“Give it to me, my friend.”
I shiver. At the first glance, I’ve recognized the firm handwriting of Roger Livry.
The madman has traced the unusual inscription: To the World’s Heads of State.
What can the nature be of that communication, whose address alone denounces the wretch’s arrogant madness?
More than anyone else, Monsieur Luissant seems to me to be qualified to take cognizance of it.
I find the Minister at the inn at the intersection. He has taken refuge in a poor room that has been reserved for him In spite of all the power of self-possession that he has, the courage of the statesman is visibly under stress. His finger trembles as he indicates a poor wicker chair. Then he passes his hand over his brow.
“Excuse me, Monsieur Lefort, but what I’ve just seen is terrible. The explosion has torn some apart; others have been killed on the spot by the asphyxiating vapors. Oh, the poor fellows, the poor fellows!” He makes a effort to chase away the funereal scene that is haunting him. “Well, what is it?”
“A message from Livry.”
In a few words, I tell him how the letter reached me.
The Minister breaks the seal. Frowning, he reads. A mask of dolor and resignation descends over his energetic face. He seizes my hands.
“Oh, my friend! This time, I believe we’re doomed.” The assured tone of his calm voice veils the superhuman anguish against which he is stiffening himself. “Here, read it for yourself.”
I take the letter and read it in my turn.
I am neither a barbarian nor a torturer. As a scientist and a Frenchman I profoundly deplore the catastrophe of the dirigible that attempted to reach me, and similarly, last night’s explosion, which must have claimed victims. I regret not having warned you that the radiations emitted by my acid attack hydrogen and modify its density within a radius of five thousand meters, which will increase by the hour.
In the same way, your aircraft can no longer fly in the vicinity of the Ossat. The air, the density of which is modified, will no longer support them.
Renounce, therefore, attempts to reach me with the aid of balloons. Similarly, do not count on destroying my frigorific installations by means of a bombardment. Firstly, they are shielded from your attacks; secondly, my radiations can decompose your explosives and provoke their deflagration. Do not bring explosive materials within fifty kilometers if you want to avoid further misfortunes. In any case, what could those means of attack achieve?
No power in the world can henceforth prevent the suspension of terrestrial life within a period that cannot surpass two full months. In consequence, your duty as governors is to avoid spreading alarm. Allow beings to sink slowly into a sleep that will be eternal.
After centuries, new life will flourish on the earth. By virtue of the law of progress, for the future humankind, that life will be adapted to an improved organism. The new beings will not have the terrible flaws that come from the lamentable imperfection of our organs and our rudimentary senses. Among those evils I will only cite those whose horror I know by virtue of having experienced or recognized them during my existence: war, tuberculosis, alcoholism, madness, and lovesickness, the greatest of them all.
Above all, I dream of a humankind that will only have one sex and no heart. From that will emerge the veritable superhuman.
In order that my work should be judged sanely, I am not a Power of Evil, and I am not a Maker of Oblivion. I am conscious of determining a leap in progress, for time is nothing, the centuries scarcely mark the hours of the history of the World. I am the Annunciator of the New Era. I am the Man of the Apocalypse.
Alas, I had been familiar with the lunatic’s theory for a long time. But a nuance that struck me in that ultimate profession of faith was the bitterness and disenchantment that was visible beneath the superb declarations, and the need or self-justification that surfaced several times.
As or Monsieur Luissant, he shook his head sadly, his gaze lost in a distant dream. And in a low voice, he murmured: “From the philosophical point of view, this madman is perhaps a sage, preaching resignation for the present and hope for the future.”
But in that poignant moment, it was me, the weakling, who drew from my sharp remorse the courage and the ardor necessary to bring the strong man round.
“Listen to me, Minister. I’ve penetrated the depths of the unfortunate Livry’s soul. Well, in the tone of his letter I seem so glimpse a fissure through which a little pity has slipped into his sickness-exasperated brain. Oh, if only I could reach him, if only I could cry to him: Have mercy on the World!”
Luissant made a gesture indicating the extent to which he judged my desire illusory. In a dull voice, he said: “Haven’t you read the newspapers, as I have? Haven’t you seen the dispatches from the agencies?” And with is hand, he indicated a pile of printed papers scattered on the rickety table. “Well, in spite of all the means I have of imposing silence, within a few days, the terrible truth will burst forth. The press won’t be content for long with the stories I allow to filter it, the rumors that my offices have refrained from denying.
“Quite naturally, people are beginning to get excited by the unusual movements taking place in the region of Tarbes. The opposition papers are talking about a vast anarchist plot, a kind of Mafia whose base of operations is situated on the Pyrenean frontier, receiving orders from Barcelona. The socialist papers are uttering loud protests, saying that the government is proceeding with a secret mobilization, denouncing our intention to declare war on Spain over Morocco...”
The Minister could not help shrugging his shoulders
“And our dirigibles dispersed to the four corners of the sky, one broken down, another lost! But what will the exasperation of opinion be on learning of the catastrophes of yesterday and last night? Already, correspondents from everywhere are laying siege to the press office that it’s been necessary to set up in Tarbes. Tomorrow, In spite of my efforts, they’ll be here, in our midst. What am I going to say to them?
“In Paris, the Chambre is becoming stormy; on the Bourse, the index has already fallen ten points.” With a smile of bitterness and scorn, the Minister added: “If only it was just the stock prices!”
My resolution did not buckle before that profound and reasoned disenchantment. And an idea emerged, which had been sketched confusedly in mind since reading the letter.
“Minister, there might perhaps still be one means of reaching the summit, of which we haven’t yet thought.”
“What?”
“A glider.”
Luissant recovered his bitter smile. “My God, Lefort, you heard General Hochtheim’s declarations yesterday. If that man, the most audacious of all, has renounced employing that weapon, it’s because your idea isn’t practical.”
“Look at the new Icaruses, though! They’re now flying at heights that far surpass that of the Ossat! Hasn’t Guy Mayrol reached fifteen hundred meters recently?”
“That’s true—but those are exceptional exploits. Then again, it’s not only a question of altitude. In the present case, where do you see the possibility of a landing for an alerion supported by the wind, which can’t suspend its progress?”
“Mayrol accomplishes marvels of audacity and skill every day. Why shouldn’t he be able to let himself down into one of the convent’s three courtyards?
“Let’s admit it—but do you believe that the madmen up there would let him land? They’d kill him.”
“I’m still holding to the hypothesis of disembarking a passenger; I’m also assuming that the disembarkation would take place at night.
“Oh, my dear chap, you’re straying into the implausible.”
“At the point we’ve reached, as you’ve said yourself, everything ought to be attempted, even the impossible.”
“I agree, but where is the audacious man ready to risk the adventure, without him needing to be brought into the terrible secret in order to convince him?”
“I believe that Guy Mayrol would acc
ept. I know arguments capable of convincing him.”
Rapidly, I retraced the scene at the Camp de Châlons in which Roger, by an impromptu stroke of genius, had so fortunately seconded the efforts of the young seeker.
“Summon Mayrol, then,” said the Minister, in a disenchanted tone.
I ran to the telephone.
Within ten minutes, I had picked up Mayrol’s trail. He was at Juvisy aerodrome, where he was trying out a new model of alerion. Within half an hour, my desire was on their way to realization. I did not have to say very much to decide the hero of unpowered flight; I simply told him that it was a matter of saving the mysterious unknown man, the Man of the Apocalypse, who had traversed his existence like a good genie never seen again. In giving him that reason I was sincere; while trying to save humankind, why should I not think also of saving one human being who was particularly dear to me?
I still have present in my memory the noble and simple words by which Mayrol made his acceptance known: “I owe your friend everything: my success and my fortune. Count me in!”
The details were quickly settled. At Juvisy, by order of the President of the Council, a special train was formed to bring Mayrol to Tarbes, with his crew of assistants and his best two machines. He would leave at four o’clock in the afternoon, and would reach the Mont d’Ossat the following morning.
In spite of the rapid success of my step, I was too agitated to savor the peace of any relief. Incapable of remaining in place, I had myself taken to Tarbes. I took Étienne Tourbe with me in order to take the child away from the sinister ambience of the Ossat.
I was able to get a few hours sleep in a hotel bed. Nevertheless, three hours before the arrival of the special train. I was at the station waiting for Mayrol.
XXII. The Savior
Mayrol arrived at eight o’clock. Immediately, the young man took care of unloading his alerions. Their long fuselages were carried on two trucks; with their wings folded, the marvelous gliders resembled, on a gigantic scale, the yellow dragonflies that pose on reeds in marshes.
A crowd had gathered along the barriers, in spite of the cold, to watch the maneuvers. I noticed that the people did not have the verbose and noisy agitation characteristic of southern idlers. What I read on those closed faces was an anxious curiosity and an ill-defined anguish. I remembered having once seen such a crowd near Douai, in the black country; its members were standing at the entrance to a mine to which the rumor of a firedamp explosion had brought them.
As the Minister feared, the comings and goings, the troop movements and the mystery that surrounded the Mont d’Ossat—the whole ensemble of occurrences—was beginning to excite public opinion.
Great God! What would they do if they knew? Mentally, I formed nightmarish scenes of the terror that the possible proximity of universal panic might evoke.
Yes, Luissant was right when he deployed all his energy to maintain silence. It there anything more pitiless and more cruel than to allow an invalid to understand that he is about to die?
And I admire the stoicism of little Étienne, who knows, and is nevertheless cheerful as he watches the disembarkation of the apparatus.
But the alerions have already been hoisted on to flat-bed motor-trucks, like those employed to transport tanks.
I take my place in an automobile with Mayrol.
The trucks and the mechanics follow.
In order not to give any warning to the madmen of the Ossat, it’s agreed that we shall stop out of sight of the summit.
The alerions are garaged in two large barns on the edge of a large pastureland. Mayrol and I, still flanked by the boy, continue our route toward the granite needle.
Until now I have not given any elaborate explanations. I have understood that the imperturbably phlegmatic young man would first want to see and then judge with his own practical sense.
Without saying a word, smoking his cigarette, Mayrol makes a circuit of the tower of black rock. He examines it from different angles, and scrutinizes the bake-like rock that protrudes outside the convent wall. He compares the evidence of his eyes with those of a plan I have given him, labeled with altitudes and dimensions. He reflects for some time, and then comes back to me.
“Monsieur Lefort,” he says, in his natural voice. “It’s not a matter of a trial but a realization, isn’t it?”
I make a sign of assent, and my features lit up with a sudden hope. “It’s possible, then?”
“Yes thanks to the wind, which is steady, and the mountains that surround the lain of Tarbes. I’ll find a point of departure in the foothills of the Pyrenees that will permit me to arrive above the needle. There, I can calculate my movements to descend on the convent in an ever-decreasing spiral, like a sparrowhawk. In the final circle the radius is so sort that the alerion turns on its axis and remains almost vertically above the landing-point.”
“And you’ll go down then into one of the interior courtyards?”
“No, because then I’d drop like a stone; it would be a mortal impact, which wouldn’t get us any further forward. But a passenger cold take advantage of the precise moment of vertical descent to slide down a rope about…let’s say fifteen meters long; He’d be able to reach the ground of the Ossat while giving me enough scope to reset my apparatus and take a tangential route, brushing the roof. The end of the descent toward the plain is nothing. Except...”
“Except?” I say, slightly dazed by the audacity of the maneuver so calmly explained.
“It’s indispensable that my companion should be an accomplished gymnast, immune to vertigo. Finally, in order for me to retain full mastery of my controls, the passenger must be very light, fifty kilos at the maximum.”
“No more?”
“Not is you desire a realization.”
I am devastated. The hope, albeit vague, that I had forged since the previous day, collapses lamentably. And why? For a small difference of a few kilos! I weigh sixty-seven and Maytol cannot take more than fifty. Thus, the fate of the world depends on seventeen kilos, more or less.
Oh, it would be hilarious if it were not so frightful.
I shake the hand of the courageous pilot, with a desolate expression.
“Excuse me for having disturbed you unnecessarily, my dear Mayrol. Since, in fact, no one can reach the unfortunate Livry...”
“No one! What about me, M’sieur Paul? You’re not counting me?”
Who said that?
It is little Tourte.
By voice of seeing him close by, an inseparable companion of these days of suffering, I had, in truth, forgotten him.
And I discover beneath me that little spindly figure, his intelligent and determined eyes gleaming.
“Me, I weigh forty-two kilos,” he says, with assurance and pride.
Mayrol and I look at one another without saying a word. The gamin has stunned us with the unexpected proposition thrown into the midst of our impotence and distress.
Well, no, neither one of us had thought of him. And already, the idea of accepting the help of a child is causing us to shiver. But in a tone that seeks to be convincing, he now makes his generous offer precise. In order to argue, he recovers the mocking loquacity of a child of the slums.
“Monsieur Mayrol said fifty kilos, right? For that, only an anorexic or a kid like me is good for the stunt. It’s almost as if I were made to measure. It needs someone agile—you know me, M’sieur Paul! I have the feet of a goat mounted on the body of a rubber doll. Me, who can leap down from a wooden horse on a steam-driven roundabout, I have what it needs to get down from the alerion. And vertigo—ha! Don’t know it. What if I told you, Monsieur Mayrol, that I used to amuse myself sitting astride the pulley of a crane perched at the top of the scaffolding surrounding the church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont? The roofers said that that was seventy-five meters high. You see, Monsieur Lefort, without wanting to offend you, that it isn’t you who’s learned to do as much.”
And by way of conclusion, he brings out another argument: “Do you thi
nk that Monsieur Roger would seek to harm me, the little starveling he pulled out of the mud to make a Monsieur of me? Look, Monsieur Paul, without bragging, I’ve become a member of the family even more than you. Oh, I know what you’re going to say; Jobert and Barnett, two dirty beasts. But then, lions don’t eat rats. Then again, in that regard, Monsieur Roger must be something of a tamer: he’ll protect me.
“And finally, it’s necessary to tell you that it would amuse me a great deal to go up in an alerion.”
What a flame of desire is shining in Étienne’s eyes when he pronounces those final words! Then he blushes and murmurs a remark that shows us the depths of his soul: “One day, perhaps they’ll talk about me in the newspapers.”
The entire psychology of the Paris gamin is contained in that.
In spite of the poignancy of the situation, Mayrol and I can’t help exchanging a smile. And by the play of his physiognomy, I sense that the aviator is leaving me the responsibility of making the decision.
In ordinary circumstances, the idea of discussing the child’s heroic proposition would have seemed monstrous to me. But we are going through a crisis beyond the natural, in which questions of life and death cannot be posed from their habitual angle. Certainly, dangers will lie in wait for the boy at every step—but is not the other danger, the silent danger, affirming itself more terribly with every passing hour?
At midday, in April, in the middle of April, in that region, renowned for the mildness of its climate, the puddles formed in depressions are covered in a sheet of ice. Even more than the very judicious arguments put forward by Étienne, it was perhaps the abnormal sight of that frozen water that acted upon my decision.
“So,” I said, in a grave voice, “you’re sure you’re not afraid?”
Astonished, Étienne affirms his bravery: “Afraid, Monsieur Paul! Of what and whom? Not Monsieur Mayrol, not Monsieur Roger. So?”
My only response is to seize the former pastry-cook in my arms, and say, after kissing him on both cheeks: “Well, go then, my brave lad!”
On the Brink of the World's End Page 35