Philip Jose Farmer

by The Other Log of Phileas Fogg

  The occupant of the hansom must have been startled, since he did not open the door for at least a minute. Then he got out slowly on the other side, where he examined the driver, who had not moved after striking the street. Presently, he rose from the driver, looked around at the deserted street, and then headed for the nearest house across the street. He leaned on a heavy walking cane, dragging his right leg somewhat. He wore a long heavy cloak against the late December cold. On his head was a military cap, probably an officer’s. He knocked on the door so hard that Passepartout could hear the banging. Receiving no answer, he turned and walked with awkward and slow three-legged gait to the next house. He must be some officer who had returned wounded from India or some far-off place, Passepartout thought. His bronzed skin indicated a long residence in the tropics.

  Meanwhile, the driver had sat up and then fallen back again. The horse had not moved.

  Passepartout did not go out to help the man, since he had been forbidden to leave. The officer, however, would soon work his way to No. 7. What should he do? Passepartout thought. The poor fellow on the street evidently needed help. Well, he would go ask Fogg for his orders.

  The officer had just turned toward Fogg’s house when Passepartout saw a man in the uniform of a telegraph officer runner on the opposite side of the street. Could he be bringing a message to No. 7? Fogg had said that he might be getting one. Yes, he was crossing the street at an angle toward No. 7. This relieved Passepartout’s predicament. He had orders to open the door only for a telegram. He could not help it that the officer would arrive at the same time as the messenger. Fogg could not reasonably refuse help to the injured man; besides, it would look suspicious if he did.

  Though he kept on the latch chain, he opened the door. Now he saw, coming up the street, a chimney sweep. And, down the street, on the other side, the door of a house opening. A young man, bareheaded and in a dressing gown, stepped out. Evidently, he had been sleeping and had just awakened. Looking out, perhaps wondering why the servants were gone, he had seen the fallen man. This was good. Passepartout could direct the officer to him, telling the officer at the same time that he was unauthorized to leave the house.

  The officer reached the door first and addressed him through the opening in a rich baritone.

  “There’s been an accident, as you can see. My driver seems to have broken his arm and also suffered head injuries. I’m afraid that he has been drinking. Could you run for the nearest doctor?”

  Now that the officer was closer, Passepartout could see the cold blue eyes under heavy lids. These, combined with the bushy eyebrows, the thin, projecting nose, heavy black moustache, heavy lips, and strong jaw, combined to form a ruthless yet sensual face. Passepartout did not care for him, but, after all, it was the driver who needed medical attention.

  “There is a Doctor Caber several blocks from here, sir,” the Frenchman said, remembering that Fogg had told him so before retiring. “I cannot leave the house, but you might send that sweep after him. Or perhaps the messenger would oblige you?”

  The runner had drawn to within a few feet of them. He was an exceptionally broad-shouldered fellow with a bushy moustache and long hair, both streaked with gray. His bulbous red nose indicated his chief occupation when not on duty.

  “Ah, perhaps I could, my good fellow!” the officer said. He pointed the cane through the opening at Passepartout. The Frenchman saw the round hole in its end.

  “But I do not care to,” the officer said. “And don’t think about trying to leap away. This is an air gun disguised as a walking stick. It can, and will, drive a rifle bullet through you at this range. So open up for us or suffer the consequences.”

  The messenger must have had concealed a pair of bolt cutters under his cloak. Their ends appeared and closed on the latch chain, which fell apart. The door was pushed violently inward against Passepartout, and he staggered backward. Despite the officer’s demand for silence, Passepartout gave one loud cry. The officer, no longer crippled, lifted the air gun and brought it down over Passepartout’s head. Passepartout ducked so that he did not receive the full impact. Stunned, he still had sense enough to throw himself to one side. He had intended to bounce up onto his feet but found that his legs failed him. The officer ran at Passepartout with the messenger close behind him. In a flash, Passepartout recognized him, under the dyed hair and the false nose, as Nemo. He tried to get up again, but this time the stick came down fully on his head.

  A few minutes later, according to the clock on the mantel of the fireplace, he awoke on the floor. His head hurt. His hands were bound behind him, and he was gagged. The only other occupant of the room was the hansom driver, recovered from his “broken arm.” He was a tall, very stooped man in his early forties. He bore a resemblance to Nemo but lacked the widely spaced eyes and was much darker in eyes and skin. He held a peculiar weapon in one hand. Passepartout thought it must be an air gun. It was small enough to be concealed under a cloak.

  The minutes throbbed by, along with his head, as the clock hands progressed. About ten minutes later, Passepartout heard footsteps on the staircase. He twisted his neck, not without pain to his head, to see who was coming. He was shocked. This was a stranger. How many others had invaded while he lay unconscious?

  The newcomer also carried an air pistol. He was tall and looked as if he were in his late forties. He had bold aquiline features on which was an arrogant and predatory expression. His peculiar yellow-green eyes and sharp profile made him look like a hungry fish-eagle.

  “They’re still locked in his room,” he said. “Nemo says there’s no hurry to take them. We want as little noise as possible. The people are starting to come back from the fire. Moran is stationed in the back with his air rifle. If they try to get out of the third story window, he’ll drop them. He won’t miss, that one.”

  The other frowned and said, “Why don’t we just break down the door and storm them? If they get off a few more shots, they’re not likely to draw much attention. The sounds will be confined in their room. But if Fogg shoots out the window, the sound will carry a long distance.”

  “Your brother says no. Too many people returning. Evidently we didn’t provide them with a large enough spectacle.”

  He laughed harshly and said, “We should have set the whole block ablaze.”

  “Nemo knows what he’s doing,” the tall dark man said. He looked at Passepartout. “While they’re holed up, we can work on this frog. You should enjoy that. You’ve had so much practice.”

  “Excellent!” the man with yellow-green eyes said. “But what is to keep the other two from killing themselves?”

  “Nothing. But that’s the way Nemo wants it. You ask too many questions.”

  The other looked as if he did not like that. Though he did not carry himself as if he were or had been a soldier, he radiated the air of one who had been in command of many and would like once more to be.

  “Also,” he added, “how do we know that Fogg doesn’t have secret escape routes?”

  “I presume that the house was examined while Fogg was gone,” the tall dark man said. “Why don’t you ask Nemo?”

  “We’re always left in the dark,” the predatory-looking man said.

  The tall dark man shrugged and then walked over to Passepartout. He looked at him.

  “I wonder if he knows anything we don’t.”

  “The code?”

  “It’s been changed since he started on his trip, and we know the old one now. But he’ll have some items of interest for us, I’m sure.”

  “We’ll have to keep the gag on, since we wouldn’t want the neighbors to hear his screams. So we’ll leave the right hand untouched. He has to be able to write out the information.”

  “What if he uses his left hand to write with?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  The tall dark man said, “Before the entertainment begins, I have to revive the horse and get the cab out of the way. It’s a wonder that someone hasn’t noticed the beast. Wher
e’s the kitchen? A pailful should do it.”

  He left the room, and the yellow-green-eyed man sat down. He seemed disgruntled.

  Jealousy, Passepartout thought. He was jealous of Nemo’s authority. If only he could work on that. But that was a forlorn hope even if Passepartout could talk. And he couldn’t talk.

  A familiar voice came from the head of the stairs. Yellow-green eyes rose and walked to its foot.

  “Yes?”

  “Yes what, Vandeleur?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hold the colonel for a minute. I have another idea.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Vandeleur? Passepartout thought. Where had he heard that name before?

  The colonel’s footsteps sounded, and he entered holding a large pail from which water sloshed.

  “This should be enough to get the beast back onto its legs,” he said, chuckling, “We must thank Moran sometime for discovering this rare Oriental drug. One pill, and the beast drops seemingly dead at a precisely calculated moment. One pailful of water, and it is resuscitated in a minute.”

  “I know that,” Vandeleur said.

  Now Passepartout remembered where he had heard Vandeleur’s name before. He must be the notorious Englishman whose duel with the Duc de Val d’Orge, one of the best swordsmen of the world, had been in all the French newspapers. The Duc had lost a hand during the encounter and his wife afterward, since she had run off with Vandeleur. A few years later, Vandeleur had become, for a brief time, the dictator of Paraguay. He had eventually been forced to flee because of a rebellion caused by his atrocities. The Duchess had died during his flight, some said under circumstances which did not reflect credit upon Vandeleur. He had also, it was said, been of service to the British government during the Indian mutiny, but his exploits were such that the government did not dare acknowledge them. There was also a story afloat that he had never backed away from a duel with any man, except one, the equally notorious Captain Richard Francis Burton. Vandeleur’s admirers, however, claimed that the government had interfered because Vandeleur was then engaged in the delicate and extremely important task of recovering the jewels of the baronet, Sir Samuel Levy. The duel would be resumed whenever Vandeleur and Burton happened to meet again, which was not likely, since both were seldom in England.

  Passepartout shivered. With such men holding them prisoner, what chance had they?

  Vandeleur said, “Your brother wants you, Colonel.”

  The tall dark man set the pail down and called up the stairs, “Shall I come up?”

  “No,” Nemo said. “Don’t forget to stay out of the way of the horse when he first revives. The drug sometimes causes the beast to go into a frenzy. Hang onto his head for a minute, keeping out of the way of his hooves, and he’ll soon be quiet.”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” the colonel said. “I’m no green recruit.”

  “Also,” Nemo said, “I want you to take a message to Nesse I. Tell him to listen for our signals. We may use the distorter after all. There’s too much chance of the police or the neighbors getting curious. Those Reform Club swine may send somebody over to ascertain if Fogg has at least gotten home even if he hasn’t shown up there. And Fogg’s colleagues may try a rescue attempt. He surely must have notified them that he was back.”

  “Why didn’t you think of that before we came here?” the colonel said somewhat sulkily.

  “Because, my dear brother, I had expected to overpower these Eridaneans at once. I didn’t know how inept my help was.”

  “You were with us,” the colonel said.

  “Yes, and I should have handled the Frenchman myself. He would never have been able to get that shout out, and we would not now have Fogg and the woman giving us a problem. And pray shut up, brother, while I tell you what else you must do.”

  “All right,” the colonel muttered.

  “After you’ve delivered my message, stay at Nesse I. We don’t want too many coming and going here. Remember, Fogg’s a celebrated man, and if we hadn’t lured his neighbors away, they’d be down around our ears by now.”

  “I’ll miss all the fun. Can’t Vandeleur go instead?”

  “Do I have to repeat everything” Nemo said in an exasperated tone. “You are dressed like a cabbie. What if someone should see a gentleman drive off a hansom?”

  “Very well,” the colonel said reluctantly. He turned and went to the pail.

  Nemo’s voice came sharply. “Can’t you wait until I’m through? You will take one of the distorters with you. Nesse doesn’t have any, and I think it’d be better that we be transmitted there than to the other place, which is too close to the heart of London.”

  “Which one?” the colonel said. “Passepartout’s or the one you made?”

  The one you made! Passepartout thought. Then that was why Nemo stayed behind in San Francisco! And it was his arrival via the distorter that caused the clangings. That was sorry news indeed! Nemo could manufacture distorters! But how had he been able to accomplish something that both Eridaneans and Capelleans had been trying to do without success for two hundred years? The original Old Ones had brought some distorters with them, those still in use, but they had lacked the knowledge to make new ones. And their desire to take some apart for analysis had been unfulfilled because opening them would cause them to blow up.

  The distorter which Head had carried! Was that one which had been recently manufactured? Had he taken passage as a mere cook-steward on a small merchant sailing vessel to avoid the Eridaneans covering the liners? Had he done this because the chief of the Eridaneans knew that he was coming to Europe with the distorter?

  Where then had Nemo gotten the knowledge to make a new distorter? Surely, from schematics. Where had he gotten them? From Head? But Fogg had examined Head’s clothing and body, and Nemo had been examined by both Passepartout and Fogg. Still, Nemo had not been frisked again after returning to the General Grant.

  Could Nemo have removed the schematics from Head’s body during the disarming and the cleaning up of the Mary Celeste? The only time he had been close to Head after he had been searched was when he had helped Fogg throw the corpse overboard.

  Somehow, he had gotten hold of the schematics. And he had made two new ones in San Francisco while Fogg’s party was traveling east. One of the new distorters would have to be left behind. He had brought with him the other distorter when he was transmitted, undoubtedly by the device brought to London by the man from China.

  And he had carried the new distorter with him to Fogg’s house just in case he would not be able to get hold of Passepartout’s.

  The colonel went up the steps and returned a minute later. He left the house with a hard slam of the door. Nemo called out, “The fool! Will he never go quietly?”

  Valdeleur got up to look through the window. He gave a cry and clutched the curtains. Then he said, “The idiot!”

  He whirled and ran to the foot of the staircase and called up, “Your brother’s in trouble!”

  Passepartout could hear the heavy footsteps of Nemo as he ran to the room overlooking the street. A moment later, his boots sounded on the floor as he returned and on the steps as he descended. He strode to the curtains, pulled Vandeleur roughly aside, and looked out.

  He swore and said, “I told him! He was to keep his body away!”

  He swore again, ran to the door, opened it, and then closed it again.

  Passepartout heard a shrill whinnying, the clatter of hooves, and a scream. Shouts from down the street came faintly.

  Vandeleur swore also.

  “The beast knocked him down and the hansom rode over him!”

  He turned to Nemo.

  “What do we do now?”

  Nemo said, “Oh, the fool! He’ll pay for this!”

  “In more ways than one,” Vandeleur said. “He’s unconscious, the bloody blighter!”

  “How he ever got to be a colonel is understandable only if you know the general level of intelligence of Her Majesty’s officers,” Nemo
said. “But how I could be brother to him and that other idiot is explainable only by the fact that we had different mothers!”

  “I didn’t know that,” Vandeleur muttered. “That explains why your brother’s named James, too.”

  “And a fine lot of confusion that resulted in, too!” Nemo said. “She would insist on naming him after her father, even if my father objected!”

  His expression became even harder. He said, “That’s neither here nor there.”

  He went back up the stairs. Presumably, he was notifying whoever was stationed at the door of Fogg’s bedroom of the situation.

  Passepartout groaned behind the gag. If only Mr. Fogg and Aouda had known about this, they could have made a break. With only one man at their door, they might have gotten loose.

  19

  Aouda was in her room and wondering if Phileas Fogg would ever ask her to marry him.

  If she were called away on another mission, she might never see him again. If he did not ask her soon, he might not get a chance even if he wished to do so. Perhaps he was hesitating now only because she was a Parsi. Still, she could pass for a European, and their children would be even more European-looking than she.

  But she doubted that her Oriental origin had anything to do with his failure to speak up. What did Fogg care about the opinions of others? No, his difficulty was his inability to express his deepest feelings. He had too much self-control, which meant, in effect, that in many things he could not control his true self.

  Fogg, in his room, was thinking about asking Aouda to marry him. But what kind of life could he offer her? It was true that, once she started having children, she would be exempt from missions. Yet, she would know no ease of mind. He would be gone for long periods, in peril most of the time, and could be expected to be killed at any time. Moreover, if the Capelleans found out where she lived, they would kill her and perhaps the children, too.