For a brief moment, Leo thought fondly of the Professor’s niece, Veronique, who had once been his wife…
Then, shaking his head, he went inside to examine the spacecraft and came out a few minutes later smiling. He headed to the armament section of the cavern and quickly located a strange weapon stored in a metal cabinet. It was a recreation of Engineer Korrides’ Lightning Projector, the construction of which he had himself supervised.
“Excellent,” said Leo, talking to himself. “I’ll mount it on the rocket and will be on my way.”
He was glad to have had the forethought of setting up this secret base with a few friends from the CID, in 1939, when war had seemed all but inevitable.
After the tedious and delicate work of mounting the Projector on the rocket and setting up a system for firing it from the control panel inside, the Nyctalope sat in the cockpit, thinking: It reminds me of my youth when I helped my father in his research. Had he not been murdered, my life would have been so different! Ah! Sadi Khan! Without your despicable deeds, the Nyctalope would not have been born…but then again, I might still be in jail…
Leo remembered what had happened barely six months earlier when he had decided to surrender himself to the French authorities. The rain had been falling non-stop at the airport of Le Bourget. As soon as he had landed, he had been arrested and handcuffed. The Press was there and the scene was intermittently illuminated by flashes from the journalists’ cameras. The next day, the newspapers read: After ten years on the run, the Nyctalope surrenders! The Nyctalope in prison! Like many collaborators before him, Leo Saint-Clair, condemned to a ten-year-sentence in absentia in February 1947, will finally pay his debt to society. The former adventurer was taken in handcuffs to the Prison de la Santé where….
A few hours later, after a routine interview, Leo had asked to speak to an officer of the Deuxième Bureau about some “an urgent matter concerning National Defense.”
After being left alone in a cell for two hours, he had been taken to a large room with only three chairs and, a large oak table upon which were a desk lamp and a folder.
Two of the chairs were occupied: one by a man of strong build, with a thick body and a wrestler’s head, the other by a tall, lanky man with crew cut blond hair and the square face of a Breton, who smoked a pipe. Both had stood up as the Nyctalope had entered the room and had offered him their hands to shake, which surprised Leo a little.
“Bonjour, mon Commandant,” had said the “wrestler,” giving Leo the rank to which he was entitled. “My name is Geo Paquet of the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire.”
“And I am Lieutenant Roger Noël of the Service National d’Information Fonctionelle,” had said the Breton. I believe you told Commissaire Ferret during your interview that you wanted to see someone from the Intelligence services regarding an ‘an urgent matter concerning National Defense?’”
“That is correct,” had replied Leo.
“Then, please, sit down,” had said Paquet.
The Nyctalope had taken the empty chair and had sat. As was his method, Paquet had immediately launched himself into the heart of the matter.
“You are aware that the Russians are about to send up a second Sputnik?”
“How could I not know it?” had replied Leo. “All of the world’s secret services have been following the news. But do you know that, in reality, the Soviets plan to launch two satellites simultaneously?”
Paquet and Noel had looked at each other with a puzzled air. The former’s unspoken question had been answered by the latter’s slight negative shake of the head.
“Are you sure of your facts, Monsieur Saint-Clair?” Noel had asked. “Our agents are among the best in the world, and yet we know nothing of this.”
“May I suggest, Lieutenant, that you contact some of your colleagues in the OSS...?”
Stung by the Nyctalope’s slightly superior smile, Geo Paquet, who was known in France by the nickname of the “Gorilla,” had jumped up and left the room saying: “I’ll be right back.”
Forty-five minutes later, the door had opened violently. The Gorilla had returned. His face was red and congested. He immediately shouted at the Nyctalope: “How did you hear that?”
Without losing his composure, Leo had replied:
“Did the Americans tell you why the Russians are sending two satellites?”
For once in his life, Paquet had remained speechless. The Nyctalope continued:
“Now that I have proved my skills to you, let me tell you everything I know, because you’ll soon need my help. The reason why the Soviets plan to launch a second satellite, equipped with powerful deflectors is because…”
And then, the Nyctalope had told Geo Paquet and Roger Noel how, sixty years ago, Sadi Khan, had stolen not only the plans of the Radiant Z, his father’s greatest invention, but also—and this had not been immediately discovered at the time—the diary of one of his ancestors, the Marquis Henri-Jean de Sainte-Claire, and a strange stone that never left his father’s desk.
Leo had read that diary when he was a child. It talked of a stone with fearsome powers, and a trip to the Moon! The metal powder that Cyrano had mixed with dew was attracted by our satellite like a magnet. Later, Leo guessed that it was a variant of the Z-4 substance discovered by Professor Olbans, which had allowed him to travel to Rhea.
The Nyctalope had, unfortunately, never managed to find Sadi Khan, who, later, had joined Lenin and taken part in the October Revolution.
Things might have remained as they were, if Leo hadn’t learned by accident, thanks to a contact within the OSS, a distant cousin, Hubert Bonisseur de la Bath, that Stalin had gotten his hands on the stone, found amongst the effects of Sadi Khan, and intended to get the second stone from the Moon!
When the first beep beep of Sputnik resounded through the skies, everything had become clear. The Soviets planned to go to the Moon, and there was nothing the West could do to stop them!
The OSS had learned that the Russians were about to launch a secret satellite codenamed SK-1—for Sadi Khan—which had been the last clue Leo needed to confirm his guess—at the same time as Sputnik 2. SK-1 was to be equipped with reflective panels and circle the Moon.
Leo had guessed that the Russians were trying to put the Moon Stone in alignment with the Earth Stone, which was in their possession, using mirrors. But what could he do to stop them? It was then that he decided to surrender to the authorities, preferring to trust France rather than the U.S., embroiled in a shameful “witch hunt,” to support him in what he planned to do...
After finishing his story, the Nyctalope had concluded:
“…Now you know everything. Let me make you an offer. I propose to take action to solve this problem on behalf of France, but secretly, to avoid any incidents, diplomatic or otherwise… in exchange for a full pardon, of course.”
“This could be arranged,” had said Noel, pulling on his pipe.
“What do you propose to do?” had asked the Gorilla
“That will be my own business. Grant me a full pardon and I will end the Soviet threat forever. This offer is non-negotiable.”
Paquet had looked at Leo Saint-Clair with respect, then said:
“I’ll go and talk to the Boss.”
“And I to SNIF,” had said Noel.
Everything had followed logically. The French were eager to demonstrate to their powerful American ally that they, too, could still play a decisive role in major international crises.
The two Sputniks were launched on November 3, 1957. On November 15, French President Rene Coty pardoned Leo Saint-Clair in light of the great services he had rendered to his country.
The time had come for the Nyctalope to fulfill his part of the agreement!
Emerging from his thoughts, Leo pressed a switch on the control panel. A launch pad opened, pushing away the desert sands. Then, the rocket rose into the sky.
Very quickly, it left Earth’s atmosphere and approached the secret Soviet satellite launc
hed three months earlier. The SK-1 had deployed its solar reflectors and was positioned in an orbit enabling it to reflect a ray from the far side of the Moon to Siberia.
Leo triggered Korrides’ Lightning Projector. The artificial satellite blew up in an explosion muffled by the silence of space. He smiled and thought: I finally have my revenge, Sadi Khan--although it isn’t the one I was hoping for!
Then the ship headed for the dark side of the Moon and landed at the place indicated by the ancient diary of Henri-Jean de Sainte-Claire.
After donning a protective suit, Leo exited the rocket and picked up the Ioun Stone. Then he returned to the ship and landed a few minutes later in the Sea of Tranquility, on the other side of the Moon. He then reexited the rocket and buried the stone in moon dust.
No one will find it here, he thought.
He took off and returned to Morocco.
But, in orbit, an American Explorer satellite launched on January 31, 1958, had observed his actions...
July 20, 1969, Sea of Tranquility on the Moon
American astronaut Neil Armstrong left the LEM and set foot on the Moon.
“…One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,” he said.
The Nyctalope does not appear in this story by young French writer Julien Heylbroeck. Instead, it features the Hictaner, the water-breathing anti-hero created by Fulbert, the mad scientist in L’Homme qui peut vivre dans l’eau. At the end of that novel, the Hictaner retires with his wife to Tahiti to live in peace. However, in The Nyctalope on Mars, La Hire later informs us, rather casually, that the couple died in a hurricane, leaving behind their baby daughter, who was then adopted by the Saint-Clair family. Julien’s story provides more details about the Hictaner’s demise…
Julien Heylbroeck: The Season of the Shark
Tahiti, 1895
The ship docked smoothly. The ropes were tied around the posts and, gradually, the noisy, motley crowd emptied out of the boat, shoving its way over the rickety gangplank. Caged birds chattered; children ran and shouted. Behind them, a massive shadow stood quitly, waiting for the rush to end. When calm had returned, it moved into the light. It was a broad-shouldered man, wearing a black cloak that covered his entire body.
The Hictaner—for it was he—had reached his destination. Time was of the essence. His body kept mutating and he could not abandon his quest until he had found his creators—his torturers. Remembering those two odious scientists, he ground his teeth. They were massive and hooked—the fangs of a shark that had replaced his human dentition. The grafts that had transformed his body were rapidly changing it into something at the crossroads of two species. He was becoming a man-shark, an aberration, a scientific monster abhorred by nature itself, and abandoned by its creators. It was probably a side effect of the massive exposure to radium that had been meant to counter any tissue rejection during the grafting process.
With the aid of a cane, the Hictaner made his way over the gangplank and crossed the harbor in haste, pushing away a few vahines who were trying to sell him slices of fresh pineapple.
He was sweating profusely because of the heavy, thick, humid atmosphere. He soon found the harbor master and, removing his stovepipe hat and wiping his forehead, he asked:
“May I have a minute of your time, Monsieur? I am Inspector Charbonneau. I have been sent by the French Government to investigate the mysterious disappearances of several young women on this island…”
He showed an old, yellowed police card, hoping that that false identity would allow him to glean some useful information. With his imposing stature, the Hictaner easily dominated the harbor master, who was secretly impressed, but felt the need to speak in burly tones to assert his authority.
The interview was brief. The Hictaner got the address of a supposed witness. However, the harbor master had warned him that the man was an artist, a little crazy and addicted to alcohol and pakalolo.
The Hictaner went up a dirt road to the address in question and eventually reached the house where the artist lived. It certainly had known better days. It was overgrown with creepers and damp. That once elegant colonial mansion now suffered from the ravages of time and was a shadow of its once luxurious splendor. On the porch was a small man with thick hair and wild eyes bent over an easel, a crutch at his side. His skin was dotted with the tiny craters characteristic of the pox. Looking up at the visitor leaning on his cane, the artist gave a little smile and his eyes flashed.
“Ah-ha! A cripple, just like me!”
He put down his brush on a table strewn with dried crusts of paint.
The Hictaner did not have the heart to lie to him.
“I’m investigating the recent disappearances of twelve young local women. The harbor master told me to talk to you. He thought you may have witnessed one of the kidnappings.”
“That damned fool didn’t believe me when I told him what I saw. Mind you, I don’t know if I believed it myself…”
The artist got up with some difficulty and the help of his crutch. He then disappeared inside the house and returned a few moments later with a pipe, a tobacco pouch and some matches. He stuffed the pipe, lit it and inhaled a few puffs of the strong-smelling tobacco.
“I seem to have forgotten my manners,” he said. “Sit back, grab a glass… (he pointed at a bottle filled with a yellow liquid) This is a ginger liqueur, unlike anything you’ve ever tasted. Call me Paul. What’s your name?”
“Guy Oman. I’ve lived in Tahiti for a short while. I heard of the disappearances of young women in Papeete. I think I know who’s behind it. But first, I need to hear what you have to say.”
“You think you know who is behind it? I fear you’re mistaken, Monsieur!”
The painter looked at the Hictaner with an air of suspicion mingled with curiosity. It was not altogether surprising since his face had an abnormally pale complexion which only highlighted his two, inky black, almond-shaped eyes, covered with a sort of white film. Monsieur Paul had originally thought he was dealing with a blind man, and the stranger’s cane had bolstered that impression, but now he realized that his visitor’s sight was not impaired. The stranger’s lower jaw was unusually square, almost as if it had been reshaped by a cartoonist, and his teeth were white and very sharp. There was something odd about the man, something animalistic. However, the painter attributed his impressions to the drugs he had been taking for months.
“I say you’re mistaken, because the criminal is not human, Monsieur. God in Heaven, it is a monster! Let me tell you in detail what I saw—no, let me show you!”
The painter angrily rifled through a portfolio of drawings. Between two tawny sketches depicting women in the Tahitian countryside, he found a few crumpled papers adorned with several gray silhouettes. He handed those sheets to the visitor.
“Look! I was on a small hill a few miles from Papeete. From there, one has an unobstructed view of the sea. I was working on a new composition, a lovely sunset scene with a beautiful vahine in the foreground, lasciviously eating a tropical fruit, when my eyes were attracted by a shape in the waves. At first, I thought it was a dolphin. But upon closer inspection, I saw that it was almost human! It was one of those creatures that I sketched here... (the painter used the stem of his pipe to tap at the paper that the Hictaner held in his gloved hand) It was gray, with long, deformed arms, hideous… Something between man and fish. There were three of them. One carried something on its shoulders, something big—like a body... A ray of light suddenly created a reflection on a frothy peak of water and a second later, there was nothing. Not even a residual wave as evidence of their presence. Nothing... Sometimes, I think I was hallucinating...”
With a sigh of relief, the Hictaner took off his coat and his hat. Underneath, he wore the same wetsuit that his creators had once made for him, except that it was now patched and missing scales. Still, it allowed him to move through water at fantastic speeds.
He spat one of his last few remaining human teeth into the grass and entered the sea, feeling i
nstantly soothed by the cool liquid. His gills greedily swallowed the water, beating in rhythm with the man-shark’s breathing. He was back in his element—the same element that had caused his downfall, but that he couldn’t live without. Once again in possession of all the agility and strength that left him as soon as he set foot on land, the Hictaner quickly dived toward the sandy bottom, avoiding several coral reefs. His intention was to explore the maritime area that Paul, the painter, had told him about.
After a few minutes of fast swimming to loosen his muscles, he decided to follow the coast line. Near a rocky point, his attention was drawn to the hull of a ship. He approached it, carried by his fervor, his scaly suit slicing the water silently. It was a merchant ship, the Queen of Sumatra, flying the Canadian flag,. There was no sign of activity aboard. The vessel was anchored.
Climbing along the anchor chain, the Hictaner quietly stepped onto the bridge to take a closer look. There was nobody in sight. Yet, the ship was not abandoned; it showed signs of recent occupation and it was missing one lifeboat. Her crew must have gone ashore. Without missing a beat, the man-shark walked to the main cabin. Its door was locked, but it was a simple lock and did not resist long.
Inside, the cabin was just like the rest of the ship: old, but sturdy and in good condition. One felt that that ship had sailed the seven seas and even explored waters long forgotten or ignored. On a table, there were a few maps, including one of Tahiti, and some old books bound in leather. The Hictaner opened one, taking care to wipe his hands in order to leave no trace. He did not understand the language in which it was written: a myriad of tiny, incomprehensible characters positioned around strange and disturbing illustrations. These showed the same creatures that the painter had seen: hunchbacked fish-men with monstrously thick lips and enormous bulging eyes. Around them, there were drawings of strange pentacles, skulls and knives.
The Nyctalope Steps In Page 10
