The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen by Kevin J. Anderson Page B

that." The adventurer paused, wrestling with words that weighed heavily on
his mind, while Nemo looked at him, waiting. "I wanted to thank you for your
contribution so far, Captain. I may have been overly rude earlier when I called
you a… pirate."
    Nemo responded with the merest hint of a smile. "And I may have been overly
charitable when I said I wasn't one." He stroked his thick black beard. "In my
philosophy I try to live in the 'now'—where the ghosts of old wrongs do not
abide. I have plenty of scars, and memories, but I would accomplish little if I
allowed myself to be shackled by them. What of you?"
    "I don't believe in ghosts. Although I've seen my share of them."
    "Your past haunts you," Nemo observed.
    "Vanity. Pride. Mistakes that cost me someone dear. It's an old story."
    "So now you throw yourself in harm's way?"
    Quatermain tried to think of an analogy the submarine captain might
understand. "Old tigers, sensing the end, are at their most fierce. They go down
fighting."
    Bounding out of his cabin, Agent Tom Sawyer appeared, oblivious to the
conversation. "Say, where's your dining room, Nemo?" He rubbed his stomach. "I
could eat a mule."
    When they reached the submarine's richly appointed room, however, they saw a
server removing plates from the table, under the somber watchful eye of First
Mate Ishmael.
    The table had been laid extravagantly, with gold-trimmed china, finely woven
napkins, and a startling centerpiece made from a shark's head ringed with frilly
kelp and colorful shells. From a side serving table, a savory, fishy aroma
wafted up from a tureen of chowder. Plates of iced shellfish were waiting to be
served.
    In spite of these elaborate preparations, a server took away many of the
place settings that had been set out for the members of the League.
    "Where are the others?" Nemo frowned, affronted. "Did they not receive the
summons to dine?"
    "I checked with them personally, Captain," Ishmael said, scratching his
cheek. He did not look pleased. "They all asked to eat in their cabins."
    "We may be a League, but we're sure not a team." Sawyer, at least, seemed
extremely interested in the mouth-watering smells of the food. "My Aunt Polly
always said the best efforts of gluing a family together were usually done at
the dinner table."
    "Team or not, there's work to be done," Quatermain said angrily. "Maybe the
others are being particularly dedicated to their preparations."
    "Or just not very sociable," Sawyer said.
    Nemo regarded them. "If you two gentlemen would care to join me in my cabin,
we can look at certain plans in my possession. It will help us formulate our
next move."
    "As long as we can eat while we do it." Sawyer's stomach rumbled audibly.
"Say, are those oysters?"
    Nemo nodded silent instructions to Ishmael, then led the other two men to his
cabin.

SIXTEEN
The Nautilus
    While Nemo and Quatermain paid little attention to their meals, intent on the
plans and discussions for their arrival in Venice, Tom Sawyer finished off two
bowls of chowder, a dozen oysters—"Just like the ones I used to eat back home in
Missouri!"—and a grilled shark steak. He munched on salted fried sardines fresh
from the sea, then licked his fingers. He was careful not to get grease on the
fragile papers the turbaned captain was displaying for them.
    In the bright light of his cabin, Nemo gently leafed through a large book of
aged drawings until he came to the particular page he had wanted to show them.
"The plans the Fantom stole from the Bank of England. These are copies… to my
knowledge, possibly the only ones in existence."
    "What are they?" Sawyer asked. "Looks like a maze— sewers, maybe? Looks as
bad as Injun Joe's cave." He brightened. "Say, didn't the Fantom have some sort
of hideout in the sewers of Paris, under the Opera House?"
    "If it is the same man." Nemo glanced at the young American. "These, Agent
Sawyer, are Leonardo da Vinci's blueprints of Venice, notably