The Map of the Sky (59 page)

“We’ll go to Murray’s Time Travel and take the
Cronotilus
to the year 2000,” I explained triumphantly.

“But Murray’s Time Travel closed two years ago, Mr. Winslow, after Gilliam Murray’s death,” Shackleton reminded me.

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” I replied, “but what do you think happened to the hole leading to the fourth dimension and the year 2000? Is it still open?”

“I doubt it,” Shackleton said with a conviction that took me by surprise.

I gazed at the captain fixedly, wondering how to get around his objections.

“Well, I think it is. And I’m convinced we will be able to use it to travel to the future. Don’t you see it has to be this way? There is no trace of the Martians in your future, which must mean that at some
point, somehow, we will defeat them. Otherwise none of us here would have been able to glimpse that future.” I glanced around me once more and thought I saw a flash of comprehension on my cousin’s face, and that of Madeleine, and even of Harold and a few of the other servants. I felt encouraged to speak even more heatedly. “We’ll go to Murray’s Time Travel, travel to the future, and defeat the Martians. And do you know why? Because we’ve already done it!”

“But we can’t be sure my intervention will be what stops the invasion,” Shackleton replied stubbornly. “It could be one of our allies coming to our aid, or anything.”

The captain looked around, seeking the approval of his audience, but his words died in the growing buzz of admiration. My heartening speech and my simple explanation of the complicated matter had stirred them more than the captain’s shilly-shallying. A few of the servants approached him, mesmerized: standing in their parlor was the man who would save the human race from extinction after first defeating the Martians and destroying the powerful machines that were razing the city of their birth.

“Perhaps he’s right, Derek,” Claire addressed her husband. “Perhaps it wasn’t only your love for me that brought you here. Perhaps there is another reason?”

“But Claire . . . ,” Shackleton protested.

Claire placed her hand on her husband’s arm with the utmost tenderness.

“I think you should at least try, Derek,” she insisted, giving him a pleading look.

Shackleton remained silent, gazing into her eyes, while we all awaited his decision anxiously.

“Very well, Claire, I’ll try,” he said.

“Excellent!” I exclaimed, overjoyed at his decision, while everyone began applauding, overcome with emotion. “We’re going to the year 2000!”

I watched Harold the coachman surreptitiously wipe a tear from
his cheek, while the other servants exchanged hugs and pats on the back. Only my wife remained frosty, refusing to join in the general merriment.

“I’ll go with you,” my cousin declared, overcome with emotion.

“No, Andrew,” I said, smiling. “Only the captain and I will go. It’s dangerous out there. Remember, Captain Shackleton plays a crucial role in this situation: he must stop the invasion, and the future tells us he will, which means he won’t die at least until then. However, there’s no guarantee that those who go with him will also be spared, so you must stay here, Andrew, and take care of the women. I’m sure the charming Keller sisters could not endure being widowed at the same time,” I joked. My cousin made as if to protest, but I cut him short with a gesture. “Harold, prepare the carriage.”

The coachman shot a glance at Andrew, who nodded.

“The carriage will be ready in five minutes, Mr. Winslow,” he said.

“Make that two.” I grinned.

After he had gone, Shackleton and I began saying our good-byes to those staying behind in the refuge. Claire implored Shackleton to be careful, and I told Andrew once again to look after the women as best he could. Victoria did not approach me: she simply shook her head in dismay, and I gave a shrug. That silent exchange of reproaches constituted our farewell. She didn’t know I was trying to save the planet, and I didn’t know I would never see her again. And even if we had known, would we have behaved any differently?

XXXII

C
HARLES BLEW GENTLY ON THE LAST PARAGRAPH
until the ink was dry. He closed the notebook, placing the pen diagonally across it, and stared at it blankly. Two years had passed since he last saw his wife, and now it pained him deeply, as few things ever had in his life, that he had refused to swallow his pride and bid her farewell with a loving kiss, or failing that, if modesty prevented him, with a more or less affectionate, more or less heartfelt embrace.

Just then, he became aware of the rodent-like squeak coming from his neck shackle. Almost immediately, he felt the familiar tickling sensation that seemed to originate from the spot where the shackle was implanted in his back through a web of thin tentacles, roughly at the level of his fourth vertebra. Within seconds, the tingling sensation spread like a stream of molten lava down his back, searing his spinal cord, before subsiding as it reached his feet in a series of painful spasms. Clenching his teeth, Charles waited for the torment to pass, leaving him, as it did every morning, with a knot in his stomach, his body limp, his legs shaking. Fortunately the pain did not last long, a few seconds, and as time went on he had almost become accustomed to it. At first, he thought this sword of fire scorching his back would melt his spinal cord, or possibly his insides, but the only lasting harm had been a couple of cracked teeth and a sense of shame that would haunt him for the rest of his days, for more than once he had lost control of his bowels and been forced to attend the work camp carrying a humiliating load in his ragged trousers.

With this unnecessary fanfare, the buzz of the shackle was telling him
it was time to leave his cell. When the spasms in his feet had subsided, Charles got up and placed the notebook under his pallet, pleased at having finished the entry just in time. He left his cell sleepily, pretending he had just woken up. His cell was one of the topmost cubicles in the vast metal barracks where the prisoners lived, and from the narrow walkway, along which his fellow prisoners were now dragging their weary bodies, he had a view of the entire Martian camp. Charles decided to stop for a moment and survey the place where he would die, the panorama that seemed stranger to him each day, for it was changing imperceptibly.

Although not yet complete, the huge pyramid being built at the center already dominated the camp. Just then, as the rising sun peeped out from behind one side of the pyramid, casting an orange glow over its chromed surface, Charles even thought it looked beautiful. Yet he knew this vast edifice was in fact monstrous. For the past few months, greenish sparks that emitted a peculiar buzzing noise had begun running horizontally around the lower levels of the pyramid, closest to the ground. The pyramid’s perimeter was so vast that these sparks took hours to travel round it, and if Charles happened to be working in the vicinity of the structure when the strange flashes passed, he felt a sharp pain in his lungs, which instantly sparked a fit of coughing. Whatever effect that colossal pyramid was supposed to have on the Earth’s atmosphere, it had already started.

Beyond the pyramid stood a cluster of unsightly Martian huts, like pale pink bubbles. Poking through the top of them were rubbery glass tubes that drooped gracelessly down the outside, giving them the appearance of giant upturned jellyfish. The tubes trailed down to the ground and, at a distance from the huts, disappeared underground in the direction of the pyramid. To the left of the camp, quite close to the huts, was a huge, funnel-shaped hole in the ground where they threw the dead human bodies, which would revolve in slow circles before sliding down and being sucked into the hole in the center. But not only dead bodies went into the grisly orifice. If the Martians thought a prisoner deserved to be punished, or if one fell ill and was too weak to work, his neck shackle would give off a high-pitched wail, and the wretched man would
start walking helplessly toward the funnel, like a puppet guided by invisible threads, and hurl himself into it, spinning faster and faster as he descended, until with a howl of terror he disappeared into the central maw.

Charles gave a shudder and averted his gaze from the funnel. Not a day went by when the accursed hole didn’t gobble one of them up, dead or alive, and, as he did every morning, Charles wondered whether at some point during the day, the shackle would take control of his legs and he would find himself walking toward the funnel in what might seem like a perfectly natural way, were it not for the grimace of horror that would appear on his face. His eyes wandered toward the horizon. Although the camp appeared to have no perimeter fence, so that any prisoner might feel tempted to flee across country, it was in fact surrounded by an invisible wall of death. No one knew the exact location of the deadly demarcation line, but if a prisoner strayed a few yards too far from the camp’s center, his neck shackle would instantly begin to choke him, and he would be forced to retrace his steps if he wanted to be able to breathe again. This of course did not prevent some prisoners, in moments of deep despair, from forgetting about the invisible fence, or simply from thinking they could run faster than the time it took the shackle to choke them. But during those two long years, Charles had never seen anyone succeed. He, in contrast, had made no attempt to flee since they had brought him there. Where would he go, given the whole world was one big prison camp? As far as he knew, there was no sign anywhere of his longed-for human resistance. And one look at his fellow prisoners filing down the stairs to the camp was enough to convince him that no hidden seed of rebellion would flourish there either.

Charles descended the steps, mingling with the other prisoners as they left the barracks, which from the ground looked like a huge metal box turned on its side. As he did every morning, Charles headed for the food dispensers, situated around the rim of the funnel; in fact, they appeared to grow out of it, so it would have been naïve to imagine their positioning was entirely coincidental. But Charles had long since chosen not to consider what horrors this implied. With a little imagination, the
dispensers could be described as giant mushrooms, ten feet high. They were crowned by a kind of cap made of shiny scales, and their stem was a long cylinder, narrow enough for a man to wrap his arms around it. To complete their similarity with the Earth’s flora, they were equipped with metal roots, some of which plunged into the sand a few inches from the edge of the funnel, while at least a dozen others clung to the stem like metal ivy. These wires contained hundreds of tiny filaments that quivered in the air at waist level, each ending in a kind of serrated mouth. When the prisoners held their bowls close to these hideous faucets that resembled carnivorous plants, the mouth undulated gently before regurgitating a green pap, the prisoners’ only source of nourishment.

After queuing for several minutes, Charles succeeded in filling his bowl and went to sit on a solitary rock. There he began shoveling the contents into his mouth, trying not to taste it. This was the only method he had discovered of not throwing up the putrid Martian concoction. And the only reason why he was still eating it was because he did not want death to take him before he had finished writing his diary. While he was forcing himself to eat the nauseating puree, Charles cast a weary glance at the small clusters of prisoners, but he could not see Shackleton among them, nor was he sitting alone over his breakfast. This meant the captain had probably been taken that morning to the women’s camp, to empty his still potent seed into one of them. They were only given a few minutes to eat before the Martians made them resume building the purification machine, and so Charles scraped the bottom of his bowl and tossed it on the pile. As he headed toward the pyramid, he observed with tired resentment the dozen or so guards watching their every move. Although partially obscured by colorful copper masks strapped to their heads, which covered their mouths and nasal passages and were designed to filter the Earth’s atmosphere, the Martians in the camp generally took on a human form. To begin with, Charles had considered this a thoughtful gesture on their part, until someone told him it was not to avoid terrifying the prisoners, but to make sure they understood the Martians’ commands and insults.

Charles spent the day on one of the upper floors of the tower, transporting the heavy iron girders with a dozen other prisoners. He worked without taking a break, except when a fit of coughing forced him to step away from the group in order to deposit a blob of green phlegm onto the floor. When this happened, the other prisoners would give him a look of sympathy or indifference, although he could not help feeling anything but deep contempt for them. Charles considered himself different from the others, but not because he belonged to a higher social class. Two years had sufficed to reduce rich and poor to the same level, changing them into a downtrodden, evil-smelling throng that could only be told apart by their manners, and sometimes not even then. As time went on, conversation had been replaced by silence, monosyllables, and grunts, such was the weight of their crushing fatigue. If Charles still felt he was different, this was because he had not been captured whilst fleeing through the streets, like most of the others, and imprisoned there without knowing anything more about what was going on than vague rumors they picked up in the camp. No, before being taken prisoner, Charles had formed part of a group of valiant heroes led by the brave Captain Shackleton, which had been on the point of killing the Martian leader of the invasion, even though all this seemed like a dream to him now. It took a supreme effort of concentration for him to dredge up those events from the depths of his memory.

This was what he had to do when he returned to his cell after an exhausting day. He scarcely had an hour before the sun went down, and so despite the dizziness and fatigue overwhelming him, he took the diary out from under his pallet and resumed where he had left off, unraveling the knot of memories hidden in the farthest recesses of his mind.