Lost worlds short storie.., p.59
Lost Worlds Short Stories, page 59
The Signorina danced. What gross, discordant movements! The play of her limbs was all false and artificial. Her bounds were painful athletic efforts; her poses were angular and distressed the eye. I could bear it no longer; with an exclamation of disgust that drew every eye upon me, I rose from my seat in the very middle of the Signorina’s pas-de-fascination and abruptly quitted the house.
I hastened home to feast my eyes once more on the lovely form of my sylph. I felt that henceforth to combat this passion would be impossible. I applied my eyes to the lens. Animula was there – but what could have happened? Some terrible change seemed to have taken place during my absence. Some secret grief seemed to cloud the lovely features of her I gazed upon. Her face had grown thin and haggard; her limbs trailed heavily; the wondrous lustre of her golden hair had faded. She was ill – ill, and I could not assist her! I believe at that moment I would have forfeited all claims to my human birthright if I could only have been dwarfed to the size of an animalcule, and permitted to console her from whom fate had forever divided me.
I racked my brain for the solution of this mystery. What was it that afflicted the sylph? She seemed to suffer intense pain. Her features contracted, and she even writhed, as if with some internal agony. The wondrous forests appeared also to have lost half their beauty. Their hues were dim and in some places faded away altogether. I watched Animula for hours with a breaking heart, and she seemed absolutely to wither away under my very eye. Suddenly I remembered that I had not looked at the water-drop for several days. In fact, I hated to see it; for it reminded me of the natural barrier between Animula and myself. I hurriedly looked down on the stage of the microscope. The slide was still there – but, great heavens, the water drop had vanished! The awful truth burst upon me; it had evaporated, until it had become so minute as to be invisible to the naked eye; I had been gazing on its last atom, the one that contained Animula – and she was dying!
I rushed again to the front of the lens and looked through. Alas! The last agony had seized her. The rainbow-hued forests had all melted away, and Animula lay struggling feebly in what seemed to be a spot of dim light. Ah! The sight was horrible: the limbs once so round and lovely shriveling up into nothings; the eyes – those eyes that shone like heaven – being quenched into black dust; the lustrous golden hair now lank and discolored. The last throe came. I beheld that final struggle of the blackening form – and I fainted.
When I awoke out of a trance of many hours, I found myself lying amid the wreck of my instrument, myself as shattered in mind and body as it. I crawled feebly to my bed, from which I did not rise for many months.
They say now that I am mad; but they are mistaken. I am poor, for I have neither the heart nor the will to work; all my money is spent, and I live on charity. Young men’s associations that love a joke invite me to lecture on optics before them, for which they pay me, and laugh at me while I lecture. “Linley, the mad microscopist,” is the name I go by. I suppose that I talk incoherently while I lecture. Who could talk sense when his brain is haunted by such ghastly memories, while ever and anon among the shapes of death I behold the radiant form of my lost Animula!
The Matter Concerning Mr. Symmes and the Hollow World
Michael Penncavage
TO ALL THE WORLD!
I declare the earth is hollow, and habitable within; containing a number of solid concentric spheres, one within the other, and that it is open at the poles 12 or 16 degrees; I pledge my life in support of this truth, and am ready to explore the hollow, if the world will support and aid me in the undertaking.
I have ready for the press, a Treatise on the principles of matter, wherein I show proofs of the above positions, account for various phenomena, and disclose Doctor Darwin’s Golden Secret. My terms, are the patronage of this and the new worlds. I dedicate to my Wife and her ten Children. I select Doctor S.L. Mitchill, Sir H. Davy and Baron Alex. de Humboldt, as my protectors. I ask one hundred brave companions, well equipped, to start in the fall season, with Reindeer and sleighs, on the ice of the frozen sea: I engage we find warm and rich land, stocked with thrifty vegetables and animals if not men, on reaching one degree northward of latitude 82; we will return in the succeeding spring.
JOHN CLEVES SYMMES
Of Ohio, Late Captain of Infantry. (footnote 1)
* * *
A look of consternation covered Doctor Stewart Mitchill’s face as he looked up after reading the leaflet. He folded the paper neatly in half and placed it on the coffee table beside his chair.
“Jonathan, was it really necessary to distribute your proclamation as thoroughly as you did?”
Jonathan Cleeves Symmes stood by the window of his study, looking down at the street below, watching the nearby oak shed its remaining leaves in the twilight. He took a deep drag from his pipe and exhaled. The smoke was immediately whisked through the open window. “If that is what it takes for us to obtain the necessary funding, then the answer is yes, Stewart.”
Howard Davy sat behind Symmes’ desk, a snifter of brandy in one hand, cigar in the other. His burly frame filled the leather chair. “A fall start is ambitious, John. Especially when you consider the preparations.”
“The least of which is securing an expedition party of the size you noted,” added Baron Alex. de Humboldt as he perused Symmes’ floor-to-ceiling book collection.
Symmes tapped his pipe against the stone window ledge, watching as the ash sprinkled to ground below. His normally pale cheeks were now flushed. “Is that the reason you called this meeting? To try to talk me out of going? Or perhaps you have changed your mind?”
Howard’s mustache rose as he grinned. “No, John. I believe we know you far too much to try to talk you out of this. At the same time I think you know us all well enough to know that, we do not back down from our promises, nor our friends.”
Symmes looked at Davy and nodded. “Of course. Forgive me for being so rash.”
“The Hollow Earth exists and awaits our discovery.” Stewart answered, crossing his legs. “We must commence preparations. Much work needs to be done.”
Davy turned his chair to the immense world map on the wall. “One degree northward of latitude 82,” he said, looking to where a red line had been drawn. “It is going to be a bear getting there, gentlemen. A bear indeed.”
“If it were easy, Howard, it would have been discovered long ago.”
Stewart walked up to the map. “A fertile landscape brimming with vegetation and life, surrounded by ice for hundreds of miles. It is no wonder some of the newspapers revile us as lunatics.”
“Which one are you speaking with tomorrow?” asked Davy.
“The Aurora,” replied Symmes. “It boasts one of the largest circulations in the city. Winning their support will be key in the court of public opinion as well to any private interests that are contemplating funding.”
“True,” replied Humboldt. “But be prepared. Their staff contains its share of vipers.”
Howard pointed to the top of the map. “We are going to have to give considerable discussion concerning the later part of this trip. It is anyone’s guess how far we get through the ice with the ship. We might have to travel a large distance with the reindeer.”
Symmes grinned. “Do not worry about that, my friend. I made mention of the reindeer to prevent the lenders from thinking I had gone completely insane.”
“So we will not be using the animals?”
“That is correct.”
“Dogs, then?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We first need to secure the necessary financial support. Symmes turned and looked back out the window. He looked to his right, to the north.
Even in the twilight the sky seemed foreboding.
* * *
“We appreciate you taking the time to meet with us,” said Herbert Bennington, the elder of the two reporters.
Symmes shook each of the men’s hands. “I always have time to speak with the men at the Aurora. Tell me, is Mr. Walt Whitman still employed there? My previous interview was with him.”
“I’m not certain, Mr. Symmes. The Aurora employs a great many people,” answered Bennington.
William Connolly, the other reporter, removed Symmes’ pamphlet from his jacket pocket. “Let us start with the announcement, Mr. Symmes. I’m sure you are aware it has not been well received.”
“It is true, Mr. Connelly, that there have been some nay-sayers. But history clearly shows that people who question the norm are often rebuked by those who are scared of change.”
“But to say the earth is hollow?” asked Bennington.
“Is no more outlandish than Columbus questioning the earth as flat,” replied Symmes.
“But, Mr. Symmes, your comment is a double edged sword. Centuries have passed,” challenged Connolly. “Man has become more…more wise. Stories about hollow worlds…”
“Yes?”
“Should be reserved for bedtime fables.”
“Let me respond to that with a question, Mr. Connolly. Pluck a hair from your blonde head and cut it in half. Can you tell me what you would find?”
The reporter did not answer.
“How about the insides of your bones, sir? Do you know what they mostly contain?”
“Enlighten me, Mr. Symmes.”
“Air. Above all other elements or substances, there exists air.”
Bennington wagged his pencil at him. “But to expand that theory to the earth, Mr. Symmes? Isn’t that a rather large leap?”
Jonathan clasped his hands together. “I trust you gentlemen know what a bola is?”
The reporters nodded. Symmes continued. “Our planet, like the others in our solar system, are spun in orbit by the pull of the sun, much the same way someone would spin a bola. Likewise, the earth, acting on the gravity of the sun, is spun like a top on its axis. Matter is expelled to the surface as it revolves, thus causing a buildup of air within its core.”
“The point is taken, Mr. Symmes. I grant you the notion that air of some quantity exist within the earth’s core. But to say there is some sort of livable habitat beneath the ground…?”
“For an answer, let us go back to my previous example, Mr. Bennington. In addition to air there also exist small, concentric circles that are mirror images of the larger one.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not following you.”
“Imagine the rings on a tree. Smaller images of the outer one. That is what I propose my Hollow World to be. A smaller replica of our own.”
“And the access points to these lower levels are what you hope to find in the Arctic?”
“Yes. I believe these openings, which make it possible for light and heat to pass through, are located there. I have obtained numerous accounts from whalers who have reported passing through areas of the Arctic Sea where the water should have been frozen solid.”
“I fail to see the correlation between a tepid winter and the existence of a hollow earth.”
“Mr. Connelly, nothing should be tepid in an environment where exposure to the elements can kill a man in minutes. The increased temperatures reported lend further credibility to the Hollow World. Expulsion of heat from within the world below would explain the unnatural temperatures.”
“Have you heard of Byron Lentz?” asked Bennington.
“The outspoken physicist,” Symmes replied. “And yes, Mr. Bennington, to answer your next question, I am quite aware of his stand regarding my theory.”
“Would you like to publicly state your retort?”
“The gentleman, a Harvard man, I believe, is quite entitled to his opinions. Time will tell who is correct.”
“So you are firm in your plans to leave in the fall?” he asked.
“Additional funds, both private and public, are being secured. My petition goes to the House of Representatives after the New Year. I fully anticipate their backing.”
“What are you requesting?”
“A ship. Large enough to carry my men and equipment.”
“And if the government turns you down?”
“Well, Mr. Connelly, I suppose we will just have to wait and see, won’t we?”
* * *
The four men crowded around the telegraph like expectant fathers.
“Are you certain it is working properly?” Humboldt leaned over the clerk’s chair so much that the operator became alarmed that the machine might get damaged.
“Sirs! I received a telegram a half-hour ago. The machine is fully functional. However, to ensure it continues so I would ask that you please take a step backwards!”
As if on cue, the machine chattered to life and began regurgitating a white ribbon. Symmes gripped his cane in suspense. If the House voted yes, they were going; if they voted no, his dream was over. The additional private funding had not come about.
The clerk began to read the tape. “I am pleased to report imperialism is not dead. Vote passed. Requested funds granted. Jim Johnson.”
Howard let out a whoop of joy. Symmes smiled broadly. His tactic of having his proponents in Congress pitch it as an opportunity for America to expand their territory worked.
The Baron turned to Symmes. “This is cause for celebration. I have a table waiting for us at Delmonicos.”
“Really? asked Howard. “And would we still be going if the telegraph was in the negative?”
“No, Mr. Davy. If we were denied funding our punishment would have been my wife’s cooking!”
The four men broke into laughter for a moment before Symmes spoke. “Yes. It is most certainly a time to celebrate. But if you can contain your hunger for just a short while longer, there is someplace that I would like to take you.”
* * *
The carriage rocked precariously over uneven cobbles. Mitchill’s nose wrinkled as he glanced out the window. “Ugh! The smell of rotting fish and dank wood! Why are we at the dockyards, Jonathan?”
“No need to fret.” Symmes grabbed his walking stick from against the carriage’s velvet interior. “We are here.”
The driver slowed and the carriage jostled to a stop. “This horrible road…it feels like we are already out to sea!” commented Davy.
The men stepped out onto the foggy street. “This way, gentlemen,” said Symmes as he carefully made his way across the cobbles, his cane in one hand, a lantern in the other.
“Jonathan, did you drag us all the way here just to watch you have a spill?” joked Humboldt.
“Perhaps. But not tonight,” answered Symmes as he stopped in front of an entrance to one of the warehouses. Removing a set of keys, he unbolted the door. “If you would follow me.”
The three men followed Symmes inside.
Darkness greeted them. It was not until Symmes tuned the lantern to its full exposure that the men saw what the building contained.
Seemingly suspended in midair, and cloaked in shadows was an object the size of a whale.
“Good lord, Symmes!” gasped Stewart. “What is that?”
“A dirigible.”
“Really! I had no idea they were so large!” said Howard.
“They aren’t,” Symmes hooked the lantern onto his cane and held it high in the air, allowing the light to further illuminate areas that had been cloaked in shadow. “It is named, La Resistance. And it is one of a kind.”
“Who constructed it?” asked Humboldt.
“The pilot – Jacques Pierre Roussoult, a Frenchman who lives in town. The gondola holds eight men and supplies.”
“But what…” Davy looked at Symmes incredulously. “You don’t actually plan…”
“At the very least we will sail to the Baffin Islands. If the weather permits we might make it as far as the Elizabeth Islands. Regardless, it is certain we will reach a point where ice will be impassable.”
“At which point we will continue to travel on land via the reindeer,” Davy countered.
“To reach the entrance to the Hollow World it is possible we might have to traverse a large distance of extreme cold. I feel the animals would become overwhelmed.”
“And the dirigible wouldn’t? I find that hard to believe? Especially with the gases needed to keep it afloat.”
“I have been assured it will not be an issue.”
Davy turned to Symmes. “You’re serious about this?”
“I’ve already made certain the dirigible can be safely stored on the deck of The Privateer.”
Stewart chuckled softly. “You never cease to amaze me, Jonathan.”
Symmes lowered his cane and unhooked the lantern. His face was lost to the shadows. “I realize this was never part of our original agreement. If any of you had a change of heart, I would understand perfectly.”
Davy glanced up at the dirigible. “And let you claim all the glory?”
* * *
“Jonathan, are you certain that you feel well enough to partake on this journey?” Mary had Symmes’ leg propped on her lap. Placing her thumbs side-by-side, she began gently massaging his calf. “Hasn’t the time come to name a successor? A protegee?”
Symmes’ brow flattened as he winced. The pain that had once only been an occasional inconvenience in his knees had gradually metamorphosed into a chronic inflammation throughout his legs. “Soon, Mary. But not yet.”
“And why is that? Why must you go? What price glory, Jonathan? Your health? Your life?”
