The Martian Epic
Page 30
Borne on a circular base some five meters in diameter, solidly braced by eight concrete feet, a dozen ploughshares attack their individual sectors of the mold. The mold is hollowed out in a groove 60 centimeters wide, in sand that is hurled out of thick tubes to form artificial hills. A rudimentary lining, made of curved slabs of crystal, constitutes the rim of a sort of gigantic well. Lower down, to prevent the walls and the “soul” from crumbling as the ploughshares advance, the entire pit is filled with water, which is frozen by a network of tubes through with a powerful refrigerant circulates. The mold of sand, hollowed out with astonishing ease, is thus sustained like a block, until the moment when it is almost instantaneously filled by molten metal.35
Twenty of these machines are operating at the same time, in a line, and they have no sooner quit their row of molds than the cataracts of molten metal pour into them. Further away, the finished projectiles are artificially cooled. All the phases of the process thus proceed in sequence, so efficiently that, on the edge of the plain, other machines are already occupied in extracting the “soul” of sand that shapes the interior cavity of each cylinder.
The most advanced are being provided with their terminal nose-cones, and then being internally fitted-out. The wall of sand that encloses each shell is swept away, forming a sort of ditch in the middle of which it stands up, isolated, like the spike of some monstrous caltrop. Then the ditch is carefully shaped and its circular bank, which forms an angle of about 45 degrees with the horizontal, is decked out with silvered mirrors, as if to make the Sun’s rays converge upon the shell at the highest point…
What is the significance of this curious arrangement? Where are the lifting and steering apparatus intended to draw these projectiles, 100 meters long and five in diameter, from their holes? Where are the wagons to receive them, the railways to transport them to the mouths of giant artillery-pieces? Where are the cannons themselves? There is no trace of them to be seen, or of the factories for manufacturing their explosives!
In that case, it cannot be the ballistic pressure of millions of cubic meters gas developed by the deflagration of explosive substances that will send these hundreds of shells hurtling into intersidereal space. The Martians must, therefore, have a means unknown to terrestrial science of lifting them off the ground to which their monstrous weight appears to anchor them. That is theoretically possible—but in that case, one ought to be able to see the future engines of that fantastic propulsion being built somewhere: giant catapults, I suppose; vast wheels whose accelerated rotation would generate the necessary millions of kilogram-meters to release shells tangentially from their periphery, when detached at the right moment, like a slingshot. Such playthings cannot be improvised in a matter of hours; they would be under construction, as would the motors designed to turn them—and they would need so many! They would need ten, or 20, and a factory of that sort would be clearly visible in the landscape visible from the summit of the Monument!
The solar? Yes, that enigmatic product appears to be necessary to the departure of the shells, and its name recurs frequently in the conversations of crews returning from work.
To begin with, though, the Terromartians’ talk seems depressingly monotonous, whether they favor the Magi or Leduc. They merely repeat, in almost exactly the same words, the news broadcast every three hours by the official phonographs of the factories and phalansteries; according to these news broadcasts, the fabrication of solar is now guaranteed. The seasoning of political comment added by the “young-Martians” or “old-Martians” often escapes us, proffered as it is in a sour and harsh idiom in which we have a great deal of difficulty recognizing the ancient universal language, French, which is metamorphosing gradually and developing, among the managerial class and the shaggies, into two new and distinct dialects.
Besides, the problem of the shells’ launch-mechanism cannot retain us indefinitely. If we are to recover our bodies in due course, and assume the personalities of the Great Leader and his female companion, it is necessary for us to study the population of the Martian city.
It differs from vulgar humankind much les than we thought at first. The ugliness of the common man, the ferocity of his appetites, the immensity of his stupidity, the obstinacy of his prejudices, are reproduced, multiplied tenfold, in the Terromartian, who does not correct that odious side in any instance by the sense of justice and eternity of which certain representatives of our species give evidence. And their physiognomies betray that absence at the first glance; the features of ex-Terrans are remodeled to some degree by the invading souls; they have forgotten how to smile, no longer knowing anything but bestial laughter, and, whether their appearance is human or simian, Martian faces can no longer express any but animal passions or the hideous ecstasy of their coarse mysticism.
I do not know whether the Magi possess some rudiments of a superior wisdom. No hint of that esoteric doctrine extends beyond the boundaries of their caste; only information adapted to their brutal egotism is transmitted to the common people. For the Martians, God is not a Universal Intelligence to be worshipped in a faithful and disinterested fashion. Their God is the vague master of the Sun, or rather the Sun itself, the final paradise of their successive existences. As for their faith in the immortality of the soul, that Vision, which human genius has clad in such noble forms, is no more than their obstinate passion to live, live, live, again and forever, in spite of death and beyond life. Their spiritualism is devoid of all nobility, and if they aspire to “salvation” it is not to affirm the reign of the spirit within the universe, but entirely to prolong the base enjoyments of their personal and collective egotism. Any means is considered appropriate, if they believe it capable of ensuring their “salvation,” and the present enterprise, which has made Mars Central into a mesmerized formicary, clearly demonstrates that they do not hesitate even at criminality.
O wise people of Jupiter! Sublime paladins of truth and justice! How scornful you must be of these vile Titans, uncrushed by your Thunderbolt, and how generously you must hate them! What horror, what disgust, what revulsion must be inspired in you, if you can follow, with the aid of your televisors, not only the frightful ravages that they have wrought upon the Earth, and their preparations for aggression against unfortunate Venus, but every one of their actions, extending to the most banal of their gestures!
Even their nourishment symbolizes the grossness of their appetites. The Jovian Nutriment, of which they know the formula, might have been a precious resource in their situation. But no—rather than benefit from such economy of material provision and digestive labor, they prefer to cram their carnivorous stomachs!
An entire fleet of helicopters armed for hunting is occupied daily in collecting game—which has multiplied in a surprising manner since Humankind’s dominion over the planet has come to an end. Every evening, cadavers are disembarked by the ton, immediately butchered by machines and deposited in refrigerated storehouses. They are of every sort, for everything is good eating for these gross Terromartians: elephants, giraffes, hippopotamuses, lions, gazelles, rhinoceroses, donkeys, zebras, jackals, hyenas, goats, sheep, camels, water-buffaloes—all the mammals in creation. Crocodiles are not disdained, nor boa constrictors; much smaller animals still make a notable contribution: cats, guinea-pigs, porcupines, jerboas, chameleons, lizards, rats, and even vipers! And the Magi have brought a sort of pink-haired dog in their shell, which multiplies with incredible rapidity, and whose fatter specimens are reserved for the leaders’ table—as is another vile delicacy: fried scorpion. Only one animal, I believe, is spared by these unscrupulous guzzlers: the bat, because of the affinity of its appearance with that of the Magi.
As for beverages, the cellars of Rheims and Epernay, and the storehouses of Bordeaux, Béziers and Lunel, which the Hordes were unable to empty completely, are routinely plundered by the reprovisioning airbuses, so that tides of champagne, Médoc and all the fuller-bodied wines of the South wash down the gargantuan stews served in the Martian refectories.
Two months of such a regime, in the hot climate of Cairo, would be sufficient to ruin the most robust constitution. But the precautions taken against the heat at Mars Central rendered any hope of that sort vain, and permitted these lunatics to devote themselves to their debaucheries with impunity. All the places in the city—habitations, workshops, even hangars—were provided with cold radiators, which maintained the most favorable temperature for the conservation of the precious health of our invaders!
X. In the Great Leader’s Skin
We have thus familiarized ourselves with the general aspects of Martian life, but before attempting the struggle that ought to put us in possession of our bodies, we must still study the Great Leader and his female companion; and if we want to play our roles well—to put ourselves in their skin—that study must be long and attentive. A week, if necessary, a fortnight, a month…
O fine resolutions of wisdom! O fragility, not of the flesh but of the human soul!
In the Palace of red glass, the private office of the Great Leader: opaline walls reflecting the harsh light; telephones, the horns of loudspeakers and the screens of periscopes; detailed maps of Mars Central and the plain of Cylinders, the latter numbered; a vast terrestrial planisphere, where miniature helicopters are moved telemechanically to replicate the progress of machines on missions; dials, commutators, bells, instruments of every sort…
The thief of my body, the Great Leader R’rdô 36 himself, is sitting at his work-desk, smoking a cigarette, gesturing with his little finger as I habitually do, frowning as he runs his eyes over a report.
It was Moreau’s account of his adventure at Mont Blanc, where he expected, on his return from Edinburgh, to find the colony ready to embark with him. Instead of that, the Observatory bristling with machine-guns, the squadron greeted with continuous fire. One helicopter disabled, falling 200 meters and breaking up, along with its crew. A battle; the Observatory, bunkers and occupants pulverized by explosive charges…
Poor obstinate men of Chamonix! But their mad resistance has given rise to an error that is the salvation of the Last Men! That upstart Moreau imagines that he has destroyed the entire colony, and has no suspicion that Abbé Romeux and his 71companions are, by now, beyond Panama. R’rdô naturally shares this illusion, and is enraged by such an inept way of conduction operations. I would never have believed that my vocal cords were capable of emitting the vituperations that he addresses, by telephone, to the Technical Director.
“I have you to thank for this, damn it, Leduc, for entrusting a mission of such importance to a mere errand-boy. It’s your fault that brains like those of Romeux and the others at Mont Blanc have been destroyed instead of serving the Reincarnation! We won’t find any more of that quality…when we’re most in need of them!”
The situation between the two leaders is evidently tense. The altercation would go on, but the sound of a second telephone cuts it short, R’rdô puts it to his ear, starts and demands a repetition: “Hello? What? It’s the Sovereign Pontiff who’s dead?”
And he hangs up, murmuring: “That’s all we need!” But the sight of a little wooden box on the table reassures him slightly. He opens it and examines its contents: a granular substance, the color of egg-yolk, which sparkles with a vaguely metallic sheen.
He presses a button. His companion comes in—his companion, in the stolen body of my beloved!
Like all the women of Mars Central—the simian females go naked—she wears masculine costume: a brick-red flying-suit with an overseer’s cape and bicorn helmet. Nevertheless, our doubles are all too evidently husband and wife—they shake hands effusively, and the desire to be reintegrated into our bodies is sharpened by an avid jealousy.
“News, my dear!” R’rdô says, laconically. “Egregore XII is deceased, but”—he points to the box—“we’ve begun to manufacture solar, at last. The indispensable geocoronium has been recovered from the upper atmosphere.”
A good Martian lady and loyal spouse (horror!), she throws her arms around the Great Leader’s neck and cries: “That’s adequate compensation for the old fellow’s death! That brute Leduc will have to renounce his stupid tunnel project.”
“Oh, his partisans no longer need a pretext; they still support him. With the last Magus gone, his ambition will have no bounds. He’ll organize man-hunts to replace the Perfume. Loss of time, waste of effort...but who will oppose him henceforth?”
“You! You alone, among all the Terromartians, are qualified to succeed the Pontiff, in the absence of a true hereditary Magus. The majority of the leaders will support you. You have only to desire it, and within a month you’ll be the sacred Emperor of the Martians!”
“And you the Empress!”
Eyes shining, face to face, they hold one another by the hands, breathlessly. In spite of ourselves, in spite of the hatred and the jealousy, the monstrous kinship that link us to these two beings causes us to participate in their intoxication. It is a whirlwind of contradictory sentiments that carries away our wise resolution to be patient. A vehement force of fury accumulates within us, more obsessive than the sanguine torrent and the thousand petty impressions of normal life that monopolize and distracting a portion of our agitation; it has no other possible outlet than the struggle for the re-conquest of our physical individuals. With very passing moment, our will, thus exasperated, becomes stronger and more imperious…
With a tortuous fixity of desire, we keep watch on the degree of resistance offered to us by their pineal glands, red and turgid with exasperated pressure. It is as if they suspect our presence, sensing the danger of dispossession; instead of going to bed they chatter and chatter, interminably, about their great future…
But our decision is irrevocable. The moment draws near. They’re lying down. They’re going to sleep. The red peas of their pineal glands are fading, becoming paler and paler…
Wait! Our couple breaks apart, and reach of our two wills gets ready for the desperate effort…
Sympathetic waves float around us; I vaguely perceive the distant assistance of the Venusian Master…
Raymonde has attacked first, for—victory!—the woman releases a faint cry; and there is the smile, the divine smile of my beloved, spreading across hr face! My turn! Quickly!
And I hurriedly introduce my will into my adversary’s psychic fortress…
What’s happening? Am I a fraction of a second to late? Has his companion’s cry awakened the Great Leader? An unexpected resistance meets me; we are two souls, in the body where I thought myself the master…
Should I let go, to await a more favorable moment? No, oh, no! My beloved is reintegrated into her physical being, and I will not abandon her to my Martian rival, even for an hour! He does not wish to yield? Well, that’s a pity—nor so I!
And Raymonde, her eyes wide with horror, watches the frightful internal struggle that shakes the body of the Great Leader as he and I dispute its possession, without daring to intervene—what could she do, in any case?
Seen from without, that struggle resembles a full-scale epileptic fit, a paroxysm of furious madness. Tugged back and forth by two rival wills, the limbs flail the air, the trunk twists, the eyes turn back, blood-stained foam flecks the howling mouth in which the teeth chatter randomly, biting the tongue…
Through the vicissitudes of the duel to the death in which or rival wills are engaged, I see the distraught Raymonde telephone for a doctor. The bedroom is soon invaded by a dozen overseers. They grab hold of the madman respectfully; he fights them with the superhuman strength of two present souls, but finally collapses, having been tied up, in response to an injection of morphine…
Unexpected assistance; it is salvation for me!
The numbing of the rival consciousness delivers me a body henceforth without resistance. My will installs itself within
lovingly, sinks voluptuously into the depths of the brain, irradiates itself along the nerve fibers, checks the proper functioning of all the muscles with little twitches. I know that the other can no longer act against me, now, for the suppression of the Perfume deprives the Martian souls of all their power outside the Solenoids of Reincarnation—and no one will think for a single instant of putting the Great Leader R’rdô through them again because of the nervous fit that has just laud him low—a crisis of overwork, according to all the evidence.
Such, at least, is the diagnosis authoritatively pronounced by one of the overseers sitting beside my bed. “Don’t worry, Madame,” he replies to Raymonde’s anxious interrogations. “Our revered Great Leader is out of danger. A few hours sleep, and there’ll be no recurrence. The little incident will have no consequences; tomorrow, His Excellency will be able to resume work…carefully, though…”
Raymonde catches the slight smile with which I greet these words. She shivers with joy, takes my hand in hers, and—watched by her and the doctor—I finally let myself fall into a light sleep, firmly re-established in my body, enjoying the obscure sensation of my soul being weighted down by the dear burden of my limbs, entirely myself one more!
XI. The Ascension of Saint Egregore
What a joy it was, the following day, to find ourselves together again, triumphant accomplices, installed in place! What a delight I experienced in smoking my first cigarette of the day, while chatting to Raymonde and taking possession of my office!