Philip Jose Farmer

by The Other Log of Phileas Fogg

  “But they would never make peace with us!”

  The man quit smiling.

  “You think strangely, perhaps too strangely. Did you really imagine that we would make a treaty with those demons? Or”—he stabbed the cigar as if it were a knife—“do you hope that we will? Peace will be declared only when every Eridanean is peaceful. That is, with the peace of death.”

  “Pardon me,” Fix stammered, the sweat running down into his eyes. “I was so taken aback by your news!”

  “Yes? Well, this near-total isolation, this secrecy, this noncommunication, is correct for soldiers in the field. But it has had a deleterious effect, too. How can you keep a community of interests, a secret nation, together if the members lose their sense of community, of communion, of commonness, as it were?

  “The truth is that if it weren’t for one thing both Eridanean and Capellean would have become extinct long ago. Most of the Old Ones are dead. Even they, with one or two possible exceptions, are second or third generation. All the females of the Old Ones have been killed during the war or are sterile. Some trace element necessary for conception seems to be lacking in the soil of Earth. This is no secret, so don’t look so surprised. The original ships only contained five females apiece, and both we and our enemies chose the females as the prime target in our war. But you know this. Or has this secrecy been carried so far that no one has told you?”

  Fix thought that the man, however hard he looked on the surface, and doubtless was, was still human. He was “visiting,” trying to re-establish some sense of being Capellean. On the other hand, he might just be testing him or softening him up for something unpleasant.

  Fix felt lonely only because he had been away from home so long and was in a country he did not like at all. In London, he had a wife (a Capellean, of course) and three children. The children had been conditioned from the time they started to talk. They were now listening to stories from him and his wife of far-off planets and space flight and galactic war. They thought these were fairy tales now, but in a few years they would, if they passed certain tests, be admitted into the blood brotherhood. An Old One would contribute some of his blood to be mingled in their veins.

  Fix loved his wife and children. He liked to come home to them after a hard day or night of tracking down criminals, arresting them, and occasionally beating them up in the interrogation cells. Only, of course, if he was absolutely certain they were guilty and they had committed some terrible crime such as murder, child abuse, or sodomy. If the mundane life of a policeman got dull, and it often did, it was relieved enough by the sudden secret codes, the esoteric messages, the missions against the evil Eridaneans. But he liked his missions to be on home soil. After all, he was English.

  “Two things only have kept us from disintegrating,” the man was saying. “One, fear of death if we should defect. Two, the strongest by far, is the possibility of living for a thousand years. Most men and women would sell their souls—if they had any—for this gift. But, of course, being brought up as a Capellean or Eridanean is the glue that holds us together. And we do have ideals. We do intend, once the enemy is out of the way, to steer the world into peace, prosperity, freedom from disease and pain, and brotherhood.”

  He puffed again, sending out thick green stormclouds, smiled like lightning, and said, “This world will be ruled by the only ones who have the ancient knowledge to do it. Us. And our grandchildren may be among the aristocracy, Fix.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In any event, you are now forty years old and won’t become any older, physiologically speaking, for about eight hundred to nine hundred years. But you can be killed, Fix. And our enemies want to kill you. So we must kill them first. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But it is better to take them alive first so we can find out who the others are and so catch them, too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So you will play your role. And Fogg and Passepartout will play theirs until we lower the curtain on them. Meantime, what are your thoughts on this woman?”

  “Possibly an Eridanean,” Fix said.

  Since Nemo’s conversation indicated an uncertainty about Aouda’s true identity, it may safely be presumed that he had never seen her before. The rajah of Bundelcund had evidently kept her hidden in his seraglio, and Nemo had left Bundelcund immediately after the rajah’s death.

  “It seems unlikely,” he said, “that the two Eridaneans would have risked their lives for anyone besides another of their kind.”

  “I don’t know about that, sir, if I may be so bold,” Fix said. “That Fogg is a strange one. No fear there, if I may say so, sir. And he is an Englishman, sir.”

  “Would you have rescued her?”

  “Yes, sir. As an Englishman, sir. As a Capellean, no, sir, not unless I had orders to do so.”

  “And which do you think is the most human action, Fix?” the man said with a hint of a sneer.

  “Most human, sir?”

  Fix was silent for a moment, then smiled.

  “Being human, sir, if I do say so myself, and capable of both of the actions you mentioned, I’d say neither is more human than the other. As for a question of heart, sir, what is the word for that... cumpass...?”

  “Compassion, Fix. I can quote you its dictionary definition, as I can every word in the dictionary and in the Encyclopedia Brittanica of 1871.”

  But I doubt if you really know the word, Fix thought. The word is the shadow, but what about the substance? His mind knows, but it’s not connected to his heart. And that’s where the only knowing worth knowing is.

  What the man had said about the millennium medicine, as Fix called it, made sense, though. He wanted to live for a thousand years. He wanted desperately for his children to share in that long life. But there was a chance that at least one of his children might not be permitted to do so. If the chiefs decided that the child was too emotionally unstable, that he or she might blab to the world, then that child would share neither in the Blood or the elixir. And his little Annie, his beloved little Annie, showed signs of hysteria.

  The man suddenly stood up. He was very tall, at least six feet five inches tall. And, now that Fix considered it, under that cultured English voice was the faintest of brogues. Was this man of Irish descent?

  “I shall be out of sight,” the man said. “But I shall be close. When the time is ripe, you’ll hear from me. Meanwhile, play your part. And delay Fogg as much as possible without being obvious about it. Let’s hope that the warrant will be waiting for you in Hong Kong. If it is, we’ll attempt to keep him from arriving in America on time or at all.”

  No greetings. No good-byes. He walked out boldly, though he shut the door softly enough.

  Mr. Fix said, “Whew!” He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his face. He felt as if a tiger had decided not to eat him after all. The room reeked of the essence of predator. It was nothing he could smell, or anybody could smell, unless he had that extra set of nerves in his nose. Just as he had boasted to the British consul that he could smell a criminal, just so he could smell the human tiger in a human. In this case, the man stank of both criminal and tiger. Fix would have felt sorry for Fogg and Passepartout if they had not been Eridaneans. And, even so, but no, he must never feel like that. He must never think of the enemy as anything but vermin and deadly vermin at that.

  Still, he was glad that man with the widely spaced gray eyes had not ordered him to assassinate the two.

  The story that Verne tells of the tribulations of Fogg from this point until he was at the 180th meridian is well-known. The events of that period are briefly outlined here for those who have read the story so long ago that their memory of it is vague.

  Aouda, it was evident, fell in love with Fogg. That gentleman, if he were aware of her emotion, betrayed no knowledge of it. Passepartout could not understand why Fogg did not respond to this adoration. Certainly, he would have.

  A storm put the Rangoon twenty hours behind schedule
. Fix, though rendered seasick by the tempest, had a consolation. Perhaps the delay would allow time for the warrant to arrive at Hong Kong, and he could then arrest Fogg.

  There were times, though, that Fix wished that the warrant would not get there in time. Once he put the handcuffs on Fogg, he would have to participate in the abduction and torture of Fogg. No, he wouldn’t. That man would not take him along with Fogg, since it would seem strange if he, Fix, were to disappear also. He would have to play the outraged detective who had been incompetent enough to lose a prisoner.

  Fix felt better thinking about this. He did not contemplate the fact that he would be just as responsible for whatever happened to Fogg as if he himself were torturing and then murdering, no, killing him; whatever was done to him was not enough.

  At last the storm subsided and with it Fix’s perturbed and guilty thoughts. The Rangoon was a day late; Phileas Fogg seemed doomed to miss the steamer for Yokohama.

  Passepartout was afraid to inquire about the Yokohama ship. Better no news than bad news. Fogg did not hesitate, however, and he received good news. The steamer had been held up for one day for repairs to a boiler. They would make it on time after all. This was indeed fortunate, not to mention an absolute necessity. If he had missed this ship, he would have had to wait a week for the next steamer. He was still twenty-four hours behind schedule, but this was not disastrous.

  As he had sixteen hours to spend at Hong Kong, Fogg took advantage of it to see that Aouda was put under the protection of her cousin, Jeejeeh. Fogg had by now ascertained that she was the Eridanean spy. But, since neither of them had orders about her, she would remain in Hong Kong until she received them. At the Exchange, Mr. Fogg inquired about her cousin. He was informed that two years had passed since Jeejeeh had left China. He had retired and now he was supposed to be living in Holland. Fogg returned to the Club Hotel, where he had installed Aouda in a room.

  Verne says that she did not comment on this turn of events which left her alone and unprotected. Instead, she merely asked Fogg what she should do.

  Serenely, he replied, “Go on to Europe.”

  She is supposed to have said that she could not intrude or in the least hinder him on his voyage. Fogg replied that she would be doing neither, and he sent Passepartout to obtain three cabins on the Carnatic.

  This scene is quite in keeping with Fogg’s character. But it is not quite what happened.

  Fogg did not like to leave her alone in Hong Kong. He could have given her money to support herself for a while or to buy passage to England. But he did not wish to leave her exposed to poverty, to white slavers, or to the thuggees of Kali, who might come after her even in China. Moreover, the Capelleans might have identified her by now as an Eridanean, and if she were alone here, she would stand little chance of surviving. And it is likely, though he did not show it then, that he reciprocated her love. This emotion may have influenced his philosophy of rational mechanics. A rational mind has to consider all known factors, and personal emotion is certainly a part of the universe.

  In any event, he told her that he doubted that she could do anything in Hong Kong for the Race. Since she had proved herself to be an exceptionally competent agent, she should accompany them. Three were stronger than two. She could keep an eye on Fix and for other Capelleans who were probably on this ship. Or, if not aboard, waiting for them in Yokohama or America.

  Fix, meanwhile, was despondent. The warrant had not arrived. That it would come in a few days was no solace. Hong Kong was the last piece of British territory. The Fogg party would leave that by tomorrow. If only he could find some means of detaining them long enough.

  While pacing back and forth on the quay, he met Passepartout. The Frenchman smiled at him as if he knew what was going on in his mind. No doubt he did. Passepartout asked him if he had decided to go to America with them. He did not ask Fix why he would do so. Fix, gritting his teeth, said he would be on the Carnatic. Together, they went to the ticket office. The clerk informed them that the repairs had been made sooner than expected. The ship would leave that evening, not tomorrow.

  This gave Fix an idea. He invited Passepartout to a tavern on the quay. He knew that it held an opium den and that there he might get Passepartout to smoke a pipe of opium if he got him drunk enough. Fogg might then be delayed by a search for his missing valet. While they drank, with Passepartout downing two to Fix’s one, Fix revealed that he was a detective and that Fogg was the wanted bank robber. He was still not convinced that the Frenchman was an Eridanean. If he were only a valet, his sense of duty to the law might make him desert his master. That would at least save his life. Fix was convinced that, even if Passepartout were innocent, the gray-eyed man would probably order him killed. Passepartout could identify Fix as the man who’d trailed them, and the gray-eyed man would want no investigations of Fix by Eridaneans.

  Besides, Fix had become rather fond of the chap. He would never have admitted this to Gray Eyes, but there it was.

  The result of this sojourn in the opium den was that Passepartout passed out, and Fogg and Aouda were forced to leave without him.

  There is no need to recount the adventures of the Frenchman after he awoke. After some tense, but comical, episodes in Yokohama, he was reunited with Fogg. They caught the ship to America just before the gangplank was raised.

  Passepartout did fail to notify Fogg of the early departure of the liner. The ever-resourceful Englishman chartered a pilot boat. This sailed to Singapore, where he caught the Carnatic and proceeded to Yokohama. Fix was deeply chagrined by this course of events. At least, he told himself that he was. The few impulses of gladness he put down to flaws in his character, flaws that could become fatal for him if he did not master them.

  Adding to his chagrin, was his indebtedness to Fogg. That gentleman not only permitted Fix to go with him on the pilot boat but insisted on paying his passage.

  Fogg was motivated by a desire to keep Fix handy. He might have to seize a Capellean and extract data from him. Moreover, he suspected that others of his kind—if Fix were a Capellean—were on the ship. If these made contact with Fix, Fogg might spot them.

  Fix knew this. He also knew that if they were all just what they pretended to be, Fogg would have treated him as generously. He did not like knowing this. It made Fogg too likable.

  Verne says that Passepartout, on meeting his master in Japan, did not inform him that Fix was a detective who intended to arrest Fogg. This was not true. Even if Verne’s surface tale was valid, it would be difficult to account for Passepartout’s silence. Verne had him say nothing because it was necessary for his plot. Fogg must be kept in ignorance of Fix’s mission. Otherwise, Fogg would have rid himself of Fix and so not have been arrested when he landed in England.

  13

  The ship which Fogg took for San Francisco was the General Grant. This belonged to the Pacific Mail Steamship Company and was a paddle wheel steamer also fitted with three masts bearing large sails. At an expected speed of twelve miles an hour, it would cross the Pacific in twenty-one days. Fogg calculated that he would disembark at San Francisco on the second of December. From there he would travel by train to New York City, arriving on the eleventh of December. From New York he would take a ship to England. The twentieth of December would see him in London, ahead of the required arrival date of the twenty-first.

  Verne says that, nine days after leaving Yokohama, on the twenty-third of November, the ship crossed the 180th meridian. Fogg had gone exactly halfway around the Earth since this imaginary line was at the antipodes of London. Though Fogg had only twenty-eight days to traverse the second half of his journey, he had actually completed two-thirds of his circuit. To get to the 180th meridian, he had been forced to make long detours. But the course from then on would he comparatively straight.

  On this twenty-third of November, according to Verne, Passepartout made a happy discovery. His watch, which he had not adjusted to the various time zones, now agreed with the sun.

  Passepar
tout, Verne says, did not know that if the face of his watch had been divided into twenty-four hours (like Italian watches), the hands of his watch would have indicated the true chronometry. They would have shown him that it was not nine in the morning but nine in the evening. That is, they would indicate the twenty-first hour after midnight, exactly the difference between London time and that of the 180th meridian.

  As we know, Fogg had no watches, having expended them in Bundelcund. Verne did not know of the incident at the rajah’s palace, but he also says nothing at this time of Fogg having a watch. Why this gentleman, who conducted himself strictly by the chronometer, lacked a timepiece, Verne does not say.

  Fix had stayed in his cabin until the twenty-third, when he felt that he must leave it or go mad. While walking on the forward deck, he ran into Passepartout. He also ran into blows of the fist from the seemingly enraged valet. Passepartout was genuinely angry at the trick that Fix had played on him. But even if he had not been, he would have pretended to be. The role he was playing demanded it. Besides, if Fix were a Capellean, it was fun to pummel him.

  Fix tried to defend himself but soon found that the Frenchman was the superior boxer. Lying on the deck, he said, “Are you finished?”

  “Yes—for this time,” Passepartout said.

  “Then let me have a word with you.”

  “But I...”

  “In your master’s interest.”

  They sat down in an area distant from the other passengers, who had regarded the encounter with enthusiasm, some even making bets.

  “You’ve thrashed me,” Fix said. “Good. I expected it. Now listen. Until now I’ve been Mr. Fogg’s adversary. But I’m now in this with him.”

  “Aha! You’re convinced he’s an honest man!”

  What the devil is this one up to now? he was thinking.

  “No,” Fix said coldly. “I think he’s a rascal.”

  He proceeded to tell Passepartout his plan, which was to help Fogg win his bet. He would, however, only be doing this so he could get him back on English soil. There it would be determined whether or not Fogg was innocent.