Philippe smiled, shrugged with Gallic savoir-faire, and doffed his ceremonial sash. “Whatever is demanded of me to ensure the survival of our planet, Miss Bradley.”
Grinning, Jungle Alli pulled back the bedcovers to disclose her scarred nakedness, and Hélène’s alabaster skin. “Call me Alice, Phil.”
The building of the Earth-Moon bridge instantly captivated the fancy of the entire planet, following as it did hard upon the excitement of Helenia’s inauguration.
At least, the project attracted the eyes of that portion of the globe that was not concerned with the growing tensions between the sexes.
Not every woman on Earth was irritably chafing under the mental goads of the invisible and unsuspected Cat Women. But those lunar devils continued to prick the intelligences of many females in high places, who in turn inflamed their followers, thus fomenting dissent, altercations and contumely between the sexes.
For instance, the Women’s Supremacy Brigade, normally inactive save during the decennial revolutions, had convened its members to patrol the streets of Paris by night, ostensibly to guarantee the safety of the city’s filles de joie–a safety never actually in jeopardy. In reality, the Brigade functioned as a male-bashing squad, roughing up lotharios, boulevardiers and beau brummels.
But, as yet, this kind of intermittent breakdown in the social compact between the sexes formed a mere background rumble to the normal functioning of society and that society now strained at its brave limits to fulfill the incredibly ambitious program outlined by President Ponto.
Gathered in a meeting room with the chief engineers of the nation, President Ponto heard the first details of the plan to construct a bridge to the nearby satellite.
A bewhiskered savant named Professor Calculus explained, “The immense weight of the dangling bridge–in essence, a technological beanstalk or celestial ascenseur–must be counterbalanced by an equal weight outside the gravity shell of our planet, midway between Earth and Moon, at roughly the 337-kilometer mark. Practically speaking, the bridge will be suspended from this anchor outside our atmosphere, and simply tethered to the soil at either end.”
“How do we create this anchor in the aether?” asked the President.
“We propose to launch by numerous rockets many millions of tons of magnetically charged material, all aimed at the desired nexus in the void. The multiple impacts will agglomerate naturally into the desired anchor. Then we will harpoon the anchor with a titanic cable fired from a super-cannon, the other end of which will remain fastened here, and use that cable as the armature to build upward. Once this leg of the bridge is constructed, building downward to the Moon will be trivial.”
Mr. Ponto now intervened, exclaiming, “Superb! And I offer a sophistication. We shall construct upon this anchor planetoid an elegant space casino, just like the successful underwater one that punctuates the mid-Atlantic train tunnel. Baccarat and faro beneath the Milky Way! We’ll make a fortune!”
And so, with the bridge and its refinements firmly conceptualized, construction began.
Never before in the history of the race had such titanic assemblages of men, material and energy been seen! The continent of Helenia was the focal point of tributaries of labor and materials from all quarters of the globe. Around the clock swarmed hordes of workers, stockpiling the steel plates and girders that would form the shell of the interplanetary tube, launching rocket upon rocket full of magnetite, coordinating the building processes.
Within several weeks, the anchor was complete, and the cable secured. Construction of the space-tube and its interior workings began immediately.
Throughout the gargantuan project, only four individuals knew the truth of the matter and appreciated the urgency behind the construction. President Ponto, Mr. Ponto, Jungle Alli and Hélène formed a secret cabal, a quartet of conspirators who alone amongst billions of souls realized that the whole planet was now in a race with the machinations of the Cat Women. Would humanity reach the Moon and stymie the Cat Women before terrestrial society tore itself apart?
For the tumult and tension between the sexes were increasing. Incidents proliferated and grew in brutality, as the perverted ideoneme of gender rancor disseminated itself through all levels of society, a virus cut loose from its original Cat Women source. Small riots and pogroms, both anti-male and anti-female, broke out daily, everywhere.
Luckily, Hélène and Jungle Alli maintained their sanity, thanks to their mutual inoculations of closeness, as well as frequent booster shots from President Ponto. Hélène’s sharp wits and vast practical experience–she had dabbled in almost every profession under the Sun, before settling down as Philippe’s wife–contributed much to the whole enterprise.
Six months into the project, the midway point in the bridge construction had been reached, and the moment of the casino’s official opening loomed. But the ceremonies were actually a sham, to maintain the façade of innocent commercialism.
At the base of the space-ascenseur, President Ponto snipped a red ribbon, to much acclaim, his actions broadcast across the globe via the telephonoscope. He stepped aboard the car that occupied the interior of the space-tube. Hélène and Jungle Alli accompanied him. (Mr. Ponto was already at the casino, overseeing inaugural preparations and hundreds of workers who were preparing against the day when, God willing, the casino could function as intended in a world at peace.) The doors closed, and the car shot upwards inside the tube with remarkable speed.
Inside the private car, with its padded velvet couches, gilt trim, muraled walls and well-appointed wet bar, the trio fortified themselves against any further mental attacks by the Cat Women.
Within only half an hour, the capsule docked at the space casino. Its occupants barely had time to rearrange their clothing from the rigors of the passage before they were greeted by a boisterous string quartet in formal wear, and the smiling face of Mr. Ponto.
“Quite classy, Rafe,” said Jungle Alli in her natal English. “Even if it is a little premature. Now where’s the champagne?”
But this night of exclusive glittering gaiety was to be short-lived. Their welcome was a mere diverting moment of ceremony. Already the capacious capsule of the space-ascenseur was busy shuttling dozens of additional workers at a go to the anchor planetoid. For the past six months, rockets had been delivering tons of components for the next stage of the bridge. Protected from the cold and vacuum of interplanetary space by special suits of gutta-percha and vitrine, the workers were already forging the next leg of the link between the incompatible orbs.
For the next several months, the quartet of conspirators resided at the casino, its only patrons, supervising the construction. The task was wearisome, but the knowledge of how vital their mission was granted them endless strength. Reports came hourly by telephonoscope of the accelerating turmoil back on the home world.
Due to the increased experience of the workers, and a skimping in certain ornamental details, the second half of the space bridge took only three months to complete.
Came the day when Jungle Alli and her three comrades, clad in their own anti-vacuum coveralls and bolstered by a squad of Niam-Niams, stepped out onto the lunar surface.
Now would the Cat Women find the battle brought to their very doorstep!
“All right, you may remove your helmets.”
All the members of the Earth party, which consisted of Philippe, Rafael and Hélène, as well as the several savages, followed Jungle Alli’s instructions, taking cautious breaths of the atmosphere found in the lunar caverns. As they doffed their suits, their movements were weirdly acrobatic and butterfly-like in the reduced lunar gravity.
Leaving a pair of Niam-Niams to guard the discarded suits, Jungle Alli said, “Follow me.”
Leading the way through the luminescent lunar grottoes, the piratical mercenary soon brought her charges within sight of their goal.
The decayed city of the Cat Women, older than Nineveh and Tyre combined, a chunky set of fallen towers resembling a child’s tumb
led blocks.
Jungle Alli addressed her comrades. “Remember, the Cat Women can outmaneuver us by their powers of teleportation. But they are not supernatural. Our firearms even out the fight. And I believe if we can remove their leader, Alpha, from the equation, then the rest of them will collapse.”
“Very well,” said President Ponto. “Lead on, Alice.”
Within minutes, the Earthlings found themselves crossing a broad plaza and entering a palatial building. They had not gone far before they found their way blocked by a living Cat Woman!
“I am Omega,” said the alluring, dark-haired female, in every respect a sister to the aforeseen Alpha. “What do you humans want here?”
“Bring us to see Alpha. Our business is with her.”
“She and the others are–are busy.”
“Of course they are. Sending their evil thoughts into the innocent minds of our women!”
Quicker than a python, Jungle Alli had the blade of her machete against Omega’s throat. “You might be able to vanish before my reflexes cause my muscles to slice, but I doubt it. You’ll materialize in safety, perhaps–but with a severed artery! Now, lead us to Alpha!”
For whatever reason, Omega did not vanish, but complied. Perhaps she too chafed under the rule of the all-dominant Alpha...
The remaining seven Cat Women occupied couches in a large, column-dotted, temple-like room, looking like the Sleepers of Epheseus while they directed their malevolent thoughts Earthward. As the newcomers entered, Alpha instantly roused herself from slumber and stood.
“So,” said the head Cat Woman, “you have decided to visit us at home, Alice Bradley! Forgive my ungraciousness as a hostess, but I cannot offer you any refreshments.”
“We don’t want any. We only demand justice. You will cease your assaults on Earth’s females, or–”
“Or what? We will spontaneously relocate in the next second to a different part of the Moon, where you will never find us. And soon, your society will tear itself apart under our renewed attacks.”
Jungle Alli pondered this boast, before saying, “This struggle is all about seeing which of our two races is superior, and deserves to inherit the Earth. Why not determine the same judgment between you and me alone?”
Alpha looked tantalized by the prospect. “You mean, individual combat?”
“I do.”
“Very well, I accept. Rid yourself of weapons.”
Jungle Alli swiftly complied. “And you will promise not to employ your powers of vanishment.”
“Agreed.”
Before commencing combat, Jungle Alli solicited a kiss from both Hélène and Philippe. Thus armed with their fond endorsement, she advanced on her foe.
The two women, each formidable in her own way, circled each other like wrestlers, looking for openings. Jungle Alli was sinuous as a snake, while Alpha, the larger of the two, resembled a panther.
At last they closed, with wordless grunts and exclamations. Grappling hand to hand, they struggled for mastery.
Jungle Alli was tossed to the lunar pavement first. Falling upon her stunned prey, Alpha was surprised to find Jungle Alli wriggling out of her grip and soon riding the Cat Woman’s back! Alpha punched backwards, ramming knuckles into Jungle Alli’s cheekbones, and causing her to loosen her hold. The women separated, regained their feet and faced off again.
For a seemingly interminable time, the two women fought, enacting a strange barbaric scene among the sleeping forms of the Cat Women-still pulsing out their deadly ideonemes–and the cheering figures of the wholesome Earth people. The battle inevitably took its toll: Alpha’s long hair had come undone and disarrayed, while Jungle Alli’s shorter pelt was plastered to her skull with sweat. The clothing of both women was ripped, revealing lush, bruised flesh. Their mutual panting sounded in the hall like the chuffing of some struggling engine.
The two resting apart for a moment, Alpha said, “You are a vigorous specimen, Alice Bradley. If all Earth women were like you, they might deserve to live!”
Falling into English, Jungle Alli replied, “We won’t go on without our men-folks. You bitches have been deprived too long to know what you’re missing!”
“Men!” spat Alpha. “Here’s what all males deserve!”
With that, the leader of the Cat Women impulsively teleported over to Philippe and began to strangle him with her otherworldly strength! His face purpling, the President of Helenia seemed doomed!
But then Alpha shrieked, and blood began to flow from her mouth! She released Philippe and fell to the floor, dying as she hit the tiles.
Hélène stepped away from the body of the Cat Woman, Jungle Alli’s red-dripping machete in her hand.
Jungle Alli surged to the side of Hélène, and began to comfort the stunned woman with petting and reassurances. But Hélène did not seem as distraught as one might have expected. She straightened her back, her eyes shining, and said, “So much for female supremacy!”
But whether Hélène was derogating Alpha or praising herself was unclear.
Around the Earthlings, the six sleepers began to stir. Omega, who had stood on the sidelines till this moment, now mentally apprised her sisters of what had just transpired. The remaining Cat Women appeared directionless and disinclined to carry the battle further.
Massaging his throat, his voice something of a croak, President Ponto, supported by his father, said, “Our crisis seems at an end now, thanks to the efforts of my own wife and Miss Bradley. It remains only for us to carry the good news back to a waiting planet.”
“You folks’ll be heading back without me, I reckon,” said Jungle Alli unexpectedly.
“But why?”
“I’ve plumb run out of lands to explore back home. Here I’ve got a whole new world to investigate. I need to see this place before there’s a Bon Marché in every crater.”
“But won’t you be lonely?” asked Hélène.
Jungle Alli eyed the surviving Cat Women with a certain possessive passion.
“Oh,” she said, grinning, “I figure I can do without the company of mankind for a little while.”
The heroine of this story, Adelaïde Lupin, is the daughter of Arsène Lupin and American journalist Patricia Johnston, whom the notorious Gentleman-Burglar met in Maurice Leblanc’s penultimate novel, Les Milliards d’Arsène Lupin. Adelaïde was retroactively created and introduced by Win Eckert, one of our regular contributors, in “The Eye of Oran,” published in Tales of the Shadowmen 2, to which this is a sequel. In his stories, Eckert is carefully assembling the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that paints a fascinating picture of a post-World War II France that is further beset by the ever-encroaching powers of darkness…
Win Scott Eckert: Les Lèvres Rouges
Paris, 1946
Ilona Harczy hung naked in the damp dungeon, her arms spread and chained at the wrist to the stone wall. She was unconscious. Her wrists and fingers were scabbed over with dozens of small cuts. A brown and withered vine snaked under her dangling feet.
When Ilona next awoke, the blonde woman was there.
Somehow, even in the darkness, the woman glowed, an icy bluish light emanating from a jewel hung at her throat. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, showing blue veins beneath. In a flowing white gown, she floated ethereally above the cobblestone floor. Her lips were painted bright red.
The woman gently took Ilona’s wrist and made another small cut. Ilona moaned as blood welled. The pale woman kissed and licked Ilona’s wrist. Only a few stray drops of blood escaped her lips, falling upon the floor and the almost-dead plant.
The blonde woman continued to kiss Ilona’s wrist, and the bleeding stopped. Then she cupped Ilona’s breast in her hand, and softly kissed Ilona’s neck and short dark hair.
“Now my love, it is complete,” she whispered. “You do love me, don’t you? You must, you know.”
The blonde woman moved away into a shadowy corner. Two humanoid forms were illuminated as the woman approached them, the light from the jewel g
lowing brighter and brighter. The woman embraced each in turn, pulling thick necks to her waiting mouth. She intoned nonsense words that Ilona didn’t understand.
“Iä-R’lyeh! Cthulhu fhtagn! Méne! Iä! Iä!”
The jewel shone even brighter, its soft bluish light filling the room.
Then the three were gone, and Ilona lapsed once more into oblivion.
Nestor Burma looked up at the statuesque figure silhouetted in the doorway of the Fiat Lux Detective Agency’s inner office. “How may I help you, Mademoiselle…?”
“D’Andresy. Monique d’Andresy.” She stood in front of him, raven hair spilling over the shoulders of the London Fog raincoat belted at the waist with a loose knot. “You are working on a case with an American doctor? Francis Ardan?”
Burma leaned back in his creaky office chair and put his feet on the desk. The room’s only light was a feeble cone emanating from a small desk lamp. He puffed at his bull’s head pipe, red light from the coals illuminating his tired face.
“Mademoiselle d’Andresy, I may be an anarchist, but I wouldn’t last long as a private detective if I made a habit of breaking my clients’ confidentiality.”
“But, Monsieur,” she breathed, “my need is great.”
She slowly walked around to the client chair beside Burma’s desk. Instead of sitting, she stepped one leg up on the chair and propped an elbow on her upper thigh, leaning her chin on her hand. Long nails were done in a perfect French manicure. Facing him, took a drag of her cigarette.
“Perhaps we could come to an… understanding?”
Burma’s eyes followed the curve of her leg from the four-inch pump to the lacy black top of a gartered silk stocking–and further. The folds of her raincoat fell away, the belt hanging loosely. Apart from the stockings and garters, she wore nothing else, intimate or otherwise.
“I am sorry, truly, but I don’t think such an understanding will be possible.”
Tales of the Shadowmen 3: Danse Macabre Page 7