WikiWorld

RETURN TO THE 20^TH CENTURY

January 1, 1960, and the whole globe was atremble with anticipation. For today marked the start of ceremonies surrounding the official inauguration of the new man-made continent dubbed Helenia.

A truly unique milestone in human progress had been reached. The cunning assembly of millions of hectares of artificial land from great carven sheets of the Himalayas and Rocky Mountains, covered with rich topsoil dredged from the many productive ports and harbours of the whole world, and utilizing the scattered Polynesian isles as seeds around which to accrete, represented the supreme accomplishment of human craft and ingenuity to date. Although the startling and productive twentieth century still had four decades to run, it certainly seemed to most of the citizenry that an apex of engineering, ingenuity and social coordination had been reached, one that would not soon be surpassed, if ever.

But little did anyone suspect that a looming crisis would soon spur mankind on to an even greater feat of construction and ambition, all in the name of sheer self-preservation of their remarkable civilization in the face of a malign and unknown rival!

The capital city of Helenia, Pontoville, was abuzz this temperate day with the arrival of assorted dignitaries from across the harmonious globe. These eminences from all the spheres of culture, politics, industry and religion arrived by several means. By swift undersea rail tube (one such contrivance emanated from San Francisco ((otherwise known as New Nanking)), one from Lima, and one from Manila). By streamlined submersible and surface-plying oceanic vessels. And of course by innumerable aircraft, both immense ships of state, featuring lifting balloons large as a castle and multifarious as a sculpture garden, and individual pinnaces and veloces from nearby territories such as the Sandwich Islands.

So heavily did the distinguished visitors plunge upon Pontoville, thronging the skies over the city of parks and towers and also its broad avenues and long piers, that they could not all be greeted individually by President Philippe Ponto and his first lady Hélène (nee Colobry). Later of course the President and his amiable consort would spend at least a brief interval of conversation with every superior guest, as they circulated at numerous state functions in celebration of the sixth continent’s official birthday. But for the moment on this first day of the festivities, President Ponto had reserved his time for welcoming only the highest among the high. Su Chu Peng, leader of the Oriental Republic; Bismarck III, chancellor of Germany and its North American satellite, New Germania; Kulashekhara II, Emperor of India; and so forth down the list of exclusively great names—with two humble exceptions, the first being the President’s immediate family.

Philippe and Hélène Ponto turned out in person at midday to greet Philippe’s father (and Hélène’s former guardian), Mr. Raphaël Ponto, the supreme industrialist, banker, speculator and visionary, whose titanic career had been an inspiration both to his son and the world at large. Accompanying the elder Ponto was his wife Josephine, herself well-noted for her role as an officeholder representing the Radical Feminist Party. And rounding out the party were Philippe’s sisters, Barbe and Barnabette, along with their spouses and offspring.

Philippe, a handsome moustachioed man barely past his first bloom of youth, clasped his stout father to his bosom, heedless of rumpling his official sash of office or of the impress of his many medals into his own and his father’s chest. They stood upon the high, broad and busy aerial platform where the express from Paris had just docked.

“Father, I cannot believe you have finally made it to this new land whose creation owes everything to your own guidance and exemplary career.”

Mr. Ponto, a stout and convivial iteration of his child, responded with bluff, hearty warmth and self-abnegation. “Well, you know that a few small matters have kept me busy till now, during the year or two of Helenia’s creation. The takeover of Portugal as a second pleasure park along the lines of Italy, for instance. But there was simply no way I would miss the official inauguration of such a monumental achievement. You have much to be proud of this day, my son!”

Philippe made some humble rejoinders of his own, before moving to greet his mother and siblings in similar open-hearted fashion. Meanwhile, Mr. Ponto’s eye falling on Hélène, the elder man turned to his daughter-in-law, who so far had held back from the familial mingling.

“Why, Hélène, you look so distracted! Daydreaming perhaps? A privilege of youth. Still, it is most undiplomatic behaviour on this splendid state occasion. I thought my days of lecturing you were over. But perhaps I shall have to take you once more in hand!”

Hélène, a slim, attractive, blonde woman of average build, did not respond immediately to her father-in-law’s mix of chafing and jollying. Instead, she continued to stand at the ornate cast-iron railing of the platform, gazing up into the sky.

There above the city of Pontoville hung the daytime Moon.

The perpetual orb filled nearly the entire sky.

Some short time ago, Earth scientists had drawn the satellite much closer to its primary, by means of electrical attraction. Precisely speaking, the distance from one globe to another was now just six hundred and seventy-five kilometres, or roughly the gap between Paris and Lyons. Moreover, the rotation and gravitic interactions of the two planets had been locked and stabilized, so that the Moon neither rose nor set any longer, but remained perpetually in the sky over Pontoville, as a tribute to the importance of this new nation.

It was this very orb that seemed now to transfix Hélène. She murmured mysterious words at the blank visage of Selene, words which Mr. Ponto could interpret as he approached his daughter-in-law.

“Alpha, we await your coming. Alpha, we are ready—”

Mr. Ponto laid a hand on Hélène’s shoulder, and the woman started, as if an electrical current had passed through her. She turned her face away from the lunar surface, its most minute details plain as the creases in one’s palm, even by day, and addressed her father-in-law.

“Oh, sir, it is so good to see you! I am glad you have arrived!”

“Now, that is more like the reception I expected, dearest.”

The reunited family consorted pleasantly for a few more minutes, amidst the hurly-burly of additional arrivals, with Hélène and her sisters-in-law exchanging news about the latest fashions of each continent. But their chatter was cut short by Philippe’s exclamation.

“I see it! Jungle Alli’s ship! The famed Smoke Ghost!”

All eyes turned to follow Philippe’s pointing finger. The President of a continent was as excited as a schoolboy. Here came the second party for whom he had deigned a personal reception.

Moving swiftly through the sky like some celestial pirate ship, the Smoke Ghost radiated a louche elan not exhibited by any other craft. Suspended beneath a balloon shaped like a recumbent odalisque of Junoesque proportions, its baroque gondola was scarred by hard travel and not a few bullet impacts. As the craft approached the docking platform, the dashing figure behind the wheel inside the pilothouse could be more and more clearly discerned.

Jungle Alli, christened Alice Bradley at birth.

Alice Bradley had been born to Mary Hastings Bradley and Herbert Bradley in Chicago, the “second city” of the Mormon interior of North America. Directly from her first juvenile stirrings of reason and independence, she had resisted the conventional life outlined in advance for her, utterly rejecting a future that included the infamous Mormon polygamous marriage. Partly to tame her rebellious spirit, her parents had sent her to a private girls’ school, Les Fougères, in Lausanne, Switzerland. But this rigid institution suited young Alice no better than her native patriarchy, and at age sixteen, in 1931, she had run away.

The next news of the renegade Alice Bradley came most unexpectedly from the heart of darkest Africa. At this time, the continent was not totally pacified and integrated into the twentieth century as it is today, with its productive citizens indistinguishable—save for the hue of their skin—from their Paris or Berlin cousins. Pockets of sub-Saharan barbarism still existed, and one of the most brutish tribes were the Niam-Niams of Central Africa. Cannibals one and all, they derived their name from their blood-curdling war-cry of “Nyama! Nyama!” Otherwise, “Flesh! Flesh!” Feared by natives and Europeans alike, the Niam-Niams maintained an inviolate sphere of privacy and secrecy.

But even this hostile bubble had eventually to be pierced by the superior forces of technology, culture and capitalism, and in 1940 a trading expedition from Marseilles entered the main Niam-Niam village under a flag of truce.

Imagine the consternation and discomfiture of the Europeans to discover, ruling over the cannibals, a young white woman!

Not precisely white any longer, after nearly a decade under the tropical sun. Nut-brown and nearly naked, save for a lion-skin skirt, with whip-cord muscles and long blonde tresses matted into elflocks hanging down to her shapely rump, Alice Bradley exhibited teeth stained brown and filed to points. She sat on a crude throne, clutching a feather-adorned spear. And she hailed the newcomers in the Niam-Niam tongue.

After overcoming their initial shock, the traders awoke Alice’s long-disused French and were able to converse. She detailed a long history of conquest, first over the Niam-Niams themselves by one lone sixteen-year-old girl equipped with no more than a Krupp repeating rifle, sixty pounds of backpacked cartridges, and an infinite supply of bravado and courage, and then, at the head of her adopted clan, of all the neighbouring tribes.

When asked tentatively what her ultimate aims and goals were, Alice Bradley grinned in her ghastly fashion and replied simply, “Freedom.” When asked if that goal were incompatible with her return to civilization, Alice said, “Not at all—so long as it’s on my terms.”

Thus began the public career of the astonishing woman soon dubbed by journalists everywhere “Jungle Alli.”

For the next two decades, employing her obediently savage (and presumably dietarily reformed) cannibals as shock troops, Jungle Alli participated in the taming of the Dark Continent. Up and down the broad expanse of Africa, a mercenary in service of whichever government could afford her, Jungle Alli contributed to the establishment of law and order in pursuit of profit and fame. Her exploits became world famous, from the overthrow of the dictator of Senegambia to the suppression of the Tuaregs of Biskra. Hundreds of pulpy novels, hardly exaggerated, had been written with her as the star.

However, of late, Jungle Alli had begun to seem like a bit of an anachronism. Now that her work was finally done amidst these former backwaters, Jungle Alli found herself on the verge of being outmoded. The modern pacified world seemed to have few assignments for a rogue of her nature, and she had spent the last few years in frivolous deeds of personal derring-do: mountain-climbing, big-game hunting, motorcar-racing, and so forth.

Nonetheless, to those of young President Philippe Ponto’s generation, she remained an alluring figure of romance and adventure. Even in this era of complete female suffrage and equality—female dominance, some would maintain—when many of the fairer sex had built exemplary careers, the ex-Chicago girl boasted a worldwide celebrity. Having grown up on tales of Jungle Alli’s exploits, President Ponto had determined that she must grace the seminal celebrations of Helenia, confering her iconic mana upon the new nation.

Thus her arrival today.

With Jungle Alli at the controls, the Smoke Ghost manoeuvred delicately until achieving a mooring. Over the decks of the gondola swarmed dozens of Niam-Niams of boths sexes, bare-chested and grass-skirted, fur cuffs at ankles and wrists. They dropped a plank to the platform, and carpeted it with zebra hides. Only then did Jungle Alli condescend to disembark.

Now forty-five years of age, Jungle Alli remained an extremely attractive woman. Her lithe physique was modestly displayed by khaki pantaloons and blouse, complemented by high black boots. Twin pistols were slung at her hips, while bandoliers of cartridges crossed her chest. An unholstered machete slapped her thigh as she walked.

Jungle Alli’s still-golden hair, admixed with threads of grey, had long ago been bobbed neat and short. Fighting aerial freebooters off the coast of Zanzibar ten years ago, she had lost an eye, and that sinister empty socket had henceforth been concealed by a patch. When she smiled, as she did now, the work of the best Parisian dentists was revealed, synthetic caps covering her cannibal heritage.

Accompanied by her honour guard of blackamoors, themselves a daunting entourage, Jungle Alli strode boldly across the gap separating her from President Ponto. She extended her right hand in the manner of her North American forebears, eschewing the more traditional European ceremonial double kisses. President Ponto took her hand and found himself wincing from the strength of her grip.

“Miss Bradley, allow me to extend the unlimited hospitality of our fledgling nation to one whose exploits have ever been—”

Jungle Alli interrupted the sincere but fulsome speech, employing her natal English. “No time for jawing now, chief. I’ve discovered that our planet is under attack!”

The state palace of Helenia consisted of a building inspired by Eiffel’s Parisian Tower. But the Tower that reared over Pontoville was precisely five times as large, rearing a full 1,600 metres into the empyrean and occupying a terrestrial footprint of many hectares. Nor did it feature mainly a lacy openwork construction, its lower reaches being walled off and devoted to governmental offices. And of course, the very tip of the enormous structure had been reserved for the sun-drenched Presidential chambers, serviced by a high-speed ascenseur.

Here, higher than clouds, sat now Jungle Alli, President Ponto, and the President’s father, Mr. Raphaël Ponto, the latter in his capacity as trusted advisor to his son and as representative of the international business community.

The legendary female African mercenary seemed utterly at ease, in comparison to the anxiety exhibited by the two men, and in fact had delayed imparting any more of her startling news long enough to enjoy a noxious cheroot, prefacing her indulgence by saying, “Damn nuisance not to be able to smoke in flight. But can’t risk your whole ride going up in flames.”

After a minute or so of contented puffing, Jungle Alli finally put aside her cigar, leaned forward in her chair, and pinned her fascinated auditors with her piercing one-eyed gaze, no less Gorgonish for its half power. When she spoke this time, it was in the French of her hosts.

“Gentlemen, what is your opinion of the current relations between the sexes?”

The disarming question, whose relevance was not immediately apparent, took the men aback.

“Why,” stammered President Ponto, “I hardly give the matter any daily thought. Absolute equality of the sexes has been the foundation of modern society for so long that one might as well ponder the wisdom of raising capital through the means of a stock market, or of settling affairs of honour with duels, or of changing the government regularly by means of a decennial revolution.”

The elder Mr. Ponto was not so hastily dismissive of Jungle Alli’s question. He paused a moment before answering, then replied cautiously, “I must say that in the last election a year or so ago, when I ran for a seat against my wife, I was somewhat taken aback by the vituperative anti-male stridency of her campaign. At first I chalked it up to some trivial personal arguments we had had between us, leaking into our professional lives. But as I heard other members of her party employ similar rhetoric against other men, I began to sense a certain shifting of the norms of discourse that had prevailed…”

Jungle Alli slapped her thigh with such a sharp report that both men jumped. “Exactly! The war between the sexes, long thought to be extinguished, is heating up! It has been obvious to anyone who has bothered to look during the past year. But the cause has been more obscure. It is not a natural affair! The animosity is being stoked by agents provocateurs—fifth columnists from beyond our planet! This is the the nature of the assault on our world. And if we do not stop it, our civilization will go down in a cataclysm of gender warfare. Men and women need each other to continue supporting and advancing the elaborate mechanism that is twentieth-century civilization. Neither sex can manage alone. But a wedge is being driven between the sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve.”

Pontos Senior and Junior seemed nonplussed. The younger man, to stall a response, got up and walked to a wall tap where he was able to draw a steaming cup of rich pousse-café from the building’s food and beverage network.

Sensing their hesitancy to embrace her admittedly grandiose revelations, Jungle Alli disclosed more.

“I have always been an admirer of the masculine sex. The drive, competence, certitude and ingenuity of males have been polestars by which I have guided by own career. Not to diminish either the charms or resources or native abilities of my own sex, which I have also honoured and, ah, embraced. So you will understand that when, over the past few months, I began to experience unwarranted jealousy, anger and irritability toward the important males in my life, I began to suspect an outside influence on my own consciousness.

“By immersion in various shamanic meditative techniques of the Niam-Niams, I was able to establish the source of the psychic contamination in myself.

“It radiates from the Moon.”

Instinctively the men looked out one of the office’s huge floor-to-ceiling curving windows, where a segment of the pregnant lunar satellite was visible.

“On the Moon, amidst cyclopean ruins concealed in atmosphere-filled caverns, live the sparse remnants of an ancient race. A mere eight women, denominated Alpha, Beta and so on. They refer to themselves as the ‘Cat Women,’ a phrase emblematic of their egocentric mercilessness and predilection for playing with their prey. They possess the ability to tamper with human thoughts—but only those of their fellow females. To instill in unsuspecting female minds deadly seeds I term ‘ideonemes,’ which pass as native to the receptive brain.

“Once I discovered the existence of these Cat Women, I was able to establish two-way mental communication with Alpha, their leader. Boastfully, she revealed their full plans and intentions to me. I believe the loneliness of the Cat Women and their eagerness for contact inspired Alpha’s loquacity.

“In any case, here is their intent. By fomenting an internecine war between Earth’s men and women, they will weaken us to the point where the Cat Women can establish themselves as rulers of a wholly female globe, forsaking their sterile orb for our own fertile paradise.”

President Ponto cleared his throat in polite dissent. “This presupposes, Miss Bradley, that your sex would prove victorious in such a combat.”

Jungle Alli grinned fiercely, and although her teeth were no longer filed to points, both men experienced an impression of cannibalistic fervour. “Trust me, sir, we would. But please, I ask you, put aside all such chauvinistic quibbles and focus on the true import of my revelations. We are at war with a determined enemy, and we must take action!”

Mr. Ponto spoke. “Why is it only now that these hypothetical Cat Women have launched their attack?”

“It is our own hubris in moving the Moon so close to us!” responded Jungle Alli. “Previously, the vast distance between our spheres acted as a cosmic quarantine. Their mental powers were insufficient to bridge the gap.”

President Ponto said, “All of this is so hard to credit. How can we possibly announce such an unlikely threat? Without proof, the practically minded populace would rightfully dismiss us out of hand. It would be akin to asking people to believe one of Mr. Verne or Mr. Robida’s fantasies.”

“Actually, we would not want to make a general announcement,” Jungle Alli countered. “It would provoke a panic, and possibly force the hand of the Cat Women. They might forego subtlety and simply derange the minds of millions of women into a murderous rage. No, we must make an assault against the Cat Women under cover of a natural commercial impulse to integrate the Moon into Helenia’s economy.”

Now President Ponto finally balked, his immense respect for Jungle Alli counterbalanced by his stewardship of the infant nation and its resources.

“Miss Bradley, I am afraid I cannot commit my country’s resources to such an unsupported crusade against imaginary enemies—”

Jungle Alli stood up. “Unsupported? Imaginary? Very well. You force my hand. I had not wanted to risk this. But it seems necessary now.” Withdrawing one of her pistols from its holster—causing both men to blanch—Jungle Alli called out, “Alpha, appear! I summon you!”

Instantly, a fourth figure occupied the room.

The newcomer was a statuesque woman of immense beauty, clad in a black leotard that revealed every inch of her curvaceous figure. Her eyes were heavily kohl-lined, her painted lips cruel. Her dark hair was gathered up into an elaborate hive. Golden slave bracelets adorned her biceps.

“You dare!” said the Cat Woman known as Alpha.

“Let us end this here and now,” replied Jungle Alli, and fired!

The bullet passed through empty space, smashing a narrow channel through a thick window. A thin stream of wind whistled from the pressurized interior of the building.

Alpha the Cat Woman had dematerialized in the instant Jungle Alli pulled her trigger, and reappeared on the far side of the chamber. The face of the Selene female was intensely wrathful.

“Your powers of mind are formidable, Alice Bradley! For an Earthwoman! You were able to take me unawares this time. But do not count on being able to do so again!”

And with that, Alpha the Cat Woman vanished entirely.

Jungle Alli reholstered her smoking pistol. “Gentlemen, do you grant credence to my story now?”

With shaking hands, President Ponto dabbed with a handkerchief at his wet trousers where he had spilled his pousse-café.

“Miss Bradley, the full energies of Helenia and its people are at your disposal.”

The first of many official banquets meant to celebrate the birth of the new continent and scheduled for the upcoming week was held that very night in the Hall of Wonders. Larger than the largest aerostat hangar, the glass-and-cast-iron Hall of Wonders was filled with statues and paintings illustrating the tremendous progress made during the illustrious twentieth century. Recorded in pictorial form were the invention of the conglomerate paper that substituted for wood; the parachute-belt; the chair-barricade; and so forth in a panoply of human ingenuity.

But even this extravagant exhibition did not preclude the temporary use of the Hall to hold hundreds of tables, topped with linens, crystal goblets, fine china and silver, all capturing glints from the many electric chandeliers.

At each place sat one of the many dignitaries who had voyaged hither for the ceremonies, patrician men and women from every nation of the globe, the “movers and shakers” of the new age.

At the head table, raised above the others on a dais, sat President Ponto and First Lady Hélène. Adjacent to the President sat his father and mother. At Hélène’s elbow, Jungle Alli. The rest of the table was occupied by various officeholders of Helenia.

Focused on the table were a dozen telephonoscopic cameras, relaying the doings on the dais to a hundred screens set up throughout the Hall, thus providing a sense of intimacy for all attendees, however remote, with the doings at the Presidential table. Smaller screens at intervals conveyed the entertaining image and sound from a brilliant symphony orchestra.

The banquet commenced sharply at eight, after a rousing champagne toast. Thousands of servitors drew comestibles from the taps scattered throughout the Hall, ferrying steaming, deliciously prepared squab, pork medallions, sausages and other delights to the eager diners. Jollity and bonhomie, fueled by fine wines, reigned throughout the chamber. Although, truth be told, had anyone been in the frame of mind to scrutinize objectively the visages of President and Mr. Ponto, they might have detected a certain sham brittleness to their conviviality, as if the men were masking deeper concerns.

Likewise, the charming face of Hélène showed a certain distracted slackness and preoccupied inwardness.

This suspicious catatonia on the part of one so close to the powerful President of Helenia did not go unremarked by the perceptive Jungle Alli.

“Mrs. Ponto,” said the adventurer gallantly and ingenuously, so low that only the two of them could hear, “your sweet face should be shining at this victorious hour with exuberance and animation. Instead, it is beclouded with melancholy.”

With a visible effort, Hélène responded agreeably. “Please, call me Hélène. ‘Mrs. Ponto’ is my mother-in-law.”

“And you may call me Alice. Well, Hélène, what troubles you? A burden shared is a burden lessened.”

Hélène’s brow furrowed. “It—it is hard to describe. Of late I have been pestered with odd notions. An angry unease with my husband—for no reason at all. And a sense that some imminent salvation is coming from—from the skies. I have no basis for either sensation—and yet they are intensely real to me. Is that not absurd?”

Jungle Alli laid a hand atop one of Hélène’s and captured the younger woman’s gaze with a fervent directness. “Do not ask me how, but I know these symptoms, and I believe I may be able to help you overcome them.”

Hélène smiled broadly and genuinely for the first time that day. “Oh, Alice, if only you could! I would be forever in your debt…”

“We will discuss this more, later this evening. But for now, try to enjoy the occasion. I believe you will be surprised by the announcement that your husband has planned, and which I am privy to.”

The dinner moved naturally through its many happy courses, until at last it reached the speechifying stages. After many lesser orations, the time came for President Ponto himself to speak.

“This hour should be dedicated, by common consent, to my new nation’s recent accomplishment, shared by all mankind, in constructing a new continent wholly from scratch. These virgin lands—dubbed Helenia, after my charming wife”—here President Ponto pivoted to single out the lady so referenced, and Hélène’s immense blushing face filled all the telephonoscope screens—“will serve as a necessary release valve for the population pressures of older lands, encouraging settlers to fresh heights of invention and enterprise. And I do so dedicate this shining hour to all the hard labour and visionary guidance that preceded it.”

Here a rousing cheer from thousands of throats rattled the panes of the Hall.

“But,” continued the President, “ I would be disloyal to the spirit of Helenia if I focused solely on the past. For the future itself is that vast untouched territory that most concerns us, the frontier where we may unfurl untried and brighter banners of conquest and exploration.

“And so I choose this moment to announce a new project, one that will tax our every fibre, and yet reward us commensurately.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I hereby declare our nation’s intentions to construct a bridge to the Moon!”

A stunned silence greeted this unexpected announcement. But as soon as the inevitable majesty of the notion penetrated the consciousnesses of the listeners, they let loose a lusty roar that outdid all earlier cheers.

When the din died away, President Ponto said, “This bridge—a transit tunnel of sorts, actually, such as those which link the continents of Earth under the seas—will open up vast resources and territory that our planet needs to move forward to her inevitable destiny. I know I can count on the support of every one of Helenia’s citizens in this noble quest.”

President Ponto resumed his seat to deafening applause, and the rest of the banquet passed in a furor of celebration, not unmixed with much wheeling and dealing, as various tycoons utilized telephonic service to reach their brokers.

Eventually the occupants of the head table made their official exit, leaving the other revelers to continue the celebrations.

In the private backstage corridors of the Hall, President and Mr. Ponto conferred sotto voce with Jungle Alli.

“Your wild scheme is set in motion,” said the younger man. “I only pray that the Cat Women regard the Earth-Moon Tunnel as harmless economic expansionism natural to our race, and not an assault on their citadel.”

“Oh, I am sure they will welcome it, as diverting our resources. They of course, with their powers of teleportation, have no need of a material connection between our worlds. But we do. And once the bridge to the Moon in place, we will be enabled to attack the nexus of their power. That ruined city beneath the lunar surface.”

The elder Ponto now said, “There remains much to set in motion if this challenging feat of engineering is to be financed. I shall have to get busy right now. Son, I will need your assistance…”

President Ponto wearily signalled his assent to a long night of tedious governmental activity. “Miss Bradley, perhaps you would consent to escort my wife back to her rooms. She has been feeling unwell lately…”

“Of course.”

Soon Jungle Alli was steering Hélène Ponto toward the younger woman’s bedchambers. The wife of the President exhibited a slightly inebriated and confused manner.

Once the two women were inside the intimate Presidential quarters and all the maids were dismissed, Jungle Alli said, “You recall that I suggested I might be able to clear your mind of its recent confusions. Well, the process involves attaining a certain level of somatic and psychical integration between us, so that I might confer some of my innate immunity to such disturbances on you.”

Hélène seemed on the point of swooning, and Jungle Alli had to catch her and lower her to a divan. With the back of one hand to her brow and eyes shuttered, Hélène said, “Anything… anything to restore my vigour and clarity…”

Jungle Alli quickly shucked her bandoliers and gun belt, then began unbuttoning her khaki shirt. “Just lie back, my darling, and the treatment will commence….”

At four that morning, when the Polynesian skies above the fresh-faced continent of Helenia were just beginning to display the first hints of dawn, President Ponto quietly opened the door of his wife’s bedchambers. The dim electrical nightlights therein revealed the intertwined forms of not one but two women beneath the sheets of the large bed.

Her wilderness-honed senses snapping alert, Jungle Alli instantly sized up the intrusion and whispered, by way of explanation, “I believe my quasi-masculine touch has managed temporarily to break the spell of the Cat Women over your wife, Philippe. But additional male contact would certainly not be counterproductive… in neither of our cases.”

Philippe smiled, shrugged with Gallic savoir-faire, and doffed his ceremonial sash. “Whatever is demanded of me to ensure the survival of our planet, Miss Bradley.”

Grinning, Jungle Alli pulled back the bedcovers to disclose her scarred nakedness, and Hélène’s alabaster skin. “Call me Alice, Phil.”

The building of the Earth-Moon bridge instantly captivated the fancy of the entire planet, following as it did hard upon the excitement of Helenia’s inauguration.

At least, the project attracted the eyes of that portion of the globe that was not concerned with the growing tensions between the sexes.

Not every woman on Earth was irritably chafing under the mental goads of the invisible and unsuspected Cat Women. But those lunar devils continued to prick the intelligences of many females in high places, who in turn inflamed their followers, thus fomenting dissent, altercations and contumely between the sexes.

For instance, the Women’s Supremacy Brigade, normally inactive save during the decennial revolutions, had convened its members to patrol the streets of Paris by night, ostensibly to guarantee the safety of the city’s filles de joie—a safety never actually in jeopardy. In reality the Brigade functioned as a male-bashing squad, roughing up lotharios, boulevardiers and beau brummels.

But as yet this kind of intermittent breakdown in the social compact between the sexes formed a mere background rumble to the normal functioning of society. And that society now strained at its brave limits to fulfill the incredibly ambitious program outlined by President Ponto.

Gathered in a meeting room with the chief engineers of the nation, President Ponto heard the first details of the plan to construct a bridge to the nearby satellite.

A bewhiskered savant named Professor Calculus explained, “The immense weight of the dangling bridge—in essence, a technological beanstalk or celestial ascenseur—must be counterbalanced by an equal weight outside the gravity shell of our planet, midway between Earth and Moon, at roughly the three-hundred-and-thirty-seven-kilometre mark. Practically speaking, the bridge will be suspended from this anchor outside our atmosphere, and simply tethered to the soil at either end.”

“How do we create this anchor in the ether?” asked the President.

“We propose to launch by numerous rockets many millions of tonnes of magnetically charged material, all aimed at the desired nexus in the void. The multiple impacts will agglomerate naturally into the desired anchor. Then we will harpoon the anchor with a titanic cable fired from a super-cannon, the other end of which will remain fastened here, and use that cable as the armature to build upward. Once this leg of the bridge is constructed, building downward to the Moon will be trivial.”

Mr. Ponto now intervened, exclaiming, “Superb! And I offer a sophistication. We shall construct upon this anchor planetoid an elegant space casino, just like the successful underwater one that punctuates the mid-Atlantic train tunnel. Baccarat and faro beneath the Milky Way! We’ll make a fortune!”

And so, with the bridge and its refinements firmly conceptualized, construction began.

Never before in the history of the race had such titanic assemblages of men, material and energy been seen! The continent of Helenia was the focal point of tributaries of labour and materials from all quarters of the globe. Around the clock swarmed hordes of workers, stockpiling the steel plates and girders that would form the shell of the interplanetary tube, launching rocket upon rocket full of magnetite, coordinating the building processes.

Within several weeks, the anchor was complete, and the cable secured. Construction of the space-tube and its interior workings began immediately.

Throughout the gargantuan project, only four individuals knew the truth of the matter and appreciated the urgency behind the construction. President Ponto, Mr. Ponto, Jungle Alli and Hélène formed a secret cabal, a quartet of conspirators who alone amongst billions of souls realized that the whole planet was now in a race with the machinations of the Cat Women. Would humanity reach the Moon and stymie the Cat Women before terrestrial society tore itself apart?

For the tumult and tension between the sexes were increasing. Incidents proliferated and grew in brutality, as the perverted ideoneme of gender rancour disseminated itself through all levels of society, a virus cut loose from its original Cat Women source. Small riots and pogroms, both anti-male and anti-female, broke out daily, everywhere.

Luckily, Hélène and Jungle Alli maintained their sanity, thanks to their mutual innoculations of closeness, as well as frequent booster shots from President Ponto. Hélène’s sharp wits and vast practical experience—she had dabbled in almost every profession under the sun, before settling down as Philippe’s wife—contributed much to the whole enterprise.

Six months into the project, the midway point in the bridge construction had been reached, and the moment of the casino’s official opening loomed. But the ceremonies were actually a sham, to maintain the façade of innocent commercialism.

At the base of the space-ascenseur, President Ponto snipped a red ribbon, to much acclaim, his actions broadcast across the globe via the telephonoscope. He stepped aboard the car that occupied the interior of the space-tube. Hélène and Jungle Alli accompanied him. (Mr. Ponto was already at the casino, overseeing inaugural preparations and hundreds of workers who were preparing against the day when, God willing, the casino could function as intended in a world at peace.) The doors closed, and the car shot upwards inside the tube with remarkable speed.

Inside the private car, with its padded velvet couches, gilt trim, muralled walls and well-appointed wet bar, the trio fortified themselves against any further mental attacks by the Cat Women.

Within only half an hour, the capsule docked at the space casino. Its occupants barely had time to rearrange their clothing from the rigours of the passage before they were greeted by a boisterous string quartet in formal wear, and the smiling face of Mr. Ponto.

“Quite classy, Rafe,” said Jungle Alli in her natal English. “Even if it is a little premature. Now where’s the champagne?”

But this night of exclusive glittering gaiety was to be short-lived. Their welcome was a mere diverting moment of ceremony. Already the capacious capsule of the space-ascenseur was busy shuttling dozens of additional workers at a go to the anchor planetoid. For the past six months, rockets had been delivering tonnes of components for the next stage of the bridge. Protected from the cold and vacuum of interplanetary space by special suits of gutta-percha and vitrine, the workers were already forging the next leg of the link between the incompatible orbs.

For the next several months, the quartet of conspirators resided at the casino, its only patrons, supervising the construction. The task was wearisome, but the knowledge of how vital their mission was granted them endless strength. Reports came hourly by telephonoscope of the accelerating turmoil back on the home world.

Due to the increased experience of the workers, and a skimping in certain ornamental details, the second half of the space bridge took only three months to complete.

Came the day when Jungle Alli and her three comrades, clad in their own anti-vacuum coveralls and bolstered by a squad of Niam-Niams, stepped out onto the lunar surface.

Now would the Cat Women find the battle brought to their very doorstep!

“All right, you may remove your helmets.”

All the members of the Earth party, which consisted of Philippe, Rafael and Hélène, as well as the several savages, followed Jungle Alli’s instructions, taking cautious breaths of the atmosphere found in the lunar caverns. As they doffed their suits, their movements were weirdly acrobatic and butterfly-like in the reduced lunar gravity.

Leaving a pair of Niam-Niams to guard the discarded suits, Jungle Alli said, “Follow me.”

Leading the way through the luminescent lunar grottoes, the piratical mercenary soon brought her charges within sight of their goal.

The decayed city of the Cat Women, older than Ninevah and Tyre combined, a chunky set of fallen towers resembling a child’s tumbled blocks.

Jungle Alli addressed her comrades. “Remember, the Cat Women can outmanoeuvre us by their powers of teleportation. But they are not supernatural. Our firearms even out the fight. And I believe if we can remove their leader, Alpha, from the equation, then the rest of them will collapse.”

“Very well,” said President Ponto. “Lead on, Alice.”

Within minutes, the Earthlings found themselves crossing a broad plaza and entering a palatial building. They had not gone far before they found their way blocked by a living Cat Woman!

“I am Omega,” said the alluring, dark-haired female, in every respect a sister to the afore-seen Alpha. “What do you humans want here?”

“Bring us to see Alpha. Our business is with her.”

“She and the others are—are busy.”

“Of course they are. Sending their evil thoughts into the innocent minds of our women!”

Quicker than a python, Jungle Alli had the blade of her machete against Omega’s throat. “You might be able to vanish before my reflexes cause my muscles to slice, but I doubt it. You’ll materialize in safety, perhaps—but with a severed artery! Now, lead us to Alpha!”

For whatever reason, Omega did not vanish, but complied. Perhaps she too chafed under the rule of the all-dominant Alpha….

The remaining seven Cat Women occupied couches in a large, column-dotted, temple-like room, looking like the Sleepers of Epheseus while they directed their malevolent thoughts Earthward. As the newcomers entered, Alpha instantly roused herself from slumber and stood.

“So,” said the head Cat Woman, “you have decided to visit us at home, Alice Bradley! Forgive my ungraciousness as a hostess, but I cannot offer you any refreshments.”

“We don’t want any. We only demand justice. You will cease your assaults on Earth’s females, or—”

“Or what? We will spontaneously relocate in the next second to a different part of the Moon, where you will never find us. And soon, your society will tear itself apart under our renewed attacks.”

Jungle Alli pondered this boast, before saying, “This struggle is all about seeing which of our two races is superior, and deserves to inherit the Earth. Why not determine the same judgement between you and me alone?”

Alpha looked tantalized by the prospect. “You mean, individual combat?”

“I do.”

“Very well, I accept. Rid yourself of weapons.”

Jungle Alli swiftly complied. “And you will promise not to employ your powers of vanishment.”

“Agreed.”

Before commencing combat, Jungle Alli solicited a kiss from both Hélène and Philippe. Thus armed with their fond endorsement, she advanced on her foe.

The two women, each formidable in her own way, circled each other like wrestlers, looking for openings. Jungle Alli was sinuous as a snake, while Alpha, the larger of the two, resembled a panther.

At last they closed, with wordless grunts and exclamations. Grappling hand to hand, they struggled for mastery.

Jungle Alli was tossed to the lunar pavement first. Falling upon her stunned prey, Alpha was surprised to find Jungle Alli wriggling out of her grip and soon riding the Cat Woman’s back! Alpha punched backwards, ramming knuckles into Jungle Alli’s cheekbones, and causing her to loosen her hold. The women separated, regained their feet and faced off again.

For a seemingly interminable time the two women fought, enacting a strange barbaric scene among the sleeping forms of the Cat Women—still pulsing out their deadly ideonemes—and the cheering figures of the wholesome Earth people. The battle inevitably took its toll: Alpha’s long hair had come undone and disarrayed, while Jungle Alli’s shorter pelt was plastered to her skull with sweat. The clothing of both women was ripped, revealing lush bruised flesh. Their mutual panting sounded in the hall like the chuffing of some struggling engine.

The two resting apart for a moment, Alpha said, “You are a vigorous specimen, Alice Bradley. If all Earth women were like you, they might deserve to live!”

Falling into English, Jungle Alli replied, “We won’t go on without our menfolks. You bitches have been deprived too long to know what you’re missing!”

“Men!” spat Alpha. “Here’s what all males deserve!”

With that, the leader of the Cat Women impulsively teleported over to Philippe and began to strangle him with her otherworldly strength! His face purpling, the President of Helenia seemed doomed!

But then Alpha shrieked, and blood began to flow from her mouth! She released Philippe and fell to the floor, dying as she hit the tiles.

Hélène stepped away from the body of the Cat Woman, Jungle Alli’s red-dripping machete in her hand.

Jungle Alli surged to the side of Hélène, and began to comfort the stunned woman with petting and reassurances. But Hélène did not seem as distraught as one might have expected. She straightened her back, her eyes shining, and said, “So much for female supremacy!”

But whether Hélène was derogating Alpha or praising herself was unclear.

Around the Earthlings, the six sleepers began to stir. Omega, who had stood on the sidelines till this moment, now mentally apprised her sisters of what had just transpired. The remaining Cat Women appeared directionless and disinclined to carry the battle further.

Massaging his throat, his voice something of a croak, President Ponto, supported by his father, said, “Our crisis seems at an end now, thanks to the efforts of my own wife and Miss Bradley. It remains only for us to carry the good news back to a waiting planet.”

“You folks’ll be heading back without me, I reckon,” said Jungle Alli unexpectedly.

“But why?”

“I’ve plumb run out of lands to explore back home. Here I’ve got a whole new world to investigate. I need to see this place before there’s a Bon Marché in every crater.”

“But won’t you be lonely?” asked Hélène.

Jungle Alli eyed the surviving Cat Women with a certain possessive passion.

“Oh,” she said, grinning, “I figure I can do without the company of mankind for a little while.”