Prologue

: Pellucidar

Several years had elapsed since I had found the opportunity to do any

big-game hunting; for at last I had my plans almost perfected for a

return to my old stamping-grounds in northern Africa, where in other

days I had had excellent sport in pursuit of the king of beasts.



The date of my departure had been set; I was to leave in two weeks. No

schoolboy counting the lagging hours that must pass before the

b
ginning of "long vacation" released him to the delirious joys of the

summer camp could have been filled with greater impatience or keener

anticipation.



And then came a letter that started me for Africa twelve days ahead of

my schedule.



Often am I in receipt of letters from strangers who have found

something in a story of mine to commend or to condemn. My interest in

this department of my correspondence is ever fresh. I opened this

particular letter with all the zest of pleasurable anticipation with

which I had opened so many others. The post-mark (Algiers) had aroused

my interest and curiosity, especially at this time, since it was

Algiers that was presently to witness the termination of my coming sea

voyage in search of sport and adventure.



Before the reading of that letter was completed lions and lion-hunting

had fled my thoughts, and I was in a state of excitement bordering upon

frenzy.



It--well, read it yourself, and see if you, too, do not find food for

frantic conjecture, for tantalizing doubts, and for a great hope.



Here it is:



DEAR SIR: I think that I have run across one of the most remarkable

coincidences in modern literature. But let me start at the beginning:



I am, by profession, a wanderer upon the face of the earth. I have no

trade--nor any other occupation.



My father bequeathed me a competency; some remoter ancestors lust to

roam. I have combined the two and invested them carefully and without

extravagance.



I became interested in your story, At the Earth's Core, not so much

because of the probability of the tale as of a great and abiding wonder

that people should be paid real money for writing such impossible

trash. You will pardon my candor, but it is necessary that you

understand my mental attitude toward this particular story--that you

may credit that which follows.



Shortly thereafter I started for the Sahara in search of a rather rare

species of antelope that is to be found only occasionally within a

limited area at a certain season of the year. My chase led me far from

the haunts of man.



It was a fruitless search, however, in so far as antelope is concerned;

but one night as I lay courting sleep at the edge of a little cluster

of date-palms that surround an ancient well in the midst of the arid,

shifting sands, I suddenly became conscious of a strange sound coming

apparently from the earth beneath my head.



It was an intermittent ticking!



No reptile or insect with which I am familiar reproduces any such

notes. I lay for an hour--listening intently.



At last my curiosity got the better of me. I arose, lighted my lamp

and commenced to investigate.



My bedding lay upon a rug stretched directly upon the warm sand. The

noise appeared to be coming from beneath the rug. I raised it, but

found nothing--yet, at intervals, the sound continued.



I dug into the sand with the point of my hunting-knife. A few inches

below the surface of the sand I encountered a solid substance that had

the feel of wood beneath the sharp steel.



Excavating about it, I unearthed a small wooden box. From this

receptacle issued the strange sound that I had heard.



How had it come here?



What did it contain?



In attempting to lift it from its burying place I discovered that it

seemed to be held fast by means of a very small insulated cable running

farther into the sand beneath it.



My first impulse was to drag the thing loose by main strength; but

fortunately I thought better of this and fell to examining the box. I

soon saw that it was covered by a hinged lid, which was held closed by

a simple screwhook and eye.



It took but a moment to loosen this and raise the cover, when, to my

utter astonishment, I discovered an ordinary telegraph instrument

clicking away within.



"What in the world," thought I, "is this thing doing here?"



That it was a French military instrument was my first guess; but really

there didn't seem much likelihood that this was the correct

explanation, when one took into account the loneliness and remoteness

of the spot.



As I sat gazing at my remarkable find, which was ticking and clicking

away there in the silence of the desert night, trying to convey some

message which I was unable to interpret, my eyes fell upon a bit of

paper lying in the bottom of the box beside the instrument. I picked

it up and examined it. Upon it were written but two letters:



D. I.



They meant nothing to me then. I was baffled.



Once, in an interval of silence upon the part of the receiving

instrument, I moved the sending-key up and down a few times. Instantly

the receiving mechanism commenced to work frantically.



I tried to recall something of the Morse Code, with which I had played

as a little boy--but time had obliterated it from my memory. I became

almost frantic as I let my imagination run riot among the possibilities

for which this clicking instrument might stand.



Some poor devil at the unknown other end might be in dire need of

succor. The very franticness of the instrument's wild clashing

betokened something of the kind.



And there sat I, powerless to interpret, and so powerless to help!



It was then that the inspiration came to me. In a flash there leaped

to my mind the closing paragraphs of the story I had read in the club

at Algiers:



Does the answer lie somewhere upon the bosom of the broad Sahara, at

the ends of two tiny wires, hidden beneath a lost cairn?



The idea seemed preposterous. Experience and intelligence combined to

assure me that there could be no slightest grain of truth or

possibility in your wild tale--it was fiction pure and simple.



And yet where WERE the other ends of those wires?



What was this instrument--ticking away here in the great Sahara--but a

travesty upon the possible!



Would I have believed in it had I not seen it with my own eyes?



And the initials--D. I.--upon the slip of paper!



David's initials were these--David Innes.



I smiled at my imaginings. I ridiculed the assumption that there was

an inner world and that these wires led downward through the earth's

crust to the surface of Pellucidar. And yet--



Well, I sat there all night, listening to that tantalizing clicking,

now and then moving the sending-key just to let the other end know that

the instrument had been discovered. In the morning, after carefully

returning the box to its hole and covering it over with sand, I called

my servants about me, snatched a hurried breakfast, mounted my horse,

and started upon a forced march for Algiers.



I arrived here today. In writing you this letter I feel that I am

making a fool of myself.



There is no David Innes.



There is no Dian the Beautiful.



There is no world within a world.



Pellucidar is but a realm of your imagination--nothing more.



BUT--



The incident of the finding of that buried telegraph instrument upon

the lonely Sahara is little short of uncanny, in view of your story of

the adventures of David Innes.



I have called it one of the most remarkable coincidences in modern

fiction. I called it literature before, but--again pardon my

candor--your story is not.



And now--why am I writing you?



Heaven knows, unless it is that the persistent clicking of that

unfathomable enigma out there in the vast silences of the Sahara has so

wrought upon my nerves that reason refuses longer to function sanely.



I cannot hear it now, yet I know that far away to the south, all alone

beneath the sands, it is still pounding out its vain, frantic appeal.



It is maddening.



It is your fault--I want you to release me from it.



Cable me at once, at my expense, that there was no basis of fact for

your story, At the Earth's Core.



Very respectfully yours,



COGDON NESTOR,

---- and ---- Club,

Algiers.

June 1st, --.







Ten minutes after reading this letter I had cabled Mr. Nestor as

follows:





Story true. Await me Algiers.





As fast as train and boat would carry me, I sped toward my destination.

For all those dragging days my mind was a whirl of mad conjecture, of

frantic hope, of numbing fear.



The finding of the telegraph-instrument practically assured me that

David Innes had driven Perry's iron mole back through the earth's crust

to the buried world of Pellucidar; but what adventures had befallen him

since his return?



Had he found Dian the Beautiful, his half-savage mate, safe among his

friends, or had Hooja the Sly One succeeded in his nefarious schemes to

abduct her?



Did Abner Perry, the lovable old inventor and paleontologist, still

live?



Had the federated tribes of Pellucidar succeeded in overthrowing the

mighty Mahars, the dominant race of reptilian monsters, and their

fierce, gorilla-like soldiery, the savage Sagoths?



I must admit that I was in a state bordering upon nervous prostration

when I entered the ---- and ---- Club, in Algiers, and inquired for Mr.

Nestor. A moment later I was ushered into his presence, to find myself

clasping hands with the sort of chap that the world holds only too few

of.



He was a tall, smooth-faced man of about thirty, clean-cut, straight,

and strong, and weather-tanned to the hue of a desert Arab. I liked

him immensely from the first, and I hope that after our three months

together in the desert country--three months not entirely lacking in

adventure--he found that a man may be a writer of "impossible trash"

and yet have some redeeming qualities.



The day following my arrival at Algiers we left for the south, Nestor

having made all arrangements in advance, guessing, as he naturally did,

that I could be coming to Africa for but a single purpose--to hasten at

once to the buried telegraph-instrument and wrest its secret from it.



In addition to our native servants, we took along an English

telegraph-operator named Frank Downes. Nothing of interest enlivened

our journey by rail and caravan till we came to the cluster of

date-palms about the ancient well upon the rim of the Sahara.



It was the very spot at which I first had seen David Innes. If he had

ever raised a cairn above the telegraph instrument no sign of it

remained now. Had it not been for the chance that caused Cogdon Nestor

to throw down his sleeping rug directly over the hidden instrument, it

might still be clicking there unheard--and this story still unwritten.



When we reached the spot and unearthed the little box the instrument

was quiet, nor did repeated attempts upon the part of our telegrapher

succeed in winning a response from the other end of the line. After

several days of futile endeavor to raise Pellucidar, we had begun to

despair. I was as positive that the other end of that little cable

protruded through the surface of the inner world as I am that I sit

here today in my study--when about midnight of the fourth day I was

awakened by the sound of the instrument.



Leaping to my feet I grasped Downes roughly by the neck and dragged him

out of his blankets. He didn't need to be told what caused my

excitement, for the instant he was awake he, too, heard the long-hoped

for click, and with a whoop of delight pounced upon the instrument.



Nestor was on his feet almost as soon as I. The three of us huddled

about that little box as if our lives depended upon the message it had

for us.



Downes interrupted the clicking with his sending-key. The noise of the

receiver stopped instantly.



"Ask who it is, Downes," I directed.



He did so, and while we awaited the Englishman's translation of the

reply, I doubt if either Nestor or I breathed.



"He says he's David Innes," said Downes. "He wants to know who we are."



"Tell him," said I; "and that we want to know how he is--and all that

has befallen him since I last saw him."



For two months I talked with David Innes almost every day, and as

Downes translated, either Nestor or I took notes. From these, arranged

in chronological order, I have set down the following account of the

further adventures of David Innes at the earth's core, practically in

his own words.



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