The Map of the Sky (16 page)

Allan shook his head in amusement, raising his slender harpist’s hands in a theatrical gesture.

“We have seen a Martian come down from the sky in a flying machine, Reynolds. How could my poor wits refuse to believe anything now?”

“I hope you are right, for I think I know how the monster got on board.” He let his words hang in the air and settle like specks of dust on the surface of Allan’s mind before resuming. “And, more importantly, I believe it is still among us.”

“Do you know where it is now?” the young man asked, sitting bolt upright in his seat.

“If I’m not mistaken,” the explorer murmured gloomily, “it is up on deck, finishing its watch. And in ten minutes’ time, it will be in my cabin having a drink with me.”

Reynolds contemplated Allan as he digested those words in silence.
He had been unable to resist giving that cryptic reply, but he knew Allan needed no further explanation. Such were the gunner’s extraordinary powers of mind that sometimes Reynolds could not help thinking he viewed the world around him not necessarily from above but at one remove, and that from his watchtower, wherever that was, all of mankind’s victories, advances, and triumphs over his environment and over himself must appear little more than a quaint child’s game. And yet, over time, Reynolds had also noticed, not without some regret, that Allan’s tumultuous, fragile mind was too fanciful for its own good.

“Do you mean to say that . . . it has changed into one of us?” the gunner said at last.

Hearing Allan voice his own suspicions, Reynolds felt a shiver run down his spine as though he had stepped barefoot onto cold marble. Spoken aloud, the idea sounded at once insane and terrifying. Reynolds nodded and smiled feebly. The young man had not disappointed him, and, judging from his inquiring expression, as a reward he wanted more details. Reynolds cleared his throat, ready to provide them, although he decided to leave out a few in order to save face in front of the only ally he had on the ship.

“A few hours ago I left the ship with the aim of going back to the flying machine, but I lost my way in the fog. For a while, I walked around in circles, fearful the monster would pounce on me at any moment . . . until I stumbled on Carson’s body. It had been ripped open just like the elephant seal and poor Doctor Walker, and lay half buried in the snow. It was frozen solid and must have been there for at least a day or two. I ran back to the ship as fast as I could to raise the alarm, but when I arrived I was surprised to find Carson on watch on deck, his entrails intact.” He paused for breath and gave a wry smile before going on: “I was bewildered at first, as you can imagine, but then I had a mad idea, which, the more I think about it, seems like the only possibility: what if the sailor who came back with the seal was not the real Carson, but something that had—”

“Taken on his appearance,” Allan concluded.

“Yes, let’s suppose for a minute that while the others were searching the area around the flying machine, Carson and Ringwald lost each other in the fog, and the creature took the opportunity to kill Carson and, well . . . to step into his shoes.”

“And now, according to you, that thing, whatever it is, is on watch up on deck.”

“Precisely. And God only knows what its intentions are,” Reynolds replied, smiling awkwardly at the gunner, as though apologizing for making him listen to such ravings. “What do you think, Allan? Does the idea strike you as completely insane?”

The gunner stared silently into space for what seemed to Reynolds like an eternity.

“The question is not, I think, whether the idea is insane,” he spoke at last. “The mere fact of being alive has for a long time seemed to me an unfathomable riddle. What we should be asking ourselves is whether there is any other possible explanation, one that allows us to rule out this apparent madness. For example, are you sure the body you found out there belonged to Carson? You said yourself the fog was thick and it was half buried in the snow. In addition”—Allan coughed uneasily—“I don’t wish to seem impolite, but I confess I can smell the alcohol on your breath from here.”

Reynolds let out a sigh of despair.

“I don’t deny I’ve been drinking, Allan, but I assure you I have never felt more sober. And I would like nothing more than to tell you I was too drunk, and terrified, to know what I saw. It would save me having to defend a position that no one in his right mind would willingly accept. Why, I myself would question the sanity of anyone who told me such a story. But I’m afraid I know perfectly well what I saw, Allan. It’s Carson’s body lying out there in the snow.”

“I see . . . ,” murmured the gunner.

“At all events, Allan, if the body was not Carson’s, then whose was it? No one else has disappeared from the ship. It would be equally absurd, if not more so, to think that the body belonged to someone who did
not travel here with us, don’t you agree?” Reynolds paused for a moment before adding: “But there is something more, Allan, something that makes me believe my theory is right. The Carson I spoke with up on deck seemed . . . How can I explain it? . . . He seemed odd, different. And when the dogs caught a whiff of him they began barking like mad. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

The gunner rose from his chair and began pacing the narrow cabin, visibly on edge.

“Assuming you are right, how could that thing change into Carson? Do you know how complex our bodies are? It would have to duplicate each one of our organs, not to mention language, consciousness, knowledge . . . the psyche, Reynolds, memory! Carson was not a hollow shell, a suit of clothing anyone could put on. Carson was a man, a masterpiece of creation . . . How could it possibly imitate the Creator’s exquisite work, and without anyone noticing, to boot!”

“Come, come, Allan, I understand the difficulty of replicating a man from his nose down to his accursed penis, but you know as well as I do that Carson’s mind would scarcely present much of a challenge. That yokel was not exactly the most shining example of our species. We both know he was a man of few words and unusually limited intelligence. And I don’t suppose Carson being quieter than usual would have aroused the rest of the crew’s suspicions. But besides the dogs, there is further evidence to back up my theory. Don’t you find it odd that despite his frostbitten foot Carson is able to carry out his watch without the slightest difficulty? Can a human being recover from frostbite as if by magic?”

“Yes, I have to admit that is rather odd,” the gunner agreed, musingly. “Still, I find it hard to believe that—”

Reynolds lost his patience. “For the love of God, Allan! Didn’t you try to convince me the creature must come from Mars because the simplest answer is always the most logical? Well, now we have two Carsons in the Antarctic, one lying dead in the snow, and the other up on deck, bewildered but very much alive. I don’t know about you, but it seems to
me the simplest explanation for this extraordinary phenomenon is that the Martian has changed itself into the sailor. Having ripped his guts out first, naturally.”

Allan made no reply. He gazed at the wall for a long while, as though at any moment he expected the answers he was searching for to spell themselves out there.

“Very well, Reynolds,” he finally murmured somewhat grudgingly. “Let’s say that the Martian is able to transform itself into one of us, and that it has taken on the appearance of Carson. For what reason? What are its intentions? Why did it attack Doctor Walker and not us? What is it waiting for?”

“I’ve no idea,” confessed the explorer. “That’s why I have invited it to my cabin, to try to understand it, to converse with it, because I’m beginning to suspect the creature does not wish to kill us. Otherwise it would have done so by now, don’t you think? Disguised as Carson, it could easily move unhindered about the ship, picking us off one by one. This leads me to think that Doctor Walker’s death was an accident. The Martian must have killed him in self-defense, as it were, when the good doctor tried to saw off its foot.”

“That is possible,” murmured Allan.

“We have no idea how the creature sees us,” Reynolds went on. “Perhaps it is more afraid than we are and is simply struggling to survive in what it considers a hostile environment. All we know is that its responses can be extremely violent, and we must therefore approach it with the utmost caution. I believe this is the only chance we have of communicating with the Martian. And if there is one man on this ship I can count on to help me do that, it is you, Allan.”

“I understand your motives, Reynolds, but why not tell Captain MacReady about this? Why do you want us to do this alone?”

“You know how
highly
the captain thinks of me, Allan,” the explorer said forthrightly. “It’s obvious he would not believe me unless he saw Carson’s dead body with his own eyes, and I doubt I could guide him
back there. If I told you that only a few hours ago he and I had an . . . exchange of views in his cabin, after which he suggested I lock myself in mine for the rest of the voyage and even threatened to have me locked up in the hold if I insisted on pestering him with my
crazy ideas,
perhaps you’ll understand why I have not hurried to tell him that the Martian has taken on the form of one of his men. Even if MacReady did believe me, he would no doubt be hell-bent on killing the creature, thereby destroying any possibility of communicating with it. And that is exactly what I intend to do: to communicate with it. Not simply because I think it is our only way of saving ourselves, but because of what it signifies. If we are right and there is a Martian on board ship, don’t you see how incredible it would be to make contact with it? To converse with a being from another planet, Allan!”

The gunner nodded understandingly, although he seemed less enthusiastic about the idea than Reynolds, who felt obliged to continue haranguing him.

“This could be the biggest step forward in the History of Mankind, Allan! If we are right, we are about to discover something of immeasurable significance. Do you really want us to leave it all in the hands of a bunch of fools? We are the only two men on the ship capable of doing what needs to be done. The others are only interested in saving their skins. We owe it to humanity and to future generations to take the lead in this matter. Fate has brought us here to prevent the arrival on Earth of the first visitor from space from turning into a vulgar bloodbath.”

The gunner nodded and heaved a sigh, which Reynolds hoped was a sign of determination rather than weariness. Then he sat down once more and stared absentmindedly into space.

“Perhaps the creature’s machine crashed before it was able to reach its destination, wherever that may be,” Allan surmised, unable to help feeling a thrill at the idea of a Martian being on board, “and now it finds itself in the wrong place, trapped on an expanse of ice with no hope of escape.”

“I think you’re right,” Reynolds conceded. “Perhaps the creature sees us as the solution to its dilemma and has infiltrated the ship because it thinks we know how to get out of here.”

“I’m afraid it will be disappointed in us as an intelligent species.” The gunner grinned, and then, as though suddenly aware that allowing himself to joke about the situation might cost him dear, he put on a solemn face. “Very well, Reynolds, you can count on me. Now, what is your plan?”

Reynolds glanced at him uneasily. His plan? Yes, of course, Allan wanted to know his plan. Something he would have liked to know himself.

“Well, I have to confess, I’ve not thought much about how I will conduct the meeting,” he admitted. “I expect I will improvise depending on the creature’s reactions.”

“And what if its intentions are indeed destructive?” the gunner asked. “What will you do if it tries to attack you?”

“Of course I have considered the possibility that the Martian may refuse to converse with me, preferring to rip my guts out. That is why I want you there, Allan. As my guarantee, my life insurance,” replied Reynolds.

“But won’t the thing be surprised to find me in your cabin?” the gunner protested, clearly preferring to wait in his cabin until the encounter was over.

“The creature won’t see you, Allan. You will be hiding in the cupboard, and if things get ugly, you will jump out and shoot it before it has a chance to attack me.”

“Ah, I see . . . ,” Allan breathed, white as a sheet.

“Can I count on you, then?” Reynolds said in an almost plaintive voice.

The gunner narrowed his eyes and remained silent. For what seemed like an eternity the only sound they could hear was the groaning the ice made as it slowly tightened its stranglehold on the ship.

“Of course you can, Reynolds, why do you even ask?” he said at
last, hesitating slightly, as though he himself were unsure how to respond. “Besides, I am the only sailor on the ship who could fit into your cupboard.”

“Thank you, Allan.” Reynolds smiled, genuinely moved by the gunner’s gesture, and he believed he was being sincere when he added, “The last thing I expected to find in this hellhole was a friend.”

“I hope you remember that when you no longer have need of me,” murmured Allan. “Incidentally, do you have any brandy left? If I am to shoot at a being from another planet, I think I could do with a glass or two.”

“Why not wait and drink a toast with the Martian?” Reynolds hurriedly suggested, wondering how to remove the brandy from his cupboard before the gunner hid inside.

IX

R
EYNOLDS CAST A CRITICAL EYE OVER HIS
tiny cabin, like a theater director assessing the stage props. He had emptied the cupboard he used as a pantry, taking care to conceal the two or three unopened brandy bottles from view. Allan, a gun in his poet’s hand, was now hiding in its narrow interior. Reynolds had placed one of the bottles and two glasses on the table in the middle of the cabin and, adding a sinister touch to this everyday scene, to the right he had placed a freshly loaded pistol. Reynolds preferred to display the weapon openly as opposed to concealing it in his pocket, where he had stuffed the tamping rod and the gunpowder. He thought this would arouse less suspicion, given that everyone had been armed since the state of siege began. On one side of the table was a chair, and facing it the comfortable, reassuring armchair he had brought from his other life. All that was missing was one of the actors, who, if his theory was correct, would come in disguise.