The Map of the Sky (39 page)

“I am to blame?” the millionaire protested. “Let me remind you that you challenged me to re-create the Martian invasion in Mr. Wells’s novel as a condition for marrying me, despite not loving me. Yet I love you, Emma. And I promise you that if I’d known something like this was going to happen, I would never have allowed you to travel to London. I only took up your challenge because it was a chance to make you happy, while your sole intention was to humiliate me! Which of us is more selfish?”

“I forbid you from calling me by my Christian name again,
Mr. Murray
!” the girl cried. Then she took several deep breaths to try to calm herself before adding in a serene but stinging voice: “And I’d like to make one thing perfectly clear before leaving for London, which is where I intend to go, given that both Mr. Wells and Inspector Clayton consider it the most sensible thing to do: not only are you the last person on Earth I would ever marry, you are also the last person with whom I would want to survive the destruction of this planet.”

The young woman’s words seemed to knock the wind out of Murray. His face grew dark, and for a moment he looked as if he might explode, but then he lowered his head, too abject to hold the angry gaze of the girl, whose eyes appeared capable of blasting him with a heat ray more powerful than any Martian machine.

“I understand, Miss Harlow,” he murmured. “Then I suppose there is nothing more to say.”

In spite of himself, Wells could not help giving the millionaire a pitying smile.

“Come on, Gilliam. Be sensible,” he heard himself say cheerily. “Where else would we go, for the love of God?”

Still staring at his feet, Murray gave a sigh of resignation.

“Very well,” he murmured. “We’ll go to London.”

Just then, a fresh explosion, closer than the previous ones, made the walls shudder, and a shower of plaster fell on them from the ceiling.

“Whatever our destination, the quicker we leave the station the better, don’t you agree?” said the author, once the echo from the blast had died away.

“Yes, let’s get out of here as quickly as possible,” Murray concurred.

He made as if to leave, but the girl’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

“What do we do with him?” he heard her say, pointing at the inspector’s inert body.

“For Heaven’s sake!” Murray exclaimed, at the end of his tether. “What do you expect us to do with him, Miss Harlow?”

“We can’t leave him here,” Wells interposed. “If that machine destroys the station, he’ll be buried alive. We must take him with us.”

“What?” the millionaire protested. “Have you lost your senses, George? He was planning to arrest us the moment we reached London.”

“Do you want us to abandon him to his fate?” the author cried.

“Oh, no, Mr. Wells. Naturally Mr. Murray wouldn’t dream of leaving him here. He isn’t that selfish. Are you, Mr. Murray?”

The millionaire did not know how to respond and simply looked at her dumbfounded.

“I didn’t think so,” Wells jested, and, hoisting the inspector up by his armpits, he said to Murray: “Come on, Gilliam, don’t sulk, take his feet and help me get him out of here.”

•   •   •

I
N THE STATION, THE
peace that had reigned when they arrived had turned to violent chaos. As they had gleaned from the noises and shouts reaching them in their cell, people were rushing back and forth, or clustered together in bewildered groups into which a gradual panic was creeping. “The Martians are coming!” many of them cried, dragging
their luggage from place to place, as if suddenly no refuge felt secure enough in the face of such a threat. The Martians are coming! They watched as a desperate tide of people tried to clamber aboard the only train standing in the station, clogging its doorways so that many could only get on by smashing the windows. Some tried to force their way through, brutally thrusting aside anyone blocking their way, even women and children, some of whom fell onto the tracks. Looked at from the calm of the platform, that chaos offered a spectacle at once shocking and fascinating, a display of barbarism that illustrated perfectly how fear can destroy people’s reason, reducing them to simple animals driven only by a selfish will to survive.

“Let’s get to my carriage,” said Murray urgently.

They pushed their way through the crowd as best they could, the two men carrying the inspector’s limp body and Emma clearing the way with her parasol when necessary, until they managed to leave the station. But once they reached the area reserved for waiting vehicles, they came across the same mayhem as inside. Murray’s carriage, like all the others, was surrounded by a surging crowd that was struggling to commandeer it. They had just managed to knock the driver from his perch and were enthusiastically beating the poor wretch as he dragged himself across the ground. Wells took the opportunity of leaving Clayton in Murray’s care a few yards from the carriage and helping the girl to climb aboard through the door farthest from the skirmish. But scarcely had Emma placed a foot on the running board when a man grabbed her arm and flung her callously to the ground. Without thinking, Wells seized hold of her aggressor’s jacket, before realizing with unease that the man was much bigger than he.

“That’s no way to treat a—”

A fist striking his face prevented him from finishing his sentence. Wells staggered and fell backward, landing close to the right-hand wheel. Half dazed by the blow, his mouth filled with blood, Wells watched from the ground as two burly men planted themselves in front of the carriage door, while the girl, scarcely a yard away, struggled to pull herself up.
Wells noticed that the two brutes, both the one who had knocked him down with a right hook and his companion, were wearing the uniform of station porters. Until only an hour ago, he reflected, the two men had been obsequiously carrying the luggage of customers like him, in the hope of receiving a tip that would pay for their supper. But the Martians had created a new order in which blunt force prevailed. If the invasion flourished, it would be men like these who would flaunt their power and possibly even decide the fate of others. With no clear idea how to help the girl or make off with the carriage, Wells spat out a gob of blood and leaned on the wheel to hoist himself up, much to the amusement of the fellow who had knocked him down.

“Haven’t you had enough?” he yelled, turning toward Wells and raising his fist in a threatening gesture. “Do you want some more?”

Naturally, Wells did not. However, he clenched both fists, squaring up ridiculously, prepared to return the blows as best he could. He could not back down now. Scarcely had he time to raise his fists when a shot rang out, startling the crowd encircling the carriage. All turned in the direction of the noise. Wells saw Murray, pointing Clayton’s pistol into the air. The inspector was curled up next to the splayed-out legs of the millionaire, who, with an imperturbable smile, fired a second shot, which prompted the mob to step back from the carriage. Wells wondered what would become of the bullet, where it would land once the speed that propelled it skyward died out and it fell back to earth. After firing the shot, Murray slowly lowered his arm, like a snow-covered branch bowing under its load, and took aim at the crowd.

“That carriage belongs to me, gentlemen, and if any of you get near it, it’ll be the last thing you do,” he shouted, edging nimbly toward the band of men led by the two porters.

When he reached them, he offered the girl his hand, still brandishing the gun.

“Miss Harlow, allow me to help you,” he said gallantly.

The girl appeared to hesitate, then finally stood up, leaning her weight on his hand. She stood behind Murray, shaking the mud from
her dress as she glanced about in a dazed fashion. Still pointing the gun at the porters, Murray gestured to Wells and Miss Harlow to climb aboard.

“Hey, Gilliam . . . ,” Wells whispered behind his back.

“What is it, George?”

“I think you’ve forgotten Inspector Clayton.”

Without lowering his weapon, Murray glanced over his shoulder and saw the inspector’s body lying on the ground where he had left it. He blurted out an oath between gritted teeth and turned his attention back to the group of thugs, who leered at him, and then once more to his companions, his gaze resting tentatively on the girl, who was still standing beside him, a bewildered expression on her face.

“Very well,” he said, making a decision. Then, handing Emma the gun, he said softly, “Miss Harlow, would you be so kind as to hold these gentlemen at bay while Mr. Wells and I lift the inspector into the carriage? Forgive me for asking, but do you believe you can manage that?”

Emma gazed with puzzlement at the weapon Murray was holding out, and then peered at him. Murray gave her a smile as warm as it was encouraging. This instantly roused the girl’s anger once more.

“Manage? Why of course, Mr. Murray,” she snapped, grabbing the weapon with her slender hands. “I don’t think it will be too difficult. You should try wearing a corset sometime.”

As the weapon changed hands, the porter who had attacked the girl let out a howl of laughter and took a step forward. As the girl aimed the revolver at him he stopped in his tracks.

“I’m warning you, my friend, one more step and I’ll do more than knock you to the ground,” she declared fiercely.

“Oh, I’m quaking in my shoes,” the porter mocked, turning to his band of men. “The little lady wants us to believe she can—”

However, he was unable to finish his sentence because Emma, with a sudden movement, lowered the gun and shot him in the foot. The bullet pierced the toe of his boot, a jet of blood spurting out. The porter fell to his knees cradling his foot, his face contorted with pain.

“You damned bitch!” he cried.

“Right,” the girl said, addressing the others. “Next time I’ll aim for the head.”

Fascinated, Murray gazed at the girl, astonished at her pluck. Wells was obliged to tap him on the shoulder to remind him about Clayton. Between the two men, they heaved the inspector into the carriage. Then the millionaire approached the girl and asked her for the gun, with an admiring smile.

“Nice job, Miss Harlow,” he congratulated her. “I hope you can forgive me for putting you in such a perilous situation.”

“You’re very kind, Mr. Murray,” she replied sarcastically as she handed him the pistol. “However, I should point out that you were the one taking the risk by entrusting the weapon to me. I’m sure you believed those ruffians might wrest it from me.”

“Oh, not for a moment.” The millionaire grinned. “Remember, I’ve taken tea with you.”

“Ahem . . .” Wells gave a little cough from inside the carriage. “Forgive me for interrupting, but remember that the Martians are heading this way.”

“Quite so, quite so,” Murray said, helping the girl into the coach. Then he turned to the mob, gave a little bow, and said, “Thank you, gentlemen, you’ve all been most kind. Unfortunately, this carriage is too grand to accommodate your lowly posteriors.”

With these words, Murray climbed in a leisurely manner onto the driver’s seat and, once installed, gave a crack of the whip.

“The insufferable bighead,” Wells muttered.

“I agree. He’s the most conceited man in the world. But thanks to him we recovered the coach,” the girl acknowledged grudgingly.

She was right about that, Wells reflected, as the carriage moved away and through the window he watched the band of aggressors grow smaller in the distance. If Murray had not kept his calm, he himself would almost certainly have taken a beating, and they would be the ones
left behind at the station watching those brutes make off with Murray’s coach.

They took the Chertsey road to London almost at a gallop, causing Clayton, whom they had propped up in front of them, to slump sideways on the seat. The violent jolting of the carriage made his arms jump about, and his head flopped from side to side, like a man in the throes of drunkenness. Wells and Emma tried not to look at him, ashamed to witness an intimate moment in the inspector’s life that few would ever see.

As he gazed out of the window, Wells realized night had fallen. A large part of the landscape outside the window was now plunged into darkness. On the horizon he could make out a cherry-red glare and a plume of smoke rising lazily up into the starry sky. From the distant woods of Addlestone came the disturbing boom of cannons, muted and sporadic, which made him think that the army was doing battle with the tripods somewhere.

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Emma.

The girl’s gaze was fixed on something happening outside the window. Alarmed by the look of horror on her face, Wells leaned over her shoulder and peered into the night. At first he saw nothing, only a pine forest immersed in blackness, but then he glimpsed, slipping through the dense shadows, the vision that was terrifying her. A huge bulk was moving swiftly down the slope parallel with the carriage. When he managed to make it out against the darkness, Wells could see that it was a gigantic machine held up by three slender, jointed legs, advancing in great strides like some monstrous insect. Giving off a deafening metallic grinding sound, and swaying ominously, the shiny metal machine moved clumsily yet resolutely through the pine forest, casually crushing the trees underfoot as it went. Wells could see that the uppermost part of the device closely resembled the Martian cylinder he had described, but that the rest of its structure was very different—more like a vast round box covered with a complex mesh of plates, which reminded him of a hermit crab’s shell. He also glimpsed a cluster of jointed tentacles,
slender and supple, which moved as though they had a life of their own. Taller than several houses, the moonlight glinting on its metal surface, the thing was marching implacably toward London, opening a pathway through the stand of trees.

The machine suddenly tilted its hood slightly toward the carriage, and Wells had the uneasy feeling that it was watching them. His suspicions were confirmed when a second later the device deviated slightly from its path and began approaching the road. From the sudden jerk of the carriage, Wells deduced that Murray had seen it, too, and was trying to gain some distance by urging the horses on even more forcefully. Wells swallowed hard and, like Emma, gripped the seat to keep himself from being thrown into the air by the coach’s violent shaking. Through the rear window he could see how one of the legs of the tripod emerged from the ditch and planted itself on the road. Then, dragging a clump of splintered pine trees, the other two also appeared. As soon as it was steady on its three legs, the thing set off in pursuit of the carriage. Its huge strides echoed in the night like booming thunderclaps, as the mechanical monster gained on them. His heart beating furiously in his chest, Wells watched as at the top of the machine the strange apparatus that launched the heat ray began its familiar cobralike movement as it took aim.