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Crowing like a proud rooster, he had stood in the middle of the trading floor surrounded by paper-laden work tables to attract his coworkers’ attention. “Well, boys, I am off to another career. I will now make my living as a writer while you stay here among your dreary numbers and stocks.”

Although the others congratulated him, it was clear from their expressions that they thought him a fool for giving up a stable career. Verne didn’t care. . . .

Now, as a successful writer, Jules Verne had the freedom to do as he wished -- and this strange note promised him an “extraordinary voyage” of his own. How could he pass up such an opportunity? It might even turn into the basis for a new novel, whatever this adventure might be. He tried to place the tantalizing yet familiar handwriting, the tone of the sentences.

Chewing his lip, Verne paced in the foyer, scuffing the rug. He knew he should travel more, experience more. He had always longed for such things, theoretically. But somehow he never got around to doing so. He had a secure income -- so, why should he not take advantage of his success?

Impulsively jamming the note into the pocket of his robe, Verne decided to take a chance -- for once. He raised his chin in the air in a show of bravery. He would tell Honorine he needed time alone to concentrate on a new book. While he adored the bustling civilization of Paris, he longed to see the ocean again. He liked the cool, damp weather, and the lullaby of the Atlantic.

Even if this message were merely a practical joke, Verne could still relax by the ocean, all alone. It would be a holiday, and he didn’t have to tell anyone. Either way, he had nothing to lose.

#

He gave Honorine a cursory goodbye, glad to leave her behind with their fussy toddler. Verne boarded a train carrying a small valise that contained a few toiletry items and three changes of clothing, as well as a bound journal in which he could write down notes for stories. If he should not encounter the promised “adventure,” at least he would get writing done.

On the appointed night, nervous and anxious, Verne took his valise, and walked along the shingled beach north from Paimboeuf. As the time grew near, he began to feel like a fool for believing what was most likely a prank -- but he had to see for himself.

A mile up the coast from Paimboeuf, just as the letter-writer had described, he found a deep, calm cove far from the nearest village. Faint white breakers stippled the dark water.

Verne waited, listening to the brisk wind and calm whisper of the ocean. He smelled the brine, the iodine tang of seaweed, the odor of dead fish. There were no campfires, no fishermens’ huts, no one at all. Clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the silvery circle of the moon. He saw no roads nearby, heard no wagons or horses.

Drawing a deep breath, Verne reached into his vest and pulled out the pocketwatch he had purchased with money Hetzel had paid him for the balloon book. He remembered how his father had always kept a telescope trained on the distant monastery clock: now Verne could tell time whenever he wished.

He snapped the lid shut. It was midnight.

He sighed, convinced that no one would appear after all. Some rival or dissatisfied reader must be back at a Paimboeuf inn right now, snickering at Verne’s gullibility. His cheeks burned; maybe someone was watching him from the rocks even now.

Then a stirring caught his eye in the water out in the cove. Air bubbles rushed to the surface like a pot coming to boil. Verne whirled and faced out toward the ocean. To his astonishment, a great metal sea beast rose from the waves.

Its round portholes gleamed like the infernal eyes of a demon. Jagged fins looked like the ridge on a dragon’s back. As it surfaced, Verne backed away, stumbling on the loose rock of the beach, but he could not stop staring.

The armored beast floated in silence and then, with a scraping sound and a heavy clang, a hatch opened on its top. The lean, shadowy