The Greatest Sci-Fi Tales Ever Written. Джек Лондон

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      “And in the meantime,” said my uncle rather spitefully, “strangers —”

      “Well, what would you have? Foreigners have their libraries at home, and the first essential for labouring people is that they should be educated. I repeat to you the love of reading runs in Icelandic blood. In 1816 we founded a prosperous literary society; learned strangers think themselves honoured in becoming members of it. It publishes books which educate our fellow-countrymen, and do the country great service. If you will consent to be a corresponding member, Herr Liedenbrock, you will be giving us great pleasure.”

      My uncle, who had already joined about a hundred learned societies, accepted with a grace which evidently touched M. Fridrikssen.

      “Now,” said he, “will you be kind enough to tell me what books you hoped to find in our library and I may perhaps enable you to consult them?”

      My uncle’s eyes and mine met. He hesitated. This direct question went to the root of the matter. But after a moment’s reflection he decided on speaking.

      “Monsieur Fridrikssen, I wished to know if amongst your ancient books you possessed any of the works of Arne Saknussemm?”

      “Arne Saknussemm!” replied the Rejkiavik professor. “You mean that learned sixteenth century savant, a naturalist, a chemist, and a traveller?”

      “Just so!”

      “One of the glories of Icelandic literature and science?”

      “That’s the man.”

      “An illustrious man anywhere!”

      “Quite so.”

      “And whose courage was equal to his genius!”

      “I see that you know him well.”

      My uncle was bathed in delight at hearing his hero thus described. He feasted his eyes upon M. Fridrikssen’s face.

      “Well,” he cried, “where are his works?”

      “His works, we have them not.”

      “What - not in Iceland?”

      “They are neither in Iceland nor anywhere else.”

      “Why is that?”

      “Because Arne Saknussemm was persecuted for heresy, and in 1573 his books were burned by the hands of the common hangman.”

      “Very good! Excellent!” cried my uncle, to the great scandal of the professor of natural history.

      “What!” he cried.

      “Yes, yes; now it is all clear, now it is all unravelled; and I see why Saknussemm, put into the Index Expurgatorius, and compelled to hide the discoveries made by his genius, was obliged to bury in an incomprehensible cryptogram the secret -“

      “What secret?” asked M. Fridrikssen, starting.

      “Oh, just a secret which -” my uncle stammered.

      “Have you some private document in your possession?” asked our host.

      “No; I was only supposing a case.”

      “Oh, very well,” answered M. Fridrikssen, who was kind enough not to pursue the subject when he had noticed the embarrassment of his friend. “I hope you will not leave our island until you have seen some of its mineralogical wealth.”

      “Certainly,” replied my uncle; “but I am rather late; or have not others been here before me?”

“Yes, Herr Liedenbrock; the labours of MM. Olafsen and Povelsen, pursued by order of the king, the researches of Troïl the scientific mission of MM. Gaimard and Robert on the French corvette La Recherche,6 and lately the observations of scientific men who came in the Reine Hortense, have added materially to our knowledge of Iceland. But I assure you there is plenty left.”

      “Do you think so?” said my uncle, pretending to look very modest, and trying to hide the curiosity was flashing out of his eyes.

      “Oh, yes; how many mountains, glaciers, and volcanoes there are to study, which are as yet but imperfectly known! Then, without going any further, that mountain in the horizon. That is Snæfell.”

      “Ah!” said my uncle, as coolly as he was able, “is that Snæfell?”

      “Yes; one of the most curious volcanoes, and the crater of which has scarcely ever been visited.”

      “Is it extinct?”

      “Oh, yes; more than five hundred years.”

      “Well,” replied my uncle, who was frantically locking his legs together to keep himself from jumping up in the air, “that is where I mean to begin my geological studies, there on that Seffel - Fessel - what do you call it?”

      “Snæfell,” replied the excellent M. Fridrikssen.

      This part of the conversation was in Latin; I had understood every word of it, and I could hardly conceal my amusement at seeing my uncle trying to keep down the excitement and satisfaction which were brimming over in every limb and every feature. He tried hard to put on an innocent little expression of simplicity; but it looked like a diabolical grin.

      “Yes,” said he, “your words decide me. We will try to scale that Snæfell; perhaps even we may pursue our studies in its crater!”

      “I am very sorry,” said M. Fridrikssen, “that my engagements will not allow me to absent myself, or I would have accompanied you myself with both pleasure and profit.”

      “Oh, no, no!” replied my uncle with great animation, “we would not disturb any one for the world, M. Fridrikssen. Still, I thank you with all my heart: the company of such a talented man would have been very serviceable, but the duties of your profession -“

      I am glad to think that our host, in the innocence of his Icelandic soul, was blind to the transparent artifices of my uncle.

      “I very much approve of your beginning with that volcano, M. Liedenbrock. You will gather a harvest of interesting observations. But, tell me, how do you expect to get to the peninsula of Snæfell?”

      “By sea, crossing the bay. That’s the most direct way.”

      “No doubt; but it is impossible.”

      “Why? “

      “Because we don’t possess a single boat at Rejkiavik.”

      “You don’t mean to say so?”

      “You will have to go by land, following the shore. It will be longer, but more interesting.”

      “Very well, then; and now I shall have to see about a guide.”

      “I have one to offer you.”

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