At The Edge Of A Black Hole

Black Moon

On  24  May  1863,  a  Sunday,  my  uncle,  Professor  Lidenbrock, came rushing  back  towards  his  little  house  at  No.  19  Königstrasse,  one  of  the oldest streets in the historic part of Hamburg.
Martha  the  maid  must  have  thought  she  was  running  very  late,  for  
dinner had hardly begun to simmer on the kitchen range.
‘H’m,’ I said to myself. ‘If my uncle is hungry, he’ll shout out his annoyance, for he is the most impatient of men.’
‘Professor Lidenbrock here already!’ Martha exclaimed in amazement, 
half-opening the diningroom door.

‘Yes, indeed. But dinner has every right not to be cooked, for it’s not two o’clock yet. It’s only just struck the halfhour on St Michael’s.’
‘Then why has Professor Lidenbrock come back?’
‘Presumably he will tell us.’
‘Here he is: I’m off, Master Axel.
You will make him see reason, won’t you?’
And the good Martha disappeared back into her culinary laboratory.
I  remained  alone.  But  to  make  the  worsttempered of professors see reason did not seem possible, given my slightly indecisive character. So I was getting ready for a prudent retreat to my little bedroom at the top of the  house,  when  the  front  door  groaned  on  its  hinges.  Large  feet made the  wooden  staircase  creak,  and  the  master  of  the  house  came through the diningroom and burst into his study.
On  his  hurried  way  through,  though,  he  had  thrown  his  nutcracker-head cane in the corner, his broad hat brushed up the wrong way on the table, and ringing words to his nephew:
‘Axel, I’m here!’
I  hadn’t  had  time  to  move  before  the  professor  shouted  again,  in  a most impatient voice:
‘We-ell? Are you not here yet?’
I rushed into my formidable master’s study.
Otto Lidenbrock was not a bad man, I will gladly concede. But unless changes happen to him, which is highly unlikely, he will die a terrible eccentric.

The River King

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