“There, Moran,” said Holmes. “You see that we have declined your offer. Take him away, Inspector Hopkins.”
Hopkins took Moran by the shoulder and led him out. Challenger carefully screwed the lid back upon the container.
“I must keep this in a far safer place than my drawer,” he said. “Now, as for those unfortunate creatures on Venus—”
“You have been in contact with them again, Professor?” I asked.
“And for the last time, I fear. But come and see.”
We followed him into the darkened rear room. The crystal egg gleamed softly. Within it we seemed to see what may have been some sort of card or board, and upon it a single large O.
“A zero,” I said. “But that means nothing.”
“More probably a farewell signal,” said Holmes. “The pattern of events is fairly clear. They died on Earth; now they find Venus inhospitable and must flee from there. A tale of failure.”
The light died in the crystal. The blue mist faded.
“And as I think, the survivors at the base on Mars must also depart or perish,” declared Challenger.
“And begone forever from our latitudes of space?” I suggested.
“Not necessarily forever,” said Holmes.
“No,” agreed Challenger. “They may well return, better equipped for survival. Since they dare not eat us, they may make scientific studies of us. They may well train us to understand their more fundamental conceptions, as they have already done successfully with me. Now that you have solved your latest case, Holmes, perhaps you will take dinner here and discuss the matter at greater length.”
“Thank you, but some other time,” said Holmes as we returned to the study. “At present, I have a matter of the utmost importance to attend to at my rooms. Watson, however, will be glad to stay and hear your views. I wish you good-bye for the time being.”
He walked out, closing the door behind him.
“A matter of the utmost importance,” I mused aloud. “But he completed his work on the jewel robbers when he arrested Moran, and that was his only case on hand. Why, nobody could be waiting for him at home but Mrs Hudson.”
Challenger turned upon me a gaze of the utmost weary pity.
“Cerebral paresis,” he said. “Mental inertia. Remarkable!”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing of great consequence.” He turned to the door. “Suppose I tell my wife that you will be our guest at table tonight. For the moment you might like to study my notes and Moran’s drawings.”
Appendix
A LETTER FROM DR. WATSON
Plum Villa,
Axtellford,
Bucks
April 25, 1909
Mr H. G. Wells,
Spade House,
Sandigate,
Kent
Dear Sir—
I am writing to you personally in order to clarify certain matters which have not been fully dealt with. When my first chronicle was published I received letters from some of your supporters, protesting that the non-Martian origin of the invaders was not demonstrated by the evidence I offered. I therefore wrote a second article, massively proving that the invaders were not native to Mars, and some of my critics wrote to me and retracted. However, no statements by yourself have ever been passed along to me, and I am therefore challenging you directly.
Your supporters have complained that, in calling your book “frequently inaccurate” and full of exaggerations, I have failed to elaborate. Specifically, I meant that you vastly exaggerated your own experiences, resorting sometimes to pure faking. The contents of the 13th chapter of Book I and of the first four chapters of Book II are partially imaginary. Shortly after your book was published, Holmes did research and found that the curate of whom you wrote was your own invention, simply created in order to discredit Christianity. Your atheism is notorious. In your book you portray yourself as a Christian — or, at least, a man who believes in God and in prayer—but this is sheer posturing.
The most blatant piece of fraud in the entire book occurs in the chapter entitled ‘What We Saw from the Ruined House’. You report that you saw the invaders trying to raise themselves on their hands, but unable to do so because of the terrestrial gravity. This is sheer fabrication, simply intended to support the view that they were native Martians. In my two articles there is ample evidence that the invaders could move about on our planet as easily as men. The rest of this chapter — apart from the fiction of the curate, since in fact you were alone in the basement — is accurate and informative. But what can be thought of a writer who mixes factual observation with pure invention, just to uphold a questionable thesis? Doubts about the Martian origin of these invaders were being circulated even while the invasion was in progress. You had surely heard about this long before you started writing your book, and in order to refute the suggestion you resorted to dishonesty.
For the rest, I call attention to these errors:
(1) In your account of the battle at St George’s Hill, the action immediately preceding the discharge of the black smoke, you write that the invader who had been overthrown crawled out of his hood and repaired his support. This is so absurdly impossible that I should not even have to refute it, but apparently I must. In point of fact, the machine was repaired by its two companions, the pilot remaining in his cowl. Holmes learned this at Donnithorpe on Tuesday, June 10, 1902, from scouts who had observed it.
(2) In that same chapter, describing the tragedy in Surrey in the night of June 8, you say that none of the artillerymen near Esher survived the black gas. It can be shown, however, that there were many survivors; numerous soldiers realised the danger in time to escape. Holmes interviewed some of them at Donnithorpe, for his presence there was widely rumoured, and survivors of the catastrophe naturally sought him out to relate their experiences and hear his conclusions.
(3) You insist in your book that the slaying of an invader at Weybridge a few hours before the black smoke tragedy was a lucky accident, and you quote Moran to the same effect. All of the troops at Weybridge were wiped out by the ray, but some civilians (notably including yourself) escaped; and several of them contradict you on this point. Their testimony, again given Holmes at Donnithorpe, clearly shows that the pilot was killed by a shrewdly aimed shell. An officer was heard shouting: “Aim for that turning cowl! It’s something like a man’s head! A shell striking there is like a bullet through the brain!” One gunner absorbed this order and, with swift and expert marksmanship, aimed the fatal shell. If only his name and his officer’s were known, they should have statues in their honour, much like the monument which, at Holmes’ suggestion, has been built in memory of the crew of the Thunder Child — whose exploits you describe very vividly in the best and most thrilling chapter of your unequal book.
(4) Your first chapter contains a startling mathematical error. You imagine the Mars-based cylinders as moving at several thousand miles per minute. Yet the first one was fired at midnight on May 12, 1902, and landed just after midnight of June 5. If it had been travelling at a speed of (for instance) about 10,000 miles per minute, it would have crossed the distance in about three days. In fact, it took over three weeks.
(5) The invaders crossed from Mars to Venus shortly after the failure of their expedition to Earth, the Venusian expedition breaking down in October, 1902. This is chronicled in my second essay. Yet you, writing in the year 1908, contend in your Epilogue that evidence of the Venusian landing was observed “seven months ago now” by the astronomer Lessing. You therefore disclose a shocking ignorance of the astronomical reporting in the 1902 press, and a gross misunderstanding of what Lessing described in 1907. Lessing, in a letter to Professor Challenger, has retracted his statements, admitting that faulty equipment and hasty judgement were responsible.
I must now correct an error of my own. I wrote my second article without consulting Holmes and quoted an observation of mine which I now realise to be mistaken. When speaking to Holmes and Challenger, I sugges
ted that the captured specimen might be a late arrival, and that his earlier companions might have already succumbed. But Holmes, upon reading my published article, informed me that this was quite wrong, and that he really should have corrected me at the time. The specimen we captured on the afternoon of June 15 was the first disease fatality. All were dead or dying by the evening of the 20th.
If you ignore this letter, I will have it published.
Yours sincerely,
John H. Watson, M.D.
Also Available
The
further
adventures of
SHERLOCK
HOLMES
THE VEILED DETECTIVE
By
DAVID STUART DAVIES
AFGHANISTAN,
THE EVENING OF 27 JUNE 1880
The full moon hovered like a spectral observer over the British camp. The faint cries of the dying and wounded were carried by the warm night breeze out into the arid wastes beyond. John Walker staggered out of the hospital tent, his face begrimed with dried blood and sweat. For a moment he threw his head back and stared at the wide expanse of starless sky as if seeking an answer, an explanation. He had just lost another of his comrades. There were now at least six wounded men whom he had failed to save. He was losing count. And, by God, what was the point of counting in such small numbers anyway? Hundreds of British soldiers had died that day, slaughtered by the Afghan warriors. They had been outnumbered, outflanked and routed by the forces of Ayub Khan in that fatal battle at Maiwand. These cunning tribesmen had truly rubbed the Union Jack into the desert dust. Nearly a third of the company had fallen. It was only the reluctance of the Afghans to carry out further carnage that had prevented the British troops from being completely annihilated. Ayub Khan had his victory. He had made his point. Let the survivors report the news of his invincibility.
For the British, a ragged retreat was the only option. They withdrew into the desert, to lick their wounds and then to limp back to Candahar. They had had to leave their dead littering the bloody scrubland, soon to be prey to the vultures and vermin.
Walker was too tired, too sick to his stomach to feel anger, pain or frustration. All he knew was that when he trained to be a doctor, it had been for the purpose of saving lives. It was not to watch young men’s pale, bloody faces grimace with pain and their eyes close gradually as life ebbed away from them, while he stood by, helpless, gazing at a gaping wound spilling out intestines.
He needed a drink. Ducking back into the tent, he grabbed his medical bag. There were still three wounded men lying on makeshift beds in there, but no amount of medical treatment could save them from the grim reaper. He felt guilty to be in their presence. He had instructed his orderly to administer large doses of laudanum to help numb the pain until the inevitable overtook them.
As Walker wandered to the edge of the tattered encampment, he encountered no other officer. Of course, there were very few left. Colonel MacDonald, who had been in charge, had been decapitated by an Afghan blade very early in the battle. Captain Alistair Thornton was now in charge of the ragged remnants of the company of the Berkshire regiment, and he was no doubt in his tent nursing his wound. He had been struck in the shoulder by a jezail bullet which had shattered the bone.
Just beyond the perimeter of the camp, Walker slumped down at the base of a skeletal tree, resting his back against the rough bark. Opening his medical bag, he extracted a bottle of brandy. Uncorking it, he sniffed the neck of the bottle, allowing the alcoholic fumes to drift up his nose. And then he hesitated.
Something deep within his conscience made him pause. Little did this tired army surgeon realise that he was facing a decisive moment of Fate. He was about to commit an act that would alter the course of his life for ever. With a frown, he shook the vague dark unformed thoughts from his mind and returned his attention to the bottle.
The tantalising fumes did their work. They promised comfort and oblivion. He lifted the neck of the bottle to his mouth and took a large gulp. Fire spilled down his throat and raced through his senses. Within moments he felt his body ease and relax, the inner tension melting with the warmth of the brandy. He took another gulp, and the effect increased. He had found an escape from the heat, the blood, the cries of pain and the scenes of slaughter. A blessed escape. He took another drink. Within twenty minutes the bottle was empty and John Walker was floating away on a pleasant, drunken dream. He was also floating away from the life he knew. He had cut himself adrift and was now heading for stormy, unchartered waters.
As consciousness slowly returned to him several hours later, he felt a sudden, sharp stabbing pain in his leg. It came again. And again. He forced his eyes open and bright sunlight seared in. Splinters of yellow light pierced his brain. He clamped his eyes shut, embracing the darkness once more. Again he felt the pain in his leg. This time, it was accompanied by a strident voice: “Walker! Wake up, damn you!”
He recognised the voice. It belonged to Captain Thornton. With some effort he opened his eyes again, but this time he did it more slowly, allowing the brightness to seep in gently so as not to blind him. He saw three figures standing before him, each silhouetted against the vivid blue sky of an Afghan dawn. One of them was kicking his leg viciously in an effort to rouse him.
“You despicable swine, Walker!” cried the middle figure, whose left arm was held in a blood-splattered sling. It was Thornton, his commanding officer.
Walker tried to get to his feet, but his body, still under the thrall of the alcohol, refused to co-operate. “Get him up,” said Thornton.
The two soldiers grabbed Walker and hauled him to his feet. With his good hand, Thornton thrust the empty brandy bottle before his face. For a moment, he thought the captain was going to hit him with it.
“Drunk on duty, Walker. No, by God, worse than that. Drunk while your fellow soldiers were in desperate need of your attention. You left them... left them to die while you... you went to get drunk. I should have you shot for this — but shooting is too good for you. I want you to live... to live with your guilt.” Thornton spoke in tortured bursts, so great was his fury.
“There was nothing I could do for them,” Walker tried to explain, but his words escaped in a thick and slurred manner. “Nothing I could—”
Thornton threw the bottle down into the sand. “You disgust me, Walker. You realise that this is a court martial offence, and believe me I shall make it my personal duty to see that you are disgraced and kicked out of the army.”
Words failed Walker, but it began to sink in to his foggy mind that he had made a very big mistake — a life-changing mistake.
London, 4 October 1880
“Are you sure he can be trusted?” Arthur Sims sniffed and nodded towards the silhouetted figure at the end of the alleyway, standing under a flickering gas lamp.
Badger Johnson, so called because of the vivid white streak that ran through the centre of his dark thatch of hair, nodded and grinned.
“Yeah. He’s a bit simple, but he’ll be fine for what we want him for. And if he’s any trouble...” He paused to retrieve a cut-throat razor from his inside pocket. The blade snapped open, and it swished through the air. “I’ll just have to give him a bloody throat, won’t I?”
Arthur Sims was not amused. “Where d’you find him?”
“Where d’you think? In The Black Swan. Don’t you worry. I’ve seen him in there before — and I seen him do a bit of dipping. Very nifty he was, an’ all. And he’s done time. In Wandsworth. He’s happy to be our crow for just five sovereigns.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Hardly anything. What d’you take me for? Just said we were cracking a little crib in Hanson Lane and we needed a lookout. He’s done the work before.”
Sims sniffed again. “I’m not sure. You know as well as I do he ought to be vetted by the Man himself before we use him. If something goes wrong, we’ll all have bloody throats... or worse.”
Badger gurgled with merriment. “You scared
, are you?”
“Cautious, that’s all. This is a big job for us.”
“And the pickin’s will be very tasty, an’ all, don’t you worry. If it’s cautious you’re being, then you know it’s in our best interest that we have a little crow keeping his beady eyes wide open. Never mind how much the Man has planned this little jaunt, we’re the ones putting our heads in the noose.”
Sims shuddered at the thought. “All right, you made your point. What’s his name?”
“Jordan. Harry Jordan.” Badger slipped his razor back into its special pocket and flipped out his watch. “Time to make our move.”
Badger giggled as the key slipped neatly into the lock. “It’s hardly criminal work if one can just walk in.”
Arthur Sims gave his partner a shove. “Come on, get in,” he whispered, and then he turned to the shadowy figure standing nearby. “OK, Jordan, you know the business.”
Harry Jordan gave a mock salute.
Once inside the building, Badger lit the bull’s-eye lantern and consulted the map. “The safe is in the office on the second floor at the far end, up a spiral staircase.” He muttered the information, which he knew by heart anyway, as if to reassure himself now that theory had turned into practice.
The two men made their way through the silent premises, the thin yellow beam of the lamp carving a way through the darkness ahead of them. As the spidery metal of the staircase flashed into view, they spied an obstacle on the floor directly below it. The inert body of a bald-headed man.
Arthur Sims knelt by him. “Night watchman. Out like a light. Very special tea he’s drunk tonight” Delicately, he lifted the man’s eyelids to reveal the whites of his eyes. “He’ll not bother us now, Badger. I reckon he’ll wake up with a thundering headache around breakfast-time.”
War of the Worlds Page 20