Journey to the Isles of Atlantis and Other Fanciful Excursions

by Brian Stableford

  Further away, there were large spheres like the domes of churches, perched on glass pillars. Finally, there was a forest of metal masts, towers in the form of spirals. slowly rotating, and metal platforms, extended like hands above edifices.

  One sensed that all of that apparatus was powerfully charged with electrical fluid. Some were pouring it to the reservoirs and others distributing it. A magnetic halo became visible around them in spite of the daylight. In addition, long zigzag sparks sprang forth, crackling. Marcel understood how useful the insulating suits they had put on were to him and his companions. Without that precaution it certainly would not have been possible to take ten steps in Artika without being electrocuted.

  Another detail surprised Marcel. He had been habituated, until then, to finding silence reigning everywhere, scarcely troubled by the harmonic sound of musical instruments. Here he was deafened by a continuous din of hammers, so numerous that their profound rumor fused, and one could have believed that one was at the summit of a cliff battered by a storm, or under a bridge furrowed by a dozen trains.

  Fortunately, the gutta-percha hood rendered those sounds less terrible.

  “What you can hear,” sad Blas, anticipating the question, “is the din of machine-tools, which, in this laborious city, occupy an area several kilometers square. It’s in Artika, and its rival at the South Pole, Antartika, that everything needed in the rest of the world is fabricated. It’s here that the materials are prepared and all the repairs carried out.”

  “I thought,” Marcel objected, “that no one among you worked manually, even here.”

  “What I told you,” Blas replied, “is exact. The outcasts who inhabit this city only have to supervise the automatic apparatus, which knead and mold the sandstone and the glass, smelting, forging and fashioning the metal.”

  “I didn’t think,” murmured Marcel, “that one could arrive at that point.”

  “That progress,” Serge explained, “was accomplished quite naturally. In anterior times, the division of labor had been adopted. Every worker, always carrying out the same task, went more rapidly and became moiré skillful. His movement ended up becoming unconscious and reflexive. His will no longer played any part in his labor. From there to replacing a worker with an automaton carrying out the same movements was only one step.”

  During that conversation the three excursionists, still borne without the slightest jolt by the moving sidewalk, had reached a quarter in which no gigantic or ungraceful machine could any longer be seen. The streets were bordered by beautiful habitations in white sandstone, of a simple and severe architecture.

  “We’ve just traversed,” said Blas, “the quarter where the outcasts work. This one is where they live. At this time of day, my cousin Julius will certainly be at home.

  A moment later, the three young men called a halt and penetrated into a vestibule, the porcelain walls of which were decorated with subjects borrowed from the history of science.

  At regular intervals, names were inscribed on indicative plaques, and under each of those plaques was a telephonic apparatus. Blas stopped at the inscription bearing the name of his cousin Julius and hailed him.

  “Julius! Julius! It’s me, your cousin Blas. I’ve come to see you, with two friends.”

  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” replied a distant but distinct voice.

  A minute later, Julius opened the door of the elevator situated at the back of the vestibule, in person, and shook Blas’ hand. The introductions were quickly made. “I have to go back to work in an hour,” said Julius. “Until then, I’m all yours.

  They took another moving sidewalk. On the way, Marcel asked Julius: “Can you, who are better placed than anyone else to do so, explain to me how Artika’s machines can capture force and re-emit it.

  “With pleasure. I won’t go into detail regarding the complicated machinery of which we make use here; I’ll content myself with giving you the general principle. You doubtless know already, in your time, that the globe engenders, by virtue of its perpetual movement of rotation, a considerable electrical force. That electricity, of which the most intense center of production is on the equator, accumulates at the two poles. It’s that inexhaustible force that our scientists have found a means of capturing, and which, from Artika and its rival at the South Pole, Antartika, are distributed to the rest of the world, according to the needs of humankind. The powerful accumulators that we supervise take possession of the fluid, which is found simultaneously in the atmosphere, the sea and the soil. It’s thanks to the infinite calorific energy at our disposal that the Poles no longer freeze.”

  “I understand now,” exclaimed Marcel, “how the temperature can be so perfectly equalized. The electricity of the equator being incessantly absorbed by your polar factories, typhoons, tornadoes and tempests of every sort are suppressed forever.”

  Serge added: “And besides, the poles only sending them water at normal temperature, Greenland, Iceland and Siberia now enjoy a temperate climate.”

  In the course of its progress the moving sidewalk passed an arched arcade, as high and broad as the façade of a cathedral.

  “Let’s get down,” said Julius. “We’ve arrived at one of our numerous galleries of accumulators. If that interests you, you can cast an eye over it.”

  He opened an ebony door.

  As far as the eye could see, lined up before them on porcelain supports were huge glass vats, in the acidified water of which metallic plates were soaking. Wires connected up the electrodes of every vat and came to end in a central cable are thick as a wooden beam, disposed at the summit of the arched vault.

  Here and there, electricians were standing, their eyes fixed on the electrometers, all dressed in the insulating armor of gutta-percha. There was something fantastic about seeing all those men circulating in the midst of that crystal décor.

  Julius opened a door. They found themselves under an immense cupola, where semi-darkness reigned.

  “It’s here,” said Julius, “that we utilize the radiant fluid discovered a thousand years ago by the scientist Crookes.”

  In the penumbra, in fact, Marcel could make out series of gigantic glass ampoules, in the center of which, helices were rotting soundlessly, with a furious rapidity.

  As they emerged from the radiogenic factory and traversed another gallery of accumulators, they perceived two men who were carrying the inanimate body of one of their comrades away on a stretcher, with a thousand precautions.

  Marcel felt a shiver.

  “What’s happened?” he asked Julius.

  The other murmured, sadly: “Alas, as you can see, there has been an accident. As sometimes happens, unfortunately, one of our comrades has been electrocuted. Doubtless he committed the imprudence of removing his mask, getting too close to a condenser, or putting on a suit of armor that had some imperceptible flaw.”

  “Do accidents happen often?”

  “Only rarely. However, I have seen some terrible things. Sometimes, the electric fluid only leaves, after its passage, a carbonized cadaver with a blackened face, hideous to see. But its effects aren’t always fatal. Often, those who are struck only feel a forceful shock, which leaves them absolutely unharmed. Sometimes, too, they’re entirely deprived of their beard, hair and eyebrows. Others, finally, remain paralyzed or attained by nervous maladies. Artika, in any case, has hospitals for those victims of the work, installed in accordance with the latest scientific discoveries. When a worker hasn’t been killed instantly, it’s very rare that we don’t save him.”

  The time had come when Julius had to return to work. He accompanied his guests as far as the moving sidewalk and bid them adieu..

  When he had disappeared, Marcel could not help asking Blas: “How can your cousin support his lot? Does he think himself unfortunate?”

  “No. The outcasts’ hours of labor are very short. They’re comfortably nourished and lodged, and they enjoy great liberty. Their lot would certainly have been envied by many of the rich and fortu
nate of your distant epoch.”

  The travelers were outside the aerial station again. The day was coming to an end.25 The grimacing silhouettes of machines were glowing in the dusk.

  Marcel and his friends hastened to change their costume and regain the upper platform, where their aeroscaph was.

  Blas was careful to illuminate the machine’s electric headlight, and they set forth.

  Very pensive in his corner, Marcel watched the cloud of luminous mist that floated like a gigantic plume over the cupolas and towers of the city of Artika pale on the horizon.

  The beacon lights of aeroscaphs shone in the sky in all directions around the travelers, like a rutilant rain of shooting stars.

  VIII. A Laboratory Accident

  The room to which Marcel Vernoy, put to sleep by Dr. Belzevor’s marvelous liquid, had been transported was on the second floor of the right wing of the Château de Montbarzy. Very simply furnished, with an impeccable sobriety of ornamentation, it was known, because of the color of its decoration, as “the Blue Room.”

  Everything there was blue, from the carpet and the wallpaper to the azure-lacquered “modern style” furniture. Even the panes of the window, which overlooked the forest, were the same blue color that Dr. Belzevor, rightly or wrongly, considered to be more appropriate than any other to evocations of the ideal.

  The domestics had deposited Marcel on the bed fully dressed, had lit a night-light that was burning in a crystal chalice in the ceiling, and then had retired.

  A few moments later, Dr. Belzevor came into the Blue Room. He was accompanied by Monsieur and Madame Vernoy, still both under the effect of the surprise occasioned by the almost instantaneous fashion in which Marcel had fallen into the strange slumber that, according to the scientist, would bring about the young man’s mental cure.

  “Will he sleep for long?” Monsieur Vernoy asked.

  “Only a few hours,” replied Dr. Belzevor, “until first light. But the visions of future time will succeed one another so rapidly in his brain that he’ll believe that he has lived through several days. One of the most characteristic properties of belzevorine is to modify the sensations of space and time completely. It’s only been a few moments that he has seemed to be asleep, but his soul has already traveled incalculable distances.”

  “You told me, Doctor,” said Madame Vernoy anxiously, “that my son wouldn’t be exposed to any danger in the course of this experiment.”

  “I told you that, Madame, and I repeat it to you. Be fully reassured in that regard.” Leaning over the young man, the doctor added: “In any case, look at your son. Look at the half-smile floating over his lips. He’s very happy at the moment. Believe me, if he were suffering, his face wouldn’t offer that expression of serene placidity.”

  “You’ll permit us, won’t you, Doctor,” said Monsieur Vernoy, “to remain with Marcel while the marvelous cure is operated”

  “Certainly,” replied Monsieur Belzevor. “Sit down, pick up a book—whatever you wish. As for me, I’m obliged to leave you. I’m in the middle of a very important experiment; I have to go back to my laboratory. I’ll come back to witness Marcel’s awakening.”

  The doctor had taken a step to leave the Blue Room. “But now I think of it,” he said, as if changing his mind, “once I’m at work, I forget everything. The hours go by without my perceiving them, so to speak. I might not be back at the exact moment. In that case, this is what you have to do. This little flask contains a few drops of the substance that must be used to wake Marcel. If I’m not back by five o’clock in the morning, you can wake him up yourselves.”

  “What is it necessary to do for that?”

  “It’s not very complicated. Pour the contents of the flask on to a piece of cloth and moisten the sleeper’s forehead and temples. He’ll open his eyes and wake up immediately. I’ve left instructions for a carriage to be ready to take the three of you back to the village of Montbarzy. Au revoir, I must hurry back to my laboratory.”

  Monsieur Vernoy took possession of the little crystal flask and put it down on a corner of the mantelpiece, Then he sat down by Marcel’s bed, beside Madame Vernoy.

  The father and mother began a conversation in low voices, darting a glance from time to time at the schoolboy, whose respiration remained regular and his face smiling. They were now completely reassured, and waited impatiently for the hour of awakening.

  No sound could be heard in the château. Everything seemed to be asleep. Only the murmur of the wind in the treetops troubled the silence of the night.

  A cool breeze came in through the partly-open window, perfumed by the aroma of wild flowers. The cloudless sky was strewn with thousands of bright stars. It was one of those beautiful summer nights, warm and transparent, in which everything in nature breathes calm and serenity.

  Monsieur and Madame Vernoy felt the charm of that unique evening. Gradually, they had stopped talking, abandoning themselves to a reverie full of hope, of which the possible cure of their son was the object...

  Suddenly, a detonation, as violent as a cannon shot, caused the walls and the windows to tremble, with a muffled disturbance. At the same time, there was a bright flash of light, illuminating the forest and the château for a few seconds.

  Frightened. Monsieur and Madame Vernoy ran to the window.

  “My God!” exclaimed Monsieur Vernoy. “There’s been an accident!”

  In fact, the other wing of the château, where the laboratory was, seemed to be ablaze.

  “Let’s go to help the doctor!” cried Madame Vernoy.

  They both ran out.

  Before leaving the room, however, they were able to observe that, in spite of the frightful noise of the explosion, Marcel was still asleep, in an even and peaceful slumber. The belzevorine had rendered him insensible to everything except the ecstatic contemplation that was putting a smile of delight on his lips.

  When Monsieur and Madame Vernoy arrived in the vicinity of the laboratory they found all the staff of the château on their feet. Men and women alike, all the servants were actively occupied in fighting the fire that, alimented by carboys of alcohol and ether, was launching forth torrents of blue and white flames.

  Dr. Belzevor, unconscious, his hair and eyebrows burned, had been pulled out of the flames at the start. In a neighboring room, first aid was being lavished upon him; his bloodied face and hands, cruelly lacerated by shards of glass, were being bandaged.

  Panic and fear reigned among the domestics.

  Fortunately, the Château de Montbarzy possessed a fire-pump. It was put into action next to the pond. After an hour of toil, they were finally able to put the fire out.

  The château was preserved, but of the laboratory, the library and the study, nothing remained but a mass of muddy ash, broken glassware and half-incinerated volumes.

  “Let’s hope,” said Monsieur Vernoy, “that the doctor’s life is saved, and that the damage is purely material.”

  The physician, whom a servant had gone at a gallop to fetch from the nearest town, was awaited anxiously. He arrived as the last buckets of water were being thrown over the rubble. He declared that Monsieur Belzevor’s wounds were very serious and very numerous, but that his life was not in danger, at least for the moment. Then he proceeded with the extraction of the fragments of glass and splinters of wood. After that, he prepared an initial dressing, wrote a prescription, and left, promising to return the next day.

  Monsieur Vernoy wanted to stay with Dr. Belzevor. As for Madame Vernoy, she returned to her son, whom she was in haste to see emerge from the strange sleep in which he was plunged.

  While his wounds were being dressed, Monsieur Belzevor recovered consciousness; he smiled weakly on perceiving Monsieur Vernoy. Until the physician’s departure, he remained silent, but when the latter had withdrawn he pronounced, in a voice as faint as a whisper: “The fire?”

  “Don’t worry,” said the archivist. “We’ve put it out. It’s all over now.”

  “My laboratory?”
>
  “It’s very badly damaged, but this isn’t the time to think about that. It’s necessary to think about taking care of yourself...”

  The wounded man had a nervous spasm. “Not worry about my laboratory!” he muttered. “It’s easy for you to talk. That’s the only thing that matters to me. My discoveries are my life!”

  The eyes of the injured man were shining feverishly. An artificial energy sustained him momentarily. “I want to know the extent of the disaster, now!” he cried.

  “But you can’t move...”

  “That doesn’t matter! Have someone carry me to my laboratory! Call the servants!”

  Deaf to Monsieur Vernoy’s observations, Dr. Belzevor was obstinate in his caprice, and they were obliged to obey him. With a thousand precautions, he was placed on a chair garnished with cushions and transported to the ruins of the laboratory.

  Like a mortally wounded general being carried by his soldiers toward the enemy while a breath of life still remained to him. Dr. Belzevor wanted to struggle until the last moment.

  Monsieur Vernoy followed him, full of admiration and anxiety.

  By the light of torches, the laboratory, still reeking of acrid vapors, offered a spectacle of desolation. Nothing remained intact there.

  “How did the accident happen?” Monsieur Vernoy could not help asking.

  “Oh,” murmured the doctor, “by an unpardonable imprudence on my part—an imprudence that the least of laboratory assistants wouldn’t have committed. I forgot to put the stopper back in a carboy of ether. The lamp was beside it. You can see the result.”

  After that explanation, Dr. Belzevor fell silent. On observing the total and irremediable annihilation of the result of ten years of toil and experimentation, however, tears of rage of discouragement trickled over his contracted face.

  The cupboard containing the special elixirs that Dr. Belzevor had prepared had been pulverized. The tearful gaze of the unfortunate scientist searched in vain for some flask, some notebook of formulae that might have escaped the disaster.