Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

George J. Rios, M.P.A., Ph.D. has distinguished himself with nine Public Service appointments including three White House assignments spanning five presidential administrations and is a former New York City Commissioner. He renders a unique service to science-fiction aficionados with his scholarly researched and adapted translation of Jules Verne's preeminent novel.

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Masters of the Sea

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Chapter One

It was a clear afternoon in May of 1867, several miles north of Trieste, Austria. An emerald forest forms a link there with an Eastern spur of the Alps. Millions of evergreen pines converge into dense green foliage. There are no large beasts of prey, so these mossy woods teem with frolicking rabbits, foxes, squirrels, and deer that dart playfully among the conifers. Under the luxuriant foliage, the forest floor is carpeted with colorful flowers. Thousands of narcissus, lilies of the valley, primroses, hepatica, sunflowers, and morning-glories offer up fragrances that permeate the air. A joyous chorus of birds resounds through this glorious temple. The beautiful harmony beats on, like the pulse of eternity-until it is sacrilegiously interrupted.

The symphony reluctantly dies down. In its place is heard the beating and flapping of countless wings, rushing frightened upward, a rising flutter like an army on the march. Suddenly, streaking down out of the blinding sun at 180 miles per hour, six peregrine falcons tear into the flock of fleeing birds. These trained demons particularly chase after the beautiful feathered herons, flamingoes, and birds of paradise. They strike with clenched talons, ripping, slashing, and rending defenseless with the force of their impact.

The sky fills with bloodstained feathers. Death cries are cut short by the thud of falling bodies. Finally, a piercing whistle signals the massacre is over. Then silence prevails. The marauding falcons hover in the blue sky, the fierce orbs of their alert dark eyes contradicting their lofty bearing and nobility.

In a forest clearing below, fifteen aproned men busily collect the fallen birds with routine deftness, separating the feathers into large baskets. Trailing behind them are two bowmen, three women, and seven uniformed horsemen, their mounts richly harnessed. All but the two bowmen are gaily attired, as if they were on a Sunday picnic.

It was during the reign of Elizabeth I that feathers began to occupy an important place as accessories for women. Among the aristocracy of Austria, feather-gathering forays had become quite popular as a result. The women now busied themselves with the feathers, holding them up for inspection, giggling. One woman picked out a particularly attractive pair, while a second smiled in delight when she found matches for the pure white and jet-black male ostrich feathers adorning the brim of her hat. A third woman greedily snatched up more feathers and began attaching them to her already filled bonnet. Satisfied with the attentions of her two friends, she replaced her hat on her head with a flourish, evidently convinced she was beautiful. The horsemen, afraid of being considered discourteous, smiled dutifully.

The falconers blew their high-pitched whistles and the falcons began returning to their heavily gloved hands. Soft leather hoods called rufters covered each falcon's eyes, and soon the party was ready to depart. The two falconers dropped back and looked skyward, where a lone falcon stubbornly refused to obey the signal that the hunt was over. She hung in the air, her hooked bill toothed and notched, while far below, her master, Sarcany, narrowed his dark eyes. A fairly handsome man of twenty-five, he now looked cold and deadly. His Sicilian companion, Zirone, peered on with utter indifference.

Sarcany had no other name. He probably hailed from Tunisia or Tripoli, or some other North African region. Although his features were more white than black, no eye could discern on his face the inner stigma of contempt, dislike, and disgust that had bred within him a perpetual state of revolt against society. If physionomists claim-and they are right in most cases-that all deception shows against oneself in spite of cunning, Sarcany would give a categorical refutation to the proposition.

Looking at him, no one could tell what he was or what he had been. He did not provoke the aversion that greets thieves and rogues, and so he was more dangerous. His diverse experiences had taken him to many parts of the world and exposed him to a wide variety of people, including one of the wealthiest families of Trieste-that of Silas Toronthal, the banker.

Unlike the departing group, whose laughter may have been directed at him, Sarcany had a functional approach to his apparel. He dug his heel into the earth, as if to strike back at their laughter.

Zirone was thinner and shorter than Sarcany. A soldier of fortune, without faith of any kind and subservient to no law, Zirone was at the disposition of the first person who paid him well or the second who paid him better. He was as capable of giving bad advice as taking it, and certainly of assuring its execution. Where he was born he might have said, if he knew.

Some time ago, back in Sicily, the luck of a bohemian life had brought him together with Sarcany. Since then, they had stayed together through thick and thin, trying by hook and by crook to make one good fortune from their two bad ones. Zirone sported a full, cheerful, deep brown beard and a thick mat of dark hair. He had trouble concealing his natural deceitfulness, always betrayed by his half-closed eyes and swaying head. He wisely sought to conceal his true nature with constant chatter and a cheerful demeanor.

Today, Zirone sensed Sarcany's dark mood and spoke with considerable tact. Like a stoic sergeant, through gritted teeth, Zirone said, "Our luck is as bad as that falcon's hearing. You know what I'd like?"

"A girlfriend?" Sarcany replied.

Ignoring this jibe, Zirone continued, "I'd like to see your banker friend, Silas Toronthal, produce a fistful of money-a wad big enough to choke a horse. If we don't come up with some dough soon, our creditors are going to eat us alive, just like those falcons devoured those birds. Surely you know something that might give you a bargaining position, or a hold on that banker?"

Zirone noted carefully that Sarcany was still steely-eyed. "Listen to me well, Zirone. For the last time, I repeat, we can hope for nothing further from Silas Toronthal. He didn't become a successful banker by giving his money away. The few favors I did for him are filed under accounts closed. What I hold over him is best forgotten, since it would cause me even greater trouble. Besides, if I did have a grip on him, he'd already be paying capital, interest, and interest on the interest."

Sarcany looked up as if the subject had not changed. "As for the falcon, she hears better than you or I," he said. "She's as stubborn as a nagging wife."

During an all-night spree, with a last roll of the dice in a seedy gambling house, Lady Luck had turned her back on the pair, draining their purses. Providence was apparently in no hurry to come to their assistance, so they had decided to search for better luck by joining this excursion. They were motivated by the free lunch and the chance to make some interesting-if not immediately profitable-contacts.

Sarcany's thoughts now turned away from the previous night to the modest hotel near the Santa Maria Maggiore church, in the old part of Trieste, where they lodged. He was thinking of the hotelkeeper, who was yet unpaid and obviously annoyed by watching their debt grow day by day. A faint smile curled at the corner of his lip. "The hotelkeeper must be wondering how we have...