by Theo Varlet
Vertical take-off, like a thunderbolt...
Crushed by my own weight…lost in the furious exhaust of a hundred locomotives releasing their steam wholesale…in the center of an interminable thunderclap...
The spaceship trembled under the pressure of thousands of horse-power, which accelerated it toward the zenith. One might have thought that the engine was roaring in my very ears. There was an even more violent seizure; the sensation of being crushed increased. I hadn’t closed my eyes. The stability of the spectacle that I was contemplating amazed me. No impression of movement, not the slightest oscillation revealed the fulgurant ascent—nothing but that excessive weight. My back was turned to the Comtesse but I could see my wife embedded, as it were, in her mattress. With her hands on the levers, it required a visible effort for her to advance her head to the ocular lens of the periscope. On the dial of the chronometer the second-hand was moving jerkily with infinite slowness. From the depths of my crush, I followed it with my gaze, thoughtlessly, awaiting the promised deliverance...
Another two minutes...
Had that titanic rumble of thunder rendered me permanently deaf?
Another minute…another ten seconds...five...
Beneath Aurore’s fingers, the ignition control rose up again, then the gas emission. The thunder of the engine fell silent, leaving a sudden, anguishing silence.
I saw my wife’s lips move, but her voice didn’t reach me. The brutal inversion of my sensations took possession of my consciousness; in bewilderment, I thought that my mattress had been stolen from under me.
“We’re falling!” I exclaimed. And I started so forcefully that I actually rose up. I floated above my couchette, as if by virtue of a phenomenon of spiritualist levitation.
Aurore spoke again, and this time I heard: “Don’t move! We’re in free fall. Terrestrial gravity has ceased to act upon us. An unconsidered movement risks projecting you against the wall.”
A malaise overtook me: the constriction and the emptiness in the chest that one experiences in an elevator cage slipping away beneath one at the start of a rapid descent—but the sensation was indefinitely prolonged, with a horrid onset of nausea.
Behind me, the Comtesse was gasping. I turned round. She was very pale.
“Are you suffering, Madame?” Aurora enquired, solicitously.
“Oh, I’ll get used to it, I hope,” my neighbor replied, through clenched teeth, with a determinedly furrowed brow. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Close your eyes; try to relax. If it gets worse, tell me. And you, Gaston—is it bearable?”
“Yes, tolerable so far.”
“Good. Let’s take advantage of the minutes that remain. Gently, hold on to your couch and move closer to me, in order to look through the periscope.”
I was not exercising sufficient prudence yet, for, carried away by the contraction of my muscles, I bumped my head on Aurore’s shoulder. Eventually, I succeeded in putting my eye to the ocular, and the field of outer space, far below the rocket, appeared to me.
“An enormous aerial landscape! I exclaimed, unthinkingly.
“Yes, but with one difference. We’re at an altitude greater than five hundred kilometers. You can make out the sphericity of the Earth!”
That was true. Seen from an airplane, the earth a few kilometers below always hollows out like a bowl on the horizon. Here, we were far enough away for the ground to become planetary, swollen at the center. Instead of the cartographic development of a mere valley or a département, it was a great chunk of Europe and the Mediterranean that was displayed, at a prodigious distance: a circle bounded by the coasts of Provence and Languedoc, Corsica, the Balearics, Catalonia, the snowy summits of the Pyrenees. The Île du Levant was already far to the east of our vertical course.
The simple intellectual effort of gazing increased my queasiness, however. To avoid full nausea I had to interrupt the examination and lie down on my couchette again, where I abandoned myself, with my eyes shut. Vaguely, I heard Aurore moving around the engine room, exchanging replies by wireless with the Uraniville station, and climbing up into the cabin.
Minutes went by; I slipped into unconsciousness...
Suddenly, Aurore’s voice, at close range, woke me up. “Pay attention! Madame Simodzuki has lost consciousness; her heart is hardly beating. Her organism can’t tolerate space-sickness. We have to go back down, Gaston. Hold her there on her couch while I make the preparations for landing. We’re going to put on weight again.”
The thunder of the engine, but not as loud as before; the sensation of becoming heavy again “refilled” my limbs, abolishing the frightful malaise and pinning me to my couchette; I recovered regular respiration. Then the spaceship tilted in order to return, at an angle, to the zenith of Uraniville. Hanging on to a ring on the wall with one hand, I used the other to hold the inert Comtesse still, preventing her from rolling around the cabin. The engine stopped for a minute and resumed at brief intervals. The apparatus straightened up.
When it set down on the ground of the esplanade, Madame Simodzuki was still unconscious, Engineer Northwell came through the man-hole as soon as the hatchway was open, with two mechanics and helped me to get her out, lower her down the external ladder and carry her to a divan in the chalet.
Fortunately, Miss Lat was there. In the absence of a physician, she possessed nursing diplomas and she was capable of looking after her mistress—but it took no less than two hours to bring her round.
While carrying out artificial respiration on the patient and giving her injections of caffeine, Miss Lat addressed a few sentences in English to Aurore in a reproachful tone. It was a verdict that my wife summarized for me: a further adventure of the same sort would be fatal for the Comtesse, provoking a heart attack by reflex inhibition of the vagus nerve. It was a miracle that she had escaped this time.
When Madame Simodzuki had recovered her senses she soon deduced the truth from the expression on our faces. She interrogated Aurore with anguish. The latter hesitated to speak, but the secretary informed her in a few curt and incisive words.
In silence, the Comtesse paraded a gaze of infinite desolation around, and, stiffening herself heroically in order to hold back her tears, said: “It’s all right, my friends. You’ll leave without me. It’s up to you to decide whether I can usefully be replaced by another passenger. I give you carte blanche. For the moment, leave me alone with Lat, please. I’ll try to get a little rest.”
X. The Replacement
In the afternoon, the Comtesse was able to return to the yacht, but we stayed on land until six p.m., following our work schedule. The offer to accompany us in the rocket that Aurore made to Engineer Northwell did not appear to tempt him, and she did not persist.
We were in our little cabin, waiting for the dinner bell, when a sailor knocked on the door.
“Madame Delvart, a Parisian journalist has just arrived in a motor-boat. He claims that he knows you, and this is a letter from him.”
There it was! Evidently, the young phenomenon had located us. Aurore drew closer to me so that I could see the text of the note while she was reading it herself
Dear Aunt Rette,
I told you that I would come when he time was ripe to remind you of the promise you made to take me on as a mechanic if you resumed service in astronautics. Now, I was able to watch this morning, from the naturist camp where I happened to be on vacation, the superb firework display put on by the rocket you were piloting. So, the great day is imminent. So too is the moment to keep our promise. If you don’t leave with me, be assured that you won’t leave at all. In any case, you have a crucial interest in seeing me, for a little chat. Give my best wishes to Tonton Gaston, and believed that I am more than ever,
Your respectful and devoted nephew,
Scar.
“That’s all right—you can show the gentleman in,” Aurore said, calmly, to the sailor.
The latter went out to carry out the order.
I was flabbergasted.<
br />
“Blackmail! Pure and simple! He’s going a bit far, our nephew. How did he find out?”
My wife remained pensive, devoid of indignation. She murmured: “In fact, why not? In the absence of Northwell, we might not find a better recruit than that young hothead to take Madame Simodzuki’s place.”
“What! You’ll take that young puppy? You’ll give in to him, when he’s trying to intimidate us?”
“That’s a mere detail. The fact is that we don’t have the time to look for someone else to complete our crew. Besides which, what if I don’t take him? He’ll surely contrive, as he’s threatening, to prevent our departure in the present circumstances.”
She was not mistaken. When the young phenomenon had been introduced into the cabin, he confessed without further ado that his arrangements were already made in case we refused to take him with us. With the smile of a child preparing a practical joke he said to us:
“You’re aware the state of public opinion, and there are even more reasons to be angry in Toulon than in Paris. The Navy, moreover, is obsessed with a serious matter of espionage. It won’t hesitate to come down heavily your experiments if it’s notified of their nature, and it would be quite impossible for you to continue them. Which might perhaps be very fortunate for you, because you don’t know—you can’t even imagine—to what material perils you’ll now be exposing yourselves by leaving without me. You have enemies you don’t suspect. I can protect you from them.”
And as I laughed incredulously, he continued with apparent conviction: “I swear to you, Tonton, that I’m serious. Certainly, it’s first and foremost because I have a great desire to go…to give myself the chance of an ultra-sensational reportage, that I’ve come to impose myself upon you, but that’s not my only reason. By accompanying you, I repeat, I can protect you from a danger more serious than the mere threat of arrest.”
“Which won’t hold up, as you know perfectly well.”
“I know—but the apparatus will be seized regardless, and your departure spoiled. So, it’s agreed, you’ll take me on?”
I got in ahead of Aurore’s reply. “Not so fast, my friend! We have other means of warding off your attempted blackmail. We could, for example, keep you aboard until we depart.”
“Arbitrary sequestration? A black mark for Madame la Comtesse. If you keep me aboard, I’ve left a sealed letter in safe hands in Toulon, which will be transmitted to the Admiralty at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. And I have no need to tell you what will follow. On the other hand, if you give me your word to take me, I’ll use your wireless transmitter to send an agreed message signifying that everything’s in order here. The letter won’t go, in that case—and I’ll be leaving with you.”
I was both furious at so much impudence and convinced of the necessity of yielding to it. Aurore had already made her decision. She replied: “Come on, Scar, how did you know?”
“How did I know? That, I can’t say. Professional secret. But it was elementary, for a journalist of my stripe. You can lock yourself up here as in an entrenched camp, but you aren’t naïve enough to believe that you can prevent a secret from leaking out when you have a crew of thirty men and technicians, not to mention the comings and goings of the fishermen. I’ve already told you that I’m passionate about detective work—and it’s four days since I arrived in the naturist camp. So it’s settled, Rette? You’re taking me?”
In a fit of anger, I said to my wife: “How can we trust him? He’s capable of betraying us.”
But Aurore calmed me down. “As soon as I agree to take him with us, Oscar has no reason to betray us. Our interests become his. He will, on the contrary, facilitate our departure. Yes, Scar, it’s agreed; we’ll take you.”
“Thank you my dear Aunt!” the rascal cried, joyfully. “You understand me, at least. You do me justice. I’d like to be able to explain…I will explain, later. By the way, it’s necessary that you give me permission, in your interest as well as mine, to go to the naturist camp tomorrow.”
Aurore did not appear to notice that he was blushing with embarrassment, as if caught between two contradictory sentiments.
“All right, my friend—do what you think best. I’ll give you a safe conduct to leave and return by the path to Petit-Avis.”
“Good…and when do we leave?”
“The day after tomorrow. Tomorrow, a one-hour flight to test your resistance to space-sickness. It’s important, therefore, that you obtain at least two more days of tranquility for us.”
“All right. I can get you three or four, as regards the press, by deflecting suspicion temporarily. I don’t think the Navy will be better informed.”
“Well, Scar, I’ll introduce you to the Captain right away, and you can give him your message, so that he can send it by radio. Then we’ll go see Madame Simodzuki. You can have dinner with us and sleep aboard.”
XI. The Unexpected
The morning of the seventeenth began under a cloudy sky, which irritated the nerves. At eight o’clock, taking advantage of the launch that was ferrying Engineer Northwell and the technicians, Aurore and I went to Uraniville, with Oscar.
I’ve already noted, with regard to protection against intruders, that one could reach the port of Petit-Avis and the naturist camp by means of a path over the plateau. That path, departing from behind the hangars, immediately plunged into the brushwood; six hundred meters further on, on the ridge where it intersected with another path going up to Rieu-Frey, the sailor of guard was stationed.
It was by that route that the young journalist went to the camp of Heliopolis. I went with him as far as the bifurcation. When the sentry had checked his permit signed by the Comtesse, I let him go on alone and went back to the esplanade.
At ten o’clock the sound of an engine overhead caused us to look up; a Navy hydroplane was coming straight toward us from the north-west. It described a circle over the clearing, as if to inspect the location. It came so low that we could make out the features of the observer leaning over the edge of the cockpit, binoculars aimed. Then it went back the way it had come.
That circumstance further aggravated the nervous tension due to the stormy atmosphere. I wondered whether Oscar might have betrayed us, but Aurore opposed that hypothesis, and the young man’s own distressed expression, when he reappeared a quarter of an hour later, clearly showed that he was as anxious as we were, and desirous of seeing the departure take place without any impediment.
He told us that gendarmes had just arrived in Petit-Avis.
I tried to joke. “Gendarmes? Why? Have the naturists caused a scandal?”
“No. It must be to do with the espionage business. Perhaps an accomplice has taken refuge in the camp.”
What if the gendarmes took it into their heads also to explore Uraniville?
Until midday, we are clawed by the fear of seeing them emerge from the path. The dead air has become utterly stifling. We are breathing with a veritable anguish—but lunch time arrives without anything happening.
The test flight is scheduled for three p.m. For fear of an offensive return of the hydroplane, the Rocket remains in its hangar, man-hole open, ready for launch. It will be taken out at the last moment.
The technicians go to their canteen, near the cable-car; the sailors go back on board. We go to the chalet to join Madame Simodzuki. While eating, with no appetite, and listening to inconsequential conversation I gaze through the window at the deserted esplanade under the leaden sky and notice for the first time that a visitor with evil intentions could—if the vegetation were not impenetrable from outside, and if we were not well-guarded—introduce himself into the rocket’s hangar by slipping in from the path to Avis, which ends behind it, and where there is a small door...
I even imagine, momentarily that I see a fugitive form...
I must look haggard. Aurore, sitting opposite, is looking at me anxiously. But I keep quiet about my vision and shake off my absurd haunting. It’s the stories of espionage and the weather affecting my brain
.
At half past one the storm breaks. Sudden decision: we’ll take advantage of it by bringing the flight forward; perhaps it will pass unnoticed in the rain and the rumbles of thunder. The engineer runs to the canteen and disrupts the technicians’ siesta; they arrive at the double as the first drops fall. In two minutes, hauled by its electric windlass, the Rocket, on its departure cart, is in the open in the middle of the esplanade.
Hasty farewells, under the commencing deluge.
Northwell shakes our hands. “Good luck. See you soon.”
Miss Lat, who is afraid of water, like a cat, stays inside in order to shelter from it. The Comtesse, as emotional as if it were the great departure, kisses Aurore on both cheeks. Unable to participate in the excursion, she is obtaining compensation by taking personal charge of the radiotelephone link with the apparatus.
“In fifteen minutes, Aurore, when you have stopped the engine, station yourself at the receiver.” And to Oscar, for whom she has conceived a sudden affection, she says in a jovial tone that fails to conceal her sentiment: “Better luck than I had with the space-sickness.”
“Oh, I’ll get over it, Madame, have no fear. A good journalist...”
And, as if impatient to take possession of the engine, the young reporter climbed the rocket’s exterior ladder first, briskly, and disappeared through the man-hole.
In my turn I climbed the rungs, and my nephew helped me to introduce myself into the cabin—a rather awkward operation. Scarcely had Aurore joined us than Oscar asked her, in a tone in which I thought I could discern anxiety: “We’re going down into the engine-room, eh, Rette?”
“Yes—this time it’s a matter of checking resistance to space-sickness.”