The Second Deluge | Page 2

he was laboring to save his very soul and had but a few seconds of
respite left.
Presently he threw down the pencil, and with astonishing agility let
himself rapidly, but carefully, off the stool on which he had been sitting,
keeping the palms of his hands on the seat beside his hips until he felt
his feet touch the floor. Then he darted at a book-shelf, pulled down a
ponderous tome, flapped it open in a clear space on the floor, and
dropped on his knees to consult it.

After turning a leaf or two he found what he was after, read down the
page, keeping a finger on the lines, and, having finished his reading,
jumped to his feet and hurried back to the stool, on which he mounted
so quickly that it was impossible to see how he managed it--without an
upset. Instantly he made a new diagram, and then fell to figuring
furiously on the pad, making his pencil gyrate so fast that its upper end
vibrated like the wing of a dragon-fly.
At last he threw down the pencil, and, encircling his knees with his
clasped arms, sank in a heap on the stool. The lids dropped over his
shining eyes, and he became buried in thought.
When he reopened his eyes and unbent his brows, his gaze happened to
be directed toward a row of curious big photographs which ran like a
pictured frieze round the upper side of the wall of the room. A casual
observer might have thought that the little man had been amusing
himself by photographing the explosions of fireworks on a Fourth of
July night; but it was evident by his expression that these singular
pictures had no connection with civic pyrotechnics, but must represent
something of incomparably greater importance, and, in fact, of
stupendous import.
The little man's face took on a rapt look, in which wonder and fear
seemed to be blended. With a sweep of his hand he included the whole
series of photographs in a comprehensive glance, and then, settling his
gaze upon a particularly bizarre object in the center, he began to speak
aloud, although there was nobody to listen to him.
"My God!" he said. "That's it! That Lick photograph of the Lord Rosse
Nebula is its very image, except that there's no electric fire in it. The
same great whirl of outer spirals, and then comes the awful central
mass--and we're going to plunge straight into it. Then quintillions of
tons of water will condense on the earth and cover it like a universal
cloudburst. And then good-by to the human race--unless--unless--I,
Cosmo Versál, inspired by science, can save a remnant to repeople the
planet after the catastrophe."
Again, for a moment, he closed his eyes, and puckered his

hemispherical brow, while, with drawn-up knees, he seemed perilously
balanced on the high stool. Several times he slowly shook his head, like
a dreaming owl, and when his eyes reopened their fire was gone, and a
reflective film covered them. He began to speak, more deliberately than
before, and in a musing tone:
"What can I do? I don't believe there is a mountain on the face of the
globe lofty enough to lift its head above that flood. Hum, hum! It's no
use thinking about mountains! The flood will be six miles deep--six
miles from the present sea-level; my last calculation proves it beyond
all question. And that's only a minimum--it may be miles deeper, for no
mortal man can tell exactly what'll happen when the earth plunges into
a nebula.
"We'll have to float; that's the thing. I'll have to build an ark. I'll be a
second Noah. But I'll advise the whole world to build arks.
"Millions might save themselves that way, for the flood is not going to
last forever. We'll get through the nebula in a few months, and then the
waters will gradually recede, and the high lands will emerge again. It'll
be an awful long time, though; I doubt if the earth will ever be just as it
was before. There won't be much room, except for fish--but there won't
be many inhabitants for what dry land there is."
Once more he fell into silent meditation, and while he mused there
came a knock at the door. The little man started up on his seat, alert as
a squirrel, and turned his eyes over his shoulder, listening intently. The
knock was repeated--three quick sharp raps. Evidently he at once
recognized them.
"All right," he called out, and, letting himself down, ran swiftly to the
door and opened it.
A tall, thin man, with bushy black hair, heavy eyebrows, a high, narrow
forehead, and a wide, clean shaven mouth, wearing a solemn kind of
smile, entered and grasped the