The Map of the Sky (38 page)

Jane, his Jane. Was she in danger? He had no idea, and for the time being he preferred to imagine her safe and sound in London with the Garfields, who, if news of events in Horsell had reached the city, were undoubtedly cheering her up at that very moment, assuring her that he was all right. He gave a sigh. He must not torment himself with these thoughts. His life was in peril, and if anything he must focus his efforts on discovering what the devil was going on and on finding a way to stay alive as long as possible, at least until it became clear whether the entire human race was going to perish and surviving would be the worst thing that could happen to him.

“Very well, Gilliam,” he said, carefully adopting a gentle tone. “Let’s accept that the invasion has nothing to do with you. Who is behind it, then? Germany?”

The millionaire gazed at him in astonishment.

“Germany? Possibly . . . ,” he said at last, trying to collect his thoughts and give his voice a firm sound. “Although I think it unlikely that any country has a sophisticated enough technology to produce the lethal ray that almost killed us.”

“Really? I don’t see why such a thing couldn’t have been carried out in secret,” Wells proposed.

“Perhaps you’re right,” replied the millionaire, who appeared to have regained some of his composure. “What is certain, George, is that those behind the attack are copying your novel.”

Yes, that much was certain, the author acknowledged to himself. The location of the cylinders, their appearance, the heat ray . . . Everything was happening almost exactly as he had described. Accordingly, the next phase would be the construction of flying machines shaped like stingrays that soared across the counties on their way to London, ready to raze it to the ground. Perhaps at that very moment, in the deserted meadows of Horsell Common, strewn with charred corpses and smoldering trees, the relentless hammering sound of their construction was echoing in the silence. But, in the meantime, there was no way of
knowing who was behind all this. And given that as yet no Martian had popped its gelatinous head out of the cylinder, the only thing they could be sure of was that these machines were deadly, and that anyone could be operating them, or no one, he thought, wondering whether they might be activated from a distance, via some kind of signal. Anything was possible. Wells then realized with surprise that he felt no fear, although he suspected his sudden display of pluck was because he still did not know exactly what it was they ought to be afraid of. The test would be if he managed to stay calm when the attackers made their next move and things began to make sense; only then would he discover whether at heart he was a hero or a coward.

Just then, the two men heard a loud clamor outside. They looked up toward the tiny storeroom window, straining to determine the cause of the row, but were unable to make out what the voices were saying. They could only conclude that some unrest had now broken out in the station, hitherto immersed in an unnerving calm. People seemed to be running hither and thither, and, although their cries did not yet sound panic-stricken, something strange was definitely going on. Wells and Murray exchanged solemn glances. During the next few minutes, the din appeared to intensify: they heard doors slamming, objects crashing to the floor, bundles being dragged along the ground, and occasionally someone barking an unintelligible order or uttering a frantic oath. The two men were starting to get nervous when the door to their temporary cell swung open and in walked Inspector Clayton and Miss Harlow with looks of unease on their faces, which did not bode well.

“I’m glad to see you are both still in one piece, gentlemen,” the inspector said with a sardonic grin as he closed the door hurriedly behind him. “Well then, I bring both good and bad news.”

The two men looked at him expectantly.

“The good news is that whoever is doing this isn’t as keen on your novel as we had thought, Mr. Wells,” Clayton announced, scrutinizing Wells with exaggerated curiosity. “It seems the Martians haven’t built
flying machines shaped like stingrays with which to attack us from the skies. I recall that in your novel they were propelled by magnetic currents that affected the Earth’s surface . . .”

“Yes, yes, please go on,” Wells said.

“Well, it was an ingenious idea in any case, truly ingenious,” the inspector mumbled as if to himself before resuming in a matter-of-fact voice: “But apparently as yet unrealized, for the would-be Martians are traveling on foot.”

“On foot?” said the author, perplexed.

“That’s right. According to my information, the accursed things have sprouted legs. Yes, spindly birdlike legs about twenty yards long. And as they move along crushing pine trees, barns, anything in their path, they keep on firing lethal rays at the terror-struck crowds.” The inspector punctuated his speech with exasperating pauses that left them all on tenterhooks. Wells realized that while he was informing them, Clayton was also attempting to assimilate his own words. “Perhaps the similarities between the beginning of your novel and the initial invasion are a coincidence, I don’t know.” He paused abruptly once more, his lips twitching as though keeping time with his thoughts, then went on: “The fact is, things have begun happening differently than in your novel, Mr. Wells, and that casts some doubt on your involvement.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, Inspector Clayton,” Wells replied curtly.

“And the same goes for you, Mr. Murray,” the inspector began, addressing the millionaire. “As I said, we have a proper invasion on our hands. There are tripods everywhere, and however wealthy you may be, I imagine such a thing is beyond even your means, not that winning Miss Harlow wouldn’t be worth every penny,” he said, beaming at Emma. “In any event, what I think doesn’t count, and so for the moment I’m sorry to say you are still under arrest. My superiors are the ones giving the orders and they like to explore every avenue. All I can—”

“What about the bad news?” snapped Murray, who could not have cared less about Clayton’s apologetic soliloquy.

The inspector looked at him inquiringly.

“The bad news? Ah, yes! The bad news is that the tripod from Horsell is coming toward us, wreaking havoc along the way,” he said.

Wells and Murray exchanged anxious looks.

“And what are we to do?” inquired the millionaire.

The inspector raised his head suddenly, as though surfacing from underwater, and said, “Right. We’ll go to London, to Scotland Yard headquarters. And not simply because I have to interrogate you there, but because, things being as they are, in a few hours’ time London will undoubtedly be the safest place in England. My superiors have informed me that the army is cordoning off the city in readiness to fend off the invader. We have to reach London before they block all access. Staying outside the perimeter would be the most perilous thing we could do at present: several battalions are marching on the cylinders, and if we stay here we’ll soon find ourselves caught in the crossfire.”

“That sounds sensible,” Wells said, suddenly remembering Jane.

“Sensible?” protested Murray. “You call heading toward the place the Martians intend to obliterate sensible, George?”

“Yes, Gilliam,” replied the author. “If we head in the other direction, we’ll probably—”

“I wasn’t inviting you to debate the plan, gentlemen,” Clayton interjected. “I was simply telling you what we’re going to do, whether you like it or not.”

“Well, I don’t like it,” Murray complained. “And neither I nor Miss Harlow is prepared to—”

A thunderous bolt rang out in the distance, causing the tiny storeroom to shudder.

“What the devil was that?” Murray exclaimed nervously.

“It was the heat ray,” Wells said grimly, “and it sounded very close.”

“My God!” cried the girl, shifting uneasily.

“Calm down, all of you,” Clayton demanded. “As I already told Miss Harlow, you are in the best possible hands. I am Inspector Cornelius Lewis Clayton of Special Branch at Scotland Yard, and I’m trained to deal with this kind of situation.”

“With a—Martian invasion?” the girl stammered.

“Strange though it may sound, yes,” Clayton replied, without looking her in the eye. “An invasion of our planet by Martians or other extraterrestrials was always a possibility, and consequently my division is prepared for it.”

The inspector’s speech was punctuated by a fresh explosion, a deafening bang whose echo went on for several seconds before dying out. They looked at one another in alarm. It was even closer this time.

“Are you sure, Inspector?” the millionaire asked, a sardonic smile on his face.

“Certainly, Mr. Murray,” Clayton replied solemnly.

“Aren’t we perhaps jumping to conclusions when we refer to them as Martians?” Wells chimed in. “They could be machines designed by Germans, for example.”

Ignoring Wells’s remark, Clayton drifted off into another of those brooding daydreams to which he seemed so partial, this time studying the ceiling of the tiny storeroom.

A few seconds later, the inspector emerged from his meditations. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll take the carriage and drive to London as swiftly and safely as possible. We’ll do our best to travel inconspicuously and avoid any cylinders along the way—in the unlikely event we encounter any. We may need to camouflage the carriage, but we can see about that as we go along. An invasion takes longer than a few hours . . . yes, indeed,” he said suddenly, as if to himself, and nodded vigorously. “It takes time to wipe out a planet. I wonder if the same thing is happening everywhere? Is this the destruction of our civilization? I expect we’ll find out soon enough . . . In the meantime, they are here, in our country. The Martians have clearly understood the strategic importance of the British Isles. But we’re ready for them, of course!” He turned to the others, giving a reassuring smile. “We mustn’t give way to panic. The whole thing will be over before we even realize it. At this very moment our defense plan is being put into place in London. This area is outside my division’s jurisdiction, but while you are with me you have absolutely
nothing to fear. I shall get you to London safe and sound. You have my word.”

And with that, the inspector rolled his eyes and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Startled, his three companions stared at one another, and then finally gazed with interest at Inspector Clayton’s body curled up in a ball on the floor, wondering whether this was part of his plan.

“What the devil?” Murray exclaimed when he realized the inspector was out cold.

Murray made as if to give him a kick, but Wells preempted him, kneeling beside the inspector.

“He’s alive,” he told them, attempting to take Clayton’s pulse.

“Then what’s the matter with him?” the millionaire asked, bewildered. “Has he fallen asleep?”

“Clearly he has suffered some kind of fainting fit,” Wells replied, remembering vaguely what Serviss had told him. “Perhaps he suffers from low blood pressure, or diabetes, although I’ll wager—”

“In the best possible hands!” Murray cut across, raising his eyes to Heaven in despair. “For God’s sake, one of them is made of metal!”

Wells stood up and looked with an air of disappointment at the inspector lying on the floor at their feet.

“What are we going to do now?” the girl asked Wells in a faint voice.

“I think we should stick to the plan of going to London,” Wells proposed, eager to get there as soon as possible to look for Jane.

“I’m not taking Miss Harlow to London, George,” the millionaire protested.

“If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Gilmore, or Murray, or whatever your name is, I shall decide for myself where I want to go,” the girl intervened coldly. “And I do want to go to London.”

“What! But why, Emma?” Murray became frantic. “We may as well walk straight toward the gates of Hell!”

“Because things can only be done in the proper manner,” Emma retorted. Apparently she had recovered the conceited self-assurance she displayed at home, and Murray found this unacceptable, given their current
predicament, which seemed to have completely slipped the girl’s mind. He was about to object, but Emma silenced him with an angry stare. “And for your information, Mr. Murray, seeing as you haven’t deigned to ask, I happen to be staying in London—at my aunt Dorothy’s house in Southwark, to be exact. And I left there this morning without telling a soul, because my intention was to witness your pathetic spectacle, to settle the tiresome and humiliating episode of your defeat, and arrive back in time for lunch without anyone having noticed my absence. However, that wasn’t to be . . . ,” she murmured, glancing about the storeroom with the bewildered look of someone having just woken from a deep sleep. But she instantly took hold of herself, continuing in a resolute voice. “If news of the invasion has reached London, my poor aunt, who must have realized by this time that I’m not in my room, will be in a dreadful flap, and so I must go put her mind at rest. And besides, my things are there, all my trunks containing my dresses, not to mention the two maids I brought with me from New York, whose well-being is my responsibility. Are you suggesting I flee with you to goodness knows where, with nothing more than the clothes on my back, and forget about everything else?”

“Listen to me, Emma,” Murray said with undisguised exasperation, as though trying to drum sense into the head of a spoiled little girl, “we are being invaded by an army of alien machines intent upon killing us, and I’m afraid no one will care very much what you are wearing when they aim their heat rays at you. Don’t you think that in a situation like this your baggage should be the least of your worries?”

“I am not
only
worried about my baggage! Did you hear a word I said, Mr. Murray?” Emma exclaimed, clenching her teeth angrily. “You are the most insufferable man I have ever met! I’ve just told you I have relatives here in London, and I wish to join them as soon as possible. Besides, my parents’ reply to my telegram will be sent to my aunt’s house, and they will want to know we are together and out of harm’s way. I have
responsibilities,
don’t you see? No, of course you don’t. What can someone who stages his own death know of responsibilities, someone
who by his actions deprives the world of what is undoubtedly the greatest discovery in the History of Mankind, the possibility of traveling to the future, out of pure selfishness, no doubt because he has enriched himself enough and wishes to enjoy his wealth in peace? And a man such as he, who thinks only of himself, dares to criticize me for worrying about my clothes? Do you really think I would place myself in your hands, Mr. Murray? Why, you are to blame for my being stuck in the middle of this chaos in the first place!”