* * * *
Castor finished his tale with a sigh and drained his glass to the bottom. Then he looked around at his audience; he was amazed to discover that he had been speaking to nobody.
He sat alone at the table in the pub. The two chairs on which Paddy and Harris usually perched were both empty. Castor looked out of the grimy window at the night sky.
Among the twinkling stars, a tiny point of steady light moved without fuss through the constellations.
“Ah, now I remember! They haven’t managed to get out yet!”