`Challenger, George Edward - Edinburgh City of Literature … · Web view15 Bughtlin Loan. Edinburgh EH12 8UZ. Tel.: (0131) 467 0410. E-mail: [email protected]. OUT OF THE

Andrew J. Wilson 15,000 words

15 Bughtlin Loan

Edinburgh EH12 8UZ

Tel.: (0131) 467 0410

E-mail: [email protected]

OUT OF THE DEPTHS

(being Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's final account of the adventures of Professor George E. Challenger and Mr Edward D.

Malone, as relayed via spirit medium from beyond the grave)

compiled and edited by Andrew J. Wilson

FIRST DRAFT

"It was strange to think that the climax of all the age-long process of Nature had been the creation of that

gentleman in the red tie. But had the process stopped? Was this gentleman to be taken as the final type -- the

be-all and end-all of development? He hoped that he would not hurt the feelings of the gentleman in the red tie

if he maintained that, whatever virtues that gentleman might possess in private life, still the vast processes of

WILSON/Out of the Depths/2

the universe were not fully justified if they were to end entirely in his production. Evolution was not a spent

force, but one still working, and even greater achievements were in store."

-- Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, The Lost World

"And least satisfactory of all is something that I cannot touch, somewhere -- I cannot determine where -- in the

seat of the emotions. Cravings, instincts, desires that harm humanity, a strange hidden reservoir to burst forth

suddenly and inundate the whole being of the creature with anger, hate, or fear."

-- H. G. Wells, The Island of Doctor Moreau

"Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O LORD."

-- Psalm 130


CONTENTS

1. The Kensington Ape-Man

2. Into the Bowels of the Earth

3. The Crooked Cross

4. He Is Not a Popular Person

5. Return to Maple White Land

6. Raiders of the Lost World

7. Challenger Unbound

8. Four Buckets of Water and a Bagful of Salts

9. Night's Plutonian Shore

10. On the Origin of Species and the End of the World

11. Its Hour Come Round at Last


1. THE KENSINGTON APE-MAN

Of all the manifold aspects of Professor Challenger's mercurial genius, it is his unrivalled gift for causing offence which

never fails to astonish me. My old friend can induce apoplexy in the mildest of men and turn the most dignified gathering

into a breach of the peace. The fact that he takes umbrage at the slightest variance from his own opinions never seems to

diminish his relish for the pungent scent of controversy and the blazing heat of debate.

I had seen the great man only occasionally since the debacle at Hengist Down, and then mainly at the funerals of

mutual friends and colleagues such as Professor Summerlee and Mr McArdle. The former had been our companion on

several adventures, and for all their disagreements, Challenger took the loss of his old sparring partner very badly indeed.

The latter had been my mentor and immediate superior at the Daily Gazette, and in due course, I had assumed his position

as News Editor of the paper. What with the Professor's self-imposed retreat from public affairs and my own increased

responsibilities, we had inevitably drifted apart.

Nevertheless, the telegram which arrived at the offices of the Gazette on the morning of April the First 1936 should

not have surprised me as much as it did. His All Fools' Day communication was as true to form as the chaos which was to

follow in its wake:

YOUR ASSISTANCE URGENTLY REQUIRED STOP HOBBS LANE KENSINGTON STOP

MALFEASANCE SUSPECTED STOP

CHALLENGER

How could I deny the old man after all that we had been through together? Without further ado, I left my assistant in

charge of the desk, abandoned my hard-won post and took a cab directly from Fleet Street to our rendezvous, an alleyway

not more than a mile from the Professor's home in Enmore Gardens.

There was something about the name Hobbs Lane that troubled me. Had I had misfiled some vital scrap of

information in the recesses of my middle-aged mind? Was it that the place had once been known as "Hob's Lane", with all

the whiff of brimstone which that epithet implies? Or was there another name that I was overlooking which was connected

with the place?

Not all parts of Kensington are as salubrious as its genteel reputation would suggest. Although the appallingly

overcrowded rookeries of Market Court and Jenning's Buildings have long since been cleared, there are still tenacious


remnants of the Victorian slums hidden behind the façade of the High Street. Hobbs Lane is one such carbuncle and it was

here that the Professor had found his emergency.

"Malone, you incorrigible scoundrel!" he boomed as I pressed through the shabby crowd surrounding him. "I trust

you have brought the tools of your disreputable trade with you. I need a member of the Fourth Estate on whom I can

depend to bear true witness!"

Although silver hairs now shot through Challenger's black mane like lightning crisscrossing the night sky, he

seemed otherwise hardly changed by the years. His voice still resonated with the undiminished power of his barrel chest

and his blue-grey eyes had lost none of their formidable clarity. Even the sanguine smile was visible amidst the tangle of

his spade-shaped beard, if you knew him well enough to look for it.

He was holding court atop the pile of rubble which was all that remained of a condemned building at the end of the

mean terrace. The demolition gang sat on the pavement beneath, smoking their pipes and brewing tea, all work abandoned.

A line of policemen formed a barrier between the site and the crowd jamming the street. Challenger, who had evidently

been summoned by the authorities, indicated that I should be allowed to pass. Even as I made my way through the cordon,

more figures flooded into Hobbs Lane, and a shout went up as scuffles broke out.

"Follow me, Malone," the Professor commanded, "and tell me what you make of the curiosity these navvies have

unearthed in the cellars."

"Don't go down there again, Sir," one of the workmen interrupted, "I'm beggin' you." The navvy was a fellow

Irishman whose pockmarked and weather-beaten face looked as if it had been carved from a chunk of cork. "I wouldn't,

not for all the money in the world."

"Enough of your balderdash!" Challenger snapped. "You can make all the excuses for slacking you want, but the

rest of us have work to do."

"I told the gaffer we oughtn't to have taken on the job in the first place -- not here in Hobbs Lane."

"Why not?" I asked, notebook and pen already in my hands.

"It has an evil reputation, Sir -- always has done," the workman told me while crossing himself. "This is not a good

place..."

Nevertheless, Challenger and I descended the crumbling steps into the dirty pit that had formed the cellar. The

navvies' pickaxes had unearthed a skeleton, which was why the police had been called, but even from a distance, the bones

were clearly misshapen. The spine was crooked and the arms unnaturally long, suggesting that the poor creature would

have struggled to stand on two feet. And as for the skull! It was low of forehead and huge of jaw, and quite unlike any

human remains I had ever seen.


"They're already calling it the Ape-Man," Challenger grumbled.

"Like the thing they unearthed from the Piltdown gravel pit?" I asked in an attempt to draw out my companion.

"Don't mention that preposterous forgery in my presence," he snorted, "not even in jest! Those leftovers were

nothing more than a tawdry hoax perpetuated by a gang of jackanapes at best -- or mountebanks and charlatans at worst!"

Challenger warmed to his theme like a mongoose that has cornered an unsuspecting cobra: "Weidenreich exploded

that myth more than a decade ago, but the scientific community in this country has been too blinkered to accept his

findings. The only missing links we need mention with regard to the whole shoddy affair are those which could

substantiate the so-called evidence!"

"So this is a fake then?"

Challenger looked at me oddly.

"No, Malone, it is something that has no right to exist -- a chimera, an abomination..."

I began to photograph the grisly monstrosity as the Professor expounded.

"These remains were interred in a shallow grave no more that half a century ago. This poor creature was subjected

to vivisection -- note the notches on the skull betraying the work of a scalpel -- but it survived at least some of the dreadful

outrages inflicted on it, if only for a while."

"But what is it?" I asked before correcting myself: "What was it?"

"Pan troglodytes, the Common or Robust Chimpanzee. Well, it was one originally ... but there are signs of

hybridization here and there. This thing has traces of orang-utan, swine and even dog."

The pit seemed unnaturally cold to me. Perhaps it was simply that not much daylight could penetrate the remnants

of the cellar on a cloudy day, but I felt distracted and ill at ease.

"How can that be, Challenger?"

"This sad beast has been the victim of a most terrible experiment..." He scraped the disrupted earth with a trowel,

exposing the rusted remains of surgical instruments and electrical paraphernalia. "Some desperate individual has gone

against Nature in pursuit of the darkest sort of knowledge."

The Professor turned up an intact glass phial and cleaned it with his handkerchief. It contained a dark treacly fluid

which seemed to move with a life of its own as he turned it over. A frown of concern creased his brow and he slipped the

little vessel into his waistcoat pocket.

"Won't the police need that for evidence?"

"It's confirmation of something, of course, but it will do them no good. These are not human remains, and so, sadly,

there is no legal case to answer. Let us report to the authorities and depart."


Even as we spoke, I could hear shouting from above; the crowd was turning ugly. A sturdy constable appeared at

the head of the steps and gestured to us with concern.

"There's trouble brewing, Professor," the officer warned. "We've got evangelists protesting that evolution denies the

Holy Bible, and now the Blackshirts have turned up with the dockers on their heels."

"Well, let us face them all, officer. I suspect none will be happy with my conclusions, but at least they will all be

equally disappointed..."

The tension was palpable as we emerged onto the street. After a few words with the police, Challenger raised his

hands and called for silence. His stentorian voice cut through the hullabaloo and a moment's peace descended.

"Good people, the mystery in the cellar has been unravelled. All that these workmen have discovered is the noisome

waste left over from a misguided veterinary experiment."

"They say it's a monster!" someone cried.

"An ape-man!" bellowed another.

"It's Spring Heeled Jack himself!" shouted a drunken third.

"Poppycock!" roared Challenger. "It is nothing of the kind!"

The leader of the Blackshirts, a corpulent man with a disagreeable pencil moustache, advanced on us.

"Admit it, Challenger, you're conspiring to hide the facts -- proof that humanity sprang from the cradle of English

soil!"

"Bosh!" he retorted before adding "Nincompoop!" for good measure. "You, Sir, may be the progeny of zoological

specimens -- which is what that sad mockery in the cellar is -- but the rest of us are descended from men."

The Blackshirt knocked Challenger's hat into the air in disgust, only to receive a punch on the nose for his trouble.

And so the riot began.

The police line closed around us, and with the help of the workmen, we were ushered away from the fray.

Challenger, of course, was in his element. The whole fiasco seemed to have taken years off him.

As we made good our escape by cab, my companion turned sombre again.

"It may be best that the whole story does not come out, Malone."

"I think that the riot will take precedence over the creature in tomorrow morning's edition, Professor."

"Yes, yes, quite so, but we must restrict the amount of sensational information that the public is given about the find.

There is more to this than I can fathom at the moment..."

The sense that I had missed some connection or forgotten a salient detail was nagging me too. As it was, we both

pinned down what we had been struggling to articulate as we drew up at the club.


"I wonder now if that navvy had something after all," Challenger told me. "Although the creature was interred no

more that fifty years ago, there was an unwholesome atmosphere about the place. There were signs that something else,

something indirectly connected with the remains, might be buried much deeper under Hobbs Lane..." He shrugged. "But

that riddle will have to be solved by another. There are more important matters to which we should attend -- we must pay a

visit to the Yorkshire Dales, Malone..."

"Moreau!" I said as inspiration suddenly struck me. "That's the name I've been trying to remember! He was a

scientist -- "

My companion looked at me sharply.

"The vivisectionist?"

"Yes, that was him, a doctor of some kind who'd fallen from grace. I researched the story years ago. He had a

laboratory in Hobbs Lane in the Eighties, back when it still had its apostrophe. There was a scandal after some journalist

exposed his phenomenal cruelty." The Professor grunted and fingered the curious phial which he had taken from the cellar.

"I remember the pamphlet now -- The Moreau Horrors!"

Challenger made no reply and brooded for the rest of the evening.

#


2. INTO THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH

Mr Beaumont, the Editor-in-Chief of the Gazette, was pleased enough with my firsthand account of "The Battle of Hobbs

Lane" to grant me leave to accompany Challenger to Yorkshire, even though the Professor had refused to reveal the

purpose of our sojourn until he saw fit. A scoop is a scoop, after all, and his exploits are a copper-bottomed guarantee of

selling newspapers.

The arrangement was that we should travel within the week, and in the meantime, Challenger urged me to read

Eine Reise zum Mittelpunkt der Erde, a contentious account of the Lidenbrock expedition of 1863. My rusty schoolboy

German was barely adequate to the task, and the flagrantly erroneous descriptions of the interior of the Earth and the

implausible depth to which those involved claimed to have descended left me at a loss as to why he should require me to

study the tract. The only possible areas of interest, I decided at last, were the mentions of the existence of prehistoric

species both in and around a subterranean sea. Our own discoveries in the lost world of Maple White Land did seem to

give credence to this possibility, although the author's description of a vast pocket of electrically charged gas illuminating

an enormous cavern stretched my credulity to its limit.

As it was, when the day came, the more commonplace tunnels of the London Underground brought me to King's

Cross Station in good time to catch the northbound train at ten o'clock. Within four hours, I was in Darlington, where

Challenger's driver waited for me. In another ninety minutes, I had arrived at my destination, an abandoned lead mine

tucked inside a small and secluded valley in the northern Pennines.

To my surprise, the old pit-head, which was almost completely hidden by the surrounding horseshoe of fresh spoil

heaps, had been converted into a gantry for a duplicate of the deep-drilling rig which Challenger had employed at Hengist

Down. And there to greet me was Mr Barforth, the Chief Engineer of that ill-starred experiment. As thin as ever, this most

lugubrious of men shook his head even as he shook my hand.

"Well, here we go again, Mr Malone," he lamented. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire..."

Challenger emerged from one of the buildings, resplendent in a three-piece suit of Harris Tweed.

"I thought you would have learned from the last time, old friend," I said.

"Then you conjectured correctly, Malone," he replied. "I learned a very great deal indeed."

As you will remember, in proving his "World Echidna" theory, the Professor had provoked a titanic organism

lurking beneath the Earth's crust by means of a violent insult to its sensory cortex. The resultant volcanic eruptions had


caused showers of molten lava to rain down all over the world and brought a deluge of lawsuits down on Challenger's head.

Nevertheless, in the end, the sheer uniqueness of the event, the utter unwillingness of anybody to repeat the potentially

suicidal experiment and Challenger's assertion that the creature's sentience meant that it should be the defendant ensured

that the fortune he had inherited some years ago remained in his trust. For better or worse, as per the terms of the bequest,

these funds were still dedicated to the interests of science.

The Professor ushered us towards the towering complex of winding machinery and ventilation equipment which

stood above the entrance to the shaft. We were joined by two hulking miners from the gang of ex-colliers Challenger had

employed for the past decade, men who were paid nearly double their former wages on condition of abstinence, reliability

and complete discretion.

"Let us plunge into Avernus once more," Challenger said. "It is a long way down and I will have plenty of time to

explain matters as we go."

The five of us entered a latticed-steel cage and began several extraordinarily rapid but prolonged descents in a series

of automatic lifts. The rock strata blurred each time one of these elevators accelerated, and as with a spinning disc painted

all the shades of the rainbow, the walls of the shaft repeatedly took on a uniformly colourless tone. Barforth looked queasy

and I felt light-headed as the air pressure changed, but Challenger and his taciturn miners seemed quite at ease in the

plummeting cages.

"What did you make of the account of the Lidenbrock expedition?" the Professor asked me.

"I must admit I was confused. Much of it seemed beyond belief, and yet ... there were some details which seemed to

chime with our own experiences."

"Indeed, Malone, and that is why we are here. This installation was designed to serve two equally important

purposes. In the first case, it was a proving ground for the equipment which I deployed at Hengist Down, of course, but it

was never my intention here to drill right through the Earth's crust as was done in Sussex. The second aim was to break

through to the subterranean network of caverns which Lidenbrock described."

"But those explorers reported those as being more than a hundred miles beneath the surface, Professor! By most

accounts, that should have placed them deep within the viscous rock of the mantle -- or perhaps inside the very guts of the

world-beast you provoked at Hengist Down!"

"You must remember that the account ultimately reveals that a subterranean fireball had reversed the poles of their

compass, causing no end of confusion. I think it not unreasonable to suggest that similar freaks of nature, not to mention

the crudity of their measuring devices, led to unreliable results. Combined with the disorientation suffered by the party as a

result of their privations, I believe that it is well within reason to dismiss many of their calculations..."


"And what of my latter point?"

Challenger coughed.

"Science is a continual process of testing and retesting, dear boy. Any theorem must be examined by experiment,

and those trials have to be repeated to confirm the results... If our findings do not support the theory, why then the theory

must be abandoned -- or adapted." The great man's florid features seemed to have turned an even darker red than usual. "I

now contend that the creature which you saw for yourself at the bottom of the shaft at Hengist Down is not, in fact, so

titanic as to occupy the entire area contained within the planetary crust..." He coughed affectedly again. "Rather, the

organism exists in between the crust and the inner layers of the Earth, drawing sustenance from underground aquifers

above it and vital energy from the molten core below. It is still, without doubt, the largest living being on the planet, of

course."

The cage had begun to slow its descent, and the walls of the shaft became discernible again; the rock was now

composed of the primitive granite and glistening quartz crystals which form the deeper levels of the crust.

"I believe the creature has more commerce with the surface world than previously imagined. Lidenbrock's account

provides one part of the solution to the riddle. I intend to find that key..."

Our lift reached its destination at last. We were in a sizeable cavern which contained one end of a narrow-gauge

railway track with a pump trolley at the ready. The two Yorkshiremen, who I now discovered were named Ackroyd and

Slaithwaite, assumed their positions at the handcar's seesaw arm while Challenger and I took our places as passengers. Mr

Barforth, to his obvious relief, remained behind to take the first shift manning the telegraph line to the surface.

We progressed with prodigious speed into a natural tunnel system leading ever deeper into the Earth. By my

reckoning, we were already five miles below the surface, and there seemed to be no end in sight to our journey as we

followed a twisting downward gradient into the eerie depths. Beyond the bottom of the lift shaft, the only illumination

came from the lanterns and torches we carried with us, and the only sound from the twin rumblings of the pump trolley and

Challenger's voice.

"However my ideas regarding the physical dimensions of the subterranean entity have been modified," he boomed,

"one thing remains incontrovertible -- the creature is no stranger to geothermal and volcanic activity, which we know to be

associated with instances of prehistoric species in the present day."

It was as if Challenger were either goading me to react to his flamboyant leaps of logic or attempting to press me to

some conclusion of my own.

"And what," I asked, reluctantly taking the bait, "does all this have to do with the find at Hobbs Lane?"

The old man grinned as if he had hooked his fish.


"What indeed, Malone? Do you remember that curious phial we discovered?" He alone had found it, of course, but

occasional false modesty was one of his vices. "That substance matches elements of the effluvium ejected by the world-

beast at the climax of the Hengist Down experiment..."

"But that little bottle had been buried for half a century... It was abandoned in the cellar long before you even dug

so much as a ditch!"

"Precisely!"

After that, Challenger held his peace, and all that I had to listen to was the clatter of the handcar on the rails.

Ever downwards we went until the natural tunnels widened into great galleries and a peculiar luminescence began to

light our way. The miners slowed their relentless rhythm and our little pump trolley came gently to a halt at the other end

of the line. The vault now disgorged into a vast space that had no visible end.

And so we came, in the words of Coleridge, down to a sunless sea.

Challenger led the way, taking a path driven through great heaps of fractured rubble to a rough jetty built from the

same material. Here was moored a large motor launch that had clearly been brought down piece by piece from the surface

to be reassembled at the water's edge.

As I took in the extraordinary vista before me, it became clear that Lidenbrock and his companions had told this

much truth at least: there is a colossal cavern under Europe and it does contain its own sea; and everything there is

constantly illuminated by the electricity which crackles through the mephitic clouds of gas above.

The issue of whether the rest of Eine Reise was to be believed became moot as something monstrous broke the

surface of the water a hundred yards offshore. A reptilian head set on a long and slender neck rose and turned to stare at us,

the creature's great rippling paddles thrashing the waves.

"Plesiosaurus," said Challenger, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Quite a small specimen."

#


3. THE CROOKED CROSS

I have previously described Professor Challenger as a stunted Hercules, and of course, as bearing a family resemblance to

the face on an Assyrian winged bull statue. However one perceives him, Challenger makes a strange sight on the streets of

London, but the audacious explorer seemed to come into his own in this new world. Under the flickering vermillion light

emanating from the clouds above and with the salt-water spray spattering his field glasses, the Professor again took on the

appearance of characters from ancient mythology, one moment resembling Jason's shipwright Argus, the next that

estimable character's many-eyed Arcadian namesake.

We had made camp beside the jetty for a few hours before launching ourselves into the unknown. Given the

endless, stormy twilight of the cavern, there was no way to distinguish between day and night other than by our watches,

and no reason, once fed and rested, not to press on with our investigation. Challenger's men had already conducted some

preliminary forays in each direction along the coast of the Lidenbrock Sea, and had made several supply drops to increase

the practicable range of exploration.

The powerful motor launch achieved impressive speeds, even in the roughest waters, and easily allowed us to avoid

the occasional waterspouts that erupted violently from the surface. Challenger manned the helm, having assigned his

assistants to lookout and guard duties; both bore Thompson submachine guns with capacious drum magazines. I was set to

photographing subjects of interest, a task that kept me wholly occupied until I caught sight of an Ichthyosaurus surfacing in

the middle distance.

" Are we at a safe enough distance?" I asked.

"The vibrations of the engine are generally enough to frighten even the largest creatures away," Challenger replied.

"And those that have been foolish enough to investigate our boat on our preliminary forays have regretted it..."

"Aye," agreed Ackroyd.

"A large Plesiosaurus took an unhealthy interest in our boat on an earlier recce, I believe..." Slaithwaite nodded

glumly in agreement. "It tried to bite off the screws..."

"And they took more than a few bites out of him," the first miner concluded with a shudder.

"I am more concerned with aerial incursions by the Pterodactyloidea," Challenger reflected, perhaps remembering

our skirmishes with the winged lizards in and around the Maple White Land plateau, "although we have encountered none

of the brutes as yet..."

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pterodactyloidea


So it went as we ploughed on across the Lidenbrock Sea: I interrogated and Challenger expounded, and our

companions grimly held their peace. Our time spent on land was uneventful. There were few signs of the prehistoric fauna

Lidenbrock had described, and none of the gigantic subhuman race that he had mentioned; even the ancient vegetation was

stunted and withering away. At least we were able to restock and refuel without disturbance.

On the third day -- or perhaps I should say fifty hours into our voyage, since there was only that continual flickering

illumination that made the vast cavern resemble an antechamber of Hell itself -- we finally found the object of our search,

Cape Saknussemm. Lidenbrock had named it after the Icelandic alchemist whose three-hundred-year-old manuscript had

prompted his own expedition.

Having moored the launch and checked our navigational calculations, we mounted the shattered littoral of rubble

that formed the dividing line between the colossal buttresses of rock which supported the roof of the cavern and the restless

sea beneath. There was no trace of the cave entrance described in Eine Reise. We searched in vain for the carved letters

that Saknussemm had left to mark his way until, just as we were about to abandon all hope, Slaithwaite held up two

fragments of granite. One had a mark like a fish hook, the other a scratch resembling a lighting bolt.

"Runes," Challenger decided and then asked the miner to invert the hook symbol. "The initials A. S. carved in

Icelandic script -- Arne Saknussemm's mark... Dear God, Lidenbrock's cavalier meddling with gunpowder has destroyed

the outlet to the lower depths."

"I'm surprised that the wound he inflicted has healed itself," I said. "And given what they reported about the

cataract that swept them away after the explosion, I'm even more astonished that the entire sea didn't drain into the depths

along with them."

Challenger harrumphed contemptuously. "This whole area is subject to frequent geothermal activity, Malone. I

would wager that the hydrogeological conditions sealed things up again, just as they did after Saknussemm made his way

through here -- and we must not forget the results of our probings at Hengist Down. Perhaps the world-beast had a hand --

or some other, less-familiar appendage -- in the matter. It is the other damage that has been done which bothers me."

I nodded in comprehension. "This little world is dying, isn't it?"

"That is what I fear, Malone. The cataclysm caused by Lidenbrock and his merry little band of idiots disrupted the

fragile ecology of this place. The aquatic fauna have, naturally, suffered the least, being insulated by their habitat, but all of

the land-bound organisms must have paid a heavy price since the events of 1863." He tugged at his beard in irritation and

gazed into the inverted cauldron of electrified gas overhead. "The quality of light alone shows that things have changed for

the worse. The man-made disaster has altered the balance of the gasses above us. What was a pocket of constant artificial

daylight is now undergoing a lingering dusk, and this place may soon be condemned to eternal night."


We made our way back to the launch and began our homeward voyage. The Yorkshiremen brightened noticeably at

the thought of returning to the surface, but Challenger remained in a brown study and spent much of his time scanning the

curious flame-hued underground vistas through his binoculars. Between turns at the helm, I collated my notes and began to

draft my report for the Gazette.

How premature my account was, and how unprintable it was to become!

It was just as we were trying to decide whether to make one last layover or push on all the way back to the jetty at

the entrance to the tunnel system that Challenger broke his brooding silence.

"Hard to starboard, man!" he bellowed. "Starboard now!"

At first, we could not see what he had spotted through his field glasses, but then, as we approached the shore, it

became all too obvious. A great bushy mass which appeared to form the compost for some peculiar kind of arching

bamboo resolved itself into the decomposing carcass of nothing less than a Mastodon.

We moored the launch and spread out to investigate, only to discover the remains of several more of these mighty

creatures in the shallows. I was about to ask Challenger if we had discovered some antediluvian elephants' graveyard,

when two extraordinary details came to light at virtually the same time.

Our arrival disturbed a swarm of insectile creatures which scuttled all around us in their haste to return to the safety

of deeper waters. The Yorkshiremen were clearly unnerved by these chitinous scavengers with segmented shells, multiple

legs and wavering feelers. Challenger, by contrast, was delighted.

"Trilobites!" he cheered, as if encountering old friends after many years apart. "Capital!"

Further investigation uncovered traces of the tarry black substance that seemed to obsess the Professor. His mood

was elevated again, so much so that he waved away my requests to explain his excitement, simply shouting, "Life always

finds a way!" Challenger was content to caper by the shore and collect his samples, for all the world like a little boy on his

first trip to the seaside, but his joy was short-lived. Once the scurrying arthropods had abandoned the carcasses of the

Mastodons, it became clear that there was another reason to be astonished. All the titanic creatures had been felled by shots

from heavy firearms.

"Something is very wrong here," Challenger said, "desperately and terribly wrong. The massacre took place

recently -- no more than weeks ago..."

We all dispersed to investigate the surrounding area. There were traces of an encampment, and a littering of

discarded tins, shell casings and military equipment. Then the awful truth became clear when Ackroyd called us to the

vaulted rockface of the cavern walls.


"I don't understand," Challenger said, looking at the mark daubed in black paint on the living rock. "What can this

Hindoo symbol mean?"

I was forcibly reminded that Challenger had secluded himself from worldly affairs in recent years.

"This is a swastika, Professor," I said, "the emblem of Herr Hitler's new German Reich."

#


4. HE IS NOT A POPULAR PERSON

Once we had made our alarming discovery, there could only be one destination for us: the War Office in Whitehall. Not a

moment was wasted as we retraced our route to the surface, and even as Challenger's driver sped us south to London, the

Professor's urgent telegrams convened an emergency meeting of the Committee of Imperial Defence. The fact that our

former comrade-in-arms Lord Roxton was a member of the board doubtless helped to set the necessary gears in motion.

We arrived tired and hungry at the massive neo-Baroque edifice on Horse Guards Avenue, but were escorted with

all haste to one very particular conference suite among the thousand or so rooms inside that trapezium-shaped building. I

have heard it rumoured that there are two-and-a-half miles of corridor contained within the seven floors of the War Office,

and in our exhausted state, that final leg of our journey was the hardest trek of all.

The members of the Committee were already assembled when we arrived at the impressive walnut-panelled suite. A

Cabinet Minister, an Admiral and a General, two civil servants (one of whom took the minutes), and a curious figure in

smoked-glass spectacles sat round the table chaired by Lord Roxton. Our old friend was still lean and tall, if a little more

stooped with the years, and his face was just as windburned as ever.

"Are you not going to introduce us, Roxton?" Challenger asked.

"Sorry, old man," His Lordship replied, "they know well enough who you both are, of course, but otherwise, in the

interests of confidentiality, it's to be no names, no pack-drill..."

We immediately dealt with the business at hand, Challenger describing our discoveries while I vouched for his

statements or clarified points.

When we had finished our account, the more senior civil servant, a small, balding man with a lisp, interjected: "You

are Scotch, are you not, Professor?"

"No, Sir," Challenger snapped. "I am Scottish." His emphasis on the final syllable sounded like the venting of a

steam engine. "If I were Scotch, I would be served in a decanter."

"Well," said the man with the smoked-glass spectacles, "it does sound very much as if your story has been conjured

out of a bottle of spirits." His bland features, mousy hair and generally nondescript air led me to conclude that he was a

representative of the Secret Intelligence Service.


The little civil servant pressed home his point. "I merely wanted to observe that, while you people have made many

valuable contributions to the sciences and engineering, some of you also have a reputation for being -- what is the

idiomatic phrase? Ah yes! -- 'away with the fairies'..."

Challenger seethed like Stromboli, but I placed a hand on his arm to restrain him from violently erupting while Lord

Roxton admonished the man and personally testified to the Professor's credibility. Fortunately, the prints hastily made

from my photographs were delivered at this point and our story was put beyond doubt.

"There's nothing else for it," the General decided. "We must dynamite the Professor's mineshaft."

"What?" roared Challenger.

"I think the General means that we should lay explosives which will only be used in the event of a German

incursion," Lord Roxton qualified.

"A fat lot of good that will do, Roxton," Challenger replied. "There may be many other routes to the British Isles

from the Lidenbrock Sea, all unknown to us, but perhaps not to the Germans -- they clearly found a perfectly serviceable

way in by themselves."

"Nevertheless," concluded the Cabinet Minister, "this is a matter of utmost importance to national security, and

therefore, your mine must be rigged with dynamite and closed for the foreseeable future. I should point out to both of you

that all this information is strictly confidential. Don't breathe a word of it to anyone."

"What do you think the Bosch are up to?" Lord Roxton asked the Professor.

"They are, like me, investigating the world-beast, but I fear they will not take the precautions which I have learned

to observe."

"Can you hazard a guess as to the purpose of this research?" the Cabinet Minister asked.

Challenger frowned and pronounced two words: "Geological warfare."

"We have had reports of German explorers in Amazonia," the Admiral observed. He was a tall, lean man who was

undoubtedly a representative of the Naval Intelligence Division. "Might such an expedition be connected with the

Professor's findings?"

"Could it even be the same team?" wondered the General.

"Where in Amazonia?" Challenger asked.

"That information is classified," the senior civil servant remarked.

"For pity's sake," Lord Roxton grumbled, overruling him, "it's just an unsubstantiated rumour." He turned to

Challenger. "The reports suggested that the Germans were somewhere in the rain forest, close to our old stamping

grounds near the border of Venezuela, Brazil and Guyana..."


"Maple White Land," Challenger said. "Dear God, they must be stopped!"

"Not exactly within our jurisdiction, is it?" the bespectacled man pointed out dryly.

"The inhabitants of the plateau, perhaps even the world itself, are in great danger," Challenger went on. "If you

won't act, I will!"

Challenger's bombastic and combative personality has alienated an enormous number of people over the years,

undoubtedly denying him a much-merited knighthood, and now, once again, his unpopularity outflanked him.

"You are within your rights, of course, Professor," the Cabinet Minister said, "but we will neither help you nor

hinder you."

"I'm sorry, my friends," Lord Roxton added, "but my hands are tied."

"There are other ways and means, Professor," I told him quickly. "There's a newspaper circulation war going on at

the moment, so I wouldn't be surprised if the Daily Gazette were willing to fund another expedition."

"Can you tell us anything more?" Challenger asked the gentlemen of the Committee as we prepared to take our

leave. Our mutual need for a long-overdue square meal with an accompanying stiff drink had become overwhelming.

"Very little has been substantiated," Lord Roxton warned.

"It is thought to be a Wehrmacht expedition," said the Admiral, "but they do seem to have scientists along with them

as well. Whether these men are there of their own free will or under duress is not known. Our informant only identified

one of them, a doctor named Morrow. Does that mean anything to you?"

"What name did you say?" I asked. "How do you spell it?"

"M-O-R-R-O-W, I suppose," the Admiral replied. "The information came in the form of a radio transmission, so I

would have to refer to the transcript to be certain."

Challenger and I looked at each other, and saw from each other's eyes that we were both thinking the same

disturbing thought.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Documents

`Challenger, George Edward - Edinburgh City of Literature … · Web view15 Bughtlin Loan. Edinburgh EH12 8UZ. Tel.: (0131) 467 0410. E-mail: [email protected]. OUT OF THE