Journey to the Center of the Earth 4 available at Amazon for 99 cents. The battle to save the world continues in this epic science fiction adventure.
The Hollow Earth Special Forces march deeper and deepr into the interior of the earth, battling unknown forces and monsters to save our world.
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The fourth story in the brand new, exciting series about what would happen should the earth be struck by a cataclysmic earthquake that destroyed much of modern civilization. See how our brave heroes put together a special forces team to solve the greatest mystery of all time...is the earth hollow and if it is, are the people who live there responsible for the near destruction of our world. And if so, why?
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A spectacular new novel that takes you on an adventure never thought possible before. Relive one of the most incredible adventures ever experienced by two of the greatest novelists of all time as they struggle to find the Seal of the Third Golden Eagle.
Pushed on an adventure they dared not refuse by Napoleon Bonaparte and the Pope, Jules Verne and Alexander Dumas will go places they never could have imagined in their writing.
But worse, they will be pursued by a man bent on exacting revenge for the loss of his wife and children: Captain Nemo.
A collision of epic proportions is about to happen!
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Legends collide with legends as a desperate journey to seize power is begun.
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Two of our world's most famous authors go on an adventure that will stagger even their imaginations as they join a dangerous expedition ordered by the Pope and Napoleon Bonaparte.
An alternate history world where science fiction and fantasy go hand and hand with reality. Where heroes are larger than life; romance is deeper than the oceans; and villains will do anything to win what they want!
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In about two weeks to Amazon.
Seal of the Third Golden Eagle
"The Secret Adventures of Alexander Dumas and Jules Verne"John Pirillo
PrologueThe mighty vessel was tossed like a cork on stormy waters, descending into the vast and horrid unknown depths like a spent rocket, hurtling past huge outcrops of volcanic rock and broken shards of vast crystalline rock that gave off eerie glows as their vessel swept past them.
All they could think of was keeping hold of the grips they had found as the mighty ship floundered in the grip of a vortex so powerful that it could suck into the depths a whale of mighty proportions without a second thought.
The metal and glass of the vessel groaned and heaved, some parts appearing as if they might shatter and break, but somehow they held as the ship continued its uncontrolled tumble into the depths of the vast hole they traversed in the ocean floor.
Ahead a huge building made of gold and crystal loomed in their view. They were going to strike it.
Everything they had done to get so far was now coming to an end. The huge building protruding from the side of the vast hole rushed to greet them with arms of destruction spread wide.
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Available now at Smashwords for 2.99. A science fiction adventure that takes us back in time to go into the future.
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A new novel that dares to go where no man has gone before.
That explores a world that man fears exists.
A world within a world.
New Novel. War of the Worlds: Invasion. Jules Verne and H.G. Wells are all that stands between an invasion and total destruction of our world.
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Jules Verne and H.G. Wells are all that stands between an invasion and total destruction of our world.
A story of friendship, discovery and adventure.
Two teenagers in Victorian Paris are faced with the loss of their families and must struggle to fight against an Invasion that threatens the safety of the entire world!
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Short Story. Jules Verne. In the Year 2889. A take on the future which seems close to present predictions.
IN THE YEAR 2889
[Redactor's note: _In the Year 2889_ was first published in the
_Forum_, February, 1889; p. 262. It was published in France the next
year. Although published under the name of Jules Verne, it is now
believed to be chiefly if not entirely the work of Jules' son, Michel
Verne. In any event, many of the topics in the article echo Verne's
IN THE YEAR 2889.
Little though they seem to think of it, the people of this twenty-ninth
century live continually in fairyland. Surfeited as they are with
marvels, they are indifferent in presence of each new marvel. To them
all seems natural. Could they but duly appreciate the refinements of
civilization in our day; could they but compare the present with the
past, and so better comprehend the advance we have made! How much fairer
they would find our modern towns, with populations amounting sometimes
to 10,000,000 souls; their streets 300 feet wide, their houses 1000 feet
in height; with a temperature the same in all seasons; with their lines
of aerial locomotion crossing the sky in every direction! If they would
but picture to themselves the state of things that once existed, when
through muddy streets rumbling boxes on wheels, drawn by horses--yes, by
horses!--were the only means of conveyance. Think of the railroads of
the olden time, and you will be able to appreciate the pneumatic tubes
through which to-day one travels at the rate of 1000 miles an hour.
Would not our contemporaries prize the telephone and the telephote more
highly if they had not forgotten the telegraph?
Singularly enough, all these transformations rest upon principles which
were perfectly familiar to our remote ancestors, but which they
disregarded. Heat, for instance, is as ancient as man himself;
electricity was known 3000 years ago, and steam 1100 years ago. Nay, so
early as ten centuries ago it was known that the differences between the
several chemical and physical forces depend on the mode of vibration of
the etheric particles, which is for each specifically different. When at
last the kinship of all these forces was discovered, it is simply
astounding that 500 years should still have to elapse before men could
analyze and describe the several modes of vibration that constitute
these differences. Above all, it is singular that the mode of
reproducing these forces directly from one another, and of reproducing
one without the others, should have remained undiscovered till less than
a hundred years ago. Nevertheless, such was the course of events, for it
was not till the year 2792 that the famous Oswald Nier made this great
Truly was he a great benefactor of the human race. His admirable
discovery led to many another. Hence is sprung a pleiad of inventors,
its brightest star being our great Joseph Jackson. To Jackson we are
indebted for those wonderful instruments the new accumulators. Some of
these absorb and condense the living force contained in the sun's rays;
others, the electricity stored in our globe; others again, the energy
coming from whatever source, as a waterfall, a stream, the winds, etc.
He, too, it was that invented the transformer, a more wonderful
contrivance still, which takes the living force from the accumulator,
and, on the simple pressure of a button, gives it back to space in
whatever form may be desired, whether as heat, light, electricity, or
mechanical force, after having first obtained from it the work required.
From the day when these two instruments were contrived is to be dated
the era of true progress. They have put into the hands of man a power
that is almost infinite. As for their applications, they are numberless.
Mitigating the rigors of winter, by giving back to the atmosphere the
surplus heat stored up during the summer, they have revolutionized
agriculture. By supplying motive power for aerial navigation, they have
given to commerce a mighty impetus. To them we are indebted for the
continuous production of electricity without batteries or dynamos, of
light without combustion or incandescence, and for an unfailing supply
of mechanical energy for all the needs of industry.
Yes, all these wonders have been wrought by the accumulator and the
transformer. And can we not to them also trace, indirectly, this latest
wonder of all, the great "Earth Chronicle" building in 253d Avenue,
which was dedicated the other day? If George Washington Smith, the
founder of the Manhattan "Chronicle", should come back to life to-day,
what would he think were he to be told that this palace of marble and
gold belongs to his remote descendant, Fritz Napoleon Smith, who, after
thirty generations have come and gone, is owner of the same newspaper
which his ancestor established!
For George Washington Smith's newspaper has lived generation after
generation, now passing out of the family, anon coming back to it. When,
200 years ago, the political center of the United States was transferred
from Washington to Centropolis, the newspaper followed the government
and assumed the name of Earth Chronicle. Unfortunately, it was unable to
maintain itself at the high level of its name. Pressed on all sides by
rival journals of a more modern type, it was continually in danger of
collapse. Twenty years ago its subscription list contained but a few
hundred thousand names, and then Mr. Fritz Napoleon Smith bought it for
a mere trifle, and originated telephonic journalism.
Every one is familiar with Fritz Napoleon Smith's system--a system made
possible by the enormous development of telephony during the last
hundred years. Instead of being printed, the Earth Chronicle is every
morning spoken to subscribers, who, in interesting conversations with
reporters, statesmen, and scientists, learn the news of the day.
Furthermore, each subscriber owns a phonograph, and to this instrument
he leaves the task of gathering the news whenever he happens not to be
in a mood to listen directly himself. As for purchasers of single
copies, they can at a very trifling cost learn all that is in the paper
of the day at any of the innumerable phonographs set up nearly
Fritz Napoleon Smith's innovation galvanized the old newspaper. In the
course of a few years the number of subscribers grew to be 80,000,000,
and Smith's wealth went on growing, till now it reaches the almost
unimaginable figure of $10,000,000,000. This lucky hit has enabled him
to erect his new building, a vast edifice with four _facades_ each 3,250
feet in length, over which proudly floats the hundred-starred flag of
the Union. Thanks to the same lucky hit, he is to-day king of
newspaperdom; indeed, he would be king of all the Americans, too, if
Americans could ever accept a king. You do not believe it? Well, then,
look at the plenipotentiaries of all nations and our own ministers
themselves crowding about his door, entreating his counsels, begging for
his approbation, imploring the aid of his all-powerful organ. Reckon up
the number of scientists and artists that he supports, of inventors that
he has under his pay.
Yes, a king is he. And in truth his is a royalty full of burdens. His
labors are incessant, and there is no doubt at all that in earlier times
any man would have succumbed under the overpowering stress of the toil
which Mr. Smith has to perform. Very fortunately for him, thanks to the
progress of hygiene, which, abating all the old sources of
unhealthfulness, has lifted the mean of human life from 37 up to 52
years, men have stronger constitutions now than heretofore. The
discovery of nutritive air is still in the future, but in the meantime
men today consume food that is compounded and prepared according to
scientific principles, and they breathe an atmosphere freed from the
micro-organisms that formerly used to swarm in it; hence they live
longer than their forefathers and know nothing of the innumerable
diseases of olden times.
Nevertheless, and notwithstanding these considerations, Fritz Napoleon
Smith's mode of life may well astonish one. His iron constitution is
taxed to the utmost by the heavy strain that is put upon it. Vain the
attempt to estimate the amount of labor he undergoes; an example alone
can give an idea of it. Let us then go about with him for one day as he
attends to his multifarious concernments. What day? That matters little;
it is the same every day. Let us then take at random September 25th of
this present year 2889.
This morning Mr. Fritz Napoleon Smith awoke in very bad humor. His wife
having left for France eight days ago, he was feeling disconsolate.
Incredible though it seems, in all the ten years since their marriage,
this is the first time that Mrs. Edith Smith, the professional beauty,
has been so long absent from home; two or three days usually suffice for
her frequent trips to Europe. The first thing that Mr. Smith does is to
connect his phonotelephote, the wires of which communicate with his
Paris mansion. The telephote! Here is another of the great triumphs of
science in our time. The transmission of speech is an old story; the
transmission of images by means of sensitive mirrors connected by wires
is a thing but of yesterday. A valuable invention indeed, and Mr. Smith
this morning was not niggard of blessings for the inventor, when by its
aid he was able distinctly to see his wife notwithstanding the distance
that separated him from her. Mrs. Smith, weary after the ball or the
visit to the theater the preceding night, is still abed, though it is
near noontide at Paris. She is asleep, her head sunk in the lace-covered
pillows. What? She stirs? Her lips move. She is dreaming perhaps? Yes,
dreaming. She is talking, pronouncing a name his name--Fritz! The
delightful vision gave a happier turn to Mr. Smith's thoughts. And now,
at the call of imperative duty, light-hearted he springs from his bed
and enters his mechanical dresser.
Two minutes later the machine deposited him all dressed at the threshold
of his office. The round of journalistic work was now begun. First he
enters the hall of the novel-writers, a vast apartment crowned with an
enormous transparent cupola. In one corner is a telephone, through which
a hundred Earth Chronicle _litterateurs_ in turn recount to the public
in daily installments a hundred novels. Addressing one of these authors
who was waiting his turn, "Capital! Capital! my dear fellow," said he,
"your last story. The scene where the village maid discusses interesting
philosophical problems with her lover shows your very acute power of
observation. Never have the ways of country folk been better portrayed.
Keep on, my dear Archibald, keep on! Since yesterday, thanks to you,
there is a gain of 5000 subscribers."
"Mr. John Last," he began again, turning to a new arrival, "I am not so
well pleased with your work. Your story is not a picture of life; it
lacks the elements of truth. And why? Simply because you run straight on
to the end; because you do not analyze. Your heroes do this thing or
that from this or that motive, which you assign without ever a thought
of dissecting their mental and moral natures. Our feelings, you must
remember, are far more complex than all that. In real life every act is
the resultant of a hundred thoughts that come and go, and these you must
study, each by itself, if you would create a living character. 'But,'
you will say, 'in order to note these fleeting thoughts one must know
them, must be able to follow them in their capricious meanderings.' Why,
any child can do that, as you know. You have simply to make use of
hypnotism, electrical or human, which gives one a two-fold being,
setting free the witness-personality so that it may see, understand, and
remember the reasons which determine the personality that acts. Just
study yourself as you live from day to day, my dear Last. Imitate your
associate whom I was complimenting a moment ago. Let yourself be
hypnotized. What's that? You have tried it already? Not sufficiently,
then, not sufficiently!"
Mr. Smith continues his round and enters the reporters' hall. Here 1500
reporters, in their respective places, facing an equal number of
telephones, are communicating to the subscribers the news of the world
as gathered during the night. The organization of this matchless service
has often been described. Besides his telephone, each reporter, as the
reader is aware, has in front of him a set of commutators, which enable
him to communicate with any desired telephotic line. Thus the
subscribers not only hear the news but see the occurrences. When an
incident is described that is already past, photographs of its main
features are transmitted with the narrative. And there is no confusion
withal. The reporters' items, just like the different stories and all
the other component parts of the journal, are classified automatically
according to an ingenious system, and reach the hearer in due
succession. Furthermore, the hearers are free to listen only to what
specially concerns them. They may at pleasure give attention to one
editor and refuse it to another.
Mr. Smith next addresses one of the ten reporters in the astronomical
department--a department still in the embryonic stage, but which will
yet play an important part in journalism.
"Well, Cash, what's the news?"
"We have phototelegrams from Mercury, Venus, and Mars."
"Are those from Mars of any interest?"
"Yes, indeed. There is a revolution in the Central Empire."
"And what of Jupiter?" asked Mr. Smith.
"Nothing as yet. We cannot quite understand their signals. Perhaps ours
do not reach them."
"That's bad," exclaimed Mr. Smith, as he hurried away, not in the best
of humor, toward the hall of the scientific editors.
With their heads bent down over their electric computers, thirty
scientific men were absorbed in transcendental calculations. The coming
of Mr. Smith was like the falling of a bomb among them.
"Well, gentlemen, what is this I hear? No answer from Jupiter? Is it
always to be thus? Come, Cooley, you have been at work now twenty years
on this problem, and yet--"
"True enough," replied the man addressed. "Our science of optics is
still very defective, and though our mile-and-three-quarter telescopes."
"Listen to that, Peer," broke in Mr. Smith, turning to a second
scientist. "Optical science defective! Optical science is your
specialty. But," he continued, again addressing William Cooley, "failing
with Jupiter, are we getting any results from the moon?"
"The case is no better there."
"This time you do not lay the blame on the science of optics. The moon
is immeasurably less distant than Mars, yet with Mars our communication
is fully established. I presume you will not say that you lack
"Telescopes? O no, the trouble here is about inhabitants!"
"That's it," added Peer.
"So, then, the moon is positively uninhabited?" asked Mr. Smith.
"At least," answered Cooley, "on the face which she presents to us. As
for the opposite side, who knows?"
"Ah, the opposite side! You think, then," remarked Mr. Smith, musingly,
"that if one could but--"
"Why, turn the moon about-face."
"Ah, there's something in that," cried the two men at once. And indeed,
so confident was their air, they seemed to have no doubt as to the
possibility of success in such an undertaking.
"Meanwhile," asked Mr. Smith, after a moment's silence, "have you no
news of interest to-day?"
"Indeed we have," answered Cooley. "The elements of Olympus are
definitively settled. That great planet gravitates beyond Neptune at the
mean distance of 11,400,799,642 miles from the sun, and to traverse its
vast orbit takes 1311 years, 294 days, 12 hours, 43 minutes, 9 seconds."
"Why didn't you tell me that sooner?" cried Mr. Smith. "Now inform the
reporters of this straightaway. You know how eager is the curiosity of
the public with regard to these astronomical questions. That news must
go into to-day's issue."
Then, the two men bowing to him, Mr. Smith passed into the next hall, an
enormous gallery upward of 3200 feet in length, devoted to atmospheric
advertising. Every one has noticed those enormous advertisements
reflected from the clouds, so large that they may be seen by the
populations of whole cities or even of entire countries. This, too, is
one of Mr. Fritz Napoleon Smith's ideas, and in the Earth Chronicle
building a thousand projectors are constantly engaged in displaying upon
the clouds these mammoth advertisements.
When Mr. Smith to-day entered the sky-advertising department, he found
the operators sitting with folded arms at their motionless projectors,
and inquired as to the cause of their inaction. In response, the man
addressed simply pointed to the sky, which was of a pure blue. "Yes,"
muttered Mr. Smith, "a cloudless sky! That's too bad, but what's to be
done? Shall we produce rain? That we might do, but is it of any use?
What we need is clouds, not rain. Go," said he, addressing the head
engineer, "go see Mr. Samuel Mark, of the meteorological division of the
scientific department, and tell him for me to go to work in earnest on
the question of artificial clouds. It will never do for us to be always
thus at the mercy of cloudless skies!"
Mr. Smith's daily tour through the several departments of his newspaper
is now finished. Next, from the advertisement hall he passes to the
reception chamber, where the ambassadors accredited to the American
government are awaiting him, desirous of having a word of counsel or
advice from the all-powerful editor. A discussion was going on when he
entered. "Your Excellency will pardon me," the French Ambassador was
saying to the Russian, "but I see nothing in the map of Europe that
requires change. 'The North for the Slavs?' Why, yes, of course; but the
South for the Matins. Our common frontier, the Rhine, it seems to me,
serves very well. Besides, my government, as you must know, will firmly
oppose every movement, not only against Paris, our capital, or our two
great prefectures, Rome and Madrid, but also against the kingdom of
Jerusalem, the dominion of Saint Peter, of which France means to be the
"Well said!" exclaimed Mr. Smith. "How is it," he asked, turning to the
Russian ambassador, "that you Russians are not content with your vast
empire, the most extensive in the world, stretching from the banks of
the Rhine to the Celestial Mountains and the Kara-Korum, whose shores
are washed by the Frozen Ocean, the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, and the
Indian Ocean? Then, what is the use of threats? Is war possible in view
of modern inventions-asphyxiating shells capable of being projected a
distance of 60 miles, an electric spark of 90 miles, that can at one
stroke annihilate a battalion; to say nothing of the plague, the
cholera, the yellow fever, that the belligerents might spread among
their antagonists mutually, and which would in a few days destroy the
"True," answered the Russian; "but can we do all that we wish? As for us
Russians, pressed on our eastern frontier by the Chinese, we must at any
cost put forth our strength for an effort toward the west."
"O, is that all? In that case," said Mr. Smith, "the thing can be
arranged. I will speak to the Secretary of State about it. The attention
of the Chinese government shall be called to the matter. This is not the
first time that the Chinese have bothered us."
"Under these conditions, of course--" And the Russian ambassador
declared himself satisfied.
"Ah, Sir John, what can I do for you?" asked Mr. Smith as he turned to
the representative of the people of Great Britain, who till now had
"A great deal," was the reply. "If the Earth Chronicle would but open a
campaign on our behalf--"
"And for what object?"
"Simply for the annulment of the Act of Congress annexing to the United
States the British islands."
Though, by a just turn-about of things here below, Great Britain has
become a colony of the United States, the English are not yet reconciled
to the situation. At regular intervals they are ever addressing to the
American government vain complaints.
"A campaign against the annexation that has been an accomplished fact
for 150 years!" exclaimed Mr. Smith. "How can your people suppose that
I would do anything so unpatriotic?"
"We at home think that your people must now be sated. The Monroe
doctrine is fully applied; the whole of America belongs to the
Americans. What more do you want? Besides, we will pay for what we ask."
"Indeed!" answered Mr. Smith, without manifesting the slightest
irritation. "Well, you English will ever be the same. No, no, Sir John,
do not count on me for help. Give up our fairest province, Britain? Why
not ask France generously to renounce possession of Africa, that
magnificent colony the complete conquest of which cost her the labor of
800 years? You will be well received!"
"You decline! All is over then!" murmured the British agent sadly. "The
United Kingdom falls to the share of the Americans; the Indies to that
"The Russians," said Mr. Smith, completing the sentence.
"Has an independent government."
"Then nothing at all remains for us!" sighed Sir John, downcast.
"Nothing?" asked Mr. Smith, laughing. "Well, now, there's Gibraltar!"
With this sally, the audience ended. The clock was striking twelve, the
hour of breakfast. Mr. Smith returns to his chamber. Where the bed stood
in the morning a table all spread comes up through the floor. For Mr.
Smith, being above all a practical man; has reduced the problem of
existence to its simplest terms. For him, instead of the endless suites
of apartments of the olden time, one room fitted with ingenious
mechanical contrivances is enough. Here he sleeps, takes his meals, in
He seats himself. In the mirror of the phonotelephote is seen the same
chamber at Paris which appeared in it this morning. A table furnished
forth is likewise in readiness here, for notwithstanding the difference
of hours, Mr. Smith and his wife have arranged to take their meals
simultaneously. It is delightful thus to take breakfast _tete-a-tete_
with one who is 3000 miles or so away. Just now, Mrs. Smith's chamber
has no occupant.
"She is late! Woman's punctuality! Progress everywhere except there!"
muttered Mr. Smith as he turned the tap for the first dish. For like all
wealthy folk in our day, Mr. Smith has done away with the domestic
kitchen and is a subscriber to the Grand Alimentation Company, which
sends through a great network of tubes to subscribers' residences all
sorts of dishes, as a varied assortment is always in readiness. A
subscription costs money, to be sure, but the _cuisine_ is of the best,
and the system has this advantage, that it, does away with the pestering
race of the _cordons-bleus_. Mr. Smith received and ate, all alone, the
_hors-d'oeuvre, entrees, roti_ and _legumes_ that constituted the
repast. He was just finishing the dessert when Mrs. Smith appeared in
the mirror of the telephote.
"Why, where have you been?" asked Mr. Smith through the telephone.
"What! You are already at the dessert? Then I am late," she exclaimed,
with a winsome _naivete_. "Where have I been, you ask? Why, at my
dress-maker's. The hats are just lovely this season! I suppose I forgot
to note the time, and so am a little late."
"Yes, a little," growled Mr. Smith; "so little that I have already
quite finished breakfast. Excuse me if I leave you now, but I must be
"O certainly, my dear; good-by till evening."
Smith stepped into his air-coach, which was in waiting for him at a
window. "Where do you wish to go, sir?" inquired the coachman.
"Let me see; I have three hours," Mr. Smith mused. "Jack, take me to my
accumulator works at Niagara."
For Mr. Smith has obtained a lease of the great falls of Niagara. For
ages the energy developed by the falls went unutilized. Smith, applying
Jackson's invention, now collects this energy, and lets or sells it. His
visit to the works took more time than he had anticipated. It was four
o'clock when he returned home, just in time for the daily audience which
he grants to callers.
One readily understands how a man situated as Smith is must be beset
with requests of all kinds. Now it is an inventor needing capital; again
it is some visionary who comes to advocate a brilliant scheme which must
surely yield millions of profit. A choice has to be made between these
projects, rejecting the worthless, examining the questionable ones,
accepting the meritorious. To this work Mr. Smith devotes every day two
The callers were fewer to-day than usual--only twelve of them. Of these,
eight had only impracticable schemes to propose. In fact, one of them
wanted to revive painting, an art fallen into desuetude owing to the
progress made in color-photography. Another, a physician, boasted that
he had discovered a cure for nasal catarrh! These impracticables were
dismissed in short order. Of the four projects favorably received, the
first was that of a young man whose broad forehead betokened his
"Sir, I am a chemist," he began, "and as such I come to you."
"Once the elementary bodies," said the young chemist, "were held to be
sixty-two in number; a hundred years ago they were reduced to ten; now
only three remain irresolvable, as you are aware."
"Well, sir, these also I will show to be composite. In a few months, a
few weeks, I shall have succeeded in solving the problem. Indeed, it may
take only a few days."
"Then, sir, I shall simply have determined the absolute. All I want is
money enough to carry my research to a successful issue."
"Very well," said Mr. Smith. "And what will be the practical outcome of
"The practical outcome? Why, that we shall be able to produce easily all
bodies whatever--stone, wood, metal, fibers--"
"And flesh and blood?" queried Mr. Smith, interrupting him. "Do you
pretend that you expect to manufacture a human being out and out?"
Mr. Smith advanced $100,000 to the young chemist, and engaged his
services for the Earth Chronicle laboratory.
The second of the four successful applicants, starting from experiments
made so long ago as the nineteenth century and again and again repeated,
had conceived the idea of removing an entire city all at once from one
place to another. His special project had to do with the city of
Granton, situated, as everybody knows, some fifteen miles inland. He
proposes to transport the city on rails and to change it into a
watering-place. The profit, of course, would be enormous. Mr. Smith,
captivated by the scheme, bought a half-interest in it.
"As you are aware, sir," began applicant No. 3, "by the aid of our solar
and terrestrial accumulators and transformers, we are able to make all
the seasons the same. I propose to do something better still. Transform
into heat a portion of the surplus energy at our disposal; send this
heat to the poles; then the polar regions, relieved of their snow-cap,
will become a vast territory available for man's use. What think you of
"Leave your plans with me, and come back in a week. I will have them
examined in the meantime."
Finally, the fourth announced the early solution of a weighty scientific
problem. Every one will remember the bold experiment made a hundred
years ago by Dr. Nathaniel Faithburn. The doctor, being a firm believer
in human hibernation--in other words, in the possibility of our
suspending our vital functions and of calling them into action again
after a time--resolved to subject the theory to a practical test. To
this end, having first made his last will and pointed out the proper
method of awakening him; having also directed that his sleep was to
continue a hundred years to a day from the date of his apparent death,
he unhesitatingly put the theory to the proof in his own person.
Reduced to the condition of a mummy, Dr. Faithburn was coffined and laid
in a tomb. Time went on. September 25th, 2889, being the day set for his
resurrection, it was proposed to Mr. Smith that he should permit the
second part of the experiment to be performed at his residence this
"Agreed. Be here at ten o'clock," answered Mr. Smith; and with that the
day's audience was closed.
Left to himself, feeling tired, he lay down on an extension chair. Then,
touching a knob, he established communication with the Central Concert
Hall, whence our greatest _maestros_ send out to subscribers their
delightful successions of accords determined by recondite algebraic
formulas. Night was approaching. Entranced by the harmony, forgetful of
the hour, Smith did not notice that it was growing dark. It was quite
dark when he was aroused by the sound of a door opening. "Who is there?"
he asked, touching a commutator.
Suddenly, in consequence of the vibrations produced, the air became
"Ah! you, Doctor?"
"Yes," was the reply. "How are you?"
"I am feeling well."
"Good! Let me see your tongue. All right! Your pulse. Regular! And your
"Only passably good."
"Yes, the stomach. There's the rub. You are over-worked. If your stomach
is out of repair, it must be mended. That requires study. We must think
"In the meantime," said Mr. Smith, "you will dine with me."
As in the morning, the table rose out of the floor. Again, as in the
morning, the _potage, roti, ragouts_, and _legumes_ were supplied
through the food-pipes. Toward the close of the meal, phonotelephotic
communication was made with Paris. Smith saw his wife, seated alone at
the dinner-table, looking anything but pleased at her loneliness.
"Pardon me, my dear, for having left you alone," he said through the
telephone. "I was with Dr. Wilkins."
"Ah, the good doctor!" remarked Mrs. Smith, her countenance lighting up.
"Yes. But, pray, when are you coming home?"
"Very well. Do you come by tube or by air-train?"
"Oh, by tube."
"Yes; and at what hour will you arrive?"
"About eleven, I suppose."
"Eleven by Centropolis time, you mean?"
"Good-by, then, for a little while," said Mr. Smith as he severed
communication with Paris.
Dinner over, Dr. Wilkins wished to depart. "I shall expect you at ten,"
said Mr Smith. "To-day, it seems, is the day for the return to life of
the famous Dr. Faithburn. You did not think of it, I suppose. The
awakening is to take place here in my house. You must come and see. I
shall depend on your being here."
"I will come back," answered Dr. Wilkins.
Left alone, Mr. Smith busied himself with examining his accounts--a task
of vast magnitude, having to do with transactions which involve a daily
expenditure of upward of $800,000. Fortunately, indeed, the stupendous
progress of mechanic art in modern times makes it comparatively easy.
Thanks to the Piano Electro-Reckoner, the most complex calculations can
be made in a few seconds. In two hours Mr. Smith completed his task.
Just in time. Scarcely had he turned over the last page when Dr. Wilkins
arrived. After him came the body of Dr. Faithburn, escorted by a
numerous company of men of science. They commenced work at once. The
casket being laid down in the middle of the room, the telephote was got
in readiness. The outer world, already notified, was anxiously
expectant, for the whole world could be eye-witnesses of the
performance, a reporter meanwhile, like the chorus in the ancient drama,
explaining it all _viva voce_ through the telephone.
"They are opening the casket," he explained. "Now they are taking
Faithburn out of it--a veritable mummy, yellow, hard, and dry. Strike
the body and it resounds like a block of wood. They are now applying
heat; now electricity. No result. These experiments are suspended for a
moment while Dr. Wilkins makes an examination of the body. Dr. Wilkins,
rising, declares the man to be dead. 'Dead!' exclaims every one present.
'Yes,' answers Dr. Wilkins, 'dead!' 'And how long has he been dead?' Dr.
Wilkins makes another examination. 'A hundred years,' he replies."
The case stood just as the reporter said. Faithburn was dead, quite
certainly dead! "Here is a method that needs improvement," remarked Mr.
Smith to Dr. Wilkins, as the scientific committee on hibernation bore
the casket out. "So much for that experiment. But if poor Faithburn is
dead, at least he is sleeping," he continued. "I wish I could get some
sleep. I am tired out, Doctor, quite tired out! Do you not think that a
bath would refresh me?"
"Certainly. But you must wrap yourself up well before you go out into
the hall-way. You must not expose yourself to cold."
"Hall-way? Why, Doctor, as you well know, everything is done by
machinery here. It is not for me to go to the bath; the bath will come
to me. Just look!" and he pressed a button. After a few seconds a faint
rumbling was heard, which grew louder and louder. Suddenly the door
opened, and the tub appeared.
Such, for this year of grace 2889, is the history of one day in the life
of the editor of the Earth Chronicle. And the history of that one day
is the history of 365 days every year, except leap-years, and then of
366 days--for as yet no means has been found of increasing the length of
the terrestrial year.
Jules Verne's short story: In The Year 2889
The Sum of All Fears
Journey to the Center of the Earth
By John Pirillo
No one knew how long they'd been down under as they were beginning to call their trek through the vast, seemingly unending tunnels and labyrinths of stone and molten lava rivers. Yet, no matter how far they walked, or how long, it seemed the path was never ending.
Once they had gotten excited when they found what could not be ignored: Proof that Jules Verne had actually made a trek beneath the earth. The only question was how he had gotten so far and how he had found his way back home. Perhaps more importantly yet, why?
Why had he made the journey?
Why had he risked his life and that of his party of brave friends?
What had they hoped to achieve?
If they could answer one of those questions it might yet help them determine a positive and perhaps saving turn in their own downward spiral...it had to be that...into the interior of the planet, Earth.
Rush, a former explorer, had been at the height of his career, preparing to ascend Mount Everest with the woman of his life, whom he had been fighting with in their mountain chalet in Switzerland when the Big One struck.
His fortune, his fame, his life, his love had all been swept away by cascading avalanches of snow, ice and rising walls of lake water.
Just like that Rush had lost everything. All hope. All life.
It had taken the Special Forces and their mission to enliven his heart again. That and finding men and women, who like himself, were haunted by a past they hoped to forget and a future they hoped to save.
Everett was a spicy Brit, a Professor, a climatologist who had warned everyone that something big was in the air, but no one had believed him. And after it happened, no one believed it then either. He had been there in London, just a short distance from the famous headquarters of the last two Beatles when the Big One had struck.
He had watched in horror as building had been lifted like child's toys and plummeted back to the ground in thousands of pieces, seen civilians smashed, rended, and torn by flying debris, collapsing edifices, and hurtling pieces of metallic cars that had lost control.
Both men had a lot to forget and now. And now?
Rush and Everett looked more and more like the cavemen they were beginning to look like. They had both given up trying to keep their beards shaved and their hair short. Now, they just threw their beards over their shoulders, and wrapped their hair in tight bundles on top their heads.
"If the President could see us now, he'd think he'd gone back in time." Everett grouched, picking at the tiny creatures that now inhabited his scalp and hair. Yeah. It was hell down there. Bugs were everywhere. All sizes.
"Rowlf!" Their tall bug like companion noted and both men just grunted, sounding like Cavemen too.
Rowlf barked in his grinding low voice and both men did their best to ignore his laughter. It was becoming more and more irritating and besides he was starting to look like a walking turkey breast. None of them had eaten for about eleven days now. Water was abundant. Their trek had brought them to an underground stream that poured downwards along their path.
Without the water, no doubt both men would have died long ago. Both were familiar with the concept of fasting, but neither particularly enjoyed having to do one because they had no other choice. It's one thing to fast when you know you can raid that frig at any given time, but when the only thing you can raid is an eight foot plus Insectoid, who also happened to be a friend, then fasting became distasteful as well as painful.
"Remember when there used to be KFCS all over the place." Rush reminisced during one of their more and more frequent stops.
Rowlf listened behind them, still as a statue, for some reason he'd become more and more quiet as the two men slowly starved to death. Whether it was because he feared for their lives, or was himself beginning to see them as walking meals, no one knew. No one wanted to conjecture or voice their own fears, knowing each had enough as it was to weigh their minds down.
"Yeah. And the fries at Burger King. Those new fancy ones that were low fat." Everett added, wiping at the spittle gathering in his mouth as his hunger pains kicked in again.
Last time they did that he had thrown up.
It was supposed to make you throw up. Being hungry, but when the stomach hurt that bad, it no longer obeyed the laws of the universe, but began turning in on itself. He could tell his body was beginning to eat itself up. He could put a finger around his wrist effortlessly. Before it would have taken his hand to do that.
Rush nodded. "And when grasshoppers and night bugs were the worst of it."
Rush glanced over at Rowlf, who was still silent. "My apologies, Rowlf, no insult intended to your family line.
"Rowlf nots buggy." He finally said, then lapsed into silence.
Everett looked at Rush. "See! Now look what you've done. You've insulted our meal...I mean our best friend."
Rowlf stomped off, leaving the two of them behind.
Everett pulled himself up and wobbled on his legs a moment, then sat back down.
"Great! Just when dinner was getting so close."
Everett chuckled. "You know I didn't mean it."
"Yeah, but he doesn't!"
Everett sighed. "Do you ever wonder...?"
"If we're the last humans?"
"Constantly." Rush said with a grunt, picking at another critter trying to get into his right ear. He caught it and held its struggling form out before his friend. "Whose turn?"
Rush made a face and popped the bug into his mouth and began chewing it. For a brief moment it struggled for its life before his teeth mashed it into bug matter and juices, which he savored for the length of time it lasted. About two seconds.
" For all we know the Hollow Earth Special Forces are just echoes streaming down towards the center of the earth now, hollow memories in a hollow world of hollow souls fleeing to nothing and nowhere."
"Wow! That was really philosophical." Rush pointed out with a sigh. He scratched at his head and clasped another struggling critter between his fingers.
Everett scowled at the creature and shook his head. "I'd rather die."
"You will die if you don't eat." Rush reminded him.
"We're dying anyway. They're living off us. We're living off them. The balance is shifting not to us, but to them. You know it. I know it. We're just meals on wheels."
He barked with laughter.
Rush joined him.
The two men stopped as suddenly as they had started.
"I wonder what it's like to be with a woman again."
Everett looked over. "What? My hair too much for you?"
"You idiot! I like girls, not Neanderthals!"
Everett made a girl swing of his beard hairs and a cutesy smile, fluttering his eyes in a mock flirtaceous glance at his friend. "Not even once...for old time's sake?"
Rush scowled at him. "There's never been an old time's sake and there's not going to be a new time's sake. We'll be dead first."
Everett let his beard hairs drop back over his shoulder again and sighed. "Do you think angels have sex?"
Both men got very, very tight faces and then they broke into a laughter so bright and clean that both got their energy back, even if temporarily.
Rush stood up, t hen gave his friend a hand up.
They leaned on their stone spears and eyed the direction Rowlf had gone. "Down or sideways?" Rush asked.
Everett snorted. "Does it even matter?"
"Well, for one the water goes down...."
"And for two, Rowlf went that way."
"He's our friend." Everett agreed.
Without another world both men made their way along the moss lit path that wound round and round great glowing lichen covered boulders and past glowing streams of lava that coursed in channels parallel to the water they needed to survive.
As they descended the path broadened.
Everett suddenly stopped and put a hand up.
Rush looked at him, almost falling over he was so weak.
Everett grabbed him to steady him. "You smell that?"
Everett pointed ahead. "That. That!"
Then Rush smelled it.
Both men held onto each other and hobbled as fast as they could to reach the origin of the smell. They forced their sore feet, their weak muscles, their tight backs and sore arms to carry them the hundred yards necessary to reach a weak fire, set by a stream of molten lava.
Rowlf sat there on a stone, while he rolled over with a thinner stone, shaped like a branch, several odd looking bloated things that steamed in a bowl of water he had forced from the flowing stream to lay next to the molten lava and warm it up to cooking temperature.
Both men stumbled to a stop as Rowlf turned to eye them. "Twaste wike chicken!"
He cackled and both men laughed.
"I don't care if it tastes like my old tennies right about now." Russ said, and then his eyes rolled up in his head and he fainted dead away.
Rowlf got up and hurried over to Everett who was barely able to lay his friend down, before he also collapsed. He lay beside Russ and closed his eyes.
"Whatever you do, Rowlf. Don't bury me next to that lice infected sonuva bitch, will ya?"
And then he lost consciousness as well.
A bright light flickered in his face.
"Go away!" He cursed.
The light flickered again.
"I said go away!" He cursed even louder.
Then something stuck him in the arm. He screamed, and then woke up all the way.
General Miles Davison loomed over him, watching with a smile, as Nurse Betty administered to him. She stabbed him with another shot, after which he cursed again, but not at her, instead at Russ who lay next to him, watching silently.
Russ reached a hand over. "We made it, pal."
Everett looked again at Nurse Betty. "Do you like to dance?"
She stabbed him with a third shot and he began to lose consciousness. "That isn't an answer." He slurred, and then vanished in a peaceful slumber.
She turned to Russ, who was looking ready to go out himself. "If it wasn't for your friend, Rowlf finding us, you'd both be dead. What in the world did you two eat that horrid thing for?"
Russ grinned. "When in Rome..."
General Miles sat down next to Russ and patted him on the knee.
Then Russ became aware that dozens of men and women were gathered about him and Everett, all smiling. "Did I die and go to heaven. And if I did, why aren't any of you wearing wings?"
Nurse Betty laughed and turned to General Miles. "Can I keep this one?"
And that sweet voice was all that Russ heard for the next sixty four hours as he descended deeper and deeper into the Hollow Earth alongside his best friends, Everett and Rowlf, as they searched for a way home.