But Fageat had only fired by guesswork.
“Get down, Gno!” said Saint-Clair. Flattening himself against the left-hand wall of the tunnel, able to see clearly in the darkness thanks to his nyctalopia, he raised his right hand, holding the pistol.
I can’t kill him, he thought. Life will punish him more than death. But I have to disarm him.
In the distance, no longer able to see anything, Ariste Fageat did not continue firing. He stood still, slightly to one side relative to Saint-Clair, with his right arm raised, ready to fire...
The Nyctalope took careful aim…and fired.
Fageat uttered a cry; his left hand went to his right arm and grasped it, while the armed hand opened and dropped the pistol.
Coldly, Saint-Clair fired again.
This time, the bullet went through Fageat’s left hand as well as his right arm, which was already grievously wounded by the first bullet.
Then Saint-Clair said placidly:
“Gno, my friend, get up, switch on the light and come on. The swine is out of the fight.”
It was Gno Mitang who picked up Fageat’s pistol. Meanwhile, Saint-Clair said, in his terrible dry voice:
“Come on, you—forward march! Your wounded arm and hand won’t prevent you from making use of your legs.”
Mad with rage, humiliation and the despair of having lost Véronique, however, Fageat coughed and groaned:
“Kill me! Kill me, then!”
“No,” said Saint-Clair, curtly—and he expressed the thought that he had had before firing. “More and better than death, life will provide your expiation.” Then, in a different tone, he continued: “March! March all the way to Mademoiselle d’Olbans! Don’t you have the courage to accept your defeat with dignity?”
“Ah! Cursed that I am!” exclaimed the vanquished man—and, turning his back on Saint-Clair, he marched. The Nyctalope and Gno Mitang followed him, pistols holstered and torches in hand, one lit, the other switched off.
Suddenly, Saint-Clair saw a phosphorescent pillar in the distance.
“Would you care to extinguish the torch, Gno?” he said. “It’s possible that Nocturnals are already in company with Mademoisele d’Olbans—best not to drive them crazy unnecessarily. Only light up again if they show signs of attacking us.”
A moment later, however, he stopped dead, and said in an ardently emotional voice:
“Ah! I can see Véronique… with Diurnals. Véronique!”
He launched himself forwards. Without intending to, he bundled Fageat out of the way. He ran. He leapt.
“Halt, Fageat!” commanded Gno Mitang. He shoved the engineer into a crack in the wall, and followed him into it. With satisfaction, he observed that unless he leaned a long way forward and stuck out his head, neither he nor Fageat could see into the grotto, of which he had so far only perceived the phosphorescent column.
What an embrace! What a kiss!
Oh, it was no longer Mademoiselle Véronique d’Olbans and Monsieur LeoSaint-Clair who came together then, but two lovers, who had loved one another for a long time, but who had never said so, who had thought that they might have lost one another, and who had found one another again, and were only thinking about one another, only living those moments for themselves...
“Véronique!”
“Leo!”
She was weeping while laughing. He was laughing with his eyes full of tears. They held one another in their arms, hugging one another. They kissed one another on the lips, the cheeks, the neck, and on the lips again.
“My God, Leo, how happy I am!”
“I’m crazy with happiness, Véronique!”
They did not say any more. Looking at one another at close range, eye to eye, they calmed down, smiling. Gently, they relaxed their embrace.
Still holding her in his arms, he said:
“I’ll explain it to you, Véronique. It’s quite simple. But although you’re saved from Fageat, we’re not entirely saved from the Nocturnals. We have no time to lose.”
“You’re alone?” she queried.
“No. Gno’s with me.” He turned his head and laughed lightly. “A discreet friend!” he said. “When I hurled myself forward, he must have stopped Fageat and held him back. He knows me thoroughly; he understood that having found you, after having feared losing you, I’d need a moment alone with you...”
Tenderly mocking, Véronique replied:
“You’re forgetting these four admiring Diurnals and those two petrified Nocturnals over there...”
“Indeed!” said Sant-Clair, laughing.
He saluted the Dournals with the word “Vahiné”—which meant “Have a nice day,” and was equivalent to the terrestrial “Bonjour” with an extra nuance of smiling cheerfulness. To the Nocturnals, he intimated with a broad an authoritative gesture, an instruction not to move. Did they understand? At any rate, they remained rooted to the spot, rigid on their colossal legs.
Then Saint-Clair called:
“Gno, my friend! Gno!”
Thirty seconds later Gno Mitang kissed the hand that Mademoiselle d’Olbans held out to him, and pronounced a few polite formulae, smiling. Then he said:
“It occurred to me to make ligatures for Fageat’s left fore-arm and right arm, to restrict the blood-loss. I ordered him to sit down on the ground in a fissure in the tunnel—and to prevent him from playing the idiot, I tied his legs together with the cord that the Nocturnals had gifted to me. We can pick him up on the way back.”
“Very good, Gno—thank you,” said Saint-Clair.
In a different tone, speaking to Véronique as well as the Japanese, he added:
“We have to act without wasting time, but not at hazard. We already know enough of the Diurnals’ language, I believe, to have a useful conversation with these.”
“I think so too,” said Véronique.
“Indubitably,” said Gno.
“Well then! Ask them to sit down, Véronique. Let’s sit down and talk.”
No noise was coming from the great grotto of the amphitheater now; surrounded once again by natural obscurity, the Nocturnals had calmed down; to least, they were no longer crying out. Nothing could be heard in the little grotto but the trickle of the water falling into its bowl and overflowing smoothly into the crevice.
The Diurnals sat down. In their dark corner, the Nocturnals remained still. Then Saint-Clair attempted to converse with the four winged Rheans, who were sitting in a row in front of Véronique, Gno Mitang and himself.
Conclusion
Aboard the Olb.-I, a few hours after the departure of Saint-Clair and Gno Mitang, Vitto and Soca woke up almost at the same time, shaken by Jean Margot, who immediately said to them:
“Stir yourselves! Your heads are heavy, eh? Mine too, damn it—but it soon passes. It’ll pass even more rapidly when you read this.”
With a gesture, he showed them the piece of paper pinned to the wall underneath an electric lamp.
Thick-headed but hurriedly, the two Corsicans slid from their hammocks to the floor, took three steps, stopped with their heads raised, and read what was written on the piece of paper.
Doubtless after being assured of a certain comprehension and obedience on the part of the two Nocturnals, Fageat has left with them, abducting Mademoiselle d’Olbans. It’s probable that we’ve been drugged by Fageat, to various degrees, during the evening meal. Gno Mitang and I are going after the traitor. Guard the Olb.-I and, if necessary, defend it. If we have not returned in two Rhean days, act as you think best, all three of you. Our objective is the great cavern in the western hills, where the Diurnals indicated to us that the entrance to the Nocturnals’ underground dwellings is located.
S.-C.
“Oh, that swine Fageat!” exclaimed Soca, furiously.
In important brutal circumstances, Vitto never said anything.
As for Margot, still pale with indignation and anger, he said, violently:
“I’m not surprised. I’ve always thought he was a dirty swine, in
spite of his technical abilities.”
The three men immediately organized themselves so that they could keep watch and rest alternately during the seventy-two hours comprised by two Rhean days.
Absolutely nothing troubled the peaceful clearing in which the Olb.-I had landed. Through the open portholes, or when they walked around the Olb.-I to stretch their legs, Vitto, Soca and Margot did not see any living beings except for the impassive large white birds and, fleetingly, frightened quadrumanes rapidly climbing into the trees.
At first, Margot and Soca chatted, a trifle feverishly, formulating a hundred hypotheses, while Vitto kept quiet. Then the talkers wearied of futile chat, and there was almost absolute silence, until the seventy-second hour of waiting, at the fourth minute of which, Vitto, who was then on watch, abruptly cried:
“Alert!”
Almost immediately afterwards, however, he added:
“Praise God! It’s the Boss!”
The Sun had risen two hours earlier. Vitto, Soca and Margot bounded from the vehicle into the clearing, which the broad beams of the sun’s rays were traversing horizontally.
The three men ran forward.
“Mademoiselle! Monsieur Mitang!” they cried.
“Oh, Fageat!” muttered Margot. “Wounded! Good!”
“And Diurnals!” added Soca, merrily.
With what glad ardor their hands met and shook one another. What speeches!
Finally, Saint-Clair said:
“Come on, calm down. Into the Olb.-I, quickly. Vitto, Soca, Margot, we’re dying of hunger. A good cold meal, at the gallop!”
“And what shall we do with him?” said Margot, coldly, pointing at Ariste Fageat, who, with his right arm in a sling and his left arm above the right on his breast, was standing to one side, head bowed, with his back against a tree.
He was bizarrely semi-clad; to make the bandages they had used his own shirt, partly ripped up, and his neckerchief; the straps were made of the same pink fiber with which the Diurnals made their body-stockings and bonnets.
All eyes turned toward the traitor.
Saint-Clair replied:
“That’s fair—all three of you have the right to know, without delay. I could have killed Fageat, who had just shot at Gno Mitang and myself. I only wounded him, in order that life itself can be the sanction of his crime. To imprison him in the Olb.-I is impossible, and it’s more impossible still to let him live with us. I’ve agreed with the Diurnals that they’ll isolate him in one of the small buildings in their city. A human being might well be able to live eating nothing but Rhean nuts; those admirable fruits contain all the elements indispensable to perfect nutrition: fats, calories, vitamins. He’ll be permitted two hours exercise every day in the gardens inside the city. These Diurnals will take him away, taking everything from the Olb.-I that belongs to him—except, of course, for weapons. The Diurnals, who are immune to diseases, microbial and otherwise, are familiar with injuries and know how to tend and cure them. That’s it for Fageat. The Diurnals will take him away immediately. While you and Mademoiselle d’Olbans prepare our meal, I’ll do his packing personally.”
Having said that, in a tone of sad severity, Saint-Clair headed for the Olb.-I at a rapid pace. Gno and Véronique were at his sides. The four Diurnals surrounded Fageat, who sat down on the ground, signifying by that movement that he would not go into the vehicle.
Saint-Clair, glancing back, saw that, and stopped momentarily.
“As you please, Fageat,” he said. “Margot will bring you the package of your belongings. We’ll only see one another again in a year’s time, when we’ll be leaving for Earth!
Rapidly prepared by Véronique, aided by Vitto and Soca, the meal was tasty and copious, thanks to the provisions of refrigerated conserves stored on the Olb.-I in cans and bottles. It was a champagne lunch. What relaxation and joy, after so many hours of threat and drama!
Then, over the odorous coffee, outside on the grass of the sunlit clearing, while the smoke of cigars and cigarettes dispersed in the pleasantly warm, calm and light air of the planet Rhea, Saint-Clair gave a brief but complete and very animated account, for he benefit of Vitto, Soca and Margot, of the adventures that he and Gno Mitang had undergone before arriving at the small cave and finding Mademoiselle d’Olbans.
He concluded:
“Afterwards, Mademoiselle d’Olbans, Gno Mitang and I chatted with the four Diurnals incarcerated in the cave. They were being held apart from hundreds of other winged Rheans detained in the underworld because they belong to an elite class of the Diurnal people, which only has two constituent classes: composers and singers. Equal with respect to all the forms, obligations and customs of social life, the members of the two classes only differ in that the composers imagine and make up sings, orchestrate them while teaching them and having them repeated, but then withdraw and leave the care of directing their execution to the choirmasters...”
“Curious,” said Soca. “We didn’t learn that in the city.”
“Oh, there are many other things yet to learn!” Saint-Clair replied, and continued: “These four Diurnals, greatly revered by the Nocturnals, soon put us in communication with one named Tugg, a kind of king of the Noctrunal people of this region. This communication was established between the small and large grottoes through the intermediary of two Nocturnals we had captured, and whom the traitor Fageat had made his accomplices, named Rrou and Ggo. Fortunately, Tugg had not been afflicted by the rays of our electric torches during our tumultuous traversal of the great grotto...”
“Ah! Forgive me for interrupting you, Monsieur,” said Soca again, “but what is the ultimate effect of a powerful light, natural or artificial, on the Nocturnals’ eyes?”
“A pertinent question,” said Saint-Clair, smiling. “This is the answer: any light surpassing the intensity of the Rhean phosphorescence with which we’re familiar is intolerable to the Nocturnals’ eyes. The beams of our lamps or portable torches have the same effect on them as the light of the sun as soon as it appears in a clear sky above the horizon. Instantaneously, the Nocturnal is dazzled and feels an unbearable pain in the eyes—hence the instinctive gesture of putting the hands over the eyes and lying face down. The pain and dazzlement remain intense for two or three minutes, and then begin to abate; after a quarter of an hour or so, the Nocturnal is no longer in pain, and becomes clear-sighted again—in the dark, at least.
“If light strikes again, the second affliction is crueler and more durable than the first. A third and a fourth can render the Nocturnal blind, for the eyes are materially burned, and mad, for the intolerable pain only ceases with death. In living Rhean memory, however, few Nocturnals have suffered that terrible fate; it requires a rare combination of successive circumstances to expose an unfortunate to sunlight several times over in a relatively short lapse of time—and you can well imagine that the Nocturnals, by instinct and education, know how to avoid committing imprudences and exposing themselves to that torture—which is sometimes, but very rarely, inflicted by the Dournals when they are able, exceptionally, to capture one or two of the Nocturnals that attack their cities by night.”
There was a pause, and then Saint-Clair resumed:
“So, we were able to summon King Tugg to the small cave. Diurnals imprisoned even for a few months, as the four composers were, are easily able to learn the simple language of the Nocturnals. One of the four, the most intelligent, served as our interpreter; we knew enough words in the Diurnal language to express our thoughts clearly. In brief, these are the essential elements of the three-way pact that has been concluded between Terrans, Diurnal Rheans and Nocturnal Rheans...”
Saint-Clair liked to smoke a good cigar. The one that he was smoking at present was excellent. And he knew that, even while talking, he must not let it go out. He took advantage of interruptions occasioned by an interlocutor, or interrupted himself, in order to breathe in, savor the delectable smoke momentarily, and exhale it slowly. That was what he did, in spite of the impatient av
idity of his listeners—not merely Vitto, Soca and Margot, who knew nothing of what he was about to say, but also Véronique and Gno Mitang, who were both taking pleasure in hearing the Nyctalope provide a focused, clear and definitive depiction of a series of successive images that only tended to reappear to them, at a distance, as incomplete and sometimes incoherent sketches.
Having taken a drag, Saint-Clair resumed speaking:
“As I said, it’s a three-way pact, with a few brief articles. Firstly, the Diurnals and the Nocturnals, the former from sunrise to sunset and the latter during the night, will be at our disposal to help us organize, in this region, our life as explorers of the planet Rhea. The first action of that collaboration will be the transportation, tomorrow night, of the Olb.-I to a hill, beside a powerful waterfall, which will serve to power our various electrical apparatus, including our interplanetary projector.”
“Bravo!” cried Margot, the specialist electrician.
“Secondly,” Saint-Clair continued, “peace is initiated between the Nocturnals and Diurnals of this region. For many centuries, the former have only been attacking the latter in order to capture the largest possible number so that they might hear them sing. These aggressions were frequent because, in the imprisonment of subterranean darkness, in spite of the care lavished on them by the Nocturnals, the Diurnals declined rapidly and soon died of consumption and languor. The imprisoned choirs thus had to be frequently reconstituted by the arrival of further captives. Well, no more! Often, if not every night, either outside on the plain or in the grotto of the amphitheater, Diurnal choirs, which are various in kind, will go in turn to give vocal concerts to the Nocturnal people. In payment, the Nocturnals will deliver to the Diurnals large quantities of furs, a movable commodity highly valued by the winged Rheans, who have a horror of hunting quadrumanes.
“In consequence, in this region, there will never again be war, if, as I believe, the Rheans are wiser than Terrans—and I hope that during the year of our first sojourn on Rhea we shall be able to expand that peace over the whole extent of the planet.”
The Return of the Nyctalope Page 19