by Eric Brown
“You mean…?”
“In my opinion you have suffered enough. Nought will be gained by hauling you before the court, for while human law might have sympathy with your plight, I cannot say the same for the Martian judiciary.”
She stared at him, open-mouthed, and tears glistened in her eyes.
“If I were you,” Holmes went on, “I would attempt to put the terrible memories of last night behind you. Your secret is safe with Watson and me.”
“I cannot thank you enough, Mr Holmes!” Wells said.
Miss Fairfield stepped forward and took the detective’s hand. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Presently we watched them step from beneath the boughs of the oak and, hand in hand, walk into the diminishing twilight of the heath.
* * *
In due course we started back to Baker Street. Holmes lit his pipe and pulled upon it ruminatively. I stared up at the stars scattered brightly across the heavens, lost in thought as I pondered the coming of the Martians and the many wondrous incidents that their arrival had entailed.
We strode on in silence as the darkness deepened around us, and at last, from all across London, near and far, there sounded the first of the tripods’ strange and mournful cries.
“Ulla, ulla,” they called dolorously into the warm night air, “ulla, ulla…”
Part One
The Martian Simulacra
Chapter One
A Visitor to 221B Baker Street
Two years after my friend’s involvement in the affair of the Martian ambassador, Sherlock Holmes was called upon once again to render assistance to our extraterrestrial associates.
In the interim my friend had worked on a number of investigations, though none which I thought of sufficient interest to add to the already copious annals of his exploits. In between cases he had spent his time studying the intricacies of Martian electronics, poring over the Encyclopaedia Martiannica, and scanning the crime pages of the London Gazette. Often, late into the evening over a glass of brandy, he would regale me with what he had learned of Martian life from the encyclopaedia, as well as offering his own solutions to the crimes and scandals of the day.
I, for my part, divided my time between my club and a select group of private patients in west London. I was now sixty and slowing down. The old war injury was troubling me from time to time, and my concentration was not what it had been.
That very morning Holmes upbraided me on this score. “What you should be doing, Watson, is not so much slowing down but speeding up.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
He examined me over his toast. It was a brilliant summer’s morning, not yet eight o’clock, and through the windows of 221B Baker Street I looked out upon yet another cloudless day. In the distance the cowl of a Martian tripod loomed, silent and brooding, high above Regent’s Park.
“People of our age often make the mistake of thinking that they should reward themselves – grant themselves a gift for long service, as it were – by ‘slowing down’.” He pointed a thin finger at me. “But this is lazy thinking. Only by keeping active, physically and mentally, can we hope to keep senility and decrepitude at bay.”
“That’s all very well for you to say,” I retorted, “the possessor of a relatively healthy body and a brilliant mind.”
“I appreciate the effects of your war injury, Watson, but what I suggest is that you take up a hobby, embark on something new and mentally invigorating.”
“But dash it all, Holmes,” I said, “it’s not as if I possess your mind, you know? What is it you advise me to do?”
He was saved from replying when Mrs Hudson entered the room, somewhat flustered.
“Oh, Mr Holmes! I know I shouldn’t say this, knowing how you hobnob with them from time to time… But there’s one of the slimy things downstairs – well, on its way up, right now. It gave its name, but for the life of me I couldn’t make sense of its burblings.”
“It will be Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran, I shouldn’t wonder. Be so kind as to show him up, Mrs Hudson, and would you be so good as to prepare a pot of Earl Grey?”
She bustled out, and in due course the door opened and the Martian squeezed his bulk through the doorframe and shuffled into the room.
Holmes advanced and shook one of the creature’s tentacles. He bowed, murmured a greeting in the Martian’s own gargling tongue, then continued in English, “Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran, I am delighted to welcome you again to 221B. You know my good friend, Dr Watson.”
I essayed a nod in the alien’s direction, loath to match Holmes’s greeting and grip a slimy tentacle. I hoped the creature would not be offended at this breach of etiquette. Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran had been promoted since our last meeting, and was now the ambassador to Great Britain, and a Very Important Alien.
The Martian sat down on the chaise longue, and presently Mrs Hudson entered bearing a silver tray with a teapot and three china cups and saucers. She retreated, averting her gaze from our guest, and Holmes poured the tea.
“Now,” he said, sitting back with the saucer perched upon the bony prominence of his right knee, “how might I be of service?”
Before replying, the ambassador attended to his refreshment. Gripping the delicate china cup in one of his proboscis-like tentacles, he raised it to his beak and, rather than taking a small sip, tipped the entire contents of the cup into his maw. He made a gurgling sound, as if in appreciation, and Holmes refilled his cup.
“The matter is one of the utmost delicacy,” said Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran. “We cannot allow the news to be disseminated abroad, for fear of causing panic.”
Holmes nodded. “And the nature of the crime?”
“The gravest, sir, the very gravest. Murder.”
“Murder,” Holmes echoed, leaning forward. “And the victim?”
“None other than the esteemed philosopher, Delph-Aran-Arapna.”
The name meant nothing to me, but then I took very little interest in the high and mighty among the ranks of the aliens. By the frown that creased my friend’s aquiline features, I gathered that the name was taxing his powers of recall, too.
“Delph-Aran-Arapna was one of our finest thinkers,” the Martian went on, “belonging to the Zyrna-Ximon school of thought. He was also a Venerable – that is, a citizen entering his one hundredth Martian year, which approximates to one hundred and ninety Earth years.”
“Venerable indeed,” Holmes assented. “And do the Martian authorities have any clues as to who might have wanted the Venerable dead?”
The ambassador poured the second cup of Earl Grey into his mouth, gurgled his appreciation, then said, “Delph-Aran-Arapna’s views were seen, among certain sections of Martian society, as contentious. But as to why anyone might disagree with his ideas to the point of wishing his death…” He lifted a tentacle in an evident gesture of mystification.
“How was Delph-Aran-Arapna murdered?” Holmes asked.
“In the most despicable manner imaginable,” came the reply. “A tentacle was severed and then…” The V-shaped beak ceased its movement, and for a few seconds Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran closed his huge, coal-black eyes. The alien was clearly moved by his recollection of the murder. “And then the philosopher was held down by his assailants while his severed limb was utilised to block his windpipe. He died in terrible agony.”
Holmes murmured his condolences. “I have read somewhere – I cannot recall where – that such a killing—”
The ambassador interrupted. “Just so. The killing in the manner I have described is known amongst my kind as lykerchia. It means, in English, ‘to kill someone for the views they hold’. Such a heinous murder is, thankfully, rare amongst our kind, which is why this particular crime is considered so revolting – and why not one word of it must filter out to the citizenry of my planet. The authorities have covered up his murder with the story that Delph-Aran-Arapna passed away peacefully in his sleep.”
“The views held by the murdered philosopher,” Holmes said. “How might they
have angered someone to the degree of provoking murder?”
The ambassador waved a tentacle. “I will gladly apprise you of the details once you have agreed to take on the case,” he said.
Holmes inclined his head. “And might I enquire where the murder took place?”
“He was murdered in his home, in Kashera. That is, in the verdant foothills of Olympus Mons.”
“I see,” said my friend, leaning back in his chair. “Now, I take it that you have reason to believe that the perpetrator of this ghastly crime has fled to Earth – hence your request for my assistance in the matter?”
“We are confident that the killer is still on Mars,” the alien replied. “It would be impossible for him to have left our planet, as voyages to Earth are strictly monitored. Only accredited politicians, the military and selected artists and musicians are accorded transit passes to your world.”
Holmes tapped his chin and stared into space for a while, then asked, “And so you wish me to conduct an investigation into the murder of Delph-Aran-Arapna at a remove of some sixty-odd million miles?”
The Martian lofted a tentacle. “On the contrary, Mr Holmes. We are desirous of your presence in situ, so that you might better conduct your investigations. I am here to invite you, and your esteemed friend Dr Watson, to journey to Mars as our honoured guests.”
The alien’s words rendered me, for the time being, speechless; likewise Holmes, but not for long. “That is a most gracious honour indeed,” he said. “And one which I must discuss with Dr Watson. I trust that you do not require an immediate decision? There are various details that require our attention – arrangements to be made and appointments postponed.”
“I fully understand,” the Martian said, “but I must stress that time is of the essence. A liner leaves the Battersea docking station at two o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Another ship does not leave, after that, for a fortnight. Needless to say, upon the successful outcome of the case, my government would generously remunerate you.”
Holmes waved this aside. “Pray, let us not sully the offer at this juncture with talk of monetary reward. I will require a few hours to discuss the matter with Dr Watson, and then, in the morning, if I agree to take on the case, I should like to further question yourself and any of your colleagues you think might aid my investigations.”
Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran stood and looked from me to Holmes. “I await your decision with anticipation,” he said. “For now, farewell.”
The alien lumbered from the room and I turned to my friend. “Well, Holmes,” I said. “We’re going, of course? We can’t really look such a gift horse in the mouth, can we?”
An expression of abstraction passed across my friend’s ascetic features. “On the face of it, you’re right, Watson. How I have dreamed of setting foot upon the red planet. To think of it, Watson – to walk the red sands beneath the cerise skies of Mars. To look upon the plane of Utopia from the slopes of Phlegra Montes!”
“I sense a ‘but’ approaching, Holmes.”
“But, Watson, Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran’s request puzzles me somewhat. Very well, I assisted the Martians two years ago, but the crime occurred on our doorstep and to solicit my services then was the logical option. But to request that I investigate the murder of a Martian philosopher on his own planet, when the Martians’ own detectives would be better suited to deal with the matter… It vexes me not a little.”
“But what ulterior motive might they have?” I asked. “If, indeed, you suspect an ulterior motive?”
My friend shook his head. “That is just the problem. For the life of me, I don’t know what I suspect, and this troubles me.”
He crossed the room, opened the Martian encyclopaedia, and pored over it for a time. Perhaps five minutes later, he looked up. “I’m going to the British Library,” he said. “There are one or two details I wish to check. It concerns me that, for all the comprehensiveness of the Encyclopaedia Martiannica, nowhere does it mention the philosopher Delph-Aran-Arapna. Now there is perhaps a valid reason for this, and if so then my doubts might very well be for nought. Inform Mrs Hudson that I will be back for dinner at six, would you?”
And, with this, Holmes flung his overcoat around his lank frame and hurried from the room.
Chapter Two
A Conversation in the Park
I was in a state of febrile excitation and anticipation for the rest of the day. Unable to settle down and peruse The Times, after lunch I took myself from the house and wandered the streets until finding myself at Hyde Park.
A Martian tripod stood sentinel beside Marble Arch, something grave and monumental in its very silence and stillness. At sunset, this tripod and others ranged around London would begin their signature call: “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla…” The eerie double-note, plangent and melancholic, would eddy across the rooftops of the boroughs, as one tripod enigmatically called to another in an acoustic chain diminishing across London and, eventually, fading into the distance beyond Richmond.
I passed the tripod and continued on to Speakers’ Corner.
A protest or demonstration of some sort was in progress there, and I slowed down to take in the swelling crowd and the speakers.
Five men and women stood upon a platform beneath a banner that declared: “Terra for the Terrans! Free Earth Now!” Among the crowd I espied homemade placards bearing such legends as: “Martians Go Home!” and “The Occupation Must End!”
A tall, ginger-bearded figure in his fifties, I judged, stepped up to a microphone and began his peroration, and as I moved closer to the platform I realised that the speaker was none other than the celebrated playwright George Bernard Shaw. Seated beside him as he waited his turn at the microphone, harrumphing through his moustache like some huge, disgruntled walrus, I recognised G.K. Chesterton. I smiled my amusement that it had taken the arrival of the Martians to bring these two literary giants, normally at polemical loggerheads, to some form of rapprochement.
“Domination of one race by another can never, ever, under any circumstances, be tolerated,” Shaw was saying. “Look upon the sorry plight of those countries and peoples under the oppression of our very own empire. Ask the citizens of India and Africa if they welcome our rule, depriving them as it does of the opportunity to grow as nations, to express their sovereign individuality. I say that the same is true now, on Earth, as humankind grovels under the tyrannical heel of our otherworldly oppressors!”
Cheers greeted Shaw’s words, and he went on to enumerate his grievances in more specific terms. I estimated the crowd now numbered a couple of hundred, made up of citizens from all walks of society: barrow-boys and costermongers rubbed shoulders with bowler-hatted bankers and businessmen in pinstripes. I made out dowagers and dustbin men, aristocrats and artisans; if nothing else, opposition to the Martians’ occupation had had a democratising effect among the populace. Though it struck me that, perhaps, just as many people, and from just as broad a cross-section of society, saw the benefits that the Martians had brought to our world.
I was casting my glance about the crowd when I caught the eye of a rather striking young woman standing at my side.
She was attired in a jade-green ankle-length dress, with a lace cloche perched on her head at a jaunty angle. Her hair was golden, her face pale and breathtakingly beautiful, with a wide, smiling mouth whose full lips suggested to me a happy and generous nature.
She noticed my attention and smiled. “Mr Shaw performs his usual trick of revealing truths with uncommon insight, don’t you think?”
“That all depends,” I ventured, “on whether you consider the Martians’ presence good or ill.”
She looked at me. “Are you here to join the protest, Mr…?”
I offered my hand. “Doctor,” I said. “Doctor John H. Watson, at your service. And you might be?”
She blessed me with a delightful smile and shook my hand. “Freya Hamilton-Bell,” she said.
“And you are here because you side with Shaw, Chesterton and the rest?” I enqu
ired.
She raised a finger. “But I asked you first, Doctor.”
I laughed. “So you did! Very well, I am here through happenstance, as I was taking an afternoon constitutional. And as to whether I oppose the presence of the Martians… I must admit that I can see both the benefits and disadvantages.” A thought occurred to me, and I indicated the cafe beside the Serpentine that served afternoon teas. “I wonder if you would care to join me in refreshment, Miss?”
“Do you know, I rather think I would, Doctor.”
“Capital!” I said, and led the way to the cafe.
We took our seats and I ordered tea and cakes, Darjeeling for my companion and Earl Grey for myself.
“Now,” she said as she raised the china cup to her lips and took a tiny sip, “those benefits you mentioned, Doctor?”
“It cannot be denied,” I began, “that the coming of the Martians has revolutionised our understanding of the sciences, and the benefits accruing from this are indisputable.”
She pointed an elegant forefinger at me. She was, for a woman of tender years, rather forthright, and I found this somewhat refreshing. “But who gains from this ‘revolution’, Doctor? Do you realise that the profits made from the increase in manufacturing go not into the coffers of our government, but straight back to our oppressors on Mars? Do you realise too that poverty on Earth has increased for the majority since the Martian invasion? Oh, the Martians might condescend to give us certain medicines and technologies and other gewgaws to keep the populace subdued, but without doubt the Martians are stripping our planet of resources for their own material gain.”
I smiled to myself. “Now I understand your presence here, Miss Hamilton-Bell. You clearly oppose Martian rule.”
“I shock you, Dr Watson?”
“Not at all. I am rather impressed by your argument, and the manner in which you express yourself. The term ‘a breath of fresh air’ comes to mind. From one so young and…” I faltered.