A Galvanic Satyr in the Year Two Thousand and Eight,
Being a Prophetic Vision by Charlemagne Dement
By Jules Wellesley
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Jules Wellesley
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[Translator’s Note: At the time of its publication in 1908, Un Satyr Galvanisé en L'année Deux Mille et Huit, Etant Une Vision Prophétique par Charlemagne Dement scandalized the Continent with its bizarre mélange of optimistic scientism and Belle Epoque decadence. Banned in the United States upon release, this notorious novella was soon relegated to obscurity in the English-speaking world, although pirated editions circulated in private hands for several decades. Translated here for the first time, Dement’s turn-of-the-century fantasy offers an insight into science fiction’s early conception as well as an unusual perspective from which to consider our own age.]
I
M. Fouteur peered out through the portholes of the atomic dirigible, the immense blackness of outer space provoking memories of the dark cleft between the shapely legs of his chambermaid, Yvonne, back at his Paris flat. No doubt she was morbidly lonely in his long absence, he thought, and so desperate for the amorous sport to which she had grown accustomed that she was probably at that very moment applying the motorized feather duster of her employment to other uses. M. Fouteur closed his eyes and imagined her polishing the precious bric-a-brac of her womanhood with the ticklish brush, the powered bristles humming in alternating currents of pleasure and agony. But even this would not be enough to satisfy her desires and she would be driven to seek out the electrical dishwashing machine, positioning herself upon the steel lid and bidding the thing to commence its furious agitations until the domestic vessel emptied in joyful ebullience.
“You’ll work yourself up into a lather thinking that way,” said his traveling companion, Mme. Lecon, from the adjoining seat. M. Fouteur glanced at her abashedly; taken by his passionate reverie, he had quite forgotten that the lady was skilled in the telepathic arts.
“May I not express concern for the fate of my housekeeper?” M. Fouteur asked.
Mme. Lecon giggled into her lace fan. “You liken the depths of outer space to those of a vacuous harlot only because the dirigible we ride resembles so well the shape of an enormous prick preparing to violate the virginal void.”
“My dear girl,” said M. Fouteur, “I’ll not have you start with your psychoanalyzing before we’ve scarcely exited the Earth’s atmosphere. Besides that, such brazen talk is sure to shock our American hosts on the moon, Puritan descendants that they are.”
Mme. Lecon turned aside, saying, “I should think that the diminished lunar gravitation might have lightened the weight of their moral burdens. As for me, I expect that my inhibitions will practically float away upon arrival, flimsy things that they are.”
“That is something else about which I shall caution you,” added M. Fouteur. “We’ve an important mission to carry out, so I must ask that you bridle your famous fetish for public display until after our work is complete.”
Mme. Lecon grinned wickedly at his remark and allowed her fingers to stray towards the buttons of her décolletage, loosening the topmost stay most licentiously.
“Well, then, sir,” she said, “it seems that you will have to indulge me in my particular fondness considerably beforehand, that temptation will not seek me out so readily.”
M. Fouteur examined his young libertine aide as she undid yet another of the fasteners that delimited the generous volume of her ample bosom. The woman was incorrigible, he knew, and pathologically insatiable in her sexual appetite, but she was also one of the keenest scientific minds in Europe, a fact that made her presence a troubling necessity. Her analyst at the Vienna sanatorium had asserted that the two characteristics were linked, that her masculine capacity for intercourse was sublimated by an equal prowess for manly scientific endeavor. Teutonic piffle, thought M. Fouteur, for it may just as well have been the other way round: perhaps one who devotes so much effort to exploring physical nature might be drawn to explore other activities of an equally physical nature; a likening for experimentation in the cloud chamber would logically lead to experimentation in the bed chamber. M. Fouteur found himself visited by a vivid image of the mademoiselle dressed as Madame Curie, her spotless laboratory coat cascading from her shoulders to reveal clinically white undergarments. The only source of illumination would be the sultry torch of a Bunsen burner and in the darkened workshop Mme. Lecon would bring out a phial of sparkling radium, its fiery atoms incandescent from the profusion of energy. Decanting the phosphorescing motes into her hands, the lady researcher would then proceed to apply a liberal coat of the tingling unguent until his Maxwell’s demon glowed like an electrified filament. The insertion of the instrument into the awaiting centrifuge, M. Fouteur imagined, would be not unlike the dynamo action of a bar magnet moved in a corresponding wire coil, the resulting effect being the production of an intense field from which both would receive maximal charge.
“Monsieur, I’m flattered by your elaborate speculations,” Mme. Lecon interrupted. M. Fouteur felt his cheeks flush, as he had forgotten once again the lady’s knack for mind reading. “However,” she continued, “I hardly see how you expect me to exercise control over my libido when you insist on provoking me so with your arousing mentation.”
“Perhaps you are right, my little cabbage,” said M. Fouteur, shifting in his chair to compensate for his oversized faux pas. “It will be impossible to concentrate on the matter at hand if our hands are busy attempting other matters. Once the stellar carriage has departed from the grip of Earth’s gravity, then we shall to proceed to get a grip on ourselves.”
“And each other, I should hope,” said Mme. Lecon.
“Or course,” said M. Fouteur. “But I note by the chimes that it is nearly time for the dirigible to accelerate. Secure your inertial harness, Miss, or shall I do it for you?”
Mme. Lecon slipped her thumbs under the leather straps of the rigging and said coquettishly, “I only allow myself to be tied down as the precondition to a vigorous spanking.”
“Wanton trollop, I can resist your wiles no longer,” said he, shedding his self-restraint as swiftly as he was extricating himself from his safety harness. Mme. Lecon licked her lips in anticipation of his mounting conquest, yet it was M. Fouteur who was conquered by a sudden change in momentum as the atomic dirigible made to embark from its atmospheric moorings. The titanic force of its propulsion caused him to be thrown smartly askew against the velvet cushions, from which vantage point he observed the elegant oaken panels of the compartment walls shift in hue, the hewn timbers taking on the appearance of a curtain of variously colored beads. Righting himself in his chair, M. Fouteur turned to his companion to speak and was delighted to discover that the bombardment of high frequency waves had rendered the lady’s garments quite transparent. He gazed upon her lithe and willowy figure as though she had disrobed instantaneously by means of some amorous prestidigitation. So overcome was he by the magnetic impetus of this sight that he bolted out of his chair and fastened his lips around the enlightening revelation of her areola, only to receive for his troubles a mouthful of taffeta. M. Fouteur retracted in surprise and was discomfited then to behold an eerie view of the lady’s skeletal features as the inundation of Roentgen rays jumped in intensity, turning the girl’s fair skin fairer yet until completely translucent. M. Fouteur shuddered at the phantasmagoria, recalling memories of opiate hallucinations suffered in Rangoon, bizarre visions of depositing his homunculus into her as a corpse is lowered into its cozy grave.
“Enough of your morbid fancy, dear sir,” Mme. Lecon interjected, spying upon his mind’s eye again, “and get yourself to the dining car at once before you waste away completely.”
Presently, the dirigible switched off its motors and the surroundings regained their façade of normality. M. Fouteur surveyed his partner to ascertain whether she had survived the electromagnetic flux unharmed, his examination uncovering the unusual scientific fact that their sudden change in vis viva had the effect of flattening the lady’s prodigious bosoms into something like twin stacks of crepes whose fluffy folds are tipped with succulent strawberries. He imagined drizzling them with a thick glaze of honey, but broke off his reverie at a knowing glance from mademoiselle.
“If you have a hunger for something sweet,” she said, “I’ve a honey pot to offer you.”
“Young lady,” said M. Fouteur, feasting his eyes upon her, “I shall lap your honey with such naked abandon that you will ever after think of me as partially bare.”
“Then be a good bear and find a cave in which to fatten yourself,” she replied.
M. Fouteur scanned the crowded passenger compartment in search of a secluded spot for their enjoyment, his reconnaissance taking in the faces of other voyagers: the lumberjack pining for home, the fisherman submerged in wet dreams, the priest dozing with a mythic nod.
“Tell me again why this vessel is not appointed with private quarters,” he said with growing irritation.
“I told you it’s to do with the weight ratio,” Mme. Lecon explained.
“Well, I have waited long enough!” M. Fouteur replied. “Let us find an empty cupboard and I shall see to it that the larder is well stocked.”
“I’d rather be swept off my feet in a broom closet,” said she.
“Then we’ll find the ship’s bistro and dine beneath the tablecloth,” said he.
“I think you mean to leave me with a checkered past,” Mme. Lecon replied. “If the observation deck is vacant then we shall both see stars.”
“Then let us ascend to the observatory at once,” said M. Fouteur. “I believe there is an instrument in need of grinding.”
Quickly they made to move through the crowd, the figures easily cowed and as immobile as stalled heifers, leathery faces ruminating on brand-names and bull markets.
“What’s the matter with them all?” Mme. Lecon whispered. “They look as refugees from the Lost Continent of Mu.”
A man nearby seemed to overhear them and turned sharply around to answer. “They’re being returned,” said the man. “Reprobates, the lot of them, on their way back to the moon to pay the debts they were attempting to evade.” The man eyed them curiously before clamping a pince-nez over his pointed nose. “But can this be? It is my old rival, M. Fouteur! Small world, is it not?”
“Less spacious than I should like,” said M. Fouteur. “Mademoiselle, I should like you to meet Dr. Maxim Colebank, the American physicist.”
“You must join us for dinner,” said Dr. Colebank. “We were just on our way, Dr. Grossetete and I.” He indicated another fellow nearby, one with a black forest of hair and two Prussian blue eyes.
“Actually, we were on our way to the observation deck,” said M. Fouteur. “There’s a certain heavenly body I’ve been meaning to investigate.”
“Yes, I was going to point out Orion to monsieur,” said Mme. Lecon, “and show him a certain twinkling below the belt.”
“Orion’s Belt has been studied in detail,” Dr. Colebank said. “I’m sure you’ll find it a cosmic waste of time.”
“Yes, but it’s a lovely waist, isn’t it?” M. Fouteur, putting his arm around the lady.
“Dear friends, I’m afraid I must insist,” Dr. Colebank interposed. “There’s much you need to know before setting foot on the moon. Dr. Grossetete is an expert in all things lunar.”
“Yes, he seems well-versed in lunacy,” said M. Fouteur. He bent to the ear of his companion and confided: “We should accept his offer of information; our primary duty must be to the mission.”
Mme. Lecon frowned. “The position of missionary has never been terribly satisfying to me.”
“There, there,” said M. Fouteur, “you’ll be on top of the matter in no time, if this interlude doesn’t put me behind.”
“Then why do I foresee our dinner being followed by the brief performance of a virtuoso soloist?” Mme. Lecon retorted. She proceeded into the dining carriage with an annoyed swishing of crinoline before the door closed behind her with a sound not unlike the clicking of a chastity belt.
II
The group was immediately swallowed by an enormous diner. The place looked deeply gutted, the hall itself the kind of mess that M. Fouteur found difficult to stomach. Glancing down at the floor, he noted margarine in the parquet. A heavy waiter champed at his cigar as he boxed them into a corner. Soon a nearby dumbwaiter noiselessly brought their meals.
“So what brings you to the moon?” Dr. Colebank asked. “Is this business or pleasure?”
“With M. Fouteur,” said Mme. Lecon, “the business end is always a pleasure.”
“What the lady means,” M. Fouteur interjected, “is that I’ve often collaborated with her in mounting expeditions.”
“And what is the nature of your investigation?” Dr. Colebank asked, sheepishly toying with his muttonchops.
M. Fouteur hesitated, unsure of how far to trust his academic rival, and reached for the bread. “There seems to be some trouble below the crust. The Americans are in quite a jam.”
“A sticky situation, I agree,” said Dr. Colebank. “It must have taken a lot of buttering up to get you to come.”
“And how do you come to be on this voyage?” M. Fouteur asked.
“We’re on our way back,” said Dr. Colebank, “with a shipment of the latest scientific gadgets from the U.S.A. You’re more than welcome to help yourself to our equipment.”
“My companion is quite well-equipped, I assure you,” said Mme. Lecon.
Dr. Colebank seemed to stew on this a moment. “It sounds as though you’ve an awful lot on your plate. Dr. Grossetete and I are always looking for something that we can sink our teeth into.”
“Perhaps you could help us get a look at the Lunarian creatures that inhabit the dark side of the satellite,” said M. Fouteur.
“By all means,” said Mme. Lecon. “A most thorough probing of the back side is wanted.”
“I think you shall get your wish sooner than you think,” said Dr. Colebank, calling the waiter near to whisper in the fellow’s cauliflower ear. A moment later and the kitchen doors disgorged its wee folk, their plucky charms presented serially. M. Fouteur realized at once that they were Lunarians, those exotic creatures native to the moon, the lot of them sky-clad and azure-skinned, making a blue streak towards the table. The notable group clustered together and began to chant:
We wish you happy birthday
And all the best to you!
But if you don’t return to us,
You’ll make the moon turn blue!
Whereupon the saucy tarts were put on display, a wide variety of cheesecake and sticky buns. M. Fouteur was just about to try spooning a tender morsel when the dirigible cut a corner rather roughly, causing a number of tumblers to take nasty spills whilst a gravy boat went sailing across the room. M. Fouteur thought he heard a crack in the hull and covered himself with the hors d’oeuvre tray, only to find that Mme. Lecon had landed on his nuts. Sliding the dish aside, he assessed the damage to the ballroom.
“Are all lunar excursions modulated thusly?” M. Fouteur asked.
“A mere storm,” Dr. Colebank explained. “I trust you understand the means of our aerial locomotion.”
“I should like to hear it in your lofty words,” said M. Fouteur.
“Very well,” said Dr. Colebank. “As deduced by the great Newton, light is made of particulate matter, a fact later verified by the esteemed Planck. A cannon emplacement in the American Rocky Mountains deploys a number of these luminous motes in its battery, firing them at our sail and thus propelling the carriage moonward at tremendous velocity.”
M. Fouteur felt his mind drift in the course of the learned lecture. His thoughts returned to Descartes and the intense hours spent studying the master savant’s work at the Bibliothèque Nationale. He recalled fondly the evening light that passed through the long windows, a rosy glow that illuminated the ample bosom of a lady librarian there, her considerable orbs exerting a ponderous influence on the jellied ether around her. He remembered, too, his scholarly pursuit to know her, turning back the folds in the story of her womanhood, licking his thumb to part the pasted interleaves and devour the loquacious contents within until her spine seemed to bend and she drew him deep inside her covers. Staring at his platter in reverie, he realized that Mme. Lecon was adamantly poking his ribs and dramatically applied a Lucifer match to his meerschaum. “Yes, it is terribly effective for something so crude.”
“Whatever do you mean, ‘crude’?” Dr. Colebank gasped.
“Relatively speaking, of course,” M. Fouteur went on, “but crude in comparison to what man shall accomplish should he ever see fit to harness the power of the luminiferous ether!”
“Ah, you Frenchmen are too much in love with the diaphanous,” said Dr. Grossetete. “The ether is pure moonshine! It was proved long ago by the Americans Michelson and Morley: there is no ether wind.”
“Yet Lorentz showed that this is not strictly the case,” said M. Fouteur, “only that Nature contracts herself to conceal her winds.”
“But if it is undetectable, then for all practical purposes it is not real,” Dr. Colebank countered.
“Despite all our technological advancement, we have yet to take the measure of a human mind,” said M. Fouteur. “If I cannot detect yours, must I assume you have none?”
“But is has been measured,” said Dr. Grossetete. “A few watts, that is all. The mind is a simple chemical battery, nothing more.”
“Just as our predecessors took the mind to be a steam engine or a spinning jenny,” said M. Fouteur, “and tomorrow we shall say it is only another of the calculating machines of Babbage.”
“Then what metaphor do you prefer, sir?” Dr. Grossetete demanded.
“I hold with those who say that the mind is a knot in the jellied ether, gentlemen,” said M. Fouteur, “the four-dimensional variety of that astral preserve, of course. Not only mind, but all things are of such nature, for how else could the cosmos be contemplable if not itself already in a form similar to the mental?”
“Bah, this is so much folderol,” said Dr. Colebank. “You French are too easily gulled by the latest fads. Pray tell, Miss, what do you make of these conflicting theories of electromagnetism? Shed some light on the subject.”
“I think rather as the Chinese sages of old,” said Mme. Lecon. “All things are dual in nature; extremities meet. Thus, the wave and the particle are two sides of the same shiny coin.”
“How typically feminine,” said Dr. Colebank. “Your position is essentially one of compromise.”
“To be perfectly honest, sir,” said Mme. Lecon, “my positions are frequently quite compromising in the extreme.”
Hearing these words, M. Fouteur felt another jolt convulse the celestial carriage. Looking out the porthole, he noted that the balloon seemed to swell and tremor, a fact linked somehow to the sudden appearance in his lap of a rather larger-than-average schnitzel. Mme. Lecon evinced her lingering hunger by lifting the thing to her lips before attempting to swallow it whole. M. Fouteur noted that the lady seemed to have some difficulty managing the beefy girth, yet she persevered bravely, trying again and again to meet her craving.
“Not to interrupt your dining, Miss,” said M. Fouteur, “but I think I should mention that tonight you shall be served tongue as well.”
Mme. Lecon nodded her assent, the requirements of breeding preventing her from speaking with a mouthful. M. Fouteur immediately advanced to an inviting breakfast nook, feasting in scrambled legs and begging for more. Thereupon he was presented with a generous spread amongst the entrees of ladyfingers.
“Very unsavory,” Dr. Colebank was heard to protest.
“Not at all,” said the lady, eyes glazed, “in fact, it quite tickles the palate.”
“I daresay, sir,” Dr. Colebank told M. Fouteur, “you’re indulging in an act of the worst possible taste.”
“It does take some getting used to, I admit,” said M. Fouteur. “Now would you please desist from these constant interruptions? Can’t you see I’m having a friend for dinner?”
Turning to a more pressing issue, M. Fouteur watched with a shiver as Mme. Lecon quite emptied his creamer. There was nothing to do but help the lady polish off her cherry flambé, the delicate morsel topped with high screams. M. Fouteur had just finished with the fingerbowl when Dr. Grossetete appeared, along with a rather dry porter of Lunarian extraction.
“A most spectacular display,” said Dr. Grossetete. “Let me arrange for you more suitably spacious accommodations.”
He spoke in a syrupy drawl to the porter and the blue fellow morosely led them out of the dining car among strange stairs to the upper level.
“Perhaps we’ll get a proper look at the observatory,” said M. Fouteur. “I say there, lad, are you taking us to see the stars?”
The blue man grunted huskily and led them through a maze of halls and hulls. An ovoid hatch cracked open in his claws, letting in spurs of light.
“Listen, old man,” said M. Fouteur, “I’m feeling a bit put out by all this.”
The Lunarian broke into a cackle and rudely tossed them both down the gullet of outer space.
“Exquisite,” thought M. Fouteur, suddenly stranded in the airless dark. Thinking quickly, he yoked himself to the lady as they flipped over easily and watched the dirigible slide away into the night like greased lightning.
III
Whilst hanging hopelessly in the emptiness of the vacuum, M. Fouteur had the good fortune to observe an important phenomenon of zero gravity, specifically the effect of weightlessness on Mme. Lecon’s spherical bosoms. He watched them rise like two full moons over a field of crimson silk, opulent orbs floating free and unencumbered of the tug from any planetary influence. Soon he found himself coasting into orbit around those majestic satellites of tender and celestial flesh and opened his mouth to explore the polar regions of a brief nude world.
Just then, however, Mme. Lecon happened to be undergoing rotation about her horizontal axis and M. Fouteur soon found himself encountering something he guessed to be a comet’s streaking tail. Plunging headfirst into the matter, he was astonished to discover an unsuspected pocket of air secreted between the lady’s thighs. Urgently he began to suck at the precious source of life, apparently arousing Mme. Lecon’s interest to such degree that presently she managed to swing her ankles behind her neck and poke her head up under her own petticoats.
“Most impressive, Miss,” said M. Fouteur. “I see that you are inflexible only in matters of scholarly opinion.”
“Don’t act so surprised,” she responded. “Was it not you and your Hindoo swami friend who taught me what it means to be double-jointed?”
“So it was,” said M. Fouteur. “But this intimate atmosphere is making me light-headed. Perhaps we should conceive a way out of our predicament. Now it is well understood that a magnetic field affects iron, correct? Furthermore, we know that iron is a constituent of the body’s vital fluids. Therefore, if one of my organs were to become disproportionately engorged through an excitation of the circulatory system, such organ would be strongly attracted by the magnetic field of any nearby astronomical object and, voila, we have effected our rescue.”
Mme. Lecon carefully considered the research proposal before taking the matter into her own hands, manually erecting the telescoping instrument in such a way that M. Fouteur was reminded of Galileo and his famous Leaning Tower. Soon the apparatus acquired energy and began to shift from maroon to purple, heading for catastrophic ultraviolet. Looking moonward, he perceived the peaking mons, against the backdrop of which Mme. Lecon was bringing a long fuse to rapid combustion. Suddenly the crude rocket ignited its explosive compound and M. Fouteur saw fireworks. The resultant explosion sent both experimenters hurtling thought space at tremendous speed, the pace being such that M. Fouteur wondered how long it would last until his fuel was spent entirely.
So it was by this means that they were both transported into the path of another astral carriage which was passing through just then. M. Fouteur noted that this vessel was more cylindrical in appearance than the atomic dirigible. Also of interest was an elegant figure of Adonis carved into the plowing prow of the ship, a sculpted bronze colossus from whose hammered crotch suddenly appeared a lengthy periscope. Mme. Lecon, too, watched with evident curiosity as the monocular monster inclined in their direction.
“I’ve never seen one so big before,” she gasped.
“It’s not as big as all that,” M. Fouteur snapped. “They’re probably smuggling cucumbers in there.”
“Nevertheless,” said Mme. Lecon, “I’m sure it could give a satisfactory ride.”
The ship charged onwards and suddenly cast a net like an ardent torero fluttering his cape, horning them in. Presently they were fished from certain peril and found themselves below decks with a swarm of seamen. Noting the profusion of earrings and frilled shirts, M. Fouteur guessed the men to be some variety of pirates.
“Hail, fellows,” said M. Fouteur. “You certainly saved us from a sticky end.”
“Happy to take you on,” said one of the crewmen. “My name is First Mate Neil Manfred and you’re being carried off by the Naughty Lust.”
“How extensive is your journey?” Mme. Lecon asked.
“We’ve driven a lengthy stretch into the depths of dark night,” said Manfred.
“A long nocturnal mission, to be sure,” said M. Fouteur. “May I ask what motivates your Naughty Lust?”
“It is an elongated cylinder with conical ends,” said Manfred. “It is very like a cigar in shape, a shape already adopted in London in several constructions of the same sort. But I can also make the Naughty Lust rise and sink, and sink and rise in the vertical plane by means of two inclined plates fastened to its sides. If they are slanted, the Naughty Lust, under the thrust of the screw, either sinks diagonally or rises diagonally as it suits me.”
“And who captains this magnificent machine?” Mme. asked.
“Capt. Bedford is a most capable driver,” said Manfred. “He has mastered my loyalty ever since he first-mated me. In fact, he is responsible for hitching most of us, although this is quite frowned upon back in the United States.”
“Why is it forbidden for you to tie the knots at home?” M. Fouteur asked.
“Something to do with sacral bondage, I think,” said Manfred. “We can never return home and must search elsewhere for dark stars to plunder. It’s been many years since any of us saw a woman …”
The fellow’s eyes were filled suddenly with craven passion, yet M. Fouteur stepped in boldly, saying, “I’ll not sit by and let you sully this good lady’s standing.”
Manfred began to massage the back of M. Fouteur’s neck in a friendly manner. “You misunderstand, sir. It is not the woman we’re interested in, as we have been deprived also of fresh meat for some time.”
The seamen rushed towards them, as if suddenly discharged from service. M. Fouteur immediately removed his shirt and engaged them in a manly show of wrestling, but was soon overcome.
“Come now, sir,” said Manfred. “Do you have some aversion to fraternal affection?”
“Not at all,” said M. Fouteur. “In fact, I had a regiment commander in the cavalry with whom I undertook frequent invasions of the Loire valley and I’ll have you know that his Wellington was far more commanding than your Bonaparte.”
Manfred seemed to chafe at M. Fouteur’s resistance as he pressed the issue again. Yet the commotion was suddenly arrested by the appearance of a smartly dressed fellow who emerged from a nearby room the size of a closet, the man being so appareled after the fashion of a Gilbert and Sullivan play that M. Fouteur knew he must be the ship’s captain.
“Ah, yes,” said Manfred, getting hold of himself. “This is Capt. Bedford, the first man in the moon, first to penetrate those rayed craters.”
“Hello, Capt. Bedward,” said M. Fouteur. “I mean, Bedford. How delightful must have been your initial exploration.”
“I remember very distinctly the occasion when Cavor told me of his idea of the sphere,” said Capt. Bedford. “The air went squirting up, the house squirted up, and if the stuff itself hadn’t squirted up too, I don’t know what would have happened!”
“A most elevating tidbit,” said Mme. Lecon.
“An air-tight manhole is all that is needed,” Capt. Bedford went on. “There came a jar and then we were rolling over and over, bumping against the glass and against the big bale of our luggage, and clutching at each other, and outside some white substance splashed …”
“How very gripping,” said M. Fouteur.
“Round we went and over, and then I was on all fours,” said Capt. Bedford. “I sat down with my legs on either side of the manhole and prepared to unscrew it, but Cavor stopped me. ‘There is first a little precaution,’ he said. I turned the manhole stopper back again. ‘Well?’ said Cavor, in the ghost of a voice. ‘Well?’ said I. ‘Shall we go on?’ I thought. ‘Is this all?’ ‘If you can stand it.’”
“You’ve quite a full tale, indeed,” said M. Fouteur. “You wax poetic, sir. Do you ever, in these waning years, consider returning to that queer world?”
“I made a private note that when I went back to the moon I would take a box of eggs,” said Capt. Bedford.
“Yes, well, I’m certain that the lady has those in abundance,” said M. Fouteur, “of the minute variety.”
“Cavor was in front,” said Capt. Bedford. “He hesitated, and chose a black mouth that seemed to promise good hiding. I felt as though somebody was pouring funk out of a can down the back of my neck. My legs became feeble.”
“It seems you made quite a splash, Captain,” said M. Fouteur. “But what is sorely desired now is the lunar passage. Do you think it can be made ready?”
“At one fatal crowning blow all my vague resolutions of return and recovery had vanished,” said Bedford at last, walking limply away. M. Fouteur conjectured that the fellow wore some sort of appliance and made mention of the fact to Mme. Lecon. Yet the captain’s departure filled the crew with renewed fervor and they returned to their rough manhandling, their utter neglect of Mme. Lecon’s charms permitting her to elude detection as she slipped away from the tangled fray. She quickly accosted the mad captain, a search of his person revealing the presence of a tapered ivory peg-leg which he attempted to conceal.
“I had sprang to my feet, struck savagely at something that had flashed out at me,” Capt. Bedford explained. “It was the keen point of a spear. I have thought since that its length in the narrowness of the cleft must have prevented its being sloped to reach me.”
“Stop this mooning over the barren past at once!” Mme. Lecon snapped. “Your obsession will require deep analyzing.”
Saying this, the lass unfastened the Captain’s elegant peg-leg and proceeded to wheel him around on the pivot of his other limb before sternly ramming the ivory spar firmly into the poop deck.
“Yes, the moon in the sky,” said Capt. Bedford, changing his tack. Mme. Lecon worked the lanyard expertly, commandeering the vessel with womanly agility. Thrust into filling the Captain’s vacancy, she assumed the role of chief stoker as well. M. Fouteur soon extricated himself from the gang-press as the confrontation came to blows. Summoned to Mme. Lecon’s aid, he lay hands on the comely winch and secured their progress by several knots. By means of a powerful screw, the Naughty Lust rapidly pierced that cracked and pallid globe which loomed so large before them. Then leaving sublunary issues behind, M. Fouteur and Mme. Lecon emerged upon the surface of the moon, espying in the distance a majestic city crowning the mountains nearby.
“What a stroke of luck,” said M. Fouteur. “We’re just on the outskirts of the capital city, New Newtonton.”
“The architecture has a sinister air to it,” said Mme. Lecon, breathlessly surveying the choking crush of buildings.
“Yes, well, those are just pump-houses that sustain the oxygen levels,” M. Fouteur answered, “put in place after complaints that the lunar restaurants were completely lacking in atmosphere. Come now, just a ways to go and we’ll take a breather.”
So it was that Mme. Lecon began to bounce across the moonscape, each light step sending her high overhead before she glided back down for the next, and M. Fouteur occasioned to catch sight of yet another event of astronomical proportions, namely the resounding aftershocks that fluttered the lady’s buttocks in the wake of those momentous leaps. M. Fouteur chased after her, bringing up the rear, finding himself to be something of a low bounder, his eyes flickering up and down to follow the undulating path of those rolling crescents. His thoughts returned to a night long ago at the circus and Gisele, the girl with the big top. This lady trampoline artist had showed herself to be quite the globe trotter in the round and later exhibited an equal talent for sword swallowing whilst balancing weighty balls upon her nose, a consummate performer on the whole. M. Fouteur recalled how well he enjoyed her in all three rings, his zeal for her contortions being such that he kissed passionately a bearded lady who appeared down below.
Mme. Lecon turned at the apex of another magnificent jump and called to him, “Stop clowning around back there and hurry along.”
Touching ground, M. Fouteur felt his legs start to shake and wondered if he hadn’t succumbed to some paroxysm of moony ecstasy. Shortly there came a hoarse iron roar and M. Fouteur pulled Mme. Lecon down into a nearby crater for an ostensible kiss, fumbling over the lip in confusion. Soon afterwards they saw a powerful steaming engine emerge from its dark tunnel, its heading a precipitous overhang.
“Come on, then,” said Mme. Lecon, “there’s no sense in railing against progress.”
With that said, she gamboled towards the chancy rendezvous as a woman to be dealt with. M. Fouteur tracked her ascent before grabbing hold of the jiggling caboose before him. Within minutes, they were conducted into the city proper and had opportunity to see its clockwork precision. Indeed, the entire complex resembled the inner workings of a giant chronometer, with each towering building functioning as a spindle about which any number of toothed cogs revolved. M. Fouteur watched the motion of pedestrians traversing these titanic geared discs which spun in interlocking relation, the people like minute ticks springing from wheel to wheel in synchronous alignment. The locomotive rolled into its vast railway station under the shadow of this sparkling contraption, the iron horse looking by comparison rather second-hand.
“Here’s a city ahead of its time,” said M. Fouteur, “but better late than never.”
“My, but the Americans can erect so much so quickly,” Mme. Lecon marveled.
“That only shows how rapidly they spend,” M. Fouteur added. With a sweep of his hand, he took hold of the lady and carefully positioned them for the jump onto one of the swaying mechanical platforms. A miscalculation in timing caused them to land half past where M. Fouteur had intended and they struggled to catch hold of the spinning circle. As they dragged themselves onto the contraption, M. Fouteur noted that the other passengers took no notice of the awkward method of their boarding, each man and woman there seeming to concentrate the fullness of attention on the tiny whirligigs that protruded from their ears to their mouths.
“I say,” M. Fouteur said to one of the commuters. “What is it that distracts you all to such lengths that none would lend a hand to help a stranger in need?”
The man addressed cupped his hand over the mouthpiece of the instrument with obvious annoyance. “I can’t talk right now, old sport, as I’m engaged with my self-horn.”
“What is the purpose of this gadget?” M. Fouteur asked.
“You must be new to New Newtonton,” said the man. “Everyone has a self-horn here. It announces to the world how important one is, that one’s life is so complex that constant communication is required to govern it.”
M. Fouteur looked around at the chattering crowd, every member of which seemed to be carrying on some sort of overwrought dramatic soliloquy amidst the continuous squawking and chirping of those attendant carriers of urgent communiqués.
“I say,” said M. Fouteur. “I don’t quite see how anyone is to take note of your busy status when the whole populace is taking part in the same useless blabber.”
The man broke off from his discourse with irritation, saying, “You’re a Frenchman, aren’t you? Sorry, but these aren’t available for mimes just yet.”
At this junction, M. Fouteur considered relaying his dissatisfaction with the man’s tone, perhaps by telegraphing several punches to the wiry fellow’s trunk, but Mme. Lecon put a STOP to this notion, calling his attention to their STOP up ahead. M. Fouteur made ready to leave the pandemonium, then on second thought turned and seized the device from the fellow’s head and jammed the noisy thing down the man’s backside.
“Thought someone should put a bug in your rear, old sport,” said M. Fouteur, hopping onto the next platform. He and the lady ascended further into the lofty wheels of the city, arriving in a roundabout way at the Spiral Arms hotel, its graceful curves of quarried moonstone reminding M. Fouteur of certain marble sculptures he’d once polished whilst at the Louvre, appreciating several of the statuesque ladies in the Greek style before caressing the legendary Venus in a harmless embrace.
The desk clerk perched in a nook lined with papers, his owlish face craning towards them as they entered. At M. Fouteur’s inquiry, the clerk began to peck away at a set of keys that set a number of bells chiming.
“It seems you lack reservations, sir,” said the clerk.
“Generally so,” M. Fouteur answered, “but not in this case. Are you quite sure?”
“Perhaps the computator fouled things up,” said the clerk. “It’s quite easy to ruffle the feathers of these insufferable Babbage Manipulators. Unfortunately, we’re completely booked up for the time being.”
“Perhaps you could look again,” said M. Fouteur, poking a colorful bill across the desk.
“Well, there’s no harm in trying again,” the clerk said, rather preening as his fingers flew over the levers on the machine. A moment later, M. Fouteur heard the sound of a dreadful crash and the thing emitted a plume of smoke. “Must be the internal binary multiplier,” said the clerk. “It’s quite out of the blue, really.”
“Come along, then, darling,” M. Fouteur told Mme. Lecon. “I’m sure there’ll be space at the Sir Oliver lodge.”
With that they exited the premises, its hostile marquee seeming somehow sadistic now. From here they enjoyed a view from the top, seeing the city whirl dizzily below, making their heads spin.
“I’ve just had a thought,” said M. Fouteur. “What about my old colleague, Dr. Colebank? Do you think he might put us up?”
“I don’t imagine he’d put up with much,” said Mme. Lecon. “His Hessian associate tried to render us kaput.”
“Perhaps we’ll just drop by,” said M. Fouteur, smiling as he hopped onto the teeth of a turning gear. Mme. Lecon leapt after him, her petticoats peeling back appealingly in the updraft as she fluttered down. M. Fouteur admired this and the other sights of the city, in particular the works of airborne billstickers, cloud-capped bards of aerial puckishness playing over the towers. He saw, by turns, electrical lights blinking out a tonic for dry eyes, placards for dyspepsia medicine, ad nauseum, and variously sized plugs for a flatulence remedy.
“There’s something so romantic about a ferrous wheel,” she said. “Make love to me right here, sir, it would be most uplifting.”
“I would,” said M. Fouteur, “but for my tendency to drop off afterwards.”
At this point, the wheel began to spin faster, a stomach turning experience, M. Fouteur thought, possibly due to poor circulation. But presently they homed in on the residential district and began to search for the Colebank house, by good fortune chancing upon an electric map with a directory that was current. Soon they were traversing boulevards between identical homes with identical lawns, all neatly manicured and not a nail out of place, dull houses looking as though built from kits and assembled into a model community.
“Here it is,” said M. Fouteur, “the dwelling of my foe.”
“From what I’ve seen,” said Mme. Lecon, “all these houses have something of the faux about them.”
M. Fouteur then placed his hand on a goodly-sized knocker and swung it gently. The lady who responded at the door seemed a stuffy but well-preserved middle age, a former Memphis belle, perhaps, now someone children called “mummy.” She emerged curiously rapt in white cotton dress.
“Mrs. Colebank, I presume?” M. Fouteur asked.
“To whom am I speaking?”
“Madam, the lady and I are colleagues of your husband’s,” said M. Fouteur. “He once generously extended an offer to come and stay in your lovely home.”
“Is that so?”
“That is how I took his meaning,” said M. Fouteur, “when he said, ‘There’s a place for people like you.’”
“That certainly sounds like my husband,” said Mrs. Colebank. “Please come in and let me entertain you until he comes home from work.”
With that said, she led them to the billiards room, with M. Fouteur watching over her shoulder as she prepared the game table.
“Marvelous rack, Mrs. Colebank,” he said admiringly.
“Thank you for noticing,” she replied, adjusting the polished globes. “I rather fancy it myself.”
“Certain symmetries have such intrinsic beauty,” added Mme. Lecon. “I’ve always been intrigued by the possibilities of the triangular form.”
“It is rather a cute figure, isn’t it?” Mrs. Colebank said. “Shall we begin?”
“I hope you don’t mind, Madam, but I always bring along my own stick. One never knows when an opportunity for sport might arise. You may find it comes in handy, as well.”
“Yes, I believe I might enjoy the use of it,” said Mrs. Colebank, sliding the shaft between her fingers. “It’s much bigger than anything my husband lets me play with.”
Leaning forward, Mrs. Colebank with a snapping break spread her luminous spheres across the table. Taking a cue, Mme. Lecon placed her hand to the velvety pouch nearby and whispered to M. Fouteur, “Sink it in.” The monsieur began at once to demonstrate his skill with a stick and Mrs. Colebank gasped in amazement as his balls banked over and over against her soft bumpers. Mme. Lecon marveled at the elegance of their hostess’s game equipment and caressed the opulent orbs on offer. Their competitive exertions were such that they soon collapsed upon the pool table, match complete, balls cleared, and felt luxuriant.
“I’m ever so glad you both came,” said Mrs. Colebank. “But you really must leave before my husband arrives.”
“Whatever is the reason?” M. Fouteur asked, pumping her for more.
“It just occurred to me that he often mentioned wanting to murder you,” Mrs. Colebank said finally.
“Perhaps he was speaking metaphorically,” suggested Mme. Lecon, “as if to say he wished to bury M. Fouteur’s theories under mounds of evidence to the contrary.”
“Yes, maybe he’s made some watershed discovery,” said M. Fouteur, “and he intends to flood me with paperwork.”
“But amongst the slippery facts,” Mme. Lecon continued, “one often glimpses the naked truth with a fertile imagination and bare understanding.”
“Darling, I feel you’ve quite extended my metaphor,” said M. Fouteur. “But where is Dr. Colebank now?”
“He lectures at Luna University,” Mrs. Colebank professed.
“Fine, then, we shall go there at once,” said M. Fouteur. “If someone means to teach me a lesson, I should prefer it in the proper milieu.”
“Oh please do use the utmost precaution,” said Mrs. Colebank.
“Madam, I know my way around a university,” said M. Fouteur, “having learned the art of French letters in Europe’s finest institutions.”
Saying this, M. Fouteur wheeled around and with the mademoiselle returned to the clockwork city of New Newtonton, where milling crowds were well into their daily grind.
IV
Juxtaposed against the handsome sweep of the city, Luna University seemed something of an anachronism, its architecture antiqued by the most modern techniques. On the rooftops the designer had positioned winged gargoyles that called attention to flying buttresses, whilst cherubim massed heads to gossip in the columns of the school newspaper office. Transplanted ivy adorned the divine splendor, the generous green backs suggesting a wealth of knowledge. An immense helical structure doubled as the bell tower, a shape which M. Fouteur at first took to be the caduceus of medicine but which, upon more thorough examination, proved to be a much duller symbol then in currency.
“They seem to have a rather rich tradition here,” said M. Fouteur.
“The style is a bit inflated,” said Mme. Lecon.
“Perhaps the interiors will be more reserved,” said M. Fouteur. “Here’s the Business Library; there’s bound to be a directory of some sort.”
Entering the building, they discovered a gilt-edged volume covered with a high index gloss. M. Fouteur prefaced his remarks to the librarian with a brief exchange of titles.
“I say, sir, is there a book of school affairs?” M. Fouteur asked.
“We do not circulate such rumors,” said the librarian, “nor any other sort of book or magazine.”
“Whatever do you mean?” M. Fouteur asked, staring vacantly at the empty shelves.
“It is obvious that you lack a point of reference here,” said the librarian. “The Americans of 2008 do not read, sir, save for a few deviants and eccentrics.”
“But how can you have a library without books?” Mme. Lecon interjected. “This is not even marginally adequate!”
“All the information you require is now available through the computators over there,” said the librarian. “I shall page one of the students to assist you. Ah, here comes Mr. Calloway now.”
“Right this way, sir,” said the young man, a quick study, and soon M. Fouteur was consoled by the keyboard of a computator on the desktop.
“All of the books are stored in here, then?” M. Fouteur asked.
“Actually, all the American libraries can be accessed,” said Mr. Calloway. “We call it the ‘knit,’ for in it all computators are interwoven.”
“So you’ve all knit wits together,” said Mme. Lecon. “That’s darned clever. Can you inquire from here on the whereabouts of our lost luggage?”
Mr. Calloway fingered the keys for a long nail-biting moment. “Your baggage is well in hand and the chief purser has been sacked.”
“What about my little dog, Houston?” Mme. Lecon asked. “Has he arrived safely?”
Mr. Calloway launched into a controlled missive and awaited its return. “Houston, the beagle, has landed.”
“But this is astonishing,” said M. Fouteur, watching as the computator’s tasks multiplied, a new projection screen popping up for each of its jobs, the windows rapidly becoming pains. “What are all these pictures of?”
“Mostly advertisements for tinned meat byproduct,” said Mr. Calloway. “They’re quite a prolific sponsor of the knit.”
“These images seem to be rather pornographic,” said Mme. Lecon, leaning closer. “Is that available, as well?”
“Oh, that,” said Mr. Calloway. “That is merely a well-known hotel heiress showing off her famous bedding.”
“What of this notation here?” M. Fouteur asked.
“These are player-piano rolls,” said Mr. Calloway. “My computator transcribes them from other computators and plays them back on command.”
“And the computator handles the financial compensation to the composer?” M. Fouteur asked.
“There’s no need,” said Mr. Calloway. “The music is shared freely by other computator operators.”
“But that sounds like piracy,” said Mme. Lecon, stealing a glance at the projector screen.
“Not at all,” said Mr. Calloway, “for I had no intention of purchasing this sheet music in the first place. Therefore, the composer has not really lost anything.”
“I’m not sure your argument is sound,” said Mme. Lecon, “but I will try to give it a fair hearing. After all, it isn’t as though you were appropriating great works of literature.”
And as she spoke the sound of violins filled the room with the witchery of a summer night. He showed how, by turning a screw, the volume of the music could be made to fill the room, or die away to an echo so faint and far that one could scarcely be sure whether he heard or imagined it. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this:
“Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States.
“WHALING VOYAGE BY ONE ISHMAEL.
BLOODY BATTLE IN AFFGHANISTAN.”
“What sort of music is this?” M. Fouteur asked.
“It was invented by a group of ingenious minstrels,” said Mr. Calloway, “who make music using the melodies recorded on disks by other artists.”
“This is quite an idea to make art from samples of other works of art! But is this itself Art?” M. Fouteur asked, listening again. The singers seemed to have derived their inspirations from the songs of birds and the wailing of the wind, which last they tried to imitate in melancholy cadences that at times degenerated into a howl. With a huff, the limelight flared, the curtain drew back before the kinotrope screen, the music covering the clicking of kinobits spinning themselves into place.
“I’m quite taken with your wizardry, sir. Tell me about that screen there,” said Mme. Lecon, pointing to an appellated pie chart. “It seems to provide food for thought.”
“It’s an ongoing research project, quite exhaustive really,” said Mr. Calloway. “I wish to determine which computator company I should pay to write my next research project.”
“Poor deluded lad, don’t you see that you’re only cheating yourself, depriving yourself of a true education? Only those satisfied with a mediocrity of talent turn to plagiarism,” said M. Fouteur, considering this new sort of pirates, who exploited the sea in their own way. Couldn't this also be the cause of its imprisonment? A baker, a tavern-guard, for example, could make it stop like a counterfeiter or to circulate the money counterfeits. And it was possible, as, as the coin could become, for a certain poor small speculator, the core of a fortune which disappears quickly.
“That was quite a lift,” said Mme. Lecon. “You seem a studious young man and eager to learn. Perhaps I can help you outgrow those crib sheets.”
“Yes, it seems a most elementary exercise, young fellow,” said M. Fouteur. “There’s no need to pay for it when it can be had free with a little effort. Now these problems usually involve an ideal body, which Mme. Lecon represents quite well. So first you must find the lady’s delta V.”
“That seems a nice round figure,” said Mr. Calloway.
“Yes, I think you’ve put your finger on it,” said M. Fouteur. “Now that is what determines the speed of the interaction. So now one must account for the translation of a rigid element, often a variable quantity in these situations. Now if we put U over the V and plug that in and integrate as both approach infinity …”
“Then dividing the V by U yields multiples of O,” said Mme. Lecon.
“Yes, and then after the curve peaks,” said M. Fouteur, “U should shrink towards the infinitesimal.”
“That was some fun,” said Mr. Calloway, “and quite an expansion.”
“I hope it was not for naught,” said Mme. Lecon. “Now can you find Dr. Colebank’s whereabouts for us?”
“Indeed, he is in the Department of Industrial Biology,” said Mr. Calloway, “between the Departments of Corporate Law and Managerial Science.”
“This place certainly means business,” said M. Fouteur, lending Mme. Lecon a hand along. With the help of a computator printed map which Mr. Calloway pressed them to take, they went directly to the wrong office.
“This is C. Lit., an obscure fixture I admit,” said the man there, penned in his inky well, “Commercial Literature, that is.”
“So the belles lettres are alive and well here,” said M. Fouteur. “We were looking for a bacterial culture, but this is fairly close to it.”
“Actually, I am the Lunar Laureate,” said the man. “Perhaps you’re familiar with my most celebrated piece:
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
With Log Cabin syrup there, on delicious waffles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And refreshing Schweppes Lemonade.”
“I believe I’ve gone sour on your work,” said Mme. Lecon. “Wasn’t that written by Yeats?”
“Dear lady, this is a common misconception,” said the Lunar Laureate. “Poems are not produced by authors, but are social products. Just as Marx has overthrown the idea that man makes history, we now know that history makes man. So literature creates authors, not the other way round.”
“Sir, you would do well to read the philosopher Nietzsche on this point,” said M. Fouteur. “Bardic art comes from the will’s acts alone. Dr. Freud has explained how the creative faculty is rooted firmly in the sexual.”
Mme. Lecon began to take dictation in sure hand as M. Fouteur, in an act of pure pleasurism, buried his nose in the crease of her leather bound soft back. Deftly fingering her backspace, he soon proved himself a hunting pecker whilst the lady prepared her dewy decimal place for a canonical entry.
“Be sure to use your proper crammer,” said Mme. Lecon.
“Shall I cf. thee to a summer’s day?” M. Fouteur asked.
“I.e. esp. o.k.” she moaned.
Pro tem. she recd. Op. @ her fem. Pvt., ft., et al, bldg to fl. Oz.
“Hp. Jr.” Mme. Lecon shouted. “My bbl-chested Hhd.”
Her knee CAPS LOCKED AS THEY NEARED THE S!
“My :,” the Laureate th_.”
“₤ me, my –ing lover,” Mme. Lecon gasped.
“Bl. Gal.” M. Fouteur said before he ret.
A climactic change in the whether brought a most unique breech of the piece. M. Fouteur prostated hisself and they set stationary for a wile. Mme. Lecon certainly had a flare for poetry, but the affect of the illusions was lust on him.
“It is evident that the creative juices are flowing once again,” said Mme. Lecon. “Perhaps we should move on.”
“Couldn’t we bang out a sequel?” the Laureate implored.
“Dear sir, your submission has been received,” said Mme. Lecon, “but it does not fulfill our requirements at this time.”
“Now if you’ll direct us to a different sort of biology,” said M. Fouteur.