“Commander Farragut?” said Verne.
“You must be Mr. Verne,” said Farragut.
The author looked surprised. “You know me, sir?”
“I have seen your photograph and I have had the pleasure of reading your Five Weeks in a Balloon. It’s a pleasure to have you aboard, sir. Can it be you are considering turning your talents towards nautical adventure?”
“I have been giving the matter some thought,” said Verne, smiling. “Perhaps this voyage will provide me with some necessary background. I’m afraid I’m liable to make quite a nuisance of myself, pestering everyone with questions. Please do not hesitate to tell me if I begin getting in your way.”
Farragut grinned. “Think nothing of it. You go on ahead and make as much of a nuisance of yourself as you care to. My men know what they’re about. I doubt answering a few questions will get in the way of their performing their duties. They’re all quite looking forward to this venture. It will be something of a pleasure cruise for them.”
“A pleasure cruise? Do I take it, then, you do not believe in this so-called sea monster we are hunting?”
“Quite the contrary. I have been at sea long enough to know that one can never truly know the sea. I think there is something out there, although I doubt it is anything like some creature out of Greek mythology. Whatever it may be, I intend to hunt it down and rid the seas of it.”
“You mean to kill the creature?” Verne said, aghast. “But why? Think of the importance such a find would have to science!”
“With all due respect, Mr. Verne, I strongly suspect your scientific-minded friends would be far happier to have this creature spread out on their dissecting tables rather than have it swimming about on the bottom of the ocean, inaccessible to them,” said Farragut. “As for myself, my first responsibility is to the shipping companies. All this publicity and speculation about a sea monster is causing companies like Lloyd’s to raise their premiums. No one is very happy about the prospect of having to pay more in order to have their ships insured against destruction by some sea monster.”
“Yes, but-but I was under the impression this was to be an expedition of scientific inquiry!” protested Verne.
“And so it is,” said Farragut. “You will find quite a diverse group on board for this voyage. We have sailing with us representatives of the New York Museum of Natural History, the Smithsonian Institution, the Royal Zoological Society and members of the faculties of several universities. I should think you’ll be at no loss for stimulating company. As a matter of fact, if you have not yet had time for dinner, I would suggest you hasten to the wardroom, where our passengers are being served at this very moment. Now if you will excuse me, we shall have to continue this discussion at a future time. I must make preparations for getting under way.”
Verne paused only long enough to check his cabin, which he found he was sharing with someone else judging by the belongings placed there along with his, then proceeded to the wardroom. The other passengers were already sitting down to dinner when he entered. Upon seeing him standing in the doorway, one of the diners stood and beckoned him forward.
“Ah, I see we have a late arrival,” said the man, speaking with a British accent. He was dressed in tweeds and wore thick wire-rimmed glasses. “Please, there is a place beside me here. You are only just in time.”
The other diners started to rise, but Verne quickly waved them back down. “No, no, my friends, please, do not get up on my account.”
He walked over to the seat indicated by the Englishman.
“Permit me to perform the introductions,” said the Britisher. “This is Dr. Samuelson, of the Smithsonian.” He indicated the man to his immediate left, a dapper, distinguished-looking gentleman with thinning gray hair, horn-rimmed glasses and a moustache. “Dr. Vandenburg, of the Museum of Natural History here in New York.” The man he indicated nodded briefly, gazing out at Verne from beneath large, bushy black eyebrows. There were bread crumbs in his walruslike moustache. “Professor Priest of the University of Maine.” Lucas nodded at him with a smile. “Dr. Delaney of the University of Boston and his associate, Professor Cross; Mr. Ned Land-”
“Of the university of hard knocks,” said the brawny Land, with a wide grin, his blue eyes glinting with amusement at being included among such distinguished company.
“And, of course, myself. My name is Devries. Dr. Reginald Fitzhugh Devries, of the Royal Zoological Society.”
“I am pleased to meet you all,” said Verne, taking his seat. “My name is Verne. Jules Verne. And that would be Mister, not Doctor or Professor, please.”
Priest and Delaney exchanged quick glances.
“Ah, yes, the eminent author,” said Samuelson. “I had heard you would be sailing with us. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Verne. Tell me, did those newspapermen outside descend upon you, as well?”
“I am afraid so,” said Verne. “I attempted to reply to their queries to the best of my limited ability, but I was left with the feeling I had not told them quite what they wished to hear.”
“What did you tell them?” Devries said.
Verne sugared his coffee and briefly recapped the interview for their benefit. Samuelson chuckled.
“What do you want to bet tomorrow’s papers carry drawings of behemoth, horned whales with tusks like woolly mammoths beneath the headline, ‘Eminent Author and Scientist Describes Sea Monster’?”
Verne looked wounded.
“Oh, now don’t look that way, Verne. It wasn’t your fault. Newspapermen hear only what they want to hear and they write it up the way they feel their readers will wish to read it.”
“Never talk to ‘em, myself,” growled Vandenburg.
“This is most distressing,” Verne said. “I was most careful to say I was only speaking in terms of theory and supposition-”
“Don’t you worry about it, mate,” said Land. “It’ll all be old news in another week or so and nobody’ll remember it.”
“Well, what did you tell them, Mr. Land?” said Verne.
Land threw back his head and laughed. “What, me? Hell, they didn’t want to talk to me! I’m no scientist fellow like you folks and I’m no famous writer, either. I ain’t important enough for them to bother with.”
“May one inquire, then, what it is you do, Mr. Land?” said Verne, politely.
“Me, I’m a harpooner by trade.”
“A harpooner!”
“That’s right. Best there is, too.” In French, he added, “I’m the one that’s going to catch that fish so these stuffed shirts here can fillet it.”
Lucas, Finn, and Andre smiled, while Devries cleared his throat softly.
“I’m afraid one of the hazards of associating with learned people is they might be multilingual,” Verne said, smiling and giving a sidelong look to Devries. Vandenburg alone seemed to have missed the comment. “You are Canadian?”
“Quebec, born and bred,” said Land, not at all apologetic for his comment. “I come from a long line of whalers. Makes no difference to me whether this whale has tusks or horns or what-have-you. A fish is a fish, far as I’m concerned.”
“Mr. Land, here, does not believe in our aquatic mammal,” said Devries. “It seems only we stuffed shirts are quite so gullible as to give credence to such a theory.”
“Is that so, Mr. Land?” said Verne.
“Just call me Ned,” said Land. “All this Mister this, Professor that, and Doctor whoever makes my head swim.”
“Well, all right, then, Ned. And you must call me Jules.”
“And a fine French name, it is,” said Land. “My grand father was named Jules. But to answer your question, no, I do not.”
“But, Ned, you, a whaler by profession, familiar with all the great marine mammalia, surely you ought to be the last to doubt under such circumstances!”
“That’s just the point, Jules,” Land said. “As a harpooner, I’ve followed many a whale, killed a great number, too. No matter how strong or how large or, like your narwhal, how well armed they may have been, not a one of ‘em would even have been able to scratch the iron plates of a steamer.”