It was 8 a.m. The Sun had risen into a cloudless sky above the Hadrianic Sea. There was not a hint of mist in the atmosphere, which seemed unreal in its lightness and limpidity.
To the right, the red plain of the Yaonis region extended to the horizon; ahead, there was the forested Iapygian Archipelago, replete with ambushes; to the left, the marine labyrinth of Deltoton. And in the air, immobile, the XV’s aircraft were hovering, while, 200 meters below, in the calm seas of the marine crossroads of Barathrum, their submarines and hydroplanes were drawn up in battle-order, reflecting the oblique rays of the Sun like mirrors. The silence of nature was filled with the humming and throbbing of the rapidly-beating wings of aircraft.
Abbou was strangely affected by the solemn impression of these war-machines in the midst of tranquil natural splendor while he searched for Aircraft 152. He eventually found it. He released three strident blasts of call-whistle and paused, motionless, at the regulation distance.
“Hail to the Commander!” he cried.
Kipper looked at him, astonished. “What are you doing here?”
“Rather ask me what I’ve brought, rolled up in these furs!” Abbou replied, with the liberty of expression that his father gladly gave him.
“What have you brought, then?”
“A woman!”
“What woman?”
“Xavière, Koynos’ seductress—the Nyctalope’s mistress.”
“Dead?”
“No—she’s merely unconscious, and I’ve sliced through the furs with my dagger at the level of her face so that she can breathe… But you didn’t let me finish. I’ll continue: mistress of the Nyctalope, conqueror of Oxus, ruler of Cosmopolis and new Master of the Fifteen!”
“What? You’re mad!”
“Not as mad as the Fifteen, who let an enemy live when they could have killed him!”
“Wait!” cried Kipper. “Deploy boarding apparatus!”
The Commander’s aircraft accomplished a difficult and clever maneuver, which consisted of coupling the two aircraft rudder-to-rudder and then deploying a light platform of insulating metal on which, in four strides—provided that he was not subject to vertigo—a man might pass from one aircraft to the other.
This was what Kipper did. He sat down in Abbou’s seat while his son crouched down, “rabbit-fashion,” at his father’s feet. The platform was removed and Kipper took the little aircraft away from the main body of the army, to a height of 600 meters.
“Now talk!” he said.
Rapidly and precisely, Abbou recounted everything he knew about the events that had taken place in Cosmopolis since the XV’s departure, mingling his personal conjectures with indisputable facts.
Kipper was livid. “So it was to get rid of Sylla without a fuss that the Nyctalope sent him to me!” he cried.
“Obviously! But everything is reparable to some degree, father, since I’ve brought you, along with the bad news, the most precious of hostages, the principal cause of the XV’s downfall…”
“Xavière!”
“Yes, father.”
“She’ll wake up on the plaza of Argyre. To hell with the Martians! I’ll besiege Cosmopolis—and the Nyctalope shall die under torture, along with that accursed woman, face to face with one another!” Fury carried Kipper away. His bulging eyes were bulging in his scarlet face.
Abbou shrugged his shoulders. “Besiege Cosmopolis? With what? With electro-mirrors? Take it by means of assault by the army? You know that’s impossible. The Martians have tried ten times. They gave up, lest the entire Martian species suffer annihilation. Saint-Clair holds Cosmopolis in his hands, as Oxus held it. With a single circular jet from the central electro-mirror he could blast all of you; the insulating metal stops the heat ray, but it becomes white hot under the electro-mirror’s ray.”
Kipper lowered his head. Yes, he knew all that—but shame, resentment and rage had obscured his understanding. “You’re right!” he stammered.
“But you have the hostage!” said Abbou, laughing.
“That’s true! To the vile Nyctalope, Xavière is worth a thousand Cosmopolises.”
“I hope so,” said Abbou.
“What do you mean?”
“That the Nyctalope is not like other men. He has no lack of women; there are 14 others at his disposal, while Cosmopolis is unique. Even so, I hope that, to him, Xavière is unique. Maintain that hope with me, father, and let’s act in consequence.”
Kipper looked at his son for a long time, and there was a long silence between them. Then Kipper said: “When Cosmopolis is retaken, I shall be Master of the Fifteen…”
“What if Oxus is still alive?”
“We’ll depose him. He’s allowed himself to be defeated by his own prisoner; he’s not worthy to command! I’ll be Master of the Fifteen, and you’ll be Commander-in-Chief, Abbou!”
“That’s my intention,” the young man replied, gravely.
Thirty minutes later—to the great astonishment of the Martians lying in ambush in their invisible entrenchments on the islands of the archipelago—the XV’s hydroplanes, submarines and aircraft veered off in unison, accelerated their propellers to maximum speed, and disappeared westwards. The departure was so sudden and so rapid that the Martian engineers did not even have time to launch their three squadrons of flying torpedoes and explosive kites after them. By the time they thought of it, it was too late; the submarines, hydroplanes and aircraft were out of range.
Like a triple tornado—aerial, marine and submarine—the XV’s army ran from one end of the Strait of Pandora to the other and crossed the Eythrean Sea without respite. A mile from the coast of Argyre, it came to a halt. It was 9 p.m. The starry night was still dark, however, because the two moons were not due to rise until 1 a.m. Despite the darkness, however, the shore of Argyre and the sea were lighted by all the projectors of Cosmopolis.
Before the departure from Iapygia, Kipper had had Xaviere’s fur-wrapped body transferred to Aircraft 152, and he had also returned himself, along with Abbou, entrusting the smaller craft to two of his men. Aircraft 152 was leading the vanguard of the airfleet. It was a large craft with a crew of six men, including the pilot. This sort of warplane was equipped with a wireless telephone apparatus.
Scarcely had the three squadrons come to a halt when three strident whistle-blasts sounded from the direction of Cosmopolis.
“It’s the telephonic summons,” said Kipper. “The Nyctalope wants to engage us in conversation. Reply, Abbou.”
The young man pressed a switch, and three whistle-blasts sounded aboard Aircraft 152 while Kipper, the receiver to his ear, leaned towards the mouthpiece of the transmitter.
“Hello?” he said.
The reply came back: “Hello! Who’s that?”
“Kipper, Commander-in-Chief of the Fifteen by the will of Oxus. Who’s speaking?”
“Leo Saint-Clair, Master of the Fifteen by his own will and the consent of Oxus.”
“I don’t recognize that mastery!” said Kipper, rudely.
“And I,” the reply came back, “no longer recognize your authority!”
Kipper understood that skirmishing was futile. More calmly, he replied: “Insults and challenges are out of place between men like us. Let’s negotiate.”
“I’m listening,” replied the telephonic voice of the Nyctalope.
“Xavière is in my power.”
“Really?”
“You’ll never get her back by force.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll kill her, if you don’t accept my conditions.”
“Impossible!”
At this stupefying, unimaginable and insane response, Kipper started. “Impossible?” he exclaimed. “Why?”
“I’ll tell you shortly. For the moment, listen!” In the telephone, it seemed that Saint-Clair’s voice became harsher, more masterful. “Listen! The entire army will wait without moving an inch until sunrise. Then the aircraft, followed by the hydroplanes and the submarines, will land,
run aground or surface on the shoreline, and all the men of the XV’s army—Brothers at the head, companions in the second rank, slaves in the rear—will report in groups of ten to the northern gate of Cosmopolis. Weapons of every sort will be left aboard the aircraft, hydroplanes or submarines. The men will have empty hands. They will enter Cosmopolis and go to stand in ranks on the esplanade. There, under the threat of the central electro-mirror, they will receive my orders. Their lives and those of the Fifteen are guaranteed if they surrender.”
Kipper was completely disorientated. Abbou sniggered. “This is what I was afraid of—Xavière interests him less than Cosmopolis.”
After a pause of 30 seconds, however, Saint-Clair’s voice rang out again. “Listen again! The central electro-mirror is aimed at you. With a single gesture, I can annihilate your three squadrons. If you attempt to flee, you’re doomed, for the searchlights are illuminating every last one of your aircraft. If you don’t obey at sunrise, I’ll make the fatal gesture five minutes after the star’s disk has cleared the horizon. I have spoken!”
Kipper was livid. He replied: “So be it! In annihilating us, you’ll kill Xavière!”
And the telephone replied: “What does that matter to me?”
“Would you say that to Xavière herself?” cried Kipper.
“Give her the receiver.”
With a thrust of his dagger, Abbou cut the belt that retained the furs around the invisible body. Quickly, he parted the silky animal skins around the invisible body—and released a cry of rage.
The woman lying there was not Xavière. It was the Congolese woman who, 17 years before, had given birth to Abbou. The son recognized his mother; the father the forgotten woman whom he had taken one evening, in the bushes bordering the radiomotive station in the Congo—and their fury was such that they had the horrible simultaneous idea of killing the sleeping woman in order to assuage their rage.
Kipper was quicker off the mark, and his shame made him commit a double crime. He snatched the dagger abruptly from Abbou’s hands and plunged it hilt-deep into the boy’s breast. Bloodily, Abbou collapsed on top of his mother. Madly, Kipper seized both bodies, lifted them up, and threw the dying boy and the sleeping woman overboard. The aircraft, however, suffered a considerable disturbance of its equilibrium. The men on board, horrified and petrified, did not make the necessary maneuvers, and the aircraft leapt forward, turning over. From a height of 100 meters, it fell on top of a hydroplane. Amid a welter of burning human bodies and an enormous splash, the two vehicles sank.
All the Commanders of the aircraft, hydroplanes and submarines had, however, been listening to Kipper’s conversation with Saint-Clair via the wireless telephone. Without understanding exactly what had happened aboard Aircraft 152, they were very clearly aware of the danger they were in.
Miniok, the Commander of the submarines, was the first to show the necessary coolness. He shouted orders, whose loudness, multiplied a hundredfold by the microphonographs, overwhelmed the clamors of panic. Each of the XV repeated Miniok’s energetic cries—and after a quarter of an hour of fluttering, the three squadrons, diminished by the collision of Aircraft 152 with Hydroplane 8, had reassumed their regular formation. Then Miniok issued a telephonic summons—and when Cosmopolis had repeated the three blasts of the whistle, he spoke into the transmitter.
“Hello? Saint-Clair?”
“Yes,” someone replied. “Who’s speaking?”
“Miniok, Commander of submarines.”
“I’m listening.”
“I heard your orders, as all the Commanders did. For my part, I surrender, preferring to present myself on the esplanade tomorrow rather than suffer violent death at your command. No submarine will budge. I have spoken.”
“That’s good! I await the replies of Ekaton, Commander of aircraft, and Kokreps, Commander of hydroplanes.”
The Nyctalope did not have to wait long. Ekaton and Kokreps unhesitatingly repeated Miniok’s promise on their own behalf—and the aircraft, hydroplanes and submarines remained immobile until morning, in the glare of the searchlights of Cosmopolis.
VII. The Submission
With Banko as her lieutenant, Xavière had assumed command of the Master’s personal guard. She had told them everything, holding nothing back. For the insolent tyranny of Kipper and Sylla, she substituted her smile and Banko’s moderation. The 100 black men cheered the young woman. Then Banko made them laugh by telling them how the Nyctalope, to whom darkness was unknown, had replaced the sleeping body of Xavière, as it lay beneath the trapdoor leading to the aircraft-trench in Kipper’s house, with that of Abbou’s own mother, wrapped in identical fur rugs.
The young man had contributed to the modification of Saint-Clair’s plan.
At first, the victor had said to himself: “The Fifteen’s army will certainly remain on the island of Hellas for a month. In a month, Damprich’s 3000 men will depart from the radiomotive station in the Congo in radioplanes. They’ll arrive here. Under my command, they’ll occupy Cosmopolis. Then I’ll reveal the situation to the Fifteen and put them in the dilemma of carving out another Martian empire by themselves or submitting to my authority—and when the two armies are united, I shall put supreme power back into Oxus’ august hands.”
After Abbou’s scheme, however, which the Nyctalope had disrupted thanks to the strict surveillance established with respect to a few apprentice companions and three or four suspect technicians, Saint-Clair had said to himself: “Let’s allow him to leave with the person he believes to be a valuable hostage, and we’ll act according to the circumstances.”
As is always the case with energetic characters, the circumstances had favored the Nyctalope.
Kipper having died in the fall that followed the horrible drama of Aircraft 152, the XV had lost the only man whose brain and nerves were genuinely inclined to a desperate resistance that could have no other outcome but death. An hour after sunrise, devoid of weapons and empty-handed, the XV and their men were arranged in a square on the esplanade behind Oxus’ palace. Divided into sections, each placed under the command of one of the Nyctalope’s companions, with Xavière as Commander-in-Chief and Banko as her respectful and perceptive lieutenant, the 100 black men of the Guard, armed with electro-mirrors, kept watch on the sides and corners of the immense square.
On the terrace of Oxus’ palace, 20 indoctrinated technicians, seduced by Saint-Clair and commanded by Klepton, aimed the enormous central electro-mirror aimed at the prisoners, able to annihilate the entire human mass in three minutes with a single beam.
At the edge of the platform on which he appeared, with Oxus’ red mantle flowing from his shoulders, the Nyctalope enumerated these precautions in a vibrant and solemn voice. Then, in the impressive silence of that motionless crowd, beneath the pale sky into which the morning sun was rising gloriously, he said:
“The Fifteen will remember that, when I was brought before their tribunal, I made them the proposition of a loyal alliance that would have joined our forces together. On the moral instigation of Kipper, who is now dead, and after the speech of another brother, the Fifteen rejected my proposition. I demand to know which of the Brothers spoke against me in the Tribunal of Fifteen when I left. Let him advance and show himself; he is the first person to whom I want to address myself.”
There was a stir in the rank of Brothers, which was immediately in front of the platform, and one of the XV took three steps forward. It was Kokreps, former Commander of the hydroplanes. He struck his breast violently and said in a loud voice: “I, Kokreps, am the one who spoke against you!”
“Good!” said Saint-Clair, impassively. “I am the Master. If any resentment were active within me, a gesture from me could take away your life, as you would have taken mine—but I see more clearly and have a fuller appreciation of the value of human life. Choose: either recognize me as the Master and retain command of the hydroplanes, or declare your rebellion against me, and I shall send you back to Earth by radioplane; there, provided with
money, you will recommence your life. Decide now!”
Kokreps was astonished. He had expected to die, blasted by the electro-mirror that he saw in the hands of a guard 20 paces away. He lowered his head, and his pallor revealed his emotion. When he raised his bare forehead again, his eyes were moist. “Saint-Clair,” he said, “away from this planet, in whose conquest I have always dreamed of participating, I am indifferent to fortune. You are not only stronger, but better than us. I submit. Make of me what you will.” And, turning to the motionless crowd behind him, in a resounding voice accustomed to command and be obeyed, he cried: “Hydroplaners, on guard! Three paces forward, march!”
A third of the army detached itself in a block. This block of men took three paces forward—and Kokreps’ voice rang out a second time: “Knees…ground!”
The block fell to one knee.
“Master,” Kokreps then said to the Nyctalope, “These men are yours! On my honor, in their name and mine, I swear respect, obedience and fidelity, as to Oxus!”
Saint-Clair had quivered with joy, but his face remained impassive. “That’s good,” he said. “Take your men back to the hydroplanes, bring them into the harbor, and each man may then resume his usual post in Cosmopolis.”
In silence, to the sonorous rhythm of marching feet, the hydroplaners headed towards the northern port with Kokreps at their head.
Things then proceeded very rapidly. First Miniok, with the crews of the submarines, then Ekaton, with the aviators, followed Kokreps’ example in every respect. By 9 a.m. it was all over; Leo Saint-Clair, the Nyctalope, uncontested Master of the XV, reigned over Cosmopolis in Argyre.
That evening, in the main hall of Oxus’ palace, in company with Xavière and the Nyctalope—considered as spouses—Saint-Clair’s companions and the XV fraternized. To those who asked, with some anxiety, what had become of Oxus, Saint-Clair responded: “You shall see Oxus again in three weeks, and you and I shall put our destinies in his hands.”
Among the men, happy, welcome and already courted as they would have been in the salons of Paris, 13 young women came and went—and those whom the strangeness of conjectures had not entirely seduced were thinking joyfully of their imminent return to the Earth. Only Yvonne de Ciserat was missing. In the bedroom where Koynos had possessed her, she relived that divine, tragic and fugitive hour madly. And if, in her immense happiness, Xavière sometimes frowned beneath the pressure of a sudden sadness that darkened her expression, it was because she was thinking about her dead father and her demented sister—but when she looked at Leo, her forehead cleared.
The Nyctalope on Mars 2: The Triumph of Love Page 14
