by Eric Brown
Already the hatch of the ship was sliding open, admitting the planet’s warm, oxygen-low atmosphere. I took a deep breath and was reminded of the air I last breathed while serving my country in the Hindu Kush.
Some kind of flexible umbilical tunnel was manoeuvred up to the exit, and in due course we followed our guide from the ship.
“It is mid-afternoon at this longitude,” Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee informed us. “I will take you to a hotel, where you can rest and refresh yourselves. For the rest of the day you will be free to wander our great city. At first light tomorrow, I will come for you in an air-car and I will show you a little of the city before we proceed north to the foothills of Olympus Mons, where our esteemed philosopher Delph-Smanx-Arapna made his home before his untimely demise.”
We emerged from the umbilical into a great terminus, busy with scurrying Martians. The chamber was undecorated, the walls a uniform shade of taupe, and I was reminded rather of the rough adobe interior of a termite mound.
We retrieved our baggage, whereupon Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee escorted us from the building on to a metal deck from which domed air-cars arrived and departed like bumblebees at a hive.
At this juncture we took our leave of Professor Challenger, arranging to meet him at his hotel – the Smerzna’gharan – in two hours for drinks.
An air-car descended before us, and our guide gestured that we should climb into the rear.
As the vehicle took off, with Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee in the front passenger seat beside the driver, I stared down at the teeming boulevards of Glench-Arkana. Crowds thronged the thoroughfares, and I beheld what might have been a market-place far below, selling who knew what exotic commodities? A strange scent reached my nostrils, which I would forever associate with the atmosphere of the Red Planet – an odour of indefinable spices mixed with the acrid tang of hot, lathe-turned metal.
The air-car banked and approached a jet black ziggurat, a stark silhouette against the mustard-coloured sky, an edifice which turned out to by our hotel. The vehicle came down gently and we alighted.
Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee remained in the passenger seat and lifted a tentacle in farewell. “I will collect you here at first light,” said he.
I reached into my pocket out of habit, in search of small change for the cab driver – but came instead upon a square of folded paper as the air-car powered up and flew off.
“Hello,” I said. “What on earth…?”
I pulled out the paper, unfolded it, and stared in disbelief at what was written there.
“Well, Watson?” Holmes enquired, watching me.
Not a little startled, I read the note for a second time.
My Dear Dr Watson,
You and Mr Holmes are in extreme danger! Please follow the instructions set down here, and then destroy this note. You must meet me at the Percherian-Hutava eating house, along the side street to the north of your hotel, at sixteen o’clock this evening. You will undoubtedly be followed, but my comrades will ensure that this will be dealt with. You might not recognise me, therefore I will carry a green valise. When I have ensured that we are not observed, I will explain everything, and together we can decide what further action should be taken.
Yours faithfully,
Freya Hadfield-Bell.
Six
Rendezvous on the Red Planet
At half-past fifteen o’clock, we left the hotel and hurried through the bustling streets of Glench-Arkana. The short Martian day was drawing to a close, and beyond the horizon of domes and towers the sun was setting in a gorgeous laminate of lacquered oranges and pinks. We were the only humans abroad, and our passage down the alleys of the ancient city caused not a little commotion amongst the crowds. Martians turned and stared at us with their great grey plate eyes, and the air was filled with the twitter of their commentary. I glanced behind us once or twice, but if we were being followed, I saw no sign.
“But what on earth did she mean, Holmes, when she wrote that we might not recognise her? Of course we will – she’s a rather striking specimen of womankind, mark my word. She’d stick out among the Martians like a veritable sore thumb.”
“I rather think she was suggesting she would be in disguise,” Holmes said.
“Disguise?” I laughed at this. “She would be hard pressed to disguise herself so that she wasn’t obvious in a crowd of Martians!”
“We shall see,” Holmes said, and indicated a narrow alley. “This way.”
As planned, we were taking a circuitous route to the Percherian-Hutava eating house, the better to give Hadfield-Bell’s comrades an opportunity to delay anyone who might be following us. Holmes had studied a map of the area, and committed the route to his excellent memory. We passed down a thoroughfare given over to the sale of piled spices and exotic examples of fruit or vegetables; the narrow street was packed with Martian pedestrians and domed, bubble-vehicles: it reminded me, in its hustle and hubbub, of a Kabul marketplace.
At one point we heard a screech of brakes and turned to witness, a hundred yards in our wake, an altercation between the driver of a three-wheeled bubble-car and a pedestrian. Holmes gripped my arm. “That is likely the work of Hadfield-Bell’s comrades,” said he. “Hurry – this way.”
We darted down a narrow passageway, emerged in another busy thoroughfare, turned right and then crossed the street and dived down yet another alley. Holmes led the way at a brisk trot, and I followed, confident in my friend’s sense of direction; by this time I was utterly lost.
Minutes later we came to a boulevard I thought I recognised: ahead was the stepped ziggurat of our hotel. Holmes ushered me down a side street and paused before an open-fronted restaurant above which was a legend in flowing Martian script.
“Here we are,” said Holmes, consulting his time piece. “And just in time. I make it sixteen o’clock on the dot.”
The eating area comprised a series of low metal tables surrounded not by chairs but by cushions; perhaps half the tables were occupied by seated Martians taking liquids from silver, fluted vessels and eating what looked like flaked fish from huge bowls. An aroma of spicy cooked meat filled the air. I scanned the restaurant, but of Freya Hadfield-Bell there was no sign.
Holmes led the way to a vacant table and we seated ourselves upon the floor, positioned with our backs to the wall the better to observe the entrance.
A Martian approached our table and spoke its gargling gobbledegook, to which Holmes replied in kind. The waiter scuttled away. “I ordered two hot spiced drinks which you will find not too dissimilar to Kashmiri tea,” he informed me.
Another alien approached, and I assumed that this one would take our food order. I was about to tell Holmes that I had little appetite when I noticed that this Martian was carrying a small green valise.
I gripped my friend’s arm and hissed, “The game is up, Holmes! Our friend has been rumbled – the brute has taken her green valise! Should we beat a hasty retreat?”
Holmes leaned forward and addressed the alien in its own language, to which the Martian replied and lowered itself to the cushions on the far side of the table.
“What did it say, Holmes?” I was frantic to know. “What has the accursed beast done to Hadfield-Bell?”
“Lower your voice,” Holmes ordered. “You are attracting unnecessary attention.”
“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 Hadfield-Bell, 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 glimpsed within its mouth – and what I observed there caused me first to choke, and then to splutter with laughter.
Hadfield-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 two or more agents to keep you under surveillance.”
I said, “You said that you would explain everything...”
“And so I will,” came her somewhat muffled reply.
She fell silent as our drinks arrived, and she ordered the same from the waiter.
When it had departed, Holmes said, “I take it, Miss Hadfield-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 a Martian philosopher, one Delph-Smanx-Arapna, in any 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.”
Her beverage arrived, and she waited until the waiter had scurried away before saying, “Like many a human before you, you have been brought here as part of the Martian’s master-plan.”
Holmes lowered his brow in a frown. “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 Hadfield-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 applied to work as a steward on the Martian liners in a bid to see the solar system, in the spirit of adventure which has already taken me to all four corners of our own world. I craved far horizons, new experiences, and what could be more novel than to set foot upon the soil of an alien world? All was well for a few months: I did not suspect the Martians of being anything other than what they claimed: the altruistic second wave of explorers come to aid humankind with their superior science and technology.”
“But what occurred to change your mind?” Holmes asked.
“I was approached, one leave period here in Glench-Arkana, by a Martian unlike any I had seen 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. This was soon explained. 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 were considered primitive by the majority, and even intellectually backward, not unlike the opinion that prevails in Europe regarding Africans. He told me a terrible story of state repression, torture, and genocide – and I was later 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,” said she. “I witnessed enough to come over to the rebels’ side, and fight for the cause of his people, along with hundreds of my fellow human beings.”
“You mentioned that we were in danger,” Holmes reminded her.
“Tomorrow at first light,” she said, “you will be collected by Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee and taken across the city to the Institute of Martian Sciences. There you will undergo a process known as Cerebral Personality Scanning.”
“What the…?” I muttered. “Cerebral Personality Scanning? What the deuce do you mean by that?”
Hadfield-Bell was about to reply, but at that second a small Martian advanced across the restaurant and paused beside our table. I sat back, fearing that the authorities were on to us, and had come to arrest our friend.
The alien leaned towards the rubber disguise containing Hadfield-Bell and spoke rapidly in a lowered tone. At its words, Hadfield-Bell struggled upright, manoeuvring her tentacles with obvious difficulty. She was assisted in this by the newcomer, who held out one of its forward tentacles to steady her.
“Your presence here has been reported to the authorities,” she said. “An 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. As I said, you will be taken across town in the morning and scanned: the process will not harm you, and the authorities will keep you alive but in custody, for the time being. 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 amidst the crowds in the street outside.
“Drink up, Watson,” Holmes said, flinging a couple of notes upon the table. “We had better leave before the authorities arrive, so that we may alert Challenger to the situation.”
I finished my drink, head swirling with the rush of alcohol, 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 agitated at the fact of its human fare – the name of Professor Challenger's hotel. Soon we were beetling at speed along the busy street, the driver turning its entire body to stare at us and subject Holmes to a barrage of questions.
In due course we alighted outside a hotel with an adobe exterior and slit windows. The professor himself was kicking his heels in the foyer, his bulk anomalous amidst the relatively small Martians. “Hell’s teeth, Holmes! Where the blazes have y’ been?”
“We were delayed,” said my friend. “We need to speak, in private. There is a rooftop bar back at our hotel. I suggest we make our way there at once.”
“Confound it, man, you’re blabbing like the hero of a penny dreadful!”
But Holmes was already leading the way outside, and, harrumphing into his huge beard, the professor followed.
It was but a short walk through the busy streets to our hotel, and soon we were ensconced on cushions on the elevated rooftop with a spectacular view across the night-time city. A spangle of electric lights gave the aspect of a fun-fair, the spectacle matched by the spread of constellations high above.
As I searched the heavens for the bright star that would be Earth, Holmes gave the professor a résumé of what we had just learned from Hadfield-Bell.
Challenger listened in silence, his huge face growing ever redder with the passing seconds. 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! Y’know, I did wonder at me summons. I know I’m famous and all that, but why would a bunch of ugly Martians want to hear all about me travels in Arabia?” He stared from me to Holmes. “But what’s all this about ‘personality scanning’ – and what the blue blazes do the critters 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 the young gal – I hope she knows what she’s doing, Holmes. I’d hate it if she were to...”
“I wouldn’t worry yourself on that score, my friend. From what I’ve seen of Miss Hadfield-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 amidst so much that was eerily alien, I succeeded in locating the scintillating 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 homeworld.
Seven
Duplicity at the Scientific Institute
I spent a fitful night in my narrow hotel berth, 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 Freya Hadfield-Bell’s singular loveliness. In my dreams she was a prisoner of the Martians, stripped of her uniform 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 thought it wise to purchase breakfast, as there is none to be had in the establishment and Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee 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, with a spicy taint that made me wince.
“Do you think it wise to go along with Gruvlax-Xenxa-Schmee?” 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 Martian Institute of Science, and what it contains. Also, my curiosity is aroused by the girl’s mention of the scanning process. What might the Martians be up to, Watson? Hadfield-Bell said that they would not harm us – quite yet…”
“And all this talk of the annihilation of the human race, Holmes… Do you think the girl was exaggerating?”