by Kim Newman
I was in danger. But if the egg left the house, I would have no proof, no basis for my findings!
Og’s screams still echoed.
‘We... must... be... going...’ Moran said.
‘Not with my crystal egg.’
The copper discs were glinting at me. But I was resolute. No somnambulists, puppeteered by angry-eyed inhuman humps, would stand between me and recognition for my achievements.
‘I am Sir Nevil Airey Stent, the Astronomer Royal,’ I reminded them. ‘I will thank you to return my property. On this world, sirs, I am not to be sneezed at.’
‘Sneezed... at?’ they both said.
At that inopportune moment, my cold struck again – and I had a sneezing fit.
This had the most peculiar effect on my threatening guests. They turned tail, in something like panic, and ran. Purbright dropped the egg which – mercifully – did not shatter. As they ran, they slumped over, arms dangling uselessly, heads lolling – as if they were piloted by their tentacular humps, who could no longer concentrate on even the semblance of normal conduct.
My sheer physical presence, and the dignity of my office, had overwhelmed these creatures.
But I did not doubt they would be back.
I took some brandy, for my chest and sinuses, and reflected over my triumph in this skirmish of the spheres.
Mrs H. called me to the garden. On the gravel driveway lay a human-shaped pile of ashes, already drifting in the wind. I don’t have to worry about Ogilvy horning in on my findings any more...
Feeling much better, despite sniffles, I returned to my study.
In Lady Caroline’s continued absence, attempted congress with Polly – but, for some reason, was thwarted. Have much on my mind.
D--- this cold!
September 8: Later. I capture a Marsian!
Mrs H. is has obtained a supply of a patent medicine, Dr Tirmoary’s Infusion for Coughs, Colds and Wheezes. According to the label, it is mostly diacetylmorphine hydrochloride. The stuff burns in a basin, and is inhaled under a damp towel. I spent ten minutes breathing acrid fumes before supper – dressed Cornish crab, lamprey surpris, calamari, conger mousse, langoustines – and, finally, gained some measure of relief from congestion, sniffles and associated symptoms. Not only am I sneezing less, I am thinking more clearly.
After a fresh, post-prandial infusion of Dr Tirmoary’s, I retired to my study, determined to tinker with the crystal egg until it yielded its secrets. But, light-headed and with a sense of fullness in my stomach and other parts, I fell into a doze in an armchair...
I was awakened by a whirring which I recognised as the sound of the telescope when the egg-portal is open. The room was bathed in a red, flickering light. The window to Mars!
Again, I saw Stent’s Plain, the Victoria Regina Chasm, the Caroline Range. Now, there was great activity. Structures had changed, been erected or expanded. Many Marsian creatures could be seen, crawling about their purpose – which seemed to me to be the construction, within the Chasm, of a great cannon-like device. This could be aimed, I saw at once, at the tiny bluish speck on the Marsian horizon.
I recalled Og’s ravings about a Marsian armada readying for a trip across the gulf of space.
Poppycock and nonsense!
My study door opened, and Polly came in. The possibility of renewed attempt at congress arose and I bound from my chair into the beam of egg-light. For a moment, I was distracted by my own silhouette, cast on the wall as images from Mars played across my body.
Something was amiss. Polly, hunched over, wore a heavy shawl – not suitable for indoors. She carried a wicker basket which I had not asked to be brought to me. Emboldened, I tore away her shawl. A red, wet creature pulsed on her shoulder, tentacles wound around her neck, face buried in her throat.
My maid was host to a Marsian!
I tripped over the carpet and fell back into the armchair. My nerve was resolute, but my limbs betrayed me – some side effect of Dr Tirmoary’s, I’ll be bound, for which the manufacturer will receive a stern letter. I could not stand. The room became a swirling red blur, as much Mars as Greenwich. I fancied the beings I saw working on their cannon could see me across the void and might crawl through the portal.
Polly set down the wicker basket.
She attempted a clumsy curtsey and craned her cheek against her Marsian master, stroking its slimy hide as if she were indulging a kitten. The creature, bereft of its native atmosphere, was in evident difficulty. I’ll wager they can’t last long among us. Susceptible to all manner of Earthly ailments, drowning in our alien air, boiling in what was to us a cool evening.
The lid lifted from the basket, and a curious contraption rose from within – like a brass diving bell, on three mechanical legs. Some sort of clockwork enabled it to ‘stand’, and ‘walk’. A thick window showed the tentacle-fringed, scarlet face of a Marsian. Within the sphere, it was comfortable – sustained by liquid atmosphere, doubtless rich with the nutrients of Mars.
This must be the chief of the Marsians on Earth, leader of the expedition, the planet’s most able diplomat. I looked it – him! – in the eyes, and began to introduce myself.
‘We... know... who... you... are... Mr... Stent...’
The words came from a hooded figure who had slipped into the room. I realised at once that the superior creature in the bell could exert mental control over a human without the need for physical contact. This facility must be developed among the higher castes of the planet. The hooded figure was a meaningless person. His head bobbed from side to side like an imbecile’s as the Marsian Master spoke through him.
‘It strikes me that you have not conducted yourselves in the proper manner,’ I told him. ‘You should have come to me first, not wasted your time with this ragtag Red Planet League.’
Meaningless syllables stuttered from the hooded puppet. The laughter of Mars!
‘Well you may laugh, sir! A serious misunderstanding could have come about between our two great planets, as a result of your involvement with the likes of George Ogilvy. He holds no great office. Now you have come to the proper person, the Astronomer Royal. You are in communication with someone best placed to reveal your presence to the worthies of Great Britain. Treaties can be brokered, as trade agreements are being made in our world’s Orient. If travel between planets is possible, we may send you missionaries, medical staff, advisers. We must form a limited company. Anglo-Marsian Trading. I perceive you get scant use from your famous canals, but a few Scots engineers will have a railway system up and running across your red sands in no time. You have a surfeit of coolies, I see.’
The syllables continued. Not laughter, I think – but song! A native hosanna at the prospect of deliverance from a state of ignorance and depravity.
I looked into the Marsian’s huge, lidless eyes.
The hooded man spoke. ‘I... speak... for... you... would... call... him... Roi... Marty... King... of... Mars.’
I was impressed that such an exalted personage should be my guest.
‘And what service may I do the King of Mars?’
Polly and the hooded figure raised now-familiar copper tubes, which caught the red light from the telescope. I sensed Marsian treachery!
‘You... can... burn...’
Then, things happened swiftly.
A sturdy broom scythed down on Polly’s shoulder, squelching her alien master – which detached from her with a hideous shriek and flew across the room to explode against the mantelpiece, swollen organs bursting through its skin. The redoubtable Mrs Huddersfield was in my study, swinging her broom like a yeoman’s quarterstaff. The hooded figure turned, and fire broke out on the wall where fell the beam from his copper tube. Mrs H. tripped him and he tumbled in a heap.
‘Take that, you fiend from another world, you,’ Mrs H. shouted, with some relish. ‘I’ll not have you botherin’ the Astronomer Royal!’
Polly, bereft of a controlling mind, stood staring, still as a statue, angry weals on her neck a
nd bosom. Mrs H. took to battering and sweeping the King of Mars’ puppet, driving him from the room, and – indeed – out of the house.
The King’s Bell began to move, edging away on its three legs. With all the skill of my days as a varsity three-quarter, I fell on the contraption, pinning it down, preventing its escape.
Robbed of its puppet, the King had no way to converse. Its eyes bulged in mute, frustrated fury.
‘Your highness, you are captured!’ I told it. ‘You will surrender yourself to my authority.’
The spell of the crystal egg was broken. A last unsteady image held for a few moments, then bright red light replaced the vista of Mars. The whirring sped up after the picture was lost. Something flapped loosely inside the telescope before it shut off entirely.
Mrs H. returned, broom over her shoulder, and the puppet’s hood in her grip. She reported that she had seen the puppet – a demented tramp, she believed – hightailing it down the drive. He was unimportant, I knew. No more than a set of vocal chords.
Polly was recovered from her upright faint, but still in a dazed state. She did not relish the memory of communion with the creature which lay dead in a jumble in the fireplace. All she could say was that its touch was slimy and sharp. I suggested a dose of Dr Tirmoary’s, but she turned it down – she has promised her mother not to have truck with such potions, apparently. Mrs H. similarly passed up the opportunity to taste her own medicine, but I felt another dose would be restorative and invigorating. I am becoming quite partial to its effects. A certain gaiety is upon me after each infusion. Of course, I am in a heightened state of excitement just now, in the midst of these great events.
War is over before it is begun! I have captured the Marsian King!
Also, I have one of the copper tubes. A gun of Mars. I must find out how the hot-beam works. The burned patch on my study wall has a chemical smell, as if some reactive compound were smeared on the paper and left to ignite – but I sense the truth of the process is to do with transforming light into heat. I shall experiment with this device in safer, less expensively decorated premises.
The King squirms and writhes in his metal shell. The three legs are wired together, so it may not ‘walk’ free.
I have communicated by telegram with the Royal Society, setting a date three days hence for my Marsian lecture. I shall use the crystal egg and display the terrain and inhabitants of the Red Planet to those who would call themselves my scientific peers. I shall demonstrate the use of the copper tube – maybe singe the trousers of some of my more disbelieving colleagues, to make a point. Then, as the crowning moment, I shall present the King of Mars!
Surely, ennoblement must follow. I shall be Lord Flamsteed of Mars!
Considered congress with Mrs H. and/or Polly, but was persuaded instead to cap off the evening with another infusion of good old Dr Tirmoary’s.
I am Conqueror of Mars!
V
Pah! Ever read such rot, eh? Believe me, those were the interesting pages. The rest of Stent’s journal is fit only to start fires. His entries are stuffed with menus and ‘congresses’ and remarks about how brilliant, acclaimed, well loved and admirable he is. By my count, the Astronomer Royal penned 17,000 heated words about a controversial boot-scraper installed, removed, installed again, relocated by six inches and finally removed from outside the servants’ door at Flamsteed House.
How did I get hold of the journal? Stole it, of course.
By pasting in these pages, I’ve saved myself a deal of penwork, which is all to the good. More time down the pub, rather than filling up an exercise book with this scribble.
Of course, you knew me at once when I turned up in Stent’s narrative – doing my old ‘madman’ act, which has proved persuasive in many a tight spot. When I start frothing and raving, you wouldn’t want to be around. Avoided being fed to crocodiles by throwing a similar wobbly. The queer... halting... voice... took more effort, and Moriarty had to coach us – me, PCP, Polly – in the proper hollow tones. We used Punch and Judy swizzles, as well. That’s the way to do it!
As for the rest of it, the Professor only let us into as much of his grand scheme as he deemed necessary. Like his imaginary Squid King, Moriarty puppeteered his subjects, speaking words through us, chivvying Stent along until the fool fancied himself Conqueror of Mars. Of course, Ogilvy didn’t know how flammable the gunk poured on his jacket really was. The cretin hopped around outside Flamsteed House, on fire from head to foot, until a bucket of merciful water was sloshed over him. By then, he was almost in as poor shape as the ash and cinder outline laid out on the gravel to represent his incinerated remains. Threw a sulk about that, he did. Still, can’t make an omelette and all that. In Ogilvy’s case, it’s true. He lost the use of his hands and so literally can’t make an omelette or perform many other everyday tasks. That’s what you get for volunteering.
I’ve rarely had cause to remark upon Professor Moriarty’s genius for disguise. There’s good reason for that. Anyone less wholly shoved up his own bum than Sir Nevil Stent would have seen through Moriarty’s beards and hoods and skullcaps and spectacles in a trice. That snake-oscillation mannerism always gave him away. He didn’t list card-sharping among his favoured crimes, or he’d have known about ‘tells’ and taken steps to suppress his. On one occasion, I tried to raise the matter in as tactful a fashion as possible, venturing to suggest that the Professor moderate his ‘cobra-neck tell’ when incognito.
‘What are you talking about, Moran? Have you been at the diacetylmorphine hydrochloride again?’
There was no sense in pressing the matter further. Genius or no, Moriarty truly didn’t know about the thing he did with his neck. I wondered if he was unconsciously trying to make it difficult for the hangman. Probably not. It was just a habit. Other men scratch their balls, fiddle with their watch chains or chew their moustaches. That’s when it’s a good time to double up, throw the mortgage into the pot and slide an ace out of your cuff.
Nevertheless, Moriarty acquitted himself adequately in the multiple roles of ‘C., Cave’, filthy shopkeeper, ‘long-necked cabbie’, dispenser of jovially ominous sentiments, and ‘Hooded Man of Mystery’, mouth-piece of Martian Royalty. (Stent never did persuade anyone else to say ‘Marsian’.) As you can tell from the diary, the worthy Mrs Halifax, pouting Polly, Italian Joe (Signor Galvani), PCP and some nobly self-sacrificing specimens of vampyroteuthis infernalis also strutted and fret their weary hours on the stage.
It’s a shame there wasn’t any money in it. The whole palaver cost the Firm a great deal, exhausting the proceeds of five good-sized blags, and sinking Moriarty into debts we had to work hard to pay off. I know we have a reputation as rotters and crooks and all, but it doesn’t do to default on payments owed someone who likes to be called the Lord of Strange Deaths. Hellish vampire squid wouldn’t have been the half of it.
For the Prof, the pay-off came at Stent’s lecture.
VI
This time, the Royal Astronomical Society wasn’t a grand enough platform for Sir Nevil, but we were back in Burlington House. The edifice is also HQ of the Royal Society, a body so sniffily superior it feels it doesn’t even need to give you the full name – which, as it happens, is The Royal Society for the Improvement of Natural Knowledge – when you are expected to prostrate yourself before the hallowed altars of high science and furthermore purchase an illustrated souvenir program booklet to memorialise the hours you spent snoozing through a lecture. Chairman at the time of these occurrences was Thomas Henry Huxley, and you know what the Astronomer Royal thought of him. I don’t doubt Huxley thought the same right back at Stent, who – for reasons which by now must be glaring – was not as popular with the general community of test-tube sniffers and puppy-vivisectors as he was with his home crowd of stargazing toadies.
Again, we took our seats. Sans disguises, on the assumption Stent wouldn’t notice us in the crowd – at least, not until the crucial moment. The hall was packed, as if word had leaked out that Lola Montez
would be tightrope-walking nude over the audience while Jenny Lind sang all eighty-six verses of‘The Ballad of Eskimo Nell’. Every branch of science was represented, for Stent had announced his lecture would radically affect all of them equally. A lot of textbooks would need revising (or burning) after this one, the rumour-mill insisted. To me, the mob looked like an unkempt crowd of smelly schoolmasters on a spree, but the Prof clucked and tutted to himself, listing the great names who had shown up. Besides our home-grown brainboxes, there were yanks, frogs, krauts, eye-ties, dressed-up natives from far-flung lands and an authentic Belgian – all trailing more degrees, honours, doctorates and professorships than you could shake a stick at. It would have been humbling if they weren’t mostly aged and chalk-covered. We had salted the room with a few of our own fellahs, who carried hat boxes or picnic hampers and were a bit fidgety in clean, respectable clothes. A squeaky-voiced draper’s clerk tried to squeeze in on a platform ticket, but was properly ejected for being a lower-class bounder. [7]
This time, Stent went for dramatic effect.
The house lights dimmed, and a spot came up on the lectern. The Conqueror of Mars posed dramatically in a vestment-like long white coat.
‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘we are not alone...’
He whipped a dust cloth from the ‘reflecting telescope’ which incorporated the ‘crystal egg’. In the end, Polly had been forced to draw him a picture to show how she had ‘accidentally’ made it work. Between shows, someone had to reset or replace the strip of exposures inside the box and put in a new incandescent bulb – which meant getting Stent away from his toy. Fortunately, he’d quite a nose for Dr Tirmoary’s Infusions and was often in a daze.
‘I give you... the Planet Mars!’
Stent toggled a lever and electric current made a motor grind. Red images were cast on a white board erected on the platform. Squid crawled across a sandbox, gagging for water. There were gasps of awe, though a few coughs of scepticism too. A few sequences wound backwards, which gave an eerie, unnatural effect – as if pictures that moved weren’t unnatural enough.