by Rhys Hughes
‘Certainly. A most picturesque place indeed, but I won’t alarm the port authorities by sailing there directly. It’s better if we dock at some obscure fishing village and make our way overland. I recall a pretty village not far south of Oporto called Buarcos.’
I voiced no opposition to this suggestion. He adjusted controls, pulled levers and opened valves. ‘What is the motive power of this submarine?’ I asked. ‘I don’t hear the noise of an engine!’
He glanced at me. ‘Steam, Mr Griffiths, but applied ingeniously. Fires in a sealed vessel under the sea are impractical, so the steam was created before the submarine dived into the oasis, and stored in a series of special insulated containers; giant vacuum flasks that stopped it from condensing too rapidly. By carefully releasing the pressure over a period of time it is possible to harness it for several days. But once the pressure drops beyond a certain point, the vehicle is dead.’
‘An innovative system,’ I agreed, ‘but perilous.’
‘Nonetheless it served well.’
‘Tell me about your life!’ I begged.
He helped himself to a swig from the brandy bottle. ‘There’s too much for a short voyage, but I can briefly reveal that although I was born in Gascony, which officially makes me a French subject, I’m singularly immune to that delusion called patriotism. I’m a citizen of the world. I grew up in a tiny village but travelled to China on a ship when I was very young; I took an active part in the Russo-Japanese war in the summer of 1904, and that’s where I met Jack London. Some of my later colleagues were less savoury than he was; for example, I teamed up with a deserter from the Tsarist army and we went to Ethiopia together as prospectors; shortly after that, I travelled to Patagonia, where there’s an archaic settlement of Welshmen.’
I nodded vigorously. ‘The only colony my country ever tried to set up! One day I must visit it for myself.’
‘It’s worth the effort, I assure you. Subsequent seasons took me up the coast of South America to Uruguay, Brazil, Suriname; then I returned to Europe and found myself in Italy.’
‘What happened to you after Brescia?’
The submarine had dived below the surface of the waves, where faster progress was possible, but Scipio kept it at a depth that didn’t preclude an easy exit in an emergency. Clearly the reserves of steam were low indeed. He used a periscope to judge our position.
‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘I learned that the inventor who didn’t turn up intended to appear at the Paris Airshow instead, a year later. So I walked to France and made sure I was present when he revealed his prototype. It was even better than I had expected.’
I recalled what he had already told me. ‘The new propulsion system? Oddly enough, I interviewed another eccentric with similar ideas, Rolfe his name was; a pulsejet engine—’
‘Clumsy and noisy, Mr Griffiths,’ said Scipio, and I was amazed again to discover that I could teach him nothing. He already knew about Martin Wiberg’s design: although impressive, it wasn’t comparable to the system created by the inventor in Paris. ‘It’s true that pulsejet engines might have a future in the aviation industry, but Coandă’s motorjet variation is more reliable and more efficient.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘Coandă? I don’t—’
‘Romanian. Born in Bucharest. A very interesting man, Henri Coandă, a graduate of the School of Artillery, Military and Naval Engineering. He also studied in Berlin at the Technische Hochschule. Later he befriended the ambitious aircraft designer Gianni Caproni, but wanderlust overcame him and he embarked on an automobile trip through Persia, Afghanistan and Tibet; when he returned he was a changed man, inspired to devise an experiment with reactive forces that no-one had tried before. He built the aeroplane and flew it; I was there.’
‘That was three years ago, in 1910?’ I said.
Scipio nodded. ‘The following year he went to England to work as the technical director of the Bristol Aeroplane Company. I think he has been concentrating on disc-shaped craft.’
I gasped at this news, for it connected neatly with my own experience. The figure in the hangar I had passed in my vehicle while driving Captain Tom to the Bristol docks! That had been Henri Coandă! Truly this world of ours is full of odd coincidences.
‘What happened to the motorjet?’ I asked.
Scipio licked his lips. ‘His aircraft crashed on its maiden flight, but not because the basic principle was faulty; on the contrary, the accident was a result of his success. The engine’s exhaust ignited the flimsy fuselage and the fierce blaze spread to the wings. He was lucky to land before they fell off! He was thrown from the plane and injured, but not badly. The engine worked perfectly well, but an unforeseen physical phenomenon had ended the flight. The study of this phenomenon became his new obsession. Soon he had established a new principle.’
‘Will you explain it to me?’
Scipio said, ‘During his brief flight, he observed that the burning gases expelled from his engine closely hugged the contours of the aircraft. The surface of the fuselage seemed to attract the exhaust flow. He spent many months subjecting models to various kinds of vaporous discharge in wind tunnels and finally gathered enough data to formulate a dynamic theory to account for the effect. When his results were published, it became known by his name: the Coandă Effect.’
I was fascinated to hear this and roared, ‘Now that the reasons for the failure of his motorjet plane are known, surely it’s possible to construct an improved version with exhaust positioned behind the fuselage? Any craft that utilises his engine to its maximum potential will be far in advance of all modern conventional designs!’
Scipio held the brandy bottle up to the watery light that issued through the porthole. He watched the contents swirl, and for a moment I imagined he was dreaming of other seas and other conversations with other men. I felt suddenly unworthy of his company, but he simply said, ‘You speak no lie. It could change everything.’
‘Why not sell the secret to the European powers?’
Scipio laughed softly at this.
‘I gave it to a fellow by the name of Rais Uli. I didn’t ask for payment, but in return he arranged for this submarine to be built for me. He’s a man of honour, if somewhat too impulsive. Yet I would prefer for all secrets of such importance to be kept out of the hands of the European meddlers. Rais Uli is an old-fashioned man.’
‘The Barbary corsair you mentioned earlier!’
‘Yes. I don’t intend to overlook his defects. We all have them. He likes to boil the eyes of traitors and other enemies with heated coins. I regard the symbolism of the act as primitive and messy. Is there a problem? You look pale. More brandy, Mr Griffiths?’
The Converter
Professor Bogdan Velicu hovered nervously as Jukka Halme crouched to peer into the refrigerator. The Finnish mercenary reached in his hand and stroked the irregular pearly sphere.
‘Very curious. It vibrates with energy! Yet it is ordinary ice! What can be causing this bizarre effect?’
‘It will melt if you don’t close the door!’
Jukka looked up. ‘Pardon?’
‘The block of ice! It’s melting already and—’
Jukka smiled, his expression became very soft. Velicu relaxed. Like a trap powered by a spring of immense power, Jukka pounced on him and knocked him to the floor. The professor groaned. Then Jukka leaped back and prowled around his supine body, his nostrils flared. He was like some forest predator, a wolverine or bear.
Having conducted this atavistic ritual to his satisfaction, he dropped to one knee next to Velicu. ‘Manners, my dear professor, are always crucial to proper communication, wouldn’t you say? You’ve seen my knife, and I surely don’t need to remind you that the serrated blade has 13 teeth; a conscientious researcher would have counted them instinctively the first time he saw them. Listen carefully.’
Velicu whimpered as Jukka drew the knife from his pocket and held it to the light. ‘In Finland the winters are harsh. We learn from an early age that survival d
epends on ruthlessness and cunning! I recall the time when the lake of Inarijärvi was frozen solid and I decided to ride right across it on a reindeer. “Don’t be foolish,” my friends shouted after me! But already I was gone, the maddened beast barely under my control, hooves clattering on the ice, the wind whipping my face with snowflakes as big as buttons! The joy of madness filled my soul!’
Velicu groaned and rolled his bulging eyes.
Jukka stroked the professor’s forehead tenderly with his free hand, and though it felt as rough as a wolf’s tongue the professor managed to refrain from amplifying his hoarse groans.
Jukka sighed nostalgically. ‘Yes, a dark joy filled my soul, and hunger of monstrous ferocity seized my body! I yearned for the taste of flesh! So I cut a living bloody steak out of the reindeer I sat astride and crammed it into my maw, the gore oozing between the gaps in my teeth onto my new shirt! How my wife would complain when she saw it! Then I remembered that the poor girl had tumbled into a deep well the previous month. I was free to gorge myself until I was full.’
He chuckled horribly and salivated at the memory.
‘But there’s a twist,’ he added.
Professor Velicu was too scared to reply.
Jukka regarded him tolerantly. ‘The twist is that I never seemed to get full no matter how much I ate! I hacked slabs of quivering flesh from the back of the beast, which screamed as I did so; and have you ever heard a reindeer scream, professor? But it kept running and couldn’t shake me off and I kept cutting and devouring!’
‘Please— Please—’ stammered Velicu.
‘All the way across Inarijärvi, right to the opposite shore, I sliced and chewed; and when I finally reached the other side, my mount was almost a skeleton, but still alive! Ah, that was how I learned to carve without the risk of a quick death. And if you ever oppose me, professor, by objecting to anything I say or do … How much of your heart do you think I will be able to remove before you expire?’
‘All of it! Every last morsel! Forgive me!’
Jukka closed his eyes in ecstasy and appeared to drink Velicu’s terror, as if he was an emotional vampire.
‘Tell me everything about that block of ice!’
Velicu twisted his head to gaze at the refrigerator. The remnant of the iceberg really was melting: already it had lost a quarter of its mass and a trickle of water was crossing the laboratory floor. He said, ‘I’m convinced it’s a focal point for vast energy.’
‘Yes, yes! But what kind of energy?’
Velicu swallowed with difficultly. ‘I think— I think—’
‘Don’t be heartless, my friend.’
‘Spiritual energy!’ blurted the professor.
Jukka opened his eyes.
‘Did you say what I thought you did?’
‘Yes,’ croaked Velicu, fully expecting the knife to penetrate his chest and remove a corner of his heart.
But Jukka seemed to have forgotten his threat. The light of fanaticism in his eyes went out like two stars behind a cloud. With a fluid gesture he replaced the serrated blade in his pocket, then he offered Velicu his hand and pulled the trembling academic to his feet. The Finn blinked once and rubbed his chin and sat on a corner of a workbench, inviting Velicu to sit opposite him on another bench.
‘Tell me honestly, do you believe that such energy might be liberated in our own lifetimes? Do your dreams encompass such a scenario? It has always seemed to me that much energy is wasted in this world of ours! In the far, cold north we are more sensitive to such matters. The alchemy that transforms a burning log into warmth for the lonely hunter is our national magic, so to speak; our windows use four panes of glass. It’s a question in which I have both a professional and a personal, instinctual interest. Does it seem feasible to exploit spirits?’
Velicu answered uneasily, ‘I have been considering something along those lines, a device that can convert spiritual energy into physical force. The utter annihilation of matter produces amazing amounts of energy: the work of Einstein, Planck and Rutherford has already established this fact. As for the annihilation of spirit…’
‘The output would be greater or smaller?’
Velicu sighed and closed his eyes tight. ‘It would be immense, beyond all human understanding! But the spiritual substance would cease to exist once it had radiated all its energy.’
Jukka smiled. ‘What of that? Is it a problem?’
Velicu licked his moist lips; he was sweating profusely under the cold stare of the Finn. ‘If there is an active consciousness in the substance … If the substance in question is partly or wholly composed of the souls of the dead, as I’m certain it is … Then it will be the most despicable sacrilege to destroy it, to obliterate consciousness that is supposed to have eternal life.
‘A blasphemy against the very cosmos!’
Jukka absorbed this in silence. Then he jumped lightly to his feet and approached the professor. ‘We need to construct a converter. Can you do that, do you think? This Second Balkan War of yours might turn out to be even more dramatic than anticipated!’
Velicu began to shake his head. Then he felt something in his side, an irritation like an insect bite. He looked down and with horror saw that the blade of Jukka Halme had penetrated his body as far as the hilt. The Finn worked the knife with precision, crooning as he did so, ‘I’m just taking a corner of your liver, professor. There!’
He withdrew the blade and held up the sliver of organic matter for the professor to see; then he opened his mouth, placed it on his thick tongue and swallowed. ‘So thin!’ he cried. ‘It dissolved like one of the wafers of the Catholic communion! And now—’
Velicu gasped and clamped his open palm to the wound, but there was almost no blood; Jukka had operated with the precision of a surgeon. He spluttered, ‘I’ll do whatever you want!’
Jukka nodded. ‘A converter, if you please.’
‘But how will the released energy be contained? I’m sure you’re aware that when nitroglycerine was discovered by Sobrero in 1847 it had almost no utility because it proved impossible to harness the release of energy. If I manage to do what you ask, how …’
Jukka looked out of the window at the sky.
‘I have the blueprints for an interesting propulsion system. I took them from the School of Artillery, Military and Naval Engineering; an engineer by the name of Henri Coandă drew them. I’m wondering if modifications might be possible so that it expels the exhaust of combusted spirits rather than the vapours of orthodox fuels.’
Velicu glanced again at the refrigerator.
‘The question remains why that block of ice should be charged with so much spiritual energy?’ he muttered.
Jukka shrugged. ‘It’s enough to know that it is.’
He strode to the refrigerator and slammed the door. The fist of ice was now the size of a small fruit, a berry.
The Coloured Glass
Night had fallen but there was a bright moon and Scipio was able to steer the submarine by the shafts of pale light that speared through the tranquil water. He peered through the periscope and said, ‘Here’s something that should interest you, Mr Griffiths.’
He encouraged me to clamp my eyes to the lenses. I did so and saw a ship less than half a league distant. For a moment I didn’t recognise it, for I was still a landlubber at heart, slow at such things. Then I realised I was staring directly at Captain Tom’s new ship, the stolen clipper! A wave of bitter revulsion rose up inside me.
‘The scoundrels that abandoned me to my fate!’
Scipio shrugged. ‘Our submarine isn’t fitted with torpedoes, so there’s nothing I can do to avenge your honour. You’ll have to swallow your rage on this occasion, I’m sorry to say.’
I frowned. ‘Wait a moment! Perhaps I will get my revenge after all, but indirectly. There seems to be a disturbance on the deck. Can you steer a little closer to it, Monsieur Faraway?’
He could and he did. Soon enough I was able to clearly discern figures engaged in a fierce duel,
two of them; clearly a pair of quarrelling pirates had decided to settle their dispute in the most anachronistic fashion. Most countries and cultures had forsaken formal duelling in the past century or two, although I knew the custom still existed in Corsica, Abkhazia, Cuba, Uruguay and a handful of other more ‘romantic’ nations. Even Wales had recently abandoned the tradition …
‘I bet they are fighting over something as petty as one doubloon or the best space to hang a hammock!’
But I was wrong about this, and as Scipio edged the submarine a dozen yards closer I saw that the combatants were Captain Tom himself and the Danish bank robber, Mads Pedersen! So this was a more serious fight and probably was connected with overall command of the crew. Mads was an aspiring usurper who had seen a chance to overthrow the Belgian and rule in his place. A fine example of natural law among lawless men at sea! My teeth gritted together as I watched.
Tom Alaerts carried a sabre in one hand and a poniard in the other and in his belt was wedged a revolver. Mads ‘Sanity’ Pedersen was armed with not only a cutlass but also a mace; he too had a revolver in his belt. The fighters lashed out, parried, weaved and counter-attacked. Suddenly Mads struck a blow at Tom that severed the Captain’s right arm: it plopped onto the deck still clutching the sabre.
‘Pen pidlan gawsog!’ I breathed softly.
Blood spurted. But Tom didn’t retreat; he jabbed with his poniard, and the point of the weapon went through the left eye of Mads and penetrated his brain, snapping off inside with a muffled, squelchy note. Mads swung another blow, even harder this time, amputating Tom’s left leg below the knee. At the same time, Captain Alaerts drew his revolver and fired twice into the Dane’s chest. Both men crumpled to the deck and lay there, while the other pirates swarmed around.
‘Well, that’s finally settled,’ I said grimly.
I turned away from the periscope and sat in the corner. I had started to wonder if a life of adventure was really for me. Wouldn’t I be happier in the comfortable and safe offices of The Western Mail, writing my trivial stories about famous people? As if reading my dismal thoughts and eager to dissipate my despair, Scipio said, ‘In Buarcos I know a delightful café where the wine is excellent; and there’s an inn with soft beds. The walk to Oporto is along a very fine beach.’
