by Eric Brown
“But, dash it all, man!”
At this, the Martian reached a tentacle across the table and touched my hand.
“Don’t be alarmed, Doctor,” whispered the Martian in English. “It is I, Freya, and this is a rubber Martian suit.”
“What the…?”
I stared at the hideous headpiece of the alien, and as I did so its ugly beak opened to such an extent that I could see into its maw – and what I observed there caused me first to choke, and then to splutter with laughter.
Miss Hamilton-Bell’s uncommonly beautiful face grinned out at me, then gave a conspiratorial wink. The beak clacked shut, and she continued in lowered tones, “I am sorry if I alarmed you, but I was forced to don this disguise through direst necessity. It’s dashed uncomfortable in here and hot into the bargain. I will be brief. My friends managed to waylay your tail, but the Martian authorities are so wily that they might have employed more than one agent to keep you under surveillance.”
“You said that you would explain everything,” I said.
“And so I will,” came her somewhat muffled reply.
She fell silent as our drinks arrived, then informed the waiter she would not be requiring anything.
When the Martian had departed, Holmes said, “I take it, Miss Hamilton-Bell, that Watson and I were lured to Mars on false pretences?”
“Just so,” she replied.
Holmes explained the spurious reason for our presence here. “My suspicion was aroused when I found no mention of the philosopher, one Delph-Aran-Arapna, in any Martian periodical, encyclopaedia or journal on Earth. It troubled me somewhat that my services should be sought by aliens who, undoubtedly, have their own excellent investigatory organs.”
“Like many a human before you,” she said, “you have been brought here as part of the Martians’ masterplan.”
Holmes frowned. “Which is?”
“No less than the total takeover of planet Earth and the eventual annihilation of the human race.”
“Good God!” I exclaimed.
Holmes eyed the woman’s disguise, deep in thought, then said, “If you don’t mind my asking, Miss Hamilton-Bell, how did you become embroiled in opposition to the Martian government?”
I sipped my drink. Its unusual spices danced across my tongue, ending with quite an alcoholic kick. I drained half the flute, then gave my full attention to the woman’s hushed words.
“I work,” she said, “in the acquisitions department of the Natural History Museum in London, and travel here from time to time to liaise with Martian archaeologists. A year ago I was approached here in the city by a Martian unlike any I had come across before – both in his physical appearance and in his philosophy. This creature was shorter than the norm, his carapace a shade or two darker than the average Martian citizen of this latitude. My interlocutor hailed not from equatorial Mars but from the far north, adjacent to the polar regions. He was of a different race from the specimens you see here. His people are considered primitive by the majority, and even intellectually backward, not unlike the opinion that prevails today in Europe regarding Africans. He told me a terrible story of state repression, torture and genocide – and later I was to see evidence to support his claims: moving pictorial images showing the slaughter of innocents, the bombing of northern cities and towns. But this Martian had not waylaid me to complain of the injustice meted out to his fellows, but to warn me that this was but the start of the Martians’ bellicosity.”
“You mean…?” I began.
“The eventual wiping out of the human race,” she said. “I witnessed enough, in time, to come over to the rebels’ side and work for the cause of his people, along with thousands of like-minded humans.”
“You mentioned in your note that Watson and I are in danger,” Holmes said.
“I have intelligence that your lives will be endangered at some point over the course of the next few days, though I am lacking the precise details. But do not worry – my colleagues and I are working hard to ascertain the Martians’ plans.”
At that second a Martian advanced across the restaurant and paused beside our table. I sat back, fearing that the authorities were onto us, and had come to arrest our friend.
The alien leaned towards Miss Hamilton-Bell and spoke rapidly in lowered tones. At his words, she struggled upright, manoeuvring her tentacles with obvious difficulty. The newcomer held out a tentacle to steady her.
“Your presence has been reported to the authorities,” she said. “My informant warns that security officials are on their way here as I speak. I must leave immediately. It is imperative that you inform Professor Challenger of what I have told you. He, too, is in danger. I will do everything I can to secure your rescue, gentlemen, but now I must make haste.”
And, so saying, she scurried from the restaurant with the newcomer and was soon lost to sight amid the crowds in the street outside.
“Drink up, Watson,” Holmes said, flinging a couple of notes upon the table.
I did as instructed, my head swirling with the rush of alcohol and from the import of Miss Hamilton-Bell’s communiqué, and followed my friend from the restaurant. Holmes turned right along the alley, came to a boulevard, and hailed a passing cab. He gave the driver – this worthy much excited at the fact of his human fare – the name of our hotel, and soon we were beetling at speed along the busy street.
In due course we alighted outside our hotel and found the professor kicking his heels in the foyer. “Hell’s teeth, Holmes! Where the blazes have you been?”
“We were delayed,” said my friend. “We need to speak immediately, and in private. The hotel has a rooftop bar. This way.”
“Confound it, man, you’re babbling like the hero of a penny dreadful!”
But Holmes was already leading the way across the foyer and up a flight of stairs, and soon we were ensconced on couches on the elevated rooftop with a spectacular view across the city. A spangle of electric lights gave the aspect of a funfair, the spectacle matched by the fulminating constellations high above.
As I searched the heavens for the bright point that was Earth, Holmes gave the professor a résumé of what we had just learned from Freya Hamilton-Bell.
Challenger listened in silence, his huge face growing ever redder. As Holmes came to the end of his account, I thought that our friend was about to burst, or at least succumb to apoplexy.
“The fiends! The monstrous beasts! Do you know, I did wonder at my summons. I know I’m famous and all that, but why would a bunch of ugly Martians want to hear all about my travels in Arabia?” He stared from me to Holmes. “But what’s all this about our lives being endangered – and what the blue blazes do the creatures want with us if we’ve been lured here under false pretences?”
“That, my friend, we shall no doubt learn in time.” Holmes turned to me. “You are quiet, Watson.”
“Mmm. Just thinking about Miss Hamilton-Bell – I hope she knows what she’s doing, Holmes. I’d hate it if she were to succumb…”
“I wouldn’t worry yourself on that score. From what I’ve seen of Miss Hamilton-Bell, she seems more than able to handle herself.”
We sat in the clement evening and watched the last of the sunset, going over and over what we had learned and counselling ourselves to vigilance. As we talked, bolstering our confidence with our shared humanity amid so much that was eerily alien, I succeeded in locating the point of brightness that was planet Earth, and gained a measure of comfort from its presence.
It did not occur to me, not even for one second, that I might never again set foot on my home world.
Chapter Seven
Duplicity at the Museum of Martian Science
I spent a fitful night in my narrow hotel bed, on a short mattress meant for the truncated bodies of our hosts. I tossed and turned, my dreams full of hideous Martian visages, these nightmare masks interspersed with visions of Miss Hamilton-Bell’s singular loveliness. In my dreams she was a prisoner of the Martians, stripped of her unif
orm and chained in a dungeon, awaiting the depredations of her evil tormentors.
I awoke at dawn to find my friend’s mattress vacated. Before I could bestir myself to worry for his safety, the hatch opened and Holmes ducked through, his arms laden with local fruit and a bottle of some refreshment.
“I purchased breakfast, as there is none to be had in the establishment and Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran did say that he would arrive for us at first light.”
We sat on our bunks and ate the peculiar fruit – in shape resembling apples, but with a yeasty taste and the texture of soap. The liquid was pale green and milk-like; indeed, according to Holmes it was the product of the Martian equivalent of the terrestrial cow – giant spiders, no less! – and had a spicy tang that made my eyes water.
“Do you think it wise to go along with Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran?” I said at one point.
Holmes ruminated. “Not to do so, Watson, would alert him to the fact that we know something is awry.”
“I could always claim illness,” I said, and indicated the soapy fruit. “You could say I’ve come down with food poisoning.”
“I am curious to behold this Museum of Martian Science. What might the Martians be up to, Watson?”
“All this talk of the annihilation of the human race, Holmes… Do you think the girl was exaggerating?”
“Her claims are extreme indeed. But if she does rescue us, as she promised, then I have no doubt that she will be eager to substantiate her dire warnings with hard evidence.”
We finished our singular breakfast, then descended to the forecourt to await the arrival of Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran.
No sooner had we stepped outside than a bulky air-car descended. A hatch like an insect’s wing swung upwards and Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran gestured from the front seat.
In the capacious rear compartment of the vehicle, which was furnished with plush upholstered benches like a Pullman carriage, sat Professor Challenger.
“Our first port of call,” the ambassador announced as we settled ourselves beside Challenger, “is the Museum of Martian Science. Professor Challenger’s lecture is scheduled for this evening, and I thought he too might care to come along.”
I exchanged a glance with Holmes, who said, “Capital idea. I am more than a little curious about the many wonders of your miraculous technologies.”
The air-car powered up with a roar of engines, and in a second we were airborne.
As the city slipped away below us, my stomach turned at the thought of what might lie ahead. I recalled Miss Hamilton-Bell’s words, and gazed with new hostility at our hideous host and his driver. The Martians were, at the best of times, ugly in the extreme, with their cockroach-coloured tegument, their greasy bristles sprouting from the crater-like follicles that pitted their hides, and their great inky, staring eyes. It had taken some time, after the second wave of Martians arrived on Earth with apologies for the behaviour of their more bellicose cousins, for humankind to look upon the extraterrestrials with anything like equanimity: it did not require much to cast them in the role, in my eyes at least, of the devils we originally thought them to be.
Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran turned in his seat and eyed us. “I understand that you elected to take a stroll before dinner last night?”
“That’s right,” Holmes said. “We passed a pleasant hour or so taking in the market streets in the vicinity of the hotel.”
“And you were not… troubled by a disturbance in that district?”
I glanced at my friend. Was Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran referring to the distraction that had resulted in our minders losing sight of us?
“We did notice a commotion at one point,” Holmes said, “an altercation between the driver of a car and a pedestrian.”
“There have been instances of terrorist activity in the area,” said Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran.
Holmes exchanged a glance with Professor Challenger and myself. “Terrorist activity?”
Our guide waved a tentacle. “Hotheads from the northern deserts,” he said, “demanding greater access to water or some such.” He changed the subject. “I trust you found a suitable dining establishment during your sojourn?”
“A pleasant little restaurant not far from our hotel,” said Holmes.
“And you were not pestered by importuning individuals eager to speak to human beings?”
“Ah…” Holmes temporised, “we did speak to one or two individuals, but I hasten to add that their manners were impeccable. They were merely curious.”
“In future,” said Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran, “I would be wary of speaking to strangers.”
Holmes gave me a significant glance as he settled back in his seat.
At length the air-car came down on the shelf of another ziggurat – the Museum of Martian Science itself – and we took an elevator plate down to the ground floor.
“I thought you might care to view the Hall of Technologies Past,” said Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran, leading us through a high archway to a gloomy chamber the size of an airship hangar. As ever with the interior design of public buildings on Mars, the walls were daubed a uniform taupe and had the pitted appearance of something decorated by insects: we might have been inside a termite mound.
More interesting than the lack of decoration, however, were the examples of Martian machinery on display to either side of a central aisle.
First came bulky wheeled vehicles, evidently steam-powered, with high cabs and cauldron-like devices set at their front ends, not unlike the early steam-driven contraptions of the French inventor Nicolas-Joseph Cugnot. As we progressed along the aisle our host provided a running commentary. On Mars, as on Earth, warfare had proved to be the mother of invention. Again and again we passed ground vehicles and fliers whose purpose was to deliver projectiles, missiles and bombs. Soon we came upon early examples of the kind so familiar to every man, woman and child of Earth: the fearsome tripods. These early versions were smaller, on shorter legs, and with cabins large enough to admit just a single Martian driver.
As we moved from this chamber to the next, we came upon machines that, while they retained the basic shape of the tripods’ domed cowls, were without the eponymous three limbs. “And these,” Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran said, “are the latest Martian war machines, which dispense with the rather clumsy tripod locomotion. These are flying machines, which can circumnavigate the globe in a matter of hours.”
We made noises to indicate that we were suitably impressed.
“And yet you chose to quell the nations of Earth with the antiquated, three-legged examples of the machine?” Professor Challenger asked.
Our guide was quick to correct him. “You refer, of course, to the accursed regime that initiated the unprovoked and unwarranted attack upon your world,” he said. “The regime that we have since overthrown.” Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran gestured with a tentacle back towards the tripods. “That regime judged that the tripods would be sufficient to subdue a race which had not yet developed aerial locomotion.”
“And were proved correct,” Challenger muttered into his beard.
We strolled on, examining what looked like artillery pieces and bulbous rockets. At one point Holmes asked, “How many races dwell upon your planet?”
“Just two, Mr Holmes. We of the equator, the Arkana; and the less populous race of the north, known as the Korshana people.”
“And you live in harmony?” Holmes persisted.
“For the most part, though occasional militants from the Korshana people attempt to cause trouble.”
“Ah,” I said, “the ‘terrorists’ you mentioned earlier?”
“Just so,” said Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran, hurrying us along.
We came to a torpedo-shaped vessel. Unlike every other vehicle we had seen so far, which had been fashioned from pitted materials the hue of graphite, this sleek device was silver.
Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran said, “And here we have the prototype of what we call a deep space probe, which we hope to launch on missions to the outer planets of the solar system before too long.” He raised an inv
iting tentacle. “If you would care to step aboard.”
Challenger squeezed his considerable girth through the tiny hatch, followed by Holmes. I brought up the rear, glancing back into the obsidian eyes of our host, who watched me inscrutably.
Within were three fold-down seats facing a console and a blank screen. No sooner had I taken the lead of my friends, and seated myself, than the hatch clanged shut behind me, effectively imprisoning us within the craft.
I leapt to my feet and searched for some kind of handle on the hatch, to no avail. I pummelled upon the metal surface, calling out, “What is this? Let us out at once, I say!”
Holmes was on his feet, his hawk eyes perusing the ceiling.
Challenger bellowed in rage and beat at the metal panels with fists the size of hams.
Seconds later I heard a peculiar hissing sound, and whirled around to see a mist-like vapour billowing down from the ceiling. My friends, being closer to the source of the gas, had fallen to their knees. I turned in panic and recommenced my frantic pounding on the hatch.
Then the gas reached me, and I, too, slipped into unconsciousness.
* * *
I was cognisant of very little during the next few hours, though I regained my senses for brief, hallucinatory periods.
At one point I was aware of being manhandled, gripped by numerous tentacles and carried along a lighted corridor. Then I was lying on my back, with a blinding light above me, and the gargoyle face of a peering Martian. A period of oblivion followed, and next I was aware of being moved at speed, not carried this time, but borne along on something wheeled. I felt tentacles gripping me, lifting me, and then I received the impression that I was being shackled hand and foot to some kind of metal frame.
I felt a constriction around my head, then passed rapidly into oblivion and did not resurface for many an hour.
Chapter Eight
Imprisoned in the Desert
“Watson! Watson, wake up.”
“What the blazes…?”