The Map of the Sky

by Félix J Palma

  “But,” the inspector added, “our work usually produces more evidence of the criminal imagination than of the unexpected. Almost every mystery has a simple explanation that would disappoint you as much as discovering the rabbit hidden in the lining of a conjurer’s hat.”

  “So,” concluded Wells, “your job is to sift through the world’s illusions, to separate fact from fantasy.”

  The inspector smiled. “That is an elegant way of describing it, worthy of a writer of your stature.”

  “But what of the other cases?” Wells asked, brushing aside the compliment. “Those that continue to defy logical explanation after being analyzed by your remarkable minds?”

  Clayton leaned back in his seat and observed with compassion the author’s attempt to reach the heart of the matter.

  “Well . . .” The inspector paused for a few moments before continuing. “Let’s say such cases force us to accept the impossible, to believe that magic really exists.”

  “And yet such cases never leak out to the public, do they? No one ever finds out about them, they go unreported,” Wells said, biting his tongue in order not to divulge what he knew, even as he tried to stifle the intense irritation he always felt when anyone underestimated his intelligence, or his knowledge.

  “Understand that the majority of cases are never closed, Mr. Wells. Future generations will continue to investigate them long after you and I have become fodder for the worms. And I am convinced they will find logical and natural explanations to many of those that appear to us, shall we say . . . supernatural. Have you never thought of magic as a branch of science we have yet to discover or understand? I have. So, why alarm people with fears of the unknown, when many of these mysteries will be solved by the knowledge that lies beyond the mists of time?”

  “I can see that you regard the public as a child to be protected at all costs from the monsters lurking in the darkness, in the hope that he will grow up and stop believing in them,” Wells responded irately.

  “Or in the hope that a light we don’t yet possess will illuminate the darkness concealing those potential horrors, which if he knew about them would undoubtedly terrify him,” said Clayton, “by way of extending your excellent metaphor, Mr. Wells.”

  “Perhaps you should stop treating people like children and recognize that there are those of us who would like to decide for ourselves what we wish and do not wish to know, Inspector Clayton!” Wells declared angrily, fed up with the young man’s tone.

  “Mmmmm. That would make an interesting subject for debate, Mr. Wells,” Clayton replied calmly. “However, allow me to remind you that I am a humble inspector following orders, and naturally I take no part in my division’s or the government’s policy decisions regarding the information they make public. My job is to investigate cases, and in this one in particular, I intend to find out what is behind the appearance of a cylinder, which you described one year ago as coming from Mars. That is all.”

  “Am I mistaken, then, in thinking that you have some proof of the existence of Martians, and that this isn’t the first time they have visited our planet?” Wells pounced, feeling a twinge of satisfaction when he saw that his remark had ruffled the inspector for the first time.

  “What makes you think that?” said Clayton, looking at Wells mistrustfully.

  “Simple logic, Inspector Clayton,” the author replied, emulating the young man’s smug grin. “Something must have happened to prove the existence of Martians, otherwise the discovery of a cylinder like the one in my novel, planted in exactly the same place I described, would have been viewed as no more than a childish prank, and not a reason to call in your division. Am I right?”

  Clayton let out an amused chuckle, as though relieved by the author’s reply.

  “Without doubt you’d make an excellent detective, Mr. Wells. If I weren’t such a fan of your novels, I would go so far as to suggest you’d chosen the wrong vocation.” He smiled. “But I fear there is no need for the kind of event you are suggesting. I’m sure that as the author of The War of the Worlds you understand better than anyone how conceited as well as illogical it would be to assume that we are the sole inhabitants of this vast universe, isn’t that so?”

  Wells nodded resentfully. Clearly he would get no more information out of that insolent young man without admitting he had been inside the Chamber of Marvels and had therefore seen, and even touched, the Martian they had hidden in there, as well as the machine in which it had apparently flown through the blackness of space. But that was something he preferred to keep quiet about for the time being, lest he provide the inspector with a reason to arrest him: he had trespassed on private property, not to mention breaking a supposedly valuable object belonging to the museum, or to the government or to Scotland Yard, or whoever owned that astonishing assortment of miracles—or were they forgeries? Wells no longer knew what to think. Making an enemy of the inspector was not the most intelligent thing to do, Wells told himself. He had no idea what nonsense Murray had dreamed up, and how it might affect him, so it was better to have the law on his side just in case.

  “Forgive me for prying, Inspector, it was unforgivably rude of me,” he apologized. “I understand perfectly that you aren’t at liberty to discuss your work, let alone with a stranger. I can only defend myself by saying that the reason for my curiosity is that I find your occupation fascinating. Even though I fear it is a dangerous one,” Wells said, gesturing toward the inspector’s artificial hand. “Or did you lose it carving the turkey?”

  Clayton gave a rueful smile as he gazed down at the metal appendage poking out of his sleeve.

  “You are right, Mr. Wells,” the inspector avowed. “I lost it on a . . . mission.”

  “I hope it was worth it,” Wells commiserated.

  “Let’s say it was decisive,” the inspector replied, reluctant to expand.

  Wells nodded, signaling that he was not going to interrogate him any further on the subject.

  “It seems an exquisite piece of equipment,” he limited himself to responding.

  “Yes, it is.” Clayton smiled, with visible pride, moving it toward Wells so he could inspect it more closely. “The work of a surgeon and a French master gunsmith.”

  Feigning a greater interest than he in fact had, Wells cradled the prosthesis in his hands, as he might a holy relic. The young man acquiesced and explained to Wells that it could be unscrewed, allowing him to attach an assortment of gadgets whose functions ranged from eating through to killing. Wells recalled his uncle Williams, who had lost his right arm and would attach a hook to his stump, happily using it in place of a fork at mealtimes. But Clayton’s elaborate prosthesis made his uncle’s seem like the handiwork of a schoolboy. When Wells had finished his desultory inspection, he pulled his hands away, and silence descended once more in the carriage as the two men resumed their contemplation of the scenery.

  “It’s ludicrous of you to suspect me of having some connection to the Martians simply because I wrote a novel announcing their invasion!” Wells suddenly declared, as if to himself.

  The author’s outburst made the inspector jump.

  “As ludicrous as someone re-creating a Martian invasion to win a woman’s heart?” he retorted with a grin.

  “Well, we shall soon find out,” Wells murmured, shrugging.

  Clayton nodded and went back to gazing at the landscape, bringing the conversation to a close. But presently, he gave a little cough, and to Wells’s astonishment, declared, “Incidentally, did I tell you I am a huge fan of your work? I’ve read all your novels with great pleasure.”

  Wells nodded coldly. He was in no mood just then to be forced into polite acknowledgments of his admirer’s praise.

  “I dabble a little myself, you know,” Clayton went on to say, with the overweening modesty of the beginner. He gave another little cough before adding: “Might I send you one of my manuscripts so that you can give me your opinion? It would mean a lot to me.”

  “Certainly, Inspector Cla
yton, I’d be delighted. Send it to my residence on Mars,” Wells replied, focusing his gaze on the landscape framed by the window.

  XXI

  AFTER A FEW MORE MILES SPENT IN SILENCE, the carriage reached Horsell Common. Once they had crossed the bridge at Ottershaw that led to the sand quarries, they had begun to encounter groups of curious folk who had come from Woking or Chertsey to see the same thing. However, once they reached the Martian cylinder’s supposed landing site, that trickle of people turned into a tidal wave. Peeking through the window, Wells could see for himself that it was complete mayhem out there. The common was teeming with people, and here and there, lads were vending newspapers hot off the press, announcing with shrill cries a host of headlines voicing Man’s doubts and speculations about the object that had appeared on Horsell Common: “Are we under invasion from Mars? Strange machines in Woking. Fantasy becomes fact. We are not alone! Is H. G. Wells a Martian?” They came to a halt next to a dozen other coaches and cabriolets parked at the edge of the common, among which Wells could not help noticing an exceptionally fine-looking carriage. He and Clayton stepped out of the vehicle and made their way through the throng of cyclists, apple barrows, and ginger beer stands, toward a plume of smoke that denoted the cylinder’s position. As they drew near, Wells and Clayton could see that the machine was half buried in the sand. The impact of the missile had made a vast crater in the ground, flinging sand and gravel in every direction and setting alight the adjacent heather, which was still smoldering and sending wispy threads of smoke into the midday sky. They elbowed their way through the sea of spectators until they reached the front, where Wells was able to confirm that Murray had indeed done an excellent job. The so-called Martian cylinder was nearly identical to the one he had described in The War of the Worlds. A few boys near the edge of the pit were tossing stones at it. People had reacted just as he had predicted, creating a picnic atmosphere around the lethal machine. Some were having their photograph taken with the cylinder in the background like a monument.

  As though reading Wells’s mind, Clayton gestured toward the scene, arms outspread, and said, “You will agree that it is like being in your novel.”

  “Indeed, it is a perfect reconstruction,” Wells avowed with admiration. “Murray is the world’s greatest charlatan.”

  “Doubtless he is, Mr. Wells, doubtless he is. Why, he even managed to conjure up identical weather: warm and without any breeze,” Clayton declared sarcastically. Then he took out his pocket watch and added, with mock disappointment, “He hasn’t managed to make our watches stop, though, and I seem to recall in your novel they did, and that all the compasses pointed to where the cylinder had landed.”

  “I would take that part out if I could write it again . . . ,” Wells murmured absentmindedly.

  His gaze had been drawn to a well-dressed young woman, who was observing the cylinder at one remove from the crowd. Like a widow’s veil, the frill on her parasol obscured part of her face, yet as she appeared to be the only wealthy-looking young lady there, Wells assumed she must be the woman Murray loved, who had probably traveled there in the luxurious carriage he had seen earlier. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw her begin nervously twirling her parasol. So, she really did exist. Murray had not made her up, however idealized Wells considered Murray’s portrait of her in his letter. Wells watched her closely while she gazed at the cylinder, her solemn expression in stark contrast to the relaxed gaiety of the others gathered there. And he could not help pitying her, for the girl would have to marry the millionaire if Murray succeeded in making a Martian emerge from the iron cylinder he had dragged there. That meant Murray must be there, Wells thought, perhaps mingling with the crowd, delighting in all the excitement he had created with his toy. Clayton went over to talk to the chief of police, who was trying to prevent the onlookers from getting too close to the pit. Wells took the opportunity to glance fleetingly at the noisy crowd, but Murray was nowhere to be seen. Might he have drastically changed his appearance so as not to be recognized? Wells wondered.

  He took out his pocket watch and looked at the time. At that very moment, Jane was probably boarding the train to London, where she would be lunching with the Garfields. Before the inspector took him off, Wells had left a note for her in the kitchen, in which he explained briefly the situation but urged her not to change her plans, because his whole morning would doubtless be taken up with the affair. In all likelihood, she would arrive back from London at about the same time as he, for it would not be long before Murray executed his next move: making a Martian jump out of the cylinder, or whatever his plan was, and at last everyone would see that the whole thing had been a practical joke. Clayton would apologize for his preposterous suspicions, and Wells would be free to go back to Worcester Park and carry on with his life, at least until Murray attempted a reenactment of his novel The Invisible Man.

  After speaking with the police chief, Clayton elbowed his way impatiently through the crowd to rejoin Wells.

  “Several companies of soldiers are on their way, Mr. Wells,” he informed the author. “In less than an hour they will have surrounded the cylinder. The Royal Welch Fusiliers are being deployed from Aldershot. And another company will take charge of evacuating Horsell, just to be on the safe side. They are also expecting some Maxim guns. As you see, your novel serves as an excellent source for staying ahead of events.”

  Wells gave a weary sigh. “I don’t think it is necessary in this case to call in the army,” he retorted.

  Clayton looked at him, amused.

  “You still think this is Gilliam Murray’s doing, don’t you.”

  “Naturally, Inspector.”

  “Then he must have spent a small fortune on his wooing, for Captain Weisser has heard rumors of other cylinders falling on a golf course in Byfleet, and in the vicinity of Sevenoaks.”

  “Falling, you say? Does he know of any sightings of them falling from the sky? Don’t you think the observatories would have noticed a thing like that?” Wells asked disdainfully.

  “He didn’t mention any.” Clayton scowled.

  “In that case, someone could have placed them there, as one might a chess piece, don’t you think?”

  The inspector was about to respond when something caught his eye.

  “What the devil is that?” he exclaimed, staring over Wells’s shoulder.

  The author turned toward the cylinder and glimpsed the reason for the inspector’s surprise. A sort of metal tentacle had emerged from inside and was swaying in the air, rising up like a cobra. Attached to the end of it was a strange object resembling a periscope, but which might also have been some kind of weapon. Clayton reacted without hesitation.

  “Help me make these fools move back! Apparently none of them have read your novel.”

  Wells shook his head.

  “Calm down, Clayton!” he insisted, grabbing the inspector’s arm. “I assure you nothing is going to happen. Believe me, this is all a sham. Murray is simply trying to frighten us. And if he succeeds . . .”

  Clayton did not reply. His gaze was fixed on the tentacle’s mesmeric movement.

  “The whole thing is a sham, do you hear!” Wells repeated, shaking the inspector. “That thing isn’t going to fire any heat rays.”

  At that moment, the tentacle wobbled slightly, as though taking aim, and a moment later a heat ray burst forth from its tip with a deafening hiss. Then, what looked like a jet of molten lava struck the band of onlookers gathered round the pit, hitting four or five them, who burst into flames before they knew what was happening. The deflagration lasted only a few seconds. Then someone seemed to pull back the blanket of fire covering them, to reveal a handful of distorted, charred figures that instantly crumbled, scattering gently over the grass. Fear struck; the crowd observed the horrific scene and then in unison turned toward the tentacle, which was preparing to take aim anew. The response was instantaneous. People began fleeing from the pit in all directions.

  Unable to comprehend how M
urray could possibly have given the order to fire on innocent bystanders, Wells ran for cover toward a patch of trees a few hundred yards away. Clayton, who was running beside him, shouted to him to run in a zigzag so as not to make an easy target for the tentacle. Jostled on all sides by the terror-stricken crowd, Wells tried to do as the inspector suggested, even as he felt fear seeping into his entrails like ice-cold water. Then came another hiss, and immediately afterward a second ray hit the ground five yards to his left, hurling several people into the air. Before Wells could shield himself, a clod of earth struck him in the face, dazing him enough to make him almost lose his footing. He was forced to stop his frantic dash and glance about, trying to orient himself. When the smoke had cleared, he contemplated with horror the string of cindered corpses sprawled across the grass a few yards away. Behind them he glimpsed the woman whom he had identified as Murray’s beloved. The ray had narrowly missed her, but the accompanying blast had knocked her to the ground, and she was kneeling on the grass, too shaken to give her legs the order to stand up. The tentacle swayed once more in the air, choosing a fresh target, and Wells took the opportunity of the moment’s calm between blasts to hurry to the young woman’s aid. Avoiding the burnt remains and the hollows in the ground, he managed to reach her side and grabbed her by the arms so as to lift her to her feet. The girl allowed this without putting up any resistance.

  “I didn’t want . . . I told him it was enough to . . . ,” she gasped, seized by a fit of panic.

  “I know, miss,” Wells reassured her. “But what matters now is to get away from here.”

  As they stumbled toward the trees, the sound of the tentacle firing indiscriminately at the terrified crowd resounded in their ears. Wells could not resist looking back over his shoulder. He watched with horror as several rays cut through the air, striking the parked carriages at the edge of the common, creating a vision of Hell from which a pair of horses emerged, enveloped in flames. The condemned animals, wreathed with golden streamers by death, careened wildly over the grass, imbuing the nightmarish scene with an eerie poetry. Just as in his novel, the ray swept over the countryside swiftly and brutally, doling out death, destroying everything in its path with a cold disregard. He saw trees burnt to a crisp, smoldering gashes in the earth, women and men fleeing terrified, and upturned carts, and he understood that the much-heralded Day of Judgment had arrived. How could Murray . . . ? But his mind was unable to finish forming the question, for a few yards to their right a ray landed suddenly, sending them flying across the grass. Stunned, his ears ringing and his skin burning as though he had been scorched by a dragon’s breath, Wells looked around for the girl and was relieved to find her sprawled beside him. Her eyes were shut tight, though she was apparently uninjured. But the longer they stayed on the ground, the more likely they were to be hit by another ray or crushed by the panic-stricken crowd. He took a deep breath and was steeling himself to get up and resume their desperate flight when he heard the inspector’s voice.