Twenty Trillion Leagues Under the Sea Page 15

  ‘I think,’ said Jhutti, backing off, ‘it would be better if I held on to this gun. I have no interest in whether Monsieur Castor or Monsieur Le Petomain has precedence, in terms of the chain of command. Consider me a neutral party. At any rate, this gun has caused enough damage, I feel.’

  ‘Don’t let him have it!’ chirruped Billiard-Fanon, with a lopsided grin. ‘He’s not even a Christian! It will anger God if he has it!’

  ‘Capot,’ said Le Petomain. ‘Please go aft and check on the lieutenant. He will have been thrown around by the tossing and bucking of the submarine. Go and see if he is alright.’

  ‘Capot,’ said Castor, standing taller. ‘Capot – wait.’ When the sailor hesitated, the engineer said, ‘Yes, on second thoughts, go. Go and have a look-see, check on Monsieur Boucher.’

  Castor looked from pilot to engineer and back. Then, without a word, he climbed up and along the wall, manoeuvred himself with some difficulty through the hatch and went aft.

  ‘Perhaps,’ suggested Jhutti, fitting the pistol into a pocket in his tunic, ‘you could agree to share command?’

  ‘As if it matters!’ laughed Billiard-Fanon. ‘We must pray, brothers! Prayer is all that will save us now. God is testing us.’

  ‘Jean,’ said Le Petomain. ‘You have acted recklessly, and endangered the ship. You should not have discharged that pistol inside the submarine.’

  ‘Come! That little hole in the skin would have been perfectly mendable,’ said Billiard-Fanon. ‘It wasn’t my little bullet that did the damage! My little bullet of justice. It was the finger of Satan, poking through that hole – ripping the skin of the submarine like cotton!’

  ‘I think you ought to go back to your cabin, Jean,’ said Le Petomain. ‘If you want to pray – well then, pray there. Prayer can’t do any harm, I suppose.’

  ‘Are you locking me up, Annick?’ asked Billiard-Fanon, looking up with a lopsided grin. ‘Are you trying to contain me?’

  ‘He’s right,’ Castor said. ‘I agree. You’re a liability, Monsieur. You have proved that.’

  Capot poked his head through the sideways-lying hatch. ‘The lieutenant is conscious,’ he announced.

  Le Petomain, Castor and Jhutti made their way, awkwardly, through the hatchway and up the slant, rolled-about corridor. Boucher was sitting on what had once been the wall of his cabin. Le Petomain and Castor squeezed through into his cabin.

  The lieutenant’s first words were, ‘Clearly we are still descending. What depth have we reached, Monsieur Le Petomain?’

  ‘We have been around the clock more times than anybody has been able to count, Lieutenant,’ reported the pilot. ‘Many hundreds of thousands of kilometres of “depth” I would say – soon we will approach a million.’

  ‘Kilometres?’ repeated Boucher. ‘Why not leagues? And besides, surely you mean “metres”. Do not attach a keel to the metre. It’s bad seamanship.’ Then he laughed a weirdly high-pitched, childish laugh,

  Le Petomain looked at Castor uncertainly. ‘I regret to report, Lieutenant,’ he went on, ‘that not only have we lost the ability to refloat the main ballast tanks, but there has been a breach in the wall of the mess.’

  ‘That’s what Capot just told me,’ said Boucher. He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘I feel awful, really bad. A headache like … a headache like—’ He looked up, suddenly startled. ‘Wait – who are you?’

  ‘I am Le Petomain,’ said Le Petomain.

  ‘I know that,’ snapped Boucher. ‘How did the mess get flooded?’

  ‘A firearm was discharged inside the vessel, Lieutenant,’ said Jhutti.

  ‘That’s a damn foolish way to celebrate Christmas Day!’ said Boucher. ‘Who did it? Was it you, Monsieur?’

  ‘No!’ replied Jhutti, startled.

  ‘It was Billiard-Fanon,’ said Castor. ‘The fool’s gone God crazy.’

  ‘Well,’ said Boucher, vaguely. ‘We’re all under a lot of strain. You should probably tell the captain, though. He’ll want to know that there’s a hole in the skin of his vessel.’

  ‘The captain is dead, Lieutenant,’ said Le Petomain, in a tentative voice.

  Boucher buckled up his brow and stared at his own feet. But whatever he saw there only seemed to inflame his anger. ‘I know that,’ he said, darkly. Then he started shouting, ‘You think I don’t know that? Of course I know that! Oh Christ, we’ll need to organise a burial at sea, I hate those. Surface! We can’t do it submerged, we’ll have to come to the surface. Yes, that’s an order! Look – look – pilot. Pilot. Monsieur …’

  ‘Le Petomain?’ suggested Le Petomain.

  ‘Exactly! I am in command, because the captain is dead.’

  ‘Yes, Lieutenant.’

  ‘In which case my orders are – take us back into port. Take us back to Saint-Nazaire.’

  There was an awkward silence. ‘Lieutenant,’ said Castor, tentatively, ‘that may be …’

  ‘Those are my orders, goddammit!’ Boucher sounded querulous rather than furious, but he would brook no disagreement. ‘Follow my orders! Obedience, Monsieur, obedience. The captain is very keen on obedience. Don’t make me tell him you disobeyed me.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Orders! And turn the vessel around – I mean, bring it about, so that I can lie properly on my couch. I’m not comfortable crouched here hallways between wall and ceiling.’

  ‘We cannot necessarily control the …’ Castor began.

  ‘What? What’s that? Speak up, man! Damnable ringing in my ears.’ Boucher tapped two forefingers at both his ear holes. ‘Horrible ringing noise.’

  ‘We have suffered a number of malfunctions,’ said Le Petomain, speaking loudly and clearly. ‘That make it impossible to bring the vessel into a proper orientation.’

  ‘What? Really? Oh well. They’ll be able to fix that, back at Saint-Nazaire.’

  ‘Lieutenant … ?’

  But Boucher’s temper sizzled again. ‘You have your orders, messieurs! You have your orders! Now leave me alone. Leave me alone.’

  There was little point in staying. The three men extricated themselves from the cabin. ‘Well,’ said Le Petomain, when they were all out in the corridor. ‘What do we do now?’

  ‘Get along,’ said Castor. ‘As best we can. I’ll go and see how the engines are bearing up, under all this abuse.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll go back to the bridge.’

  Castor clambered up, and disappeared from view. Le Petomain and Jhutti started the harder business of climbing down the slanting mineshaft that the corridor had become. Before they reached the bottom, Capot’s face appeared in the hatchway. ‘It’s another light, Annick,’ he said. ‘Come and see.’

  18

  THE DEMONS OF THE SEA

  Now that the submarine had been rolled about through ninety-degrees, getting to the observation chamber was easier – a shuffle along rather than a ladder-climb down. ‘Turn the interior light off,’ Le Petomain instructed.

  Jhutti complied. An eerie blue glow of filled the chamber. ‘Another sub oceanic sun, I presume,’ said the pilot. ‘Will we fall into it, as we did before? Get ourselves boiled like potatoes in a pot?’

  ‘I think we’re already missing it,’ said Capot. ‘Look.’

  Shuffling along, they peered in at the corner of the observation porthole – the circle of blue-white brightness was clearly visible, half obscured by the body of the submarine. There was motion in the lit water too. ‘More cuttlefolk?’ suggested Le Petomain.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jhutti. ‘These look larger, I think. Although I would not be surprised if there are not cuttlefolk as well. But that – is that – some sort of whale?’

  One of the swimming creatures was clearly very much larger than the others.

  ‘Maybe a whale, doubtless of some new genus. Cetology would love to classify it. At any rate, they are a long way away from us at the moment.’

  ‘I can count,’ Jhutti began to say, leaning further to peer round. ‘O
ne, two, three whales … and if we look over there …’

  There was a clunk – the pistol he had tucked into his tunic had fallen from it. Le Petomain pounced, rather ponderously, and laid his right hand upon it. Jhutti looked up and met his gaze. They said nothing. The pilot tucked the weapon into the top of his trousers, and turned his attention back to the view.

  ‘How many of these sub oceanic suns do you think there are, Monsieur Jhutti?’ Le Petomain asked, shortly. ‘An infinite number?’

  ‘I can only hope not, Monsieur Le Petomain,’ replied the scientist, in a weary voice.

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because if the recently deceased Monsieur Lebret is correct and we have entered a parallel dimension of infinite water – well then, what does our fate hold, except to fall forever until we all starve? Or all go mad, and murder each other?’

  ‘But if we are in an infinite ocean, why would we be falling at all?’

  ‘A very good question, M’sieur.’

  ‘Monsieur Jhutti,’ said Le Petomain. ‘I must ask you this question. It seems clear the late Lebret and your compatriot, Monsieur Ghatwala, were – as the phrase goes – in cahoots.’

  ‘I do not understand what this phrase means,’ said Jhutti, stiffly.

  Le Petomain sat back. ‘You can guess its meaning from the context, I think. Conspiring together. By his own admission, before he died, Lebret said—’

  ‘Before he was murdered, you mean,’ Jhutti said.

  ‘By his own admission,’ Le Petomain went on doggedly, ‘Lebret was some sort of spy. He was plotting something. Entering this strange place was his intention. He was, I think, looking for something down here. Certainly, he lied to us, and kept things from us.’

  ‘It certainly appears that way,’ conceded Jhutti.

  ‘But Monsieur Ghatwala was also involved this business! And so I have to ask you – what do you know of it?’

  ‘Nothing, Monsieur,’ said Jhutti, with dignity.

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘Indeed. I was recruited because of my expertise with the atomic pile. Before I joined this mission, I had never before exchanged two words with Dilraj – with Monsieur Ghatwala, I mean. Just because we happen to come from the same part of the world does not mean that we are co-conspirators. If that were a general principle, I might as well suspect you of plotting something with Lebret! For are you not both Frenchmen?’

  Le Petomain considered this. ‘Very well, Monsieur,’ he said, eventually. ‘I believe you. But if Lebret did have something particular in mind – if he was looking for something, then I would like to know what it was.’

  ‘As would I.’

  ‘Well,’ said Capot, who had been listening to this exchange, ‘Lebret was certainly very excited by the light. He thought the light was the end of our journey. The lengths he went to, trying to convince us to continue descending when the captain gave the order to ascend! There must be something special about the light.’

  Le Petomain nodded again. ‘Perhaps these lights do hold the answer to our predicament. If only Billiard-Fanon hadn’t shot him, Lebret could have answered our questions! Well – we must make the best of it, not the worst. We must see what can be done with this crippled craft.’

  The three men crawled back along and up to the bridge. There they found Billiard-Fanon laughing and chatting with Pannier. The cook was already more than half-drunk; and a bottle of rum was being passed between the two men. The ensign was holding it, with his thumb over the top. Castor was there too – watching, but not intervening. ‘Where did that bottle come from?’

  ‘I was keeping it in my trunk,’ said Billiard-Fanon. ‘For emergencies.’

  ‘I thought I said,’ Le Petomain announced, severely, ‘that Ensign Billiard-Fanon was to be confined to his cabin!’

  Billiard-Fanon chuckled. ‘Come along, Annick,’ he replied. ‘Don’t act as if you’re the ranking officer! Why should I follow your orders?’

  ‘Because,’ said Le Petomain, bringing out the weapon, ‘I have the pistol!’

  Billiard-Fanon made a play-face of concern and respect, elaborately bunching up his brows and making an ‘o’ of his mouth. Then he laughed, and waved the sloshy bottle in his direction. ‘Relax, Annick! You aren’t going to shoot me! Look what happened the last time that gun was discharged inside this vessel!’

  ‘Castor, what are you playing at? Just standing there? Jean has lost it – he’s had a nervous collapse. He’s a danger to us all!’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Castor. ‘But maybe I’m not taking orders from you.’

  ‘Remove him to his cabin!’

  Castor shook his head.

  ‘Go on, give me the gun, Annick,’ said Billiard-Fanon, in a slurred, coaxing voice. ‘I’m the person who is really in charge here.’

  ‘You? Indeed not. For one thing, the lieutenant is now awake!’ said Le Petomain. ‘For another – nobody is going to follow you, Jean! We’re in a dire spot. Nobody will follow a madman!’

  ‘Madman,’ echoed Billiard-Fanon, looking hurt. ‘I’m the only sane person here! I’m the only one who truly understands what has happened to us.’

  ‘He’s right,’ was Pannier’s opinion.

  ‘You’re drunk, again,’ Le Petomain told Pannier in a scornful voice. ‘Again! Come along, Herluin! We all need to work together, if we’re to survive! What use will you be to us drunk?’

  ‘It’s a sacred rite of the Roman Catholic church!’ Pannier returned, crossly. ‘It’s holy – wine is. But rum too, I’m thinking. It’s all the same family. Holy family. We’re surrounded by demons, man! You should listen to Jean. He knows his what-what.’

  ‘Castor,’ said Le Petomain. ‘Will you assist me in locking Monsieur Billiard-Fanon up?’

  Castor took a step forward, although without great conviction. But Billiard-Fanon put his left hand out, like a policeman stopping traffic, and spoke, ‘Wait a moment. I am in command, not Annick. I am in command and I can prove it.’

  Le Petomain aimed the pistol at the ensign’s head. ‘I’m willing to bet your skull is thicker than Lebret’s was. I’m willing to bet – if I shoot, you’ll stop the bullet very nicely.’

  Billiard-Fanon ignored him. ‘Listen, Capot – listen to what I have to say … wait, what’s your first name?’

  Capot looked around. ‘It’s Jean, too,’ he said.

  ‘Jean, a fine name! Listen, from one Jean to another. You’re a young man. You haven’t been through some of the experiences us older sailors have. You haven’t come face-to-face with the prince of evil before. But I say to you – I can prove that I’m the only one who truly understands what’s going on!’

  Capot looked at Le Petomain. ‘Go on, then,’ this latter said, lowering the gun. ‘Prove it.’

  Billiard-Fanon was grinning broadly. With his free hand, he reached inside his shirt. ‘I served on the Terreur,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of it? All but seven of its crew were killed. I survived, with a chunk of the hull stuck into my thigh. The doctors took it out, and I had this –’ he lifted out a pendant cross, fashioned from dull grey metal ‘– made from it. A reminder! God saved my life, that day. He saved me for a purpose.’

  ‘A cross,’ said Le Petomain. ‘Very pious. I don’t see what it proves, though.’

  ‘You’re not looking! The truth has been staring us in the face, for days now – but we simply refuse to see it! This cross is Christ’s symbol. See how it dangles from the chain?’

  ‘Exactly as you’d expect.’

  ‘Quite! It obeys the laws of physics – God’s laws. Now, this rum …’ He looked at the bottle in his right hand. ‘Whatever Pannier says, rum is not a holy drink. Drunkenness is devilish. Does this rum obey the laws of physics?’

  He took his thumb from the top of the bottle and gave it a shake. A great gloopy shape of transparent liquid spilled out and sailed upwards, deforming a little as it went. It struck what had been the wall, and was now the ceiling, and broke into a number of smaller pearls and ball-bearings.
‘We’ve all been seeing this, for days now – and ignoring it!’ cried Billiard-Fanon, suddenly inspired with a preacher’s force and rhetoric. ‘We’ve been ignoring it because it doesn’t fit the materialist mind-set we’ve been used to cultivate! But the truth is – the place we are in now is not governed by any materialist or scientific logic!’

  ‘Some crazy something,’ said Le Petomain. ‘Magnetism, or a freak gust of air, or … something.’

  ‘The Devil!’ boomed Billiard-Fanon. ‘Man alive, give up this irritable groping after fact and science, it won’t save us here! You need to understand … we are in a spiritual realm now. Outside, we are beset by actual demons. Prayer is what we need. What we need is not to fix the nuts-and-bolts of this submarine. What we need is to exorcise the waters around us!’

  With impeccable timing, a series of bangs and knocks chimed from the Plongeur’s hull. Everybody jumped, except Billiard-Fanon – who laughed again. ‘You cling to materialism and science,’ he said, making a general address to everyone in the room. ‘But in your hearts you know that I am telling the truth. That gun, Annick? That gun won’t help you. God is your shield, and the Holy Ghost your weapon.’

  Le Petomain listened. ‘That came from the airlock,’ he said. ‘Capot – go and see what was banging.’

  ‘What?’ said Capot, startled.

  ‘It’s inside, I’m sure of it. Somebody’s banging about down there. It’s not devils, man! Get a grip – the ensign’s mumbo-jumbo is just a fairy-story to scare children! Maybe it’s the lieutenant.’

  ‘The lieutenant?’

  ‘You spoke to him – you know his concussion has left him a little confused. I don’t want him doing something he’d regret, like thinking he needs to go out in a diving suit.’

  ‘The lieutenant,’ said Castor, speaking up. ‘How could he have got down to the airlock? We’d have noticed him, going past.’

  ‘I don’t know. But somebody’s there! Go and see, Capot.’ Another bang sounded, and then another. ‘That’s definitely inside. Go on!’