The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Stories

by Mike Ashley

  Max looked at Miss Scrobot, his expression one of deepening anger.

  “What do you mean, Miss Scrobot? Explain yourself!”

  “It was necessary, Mr Fuller! The English must never suspect their scheme has been undone before it was even started. Two years ago, I was invited to visit the Royal Society. There, inspired by the example of my namesake, Miss Scorbitt, I set about atoning for the mistakes of my sex, all those years ago. All it took was an understanding of Mathematics, and the insertion of a simple digit.”

  “Which digit, Miss Scrobot?”

  “The number two, Mr Fuller. The electrocotton the English have placed in space is twice the amount required. The Earth will not just tilt, it will perform a loop! They will end up back where they started!”

  Max stared at Miss Scrobot, his expression slowly altering to one of understanding, then admiration, then joy. He squeezed the mechanical woman’s hand tighter.

  “Ingenious, Miss Scrobot! What can I say?”

  “You could ask me to marry you, Mr Fuller,”

  She looked down, shocked at her own daring. Max’s smile slowly widened.

  “I would not dare do otherwise, Miss Scrobot. Or should I say, Janet? When a woman makes her mind up in these matters, what man can stand in her way?”

  Janet Scrobot gave a mechanical smile.

  “And in matters of Mathematics, Mr Fuller. Will you now admit to female proficiency in that field?”

  Max smiled warmly at his metal companion.

  “Not proficiency, Janet. Rather I would say, what man could compete with a woman’s wiles!”

  “Oh, Mr Fuller!”

  THE SECRET OF THE SAHARA

  Richard A. Lupoff

  In the last fifteen years of his life Verne continued to maintain a remarkable output of fiction, unfortunately all too much of it of minimal interest. Who today reads or even remembers César Cascabel (1890), Mistress Branican (1891), Claudius Bombarnac (1892), P’tit-Bonhomme (1893), Captain Antifer (1895), Clovis Dardentor (1896) or The Will of an Eccentric (1899)? Thankfully there were more exciting novels that captured some of that old adventurous spark, such as L’Île à hélice (1895)– also known as Floating Island or Propeller Island – about the creation of a massive artificial island that unfortunately meets with inevitable destruction because of man’s folly. Verne also wrote Le Sphinx des glaces (1897), or An Antarctic Mystery, his sequel to Poe’s The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. Other works of interest include La Grande Forêt (1901), or The Village in the Treetops, and the second Robur novel Maître du monde (1904).

  Verne was so prolific that there were sufficient novels stockpiled to appear posthumously, and not all have been translated into English. One of these lesser known works, L’Invasion de la Mer, was being serialized in Magasin d’éducation et de récréation at the time of Verne’s death in March 1905. It used an idea Verne had touched upon in Hector Servadac and that was the possibility of irrigating the Sahara desert. In L’Invasion de la Mer, engineers are constructing a canal from the Gulf of Gabè in Tunisia into the Sahara but an earthquake disrupts the work and causes the Mediterranean to break through and create a huge inland sea. This novel was translated and serialized in America in a much edited version as Captain Hardizan in the American Weekly during August 1905, a fact long unknown to Verne devotees until discovered recently by researcher Victor Berch. The first full translation appeared as The Invasion of the Sea in 2001 and that version inspired the following story.

  Although the Great Hall of the Republic could of course have been commandeered for the meeting, His Excellency the Governor General of the Province of Tunisie Francaise had chosen to entertain his distinguished guests in a smaller, private dining room. Such was a proper decision, for these more intimate surroundings were designed to encourage an open discussion of issues and exchange of views than would the more formal, even ceremonial, atmosphere of the flag-draped and sculpted Hall.

  Here in the Governor General’s private dining room, a sparkling table had been set and the Personal Representative of the President of the French Republic had entertained his guests in lavish manner. The meal had consisted of a local endive and olive salad, baked Saharan langouste stuffed with salt-water crab, lamb shish kebab, chick-peas and tabouli washed down with Algerian wine, followed by baclava, thick Turkish coffee, and a sweet Hungarian Tokay.

  Empty dishes, silver, and other detritus had been cleared away by silent and well-trained servants. Out of respect for their sole female member, the Italian Dottore Speranza Verde, a native of Tuscany, the men of the party had refrained briefly from lighting cheroots. The red-haired and green-eyed Tuscan physician had startled them by requesting a cheroot from her neighbour, the English historian, Mr Black, and drawing upon it with obvious pleasure.

  Now as the Governor General, M. Sebastiane LeMonde, rose, the buzz of conversation which had followed the meal ceased and a hush descended upon the room.

  “Madame,” the Governor General bowed toward the female physician, “and Messieurs, in the name of the President of the Republic I welcome you to French Africa and to our beautiful city of Serkout.”

  A murmur of approval rippled through the assemblage, following which the Governor General resumed.

  “I am authorized by the President of the Republic to offer special felicitations to Colonel Dwight David White.”

  The Governor General nodded toward a tall, distinguished gentleman clothed in the grey uniform of the Army of the Confederate States of America. This officer’s skin was black; his hair, its tight curls cropped close to his skull, shared the colouration of his military garb. The uniform bore the gold frogging and glittering decorations earned in his distinguished career.

  The Colonel nodded his acknowledgment of the Governor General’s felicitation.

  “Sir, this year marks the one hundredth anniversary of a date in the history of your nation, the Declaration of Emancipation issued by your President, Mr Jefferson Davis. As a student of North American history since my first days at the École de Paris, I have long felt that President Davis’s action was not only a matter of high morality, but a political move of the wisest. By declaring the enslaved persons of his nation free and equal citizens of that Republic and offering them fair compensation for the suffering and deprivation of their lives, he won for the Confederacy a new and most highly motivated Army, which led to the vanquishment of the Union forces and recognition of a new and shining ornament among the family of Nations.”

  The Confederate rose to his feet and responded, briefly and modestly, to the Governor General’s words before resuming his seat.

  M. LeMonde spoke once more. “You have assembled here, Madame and Messieurs, in regard to a situation unprecedented in human history. As you are aware, the greatest engineering feat of the past century, greater even than the Grand Canals de Lesseps which connect the Red Sea with the Mediterranean and the Atlantic Ocean with the Pacific at the Isthmus of Panama, was the creation of the Sahara Sea by the engineers of the Republic of France under the leadership of the great M. Roudaire, of happy memory.”

  A murmur of agreement was heard, accompanied by the nodding of distinguished heads.

  “The world has known and applauded this great feat of engineering,” LeMonde continued, “but at this moment we face a new puzzle of which only a handful of individuals are aware. The details will be revealed to you shortly. By your own consent, all contact with the general public and the outside world has been interdicted, and will remain so until you return from the mission which you have agreed to assay.”

  A grumble made its way around the table. The bearded, heavy-set archaeologist, Herr Siegfried Schwartz, ground his Cuban maduro cigar into an ash-tray. “From Berlin I receive my instructions, Monsieur LeMonde.”

  The Frenchman expressed his concern. “All was agreed to beforehand, Mein Herr, was it not? I hope we are not to dissolve into disagreement at this point.”

  “Yes, I believe that was the agreement. Otherwise I should have
to consult Whitehall at every turn. It just wouldn’t do, sir.” The blond moustache of the historian, Sir Shepley Sidwell-Blue, twitched as if with a life of its own.

  “Very well,” Herr Schwartz growled, “continue, Monsieur.”

  “At this point, if I may be excused,” the Governor General stated, “I will turn the proceedings over to the Chairman of your Committee, Monsieur Jemond Jules Rouge.” The Governor General bowed and took his leave. He was replaced at the podium by his goateed countryman.

  Monsieur Rouge looked around the room, his eyes flashing. “Madame and Messieurs, you represent not merely the great nations of the civilized world but the flower of your chosen professions. Throughout this day and evening we have socialized and exchanged credentials. In this room are assembled the world’s most famed archaeologist, the author of many volumes which I may say cumulatively comprise nothing less than the history of civilization, the military officer whose brilliant campaigns have extended his nation’s borders from the Mason-Dixon Line to the de Lesseps Inter-Oceanic Canal, and, may I offer my compliments to the lovely Dottore Verde, our most accomplished – pardon my crude pronunciation s’il vous plait – hydrologist.”

  Each participant in the conference – and the meal – nodded acknowledgment as his or her name was spoken.

  The Italian hydrologist, Dottore Verde, had prepared for this moment. She rose to her feet and strode to the rostrum, relieving the Frenchman who resumed his place at the now cleared dinner table.

  “Signori, when our colleagues the French opened the northerly dunes of the Sahara desert and let in the waters of the Mediterranean to create the Sahara Sea, they created a new avenue for the ships of commerce and a new home for the fish of nourishment. We agree – yes? – that the people of the Africa North are blessed by this new sea. But also they created, perhaps unthinkingly, the so-they-say Fleuve Triste, the river which flows between Isola di Crainte and Isola di Doute. This fleuve, this so-they-say fiume, is not really a river, but a tidal phenomenon that flows first to the north, then to the south, again to the north, again to the south.”

  A sulphur match flared as Herr Schwartz lighted another maduro. He sucked loudly at the cigar, then exhaled a cloud of heavy, odorous smoke.

  “I should think, perhaps, that Signor Schwartz most of all, would take an interest in this phenomenon,” the red-haired Tuscan continued. “For the action of scouring of the rushing water, back and forth, back and forth, has begun to carry away the sand accumulated between these two islands over a many thousands of years span. The French, by creating this new sea, have changed the – what we call the idrodinamica – the hydrodynamics – of the entire Mediterranean region as well.”

  “So?” Herr Schwartz growled, “to what result, Doktor?”

  “Herr Schwartz,” the Tuscan smiled, “you of all persons are familiar with the great and ancient civilizations to the east of our present location.”

  “Ah, of course. The Egyptians, the Mesopotamians, the Hebrews, the Hittites. But here in the Sahara – nothing but sand and palm trees, my dear Doktor. My time I could spend far better in my museum in Berlin. A channel perhaps deeper is made, larger ships it will permit to travel to this city of Serkout. Of interest to me this is not. Only because my government instructed, am I here.”

  “I see.” Dottore Verde gave no indication that she was hurt by the German archaeologist’s words. “But your knowledge of the archaeology may yet prove useful. You see, good sir, all is not sand beneath the Sahara seabed.”

  “Of course not,” Schwartz frowned. “Bedrock we will find. Sooner or later, it this inevitable is.”

  “Not only bedrock, good sir. When the Sahara was a desert, the dunes they rose and fell with the action of mighty winds. But beneath the dunes, the ancient rocks had their own,” she smiled, displaying white, even teeth, “their own topografia, you understand? The islands between which we cruise, Crainte and Doute, are of the ancient bedrock. But –”

  “This lesson in geography, dear Madame – any point at all, has it?”

  The Tuscan hydrologist’s monologue had turned into a dialogue with the archaeologist, then a debate, very nearly a quarrel.

  “What we have found,” Dottore Verde went on calmly, “is nothing less than dressed rock of a workmanship most assuredly artificial.”

  The historian let out a gasp. “Surely, Doktor, surely you do not realize the implications of what you say!”

  Dottore Verde shook her head. A strand of her russet hair, until this moment held in place by an elaborate array of clips and long pins, broke loose from its moorings. With an annoyed gesture she swept it away from her face. She leaned forward, pressing the knuckles of a slim hand against white linen.

  “I realize quite well the implications of what I say. We are about to discover the greatest mystery since the discovery of the ancient world. We are about to discover it, yes, but will we solve this mystery? That may be the work of many years and require the efforts of many scholars, but we will be the first to behold these great objects. My friends –”

  She looked around.

  “Miei amici, meine 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 honoured 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 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 wood 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 Verde 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 honoured, Dottore.”

  “Until there is evidence, we must reserve judgement. 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, Doktor.”

  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.”