“You’re right, Monsieur,” said Normand. “You’re the Master now. But I committed just enough treason to save Max, and I don’t want to commit any more. If you leave me free, I’ll cut off the current—and I warn you that, come what may, I won’t answer any more questions. The best thing for you to do, you see, is to kill us, Breton and me. That way, you won’t lose any time interrogating us and keeping watch on us, and you’ll be able to search at your leisure to discover the secrets of the station…”
“My brave man,” Saint-Clair replied, “there’s a great deal of sense in what you say, but killing you would be a crime and killing Breton would be a needless cruelty. Would you like, either of you, to swear an oath not to leave this room without my permission?”
“No!” exclaimed Breton.
“That’s ridiculous,” said the Nyctalope. “I’ll increase the number, the length and the solidity of the ropes that bind you, Breton. You, Normand, shall share the same fate as your terrible comrade. You will thus be unable to leave here and will suffer an uncomfortable situation. Swear, and you’ll suffer less…”
There was a silence. Finally, reason being stronger than unreason, Breton ceased to maintain an entirely needless obstinacy; he swore not to leave the room and not to attempt anything contrary to Saint-Clair’s interests. Normand swore too. The conflict of passions was ended. The station would not be destroyed and the mysterious radiomotive current would not be interrupted; thus, the Master of the XV was comprehensively defeated. It was now merely a matter of discovering and explaining the mysteries of the base.
To do that, Saint-Clair thought, the collaboration of Klepton would be necessary. In consequence, his first desire was to know how to gain access to the esplanade from the subterranean workings without going through the ventilation-shaft by means of which Jolivet had introduced him into the place. “Max,” he said, “follow me.” He went into the immense hall, which the machines filled with their rhythmic hum, overlaying the monotonous bass-line of dull rumblings—but a loud ringing that resounded in the room they had just left made him turn around immediately.
“What’s that?” He ran to an apparatus whose bell was still vibrating, and he saw a sort of writing-machine emit a length of thin paper from a wide slot, which unrolled with a rapid and uneven clicking sound.
“Oh!” he said, in a subdued voice. “It’s evidently a communication device using wireless telegraphy.”
The clicking stopped, and the paper stopped unrolling. Under Max’s intrigued scrutiny and the apparently indifferent gazes of Breton and Normand, the Nyctalope took hold of the paper and, observing that it was marked along the length of the slot from which it had emerged with pin-hole perforations, detached it with an abrupt movement. The paper was covered with numbers, with no spaces separating the words.
“Why,” exclaimed Saint-Clair, in amazement, “this is the cipher agreed with the Admiral! Is Monsieur de Ciserat signaling me from the Condor? But that’s physically impossible. Even so, it’s certainly the Admiral’s cipher. He, Bastien and I are the only ones who know it. The Admiral is aboard the Condor, 4000 meters above the esplanade, and the aeronef had no radiotelegraphic apparatus. Bastien is dead. As for me, I’m certainly not the one who sent this message!”
There was a little table standing next to the apparatus. Saint-Clair sat down at the table, spread out the enigmatic piece of paper, took the key to the cryptographic cipher from his pocket-book, and—more intrigued than he had ever been before—set about deciphering the radiotelegram. Meanwhile, Breton and Normand, no longer concealing their surprise, and Max, a trifle bewildered, gathered around, leaning over the table.
This is what the Nyctalope transcribed in pencil, to his great amazement, between the encrypted lines:
October 17, evening.
Am in Paris. From the Eiffel Tower to the radiomotive station via the official radiotelegraphic stations at Palma and Brazzaville, I send this message in the hope that Saint-Clair—the only one who can decipher it—is now master of the station and will receive it.
Christiane, captive of secondary affiliates of XV, is in no danger while Thoth, in Palma, is ignorant of capture of station by Saint-Clair. As soon as station captured, find Thoth and kill him. Am on Christiane’s track, will save her.
Was not dead, merely cataleptic.
Send news via radiotele. A.G., Office Restant, Eiffel Tower, in Ciserat cipher.
Bastien.
Doubting the eyes that were reading the lines, the mind that was registering them and the hand that was writing them, Saint-Clair brusquely gave the piece of paper to Jolivet and said, in a voice choked by inexpressible emotion: “Read it! Read it aloud!”
And he listened.
Hesitantly, as if entranced, unbalanced by so many fantastic occurrences one after another, Max contrived to read the meager lines with sufficient clarity.
“Again!” Saint-Clair exclaimed.
Meekly, this time with a little more self-confidence, Jolivet read it again.
The Nyctalope finally recovered full possession of himself. He got up, turned to Breton and Normand, and said: “Do you know Bastien?”
“By name, yes,” Normand replied. “He’s the chief of he French affiliates.”
“He was dead—because Koynos killed him.”
“Ah!” said Breton, dumbfounded.
“Yes,” Saint-Clair continued, with a powerful irony and the formidable joy of triumph. “Me too: I was dead—at least, Koynos thought so. But I wasn’t entirely dead—and Bastien has come back to life to be my ally. The one who really is dead is this Thoth about whom Bastien is alerting me—and that’s why Christiane is safe! Do you understand?”
And he burst out laughing—youthful, hearty, merry and loud laughter, as clear as the ring of genuine gold on crystal. As for the two technicians, they did not understand at all, but they gazed at Saint-Clair in an admiring stupor—and, in the utmost depths of their being, the idea was born that this man with the extraordinary eyes had a power worthy to be measured against the power of Oxus, the Master of the XV. In the depths of his being, Breton began to be grateful to Normand for having prevented Saint-Clair from being blown to smithereens in the cataclysmic destruction of the station.
Meanwhile, Saint-Clair had stopped laughing. In a grave voice, but with eyes still lit up by the last sparks of joy, he said with a sovereign authority: “Breton and Normand! What do I have to do to reply to Bastien immediately!”
They were defeated, conquered, seduced, and carried away.
“Hold on!” said Breton.
“There!” exclaimed Normand.
One opened the console, the other operated a manual switch. They bumped into one another in their haste to be the first to take out a keyboard similar to one formed by two juxtaposed dactylographs.
“There!” said Normand.
“Yes!” added Breton. And he made haste to explain: “I’ve pressed the switch. Certain elements of the external pylons develop a current sufficient to communicate with the Brazzaville station, in such a fashion that the Brazzaville operators think they’re receiving a transmission from much further away—the Cape Colony, for example. There are the touch-pads. Strike them according to the signals you want to…”
Saint-Clair cut him off. “That’s good! I understand. Thanks!” he said, in the tone of a general thanking a corporal for some unimportant item of information—and he operated the dactylograph for two minutes.
When he had finished, Breton leaned towards him and asked, humbly: “What did you say to Monsieur Bastien?”
Saint-Clair shivered. Plunging his dominating gaze into Breton’s eyes, he intoned: “Are you with me?”
The man started, paled, looked at Normand—who was also very pale—and they replied in unison: “We’re with your, Master!”
Saint-Clair nodded his head and murmured: “That’s good.” Then, curtly, he said: “I replied thus to Bastien: Thoth shot. Am master of station. Will depart for Mars. Entrust Christiane to you. Free
her; keep her safe for me.” He got up and added: “Max, have Normand take you up to the esplanade and launch a rocket to summon the Condor.”
“Come on, little one!” said Normand, without hesitation. And they went out of the room by a door that had been closed until then.
“As for you, Breton,” the Nyctalope went on, “please give me something to eat and drink. I’m dying of hunger and thirst.”
It is unnecessary to report in detail all the various incidents that followed the crowded events of the morning on October 18. Whatever the blind and deaf might say, life is always logical; certain causes being posited, various effects, to the exclusion of others, ineluctably follow. The gift of divination is, in reality, merely a talent for deduction applied to exact sensory observation…
Summoned by the rocket that Maximilien had launched, the Condor descended. Physically restored by a substantial meal, Saint-Clair, after bringing Klepton, the Admiral and Damprich fully up to date, devoted himself enthusiastically to the new task in hand: to initiate himself into all the scientific mysteries of the XV’s station. It is understandable that Breton and Normand made no further difficulty about serving the conquerors as initiators. The Nyctalope had won the two technicians over entirely; they would have followed him, had he wished, to Mars. It was sufficient, though, that Breton and Normand, renouncing the large sum of money that they would have acquired in Paris following the destruction of the terrestrial base, remained in Saint-Clair’s service as the station’s technicians, continuing, as in the past, to ensure its radiomotive and radiotelegraphic functioning. The whole of that triumphal day was spent, so far as Saint-Clair, Klepton, the Admiral, Max and Damprich were concerned, in receiving information from Breton and Normand; what follows is a succinct summary of the marvelous things they learned.
The perimeter of the esplanade was bordered by 16 residential houses, which could be retracted into the subterranean workings or elevated above the ground at will; they were mounted on a mobile platform that could be raised or lowered by the action of powerful levers. Once lowered, the houses were invisible because their terraced roofs, without parapets, were adapted exactly to the esplanade and set at the same level. There was no problem of continuity, thanks to the absolute adherence of the indented borders.
A very simple example will make thus almost incredible circumstance understandable. Take the parallel sides of a biscuit between the thumb and the index-finger of each hand and break it into two pieces with a single abrupt movement. Then bring the two fragments together, as if to solder them together; the biscuit will seem intact, and, if the break has been cleanly made, will challenge anyone to affirm with conviction that the biscuit is in fact, in two pieces—that cannot be seen with the naked eye, so perfect is the adherence.
What interested the new masters of the XV’s station more, however, was the functioning of communications between Earth and Mars. Normand showed them the plans of the radioplanes and explained the principle. Breton demonstrated, in front of the machines, how the 300-meter pylon emitted continuous waves of an incalculable power which were propagated into space, even though the radiotelegraphic station on the Eiffel Tower, for example, with the same 300-meter height could only emit waves whose action, incomparably less intense, did not extend beyond 6000 kilometers.17
In consequence, it was easily understandable that the radioplanes powered by these waves, like a wisp of straw borne on the wind, were propelled through the infinite interstellar spaces. As the waves propagated concentrically, however, it was necessary to orientate the plane’s rudder according to the position of the planet Mars relative to the Earth, in order to go to Mars rather than to some other point in the sidereal world. It was also necessary, according to the hour of departure, to regulate its speed in such a manner as to arrive in the Martian atmosphere in the southern hemisphere, in order to land on Argyre Island, the only region occupied by the XV. All this was a matter of calculation, perfectly simple for those whose knowledge of astronomy is up to date. The time of the high-speed journey from Earth to Mars varied, according to the respective positions of the two planets at the moment of the radioplane’s departure, between seven days, seven hours and seven days 19 hours, give or take a few minutes—employing, obviously, a day of 24 hours.18
While Normand and Breton were explaining, revealing and demonstrating, the Nyctalope did not say a word. He contented himself with nodding his head from time to time—but when the two technicians had finished speaking, he said: “Now tell us what you know about the Fifteen, the young women they have abducted, and their situation and projects on Mars.”
“If you wish,” Normand elide, “we can talk about that at the table. It’s 6 p.m., and no one has eaten since noon.”
Five minutes later, the two technicians had laid the table in the former communal dining-room of the XV, which occupied part of the house marked with the sign O—Oxus’ own house.
After the meal—composed entirely of preserves, but exquisite, its pickled pheasants leaving nothing to be desired by comparison with pheasants killed the previous day—everyone gathered in the drawing-room adjoining the XV’s dining-room and Breton talked. He told them all he knew, while Normand occasionally chipped in with some neglected detail.
When everything had been said, Saint-Clair got up, saying: “There are bedrooms here; let’s go lie down. Six hours of rest on a real bed—what an incomparable luxury! But I’ve forgotten something—Breton, how long will it take to make the five radioplanes you showed me serviceable?”
“Two days at the most.”
“Well, gentlemen, it’s now 1 a.m. on October 19. At 1 a.m. on October 21, we shall depart for the planet Mars.”
The Admiral got up abruptly; Klepton, Damprich, Max, Normand and Breton followed his example.
“There are three places per radioplane,” Saint-Clair went on, “making 15 in all. You, Admiral, plus Klepton, Damprich, Max and me, makes five. We’ll take ten men from the Condor, including Pary, Bontemps and Tory; we 15 shall free the prisoners and see whether the French government can, thanks to us, attempt the conquest of Mars!”
There was an explosion of enthusiasm and joy.
Dreamily, Saint-Clair evoked the images of Xavière and Christiane—and he suddenly lowered his head to hide the mist that he felt creeping into his eyes. On his forehead there were two furtive creases of anxiety, for at that moment his heart was seized by an undefined presentiment. Was it the mysterious warning of Destiny?—of that Destiny which, millions of leagues away, was drawing two men vertiginously towards the Earth, one after the other: two men with opposite motives but equally prey to despair, Alkeus and Koynos?
On October 21, when Saint-Clair intended to launch himself into space, Alkeus would be mid-way between Mars and Earth, watching the immensity of the ether in order to catch a glimpse of a radioplane coming from the terrestrial station—the radioplane in which the Nyctalope would be traveling, against which he would precipitate himself, in order to annihilate it, and himself too.
IV. Thunderbolt
“Less than four days!” growled Alkeus.
He had just observed at a glance that the hour-hand of his chronometer had accomplished a complete tour of the dial for the third time.
At 9 a.m. on October 21, he had covered 21,600,000 kilometers since his departure from Mars. He still had 34,400,000 kilometers to travel before reaching Earth. “Provided that the Nyctalope takes off within the four days!” Alkeus added, passionately.
He did not sleep, he did not eat and he did not drink. He simply went on, his hands riveted to the steering-wheel, his eyes continually consulting the interstellar compass in order not to deviate by an iota, his nerves taut. He was calm, heroic and insane. Ah, if he only had known that, at that same moment, Saint-Clair was already 2,700,000 kilometers from the terrestrial surface! How he would have roared with joy if he had known! But he did not know, and he went on desperately, less satisfied with every minute that went by, because all those minutes passed without a point
of light appearing out there in the desert of immensity that might be, that could only be, a radioplane coming from the Earth.
Another 24 hours went by and still nothing.
“Saint-Clair! Saint-Clair!” howled Alkeus, as if the summons might be obeyed. And the closer he approached Earth, the more his excitement increased, mingled now with a sort of ever-increasing joy. Was the instinct that informs the hunter of the hiding-place of his quarry that told him that the Nyctalope was coming?
“Saint-Clair! Saint-Clair!”
Another 24 hours! Another 7,200,000 kilometers since the previous day! Onwards! Onwards!
Alkeus never thought of slowing down; on the contrary. He would have increased his chances by doing so, but he was insane, possessed by a bizarre madness, which might perhaps have endowed him with second sight…
“Saint-Clair! Saint-Clair!” Alkeus repeated it continually, roaring it as a battle cry.
An hour went by, then another, and another, and others after that.
“Saint-Clair! Saint-Clair!”
And all of a sudden, Alkeus fell silent, stiffened, and opened two immense eyes. Two tears—two enormous tears—sprang from those eyes. Out there, in the luminously pale and matt infinity of space, he could see brilliant lights: one, two, three, four, five shining points in a single line…and within an eye-blink, those points were increasing in size. Radioplanes! They were there, very close; they would pass by…
Alkeus howled, deliriously: “Five! Which one? Which one?”
At the lightning speed at which he was hurtling towards them and they towards him, however, no reflection was possible.
Which of the shining points contained Saint-Clair?
Alkeus groaned, and, with a twist of the steering-wheel, threw his machine into a swerve, towards the course of the five…
There was a shock, a thunderbolt, the flash of lightning and the scattering of sparks of a collision of bolides…
And then, nothing more. Nothing at all! But of the brilliant points that had surged forth, coming from Earth, one was missing.
The Nyctalope on Mars 1: The Mystery of the Fifteen Page 19
