Nemo awoke to find himself sprawled in a desolate caldera among the chunks of his shattered fungus lifeboat. At least the spongy mushroom flesh had cushioned his fall.

Groggy, he raised his head and looked at his surroundings, a rocky wasteland frosted with ice and snow. Brimstone-smelling fumaroles hissed from the inner walls of the volcanic crater.

When he sat up, shaking his head to clear the fuzziness of pain and unconsciousness, he was startled to see a man dressed in warm clothes standing behind him up the slope. The man, with spectacles and a neat white beard, furrowed his brow in perplexity as he appraised this strange and unexpected offering from the volcano.

He spoke in a nasal, looping language that Nemo did not understand. The young man shook his head, and the stranger spoke again in a different language, one he recognized as German. When finally the man attempted French, Nemo understood him. "I certainly hope you can explain your presence, Monsieur," the stranger said. "I am most curious."

These were the first friendly words Nemo had heard in more than seven years -- since the day he had climbed to the lookout post of the Coralie Coralie under Captain Grant's orders and saw a pirate ship approaching. under Captain Grant's orders and saw a pirate ship approaching.

"I . . . can explain myself." His little-used voice sounded rusty and hoa.r.s.e in his throat. "But I don't know if you'll believe me."

xi

Disappointingly, Alexandre Dumas found both of Verne's historical plays -- his "serious work" -- to be forced and tedious. Without promise.

On his way back from his second trip to Monte Cristo two weeks later, Verne sulked in the carriage, staring at the piles of paper on which Dumas had scrawled his comments. The wheels crashed over a pothole, and Verne didn't even look up. He flipped from page to page, eyes burning, face hot, as he read insult after insult. Did the great man think he had no talent at all?

He picked up the next ma.n.u.script and tossed aside the romantic poetry -- "pure drivel" -- that he had also presented to Dumas. Verne wanted to just throw himself from the carriage and into the Seine. A man like Dumas couldn't possibly be wrong in his opinion.

Oddly, the enormous writer had actually found merit in a light romantic farce Verne had written, called Broken Straws Broken Straws. Still stinging from the criticism of his more ambitious works, Verne reread the encouragement as if he were swallowing medicine. In his own mind, this piece was but a slight comedy, nothing respectable, nothing like the important works of Balzac or Hugo. . . . But he buoyed up his confidence to read the words, in Dumas's own hand, that Broken Straws Broken Straws showed a bit of promise. "With appropriate fixing." showed a bit of promise. "With appropriate fixing."

Then the most enthralling note of all: Dumas promised to stage the humorous production at his Theatre Historique, after Verne (and Dumas) had made the necessary revisions.

Although Broken Straws Broken Straws was lost in the volume of plays and operas performed on the boulevard du Temple, it drew enough of an audience that it played for twelve nights running. This earned Jules Verne a few sous and, most important, paid back the production costs, so that it was not the utter failure he had feared it might be. was lost in the volume of plays and operas performed on the boulevard du Temple, it drew enough of an audience that it played for twelve nights running. This earned Jules Verne a few sous and, most important, paid back the production costs, so that it was not the utter failure he had feared it might be.

Heady with success and delighted at the expansive future before him, Verne did everything that Dumas suggested to him, though the great novelist still didn't ask him to join his stable of writing a.s.sistants. Verne would somehow have to make it on his own, work harder, try over and over again . . . and still maintain his legal studies, so that his father never knew.

Dumas urged Verne to write articles for popular science magazines and the children's publications of the day. Verne made only a little money at this, but even a few extra coins per month helped -- and he was taking tentative steps down a glorious literary path that stretched in front of him. Seeing his name in print provided more excitement than the best pa.s.sing grade in the most difficult of cla.s.ses.

Jules Verne decided he just might become an author after all . . . if only he could find something interesting enough to write about about.

xii

Nemo's bespectacled rescuer was named Arne Saknusemm, a cave explorer and amateur geologist, who enjoyed poking around in volcanic craters. He helped Nemo to his feet, steadying him on the steep slope of rubble.

"Which island is this?" Nemo shivered in his tattered clothes that had been pieced together for use in a tropical climate. "Where am I? It's so cold."

Saknusemm scratched his trim beard. "This is Iceland, Monsieur. You are inside the crater of the volcano Scartaris."

Nemo reeled. Iceland Iceland? He had come from his mysterious island in the South China Sea. Yet he had descended close to the center of the hollow Earth, drifted across a subterranean ocean, and emerged again at a different point on the Earth's surface.

As Saknusemm led him up a toiling path to the crater rim, the old mountaineer explained that he had studied countless texts in many languages. "There's not much else to do on this island. The winters are long and hard, and I enjoy sitting by the fireplace."

Saknusemm had noticed a blast of steam venting from the volcano and had come to investigate. The mountaineer had witnessed any number of geological marvels -- but never a bedraggled young man emerging from under the Earth.

Nemo's limbs trembled with relief. He was unable to believe he had reached human company in a place which, while not exactly civilized, was at least a recognizable point on a map. From here, he could find pa.s.sage back to Europe -- back to France.

Back . . . home.

The two climbed to the rim of the tall volcano. Nemo looked across the sparkling glaciers and the white peaks of the great island that had been settled by Vikings so long before. Despite the breathtaking scenery, the wonder that captivated Nemo most was simply the sight of the bright yellow sun in a blue sky -- where it belonged.

Saknusemm took Nemo back to his home, where the young man stayed for several months, recuperating and learning what had happened in the world during his absence (though Iceland was by no means privy to the most recent news, either).

It took Saknusemm until late spring to arrange pa.s.sage for his guest aboard one of the infrequent sailing ships. Over many quiet nights, Nemo repaid his host by recounting his strange adventures on the island and in the fascinating subterranean world. The geologist queried him about the fine points of his story, hearing Nemo's tale with keen interest. The wise old mountaineer displayed far less skepticism than Nemo had expected.

When at last it came time for Nemo's ship to depart for Norway, the two made their way to the port of Reykjavik. Nemo embraced the mountaineer and said his farewells, then went aboard. He was a pa.s.senger this time, with a little spending money, fresh clothes -- and a burning need to return to France. And Caroline. And Jules.

Nemo waited on deck, facing into the bl.u.s.tery high-lat.i.tude winds as the crew prepared the ship for departure. The vessel sailed away from Iceland.

Within a week after Nemo had gone, Arne Saknusemm gathered supplies and struck out for the mountains again, climbing the cone of Scartaris and intending to find a pa.s.sage that would take him to the centre of the Earth. . . .

xiii

With its wooden siding and many narrow windows, the playhouse in Nantes seemed so much smaller and less impressive than even the minor theatres in Paris -- but still, this was his home town home town. Jules Verne relished the thought of seeing Broken Straws Broken Straws performed for an audience he had known since childhood . . . and terrified as to what his parents would think. He attended every rehearsal, to ensure the best performance possible. performed for an audience he had known since childhood . . . and terrified as to what his parents would think. He attended every rehearsal, to ensure the best performance possible.

While in Nantes, he stayed at his parents' home, though Pierre Verne didn't know what to say about his son's unexpected literary ambitions. Surely, his parents would relish the fame as much as Verne did. "As long as you don't get too serious about it, Jules," Sophie had cautioned in the wake of her husband's stern admonitions for him to continue his efforts in the legal profession. It meant little to them that he had the unflagging support of the literary master, Alexandre Dumas, but neither of his parents were readers of note.

In high spirits after the successful run at the Theatre Lyrique in Paris, Verne had contacted Caroline Aronnax, back on Ile Feydeau. (He still could not bring himself to think of her as Madame Hatteras.) The date had already been set for the performance in Nantes. Costumes had been made, and dress rehearsals had begun. Verne wanted Caroline to be there to share his moment of glory. It would be his finest hour, and he wanted her beside him, regardless of her marital status.

Urged on by his free-loving literary friends, and embarra.s.sed by his continued bachelorhood, Verne had taken the train back to Nantes for the local theater production of Broken Straws Broken Straws. Using expensive paper and his best penmanship, he sent Caroline a special invitation to join him in his private box.

She had come to meet him at the train station, waving to welcome Verne back to Nantes. c.o.c.king a parasol on her left shoulder, she allowed him to take her arm, which made Verne so giddy he could barely walk a straight line. She strolled beside him along the street toward the blossoming lime trees in front of the Church of St. Martin. "I look forward to your play, Jules, and I gladly accept your invitation to attend."

Behind them, the train let out a shrill whistle then began to chug away from the station. Loud bells clanged the hour at the distant dockyards.

Even through misty eyes, Verne could see that Caroline's smile looked friendly, but no more than that. "However, I believe it would be better if I sat a few rows away. Remember, I am a married woman, Jules."

In the two years Verne had been in Paris, Caroline's husband had sent no word about his search for the Northwest Pa.s.sage. No one had heard from Captain Hatteras or his crew. Granted, the Forward Forward had undertaken a long and hard journey, and it was still possible that everything had gone as planned . . . but she had been with her husband for only a short time in the first place, and now Caroline lived as a veritable widow -- in reality, if not in fact. . . . had undertaken a long and hard journey, and it was still possible that everything had gone as planned . . . but she had been with her husband for only a short time in the first place, and now Caroline lived as a veritable widow -- in reality, if not in fact. . . .

Some time back, when Verne had informed her of receiving Nemo's letter and journal, Caroline had been overjoyed and vowed to do something about it. She had rallied support from her father's merchant fleet, and Monsieur Aronnax had sent letters to shipping companies and foreign amba.s.sadors. The respected merchant had, after all, made the original arrangements to have Nemo ship out on Captain Grant's last voyage. Everyone agreed to search for the mysterious island, using the best descriptions in Nemo's handwritten journal -- but there could be little hope of finding an uncharted speck of land in such a vast seascape.

Verne, however, knew never to underestimate his friend. Nemo had survived for years alone. He must still be alive. . . .

On the opening night of Broken Straws Broken Straws, Nantes received Jules Verne as a minor celebrity, and he pa.s.sed the hours in a daze. During the performance he looked across several rows of seats to catch Caroline's sparkling eyes. His heart warmed when he saw her laugh at the witticisms in his play, at the farcical plot. When the curtain dropped, she was the first to surge to her feet and clap her hands, beaming with obvious pride.

Blushing, Verne pretended to be humbled by the applause and adulation of his former townspeople. But it didn't last.

Though it was a gloomy autumn day in Paris, Verne felt confined and stifled inside his chill room. He decided to eat his lunch outside, despite the rain.

Though safely back among the literary salons and the intelligentsia, he continued to be troubled by unsettled digestion. As a student on a meager budget (much of which went to purchase books and library services), Verne ate far too much cabbage soup and far too little meat. After his success in the Nantes playhouse, he had hoped for a bit more extravagance and luxury in his life, but so far he had seen none of it.

After b.u.t.toning his thin coat, Verne gathered a broken half of stale baguette he'd bought at discount the day before and the dregs of a cheap bottle of wine. Not quite the same as when he'd dined at Monte Cristo with Alexandre Dumas. . . .

He planned to carry his umbrella and sit out in the damp, just breathing and thinking, allowing his imagination to roam. He could soak up the details of life and people around him -- as the great Dumas had suggested he do. It would be fodder for his writing.

Verne glanced out his narrow window and, looking down to the wet streets below, saw a huddled man facing the sidewalk. Paris had many vagrants and strangers, but they had never troubled him. As a student, Verne had few items worth stealing anyway.

Holding his bread, his bottle, and his umbrella, he stepped outside and drew a deep fresh breath. He strode out with his long legs, determined to reach a quiet spot on the Seine at the northern edge of the Latin Quarter, where he could ruminate while he ate his lunch.

Before he could move down the block, the bundled stranger turned and raised a hand. "Jules!" came an astonished voice. "Jules Verne, is it you?"

Verne stopped and looked around, but saw no one else on the street, no place he could hide. He became wary, afraid that this might be some beggar or cutpurse . . . though he had no money for either.

But as the stranger came forward, Verne stared at the dark hair and dark eyes, the changed shape of the face, now drawn and weathered . . . but still with a hint of boyhood familiarity. Verne opened and closed his mouth, yet could not force words to come out. He was unable to believe what he was seeing. The man came forward and embraced him.

Nemo had returned.

Part V

PARIS IN THE 20TH CENTURY.

i

Nantes, 1852.

Standing on the quay, Nemo looked across the Nantes shipyards, shading his dark eyes. It had been more than a decade since he'd departed on Captain Grant's ship, three years since he'd returned -- and so much had changed, both in the world and in himself. He was a man now, though surrounded by boyhood memories that haunted this place -- the best of times and the darkest of nightmares.

In the drydock sh.e.l.ls and launching ramps at Ile Feydeau, he heard loud voices talking, mallets pounding. Someone with a squeezebox sang out a ribald tune to keep his mates moving as they strung rigging on a new ship. His heart grew heavy as he thought of his kind-hearted father working on the doomed Cynthia Cynthia. How many ships and sailors had gone in and out of this port since Nemo had left as a cabin boy aboard the Coralie Coralie?

The tall ships were still here. A few clippers and brigs continued to sail up the Loire bringing in cargo from the Atlantic, though the main business of the city now centered on shipbuilding. The future of Nantes lay in that industry, and now -- by the command of Napoleon III himself -- it was Nemo's job to modernize the old shipyards, to prepare them for the next century.

As a young man, Andre Nemo had left home penniless and fatherless, with no future. Now, with a commission from the Emperor of France, rebuilding the shipyards of Nantes would be but one of Nemo's complex projects.

Since his return from far-off Iceland three years ago, Nemo had attracted much attention because of his extraordinary adventures. But he hadn't wanted to become a celebrity. Instead, he had used his modest fame to arrange for a formal education -- something he could not have achieved as a mere orphan who'd served on a lost sailing ship (and a British-commissioned one, at that).

During his time on the island he'd already learned how to put his imagination to practical use. Before, he'd had access to nothing more than the knowledge in poor Captain Grant's small library. Now, his engineering studies at the Paris Academy opened a new world of resources, and he excelled in public service by using his own skills combined with the raw materials and budget of the country.

The elected president of France, Louis Napoleon, had settled the unrest after the Revolutions of 1848 and recently declared himself Emperor. To sh.o.r.e up his public image and continue the illusion of working to benefit everyday lives, Emperor Napoleon III undertook numerous construction projects. The work had shaken the revolution-scarred populace toward a grudging optimism.

"The empire means peace," Napoleon III had said in one grand speech. "We have immense tracts of uncultivated lands to clear, roads to open, ports to create, ca.n.a.ls to finish, our railway network to complete. These are the conquests I am contemplating, and all French people are my soldiers." Napoleon wanted Paris to make great strides ahead of the rest of Europe. France would lurch into the future, advancing toward the 20th century, years before its time.

So, Andre Nemo worked to design bridges and towers, and, because of his successes, he was also chosen to redesign the shipyards in his hometown of Nantes. He would improve its capabilities as a port and industrial center, and increase its commercial value for foreign trade. The future looked very bright indeed.

Now, Nemo stood on the docks and made a mental list of proposed changes -- dredging the estuary to accommodate larger vessels, widening and reinforcing the quays. He would suggest adding two more dry-dock facilities on either side of the river, and he would recommend that the shipyards concentrate on building new clippers, which were in heavy demand for pa.s.sengers as well as perishable cargo. The first merchant to bring a new harvest to market always commanded the highest price, and clippers could deliver tea from China or delicate spices from the Indies faster than any compet.i.tor.

Coming up the Loire with demonic snorting and clanking, a tall-funneled steamer approached the docks. Gouts of smoke poured from its stack, while paddles churned the river. Nemo had seen only a few of these so-called 'pyroscaphes,' named after the Greek for "fire ship." With continuing progress, he suspected the vessels would become more common, and noisier and smellier.

Nemo paced up and down the riverbank, lost in his own world. He had let his dark hair grow long, as was the fashion in Paris, and he sported a mustache and goatee. Every time he looked in the mirror, he still expected to see the imaginative boy who had left Ile Feydeau; instead, he saw an adult stranger.

Out of practice for a decade, Nemo struggled to readjust to a modern life back among civilized men. After two years aboard an English exploration ship, after battling pirates, suffering hardships on his mysterious island, and exploring the catacombs beneath the Earth, Nemo no longer knew how to exist as part of calm French society with its intricate politics and convoluted social graces.

Emperor Napoleon had entrusted him with a good many important projects. Yet, the more he worked on them, the more Nemo missed the challenge of constructing a simple counterweight elevator or excavating his cave dwelling. Despite its glamour and all the fineries, the availability of resources, this civilized life was dull and mundane. He had little patience for government bureaucracies and budgetary constraints, for deciding how best to widen roads in France's rural departments.

Now, he gazed back down the Loire, picturing in his mind where it drained into the sea at Paimboeuf. Far beyond, lay the Americas or Africa or the South Sea islands. Strange places to explore, mountains to climb, jungles to investigate. He sighed wistfully, then looked at the clock on a nearby church tower just as the bells began to ring the hour. It was time for the meeting he'd both longed for and dreaded.

Caroline would be waiting for him.

In new clothes and stiff boots, Nemo strode down the narrow streets of Ile Feydeau to the rowhouses at the water's edge. He walked beyond the piers into the older, more expensive section of town until he reached the offices of "Aronnax, Merchant," which had been owned by Caroline's father.

The gray-painted wooden doors were open to let in a fresh spring breeze and the smell of flowers. Inside the business offices at rows of varnished tables and desks, diligent clerks jotted down manifests in thick ledgers. Others pored over the financial records of various shipments, while one rail-thin man placed pins on a chart of shipping routes, presumably marking the estimated positions of the Aronnax fleet.

Nemo paused in the tall doorway, a stranger, still uncertain of himself. Already, this seemed so strange. Because he had spent so many years without the need for speech, Nemo often found it difficult to begin a conversation. Two of the clerks looked up with questioning gazes, but before anyone could ask his business, Caroline emerged from a back room.

When she saw him, the sun rose on her face. "Andre!" Caroline had grown beyond the pretty young girl he had fallen in love with -- she was still as beautiful, but more filled out, taller, more self-a.s.sured.