Such was Lucifer: a prodigious intelligence, vibrant with genius and wild ambition; a creature gifted with unprecedented power by virtue of that extraordinary machine, the Teledynamo; but a man for whom Woman existed–that Woman whose love is the supreme wealth of conquest.
Glô von Warteck often repeated, in the secret privacy of his thoughts: I should be superior to all the gods if Laurence Païli and Irene de Ciserat would say to me, with the spontaneous warmth of sincerity: “I love you!” And it was because he knew in advance, with rage and disappointment, that neither Laurence not Irène would ever, under any circumstances, say to him “I love you!” that he was animated by such a fury of cruel and despotic ambition.
To this infernal genius love was lacking; for this human Lucifer, there was no Eloa.16 And it was certainly not Laurence Païli who would be that Eloa, eventually affectionate and amorously submissive–not, at any rate, with the spontaneous warmth of sincerity–for if ever repulsion and hatred had embittered and inflamed a woman’s heart, that heart was surely La Païli’s. She went to Glô von Warteck not to give her heart but to bring death, albeit under the deceptive appearances of love.
Shivering under the warm swathes of fur that enveloped her from top to toe, Laurence held herself immobile in her bucket-seat. The formation of the aircraft’s windshield protected its occupants so well that they were hardly affected by the terrible blast of their rapid course. Next to Laurence in the other bucket-seat, Grisyl, similarly muffled, seemed to be asleep–but she was thinking, as La Païli was.
In front of them, Romski was piloting the aircraft. For such a short journey–to this champion of the air, a six-hour flight, even in the polar cold, seemed mere child’s play–the Polish officer had no need of any assistant; that is why he had raised no objection when Laurence had asked him not to bring Berge and Dopp. As the RC3 was performing admirably, its engine being powerful, regular, calm and docile, Romski was able to concentrate on maintaining the right heading. On first taking off, he had tried out various different altitudes in order to avoid the great air currents that differences in temperature between ice, water and land generally cause close to the surface of the globe, but once he deemed that he was in a relatively calm atmosphere he had no other thought than to head directly for the pole, so as to arrive at Fort Warteck in he briefest possible time.
Of Saint-Clair’s plan, Lieutenant Romski new only what everyone at Elmwood knew; he knew nothing about the principal means of action–which would, in Saint-Clair’s reckoning, offer a 99% chance of victory. That secret was known only to Saint-Clair, Lourmel and Sir Patrick Swires. However, Romski assumed that putting that means into effect would oblige the RC1, RC2 and RC4 to take precautions and make maneuvers that would oblige the three aircraft to proceed less rapidly than usual. In the first instance, they would have to fly above the clouds for two thirds of their course, in order not to risk being seen by scouts from Fort Warteck abroad on some reconnaissance mission; afterwards, they would have to fly as low as possible, in order not to be seen by the sentries at the fort; finally, they would have to touch down a few kilometers away from the fort, in order that the Nyctalope could give his companions their final orders. For all these reasons, Romski assumed, there was no chance of Saint-Clair’s three aircraft overtaking the RC3 and preventing Laurence and Grisyl from doing as they wished.
Romski was, therefore, perfectly tranquil. To be sure, he did not doubt for a single instant that death awaited him at Fort Warteck–but he had put his destiny once and for all in the soft hands of La Païli. If he died in such a manner as to leave a warm and thankful memory within the singer’s mind, he would die happy. Since La Païli and this Grisyl are risking death for love, Romski said to himself, it is entirely natural that I should run the same risk for the same cause.
Thus reasons passion, with sublime unreason.
The hours passed–9, 10, 11 p.m. The RC3 slid through the cold air in the lugubrious light of the polar regions. None of the three individuals aboard the aircraft had any thought of speaking to the others Everything had been said before they quit Elmwood and the Uberalles.
Yes, everything had been said–and there was the roar of the engine...
Midnight! And afterwards, 1, 2, 3 a.m...
The third hour–the sixth of the flight 17–was marked on the luminous dial of the chronometer in front of Romski, of which Laurence and Grisyl also had a perfect view. Romski brought the RC3 down until he was below the clouds that had been hiding the grey and white ice-clad terrain for some time.
“Fort Warteck!” cried Laurence, in a strangely shrill voice.
Still seemingly distant, a light blazed, like that of a lighthouse with a fixed and continuous lamp. It seemed to be very high in the air, by virtue of an optical illusion that did not deceive Romski, Laurence or Grisyl.
Beneath the blazing light, there were a few smaller luminous sparks set against the rosy clarity of the murky daylight; not everyone was asleep in Fort Warteck.
“It will soon be the time at which Glô, if he’s asleep, will awake for a new day,” Grisyl said.
Laurence did not hear her, but she had had the same thought at the same instant.
“If nothing alters the usual hour of his awakening,” Grisyl went on, “we’ll arrive while he’s in his deepest sleep.” These words, too, expressed Laurence’s thoughts. Their arrival at Fort Warteck while Lucifer was asleep was exactly what La Païli had intended. That was also, as La Païli knew, what the Nyctalope had intended for his own company. Like Romski, though, Laurence had calculated that if nothing delayed the RC3, it would arrive at Fort Warteck nearly an hour ahead of Saint-Clair. I shall have plenty of time to vanquish or be vanquished, she had told herself.
And now Fort Warteck was there: a black mass, vertically striped with long icicles, like stalactites. It was so close, with its powerful searchlight and its few scintillating lamps, that Romski, seeing a propitious white esplanade in front of him, immediately aimed for it, maneuvering skillfully. The aircraft’s wheels brushed snow solidified by the cold and rebounded–but it made contact again in a long skid, slowed down and came to a stop.
Romski turned to the two women–who were already upright–got to his feet and said, calmly: “We’ve made better time than I expected. I hardly had to look at the speedometer. It’s 2:20 a.m...”
“Quickly, Romski!” This came from Grisyl, who removed her gloves momentarily, threw a rope around the officer and tied him up tightly from his shoulders to his ankles, his wrists cruelly scored by the rough cord. Then she threw him into the empty bucket-seat parallel to the pilot’s, which was normally reserved for the mechanic.
“What do we do now?” Grisyl asked.
“Get down and walk to Fort Warteck,” Laurence replied, resolutely–but before leaving the aircraft she leaned towards Romski. From his smiling mouth to his serious eyes, the aviator’s face was visible between his collar and fur cap. “My friend,” she said, “I thank you with all my heart.”
“I can die now!” sighed the young man.
Grisyl had already jumped on to the ice. Laurence followed suit. Taking one another by the hand, the two women walked towards Fort Warteck. They did had no expectations, and were ready for anything–except for what actually happened.
What happened was this: the two women had only taken 20 steps when a luminous beam of light sprang forth from the white wall surrounding Fort Warteck. This projection enveloped them in bright light, much more vivid than the polar daylight produced by the mist-shrouded Sun. Then they heard a piercing whistling sound, and something fell on to the ice some 20 meters to their right. It was a black object, which burst open like a grenade, without emitting any light.
“A shell!” said Laurence, coming to a halt.
“Soporific gas!” said Grisyl. “Why did I not foresee that? Everything, but not that! What fools we have been!”
Another projectile whistled through the air, immediately falling to their left and bursting open. Two clouds of black
smoke gushed out, swelled up and began to spread. A third shell landed in front of them, and a fourth behind–and others fell, one by one, at intervals of about a second, around the two women and around the aeroplane.
Laura and Grisyl did not hesitate any longer. Still holding hands, they ran forwards and slightly to the left, where they saw a gap between two clouds of smoke. But the shells were still falling further ahead, and others to the right and left. The two women found that they were completely surrounded by smoke, which was creeping between their legs and extending above their heads. Already weakening, they understood that no escape into pure air would be possible. With a desperate effort, which they already understood to be futile, they plunged forward with their heads lowered...
It was Laurence who collapsed first, groaning. With enough consciousness left for one voluntary act, Grisyl knelt down beside her friend–but that was only for a few seconds. Losing all awareness of things, the young woman slipped sideways, her eyes closed.
A few minutes went by. Then a gust of wind–a strong air-current, projected as if from a giant bellows–sprang forth from Fort Warteck: a whistling squall which tore through the smoke and dissipated it. A dozen masked men emerged from a door that suddenly opened in the white wall girdling the fort.
Arriving at the two extended bodies, shapeless in their furs, one of these men barked orders in a harsh voice, in a language that neither Laurence nor Grisyl would have understood had they been able to hear it. Then the leader ran to the aeroplane, followed by seven men. After having established–not without a certain surprise, expressed by a dozen shrill exclamations–that only one human being was aboard, trussed up from head to toe, he shouted more orders. The seven men, pulling or pushing, rolled the RC3 over the solid ice.
Twenty minutes later, Laurence, Grisyl and Romski–the former two still fully-clothed, the latter untied but still fur-clad–-were laid out upon a long and broad basalt table, in a bare room illuminated by a ceiling light.
The room was fitted out, furnished or decorated–-however one might care to put it–in a bizarrely macabre fashion. Skeletons hung from one wall; another was almost completely covered by brightly-colored anatomical illustrations. A third wall was lined with glass-fronted cabinets filled with dissecting instruments, jars, test-tubes, flasks of variously-tinted liquids, bandages and bundles of cotton wool. The floor was concrete, with trenches radiating from the feet of the table to the walls, within which a clear liquid flowed incessantly and soundlessly. Some 20 stools of varying height were distributed haphazardly. The fourth wall was pierced by three doors. There were no windows. Warmed by an invisible heater, the air in the room was comfortably breathable, and strangely perfumed with vervain.
Standing beside the table, in front of the extended bodies, three men remained alone when the porters had gone. These men were Wilfried, the commander of the North Pole, Krieg, the chief electrician, and Glass, the chief of staff and physician-surgeon. They had been asleep when the sentries had alerted them to an unprecedented, extraordinary and utterly unexpected incident: the landing of a biplane about a kilometer south-west of Fort Warteck. The officer of the watch had done nothing but follow standard orders, alerting the three chiefs and bombarding the temeritous invaders with soporific gas-shells. Now, in the dissecting room, the three chiefs were standing before the sleeping captives, whose headgear they had just removed.
“Two women and a man,” said Glass. “Strange! We must undress them a little further to get a better look at their faces.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary,” Wilfried opined, “to wake them up before the Supreme Lord...”
“Naturally,” Krieg said. “Let’s not forget the detail that the man was trussed up like a sausage.”
They set to work. Within a few minutes, the three bodies were dispossessed of gloves, cloaks and boots.
“Oh!” Wilfried exclaimed. “I’ve seen that face before at the Hollow Rock! It’s Grisyl–the one with the Russian mother.”
“And I’ve seen this one–such perfect beauty!” cried Glass. “On my last trip to Paris, in the foyer of the Opéra, then at a dinner for artistes and in honor of Professor Lourmel, the medical director of the Clinique Molière. It’s La Païli! The famous...”
“Silence, Glass!”
“Yes! Silence.”
The three men looked at one another. They were not without some knowledge of their Supreme Lord’s human passions. And La Païli...
“As for this one,” said Krieg, pursing his lips, “it’s some aviator.”
“What the Devil can have happened?” murmured Wilfried. “The Hollow Rock has been taken by the Nyctalope and occupied by the English. We know that all the Wartecks over there, and all their personnel, are in the power of English and French jailers. We know, too, hat their captivity will only last until June 10 or 11–but why and how Grisyl and La Païli...”
“The aircraft’s from the new squadron at Le Bourget,” said Krieg. “It might very well have come directly from its hangar, in five or six stages.”
“There’s no need for further discussion,” Wilfried said. “The mere presence of this woman”–he pointed to La Païli–“is sufficient to justify what I need to do.”
“Wake up the Supreme Lord?” Glass asked.
“Yes.”
“Go on, then. In the meantime, Krieg and I will go through their pockets.”
“Certainly–we must make sure that when they wake up, none of them can use a weapon. You never know...”
Wilfried left the room.
Laurence and Grisyl were dressed much as Romski was, in jackets and trousers of a military cut, felt leggings and thick woolen calf-length socks. Grisyl’s hair was cut short, but Laurence had been content with braiding her beautiful hair tightly and twisting it into a sort of crown. Krieg and Glass rummaged through all the pockets, internal and external, of their jackets, and then those in their trousers. They patted their arms and legs to make sure that no weapons were concealed under their clothing; they unbuttoned their shirts–uninhibitedly in the case of the man, but rather delicately in those of the two women–and then buttoned them up again. The results of the search were three Brownings of a model unknown to them, six ammunition-clips, three knives and three pairs of steel handcuffs.
“Ha!” said Glass. “I wonder why Grisyl was armed in the same way as this aviator, who was tied up in his bucket-seat while the two women were apparently walking towards Fort Warteck!”
“Let’s not discus it, Glass, if you please.”
“Quite right, Krieg.”
The two men fell silent, studying La Païli’s divine features–but Krieg suddenly shivered, and murmured: “I believe, Glass, that we’d do better not to look at her.”
Glass blushed and turned away, saying: “You’re right, Krieg.”
The two men went to sit down on stools, some distance away from the table, placed in such a manner that the furs heaped up beside the aviator completely hid the bodies of Grisyl and La Païli from their view.
A quarter of an hour went by. There was absolute silence in the room, and nothing moved.
Suddenly, one of the three doors at the back opened. Glô von Warteck appeared, his hair uncombed, his face impassive and his eyes gleaming. He was dressed in a sort of white flannel pajama suit, with fur slippers on his feet. Krieg and Glass got to their feet and waited, their attitude respectful but not rigid. After a brief pause, the Baron came forward rapidly. Wilfried followed him, leaving the door to close by itself, but he went to set himself beside Krieg and Glass rather than staying close to the Supreme Lord.
Stopping in front of La Païli, Glô remained transfixed for a full minute. His face was expressionless. His eyes, half-hidden by lowered lids, were now invisible to his three relatives and subordinates, who were passionately attentive beneath their appearance of careless submission.
Glô slowly raised his right hand and took hold of La Païli’s left hand–but his attention was suddenly caught by a gleam of light close
at hand; it was the blade of a dagger half-drawn from its fur sheath. He saw the Brownings, the ammunition clips, the knives and the handcuffs. His bony fingers contracted about Laurence’s hand. Raising his head and turning slightly to one side, he fixed his cold eyes upon Wilfried, Krieg and Glass.
If he had wanted to, Glô the Sorcerer could certainly have read the three men’s thoughts–but he only indulged in those terrible games, which tired him so, when he judged it necessary. At Schwarzrock, he took pleasure in maintaining his frightful prestige in the eyes of his garrison by frequently showing its men and women that he had no need of words, but here, at Fort Warteck, especially with regard to his three assistants, the Supreme Lord had no need to expend fluid in that fashion. He spoke, therefore, as if he were an ordinary man. In a voice that was slightly gruff, he said: “How were these weapons distributed?”
It was Krieg who replied: “Equally among the three captives; each had a Browning, a dagger and a pair of handcuffs.”
“And this one was tied up?” Glô said, pointing at the aviator with his left hand.
“Very tightly,” Glass replied. “I untied him. There’s the rope, in the corner of the table.”
There was a pause, then Glô said: “Wilfried, Krieg, Glass, pick up these weapons and clothes and take them away. Come straight back.” He let go of Laurence’s hands. His eyes followed the three men as they carried out his order. When the door closed again behind the heels of Glass–the last to go out–Glô shuddered violently. He leapt up and knelt on the edge of the table, leaned over and placed his hands on Laurence’s shoulders. He violated her closed lips with a frenzied kiss.
When the three men came back, however, having been absent for less than a minute, Glô was standing up impassively, with one of La Païli’s hands between his fingers. Immediately, he said: “Glass, carry Grisyl to my mother’s apartment; wait there until my mother wakes up. Tell her what has happened and that you’re entrusting Grisyl to her, on my behalf. Then wake Grisyl up.”
The Nyctalope vs Lucifer 3: The Triumph of the Nyctalope Page 14