Terrors
Page 20
She looked around.
“Miei amici, miene Freunde, mes amis, did the great Egyptians move to the west, did they leave traces of their art in the Sahara land once fertile, only to retreat before the advancing sands? Or did another race, perhaps even a greater race, once call this region their home? Could they have taught their arts and science to the Egyptians, only to disappear, themselves, beneath those sands? This mystery will be solved, and we are the first so honored to begin its unravelment.”
An hour later Colonel Black and Dottore Verde sat in the lounge of the hotel where the members of the party had been inconspicuously housed. Every other customer had departed the room. A pair of Arab musicians played softly upon aoud and tabla, the voice of one rising in tones as soft and as mournful as the long, sad history of his people.
A bottle and two small glasses stood upon the table between the man and woman. A candle flickered beside the bottle, casting shadows on the faces of the two. Only an ornately tooled portfolio stood against one leg of the Tuscan hydrologist’s chair to remind a viewer—had there been one—of the session but earlier completed with their colleagues from France, Germany, and England.
Colonel White reached to fill both glasses, not for the first time. The two raised their glasses, let them touch rim to rim, then sipped at the delicious beverage. “I didn’t like that German,” Colonel White whispered. “If he doesn’t believe in this mission he shouldn’t be here.”
Dottore Verde shook her head. “Skepticism is healthy, Colonel. Perhaps it is different for a military man like yourself, but a scientist must treat each claim as a mere possibility, a suggestion perhaps, until it is supported by solid proof.”
The Confederate looked into his companion’s eyes, his usually serious countenance brightened by what might have been the merest suggestion of a smile. He did not reply, not yet, but instead waited for the Tuscan to resume.
“If we believed every report,” Dottore Verde said at last, “we would live in a world of chimerae and of hobgoblins, every woods full of werewolves and ogres, every castle populated by a bevy of ghosts, every tomb the abode of a vampire or a ghoul, the sea filled with mermen and naiads, and the sky at night filled with visitors from the circling planets and the twinkling stars.”
Now White did smile. “You don’t believe in any of those things?”
“No.” Dottore shook her head. The pins and clips had been removed now, and her russet locks fell in graceful waves about her oval face. “I do not say that none of those exist, the world is full of wonders and of mysteries. That is why we must investigate what lies beneath the Fleuve Triste. But until there is evidence, dear friend—I may call you that, I hope? For of all the members of our party, you seem the one to whom I am most attuned….”
“I am honored, Dottore.”
“Until there is evidence, we must reserve judgment. As for me, should I meet a merman or naiad, I should be delighted. But, alas, I do not expect ever to have that pleasure.”
She smiled wistfully and lifted her glass. She peered through the smoky liquid it contained, or appeared to Colonel White to be doing so. She tilted her glass to her lips, then lowered it to the table and reached for her portfolio.
“Do you know the work of Herr Schwartz’s countryman, Herr Doktor Professor Roentgen, Colonel White?”
“Indeed. We use his wonderful invention in military medicine. Thanks to the good professor I am here tonight, Dottore.”
“And how is that?”
The Confederate held a hand to his side. “I don’t like to talk about it much.”
“As you will, then.”
“Very well. It was at the First Battle of Belize. I took a piece of shrapnel between my third and fourth rib. A bomb had exploded and sent our position sky-high. I was just a lieutenant then.” He smiled at the recollection.
“They say that I kept fighting, that I led my platoon through the rest of the battle before I collapsed. They say that I killed an entire squad of enemy troops with a bayonet held in one hand while I held myself together with the other. I wouldn’t know about that, I don’t remember it.”
“Yet you received a medal for it, did you not?”
“The Order of Stonewall Jackson, yes.”
“Well, then.” There was a look of concern on the Tuscan’s face. She reached for White’s hand and steadied its trembling.
“You have not recovered in fullness, have you, Colonel?”
The Afro-Confederate shook his head. “I’m sorry, Doctor.”
She held his hand in both of hers until the trembling subsided. “Please,” she smiled at him, “I would appreciate if you might call me Speranza.”
He nodded silently, tightening his grip on the hand he held in his own.
“And I may call you Dwight?”
This brought a small smile to the Confederate’s features. He relaxed his grip on the Tuscan’s hand, and she on his. “I prefer David. My parents must not have been thinking when they named me Dwight White.” He managed a hint of a laugh. “It didn’t take me long to realize that it was better to use my middle name.”
“Sensible indeed.” Speranza Verde held her glass between them and the Confederate poured. A waiter appeared, placed a small brass platter of sweetmeats on the table and withdrew without speaking.
“You mentioned Professor Roentgen,” the Confederate said.
“Yes. And you said his work had saved you, did you not?”
“At Belize, yes.” A faraway look came into White’s eyes. He lifted his glass and drained its contents. “When I regained consciousness in the field hospital the doctors told me that I’d actually had a piece of shrapnel in my heart. They couldn’t see what they were doing so they used a Roentgen apparatus to guide their instruments when they took it out. If it hadn’t been for that, I wouldn’t have lived a day.”
Speranza Verde nodded. She laid her portfolio on the table between them and took from it a heavy envelope. From this she extracted several heavy celluloid sheets. Lying flat upon the envelope from which they had been removed, the celluloid sheets appeared solidly black. The woman lifted the top sheet from the stack and handed it to Colonel White.
He held it between himself and the flickering candle that stood on the table. After studying it for the better part of a minute he whistled softly and then extended it toward Speranza Verde. She took the sheet from him and handed him another. The procedure was repeated until White had examined all the sheets.
He said, “Do you want to tell me what I’ve just looked at?”
Before responding she replaced the sheets in their envelope and the envelope in the portfolio. She placed this in her lap. “These are imagistic plates. They were made by combining the technology of Wilhelm Conrad Roentgen with that of my countryman Louis Jacques Mande Daguerre. The Roentgen mechanism can look through solid material. The Daguerre camera records that which the Roentgen machinery sees. What you have seen, David, is that which lies beneath the dressed rocks of the Marée de Fureur, the tidal bed that lies between the Isole de Crainte and Doute.”
“Impossible.”
“Not impossible.”
“But Dottore –”
“Per piacere, Speranza.”
“Speranza.”
She smiled.
“I saw living things. At least, I think they were living things. But things not like any I have ever seen before. Were they alive?”
“No.” The russet waves moved as if with a will of their own as she shook her head. “They have not moved. They show no signs of life. But I believe they were once alive, David.”
“Creatures like that—mixtures of human and beast. They look like the product of the imagination of a madman.”
She shrugged.
“I saw things in the jungle of Belize that I would never have imagined at home in Creston, South Carolina. I spent half my childhood in the water of Lake Marion along with other children. We came to know every creature in that little aquatic world, from the smallest water-bugs to tortoises
with the wisdom of eternity in their eyes to eels that could eat a dog in two bites if that dog was foolish enough to swim too close. But in Belize I saw spiders that eat careless birds and plants that eat baby pigs. But still, the eels were eels, the spiders were spiders.”
“I did not make these up.” Speranza tapped a graceful fingernail on the portfolio containing the Roentgen-Daguerre plates. “The machine has no imagination, even if a madman might.”
Colonel White pondered in silence, then shook his head. “Those things,” he tapped a powerful finger against the Tuscan’s portfolio, “those great star-headed, conical things, and that other, that incredible beast with tentacles like ropes, with legs like a giant beetle and with the mockery of a human face on its carapace—do they really exist?”
A rectangle of light broke the mood. Speranza Verde had reached toward the portfolio, perhaps to open it and remove the envelope of celluloid image plates once again, perhaps to touch Dwight David White’s hand with her own, but instead she grabbed the portfolio and placed it protectively on her lap. The Tuscan hydrologist and the Confederate soldier turned to see a trio of silhouettes in the illuminated doorway of the lounge.
As Dottore Verde and Colonel White watched, the three newcomers advanced toward them. The latter trio halted beside the table from which Colonel White rose, his military bearing giving him the appearance of a man taller than his actual stature.
“Herr Schwartz, Monsieur Rouge.” The Colonel raised his hand in suggestion of a military salute. The German archaeologist clicked his heels and bowed; the Frenchman bent over the white linen covered table, took the reluctantly offered hand of Speranza Verde in his own and brushed his lips over it.
“We have a pleasant chat been enjoying, Monsieur Rouge and I,” Schwartz stated. “We had thought to share a—what I believe you call in your Confederacy a night hat, Colonel White?—before retiring for a few hours sleep.”
“A nightcap, Herr Schwartz. Won’t you join us?”
Monsieur Rouge bowed once again. “May I present Captain Alexandre, of the Rosny.”
The third newcomer advanced to the table. She was as tall as a man, like Colonel White she was attired in a uniform, its midnight blue color contrasting with the Colonel’s Confederate gray. Her features were strong but not masculine. Her hair was so dark that it appeared almost to blend with the blue of her jacket, flashes of candlelight seeming to be caught and thrown back from her coiffure. The door through which the trio had entered was closed now, the sole illumination coming from the candle on the table. The Arab musicians had packed their instruments and retired.
Brass buttons on the woman’s tunic gave back the flickering light of the candle. The cuffs of the tunic were wrapped in wreaths of gold braid and on her chest the orders and decorations gave testimony of a distinguished naval career. A dark, pleated skirt fell below her knees.
Herr Schwartz and Monsieur Rouge drew chairs from a nearby, unoccupied table. Rouge held one for Captain Alexandre before seating himself. A waiter brought a bottle of schnapps and placed it before Herr Schwartz and one of cognac which the French explorer and the naval officer would share; glasses were provided for all.
Shortly the quintet were engaged in conversation. Colonel White waited for Speranza Verde to place her portfolio on the table again and share its contents with Schwartz and Rouge, but she gave no indication of doing so. In fact, at one point Jemond Jules Rouge asked if there was something she wished to share, but Speranza Verde brushed aside the obvious suggestion.
“Just a few minor items, Monsieur, nothing of importance.”
“We are all together,” Colonel White said, “except for our English colleague. Does anyone know where Sir Shepley Sidwell-Blue has disappeared to?”
“I am sure he is preparing for our expedition.”
Captain Alexandre drew an ornately engraved watch from a uniform pocket. Holding it close to the candle she announced, “We must be aboard Rosny in two hours, so as to depart in three.”
“So soon?” Speranza Verde exclaimed.
“It is the tides,” Captain Alexandre explained. “The Mareé de Fureur is a tidal body the most unusual. It will offer sufficient draft for the Rosny today, and she can make faster headway using the electro-atomic power of her Curie engines than creeping along on the Wells track drive. Surely, Mademoiselle Verde, you are familiar with the behavior of the marée.”
“Of course, Captain.”
“Have you studied the tide tables for this month, Mademoiselle Docteur?”
“I have. Of course we have only a limited record of tides. The creation of the Sahara sea in 1930 had unexpected results, creating tides in the Mediterranean where none had previously existed, and providing for my profession wondrous new food for thought. The northerly flow will begin at four o’clock in the morning.”
“Indeed.” Captain Alexandre raised her glass, tested the nose of the cognac, sampled its flavor only with the tip of her tongue, then lowered her glass smiling. “Bon.” Her gaze flicked from face to face of her companions. “I trust you have all stowed your scientific equipment and your personal gear—Mademoiselle, Monsieurs?”
Speranza Verde said, “I prefer the title of Dottore alone.”
“Very well. As you wish, Dottore Verde. My point, however, is that we must sail with the tide or we lose the opportunity. The French Republic has a great fleet but no nation’s resources are without limit. We do not wish to waste this time.”
“And Sir Sidwell-Blue?” the German asked.
“He will board Rosny on schedule or he will find only a sealed bulkhead or a vacant quay. We sail with the tide.”
The party dispersed, some to gather such brief moments of slumber as they could, others to remain awake pending the time to board the submersible.
Rosny was an example of the newest and smallest Nautilus IV class of submersibles. Barely sixty meters in length, the submersible carried a small crew. Propelled by her Curie engines, she could outspeed and outmaneuver any other known submersible craft on the planet. She was also capable of crawling over dry or muddy terrain on extended tracks based on the designs of the Englishman Wells.
Her interior fittings, in the tradition of her kind stretching back to the original Nautilus, were of mahogany and polished brass. Her floors were carpeted. Her galley was filled with fresh viands and fine vintages produced by the enological artists of Metropolitan France and her North African provinces.
Only in the department of weaponry might Rosny be deemed deficient. Outfitted as the submersible was for purposes of reconnaissance and exploration, she carried neither cannon nor torpedo nor submarine bomb. Her crew had been trained in riflery and such arms were stowed in the submersible’s armory; her officers, also, were furnished with sidearms.
Colonel Dwight David White of the Army of the Confederate States of America stood at the foot of Rosny’s gangplank. He held a single item of luggage, containing changes of clothing, necessary toiletries, and certain equipment with which he had been furnished by the technicians and planners of his nation’s embassy and military legation in Serkout.
The Colonel was of course thoroughly familiar with the courtesies and ceremonies of both the military and diplomatic communities of the world. When he boarded the submersible he saluted the colors of the French Republic, offered his sidearm, a Harrington and Richardson .32 automatic, to Captain Alexandre and received permission to retain possession of the weapon.
The quay, of course, had been illuminated with spotlights to facilitate boarding Rosny in the hours of the night. A crescent moon had been visible from Colonel White’s hotel room; from the quay its pale radiance was utterly obliterated by the brilliance of artificial illumination.
Once on board, Colonel White declined the assistance of a crew member in carrying his single item of luggage to his tiny but richly furnished cabin. Here he distributed his personal items, retaining only his firearm and technical gear in a smaller case which he removed from his principle luggage and locked to his w
rist with a specially designed handcuff.
Thus prepared he brushed his hair, straightened his uniform, and made to join his fellow inquirers.
As had been prearranged, the investigative team assembled in the Captain’s cabin as they arrived and settled into their respective quarters. The cabin was furnished with a polished conference table and plush chairs. An ornate instrument panel comprising a great clock-face, compass, barometer, and navigational tools filled most of one wall. An electrical lighting system furnished illumination and the soft susurrus of fresh air, processed and piped throughout Rosny by the most up-to-date means, gave evidence that the submersible was a self-sufficient and self-contained world of its own.
The cabin was located above the main body of the submersible and was fitted with large glass panels on both starboard and larboard sides. Upon arriving in the cabin, Colonel White observed the activity of sailors and dockmen on the quay. Not a word was spoken before Rosny began to move, so smoothly and gradually as to create the illusion that the submersible remained stationary while the quay with its brilliant lights and scurrying workers was retreating.
But within fleeting moments, to Rosny’s forward motion was added a horizontal movement. The black sky with its crescent moon and glittering Saharan stars appeared overhead only briefly, then Rosny opened her buoyancy tanks to the Saharan brine.
Soon the world outside Rosny’s heavy glass panels became one of utter blackness. Eventually brightly luminescent denizens of the Saharan deep would reveal themselves, Colonel White and his companions knew, but for the moment they might as well have been in the depths of interplanetary space, for all the commerce they held with the sea that surrounded them.
They sat around the polished wooden table, Jemond Jules Rouge at its head, Colonel Dwight David White, Dottore Speranza Verde, Herr Siegfried Schwartz and Sir Shepley Sidwell-Blue. The submersible’s Captain, Melisande Alexandre, had taken her place inconspicuously away from the table, clearly indicating a desire to observe but not to dominate the proceedings to follow.
Yes, Sir Shepley Sidwell-Blue had arrived at the quay in time, barely in time, to make the sailing of Rosny. He was disheveled, he was followed to the boarding ramp by a driver and footman carrying valises from which loose shirt-ends and stocking garters hung, his shirt was rumpled and his blond hair fell across his forehead, but he did not miss the sailing.