by Emile Calvet
Another part of the scene, however, took their astonishment to the limit. As far as the eye could see, the portion of the causeway that was not invaded by verdure presented a uniform surface, as clean and shiny as the deck of a ship. The color of that singular coating was reminiscent of the shade of bistre brown.
The travelers were losing themselves in conjectures regarding the nature of that astonishing pavement when their attention was attracted by a confused noise of speech, which became gradually more distinct.
Soon, a group of people emerged from behind a bush, heading toward the balustrade. At the sight of the three strangers, a rapid expression of astonishment crossed their faces, but they continued their conversation regardless.
“The Éclair,” said one, “has a much faster speed; it only takes seven hours to fly from Paris to Tawai Pounamou, stopovers included.”7
“Tawai Pounamou!” repeated the professor, in a low voice.
“Do you know that country?” asked Gédéon.
“Of course—it’s in the region where I was nearly put on the spit.”
“The exhibition was truly remarkable,” the speaker in the group continued. “The electric studios were of a rare perfection, the chemistry collections very abundant and very varied, and the photopainting salon merited the eulogies of all the critics. As for the metal exchange—and I can speak with authority because, in my capacity as a founder, I’ve visited all those in the world, I can affirm that I’ve never seen one as grandiose.”
“Did you buy anything?” asked the man to his left.
“I bought three hundred tons of platinum,” the industrialist replied, modestly.
Terrier pricked up his ears.
“That’s a provision that will permit the whole city to renew its saucepans,” said his interlocutor, laughing.
“Damn!” murmured the physicist, “I used to pay five hundred francs apiece for my medium-sized capsules.”
The doctor, who had not take his eyes off the ground of the avenue, suddenly intervened in the conversation. “Messieurs,” he asked, taking off his hat, to the voyager who had mentioned New Zealand with so much enthusiasm, “Would you kindly give us some enlightenment with regard to the magnificent paving of your city.”
“Certainly, Monsieur. The covering of the ground, throughout the city, is made of molded wood.”
“Molded wood?”
“Of course. You’re not unaware that disintegrated wood, bound by certain chemical substances, can take any form when it is still in its pulp state, and that, as soon as it is hardened by heat, it has the solidity of cast steel.”
“Of course,” Antius replied, with embarrassment.
“Well, Monsieur, Sweden, Norway, Finland and a part of Siberia count among their most flourishing industries that of pulverized wood, which arrives here in bulk, and which we treat on location. As for precious woods from the equatorial regions, they are, as you know, reserved for the fabrication of furniture, which can take the richest and most varied forms at slight expense. The pavement of Paris, as you can see for yourself, is in Northern fir, molded over a layer of asphalt, and it lasts forever.”
“The procedure is truly marvelous,” exclaimed Antius, who was not generally given to enthusiasm.
“It’s certain,” affirmed a stroller who had not yet spoken, swelling with pride, “that Paris is better paved than any other city in the world, not even excepting Constantinople.”
The travelers bowed to the group and drew away.
“Why did that odd fellow mention Constantinople?” said Antius, suddenly slapping his forehead. “Everyone knows that the streets in the Turkish capital are replaced by mud and dilapidated staircases, and that stray dogs are in sole charge of the city’s cleaning. What do you think of this molded wood, Terrier?”
“Very highly. That invention—or, rather, that progress in kind—should not surprise us at all, for you’ll certainly recall that the industry of hardened wood was already applied in our day to the manufacture of certain objects of ornamentation. It’s evident that the timid trials of our contemporaries have, thanks to the incessant progress of the applied sciences, led to the results that we have before our eyes.”
A broad stairway descended to the avenue at a gentle slope. They went down slowly.
“What a magical city!” said Gédéon. “How vast, rich and superb everything is! Only demigods are worthy of living here, that’s for sure!”
The foreigners had been walking in silence for some time when the physicist stopped and gripped each of his companions by the arm.
“It’s certain,” he said, pursuing aloud a train of thought that he had been ruminating privately for some time, “that the extraordinary abundance of platinum, a metal once rare and very precious, corroborates the affirmation of the first citizen we encountered here, with regard to the scant value of gold. Not only should that situation not surprise us, but it was inevitable. Armed with the incomparable force of aerial navigation, seconded by machines of a perfection and a power that we can hardly imagine, the engineers of the 29th century must certainly have extracted from the Earth a notable proportion of the wealth distributed at its surface.”
At that moment, a shrill whistle resounded behind the travelers, who turned their heads abruptly.
A vehicle with three wheels, rather singular in form, seemingly moving of its own accord, was bearing down upon them with the rapidity of an arrow. They moved aside swiftly, and the vehicle went past them, with no other sound than a series of multiple crepitations, accompanied by myriads of blue sparks, springing from the tips of a metal brush applied to the axle of the large wheels.
Semi-recumbent in the tricycle, an individual with a placid physiognomy was nonchalantly using his left hand to operate a tiller that controlled the rear wheel.
“That’s a very ingenious electrical apparatus,” the doctor remarked.
“All the more ingenious,” added the physicist, “because it must furnish motive force and light at the same time, for the lens it carries in front is certainly illuminated by a slight deviation of the principal current.”
Several locomotives of the same kind appeared successively in the lateral paths without coming into the central causeway, which appeared to be exclusively reserved for pedestrians. The drivers had the skill to meet all challenges, for, on several occasions, two vehicles that appeared to be about to crash into one another, having almost made contact, avoided one another by describing the most graceful curves.
“Well,” exclaimed Gédéon, marveling, “if I had been informed that Paris will one day enclose a genuine lake, my imagination as a champion of the Rowing Club would have been singularly delighted. The hypothesis of aerial navigation would only have found me mulish—but anyone who had claimed that carriages would one day move of their own accord would have been strongly suspected of having delved into the old papers of Cyrano de Bergerac.”
The travelers reached the central causeway.
Two hundred meters away, the view was partly interrupted by a quadrangular pyramid. Twenty curious individuals seemed to be examining its faces with keen interest.
“Why do all those citizens have their noses in the air?” asked Gédéon. “Are they participating in some religious ceremony practiced at sunrise? Are we looking at a Parsi sect? Oh—that’s odd!”
“What is?” said Antius.
“I can see a strange movement in the middle of the face of the pyramid.”
The two scientists concentrated their gazes on the monolith, vainly.
“I can’t see anything,” the professor declared.
“But I, who have the visual acuity of a lynx,” replied the young man, “can clearly see a wide pale blue strip, which is gradually extending and has already attained an area a meter square. Now it’s stopped moving.”
“Let’s go closer,” said Antius, enthusiastically.
At fifty paces, Gédéon exclaimed: “But the strip has printing on it.”
“It’s probably some official
notice that has just appeared,” said the professor.
Moved by curiosity, they increased their pace, and soon found themselves close enough to the pyramid to recognize that the physicist’s conjecture was well-founded.
“That’s truly prodigious,” said Gédéon.
In the meantime, the crowd had dispersed in all directions. They continued forward and stopped in front of a frame about a meter square, which was imprinted from top to bottom in large letters.
Without pausing before offering his services, Gédéon said: “Listen,” and with a certain tremor in his voice read aloud: “Official bulletin, Sunday fifteenth June 2880. Night telegrams, Dover eleven forty-two. The fifth arch of the bridge from Calais to Dover has been severely shaken by the tempest that been raging in the Channel in recent days. Nevertheless, the engineers affirm that traffic ought not to be interrupted, and that a few hours should be sufficient to repair the damage.”
“A bridge over the Channel!” exclaimed the doctor.
“I foresaw that,” said the physicist, tranquilly. “It must be the eighth wonder of the world, having victoriously superseded that frightful tunnel, which, by some strange mental aberration, had won the favor of our contemporaries.” To the astonished young man he said: “Go on.”
“Gladly. Panama, six p.m. A portion of the old track established along the Darien Canal, which once linked the two Oceans, has just collapsed because of insufficient repair work. Discussions have begun on the subject in the Society of Engineers of the State of Colombia. A few members have proposed that things be left as they are, considering that the track, and the canal even more so, no longer have any utility, by virtue of atmospheric transportation, but the majority, opposing these conclusions, has taken the view that the central government of the Southern States should make funds available as a matter of urgency for the execution of the repairs necessary to the conservation of that work of great archeological value.”
“So the isthmus of Panama has finally been pierced?” said the doctor.
“Some time ago,” replied Gédéon, “For they’re talking about conserving the canal as an antiquity. But what does track mean?”
“It means,” said Terrier, “that because the canal was not adequate to the abundance of traffic, a railway track was established on one of its banks.”
“The reasoning is plausible,” said Antius. Feverishly, he bade his nephew: “Continue.”
Gideon read: “Bangkok, fifteenth June, eleven a.m... are they mad out there? Eleven a.m., when it’s only seven o’clock in the morning?”
“Bangkok is ninety-nine degrees east of Paris,” the professor replied. “We are, therefore, ninety-nine degrees west of that capital, and our clocks have always been six hours thirty-six minutes behind those of that longitude.”
“Since it seems clear to you, I’ll go on: Bangkok, fifteenth June, eleven a.m. In spite of the inferiority of our agricultural exploitation, which still employs steam as a motive force, the rice harvest has been very abundant this year. Everything suggests that the wine harvest will be no less fortunate, the disastrous effects of storms having been partially annulled by the hailshields.”
“Hailshields?” queried the physicists.
“Yes, it’s certainly a barbaric term,” the young man. “I’m familiar with lightning-conductors, windbreaks, umbrellas and so on,8 but I only know two ways of avoiding being damaged by hail: get under cover or have oneself vaccinated. What astonishes me even more is their harvest of wine. I thought they only drank water.”
“For myself,” Antius said, “nothing surprises me on the part of people who confess, with embarrassment, that agriculture in their country is still reduced to the employment of steam engines. What system do the others employ? What other surprises does this astonishing newssheet still have in reserve for us?”
“I’ve only read half of it,” Gédéon replied.
From two lateral faces of the monolith, which they had not yet been able to examine, seven prolonged and equally-spaced sonorous vibrations sprang forth simultaneously.
The reader continued: “Tripoli, fifteenth June, five a.m. The anticipations of our meteorological observatory have been fulfilled. The Algerian Sea has been troubled since yesterday evening by a furious tempest, which is attaining its maximum intensity at this moment. All the coastal ports were warned several days ago, and we may hope that no disasters will occur.”
“The Algerian Sea!” Antius exclaimed. “That’s strange.”
“Of course,” the professor riposted. “It had to happen. Do you recall that all observations had demonstrated that the Sahara is merely a dried-up sea. Have you forgotten the works of Captain Roudaire?9 Don’t you remember that at the very moment we left the old world, the question of the Tunisian chotts was on everyone’s mind? I’m convinced that the riches of the old world must be concentrated today on the shores of that sea, created by human hands.”
“Yes,” Antius added, “those immense extents where dryness, desolation and death once rules, must now by furrowed by thousands of ships, which must cram their holds with the inexhaustible riches of the Sudan and the surrounding countries. Who knows whether the heart of Africa might now be occupied by powerful and civilized nations?” To his nephew, he added: “Go on.”
“Ujiji, fifteenth June, three a.m...”
“You’re right, Antius,” said Terrier. “Here we are in the heart of Africa. It’s at Ujiji, on the eastern shore of Lake Tanganyika, that the celebrated explorer Stanley, sent by the New York Herald, found the great Livingstone.”
“Ujiji, fifteenth June, three a.m. The inauguration of the aerostatic palace has been celebrated by a grand fête. The number of curiosity-seekers hastening from all points of Central Africa has been estimated at five hundred thousand. A gala concert was put on by the government for the members of the conference, and the presidents, vice-presidents and secretaries of the five hundred scientific Societies arrived from all over the continent. The sight of the hall of the Grand Opera was magical. For the next week there are to be free performances in the capital’s twenty-two theaters.”
Gédéon raised his arms into the air. “All these extravagances are making my head spin!” he cried. “Personally, I think that if there’s an Opera House out there, one would count more caimans and hippopotamuses in the orchestra stalls than music-lovers. This is the rest of it: Yesterday, before an illustrious assembly in the great hall of the Museum, Professor Aboko gave a very interesting lecture on the history of the discoveries that led to aerial locomotion. Have we been afflicted by some gigantic hallucination?”
“All this is indeed marvelous,” said the physicist, who now seemed to be armored against any surprise, “but it’s all perfectly rational.”
IV. A Useful Monument
At that moment, a rapid shadow ran over their feet. On raising their heads, they perceived another moving object, a hundred meters from the ground, with powerful metallic wings that were cleaving the air with hurricane speed.
Either because they were used to the spectacle in question or because the sight of the three men at whom they were directing astonished gazes interested them more, the strollers passing close by did not deign to look up in the air.
“Another balloon,” said Antius, “but this one has moving wings.”
“Wings and a tail,” added Terrier, “for it’s steered by a powerful rudder.”
Gédéon, who had gone around the side of the pyramid, suddenly exclaimed: “Here’s practical people for you!”
The two scientists went forward and found themselves facing a large white marble plaque, in the center of which was the dial of a monumental clock, indicating the hour, the minute, the second, the day of the month, the day of the week, the phase of the moon, the coordinates of the sun and the equivalent time at the principal points of the globe.
At the top, fixed symmetrically in the corners, there was a pair of thermometers to the left, one graduated in centigrade divisions, the other with a maximum and a minimum
indicating the highest and lowest temperatures of the day, and an extremely sensitive aneroid barometer to the right.
In one of the lower corners, an admirable celestial planisphere was painted in dark blue, on which the stars were represented in relative dimensions by exceedingly bright dots. In the other, the gaze was arrested by a complex instrument containing a hygrometer and a udometer, the construction of which intrigued the physicist greatly.
“Have you not been struck,” he said, suddenly, “by the extraordinary brightness of those brilliant dots representing the heavenly bodies?” He pointed to the planisphere, presently inundated by sunlight, and added: “They’re diamonds.”
Gédéon looked at his former teacher in amazement.
“That’s true,” said Antius, after an attentive examination. “They’re probably manufactured today with the same facility as window-glass.”
Continuing their inspection of the pyramid, the travelers found that the third face was entirely occupied by a vast and very detailed terrestrial planisphere. The four corners enclosed statistical tables, which seemed extremely complicated at first glance.
The fourth face of the monolith was a reproduction of he second, with the result that the two clocks were visible from two long avenues that intersected the one they had been following at this point. The pyramid was erected at the junction of two causeways.
The sun was now high above the horizon and the sky was shining with a remarkable purity. The large bands of shadow that extended beneath the dense foliage of the quadruple row of trees seemed black. Thousands of birds with bright plumage were hopping from branch to branch, like winged gems. An atmosphere of incomparable calm, restfulness and coolness enveloped the magnificent pathways.
Tormented by a legitimate curiosity, the three men had so far remained almost insensible to the ardor of the sun.
“What frightful heat!” Antius exclaimed, all of a sudden, having been unconsciously sponging his face for some moments, after having pushed his skullcap back to the confines of the occiput. “Let’s go sit down under the trees—there are comfortable benches. At any rate, we urgently need to consider our situation. I confess that, for my part, I’m extremely anxious.”