Three Science Fiction Novellas: From Prehistory to the End of Mankind

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  It was only during this period that I began to tell him that I also perceive color differently. A number of experiments proved conclusively that the colors red, orange, yellow, green, blue and indigo are as completely invisible to me, as is infrared or ultraviolet light to the normal eye. On the other hand, I was able to demonstrate* that I do perceive the color violet and, beyond violet, a whole scale of nuances, a spectrum of colors at least twice that which lies between red and violet.

  This astonished the doctor more than all the rest. The study of this phenomenon was long, detailed and, what is more, conducted with infinite skill. It became, in the hands of this adept experimenter, the source of subtle discoveries in the domain of those scientific disciplines classified by humanity; it gave him the key to ancient phenomena such as magnetism, to elective affinities, to inductive powers, and guided him toward new concepts of physiology.19 To know that a given metal consists of a series of unknown shadings, variable with changes in pressure, temperature, electric charge; that the most diaphanous gasses have distinct colors, even at the most minute thickness; to make inquiries into the infinite richness of tonalities of objects that appear more or less black, when in fact they yield up a more magnificent scale of hues in the ultraviolet range than that of all the known colors; finally to understand how much variation of unknown nuances are given off by an electric circuit, the bark of a tree, the skin of a human, in a single day, a single hour, a single minute—one easily imagines all the advantages an ingenious scientist can derive from such notions.

  In any case, this study plunged the doctor into the delights of scientific discovery, in comparison with which the products of pure imagination are as cold as ashes after fire. He never ceased telling me:

  “It is clear to me! Your enhanced perception of light is in fact nothing but the result of your organism having developed with such speed.”

  We worked patiently an entire year, without my mentioning the Moedigen—I absolutely wanted to convince my host, give him numerous proofs of my visual faculties, before I hazarded my supreme confidence. At last the moment came when I believed I could reveal everything.

  IX.

  It was a mild fall morning full of clouds, which for a week rolled across the dome of the sky, without the least rain falling from them. Van den Heuvel and I were walking in the garden. The doctor was silent, totally absorbed in speculations of which I was the main object. Finally, he said:

  “It is nonetheless a beautiful dream to be able to see through those clouds, to penetrate to the very ether, when we, blind as we are . . .”

  “If only all that I saw were the sky! . . .” I replied.

  “Ah! Yes, the entire world so different . . .”

  “Much more different even than what I have told you!”

  “What?” he exclaimed with avid curiosity, “could you have hidden something from me?”

  “The main thing!”

  He stood before me, looked at me fixedly, with true anxiety, mingled with something I know not what of the mystical.

  “Yes, the main thing!”

  We had come back to the house, I rushed to ask for a phonograph. The instrument that was brought was up to the task, highly perfected by my friend, and capable of recording a long speech; the servant placed it on the stone table where the doctor and his family were accustomed to take their coffee on warm summer evenings. The good machine, timed to the second, was admirably suited to record discussions. Our conversation went forward then more or less as though it were a normal one:

  “Yes, I hid the main thing from you, wanting first to gain your complete confidence. And even now, after all the discoveries that my organism allowed you to make, I still fear that you will believe me only with great difficulty, at first at least.”

  I stopped speaking, in order to let the machine play back the sentence, I saw the doctor become pale with that pallor only great scientists experience before the discovery of some new property of matter. His hands were trembling.

  “I shall believe you!” he said with a certain solemnity.

  “Even if I assert that our creation, I mean our animal and vegetable kingdoms, is not the only form of life on earth . . . that there is another form, as vast, as numerous, as varied . . . invisible to your eyes?”

  He suspected occultism, and could not help saying:

  “The world of the fourth state20 . . . souls, ghosts of spirits.”

  “No, no, nothing like that! A world of living beings, condemned as we are to a short life, to the needs of an organic body, to birth, growth, struggle . . . a world weak and ephemeral like ours, a world subjected to laws just as rigid, if not to the same laws, a world just as much prisoner of the earth, just as helpless in the face of contingencies . . . But still completely different from our world, without any influence on us, just as we have no influence on it, except through the modifications that it makes on our shared ground, the Earth, or through the parallel modifications that we force that same Earth to endure.”21

  I do not know if Van den Heuvel believed me or not, but it was certain that he was struck by a strong emotion:

  “In essence, are they fluid in nature?” he asked.

  “That’s what I am not able to tell, because their properties are too contradictory to the idea that we have of what matter is. The earth is as resistant to them as to us, and in like manner so are the majority of minerals, although they can penetrate to some degree into a humus.22 They also remain totally impermeable, solid, in relation to one another. Yet they pass, if sometimes with a certain difficulty, through plants, animals, organic tissues; and we, we pass through them as well. If one of them could perceive us, we would perhaps appear to it as something fluid in relation to them, as they appear fluid to me in comparison to us; but they would probably not be able to come to a conclusion any more than I can, they would be confounded by parallel contradictions . . . Their form is strange in the sense that they have very little thickness. Their size varies infinitely. I have known some of them to reach a length of a hundred meters, others are tiny like our smallest insects. Some take their nourishment at the expense of the earth and atmospheric changes; others feed on weather changes and members of their own species, without however this being a cause of death as it is with us, for it suffices for the stronger one to extract energy, and such energy can be taken without exhausting the sources of life.”23

  The doctor abruptly asked me:

  “Have you seen these beings since you were a child?” I guessed that he suspected, deep down, some disorder that had taken place more or less recently in my organism:

  “Since I was a child!” I replied forcefully. . . . “I will give you all the necessary proofs.”

  “Do you see them at this moment?”

  “I see them . . . there are a great many of them in the garden . . .”

  “Where?”

  “On the path, on the grass, on the walls, in the air . . . for you need to know that some are earthbound and some airborne . . . and there are also aquatic forms, but they rarely leave the surface of water.”

  “Are there a lot of them everywhere?”

  “Yes . . . and hardly less numerous in town than in the countryside, in dwellings than in the street. Those that like living inside, however, are smaller, no doubt because of the difficulty they have in going inside, although wooden doors are not an obstacle for them!”

  “And what about iron . . . windowpanes . . . bricks . . . ?”

  “These are impermeable to them.”

  “Would you like to describe one of them to me . . . preferably one of the large ones?”

  “I see one next to that tree. Its form is highly elongated, somewhat irregular. Toward the right, it is convex, toward the left concave, with bulges and indentations: one might therefore imagine that the projection of a gigantic, bulky larva would look this way. But its form is not characteristic of its Kingdom, because form varies greatly from one species (if one can use this word here) to another. Their infinitely small thicknes
s is, on the other hand, a quality common to all: that thickness must not be more than barely a tenth of a millimeter, while their length reaches five feet, and their largest width forty centimeters. What is its supremely defining mark, and that of its entire Kingdom, is the lines that crisscross it, somewhat in every direction, that terminate in networks that become more delicate between two systems of lines. Each system of lines has a center, a sort of spot that bulges slightly above the mass of the body, but is sometimes, on the contrary, hollowed out. These centers have no fixed shape, sometimes they are nearly circular or elliptical, sometimes curved and spiral-like, occasionally divided by several narrowing places. These beings are surprisingly mobile, and their size varies from hour to hour. Their edges palpitate vigorously, by means of a sort of transversal undulation. As a general rule, the lines that stand out are large, although some of them are very thin as well; they diverge, they end in an infinite number of delicate traces, which gradually vanish. Some lines, however, much paler than the others, are not generated by the centers; they remain isolated in the system, and crisscross each other without changing tonality: these lines have the ability to move around in the body, and to vary their curves, while the centers and the connecting lines remain stable in their respective settings . . . As for the colors of my Moedig, I must give up trying to describe them to you: none of them are part of the perceptible spectrum for your eye, for you none of them has a name. They are extremely bright in the networks of lines, less bright in the centers, very faint in the independent lines, which, on the other hand, possess an extreme degree of polish, a metallic ultraviolet, if I can speak in this way . . . I have gathered a few observations about the way the Moedigen live, nourish themselves, and are autonomous, but I do not wish to submit these to you at the present time.”

  I fell silent; the doctor played back twice my words, recorded by our impeccable translation device, then he remained silent a long while. I had never seen him in such a state: his face was rigid, petrified, his eyes glassy, cataleptic; a profuse sweat ran from his temples and drenched his hair. He tried to speak but was unable to. Trembling, he made a tour of the garden, and, when he reappeared, his eyes and mouth expressed a violent passion, fervent, religious: one would have thought he was the disciple of some new faith, rather than a peaceful hunter of phenomena.

  Finally, he muttered:

  “You’ve overwhelmed me! All you have just told me appears desperately lucid. Do I have the right to doubt, after all the marvelous things you have already taught me?”

  “Doubt,” I ardently told him, “dare to doubt . . . your experiments will be all the more fertile for it!”

  “Ah!” he replied with a voice as if in dream, “this is wonder itself, and so magnificently superior to the vain wonders of The Fable!24 . . . My poor human intelligence is so small compared to such knowledge. My enthusiasm is boundless. However, something inside me doubts . . .”

  “Let us work to dispel your uncertainties: our efforts will be rewarded one-hundred-fold!”

  X.

  We went to work. A few weeks were sufficient for the doctor to dissipate all his doubts. Several clever experiments, undeniable connections made between each of my assertions, two or three fortunate discoveries concerning the Moedigen’s influence on atmospheric phenomena, left no room for uncertainty. The collaboration of Van den Heuvel’s eldest son, a young man possessed of the highest scientific talents, boosted the fruitfulness of our research and even more the certainty of our findings.

  Thanks to the methodical minds of my two associates, to the strength of their ability to discover and classify—faculties that increasingly I made my own—what my knowledge of the Moedigen offered as confused and unorganized data was rapidly transformed. Discoveries multiplied, rigorous experiments yielded solid results, in circumstances that, in ancient times and even still in the last century, would have occasioned at the most a few enticing divagations.

  Five years have now passed in which we have pursued our research: it is far, very far, from being brought to term. It will be some time before a preliminary paper on our research can be published. We have made it a rule, besides, not to produce anything hastily: our discoveries are of such an intrinsically important nature that they must be set forth in the greatest detail, with the highest degree of patience, and most exacting precision. We have no other researcher to compete with, no patent to take out, nor any ambition to satisfy. We have reached a plane where vanity and pride vanish. How to reconcile the blessed joys of our work with the paltry lure of human fame? Besides, is not the random nature of my physical structure the source of these things? And, henceforth, what pettiness it would be to glorify ourselves because of them!25

  We live passionately, always on the verge of marvelous discoveries, and yet we live in a timeless serenity.

  * * *

  I have had an adventure that makes my life more interesting, and that, when I am at rest, fills me with infinite joy. You know how ugly I am, and how much odder I am yet, all destined to terrify young women. I have nevertheless found a companion who adapts to my affections to the point of being happy.26

  It is a poor hysterical girl, neurotic, whom we encountered one day in a poor house in Amsterdam. Others said she looked miserable, pale like plaster, with sunken cheeks and a haggard gaze. For me, the sight of her is pleasant, and her company charming. Far from startling her, as happens with all others, my appearance seemed from the outset to please and comfort her. I was moved by this, I wanted to see her again.

  Soon it was apparent that my presence had a beneficial effect on her health and well-being. Under examination, it seemed that I had a magnetic influence on her: my approach, and especially when I placed my hands on her, communicated to her a sense of joy, a serenity, an equanimity of mind that were truly healing. In return, I felt gentleness next to her. Her face seemed pretty to me; her pallor and her thinness were nothing more than refinement; her eyes, capable of seeing the glow of magnets, like those of many sufferers from hyperesthesia, for me did not have that haggard look that people fault them with.27

  In a word, I felt an attraction to her, which she reciprocated with passion. From that moment on, I resolved to marry her, and I achieved my goal with ease, thanks to the goodwill of my friends.

  The union was a happy one. My wife recovered her health, even though she remained extremely nervous and frail; I tasted the joy of being, joy in the essential things of life, like other men. But above all, my fate has become enviable. As of six months ago: A child was born to us, and that child brings together all the characteristics of my constitution. In terms of color, sight, hearing, extreme speed of movement, way of taking nourishment, he promises to be the exact replica of my organism.

  The doctor anticipates his growing up with great joy: a delightful hope has come to us—that the study of Moedigen life, of that Kingdom parallel to ours, this labor that demands so much time and patience, will not cease when I am gone.28 My son will carry it on, no doubt, in his time. Why will he not be able to find collaborators of genius, capable of taking this study to a higher power yet? Why would there not be born, from himself as well, more seers of this invisible world?

  I myself, might I not expect to have other children, might I not hope that my dear wife will give birth to other sons of my flesh, similar to their father? Just thinking of it, my heart thrills, an infinite bliss passes into me, and I feel blessed among men.

  *And this compound color, of course, has no green in it, for the color green, for me, is darkness.

  *This is the name I spontaneously gave to these creatures during my childhood, and which I have kept, even though it does not in the least correspond to any quality or form these beings have.

  * Quartz gives me a spectrum of approximately eight colors: extreme violet and seven following colors in the ultraviolet range. But there remain some eight colors that quartz is unable to distinguish from each other, and which other substances are more or less able to separate.

  The Death of
the Earth

  Mankind harnessed everything right down to

  the mysterious force that bound together the atom.

  This frenzy heralded the death of the Earth.1

  I. Words across the Vastness

  The horrid north wind had fallen silent. For fifteen days its awful voice had filled the oasis with fear and sadness. It had been necessary to erect breaks against the hurricane-force winds, and erect greenhouses of flexible silica. Finally, the oasis began to warm again.

  Targ, the watchman of the Great Planetary, felt one of those sudden joys that lit up the lives of men, during the sacred times of the Water.2 How beautiful the plants still were! They carried Targ back through the ages, to the time when oceans covered three-quarters of the world, when mankind thrived amidst springs, streams, rivers, lakes, swamps. What youthfulness animated these countless generations of plants and animals! The swarm of life reached to the deepest depths of the sea. There were prairies and rain forests of algae just as there were forests of trees and savannahs of grass. A vast future spread out before living creatures; mankind could hardly have imagined its far-distant inheritors who would tremble as they awaited the end of the world. Did it ever imagine that the agony would last more than a hundred thousand years?

  Targ looked up at a sky where clouds would never again appear. The morning was still cool, but by noon the oasis would be torrid.

  “Harvest time is near,” the watchman3 muttered.

  He had a swarthy complexion, eyes and hair as black as coal. Like all the Last Men, his chest was broad, while his waist was narrow. His hands were delicate, his jaws small, his limbs revealed more agility than force. A garment of mineral fibers, as supple and warm as the ancient wools, fit his body exactly; his being exuded a resigned gracefulness,4 a timid charm underscored by his narrow cheeks and the pensive fire of his eyes.

  He paused to contemplate a field of tall grain, some rectangular patches of trees, each one of which bore as much fruit as they had leaves, and he spoke: