The Martian Epic
Page 18
“We must be over the Pas-de-Calais by now,” I declared. “In 20 minutes we can go down in search of fuel—at Arras, if my calculations are accurate…”
Either they were not, or the wind had thrown us off course, for it was the grey and dismal surface of the Channel that soon appeared below us. The rain had stopped; a coastline of deserted dunes was visible to port, forming a sort of profound gulf towards which I steered.
“The mouth of the Seine?” Raymonde guessed.
“There would be cliffs, my love, not dunes…”
Suddenly, enlightenment dawned: those sands uncovered by the ebb-tide; that estuary extending deep into the flat countryside; those lines of poplars…
“It’s the bay of the Somme!” I exclaimed. And I recognized the port of Hourdel, then Le Crotoy, and, further away to the south, the green pastures and the dike of Saint-Valéry, where—three months earlier, in the immeasurably distant past of Another Time—I had contemplated the effects of clouds, sunsets, and the periodic transformations of the bay as it was dried out to a vast extent and re-invaded by the tide, when the fishing-smacks returned under full sail, in a line of ten, twenty or thirty, following the sinuous course of the channel with the grace of dancers: the “ballet of the boats,” as I called it!
But the thought of our friends, in danger at the other end of France, forbade any distraction. After rapid glance over the ancient elms of Cap Hornu and the little town, which, like every other, bore the stigmata of the era of calamity—the outlying district of La Ferté was reduced to ruins, and a cloud of purple smoke extended from the floodgates to Pinchefalise—we went up the valley of the Somme at top speed.
The sky became clearer. It seemed best to make the most of the clear conditions rather than refueling, so we flew over Abbeville at speed, and 20 minutes later I left Amiens—still dominated by its majestic cathedral—to port in order to veer southwards.
“Why are you slowing down, my love?” Raymonde asked, noticing the change of direction.
“I’m not slowing down—look, the control-levers are flat to the boards. It’s the motor that’s weakening. It’ll soon stop, I think…”
The rotor-blades were only turning jerkily; further ignition got them going again, but then they stopped completely. We had broken down—at 800 meters!
Used to helicopter descents, the unexpected deployment of the parachute-planes threw us into confusion; a moment’s hesitation caused us to miss a field suitable for landing, and we touched down within the walls of a large estate, in which there appeared to be a vegetable-garden, where some 15 individuals were at work. Bizarrely, not one of them raised his head or attempted to get out of the way. We got down without injury, though still dazed by a slightly rough landing, but all the people continued placidly plying their spades and hoes. Even those who must have been brushed by our slipstream as we went by seemed to be ignoring the presence, ten paces away, of the helicopter that had plunged out of the sky directly on top of the glass covering a melon-patch!
We climbed down from the cockpit without thinking, in our surprise, of arming ourselves with out blasters. I made a circuit of the machine and discovered a slight fissure in the tank from which the fuel must have leaked—the sole cause, undoubtedly, of our breakdown. Then Raymonde drew my attention to four further individuals: three men in formal but decorative frock-coats and an exceedingly fat woman, who were advancing toward us.
“It’s not always Soviets,” I murmured. “They have a rather doctoral air about them…”
“Well, gentlemen,” commenced the tallest, having arrived within two paces of us, “that’s a singular means of introducing yourselves! You’re the first patients to have come to us by air—but that doesn’t matter; we’ll care for you like the others… Our philanthropy knows no bounds. Isn’t that so, Miss Tarry?”
The fat woman, whose black silk bodice was decorated with academic palms, replied in a shrill voice and a strong English accent: “Perhaps they aren’t patients, though, Monsieur le Directeur. The young man, especially…” And she addressed a gracious smile to “Raymond,” on whom she feasted her eyes.
The so-called director’s eyes disturbed me; bright blue, they had a fixed stare so intense that I turned to look at his more normal acolytes.
“Monsieur,” I said, “We have been commissioned by Doctor Wronsky to recruit affiliates for a new Institute that he is founding at Montpellier, in the Faculty of Medicine…”
The man with the magnetic eyes interrupted me. “Ah, Montpellier! That’s another thing altogether! You’ve come on behalf of Doctor Maigret, then? A bit dotty, old Maigret… Jealous of my success, no doubt? But it’s necessary, between colleagues… I won’t hide anything from you, since you’re doctors… You are doctors, aren’t you?”
I mumbled a few vague words. The man positively intimidated me, but I was attempting to correct the misunderstanding when the fat woman, who had placed herself a little behind the rest of the group, began signaling to “Raymond” to be careful.
His eyes as disquieting as ever, the “director” rubbed his hands and continued: “You seem like reasonable men, in fact. No need to go to extremes with you. My philanthropy will seduce you, I’m sure…but we must take care of your machine first, since you’re here at the house—for a long time, I hope!” He tapped his foot with sudden violence and shouted: “Let it be, damn it! I forbid you to touch it!” He had interposed himself, threateningly, between me and the helicopter. A shouted “Hey! Come here, everyone!” had caused the gardeners to come running, and he gave them an order to roll it into a nearby shed.
What madness it had been to leave our blasters in the cockpit, entrusting ourselves to the apparent safety of this non-Soviet domain!
Raymonde darted an anxious glance at me—but what could we do against 15 resolute men armed with spades and pickaxes, obedient, with canine docility, to the fascinating state of the “director,” to whose magnetic ascendancy we were submissive ourselves? Would not a protest be sufficient to compromise the situation irredeemably?
Pushed by vigorous arms, our helicopter disappeared into the shed—an old automobile garage, in which I saw, with a beating heart, several drums of fuel which seemed to me to be heavy, and therefore full!
But the “director” cornered me again, the obese Miss Tarry took “Raymond” by the arm, and, followed by the other two “doctors,” we were obliged to go into the main building, where the dinner bell was ringing at full volume. Having become jovial again, the “director”—who told me that his name was Doctor Landru—completed my confusion with a continuous stream of questions relating to Montpellier, Doctor Maigret and his pupils; fortunately, he did not listen to my replies, and leapt from one subject to another, even putting in jokes: “Oh yes, an excellent doctoress, Miss Tarry; her first name is Odile, so I call her ‘O. Tarry’—Otary, you understand? Ha ha ha ha!”19
And he stopped in order to laugh more easily, racked by a fit of contagious merriment in which the two doctors and Miss O. Tarry herself joined.
Raymonde took the opportunity to move closer to me and whisper; “Be careful, darling. Above all, don’t mention…” But her fat companion drew her away. Doctor Landru invited me to climb the front steps, and I did not understand the signs that Raymonde was making by way of completing her thought. What was it that I must not mention? What danger was looming over us?
We arrived in a sort of grand refectory, which reminded me of my schooldays. On a platform elevated by two steps, a table was set for six, at which we took our places. On the inferior level, further tables were furnished with benches. The gardeners, who had followed us in, occupied two of them. Then the door opened to admit a file of peasants carrying hand-baskets. Walking automatically, as if entranced, these newcomers came up to Landru one by one. He clasped their hands, while the doctors emptied the hand-baskets: turkeys, ducks, chickens, rabbits, slabs of butter, cheeses—heaps of victuals that gradually filled up two vast baskets. I counted 28 peasants, who sat down in their tur
n with the gardeners.
“All our patients are here?” intoned the director. “Yes—begin serving!”
Four domestics in green aprons appeared, pushing compartmentalized carts full of steaming plates that were deposited in front of each diner: a dozen boiled potatoes.
“Eat!” ordered Landru. “Eat these fine Arcachon oysters! They’re good—tell me that they’re good!”
Meekly, the troop of gardeners and peasants released little cries of gastronomic delight, while avidly sinking their teeth into the potatoes.
“Eat! It’s chicken with petit pois! Drink! It’s chilled champagne!”
“It’s chicken with petit pois! It’s chilled champagne! Oh, it’s good! Long live Doctor Landru!” exclaimed the unfortunate “subjects” competitively.
The sinister truth had finally become apparent to me: Doctor Landru, a master hypnotist, had mesmerized all these men; the gardeners and peasants had become his slaves! The swine had profited from the present disorder, which put him beyond the reach of justice, to indulge himself to the full, at no other expense than the magnetic passes designed to obtain the obedience of those he called “his patients.”
Indignation choked me; it was impossible to swallow a mouthful of what was served at our table—chicken with petits pois, authentic in this case—or sip the champagne that was bubbling in my glass. Raymonde had also understood, and darted horrified glances at me clandestinely across the table, while the fat “doctoress,” leaning towards her, looked longingly at her with eyes illuminated by wine and concupiscence.
“The latest news!” Landru announced, stemming the flow of his incoherent pleasantries to take a newspaper from his pocket. “Here are the day’s true news items, the only ones in which you can believe. Listen! Those who tell you anything else are liars! All goes well. The great boxer Jim Frangicrane has become world champion. Monsieur Gideon Botram, second Terrestrial Doctor, laid the first stone of a new hospital for stray dogs in Pantin yesterday. An interview with Monsieur Ladislas Wronsky on the prospect of connecting America and Asia by means of a Transpacific Tube similar to the Transatlantic Tube. The first tests of a turbine-driven helicopter…”
I was no longer listening. The sight of all those poor deluded men, stuffing themselves with potatoes that they believed to be oysters and chicken, welcoming last year’s news, presented as today’s facts by the impostor Landru, with beatific smiles…the absurd monstrosity made me literally lose control of myself.
“This is madness!” I shouted. “Pure madness! So you don’t know anything, here? The torpedoes, the Martian shells, the devastated cities, a third of Humankind killed by the gas, the fires, the earthquakes, the plague! You don’t know….”
What an uproar! “Liar! Liar!” howled the “patients.”
“Villain! False brother! Spy!” the two “doctors” shouted in my ear, while holding me down and punching me vigorously. O. Tarry grabbed “Raymond” round the waist.
“Ah! A trickster! So you’re a patient too! Well, don’t worry, we’ll soon see to that!” jeered the “director” as he leaned over me.
I was helpless. I felt the terrible blue eyes fascinate mine, irresistibly; they poured vertigo and confusion into my brain with very passing second. Ah! An inspiration! Pretend! Pretend to fall into a trance before the hypnosis actually has that effect! And I pretended: rolling back my eyes, letting my eyelids fall half-closed, I slumped into inertia.
“Are you asleep?”
“Yes, I’m asleep.”
“You belong to me now. You will believe everything I tell you! You will do everything I order you to do!”
“Yes. I will believe it. I will do it.”
“To begin with, you will go to work with your fellow patients. You understand. Potard and Bahut,20 I confide him to you. Put him through his paces—he’s a ‘new boy.’ Get going! Move!”
And I was obliged to get up, mechanically, to take my place among the gardeners, hiding my anguish with respect to Raymonde under an inert and somnambulistic mask. I remembered with relief that she was unresponsive to hypnotic suggestion—but would it occur to her to pretend?”
“Now for the other!” said Landru. “What’s the matter, O. Tarry? Why are you turning your head away?”
“He’s so young! So nice!” pleaded the doctoress.
“He’s a patient—I have to cure him!”
“A colleague…” one of the doctors put in, in his turn.
“I’m getting angry! Enough, in God’s name! Don’t pester me any more, or I’ll hypnotize the lot of you!”
With extraordinary promptitude, the new “subject” appeared to be plunged into a hypnotic trance. O joy—she was pretending!
“You see,” said Landru. “That didn’t take long.”
“He went off very quickly,” objected the shorter “doctor.”
“Pah! Who can resist me? And you…besides, look!” While I stifled an exclamation, he pricked Raymonde’s arm vigorously with the tine of a fork. “He’s fast asleep!”
And he completed his orders to the “new boy” with this suggestion: “You will also obey O. Tarry!”
My dear companion played the comedy necessary to our salvation even better than I did. Without addressing the slightest sign of intelligence to me, she came to stand by my side among the gardeners. All afternoon, as if they had received an order, the latter watched us closely. Until the bell sounded for “supper,” we had to work with all our might digging up potatoes in the vegetable-garden where we had set down, only a few steps away from the shed in which our helicopter was locked, without being able to exchange a word—for hypnotized subjects do not speak unless ordered; it gets in the way of work!
Raging internally, our hands blistered and grazed by the pick-handles, we had to return, in line with the other “patients,” to the accursed refectory, to eat the meal—boiled carrots, this time, relabeled stuffed calves’ brains en tortue and vanilla ice cream—to the accompaniment of the sniggers of the accomplices on the platform, who were guzzling those dishes for real, and to submit to the news from a Grand Parisien of the previous year.
Then came the injunction: “Go to bed!” One of the domestics led us to a room on the first floor where he left us alone in the dark, without even turning the key in the door, such was his absolute confidence in the suggestive power of the “director.”
After we had washed ourselves silently, Raymonde told me in a whisper about the new danger that confronted us: O. Tarry had commanded “Raymond” to join her in her room at 10:30 p.m—in two hours! All was lost if we could not find a means of escape before then. But what were we to do? Our windows, looking out over the grounds, were furnished with stout bars; besides, ferocious barking proved to us that there was no chance by that route. Inside, there was silence. Everyone was asleep. The helicopter! If we could get to the shed, and if the two drums were indeed full…there would be enough fuel to reach Amiens! No, there was no other way to save ourselves.
On our way, then! Taking every precaution, groping our way along dark and silent corridors…the staircase…the hallway…the garden…still no one. And there, in the starlight, the dark mass of the shed….
Alas, a sonorous snore alerted us that someone was asleep in the garage. But no—we could not retreat in the face of that obstacle. Seizing a spade abandoned on the threshold, I opened the door. The snoring ceased.
“Your electric torch!” I said to Raymonde, “switch it on!”
In the luminous beam, a man appeared, propped up on his elbow and rubbing his eyes.
“Quiet, or you’re a dead man!” I told him, my weapon upraised.
Instead of obeying, he threw himself towards me, with a prolonged howl. With one blow, struck with all my might, I split his skull, and finished him off with two more blows.
“Quickly, quickly!” I hissed at Raymonde, who was petrified with horror. “Light a lamp so that we can see what we’re doing! Open the fuel-tank—I’ll see to the drums.”
Three of them were
intact! The task of filling up was executed as if in a dream, but so very slowly, in the context of our frantic haste, made more acute by the distant sound of shouting coming from the main building!
The barking was coming closer…opening the garage doors wide to let the helicopter out, I threw myself into the cockpit behind Raymonde and closed the door. What a joy it would be to be under way!
The motor started purring just as two furious dogs hurled themselves against the rotor blades. They turned, striking the dogs down and drawing us out of the shed, into the midst of the crowd of our enemies, who were running and howling.
Its members were mown down; our downdraft became violent, crushing their bodies. In the open air that was finally above our heads, the supportive blades whirled at top speed, and we rose up from the ground—saved!
We headed straight for the lights of Amiens, a few kilometers away.21
VIII. Amiens, Supreme Refuge of the Arts
Ten minutes later, at 9:30 a.m. exactly, we set down without difficulty at La Hotoie airport. I hoped to refill our fuel tanks in a matter of minutes and depart that same night, but the mechanic showed me other cracks that were ready to open up to create even more leaks. It was absolutely necessary to replace the entire rear wall—work that would take about twelve hours!
Our consternation was ameliorated by the news that the Amiens TSF had been working again since the previous day. The Post Office was closed at that late hour, but the manager only lived a short distance away, at number four, Rue Morgan…
We ran there. The manager opened the door himself at the first ring of the doorbell and, on seeing our official papers, generously introduced us into his office. In response to our anxious questions, he admitted with ill-omened embarrassment that the Amiens radio station had indeed been transmitting since the day before, and that he had received two radio messages addressed to us, one from Saintes-Maries and the other from La Crau…