PROLOGUE
Several years had since I had 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 of the king of beasts.
The date of my had been set; I was to in two weeks. No the hours that must pass the of "long vacation" him to the of the have been with or anticipation.
And then came a that started me for Africa twelve days ahead of my schedule.
Often am I in receipt of from who have something in a of mine to or to condemn. My in this of my is fresh. I opened this particular with all the of with which I had opened so many others. The post-mark (Algiers) had my and curiosity, at this time, since it was Algiers that was presently to the of my sea in search of sport and adventure.
Before the reading of that was lions and lion-hunting had my thoughts, and I was in a of upon frenzy.
It—well, read it yourself, and see if you, too, do not food for conjecture, for doubts, and for a great hope.
Here it is:
DEAR SIR: I think that I have across one of the most in modern literature. But let me start at the beginning:
I am, by profession, a upon the of the earth. I have no trade—nor any other occupation.
My father me a competency; some to roam. I have the two and them and without extravagance.
I in your story, At the Earth's Core, not so much of the of the as of a great and wonder that people should be paid money for such trash. You will my candor, but it is necessary that you my toward this particular story—that you may that which follows.
Shortly I started for the Sahara in search of a of that is to be only occasionally a limited area at a season of the year. My me from the of man.
It was a search, however, in so as is concerned; but one night as I sleep at the of a little of date-palms that an well in the of the arid, shifting sands, I of a from the earth my head.
It was an ticking!
No or with which I am familiar any such notes. I for an hour—listening intently.
At last my got the of me. I arose, my lamp and to investigate.
My upon a directly upon the warm sand. The noise appeared to be from the rug. I it, but nothing—yet, at intervals, the continued.
I into the with the point of my hunting-knife. A the surface of the I a solid that had the of the steel.
Excavating about it, I a small box. From this the that I had heard.
How had it come here?
What did it contain?
In attempting to it from its place I that it to be fast by means of a very small into the it.
My was to the thing by main strength; but I of this and to the box. I soon saw that it was by a lid, which was closed by a and eye.
It took but a moment to this and the cover, when, to my astonishment, I an ordinary away within.
"What in the world," I, "is this thing doing here?"
That it was a French was my guess; but there didn't much that this was the explanation, when one took into account the and of the spot.
As I sat at my find, which was and away there in the of the night, trying to some message which I was unable to interpret, my upon a of paper in the of the box the instrument. I it up and it. Upon it were but two letters:
D. I.
They meant nothing to me then. I was baffled.
Once, in an of upon the part of the instrument, I moved the sending-key up and a times. Instantly the to work frantically.
I to something of the Morse Code, with which I had played as a little boy—but time had it from my memory. I almost as I let my among the possibilities for which this might stand.
Some at the unknown other end might be in need of succor. The very of the instrument's wild something of the kind.
And there sat I, powerless to interpret, and so powerless to help!
It was then that the came to me. In a there to my mind the paragraphs of the I had read in the at Algiers:
Does the answer upon the of the Sahara, at the ends of two wires, a cairn?
The idea preposterous. Experience and to me that there be no of truth or possibility in your wild tale—it was 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 upon the possible!
Would I have in it had I not it with my own eyes?
And the initials—D. I.—upon the of paper!
David's were these—David Innes.
I at my imaginings. I the that there was an world and that these through the earth's to the surface of Pellucidar. And yet—
Well, I sat there all night, to that clicking, now and then moving the sending-key just to let the other end know that the had been discovered. In the morning, after returning the box to its and it over with sand, I called my about me, a breakfast, my horse, and started upon a for Algiers.
I here today. In you this I that I am making a of myself.
There is no David Innes.
There is no Dian the Beautiful.
There is no world a world.
Pellucidar is but a of your imagination—nothing more.
BUT—
The of the of that upon the Sahara is little of uncanny, in view of your of the of David Innes.
I have called it one of the most in modern fiction. I called it before, but—again my candor—your is not.
And now—why am I you?
Heaven knows, unless it is that the of that out there in the of the Sahara has so upon my nerves that longer to sanely.
I cannot it now, yet I know that away to the south, all alone the sands, it is still out its vain, appeal.
It is maddening.
It is your fault—I want you to me from it.
Cable me at once, at my expense, that there was no of for your story, At the Earth's Core.
Very yours,
COGDON NESTOR,
—— and —— Club,
Algiers.
June 1st, —.
Ten minutes after reading this I had Mr. Nestor as follows:
Story true. Await me Algiers.
As fast as train and would me, I toward my destination. For all those days my mind was a of conjecture, of hope, of fear.
The of the telegraph-instrument me that David Innes had Perry's iron through the earth's to the world of Pellucidar; but what had him since his return?
Had he Dian the Beautiful, his half-savage mate, safe among his friends, or had Hooja the Sly One succeeded in his to her?
Did Abner Perry, the old and paleontologist, still live?
Had the of Pellucidar succeeded in the Mahars, the of monsters, and their fierce, gorilla-like soldiery, the Sagoths?
I must admit that I was in a upon when I entered the —— and —— Club, in Algiers, and for Mr. Nestor. A moment later I was into his presence, to myself hands with the of that the world only too of.
He was a tall, smooth-faced man of about thirty, clean-cut, straight, and strong, and weather-tanned to the of a Arab. I liked him from the first, and I that after our three months together in the country—three months not in adventure—he that a man may be a of "impossible trash" and yet have some qualities.
The day my at Algiers we left for the south, Nestor having all in advance, guessing, as he naturally did, that I be to Africa for but a single purpose—to at once to the telegraph-instrument and its from it.
In to our native servants, we took along an English telegraph-operator named Frank Downes. Nothing of our by rail and till we came to the of date-palms about the well upon the of the Sahara.
It was the very spot at which I had David Innes. If he had a above the no of it now. Had it not been for the that Cogdon Nestor to his sleeping directly over the instrument, it might still be there unheard—and this still unwritten.
When we the spot and the little box the was quiet, did upon the part of our succeed in a response from the other end of the line. After days of to Pellucidar, we had to despair. I was as positive that the other end of that little through the surface of the world as I am that I here today in my study—when about midnight of the fourth day I was by the of the instrument.
Leaping to my I Downes by the and him out of his blankets. He didn't need to be told what my excitement, for the he was he, too, the long-hoped for click, and with a of upon the instrument.
Nestor was on his almost as soon as I. The three of us about that little box as if our upon the message it had for us.
Downes the with his sending-key. The noise of the stopped instantly.
"Ask who it is, Downes," I directed.
He did so, and while we the Englishman's of the reply, I 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 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, in order, I have set the account of the of David Innes at the earth's core, in his own words.
