This Way to the End Times: Classic Tales of the Apocalypse

by Robert Silverberg

  In short, we joined in composing a genuine dithyramb to Progress, and I confess to contributing my share. We were agreed on the point that humanity had reached an intellectual peak unknown before our era, and that we were authorized to believe in our eventual victory over nature.

  “And yet,” said Judge Mendoza in his little piping voice, profiting by the moment of silence following this last conclusion, “I’ve heard it said that people long gone, of whom we can find few or no traces, enjoyed in their time a civilization equivalent to ours.”

  “And who were they?” we queried in one voice.

  “Why . . . the Babylonians, for example.”

  There was a burst of laughter. To venture a comparison between the Babylonians and modern men!

  “The Egyptians,” continued Don Mendoza calmly.

  More laughter.

  “Take the people of Atlantis, too,” went on the Judge. “They are legendary, but perhaps only because of our ignorance. Why not add that an infinity of other peoples, preceding the Atlanteans themselves, and quite unknown to us, may have succeeded in rising and prospering—only to die out completely!”

  Since Don Mendoza was persistent in his paradox, the rest of us, in order not to offend him, pretended to take him seriously.

  “Look here, my dear President,” put in Moreno, using the tone one is careful to adopt when trying to make a child listen to reason, “you do not want to maintain, I imagine, that any of those ancient peoples could be compared to us? In the moral order, I admit, they might have raised themselves to an equal level of culture, but in the material order—”

  “Why not?” objected Don Mendoza.

  “Because,” Bathurst hastened to explain, “the unique thing about our inventions is that they are immediately spread all over the earth: the disappearance of any one people, or even a great number of peoples, as advanced as we are, would therefore leave intact the total accomplishment. For the present human effort to be lost, it would be necessary for all humanity to disappear at once. And is that, I ask you, an admissible possibility?”

  EVEN WHILE HE WAS SPEAKING, causes and effects were continuing to succeed each other and interact throughout the universe, and in less than one minute after Doctor Bathurst’s question, the resultant of certain of those causes and effects was going to justify only too well Mendoza’s skepticism. But of course we were quite unsuspecting, and the discussion proceeded quietly, some of us leaning back in our chairs, others with elbows on the table, all turning sympathetic eyes toward Mendoza, who was overwhelmed, we supposed, by Bathurst’s argument.

  “Let me say first of all,” said the Judge, unruffled, “that it is to be believed that the Earth in the old days had far fewer inhabitants than today, living in more isolated communities, so that one people could very well possess universal knowledge and keep it to themselves. And next, I see nothing absurd in admitting the possibility that the entire surface of the globe might be convulsed all in one moment.”

  “Oh, come now!” we all cried together.

  And it was at this precise instant that the cataclysm struck!

  We were uttering that “Oh, come now!” when a fearful uproar arose. The ground trembled and sank under our feet. The villa rocked on its foundations.

  Impelled by inexpressible terror, we collided and jostled as we rushed out into the garden.

  And just as we crossed the threshold, the house collapsed in a heap, burying in its ruins Judge Mendoza and my valet Germain, who were slower than the rest. After a few seconds of quite natural shock, we were about to attempt their rescue when we were interrupted by Raleigh, my gardener, who came running up, followed by his wife, from his cottage at the lower end of the garden.

  “The sea! The sea!” he was shouting at the top of his lungs.

  I turned toward the coast and stood without moving, frozen with stupor. Not that I had any clear grasp of what I was looking at in that twilight haze, my only thought (and it hit me instantly, like a blow) was that the familiar face of things had changed. And my heart was chilled when I realized that a world I had considered essentially immutable had been strangely modified in a minute.

  But I was not slow in recovering my presence of mind. Despite our wild boasting of a moment ago, the true superiority of man lies not in dominating or vanquishing nature. Rather, for the reflective man, it lies in comprehending, in containing, the immense universe in the microcosm of his mind. And for the man of action, it lies in preserving a cool head in the presence of rebellious matter, as if to say: “Destroy me if you will! But unnerve me—never!”

  As soon as I had collected myself, I understood in what way the scene before my eyes differed from that to which I had grown accustomed. The simple fact was that the cliff had disappeared; my garden had fallen to the level of the sea, and the waves, having destroyed the gardener’s house, were now foaming over my lowest flower-beds.

  Since it was scarcely admissible that the water had risen, it followed necessarily that the land had settled. It had fallen more than a hundred meters, the previous height of the cliff; but the descent must have been accomplished with a certain smoothness, for, after the initial jolt, we had hardly noticed it. And yet there was no other way to account for the relative calm of the ocean.

  A brief examination convinced me not only that my hypothesis was correct, but that the descent had not stopped. The sea was continuing to gain, in fact, at a rate of perhaps two meters a second, or seven or eight kilometers an hour. As a consequence, given the distance between us and the first waves, if the speed of our descent remained uniform, we were going to be swallowed up in less than three minutes.

  My decision had to be quick:

  “The auto!” I cried.

  Everyone understood. We all ran to the garage, literally dragged out the car, and packed ourselves in without ceremony. Simonat, my chauffeur, slid under the wheel, started the motor, engaged the gears, and headed for the road in fourth speed. Raleigh, who had darted ahead to open the gate, leaped on as we passed and crouched on the rear bumper.

  Just in time! When the car turned into the main road, a wave sloshed under us, wetting the wheels up to the axles. But no matter, now we could laugh at the sea’s pursuit! In spite of the excessive load, my automobile would carry us beyond its reach—unless the land should continue to sink indefinitely. In short, we had a clear field before us: two hours, at least, of ascent, and an available altitude of better than fifteen hundred meters.

  But I soon realized that we could not yet cry victory. Although the first leap of the car had carried us twenty or so meters beyond the fringe of foam, it was in vain that Simonat opened the throttle wide; our lead did not increase. Of course, the weight of twelve people was slowing the speed of the vehicle. Whatever our speed, it was exactly equaled by that of the invading water, and the distance between us remained constant.

  As soon as the others understood our disquieting predicament, they all (except Simonat, who was intent upon managing the car) turned round to watch the road behind. There was nothing but water to be seen. No sooner did we pass over a stretch of road than it would disappear beneath the advancing sea. The water was now smooth; scarcely a ripple rode in to die on a beach that was ever new. It was a tranquil lake that was swelling, always swelling, at a steady rate . . . and nothing was so grim as the pursuit of that tranquil water. It almost seemed useless to flee before it; the water was mounting, implacably with us.

  Keeping his eyes fixed on the road, Simonat said as we came to a turning:

  “Here we are at the halfway mark. An hour’s climb still ahead.”

  We shuddered—and why not! In an hour, we were going to reach the summit, and then we should have to go down again, chased, then overtaken, regardless of our speed, by the masses of water that would tumble over us like an avalanche!

  The hour passed with no change in our situation. The crest of the mountain rose just ahead. But then came a violent shock, and the vehicle gave a lurch that almost crashed it against the roadside b
ank. At the same time, an enormous wave swelled behind us, rushed up the road, rose in a curve and broke against the auto. We were plowing through foam . . . were we at last to be engulfed?

  No! The frothing water receded, while the car, with sudden life in its motor, took on renewed speed.

  What could explain this unexpected acceleration? A cry from Anna told us: the poor woman had just discovered that her husband was no longer crouching on the rear bumper. Evidently the retreating wave had carried off the unfortunate man and now the car, relieved of two hundred pounds, could make better time on the slope. But suddenly it came to a dead stop.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked Simonat. “A breakdown?”

  Even in our tragic circumstances, professional pride did not forget its rights; Simonat gave a shrug of disdain, intending me to understand that breakdowns were unknown to chauffeurs of his class. He silently pointed to the road ahead. The reason for our halt was then apparent.

  Less than ten meters in front of us, the road was cut off. “Cut” is the right word: you would have supposed it chopped by a giant cleaver. Beyond the sharp edge that abruptly terminated it was a void, a dark abyss, in the depths of which we could distinguish nothing.

  We looked behind us, aghast, certain that our last hour had come. The ocean, which had pursued us as far as these heights, would now overtake us in a few seconds.

  But, except for the unhappy Anna and her daughters, who were shaken by heartbreaking sobs, we all gave a shout. The water was no longer rising—or, more accurately speaking, the land had stopped sinking. Doubtless the shock that had nearly wrecked us had signified the end of the disturbance. The ocean, therefore, had stopped its advance, and in the gathering darkness we could see that its level stood nearly a hundred meters below where we were grouped about the auto which was still panting like an animal out of breath after a rapid race.

  Could we succeed in getting out of this bad spot? We should not know until daylight. Till then we must wait. One after another we stretched out on the ground, and I believe that I fell asleep. . . .

  IN THE NIGHT I HAVE been startled out of my sleep by a tremendous noise. What time is it? I do not know. But at least we are still plunged in the darkness of night.

  The noise is issuing from the unknown abyss into which the road ahead has fallen. What is going on down there? I judge that masses of water are dashing violently together. Yes, that must be the answer, for the spray is raining on us.

  But the quietness is gradually returning . . . complete silence once more. The sky shows a pale light. . . . Day is breaking. . . .

  May 25.

  WHAT TORTURE WORSE THAN THE slow revelation of our true predicament! A few moments ago we could make out only our immediate environment, but the circle has widened, ever widened, as if in desperation we were drawing aside curtain after curtain. And finally broad daylight destroys our last illusions.

  Our situation is quite simple and can be summed up in a few words. We are on an island. We are hemmed round by the sea. Only yesterday we would have been looking at a sea of mountain tops, several of them dominating the one on which we are standing those mountaintop have all disappeared, while, for reasons that will remain forever unknown, ours, though more humble, has been arrested in its descent; everywhere else spreads that boundless sheet of water. In every direction, nothing but the sea. We are occupying the only solid land within the immense circle of the horizon.

  A glance is sufficient to acquaint us with the whole extent of the islet that, by an extraordinary stroke of luck, has given us refuge. For it is certainly small: a thousand meters long, at the most, and five hundred wide. On the north, west, and south sides, fairly easy slopes mount to its summit, about a hundred meters above the waves. But on the east, the islet ends in a cliff that falls vertically into the ocean.

  We keep turning our eyes in that direction. There we should have the mountains, tier upon tier, and beyond them should extend all Mexico. What a transformation in one brief spring night! The mountains have vanished, and Mexico has been engulfed! In their place is an infinite desert, the barren desert of the sea!

  We look at each other in cold terror. Marooned without food or water on this narrow, naked rock, we are left with no hope at all. Bitter but resigned, we might as well lie on the ground and await the coming of death.

  Aboard the Virginia, June 4.

  WHAT HAPPENED DURING THE NEXT few days? I have retained no memory of them. It is to be supposed that I finally lost consciousness, and I came to only on board the ship that picked us up. Only then did I learn that we had remained ten whole days on the islet, and that two of our party, Williamson and Rowling, had died there of hunger and thirst. Of the fourteen people that my villa was sheltering at the moment of the cataclysm, only nine are left: my son Jean and ward Helene, my chauffeur Simonat, inconsolable over the loss of his machine, Anna Raleigh and her two daughters, Doctors Bathurst and Moreno, and finally myself.

  The Virginia, the ship that has rescued us, is a hybrid vessel, a sailer with auxiliary motors, or, if you will, a motor ship with auxiliary sails engaged in the transport of merchandise. She is a fairly old ship, of about two thousand tons, seaworthy but slow. Captain Morris has twenty men under his command. He and the crew are English.

  The Virginia left Melbourne under ballast a little over a month ago, bound for Rosario. No incident marked her crossing, except that on the eve of May 25 she encountered ground swells of a prodigious height but of a proportionate length that rendered them harmless. Singular though they were, they could give the Captain no warning of the cataclysm that was occurring at the same time. Therefore he had been highly astonished to find only the sea where he had expected to find Rosario and the Mexican coast. Of that coast, only one islet remained. A boat from the Virginia had accosted the islet, on which eleven inanimate bodies were discovered. Two were corpses; the nine others were taken aboard. And that is how we were saved.

  Ashore—January or February.

  AN INTERVAL OF EIGHT MONTHS separates the last lines of the preceding section from the present writing. I date this January or February, finding it impossible to be more precise, for I no longer have an exact notion of time.

  These eight months cover the cruelest period of our ordeal, during which suffering ever-increasing hardship, we came to know the full extent of our misfortune.

  After picking us up, the Virginia continued on her way east at full speed. When I came to myself, the islet on which we had nearly died was long since under the horizon. According to bearings taken in a cloudless sky, we were then sailing exactly where Mexico City should have been. But of Mexico City there remained no trace; nor, during my unconsciousness, had any of the central mountains been sighted; nor could we now discern any land whatever, as far as our view extended: in every direction there was only the infinity of the sea.

  We could not help wondering if not the world, but we, had gone mad. Think of it! Mexico entirely swallowed up! We exchanged frightened glances and asked ourselves how far the ravages of the terrible cataclysm had been felt. . . .

  The Captain was determined to know the answer. Changing his course, he headed north: even if Mexico no longer existed, it was unthinkable that the same could be true of the entire North American continent.

  But it was the same! For twelve days we went north without meeting land. And we met none after putting about and sailing south for nearly a month. However fantastic the fact appeared, we were compelled to surrender to the evidence: both American continents had sunk under the waves!

  Had we been rescued, then, only to know for a second time the agony of death? We truly had every right to think so. Not to mention provisions, which sooner or later must be exhausted, a pressing danger was threatening us: what should become of us when exhaustion of our fuel shut down our engines? That is why, on July 14, when we found ourselves close to the former site of Buenos Aires, Captain Morris stopped the engines and hoisted sail. That done, he assembled everyone on board the Virginia, crewmen a
nd passengers, and, having explained our situation in a few words, requested each of us to reflect upon it and to offer any solutions that occurred to us at a council to be held on the following day.

  I do not know whether any of my companions in misfortune hit upon any more-or-less intelligent expedients. For my part, I was hesitating, I confess, being very uncertain of the best course to take, when a tempest arose in the night and decided the question: we had to run toward the west before a violent wind, at every instant on the point of foundering in the raging sea.

  The hurricane lasted thirty-five days without a minute’s interruption, not even any slackening of its force. We were beginning to give up hope of its ever ending, when, on August 19, fine weather returned as abruptly as it had deserted us more than a month previously. The only good the storm had done was to provide us with a quantity of fresh water. The Captain profited by the return of the sun to take an observation; his calculations gave him forty degrees north latitude and a hundred and fourteen degrees east longitude. These were the coordinates of Peking!

  So, then, we had passed over Polynesia, and perhaps Australia, quite unawares, and were now sailing over what had been the capital of an empire of four hundred million souls!