And that’s not all. Leduc openly extols persecution, while the Magi favor the exclusive use—already too efficacious!—of the seductive Perfume. If the Technical Director gave seemingly benign orders just now, it’s because he was giving them in the presence of his superior, the Great Leader, who is on the side of the Magi…
The Last Men! They are tracked down everywhere; vile trickery is employed to bring their resistance to an end—for not everyone surrenders meekly to the call of the Perfume.
Little by little, in the course of that night and the following day, spent on board the admiral’s helicopter during the Mediterranean crossing, the fate of our Terran brothers is revealed by the cynical conversation of these beings, who inspire an invincible horror in us. The force of habit makes us see these Terromartians as renegades against humankind, although their souls alone are culpable and their bodies, like ours, are unconscious and unfortunate captives.
It can be assumed that the Hordes of the Old World—all that debris of people barbarized by the great panic sparked by the Torpedoes and the penetrative Shells, and by the subsequent contagion of animal instincts; vague nomadic hosts spreading death and devastation in their wake while maddened themselves and decimated daily by hunger, cold, heat, epidemics, ferocious beasts and fights between rival tribes; errant specimens of inferior humanity whose psychic degradation made them a ready-made prey for the Martian souls—have already been “recovered.” Most of them have reached Cairo; others are en route from the extremities of Asia, Africa and Europe, making the pilgrimage in isolation or in caravans joined together by a snowball effect.
The Martian souls of all these possessed individuals are rejoicing in their new bodies, and their prayers celebrate the Mecca in which they are waiting, the Hall of definitive Reincarnation, and the prospect of laboring on the Great Work in company with their brothers. The latter are waiting for them impatiently; special missions are sent to meet them in autocars and airbuses, which renew their food supplies, bring them news of the Martian triumph, encourage them and take aboard the weakest, who cannot finish the journey on foot, or those in whom a more persistent Terran soul is pursuing its just claims and threatening to displace its dispossessor before the irrevocable consecration of the solenoid…
It is true that this kind of “repossession,” when successful, is of little benefit to the poor human, for his Terromartian companions, hasten to murder him or to deliver him securely bound into the hands of the “missionaries”—and, once transported to Mars Central, the hypnotic maneuvers of the Magi quickly put paid to the recalcitrant.
There is an entire hemisphere, however, into which the Perfume has not yet penetrated. America and Oceania still contain free Hordes, and the question of what action to take against them is one of the causes of division between the Magi’s party and Leduc’s. Lacking the support of the Perfume’s influence, the Martian souls have only won isolated victories on those continents. Jealous of their prerogatives, the Magi insist that total conquest must be accomplished by the extension—increasingly problematic—of the Perfume. Leduc, for his part, advocates emptying the Americas by means of great hunting-expeditions, which would extend when necessary into the South Seas. On his own authority, he has already sent out several expeditions, which have carried out fruitful and facile sweeps. The Pacific islanders, in particular, succumb to Martianization without resistance, and look hopefully to the horizon from their individual islets for the helicopter or torpedo-boat that will “repatriate” them.
As for the civilized stations, uniquely capable of ensuring the salvation of humankind, I am grief-stricken to learn that almost all of them have fallen.
The Boers of Cape Town, already weakened by the Zulus who destroyed their TSF station in January, were the first to share the fate of the scientists and citizens of Cairo—but they were taken by surprise, and the other stations would have been able to hold out longer had it not been for a Machiavellian ruse which everyone credited to Leduc. The Hertzian waves emitted by the Magi since the arrival of the Shell had sabotaged the TSF appeals sent out by Nazir Bey. The other stations were, in consequence, ignorant of the true nature of the Martian threat. It was only too easy to send them an apocryphal version of events and to invite them, under the pretext of the common utility of humankind, to come together in Cairo with weapons and equipment!
Two stations fell into this trap with an incomprehensible naivety. The Japanese of Nagasaki, indefatigable explorers, came in haste, 2000 of them in a fleet of 300 helicopters. Dazed by the influence of the Perfume, and seduced by the grandiose spectacle of the Martian colony—which they mistook for the new capital of civilized humanity!—they undertook a tour of the workshops without any suspicion. They were all disarmed in the course of the tour and sent to the solenoids.
An analogous adventure was reserved for the men from Simla, who arrived in an imposing column of motor lorries escorted by armored cars—but their bellicose character became manifest at the last moment and it was necessary to crush them with the jets of the Martian blasters.
The observatories at Mount Wilson and Gaurisankar, being more prudent, and only having a few helicopters at their disposal, each sent a dozen astronomers on reconnaissance, who returned to them possessed by Martian souls, with an airbus escort, in order to inveigle the remainder with appropriate lies. Mont Wilson was entirely taken in, but a few suspicious scientists at Gaurisankar, without realizing the abominable truth, refused to leave the observatory and were massacred beside their telescopes by the exasperated neo-Martians.
I could not quite grasp, amid the broad jokes, threats and boasts that were exchanged around he general staff’s table, the exact fate of the Edinburgh station. I think that an appeal has been made to the philosophical enlightenment of its members, and that they have regretfully left their beloved university to go to a port of embarkation, from which they are being transferred to Cairo. Is there still time to disabuse them?
The Mont Blanc colony itself is holding firm to its summit, which the magnetic vibrations of the Perfume do not reach. Around the Abbé Romeux are grouped our friends, artists and scientists, whose numbers have not yet been educed by any defections. They might be saved! While listening to the horrible threats proffered by the young admiral, if they will not comply with his injunctions to go to Cairo, we are searching for a means of saving them. No definite plan of action has yet been decided—against them by Moreau, or in their favor by us—when our air-fleet reaches its first stopping-point, in the evening, in the ruins of Rome.
VI. During the Salvage of the “Solar”
This is where we are leaving the first crew, intended to salvage the solar.
Although the word has cropped up frequently in the last 24 hours in the conversations of the general staff, the reference still remains mysterious. I have gone over my knowledge of chemistry, reciting the names of the elements, searching among the inorganic and organic compounds, but I do not know what it is. I understand that it is part of the casing of the base-units of Martian torpedoes, from which it must be recovered with care, for it seems to be indispensable to the proper functioning of the shells under construction. Its rarity is even inspiring grave concern, for the few tons that have so far been recovered are insufficient, and the Terromartian factories are not producing any yet.
The Supreme Council has put the word about that this is a mere matter of temporary technical difficulties, but Leduc’s partisans hold the Magi responsible for the difficulty. It must, in fact, be due to the lack of a certain substance that is common on Mars but for which they have searched the soil and superficial rock-strata of our planet in vain. Leduc affirms that it must be contained in the world’s core, and that his famous Central Tunnel will encounter deposits of it in its course. By way of objection, the Magi point to the negative results in that regard produced by the well furnishing liquid iron—but that drilling operation, to a depth of 31,200 meters, was deliberately directed towards one of he “igneous pockets” situated relatively close t
o the surface, of which a rapidly-increasing “geothermic cline” previously gave evidence of the proximity of the “central fire.” The latter is, in reality, situated at a much lower depth, and, by way of selecting an appropriate point of attack, the famous Central Tunnel will be extended to at least 1000 kilometers!
Leduc’s partisans insinuate that it will require the disappearance of all the Magi to bring about the project’s triumph…
Is this some obscure sympathy towards the Great Leader incarnate in my body? Is it a presentiment of disastrous results for humankind, which the execution of the Tunnel will bring about? It seems to me that, given a choice, I would prefer the Magi to triumph…
For the moment, though, the actual salvage-operation might perhaps shed some light on this enigmatic solar.
Guided by cold floodlights, the body of the fleet is set down on the aerodrome of the Villa Borghese—of whose marvelous shady woods only a few branchless pine-trunks provide a reminder—and its fuel tanks are re-filled. Moreau profits from the pause to get the salvage work under way. The base-unit of the Torpedo, on which the operation must be carried out under cover of darkness—in accordance with Leduc’s strict orders—is close at hand, in what used to be the Gardens of the Pincio. The flagship-helicopter leads a bulky airbus there, which disembarks a detachment of shaggies and the appropriate machinery.
In ten minutes, the ape mechanics, along with lights and excavators, have deployed around the base-unit, and the work commences, watched by Moreau and Schlemihl.
I understand why this cladding of solar escaped the investigations of Terran scientists! Carried out in haste, amid the madness of the catastrophe, usually under the threat of looters of radium and platinum, the official researches of the government employees were directed to the interior of the units. This one—and all the others were similar—is embedded at least 20 meters deep at the bottom of a crater created by the shock of the torpedo falling from intersidereal space. It was thought to be an inverted gas-jar. Even the looters never once thought of exploring the external surface, which is the only thing with which our gang of shaggies concern themselves. By means of the excavators—chromium-steel ploughshares and scoops that dig into the soil precipitately—a sort of large well is hollowed out beside the metallic wall of the cylinder. Into this well workmen go, equipped with scrapers and pneumatic suction-pumps, whose nozzles soon begin to disgorge streams of a granular substance the color of egg-yolk, which glistens with a bizarre brightness. Other shaggies collect it, pack it into aluminum cases whose lids are immediately welded shut; then they are stowed in the helicopter’s hold.
The scene has something infernal about it. All this clandestine nocturnal activity to salvage the mysterious product reminds us of the necromancers of old collecting the herbs destined for their magic brews by moonlight. The same suspect and guilty atmosphere reigns in that narrow zone of white light, surrounded by the darkness of the night and the ruins of the Eternal City. The advanced technology that replaces the cabalistic sickle, and the methodical manner in which the operations are carried out, with the purr of the engines and the scraping of tools substituting for formularistic incantations, only serve to augment our sense of the tragedy and horror of these sinister rites—behind which we sense the will of the Magi, and whose objective must be some new scourge for humankind.
But we only witness the beginning of the salvage operation. As excavations around the periphery of the base-unit progress, the circular slot from which the workmen are removing the solar is braced at the other side, in order to keep the enormous weight of the cylinder wedged in place. Evidently, its metal could be recycled, but no consideration is given to that possibility because of the difficulties of transport, and that fruit of the Martian labor will be abandoned to the vicissitudes of the climate; only the precious solar, cases of which are piling up in the helicopter’s hold, is destined for the factories of Cairo.
It is the overseer Schlemihl who will supervise the operation for several hours until morning—for it is extremely important that the Sun’s rays to not catch the shaggies at work. Moreau insists on that once again, darts a final glance at the work in hectic progress and goes back to his helicopter. He rejoins the squadron, which has finished refilling its tanks, and gives the signal to get under way.
It is midnight. It will reach Mont Blanc at about 10 a.m. The stopover in Nice will be brief; there is no need to refuel there, merely to deposit a second gang of shaggies. They will not be idle while waiting for nightfall in order to proceed with the salvage operation in the dark, for the base-unit at Nice is sunk in the bed of the Paillon, which must first be diverted.
But we know now what Moreau’s intentions are. He imagines that the majesty of his person and the number of his helicopters will intimidate Abbé Romeux and his companions. He will give them an ultimatum, if need be, giving them 24 hours to decide to accompany him, while he goes on, heading for Edinburgh. But he is counting primarily on his own oratorical talents…as are we, for the conceited young ass will not hesitate to make allusions to Martian power, and thus put our friends on their guard with regard to the fate that awaits them if they give in to his threats.
Yes, it is necessary that they see the young admiral, his helicopters and his Terromartians, including the shaggies—for that will horrify them, and help them to understand the information that we shall attempt to communicate to them…
And, this time using the full scope of our levitational capability, we concentrate all our will power…
VII. The Last Men
Mont Blanc: silhouetted in ink against the serene and icy night, the Observatory…
What a contrast with the ostentatious illumination of the cold light and the frenzied activity of Mars Central! The last refuge of Terran civilization seems to be dressed in mourning for humankind.
There is not a single lantern or sentinel on the terrace or at the entrance to the Bunkers. Everyone is asleep—or perhaps not…someone is awake under the cupola, where the motor that makes it turn in an opposite direction to the rotation of the Earth, maintaining the stars within the field of the large equatorial, is throbbing softly. We go in.
Vaguely lit by the minuscule lamp whose beam is concentrated on a table loaded with papers, Abbé Romeux, his eye to the ocular, is moving his fingers delicately over the levers and controls that surround the extremity of the gigantic tube. The threads of the micrometer are in place; everything is adjusted for observation…
A long minutes passes; the astronomer focuses on a shining planet—Jupiter!—which is visible up there, against a star-strewn background, through the oblong trapdoor opened in the dome. He leaves the ocular, consults the indicators on the gauges, and turns to the table to scribble a few notes.
He face is gaunt, his features wracked by insomnia and anxiety—but in his eyes, habituated to the spectacle of the infinite, the flame of intelligence shines more clearly than ever. Here is a man who will not repudiate civilization, and will not yield to threats or promises. Even if he were taken down to a lower altitude and plunged into the magical atmosphere of the Perfume, I doubt that a Martian soul would be powerful enough to subjugate this man.
It is obviously him that we must warn, in preference to any other. Alas, though, he is not asleep; his fully conscious and active mind will reject my suggestions as easily as it is repelling the attempts of the Martian souls that are floating sadly around him…
The advice of the Venusian Master inspires me at this critical moment; let us leave the Abbé, who will be up all night, and search among the sleepers in the Bunkers.
A nostalgic emotion takes hold of us in these familiar vaults. Here is the great library, empty now, where we spent so many peaceful evenings chatting with our friends and discussing the situation—which appeared quite dark and desperate then, but was calm and idyllic by comparison with the present, and, above all, the future that is reserved for us!
Here are the sleeping-quarters, divided into apartments—the fourth on the right as our
s! Who is sleeping there now? Bah! Doctor Goulliard from Lille. We supposed that he had died ten months ago; he must have arrived after our departure—but how? To the left there are academics from Italy and Switzerland, on this side the escapees from Amiens and Saint-Valery, the artists…the painter Nibot…hold on! Nibot? Why not? He has the gift of clearly remembering his dreams, which are vivid and colorful, worthy of a picturesque imagination. A good character too, esteemed by everyone. What he says will be taken seriously.
It’s him, isn’t it, Master? He’s the one to whom you’re instructing me to address myself?
He is sleeping peacefully, lying on his left side, in the gleam of a night-light. By virtue of a quasi-radioscopic lucidity, I can see the pineal gland within his skull, half-hidden between the cerebral hemispheres, which lie pale and flaccid…
I brush it with a fluidic touch. It quivers and swells—but the sleeper does not wake up. He releases a sigh and stammers my name. O joy! He perceives my presence! Communication is established!
Mentally, I call out: “Nibot!”—and I see, by the mime displayed in his features, that he is avidly following the story of my adventures, and what I am telling him about the Terromartians.
“The swine will come, Nibot, my friend, in human guise—in a few hours. Warn the Abbé. No overt refusal. Ask for time to think. Better still—let them think that you will make a start by going to Genoa by helicopter. That might put them off the scent. In any event, you will have 24 hours, at least. Don’t hesitate—flight is necessary, immediate flight outside Europe. The Magi’s influence stops at the Atlantic. Once at sea, you will be safe—but until then, and as soon as you have left high altitude to penetrate the zone of the Perfume, you must not go to sleep, whatever you do! Engrave that in your memory, Nibot! Whoever falls asleep is lost, for sleep will deliver him to the Martian souls, and he will leave you immediately to rejoin his fellows. Stay awake, at any cost! Adieu…”
The Martian Epic Page 28