The Map of the Sky (43 page)

“It is inevitable,” the priest murmured, shrugging his shoulders. “We were born and raised among them. And despite their limitations they are truly . . . unique. They are my flock.”

“From what I’ve observed, they certainly are resilient,” the Envoy resumed, ignoring the priest’s words. “They will make superb slaves. And their minds are abuzz with energy. They will be of more use to us than even they could imagine. Don’t weep for them, Father. How long before they drain all their natural resources and make themselves extinct: three, perhaps four hundred years? What is that in comparison to the age of the universe?”

“From that point of view, perhaps only the blink of an eye,” the priest persisted, “but from their position it is whole lives, generations, History.”

“They could only survive by fleeing to other planets, like we do,” the Envoy replied, trying to conceal his frustration. “Do you think their science will be sufficiently advanced by then to allow them to travel into
space? And if it were, what do you think they would find? Only remnants, depleted planets, worlds squeezed dry. Scraps from the banquet table. As you know, all the other races in the universe are doing the same as us. In fact, the matter is very simple: it is them or us. There is no God to decide who deserves to prevail. You may not believe it, but we are alone. Cast adrift. No one knows what we should do, what game of chess we are playing, or for whom.”

The Envoy peered curiously at the priest before adding, “Could it be that you consider them a model of civilization, an irreparable loss?”

The priest gazed at him for a few moments in silence. “No,” he replied, with an air of regret. “They wage war on one another, they commit atrocities, they kill in the name of absurd ideologies and invent vengeful gods to soothe the pain of their loneliness.”

“Good,” the Envoy said contentedly, rising to his feet. “I wouldn’t like to think you were siding with them. You know that in any case we will conquer the Earth. And afterward you will have a good position, providing I don’t send any negative reports about you. Don’t forget that.”

“So, let’s slaughter them,” the priest said at last, with an air of resignation, lowering his head and clasping his hands reverentially above his head.

“No, Father,” the Envoy replied almost with affection, turning his back on the priest and walking slowly toward the arched doorway leading to the church. Then he paused, closing his eyes once more and listening. When he spoke again, his voice sounded distant and faint, as though floating on the breeze. “Remember, this will only be a slaughter from their point of view. The Cosmos cares nothing for the Earthlings’ absurd morality.”

The priest lowered his hands with a downcast air. A solemn silence descended on the sacristy, a silence undisturbed even by the clamor of the minds of the colony. The Envoy remained with his eyes closed, listening, as a wistful smile played over his borrowed lips.

“They are all here, sir,” the priest announced timidly. “They are eager to greet you.”

The Envoy nodded and, turning toward the priest, he opened his eyes.

“Then let us not keep them any longer,” he said, buttoning his jacket. “They have waited long enough, don’t you think?”

The priest smiled wearily back at him. He stood up from the table and led the Envoy toward the church, trying hard to appear excited about what was happening, which was nothing less than the event they had all been waiting for since their ancestors first arrived on Earth. The priest motioned to his guest to go before him. The Envoy lifted his head as he stepped through the curtain separating the sacristy from the church and walked forward with as much grace as his human form allowed. He was aware of a murmur of expectancy, this time from the hundreds of throats in the church. A varied sample of humanity filled the benches and aisles, a range of social classes, of men and women, all very different, yet all with the same awed expression. The Envoy raised his hand slowly in a gesture of greeting, which the reddish glow filtering through the stained glass windows imbued with solemnity. Then he walked ceremoniously over to the pulpit, planted his hand on it, and spoke to the colony.

“First of all, please accept my apologies for the sixty-eight-year delay, brothers and sisters. My journey here has not been easy, but I have arrived at last. And it is you who will fulfill your ancestors’ dream, for tomorrow we shall conquer London.”

XXIV

L
ET US NOW RETURN TO THE REAL
W
ELLS,
whom we left clasping Miss Harlow inside a luxurious carriage with an ornate “G” emblazoned on one of its doors, which at that moment was hurtling toward the Martian tripod in an insane bid to pass beneath its legs. I hope you will forgive me for having left our hero in such a delicate situation; think of it as my homage to the serialized novels of the time. As the jolting carriage careered across the dozen or so yards separating it from the lethal machine, Wells gritted his teeth, expecting the heat ray to vaporize them at any moment. However, the author was still able to wonder whether the flames would consume their bodies so swiftly that they wouldn’t have time to feel any pain. But death’s caress was slow to arrive. Astonished that the machine had still not fired at them, Wells opened his eyes and turned toward the window, convinced these would be his last gestures. As he did so, he saw one of the tripod’s legs pass so close to the carriage that it sheared off a lantern on the left side. A second later, he heard a deafening blast from behind, which shook the coach violently once again. Then Murray gave a cry of triumph. Looking over his shoulder through the rear window, Wells could see the vast hole the ray had bored in the road. With a mixture of relief and joy, he realized the tentacle had waited too long before firing at them. The speed at which the millionaire had driven the horses had confused the machine, and it had not had time to take proper aim. And as the tripod grew smaller in the rear window, so the likelihood of it firing at them again diminished, for as Murray had realized, the machine
could not turn as quickly as they. The author watched as it tried to swivel round in the middle of the road like a clumsy ballerina, realizing that by the time it did so, their carriage would be out of sight. He turned once more in his seat, breathless with anxiety, and gently lifted the girl’s head, which was still pressed against his chest.

“We made it, Miss Harlow, we made it,” he stammered between gasps.

The girl sat up straight, a look of shock on her face. Gazing through the window, she saw that indeed they had succeeded in passing under the machine, which had given up pursuit and was moving in the opposite direction toward Woking.

“Are you all right in there?” they heard Murray ask.

“Yes, you bloody lunatic, we’re all right!” Wells shouted, unsure whether to explode with rage or give in to the hysterical laughter threatening to rise from his throat.

Instead, he simply fell back in his seat, his heart still pounding, and tried to calm himself. They had been on the point of dying, he said to himself, yet they were alive. This was a reason to rejoice. Or it ought to have been. He looked over at Inspector Clayton, who was still sprawled on the seat opposite wearing the peaceful expression of someone having a pleasant dream, oblivious to the vicissitudes suffered by his body. Wells sighed and gazed at the girl, who, like he, was attempting to recover from the shock. They remained like this for a few moments, silent, and grateful, as though they had just been reunited with their souls, which had almost escaped from their chests like scared birds. The carriage continued on its way, much more slowly now that it was no longer being pursued by the machine.

Yet before either of them could break the silence they were struck dumb by the devastation that began to emerge around them. With a mixture of horror and fascination, they contemplated a patchwork of pine forests reduced to ashes and half-burnt woods still smoldering in places, with tiny fires scattered throughout, filling the air with a resinous odor. Plumes of smoke rose from a succession of collapsed houses
along the roadside. Among them, an occasional dwelling, surprisingly intact, stood out, spared from destruction by a mysterious whim of the tripod. After several minutes of utter devastation, they came across a derailed locomotive, which looked like a gigantic fiery snake stretched out across the grass. Around it were several smoking craters, and even in the dimness they could make out the bodies of passengers mown down as they tried to flee.

Scarcely had they left this sinister spectacle behind when they heard distant cannons firing at regular intervals, and they assumed the tripod that had been pursuing them had encountered an artillery battalion. Wells wondered which side had the advantage as he looked out of the window at the ruins that bore witness to the cruelty or indifference this enemy from outer space showed toward the human race.

They circled Chobham and headed once more toward London as the pale dawn began to unveil the contours of the world. There was no evidence of any destruction along this part of the route, Wells realized in relief, for it meant that for the time being London was safe. Presently, when they glimpsed a farmhouse on the road to Addlestone, Murray suggested they make a stop to give the horses a rest before they ended up collapsing unexpectedly on the road. They all needed some sleep, and the farmhouse seemed like a good place for it. The others agreed, and so the millionaire pulled up outside the house. They realized the owners had fled when they discovered two abandoned, horseless carts next to a small barn and at the entrance to the farmhouse a trail of utensils and personal effects: shoes, teaspoons, a wall clock, and a couple of flattened hats that suggested a hasty departure. Leaving Emma to watch over Clayton’s inopportune slumber, Wells and Murray went inside to explore the farmhouse. It was a modest two-floor dwelling, poorly furnished, and with three upstairs bedrooms. They inspected each room and found no signs of life. This spared them the onerous task of asking to stay and even rubbing elbows with the family living there, who would doubtless be eager to exchange stories about the invasion or share their fears, a prospect that daunted the exhausted Wells. After the inspection,
they gave the horses water and carried Clayton into the main bedroom, where they laid him on the double bed. It was decided that Wells would sleep beside the inspector in case he suddenly woke up, while Emma and Murray would occupy the other two rooms. Once they had deposited the inspector, they went down to the kitchen to satisfy the hunger that had begun to assail them. Sadly, the fleeing family had also plundered the pantry, and after an exhaustive search all they could find was a stale crust of bread and some moldy cheese, which none of them deigned to taste, for it would have meant accepting that the situation they were in was totally desperate. Following this disappointment, each retired to his or her improvised bedroom to try to rest for at least a couple of hours before resuming their journey.

Wells went into his allotted chamber, took Clayton’s pulse to make sure he was still alive, and then lay down beside him. He had forgotten to take the precaution of drawing the curtains, and a dim light filtered through the windows. He was too exhausted to get up again and so resigned himself to sleeping in the bothersome glare that was beginning to illuminate every corner of the modest room. As he waited for sleep to come, he studied the meager possessions the house’s owners had been forced to leave behind: the rickety wardrobe, the small chest of drawers, the shabby mirror, the small lamp and candles beside the bed. Those forlorn objects had so little in common with those of his own world that he was surprised they were able to offer comfort to anyone. And yet there were those who lived with such possessions, who journeyed toward death surrounded by objects emanating ugliness. Wells kept to his side of the mattress, arms tightly by his sides, not wishing to touch the sheets any more than he could help it, for he was convinced that if he came into contact with them, or with any of the other hastily abandoned objects, his fingers would break out in an unpleasant rash. As he lay there, besieged by that respectable poverty, the author was forced to acknowledge that it was one thing to imagine the privations of the lower classes in a general, almost abstract way, but quite another to witness at first hand the hideous drabness surrounding their lives, which was
something he had never alluded to in the few articles he had written in support of their rights.

Then his eye fell on a photograph atop the chest of drawers. It showed a couple and their two sons wearing the suspicious expression of those who still believe the devil has a hand in the workings of the camera. The couple, with their coarse features and simple clothes, had placed their hands on their sons’ shoulders, as if showing off the prize fruits of their orchard. Those poor lads could have been born anywhere, but the roulette wheel of life had decided it would be to that family, condemned to toil in the same fields as their parents before them. They would accept their fate as a matter of course, and their souls would never burn with a curiosity that would force them to question the order of things. But, looking on the bright side, Wells said to himself, their lack of imagination was an excellent insurance against life’s many disappointments, which happily they would never experience. If they were content with their lot, they would have no urge to migrate to the city, where they would doubtless have a much harder life, for at least in the countryside the air was pure and the sun was warm. In the city they would have been crammed together with others like them in a rented room in some filthy East End backstreet, easy prey to tuberculosis, bronchitis, and typhus. And the healthy, robust glow they brought with them from the countryside would fade in some factory, as would their will to live, all for a miserable wage that would afford them no greater happiness than a drunken spree in a seedy tavern. Luckily for them, those two able-bodied lads had got the best of a bad deal, for surely it was they who had occupied the two other bedrooms. Wells looked away from the photograph, wondering what had made the family abandon their house, which was certainly their only home. Had they been scared by the rumors they had heard, perhaps encouraged by their neighbors? And how would their simple minds have reacted to the news that the enemies attacking their country came from outer space, from that starry sky they had never seen as anything but a decorative backdrop? Now though, regardless of the fate to which each had been allotted or the possessions they had managed to
accumulate, all the inhabitants of the Earth were reduced to the same level: that of fleeing rats.