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

Fiona scoured her pages of notes, searching for an answer.

“But the cannon still exists,” said Evangelina.

Barbicane shook his head. “Melted down, years ago.”

“And Moon City?” Fiona asked, referring to the Florida base the Gun Club had constructed for that one, long-ago, trip to the moon.

“Long since reclaimed by jungle,” said Barbicane. “There was no reason to maintain it.”

Fiona turned an imploring gaze to Captain Nicholl.

The Captain responded with a sympathetic shrug.

“What is going on here?” J. T. Maston demanded, slamming his good fist down on the table. “When did Impey Barbicane ever fail to rise to a challenge? When did Captain Nicholl ever withdraw from the prospect of difficulty with a shrug? These are not the men I know! The men I know do not retreat from problems, they thrive on them!”

“Calm down, Maston,” said Mr Barbicane. “I merely said it was impossible. I never said we wouldn’t find a way to do it.”

That evening, Evangelina sat down at her roll-top desk to compose an overseas cablegram.

Scorbitt House

New Park, Baltimore

Dear Monsieur Ardan,

We have never met, but my husband has always said he considers you the best of men, and I thought you would want to know what is happening here in Baltimore . . .

Chapter Six:  The great work begins, and a cablegram arrives

Over the next few weeks, a company was formed, workers were hired, and rubbish collection contracts were signed with cities up and down the eastern coast of America. A team was dispatched to the Florida wilderness to begin the rebuilding of Moon City, the ladies of the gardening society worked on refining their designs for the Selenite garden, Barbicane and Nicholl attacked the problem of the explosives, and J. T. Maston spent his days and nights at the chalkboard, covering it in strange arithmetical symbols that meant nothing to Evangelina, but which he assured her were absolutely vital to the project at hand.

And the following cablegram arrived:

Le Plessis-Brion

France

Dear Madame Maston,

Thought my travelling days were over, but your news has rekindled the only passion still burning in this old man’s heart. Pull of Selene too strong for this Endymion, cannot stay away. Passage booked on steamer Nereus, arriving Baltimore 7th September. Tell Barbicane: explosives problem solved. Explanation on arrival.

Ardan

P.S. Sorry husband did not notice new hat. Am sure it was very lovely.

Chapter Seven:  A Frenchman, a Norwegian, and a cannon

The ladies of the New Park Gardening Society gathered along a railing at the dockside, the new-style S-bend corsets beneath their gaily-coloured outfits contorting their spines into the latest fashionable silhouette: torso thrust forward as if leaning into a wind. Evangelina stood near the front of the group, feeling rather splendid in her ensemble of leg of-mutton-sleeved dress, white gloves, lace-trimmed parasol, and hat bedecked with silk flowers.

A short distance away from the women, a committee of Gun Club members waited in loose formation, the men almost indistinguishable from one another in their uniform attire of dark frock coats and stovepipe hats.

At long last, the ship’s passengers began to disembark.

The ladies twittered in excitement while the men went through a ritual of solemnly clearing their throats, straightening their backs, and tugging at their waistcoats.

A man emerged from the crowd, heading straight for the line of waiting ladies. Tall and broad-shouldered, with weathered skin and a shock of white hair as thick and wild as a lion’s mane, he wore no coat or hat, and was dressed more like a farmhand than a gentleman in his open-necked shirt and trousers of the coarsest material. Evangelina asked herself if this could possibly be the person she was here to greet, but her doubts were soon dispelled as the men surged forward to shake the oddly-dressed stranger’s hand and slap him on the back. “Is that him?” she asked Prunella Benton.

Prunella nodded, apparently too overcome to speak.

And then before she knew it, the Frenchman was standing before her, taking her gloved hand in his large, callused paw and raising it to his lips. “My dear Madame Maston, it was your siren call that lured this simple man of the soil away from his little cabbage patch. And now I am, and shall ever remain, your devoted admirer,” he said, his dark eyes gazing at her with an intensity that made her feel, for that one moment, as if she were the only woman in the world.

“I . . . I . . .” she said.

“Your husband is the most fortunate of men,” Monsieur Ardan told her before moving on to give his full attention to the next woman down the line.

A forty-ish bearded man in a brown wool suit approached the group, followed by at least a dozen stevedores wheeling an assortment of trunks and crates.

“Ah, there you are at last!” Ardan exclaimed, striding over to the man. He threw an arm around his shoulders and introduced him to the assembled party. “My travelling companion, Professor Stefan Halstein of the University of Christiania.”

The professor bowed to the assemblage before turning to say something to Ardan.

“My friend the professor begs your indulgence as he speaks little English, and asks me to present you with his gift of Norwegian pine cones,” Ardan explained, indicating one of the crates, “so there may be a little bit of Norway on the moon. While I . . .” he went on, touching the crate beside it, “have brought you cabbage seeds from France.”

The group started to applaud, but Ardan raised a hand for silence. “And herein,” he said, denoting the remaining crates and trunks with a sweeping gesture, “lies the solution to the problem of explosives.”

“What is it?” everyone demanded to know.

The Frenchman
once
again signalled silence. “My friend the professor is a pioneer in the field of electromagnetism. Later we will organise a demonstration.”

Evangelina sat in a box at the Baltimore Opera House, which Monsieur Ardan and the Norwegian professor had hired for their demonstration. A row of thick wooden planks and metal sheets hung suspended from the ceiling above the central aisle, the seats below them cordoned off. On the stage, Michel Ardan and the professor stood either side of a tiny cannon connected to an array of Leyden jars. Professor Halstein spoke in French; Ardan translated his words into English.

Ardan said something about coils of wire and electromagnetic forces of attraction and repulsion — none of which she understood — then held up a piece of metal so small she could barely see it. “Please keep in mind, the apparatus we are using today is merely a miniature model expressly designed for this indoor demonstration, to fire a projectile barely one pound in weight. The full-sized version of the professor’s electromagnetic cannon will be not be powered by Leyden jars, but by a steam-driven dynamo the size of this room, and will be capable of firing missiles weighing up to two tonnes, with almost no sound, and no recoil.” He then went on to talk about the row of targets hanging from the ceiling. There were thirty of them, fifteen metal and fifteen wood, none less than five inches thick.

Ardan handed the piece of metal back to the professor. The professor popped it down the barrel, then threw a switch. Something inside the cannon began to glow bright red; the only sound was a low, deep hum. The professor threw the switch a second time. There was a sudden sound of metal hitting wood, then metal, then wood, then metal, and then everything went silent once more. The targets were lowered from the ceiling. Every single one had a big round hole through the middle.

“But where is the projectile?” someone asked. A search was instigated, which continued until one of the men noticed a hole in the wall at the back of the upper balcony. Everyone hurried upstairs and into the lobby beyond the balcony, where they found a hole punched through to the outside of the building. One of the men looked through and reported seeing a broken window in the top floor of a building across the street.

“Tell the professor we need to get started immediately,” Mr Barbicane instructed Ardan.

Chapter Eight: 
A new beginning

It was after 11 p.m., but thanks to the array of dynamos thrumming in the night, the crowded streets of Moon City were awash with light. Even the tall cannon looming over the rooftops at the edge of town had been bathed in light for the occasion, and it was to the cannon that everyone was heading. It was the 31st of December, 1899, and the first Earth-to-Moon garbage missile was scheduled for deployment at the stroke of midnight.

Evangelina and J. T. joined the throng making their way past rows of vast warehouses filled with vats of percolating garbage, to the specially-erected stands where the Mastons were to have seats of honour alongside Fiona Wicke, Monsieur Ardan, and the head of the worm department. By 11.30, everyone was seated and glasses of champagne had been distributed to those in the seats of honour.

Monsieur Ardan dabbed at his eyes as the cannon was levered into position. “Oh, to be a piece of rubbish inside that capsule!”

At one minute to midnight, Professor Halstein placed a hand on the switch, and at midnight exactly, he pulled the switch down. There was a brief dimming of the lights combined with a whooshing sound, and then someone shouted, “There it goes, the first of thousands!”

Mr Barbicane raised his glass of champagne. “To the moon, and a new century.”

“To the moon, and a new beginning,” Fiona said, clinking her glass against his.

Monsieur Ardan and the head of the worm department drank a toast to “the lovely Selene, soon to turn green,” then joined in a chorus of Auld Lang Sine. Evangelina turned to face her husband. “Just think about it, J. T., a hundred years from now, people will be living on the moon.”

J. T Maston turned his face up to the blackness into which the projectile had vanished, his mind already racing into the future. “When we get home,” he said, “I really must dig out that ornamental pond.”

A MATTER OF MATHEMATICS by Tony Ballantyne

“Then, Mr Fuller, you pretend that a woman’s personality will never be suitable for the making of mathematical or experimental science progress?”

The American peeled a little yellow square of paper from the pad that he kept in his pocket and folded it carefully down the centre.

“To my extreme regret, I am obliged to Miss Scrobot.” He gave the mechanical woman a warm smile, his fingers working busily the while. “There have been some . . . very remarkable women in mathematics, especially in Russia, I fully and willingly agree with you. But with her cerebral conformation, she cannot become an Archimedes, much less a Newton.”

“Allow me to protest in the name of my sex!” intoned Miss Scrobot indignantly, the calmness of her metal face contradicting the emotion of her reply. Max gave a little bow.

“A sex, Miss Scrobot, much too charming to give itself up to the higher studies.” He straightened and continued the folding of the paper. Miss Scrobot put her metal arms to her hips.

“Well, then, according to your opinion, no female personality seeing an apple fall could have discovered the law of universal gravitation?”

There was a whirring of gears coming from within Miss Scrobot’s gunmetal casing. Max Fuller smiled at her, feeling it typical of the weaker sex to become so emotional in an argument.

“I think, Mr Fuller, you criticize me unfairly,” continued Miss Scrobot. “You fail to accord me due respect not only because I am female, but also because I am a mechanical intelligence!”

“And a most delightful mechanical device at that, Miss Scrobot!” exclaimed Max Fuller. “Seldom have I seen a casing of such grace and form.” Indeed he hadn’t. Despite being formed of gunmetal, the upper body of Miss Scrobot superbly resembled a young woman. If you ignored the wheeled cube of her base, concealing the machinery that caused her to move and think, she was quite attractive in her static, statuesque way. “The lines of your body, the engineering of your cogs and gears speaks of nothing but the highest manufacture!” continued Max. “I have the highest regard for your intelligence, but each must take their place in the natural order of things. Look over there . . .”

The Eiffel—Citroën Tower strode across the Paris skyline, daring sightseers crowding the middle deck. The high winds so typical of late no doubt added to their sense of adventure at riding the marvellous device.

“You see the tower,” continued Max Fuller. “The intelligence that controls that could be nothing but male.”

That pretty face, framed by metal curls, spoke in cool tones. “Ah yes, but you speak of physical strength, Mr Fuller.”

. . . but of course, Miss Scrobot. And there are devices such as yourself made for the gentler occupations. The teaching of children, the keeping of a house . . .”

“But not for any great feats of Intelligence. Two years ago I visited England. Invited there by the Royal Society, no less! Now there is a country where a thinking engine is judged solely on its merits, not its gender.”

“And look where that country’s thinking is taking us, Miss Scrobot!” laughed Max Fuller. “Look what it has done to their own land! They have burned so much coal in their ceaseless drive to mechanize the world they have destroyed their climate. Their meteorologists say that in ten years they will have lost the Gulf Stream. Their country grows colder whilst a cloud of smog threatens to smother it!” He quickly lost his good humour as the magnitude of that country’s actions settled on him. He took a deep breath and resumed the careful folding of the paper.

“Ah! And look how they respond to such a catastrophe! Do they seek to make good their island home? Do they seek to put right the damage they have caused? No! Such thinking is not within their character! They believe they have the divine right to shape this world and their place upon it, and to hell with the rest of us! Projectiles every day for the past fourteen months. Already the Earth begins to tilt on its axis. Where shall we end up, Miss Scrobot? Where will Paris and Baltimore and Washington end up when the English complete their infernal engineering?”