The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (16 page)

Schwabe clicked his heels. “We are the élite of the Waffen-SS who
have the sacred duty to protect the Führer.” “Would that be the leader . . . of
Prussia?”

“Of Greater Germany, which rules all Europe!”

I bridled. “Including France?”

“Jawohl.”

And evidently including Poland . . .

“And he’s called Adolf Hitler?”

Of a sudden becoming an
automaton, Schwabe angled his right arm high into the air, hand like a blade.

Schäfer finally conceded
that I was telling the truth about my origin, and soon he became hectically
enthusiastic in discussion with Wienert and Krause and Rimmer, the general
drift of which I could follow . . .

Apparently the previous
year (which I took to mean 1942) had seen an official expedition to some island
in the Baltic led by a scientist called Fisher. Fisher believed that the world
is hollow — but Fisher was sure that we all live on the
inside
concave
surface of the Earth. So by projecting mysterious rays upwards, at the angle of
Schwabe’s salute, it should be possible to spy on the activities of the British
Navy hundreds of leagues distant. The experiment failed, as Schäfer had
foreseen it would. Yes, the world is hollow, but obviously we live on the
outside surface, and deep beneath our feet, as was now proven, was even more
Lebensraum
than in the conquered lands of the East, or alternatively vast spaces
suitable for slave workers — Jews and Slays could be deported here. But,
Gentlemen, kindly imagine the
military
implications of being able to
travel back to an earlier year! Something that lay underground between Poland
and France evidently intermixed or linked the present with the past. Powerful
localised magnetic fields perhaps. The contours of our respective journeys may
have traced out some potent pattern akin to a Tibetan mandala. I had noticed a
pennant resting against the rock, a jagged hooked cross in a circle its emblem.
Maybe the symbol was Tibetan. Tibet seemed important to these Germans.

The two “SS” soldiers
soon went out on patrol, but it wasn’t long before the two uniformed men
hastened back, and Schwabe reported, “Hauptsturmführer, the body of the
Untermensch has gone!”

As I quickly learned,
Schäfer — who was very vain about his prowess with his Mauser rifle — had shot
a dwarf a few hours prior to my rescue. He had shot it directly through the
heart, so that Krause could photograph its unblemished head from several angles
(using a wonderful future device Garden of Eden in innocence. True, fierce
toothy monsters swam in the sea . . .

But then, in the
biblical Paradise there was at least one serpent.

And
Nazis
in this
one. Such, I gathered, was the name of the political party which these Germans
revered.

“Those dwarfs’ lives are
not worth living,” snarled Schafer. “Everyone’s life is worth living,” I
suggested, “to the person who is living it.”

“Oh no it is
not!”
he
shouted. Snatching up his rifle, he stormed out.

Dr Rimmer — the diviner
and geologist — drew me aside, and appealed to me softly. “Please do not
provoke Schafer. He suffered a terrible tragedy. He took his young bride with
him on a lake to shoot ducks. In the boat he stumbled and the shotgun went off
by accident, killing her. This has made him bitter and unpredictable. Oh I
would so much rather I was seeking gold in the River Isar.”

“So it’s
gold
you
divine for, not water?”

The geophysicist Wienert
overheard this.

“Listen to me, Rimmer:
you and Himmler” (whoever
he
was) “would have caused every geologist in
Germany to retrain as a diviner! That’s the main reason you’re here, to keep
you out of harm’s way. Stop entertaining the lady with fantasies.”

“I was explaining . . .
never mind. Do you suppose the dwarfs have a fixed abode, or are nomads?”

“An abode where they
might keep golden treasure?”

“I was thinking about
the Nibelung miners of legend. Those are dwarfs.”

“Who, if I recall, wear
aprons and don’t go naked.”

“Ugly creatures, by all
accounts, yet very clever. Part of our collective Teutonic race-mind, eh? Why
should that be so?”

When Schäfer returned,
now sulking — he mustn’t have shot a dwarf — I said to him, “Hauptsturmführer,”
for how absurdly pompous that title sounded, “the dwarfs that live here may be
the clever Nibelungs of your German legends.

Don’t they deserve some
respect, or at least merit some caution in your dealings with them, rather than
your simply shooting them?” I almost added
like ducks,
but this would
have been to go too far.

Schafer glared at me. “Did
you
wish
to be ravished by them, then? You are no German woman, that’s
perfectly plain. France is a nation of utter immorality.”

Oh-la-la, I thought.

“In fact,” he went on, “I
would expel you from our protection forthwith . . . !”

If it were not for the
fact that . . . ?

Ah, if set free I might
elude the dwarfs and tell my companions all about their German rivals, not to
mention the mysterious twist in time which had brought our two parties
together. Consequently I must remain a prisoner of the Nazi Reich.

Presently we ate —
oily-tasting steaks from some amphibious creature which Schäfer had hunted,
accompanied by boiled vegetation which Krause had spied a dwarf eating raw.
Then Schäfer declared he was tired, consulted a steely bracelet-watch, and
decreed night-time. The electric air of the vast cavern knew no darkness, but
the Germans were methodical about observing day and night — as indeed we also
had been during the everlasting darkness preceding our arrival here. Their day
happened to end hours earlier than a French subterranean day. Hahn sat guard.

As I lay under the
blanket upon the loam, waiting for the other Germans to fall asleep, I thought
about the large eyes of the dwarfs. If eternal daylight — cavernlight — was
usual for them, why did they have big eyes? Was it because the cavernlight was
dimmer than sunlight, although after weeks of darkness it seemed bright enough
to me? Or was it because the dwarfs spent a lot of their time elsewhere than in
the cavern? What did they use to light their way, however dimly, in the
tunnels? Lanterns of some sort? How little we knew of the lives of the dwarfs.

What had become of my
companions? Wouldn’t they have heard the gunfire earlier on, even if the battle
between the monsters was preoccupying them? There had been no halloos. They
must be searching in the wrong direction.

Finally I judged that
all were asleep except Hahn. That vigorous young man may have spent a couple of
months underground with no female company. I did hope he wasn’t too pure in
mind and body. Sliding closer to him, I whispered, “Manfred, I can’t sleep.”

Modesty forbids
detailing my further enticing whispers, but presently he and I were some way
from that recess in the cavern wall, half hidden by the fronds of small ferns.

“Your helmet . . . I can’t
kiss you properly.”

So his steel helmet
joined the gun lying close to us. I began to unbutton his uniform while his
hands did things which I did my best to blank from my awareness. He was
certainly muscular and eager, yet a man is at a certain disadvantage when his
trousers descend below his knees, whereas when a woman’s skirts are lifted she
is not similarly impeded. Which of the two objects would hit Hahn’s head
harder: the discarded helmet, or the gun? Would the blow be hard enough? How
exactly would I reach either of those while he was grasping and groping? If I
gripped his jewels and squeezed hard, would he scream and wake the others?
Perhaps persuade him to let me ride him? Would an SS man be ridden by a woman?
Maybe this excursion of mine into acting was a big miscalculation.

As I struggled to
decide, whilst seeming to struggle amorously, something descended violently
nevertheless upon Hahn’s head.

A hiss in my ear: “It’s
Pierre. What the devil are you up to?”

“Trying to escape, what
do you think?”

“Hmm!”

Beside Hahn’s concussed
head lay Pierre’s double-barrel revolver, of which he had let go. Pierre and I
whispered, me urging the need to relieve the Germans of their weapons. Pierre
saw the sense of this. I arranged the German helmet upon Pierre’s head the
correct way then I lifted Hahn’s “submachine” gun while Pierre readied his
pistol. Softly we trod toward the recess.

Schafer promptly sat up
“So,
Schwabe, have you emptied yourself — ?”
The
helmet confused Schafer
only momentarily, and his hand darted towards his holstered pistol. I shouted, “Don’t
move or I shit,” mixing up
scheisse
with
schiesse,
but Schafer
understood me well enough and desisted.

The others stirred
awake.

Well, we did succeed in
impounding the hunting rifle and Schwabe’s sub-machine gun and the pistols of
the three other scientists, but the Hauptsturmführer stubbornly refused to
yield his own pistol.

“You will have to kill
me first,” he said.

Arrogance, pride — then
I remembered about his dead bride and his anguish. I thrust this knowledge
aside. Here was a man who believed in exterminating mortals he deemed lesser
than himself.

“Leave us one gun,”
pleaded Rimmer. “The dwarfs . . .” “You’re superhuman, aren’t you?”

We left the pistol, even
though this obliged us to run off in some haste. Don’t forget, Schäfer was a
crack marksman.

Pierre led me to a grove
of ferns, where Deville and Verne proved to be waiting, armed with our own
Purdley More rifles and Colt revolvers. Hasty explanations on my part followed,
astonishing everyone. They hadn’t even seen any dwarfs — and they were
flabbergasted by my brief account of the German expedition and its origin.
Pierre at least had seen the Germans close up, and those guns of the future
were persuasive evidence.

“We must return to our
baggage,” urged Verne. “Those dwarfs — Antoine might not cope. Time, time!” he
exclaimed. “It’s several hours since we left Antoine,” agreed Deville. “Not
that sort of time, man! I refer to the link with the future!”

The novelist was busy
thinking.

As we made to leave,
redistributing the weapons amongst us, a rustle in the undergrowth disclosed a
dwarf. The naked being rose to stare at us intently, apparently unafraid,
taking close account not merely of ourselves but of what we carried, and maybe
counting the guns.

“Hallo!” cried Verne,
but the dwarf turned and swiftly disappeared. Soon we heard a guttural voice
answered by many other voices. When we returned to Antoine, for once he was
deeply perturbed and crossing himself. He too had seen “little people.” They in
turn had watched him.

We decided that we
should set off back to the surface as soon as we replenished our water
supplies. Of meat extract and biscuits, ample remained. Dried fish would have
made for welcome variety, but time spent in catching and drying was out of the
question. A thorough wash would have been a delightful idea, but the Hauptsturmführer
still retained his pistol.

Would he retain it for
much longer? Much about the dwarfs was surmise on my part, but I think Schäfer
had greatly underestimated them. I imagined a wave of dwarfs overwhelming the
German camp. Somehow I did not think that the Germans would be killed. I
imagined the Germans becoming chattels of the dwarfs, forced to labour for
them. No, perhaps the dwarfs would march the Nazis to some point distant in
time and release them on an Earth before human beings existed.

Within an hour we were
lighting our way through darkness once again. Verne began to discourse about
time and the future.

“If only some machine
could be made to take advantage — a time machine . . . Hmm, we have a duty to
warn France about the future ruled so evilly by Germans. Will people believe us
when we only have a woman’s word for it? We have the sub-machine guns. Our
industrialists can copy those. Just imagine a larger, more powerful version
mounted on a tripod. France will have an advantage in arms.”

“An advantage,” I
pointed out,
“only
until other nations steal and copy — and that’ll be
soon enough. War will become an even more horrible slaughter. I say we should
hide the German guns before we ever reach the surface.”

“How typical of a woman
to hide evidence!”

“And who
obtained
the
guns?” I enquired ironically.

“And by what means?”
Pierre murmured softly to me. “Hmm.”

“Don’t be silly. Was I
supposed to wait feebly for rescue?”

“Future wars might
indeed be terrible,” conceded Verne. “When I think of the ten thousand workers
killed in Paris in 1948 . . . It’s enough to make one thoroughly misanthropic
rather than hopeful — when there’s so much to be hoped for from science! Ach,
dominion by Germans who have twisted science to serve some racial madness . . .
that cannot be. Without the weapons, what proof have we? Yet the weapons will
produce evil.”