The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (69 page)

Most horrifying of all,
David White stood paralyzed with shock and fear. And know well, even the
noblest of men know fear; it is the overcoming of this experience that
comprises true courage. That which had paralyzed White was the sight of the
five points of the statue’s face writhing and turning, turning horribly, until the
eyes focused upon My Lady Bast the cat.

From all directions,
tentacles tipped with horrid mouths and rows of teeth resembling those of
giant, extinct sharks, wove toward My Lady Bast. From the cat there came a
blood-freezing scream of raging ferocity as the pleasantly disposed ship’s
mascot was transformed into a whirlwind of fury and violence.

My Lady Bast flew from
the grasping, mouth-tipped tentacles, the points of her claws leaving a trail
of punctures from which there spurted a steaming green ichor. Blobs of the foul
liquid splashed on the great paving stones with which the room was floored.
Each point of contact was transformed into a miniature cauldron that seethed
and bubbled and from which a noxious greenish vapour arose.

The cat by now had reached
the star-shaped head of the monstrous living statue. Using the claws of two
paws while she clung to the monstrous visage with the others, she shredded one
baleful eye, then moved to the next and the next. The monstrous living statue
yielded to a series of spasms.

David White, watching
the incredible battle of a feline analog of his Biblical namesake against this
titanic alien Goliath, realized to his astonishment that the star-headed
monster was actually terrified. He was aware that Siegfried Schwartz had drawn
his Bergmann automatic and was firing at the monstrosity. Other members of the
exploring party, Rouge, Speranza Verde, had drawn their own weapons and were
pointing them upward.

Bounding forward to
place himself between his comrades and the monster, David White waved his arms
and cried out, “Careful! Careful! Don’t hit the cat!”

Even as the sound of two
revolvers and an automatic pistol echoed off the walls and ceiling of the
chamber, the great monstrosity, blinded now and bleeding green ichor from its
wounds, gave forth a mighty roar that echoed and re-echoed through the hall. It
gave a mighty spasm and My Lady Bast, the grey and white warrior, her grasp on
the star-shaped head broken by the jolt, was flung from the monster. As if
fully accustomed to flight she soared through the darkened reaches of the tomb,
falling at last into the welcoming arms of Colonel David White.

But this was no gentle
pussy. My Lady Bast. had been transformed into a warrior-goddess and she was
not so quick to resume her domestic mien. Raking claws shredded White’s
military tunic and suddenly terrifying fangs snapped within millimetres of his
eye, removing a gobbet of flesh just at his cheekbone. Then My Lady Bast flexed
powerful legs, launched herself from his torso and disappeared into the
darkness of the tomb.

Rouge, Schwartz and
Verde had advanced cautiously toward the monster. In its great spasm it had
flung itself from its plinth and lay thrashing on the stone floor. Its mouths
seemed to possess the power of speech independent of one another, and they
uttered sounds that resembled human speech as a horrid parody of the human form
might resemble a beautiful woman.

Siegfried Schwartz,
surely crude and perhaps cruel as well, was by no means lacking in courage. He
had advanced to within an arm’s reach of the monster and was speaking to it in
a language which David White did not understand, but which he inferred to be
that of ancient Egypt. Astonishingly, the monster seemed to hear and understand
the German archaeologist, and to reply in a strange and terrible variant of the
same language.

Without warning the
monster managed to raise itself halfway to a vertical position. It turned its
eye-tipped tentacles toward the roof of the chamber.

There, its rays focused
through a lens of tinted mica, the sun casting a single, bright beam into the
chamber. The beam had obviously been aimed, how many millennia before there was
no way of calculating. In its light one of the painted panels on the tomblike
wall seemed almost to come to life.

A row of half-human
figures knelt in postures of worship. There was a man with the head of a
falcon, a woman with the features of a lioness, a hawk-man, a woman in the
grotesque form of a hippopotamus, a being with a human body and the head of a
crocodile. David White did not know their names, but he recognized them as
Egyptian deities. And they were kneeling in submission.

Before them stood a
party of star-headed, tentacled monsters like the one whose statue had
seemingly come to life only to be slain by the ferocity of a ship’s grey and
white mascot. And behind the alien beings could be seen a sleek machine,
obviously a vehicle that had brought its occupants from some home unimaginable
to mere humanity.

From the shadowed
passageway through which the explorers had entered the tomb there came an
echoing voice. “It’s time,” came the voice of Sir Shepley Sidwell-Blue. “We’d
b-best get back to
Rosny.
Our t-time is r-running out.”

The explorers turned
toward the passageway. Jemond Jules Rouge leading the way, followed by Speranza
Verde and Siegfried Schwartz, preceded Colonel Dwight David White into the
passage. White realized that they had all been so busy in dealing with the
wonders and terrors of the tomb
that they had forgotten the
time. It was a good thing that the Englishman had stayed outside the tomb,
keeping track of the passing hours.

Once outside the tomb
the party formed up and moved off in the direction of the temporarily dry bed
of the Fleuve Triste.

They had gone only a
score of paces when Sidwell-Blue cried out, “Halt!” The decisive and
authoritarian utterance from the hitherto timid and uncertain Englishman
startled the others into obedience. To their disbelieving eyes Sidwell-Blue ran
back toward the dark opening in the rock. He disappeared into the shadowed
passageway. Minutes passed. David White studied his own pocket watch, performed
a rapid mental calculation and said, “If we don’t move quickly we’ll be trapped
by the returning Marée.”

“But we cannot leave
poor Sir Shepley in that tomb!” Speranza Verde cried. She started back toward
the rock sepulchre, followed by the others, but before she could reach the
opening Sir Shepley Sidwell-Blue emerged into the Saharan sunlight, My Lady
Bast nestled comfortably in his arms.

As they approached the
submersible
Rosny
a mighty aqueous roar was heard and two walls of water
became visible, speeding toward them from both directions. The explorers ran at
top speed to the submersible and scrambled up
Rosny’s
boarding ladder.
Captain Alexandre herself had awaited them, and followed them into the
submersible, counting off as they descended:

“Rouge.

“Schwartz.

“Blue.

“Verde.

“White.

“My Lady Bast.

Even as the first spray
of the onrushing waters spattered her midnight-tinted uniform sleeve, the
Captain slammed the hatch shut and turned its dogs to seal the submersible
against the waters of the Saharan Sea.

Soon all had refreshed
themselves and reassembled in the
Captain’s conference
room. Hot coffee spiked with strong brandy was served, along with nourishing
sandwiches. Outside
Rosny’s
oblong panels of glass, marine creatures swam up to this strange
invader of their realm and studied its occupants with as much curiosity as the
men and women of
Rosny
exhibited toward them.

In a corner of the room,
My Lady Bast, her coat now restored to its proper state, enjoyed a treat of
fresh fish and rich cream.

At the table, the
explorers gave their complementary reports on their experiences in the ancient
tomb. Speranza Verde took special note of Sidwell-Blue’s unexpected heroism. “Beneath
this
senza pretese,
how you say, unassuming exterior, eh, there beats
the heart of a lion. I salute you, Sir Shepley.”

The Englishman turned
away shyly. “One c-couldn’t abandon that splendid c-cat, you know.” Even in the
artificial light of
Rosny’s
cabin, his furious blush was obvious.

At the end, it was
Colonel White who asked Herr Siegfried Schwartz, “What was it that the monster
said before it died?”

The German stroked his
beard as if in deep thought. “To understand what said the creature, Mein Herr
White, it was for me not easy. Its language that of ancient Egypt was almost,
but certain differences there were.”

He paused and drained
his cup. When it was refilled he instructed the crew member to omit the coffee.

“I think it said, ‘My
parents for me will come. Someday my father and mother for me will come.’ You
see, Herr Colonel, to us a great monster it was, but in truth that sleeping
creature that we awakened, that we killed, of its own kind was a baby.”

Few of Verne’s
posthumously published novels are of much interest, but two do have
science-fictional content. La
Chasse au mètèore,
was
serialized in 1908 and published in England the next year as
The Chase of
the Golden Meteor.
Though not very well written (some believe it may have
been a collaboration with Verne’s son, Michel, who helped his father on several
of the last novels) it does contain a fascinating idea. The inventor Zéphyrin
Xirdal has created a machine that emits a ray which can capture and control any
object, rather like the tractor beam of later science fiction (and of which a
prototype was invented in 2001). Xirdal uses this machine to capture a
meteorite of solid gold. When Xirdal realizes the financial consequences of
this he ensures that the meteorite falls into the sea. Once again Verne did not
believe that mankind could cope with scientific progress. But was Xirdal right?
Sharan Newman plays back the events of the story to see what might have really
happened.

The young man clutched
his felt fedora with sweaty hands. He gazed at the thick oak-panelled door
before him as if it were the gateway to Hell. He reflected that for him it might
be. And that was only if his request were granted. It’s no wonder that Jean
Lecoeur needed to screw up all his courage before knocking.

Therefore his heart
nearly stopped when he raised his fist to knock and, before he tapped the wood,
the door was opened with a jerk and he found himself face to face with a portly
man in his late sixties.

“Hello!” the man said in
surprise, as he bent down to pick up the afternoon paper.

“Mr W W. . . Wells?”
Jean could barely get the words out, he was so nervous.

“That depends,” the man
answered. “Are you a reporter?”

“Oh, no, sir! I am Jean
Lecoeur, of Lecoeur Bank, Paris, London, New York, Berlin, Cairo and Buenos
Aires.” Jean handed the man his letters of introduction.

The man glanced at the
letters with disdain and sighed. “I suppose you’d better come in,” he said. “Yes,
I’m Herbert Wells. Now what does the owner of the richest bank in the world
want with me? You do know I’m a Socialist, don’t you? I don’t invest in
capitalist schemes.”

“I am aware of that,
sir,” Jean said. “I’m counting on it.”

Wells gave him a
suspicious glance but ushered him in.

When they had settled in
comfortable chairs before the fire, Jean’s nervousness ebbed a bit. However, he
couldn’t stop himself from giving a jerk when Wells said firmly, “So, tell me
your business, young man..”

Jean Lecoeur squirmed
like a schoolboy sent to the headmaster. The fact that he was one of the
wealthiest and most powerful men in the world didn’t seem to help in this
situation. He took a deep breath and started.

“You are assuredly
aware, Mr Wells, that the fortunes of my family were greatly expanded at the
beginning of the century with the landing and subsequent loss of the Golden
Meteor.”

“I remember it,” Wells
said coldly. “Although I doubt you were even alive then. The world believed
that the meteor would make gold as common as iron. Your father bought mining
stock at bargain prices and, when the meteor fell into the North Sea, his
holdings increased tenfold.”