The Mammoth Book of New Jules Verne Adventures (56 page)

“Suppose I credit this
tale, Mr Brown. What of it? You have disclosed the ignoble reality behind the
myth of Cyrus Smith’s genius. I suppose we could concoct a three-day scandal
out of such material and sell a few extra papers. But how does this revelation
materially affect the grandeur of what you Iowans have achieved? And how can
you possibly deduce the end of civilization from your tawdry tale?”

Brown leaned forward
intently, all foppishness banished by earnestness. “Are you the same fellow who
wrote that series of articles entitled ‘Some Thoughts Toward the Manifest
Destiny of Our Arriving Twentieth Century’? That’s why I picked you, Bing, because
of the speculative acumen you exhibited in those writings. You seemed to
recognize that the continued success of our present planetary culture is based
on a perpetual flow of advancements. There can be no such thing as holding
still. The growing interconnectedness of the world, the demands of a surging
population, the rising expectations of the common man as to what life will
bring him — all these factors and more conspire to demand a flood of fresh
inventions from the world’s laboratories. And the world looks to Lincoln Island
to lead the way. If we were to stagnate, the worldwide system would collapse in
a Malthusian disaster of rioting, starvation and savagery.”

“Agreed. But surely the
risk of stagnation is next to nil —”

Brown banged a fist upon
the table, sending his tumbler of wine toppling. “Don’t you get it, Bing? We’ve
copied and slightly improved all of Nemo’s technology. If I may coin a term, we
applied ‘reverse-engineering’ to his devices. Smith’s talents were perfectly
adequate for that. But we don’t understand the first principles of any of it.
We’ve engaged scores of brilliant men from around the globe — Edison, Bell,
Ford, Michelson, the Curies, and many more whom I could name — and none of them
have had an ounce of success at unriddling, say, gravito-magnetics. We’re like
primitive witch-doctors recreating effects by following formulae passed down
from the gods.”

“Surely you judge
yourself too harshly,” Wheatstone protested.

“Not at all! It’s taken
every iota of ingenuity we possess just to translate Nemo’s devices into
automobiles and trains and such. That’s why large-scale manned flight has
baffled us. Nemo’s engines were never designed for such applications. And we’ve
just about reached the limit of what we can mine from the last scraps of the
Nautilus.
But what’s even worse is how we’ve fatally detoured the destined course of
scientific history. By futilely investing generations of talent in following
Nemo’s bizarre avenues, we’ve allowed the foundations of science circa 1870 to
crumble and moulder. The world of 1898 is not what it should have been. There
is no organic path left for us to follow from here out. To re-organize the
scientific establishment that existed thirty years ago is nigh impossible. Yet
our only hope for the future is to attempt such a thing. But we cannot even
make such a last-ditch effort until we first tear down the sickly monster we
have erected. And your help is essential for that task.”

Wheatstone felt torn
between a host of contradictory impulses. His affection for what Lincoln Island
had created vied with his desire to make a journalistic splash. His belief in
Brown’s sincerity — the man appeared to truly believe everything he had said —
warred with his incredulity at the enormity of the long-standing hoax.

“How can I accept what
you tell me without some kind of proof, sir?”

Brown got tipsily to his
feet and secured the neglected carpetbag from the corner of the room. He
hoisted it to the tabletop, unclasped it, and reached within. From the bag he
lifted a fantastical helmet with thick glass plate for a visor, bearing an
ornate capital N. This he thumped down on the table.

“Here is one of the diving helmets from the
Nautilus.”
Brown
examined the headgear with interest. “Intriguing, sir. But this could be
something intended to deceive me.” “Thought you might say that.” Brown reached
again into the bag and removed another exhibit.

Wheatstone’s knowledge
of human skeletal anatomy had been buffed by various professional interviews
with leading anthropologists. The skull now flaunted before him displayed odd
configurations of bone that seemed to hint at larger mental proportions than
the human norm.

“Yes,” Brown confirmed, “this
is Nemo’s very skull. The fishes had picked him quite clean by the time we
returned. He claimed to be an Indian prince, but I suspect that he was much
more. Perhaps a visitor from the future, perhaps a stranded traveller from
another star. Or perhaps a human sport, a forerunner of some species of mankind
yet to come. In any case, he possessed qualities of mind the likes of which are
all too seldom encountered.”

The skull formed a
shocking weight in the pan of the scales that favoured Brown’s story. But still
Wheatstone hesitated. So much was riding on his decision —

Brown sensed this
hesitancy. “Damn it, man! I had been hoping to avoid this, but I can see I’ve
got no choice. Come with me. I’m taking you to see the carcass of the
Nautilus
itself!”

Brooking no resistance,
Brown grabbed Wheatstone’s sleeve with one hand and his bottle of wine with the
other, and they departed the Gilded Cockerel. Outside, they strode off, Brown
leading. He continued to swig from his bottle, muttering all the while.

“We’re rotten at the
core, Wheatstone! Nemo was the worm in the apple of the original Lincoln
Island, and he remains so today. Our whole existence is predicated on a lie!”

Wheatstone refrained,
wisely he thought, from either agreement or dissent.

After half an hour of
progress through the deserted streets of a manufactory district, the pair
arrived at an innocuous warehouse. Brown pulled Wheatstone down an alley and
around to a side door.

“No one comes here anymore.
The
Nautilus
was stripped long ago, its components distributed to
various laboratories. We should be perfectly safe venturing inside.”

“I take it then that you
are playing a lone hand. You have no fellow conspirators to rely on?”

“Hah! Who among those
self-satisfied drones wants to rock the boat? They’re all frightened old men.
But poor little Harbert Brown, the baby of the group, still has some hot blood
in his veins! They’ll all be dead soon, the duffers! Not me! And I don’t want
to live in a desolate future. That’s why I’m doing this, Bing!”

After employing a key on
the padlocked door, Brown led Wheatcroft into the stygian interior. “There
should be an electric-light switch somewhere near this entrance — Ah-ha!”

The blaze of
illumination that flooded forth following Brown’s simple action caused
Wheatcroft to fling up an arm across his face against the glare. When his eyes
had adjusted, he lowered his limb.

The vast open floor of
the warehouse held just what had been promised. Like a slaughtered whale strewn
across a beach, the segments of Nemo’s wonder-vessel reared ceilingward. Steel
arches and ribs trailed bits of truncated wiring and pipes and bits of
decoration. The shattered pieces of the
Nautilus’s
staterooms — slabs of
mahogony and tile, broken chandeliers and armoires — were heaped in a corner.
The whole panorama was morbid and desolate in the extreme.

Wheatstone moved forward
for closer inspection, but was arrested in his tracks by a shout.

“Stop right there! We
are from the council!”

Across the room, framed
in another doorway, stood a short, gnarled yet feisty old man surrounded by
quadrumanes. The surly apes wore not the vests of their servant cousins but
rather leather brassards, and carried truncheons belligerently.

“Pencroff!” exclaimed
Harbert Brown.

“Yes, you cocksure
little fool. Did you actually think your plotting went unnoticed? We’ve known
all along about your treacherous scheme. And now you’ll have to face the
consequences. Secure them, boys!”

At Pencroff’s command
the apes bounded forward and cruelly pinioned Wheatstone and Brown. Within
seconds the prisoners had been placed in the claustrophobic back of a Black
Maria wagon, which motored off.

Brown was too devastated
to speak, and Wheatstone found himself similarly dejected. How had he come to
such a fix? Ambition had undone him. He could not delude himself that
high-minded principles had played any part in his involvement.

Their windowless
conveyance eventually came to a stop. The rear doors opened, and a rough-handed
quadrumane escort hustled Brown and Wheatstone out and into a new building.
Inside, the conspirators were separated. Soon, much to his surprise, Wheatstone
found himself deposited in a spacious library. His animal captors left him
then, and he collapsed into a chair.

Not many minutes passed
before the library door clicked open. Wheatstone shot quivering to his feet and
found himself face to face with the president-for-life of Lincoln Island.

At age seventy-eight,
Cyrus Smith still possessed all the charisma of his youth. His stern, bearded
countenance radiated a patriarchal aura not unmixed with a sly humour. He
smiled at Wheatstone, and extended a hand.

“Come, come, Mr Wheatstone,
you’re not among ogres here. If at all possible, no harm will come to you. I
think you’ll find us more than reasonable when it comes to straightening out
this imbroglio you’ve stumbled into.”

“Sir, you have foisted
an imposture upon the world!”

“Have I, Mr Wheatstone?
Yes, I suppose I have. But consider the benefits that have accrued thanks to my
little charade. The living standards of much of the world’s population are
higher than they’ve ever been before. Cowed by the weapons we have liberated
from the
Nautilus,
the nations of the globe have learned to value
diplomacy over aggression. The Sons of Ham are fully enfranchised and valued,
both in North America and elsewhere. I venture to say that this version of 1898
is, on the whole, a more just and admirable one than any other merely
hypothetical branch of history that would have resulted had Lincoln Island
never existed.”

“But your paradise is
balanced upon the tip of a needle! It takes all your efforts to keep it from
toppling. And as Brown has revealed to me, you are soon to run out of strength.”

“Ah, poor Brown! We will
see that he gets the kindly care and attention he needs to overcome his
alcohol-sodden delusions. No one is going to harm him. He is one of us.”

“Are you claiming that
his presentation of the situation is incorrect?”

“No, not at all. But
Harbert was not privy to our secret search, a quest that has now borne fruit.
We have secured the allegiance of a new savant, a mastermind whose fertile
brain will more than compensate for the absence of our beloved Captain Nemo.”

“You believe then that
this newcomer can stave off that day when science reaches its natural limits?”

“Indeed, he will, I am
certain. And may I say that you have a fine way with words, Mr Wheatstone. I’m
certain you will do justice to the exclusive interview we intend to grant you
with our new saviour.”

Exclusive interview?
Wheatstone began to feel for the first time in hours that he might yet emerge
from this deadly affair with both his hide and reputation intact, even enhanced.

“Would you care to meet
him now?”

“Why, yes, if the hour
is not too late.”

“Not at all. Our new
comrade is almost superhuman in his endurance and vital spirits.”

Wheatstone used an
ordinator to issue his summons. Within a few minutes, a man strode boldly into
the library. And what a figure of a man! Of middle height and geometric
breadth, his figure was a regular trapezium with the greatest of its parallel
sides formed by the line of his shoulders. On this line attached by a robust
neck there rose an enormous spheroidal head — the head of a bull; but a bull
with an intelligent face. Eyes which, at the least opposition, would glow like
coals of fire; and above them a permanent contraction of the superciliary
muscle, an invariable sign of extreme energy. Short hair, slightly woolly, with
metallic reflections; large chest rising and falling like a smith’s bellow; arm,
hands, legs and feet, all worthy of the trunk. No moustaches, no whiskers, but
a large American goatee.

Even Cyrus Smith seemed
to shrink a little in the presence of this newcomer, who remained forebodingly
silent. But Smith soon recovered himself and said, “Mr Wheatstone, may I
present our new friend, Robur. With his aid, I believe we can conquer all such
problems as our aerial delays at last. With Robur at our side, progress need
never end.”

Wheatstone shook Robur’s
hand and felt a galvanic charge.

The young reporter suspected that things were really going to get
interesting now .

From 1886, Verne entered
a long period of depression. It was probably started when Verne’s nephew,
Gaston, in a moment of madness, shot Verne, wounding him in the leg. The injury
left Verne with a limp that severely reduced his mobility and though he was
still only fifty-eight, he began to feel “geriatric”. It was not helped by the
deaths of several friends and relatives, including Hetzel, who died in 1886,
and Verne’s mother who died early in 1887. This depression was apparent in a
series of lacklustre and rather negative novels, including
North against South
(1887),
The Flight to France
(1887),
Two Years’ Vacation
(1888, better known as
Adrift in the Pacific)
and
A Family Without a Name
(1889).