Damprich, pale and trembling, was walking back and forth violently. Suddenly, he stopped and said, in a hoarse voice: “Admiral, we must telephone Saint-Clair about this. He knows everything! He’ll do something!”
Admiral de Ciserat sighed and made a gesture. Damprich snatched the two pieces of paper from the Admiral’s hand—the radiotelegram from Saint-Clair and Koynos’ missive—and raced out of the room, running to the telegraphic and telephonic station that put Brazzaville in communication with Paris via Algiers, Palma and Port-Vendres.
At the same moment, a man was drawing away at a rapid pace from the last houses situated to the east of Brazzaville. He walked for an hour along a road through farmland. Having arrived at the edge of a little wood, he stopped, took two stout rockets from the haversack on his back, to each of which he attached a long staff that he cut from the trunk of a nearby bush. Then he set light to their fuses, and the rockets disappeared, with long whistling sounds, into the dense clouds—which, at that hour, covered almost the whole extent of the sky.
Ten minutes later, an airplane reminiscent of a large white bird emerged from a cloud and spiraled down to the ground, landing softly on a grassy bank 20 paces way from the rocket-launcher. A man leapt from the airplane’s cockpit and bowed.
“Is everything satisfactory, sir?”
“Yes, Alpha, it is. We can return to the radiomotive station and go back to Mars. Saint-Clair is dead. Bastien is dead. I know that the Admiral knows nothing about our African station. The expeditionary party, if it is formed, will never reach the radiomotive outpost—or if it does, it will be too late; it will find nothing but ruins. Let’s go—the Master will be satisfied!”
“The Master is strong!” said Alpha, bowing again.
Almost immediately, the airplane took off and disappeared into the clouds, carrying Xavière de Ciserat’s triumphant abductor back to the XV’s terrestrial base.
IV. Saint-Clair’s Odyssey
When he was knocked down on the dirigible’s deck and abruptly rolled up in his fur-lined cloak, Saint-Clair did not lose his self-control. He also remained master of himself when he felt himself immediately lifted up and understood that Koynos, who had so cleverly defeated him, was throwing him overboard.
I’m lost, he thought.
He wanted to cry out, and did, but his appeal was stifled by the fold of the cloak that was wrapped around his head.
A horrible oppression gripped his heart. He fell—but a spark of hope lit up in his mind. The cloak, he realized immediately, was filling up with air, making a parachute…
It was not a frightful fall. It was a rapid descent, but not a fatal one. Then he heard a loud scream; something struck his legs and he was whirled around. At the same moment, he plunged into the water feet-first, so neatly that no bones were broken by the shock—and the cloak still held him back; he did not descend to any great depth.
Lucid, master of his senses and his limbs, Saint-Clair made the necessary movements. Less than a minute after the brutal immersion, he re-emerged on the surface of the sea. Another body surged out of the depths at the same time, in front of him—another man!
The night was pitch-dark, but for the eyes of the Nyctalope, darkness did not exist. He saw a man, and recognized him. “Bastien!” he howled.
With three strokes, he reached him, just as Bastien was going down again, this time conclusively. He put his left arm around him, holding him up, and swam with his right. Men, like everything else, have their destiny. Saint-Clair’s destiny was that he would not die that night, and would save Bastien.
La Gironde was no longer visible in the nocturnal sky, but in the heavy sea, the lights of a ship were shining, so close by that the Nyctalope could hear the splash of the water displaced by its bow. Saint-Clair raised himself up above the waves, waved his right arm, fell back again and lifted himself up again, howling deliriously.
The mass of the ship was only a few strokes away.
Suddenly, he saw a man leap into the air while throwing a buoy attached to a cable, which unrolled like an enormous serpent. A cry struck his ears, but he was submerged, caught by a wave. He fainted.
When he recovered consciousness, he was lying on a bunk in the infirmary of the savior vessel. Men were gathered around him. One of them, kneeling next to him, was rubbing his naked body vigorously.
“Thank you, thank you!” he said. “I wasn’t alone—my companion?”
“He was saved from drowning,” the ship’s doctor replied, pausing in his rubbing, “but he’ll be dead within a quarter of an hour.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s suffered a frightful general shock. Congestion…”
“Is he able to speak?” cried Saint-Clair, sitting up straight.
“Yes, in a whisper.”
“Where is he?”
The men to his right stood aside, and by the light of the electric lamps illuminating the infirmary, Saint-Clair saw Bastien lying on a little cot.
“Permit me, gentlemen!” said the Nyctalope. He stood up, unsteadily, and went to kneel beside the dying man’s bed.
“Bastien! Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” breathed the invalid.
“How did you fall?”
Bastien opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Saint-Clair put his ear next to the dying man’s lips, and he heard: “Koynos! To get rid of an accomplice. Take care!” He coughed, and then, in an even fainter voice that was scarcely perceptible, he went on: “Terrestrial base of the Fifteen, one degree south latitude, 20 degrees east longitude… Oh, I’m dying… Planet Mars… The young women… Listen! Be at the station before October 18, or all’s lost… Then… Mars… Planet Mars!”
He was shaken by a convulsion. His cold head bumped violently into Saint-Clair’s, and immediately fell back upon the bolster. Saint-Clair looked at him, unable to move. Bastien was dead!
Saint-Clair remained where he was for a moment, numbly. The traitor’s revelations were engraved on his memory. He repeated them mentally. But what did they signify? The terrestrial base, the latitude and the longitude, passed through his mind again. But how did Mars come into it? Was that just the consequence of the delirium that heralds death?
I’ll think about it later, Saint-Clair thought, abruptly. Master of himself again, he got to his feet, went to his bunk, lay down upon it and calmly said to the audience that had followed this incomprehensible scene interestedly: “It’s all over for my companion, gentlemen. My name is Paul Dutot. We fell overboard by accident from the steamship Fernando VII, which operates a ferry-service between Algiers and Barcelona. We were on our way to Algiers…”
“You’re now on your way to Palma in the Balearics,” someone told him—and he was told that he was aboard the Carnatic, an English steamer. He was introduced to the sailor who had been the first to hear him and had leapt overboard to save him. Saint-Clair thanked the courageous mariner with a warmth that he did not try to hide. Then he took a light snack and was left to sleep beside Bastien’s corpse, which was covered by a blue flag.
The morning after that tragic night, the Carnatic sailed into the port of Palma. Saint-Clair made his statement to the naval medical officers who were the first to board the steamer, naming himself as Paul Dutot; the papers found in his clothing were, indeed, in that name. Bastien had no documents on him. Saint-Clair, who had been apprised of this detail by the Carnatic’s doctor, passed Bastien off as his servant. The formalities were completed rapidly; Bastien’s body, with Saint-Clair’s consent, was enclosed in a double coffin and sent to the Faculty of Medicine at Barcelona, where it would serve for the instruction of the students.
At noon, the Nyctalope registered in the name of Paul Dutot at the Hôtel Terminus in Palma. He was accompanied by seaman Pary O’Brien, his savior, who had gladly consented to leave the ship and to follow “Paul Dutot” to the ends of the Earth.
Saint-Clair’s first concern, after lunch, was to go to Palma’s radiotelegraphic station and send a coded telegram to Admir
al de Ciserat in Brazzaville. Then, he went to see the French Vice-Consul to the Balearics, revealed his true identity and asked whether he knew of the existence of an airplane anywhere on the island of Majorca.
“No,” the Vice-Consul replied, smiling. “The Spaniards are less advanced than us, and they have not yet furnished each of their garrisons with an airplane. You might perhaps do better though. Have you heard of Klepton?”
Saint-Clair started. “Klepton, the inventor of the aluminum aeronef, propelled by a liquid air engine?” 9
“Yes. You undoubtedly also know that, three years ago, after the experiments that astonished every aviator in the world, Klepton disappeared, and that nothing more was heard of him?”
“Indeed, as everyone does. I thought he was dead… Is he alive? Do you know him?”
“I don’t know him,” the Vice-Consul said, “but I know that he’s alive and I know where he is. You presumably know that the Balearics include three islands: Majorca, Minorca and Ibiza. The island of Ibiza is as wild as it was 50 years ago. The indigenes are savage, rebels against modern civilization, living on their figs and dried grapes as they did in the time of Charles V. Well, three years ago, a mysterious stranger arrived on the island and was granted the right by the municipality of Ibiza to set up a factory and workshops in the heart of its territory. I knew about it and I wanted to see this stranger, but it was impossible. I was able to discover, however, that he had been joined by a dozen Englishmen, who were living and working with him. One day, chance permitted me to save the life of one of these Englishmen, who, having set out from the island in a dinghy, had been shipwrecked on the Cabrera coast; I was able to prevent the Englishman from dying on a reef. I learned from him that the mysterious stranger was named Klepton. I swore never to divulge this secret to anyone, but I believe that I can better serve the cause of humankind by divulging it to you than by keeping it to myself forever.”
Trembling with joy, Saint-Clair thanked the Vice-Consul and inquired about the best way of getting to Ibiza.
“Go by night. For a few douros, any fishing-boat moored in Palma harbor will take you there. Klepton surely knows the name of the illustrious explorer Leo Saint-Clair. If you can contrive to let him know that you want to speak to him, he’ll see you. I can do no more than wish you the best of luck.”
A quarter of an hour after this conversation, Saint-Clair was wandering along the Palma quayside. He soon found the necessary boat and fisherman; the deal was made by a handshake in a nearby posada, at a table charged with glasses of sherry. Saint-Clair spoke fluent Spanish, and he passed himself off as a businessman from Barcelona on holiday, whose curiosity to see the mysterious stranger impelled him towards Ibiza. The departure was fixed for 8 a.m. the next day.
Saint-Clair returned to the hotel, where Pary was waiting. After telling his new domestic that he could spend the rest of the afternoon visiting Palma and its taverns, he shut himself up in his room, took a notebook from his pocket and wrote Bastien’s last words down on a blank page:
Terrestrial base of the Fifteen, one degree south latitude, 20 degrees east longitude. Planet Mars. The young women. Be at the station before October 18, or all’s lost. Mars. Planet Mars.
Saint-Clair had given these enigmatic lines a good deal of thought in the previous four hours, but was unable to arrive at any other conclusion than this:
“It’s necessary for me to be at the intersection of one degree south latitude and 20 degrees east longitude before October 18. Now, today is October 10. I only have six days, therefore, seven at the most, or, as Bastien says, all is lost. That’s in the heart of Africa. If the dead man wasn’t mad, Xavière, Yvonne and the young women are there—but what does Mars mean—the planet Mars? First, let’s get to the Fifteen’s ‘terrestrial base,’ then I’ll see… Terrestrial base? Does that mean that the Fifteen also have a base on Mars? Let’s go, then!”
Saint-Clair was repeating a variation of this monologue for the hundredth time when there was an abrupt knock on his door.
“Come in!”
The door opened. A hotel porter came in and presented him with a large yellow envelope on a tray. “A radiogram!” he said. When Saint-Clair took the envelope, the porter withdrew.
The Nyctalope ripped the envelope open, took out a piece of paper, and unfolded it. “Good!” he said, recognizing the agreed numerical cipher. “It’s from the Admiral.” He took the key-card from his hermetically-sealed pocket-book and set to work deciphering the message.
The more text he translated into clear, the more Saint-Clair blushed with emotion and joy. Ah! he thought. For Heaven’s sake, this is truly extraordinary!
He got up suddenly, and began pacing back and forth, murmuring quite calmly. “Mars! The planet Mars! I understand Bastien now. What men these Fifteen are! But I shall be stronger than them. I shall get Xavière back from this enigmatic Koynos. Mars! I’ll go there, damn it, since they’ve gone there. But why did Bastien tell me that all is lost if I’m not at their terrestrial base before October 18? No matter—I’ll understand everything when I get there… provided that Klepton understands me, and provided that he has an aeronef ready to depart. I’ll pay him seven million if I have to. The Admiral’s given me a letter of credit for his entire fortune of three million, and I have four myself. I’d give anything to see Xavière again, just as the Admiral would give anything to get his daughters back. I’ll even go to Mars—but how? How? I’ll be there before October 18. Even if Klepton refuses, I can be in Barcelona tomorrow. I won’t find an airplane there, but I’ll find some means to make the long journey to Bordeaux or Paris. Ten, 11, 12…I can be in Paris on October 12. Four more days and I’ll be in Central Africa on October 16. Yes, but the slightest hitch, the slightest accident, and I arrive too late and all is lost! I could also charter two dirigibles in Paris, to keep in reserve—but the charter would require at least 24 hours. No, that’s all too chancy! I need Klepton.” And Saint-Clair made superhuman efforts to maintain calm and remain master of his thoughts in the face of the terrible impatience that was devouring him, guiding his reflections lucidly.
He dined mechanically, without paying any heed to what he was eating, without even noticing the presence of Pary O’Brien, who had sat down naively at his table.
As he got up, he was accosted by a maître d’hôtel, who presented him with an open ledger. “Would Monsieur like to do us the honor of signing the register of our illustrious guests?”
Saint-Clair looked at the man peevishly and replied: “But I’m not an illustrious guest!”
“I beg Monsieur’s pardon,” replied the maître d’hôtel, smiling, “but I’ve served Monsieur in Paris, at a banquet given for Monsieur by the Geographical Society, on Monsieur’s return from his magnificent exploration of Central Africa—and I recognize Monsieur Saint-Clair perfectly.”
The explorer shrugged his shoulders. “All right!” he said. “You’ve recognized me—but I have to maintain my incognito, and I beg you…”
“Oh, Monsieur, your incognito will be maintained, for so long as Monsieur requires. This register will be shut away, locked up in the archives of the Terminus for a year—two or three, if necessary…and we’ll start a new register tomorrow.”
Saint-Clair smiled in his turn and gave in. “All right—take the register out of circulation for six months, if you want the honor of my signature!” Taking the pen, he signed in the middle of a page already half-covered with signatures. As he was writing, though, his eyes read the name preceding his own, and he started, struck by an idea.
Saint-Clair had the elevation of mind and quickness of intelligence that makes great geniuses. He took aboard the largest problems at a stroke and immediately found their solution. Tyrannically possessed by an energetic desire to find and free Xavière, Yvonne and their companions—especially Xavière, whom he loved with the irresistible force of rational and mutual passion—Saint-Clair was, however, also able to think about the glory, science and uninterrupted progress of humankind. E
ven in the grave predicament in which he found himself, he was true to himself.
The signature he had just read was that of Camille Flammarion!
He gave the pen back to the maître d’hôtel, who was puffed up with pride, and said: “Is Monsieur Flammarion here?”
“Yes, Monsieur.” The man smiled strangely as he replied, which would have intrigued Saint-Clair if Saint-Clair had been looking at his interlocutor instead of keeping his eyes fixed on the register.
“In the hotel?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Now?”
“Yes, Monsieur. He arrived this morning from Barcelona, to make observations during the impending solar eclipse.”
“In that case, go ask Monsieur Flammarion if he will receive the explorer Leo Saint-Clair, with regard to a matter of the greatest importance. He and I only know one another by name; now, if ever, is the moment for us to get to know one another better.”
Three minutes later, the maître d’hôtel opened the door of a bedroom to the Nyctalope. The famous astronomer Camille Flammarion—the first man to collate and publish a full account of observations of the planet Mars, who had added to those observations the important contingent of his own discoveries—stood before Saint-Clair, extending both his hands.
The illustrious scientist was then in his 62nd year,10 but he had lost none of his good physical health or the admirable intellectual vigor of his mature years. His long hair was white, but that was the only indication of old age in that marvelous organization of man, poet and laborer. He had not worn a beard for some years, which also contributed to making him appear younger.
“What a fortunate circumstance!” he said, thus demonstrating that he was not unfamiliar with his visitor’s name.
The Nyctalope on Mars 1: The Mystery of the Fifteen Page 7
