The Martian Ambassador

by Alan K Baker

  ‘In a day or so.’

  Blackwood hesitated before asking, ‘Are you all right, your Ladyship?’

  ‘I’m quite all right, thank you, Mr Blackwood. And since we are to be working together, I believe that titles may be dispensed with. I should appreciate it if you would call me Sophia.’

  Taken aback, Blackwood replied, ‘But we have known each other for barely an hour...’

  ‘All the same, I would consider it a kindness.’

  ‘Very well... er... Sophia. And you must call me Thomas.’

  She nodded her thanks and returned her attention to the passing streets, again lost in reverie, leaving Blackwood to ponder the rather curious behaviour of his new acquaintance.

  *

  Cottingley’s Cogitators Limited was situated in Albermarle Street, between one of several art galleries lining the thoroughfare and the Albermarle Club. The club had become rather less fashionable in the four years since the Marquess of Queensberry left his infamous calling card for Oscar Wilde while the latter was holidaying in Monte Carlo with Bosie. Following the conviction of the unfortunate genius for gross indecency, the Albermarle Club had begun its steady decline into disrepute and now claimed only a fraction of its previous members.

  As Blackwood and Sophia alighted from the cab, a paperboy walked past on the other side of the road, shouting, ‘Read all abart it! Full steam ahead for the Greater Exhibition! Martian exhibits arrive at New Crystal Palace! Read all abart it!’

  ‘Will you be attending the Greater Exhibition, Mr Blackwood?’ asked Sophia, who seemed to have recomposed herself.

  ‘Oh, I should think so,’ he replied. ‘Assuming, of course, that we can solve the present problem before then.’

  ‘I must say that it does promise to put the original in the shade,’ Sophia observed as she approached the shop, which was small and quaint, with a single bay window beside the entrance. Both the door and the window frames were painted a rather fetching shade of bright green. Through the window could be seen the establishment’s wares, arranged on several tiers of polished oak. There were keyboards, scrying glasses and processing engines, all of which displayed admirable craftsmanship. Sophia peered in with undisguised admiration. ‘How marvellous!’ she said. ‘One wonders if there are any limits to science.’

  ‘There are certainly no limits to the dangers it may invoke,’ observed Blackwood as he opened the door and held it for her.

  As they entered, the sales clerk looked up from his task of polishing a scrying glass and said, ‘Good morning to you, sir, madam. How may I be of assistance?’

  Blackwood took in the interior of the shop in a single glance – the counter at which the clerk sat, the heavy oak shelves displaying more cogitating equipment that lined the walls, the open doorway in the far wall, leading to a narrow ascending staircase – and replied, ‘Good morning to you. I have a complaint to make, regarding a machine I purchased from this establishment yesterday.’ He hoisted the valise onto the counter and opened it.

  The sales clerk, a short, middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a long, hooked nose which gave him the appearance of a tropical bird that had fallen upon hard times, took the jeweller’s loupe from his eye and placed it on the counter beside the scrying glass. ‘A complaint, sir?’ he asked with a hint of incredulity.

  ‘Yes,’ said Blackwood. ‘A complaint. My Tara III nearly drove me insane this morning. It became infected with an ætherial virus of a particularly dangerous and malignant type, which very nearly devoured my mind.’

  The clerk swallowed loudly. ‘Good Lord,’ he stammered, peering reluctantly into the valise. ‘Would... would sir and madam mind waiting for a moment, while I fetch the proprietor?’

  ‘Not at all, my good man,’ Blackwood replied in a measured tone.

  The clerk hurried through the door and up the staircase and returned a few moments later, followed by a squat, rosy-cheeked woman in a rather loud pink dress, frosted like a vulgar confection with profusions of white lace around the neck and arms. After introducing herself as Mrs Daphne Cottingley, she said, ‘Mr Jenkins informs me that you have had an unfortunate experience with one of our products... a Tara III?’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Blackwood.

  ‘And you are unharmed, sir?’ Mrs Cottingley enquired, with what appeared to be quite genuine concern.

  ‘Pretty much, no thanks to your contraption.’

  Mrs Cottingley produced a fan from somewhere within the folds of her dress, and proceeded to waft it to and fro with agitated flicks of her wrist. ‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘This has never happened with a Tara III, I can assure you: the De Danann control system was designed to prevent such malfunctions...’

  At this, Sophia nudged Blackwood with her elbow.

  ‘What? Oh yes. I should inform you that the De Danann Helper showed remarkable courage and fortitude in trying to fend off the virus, but it was far too powerful for him to cope with. I, er, just thought I’d mention that.’ He glanced at Sophia, who gave him a barely-perceptible smile.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Cottingley, who appeared to relax somewhat, ‘the De Danann Helpers are renowned for their conscientiousness.’

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Blackwood said with some force, not wanting to lose ground to the proprietor, ‘the fact remains that you sold me a dangerous contrivance. Need I remind you that other purveyors of cogitating equipment have fallen foul of the law for the same reason?’

  The rosy hue faded somewhat from Mrs Cottingley’s cheeks as she replied, ‘Oh, but sir! We pride ourselves on the safety of our products, and I can provide you with ample testimony to the quality of both the Tara III and the De Danann control system.’

  ‘And I can provide you with ample testimony to the contrary. The Helper informed me that the thing which came through from the Æther was an Arabian djinn.’

  ‘Oh, Gawd!’ exclaimed the sales clerk.

  ‘Shut up, Jenkins!’ snapped Mrs Cottingley. ‘May I ask where the Helper is now, sir?’

  With a soundless puff of lilac smoke, Shanahan appeared in the air over Sophia’s left shoulder. ‘Er, here I am, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Shanahan! What the dickens were you playing at, allowing a djinn into the gentleman’s cogitator? Explain yourself!’

  Sophia bridled at this, and stepped forward. ‘You may be unaware, madam, that an Arabian djinn is one of the most powerful astral entities known. This poor little fellow and his colleagues didn’t stand a chance against it. The fault must lie with the hardware, with the cogitator itself.’

  Mrs Cottingley drew herself up to her full (not considerable) height and pursed her lips in annoyance. ‘Well, then! If that is the young lady’s hypothesis, we can certainly test it.’ She glared up at Sophia, turned back to the counter, took the cogitator from the valise and began to examine it. ‘Yes,’ she muttered, ‘we’ll soon get to the bottom of this.’

  As the others watched, she opened the door covering the processing chamber and peered inside. ‘Ah, yes, that’s fine... uhum, nothing out of place there... that’s all in order as well... this is all ship-shape and Bristol fashion...’

  Blackwood tapped his foot on the floor and glanced at Sophia, who shrugged at him.

  ‘Oh, just a moment,’ said Mrs Cottingley. ‘Jenkins, hand me your loupe.’

  The clerk handed the eyeglass to his employer, who placed it in her right eye and bent close to the opening. ‘Now this is rather odd...’

  ‘What is?’ asked Blackwood, stepping forward.

  ‘The dream catcher appears to have been removed from the astral funnel.’

  ‘What the devil is an astral funnel?’ demanded Blackwood.

  ‘It’s the main conduit through which information from the Akashic Records enters the cogitator,’ explained Shanahan. ‘The dream catcher is designed to prevent the entry of malicious influences from the ætherial realms, or at least to delay them long enough for us to deal with them.’

  ‘Could the dream catcher have prevented the djin
n from infecting the cogitator?’ asked Sophia.

  ‘Most doubtful,’ Shanahan replied, ‘but it might have delayed it long enough for one of us to leave the machine and smash the scrying glass, just as you did, you Ladyship, which would sever the link with the Æther, and prevent the entity from fully entering this world.’

  ‘In short,’ said Blackwood, ‘you’re saying that this machine was sabotaged.’

  ‘Precisely, sir.’

  ‘By whom?’

  Mrs Cottingley turned from the counter to face them. ‘The answer is quite obvious, my good sir. By one of the De Dananns... although I must admit that the thought is absolutely outrageous.’

  ‘I must agree with Mrs Cottingley,’ said Shanahan ruefully, ‘on both counts.’

  The proprietor shook her head and sighed. Suddenly, she seemed on the point of tears. ‘This will be the ruin of Cottingley’s.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Blackwood.

  She glanced at him, a glint of hope in her eye.

  ‘There is every reason to suppose that this was a one-off event.’

  ‘Do you think so, sir?’ said Mrs Cottingley. ‘May I enquire as to how you–’

  ‘No, you may not. For now, I think we will leave the matter here, and I will take no further action against your establishment.’ Blackwood turned to Shanahan. ‘How would you like to take a little sabbatical from your duties here?’

  ‘A sabbatical, sir?’

  ‘I may have some use for you, and I assure you I’ll make it worth your while.’

  ‘Why, I’d be delighted, sir!’ enthused Shanahan, as he flitted back and forth in front of Blackwood’s eyes. ‘That is... if Mrs Cottingley has no objections.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she’ll have none at all... will you, madam?’

  ‘None whatsoever, sir,’ said the proprietor, still counting her blessings.

  ‘Then it’s settled. Come along!’

  And with that, Blackwood turned and strode out of Cottingley’s Cogitators Limited.

  CHAPTER THREE:

  On the West Country Omnibus

  ‘What kind of work did you have in mind for me, sir?’ asked Shanahan, who had seen fit to perch himself on Blackwood’s left shoulder as they sat in the cab, headed for Paddington Station.

  ‘Lady Sophia and I are going on a trip to Somerset, to interview a man who is almost certainly a material witness in this case – if not a direct participant in it – and while we are there, I would like you to return to Faerie and see if you can dig up some information on what happened to the dream catcher in my cogitator.’ Blackwood craned his neck to look at the Helper, feeling like a pirate conversing with his parrot. ‘If it was sabotage, I want to know who did it, and on whose orders. Can you handle that, Mr Shanahan?’

  ‘Indubitably, sir!’ cried the Helper.

  ‘One other thing: how will I call you if I need you?’

  Shanahan shrugged. ‘Simply say my name, with your voice or your mind, and ask me to come, and I shall arrive forthwith.’

  ‘Very good. Off you go.’

  Shanahan bowed, launched himself from Blackwood’s shoulder and vanished through the roof of the cab.

  Sophia glanced at the Special Investigator and noted his pensive frown. ‘If someone did arrange for your cogitator to be damaged, what does it mean?’ she asked. ‘What is the larger picture that is being painted?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering that, myself, Sophia, and I don’t like where my train of thought is leading,’ Blackwood replied. ‘The timing of all this is strange – off-kilter, you might say. I have no doubt that I was targeted for death because of my involvement in the investigation of Lunan R’ondd’s assassination. And yet, I bought the cogitator a few hours before Grandfather summoned me and put me on the case.’

  ‘That is rather odd,’ Sophia agreed.

  ‘Shanahan said that the De Danann operators don’t stay in cogitators while they’re switched off...’

  ‘That’s right: they only return from Faerie when the machines are activated.’

  ‘So it would presumably have been a simple matter for one of the De Dananns – or an entity masquerading as a De Danann – to enter the machine after Shanahan and his colleagues had completed the set up procedure, and remove the dream catcher, thus leaving the cogitator vulnerable to infection.’

  ‘And presumably,’ added Sophia, ‘the djinn was then purposely directed at the machine, with the intention of destroying your mind.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Blackwood and Sophia looked at each other. ‘Still doesn’t quite add up, does it?’

  ‘Unless...’ said Sophia, and then gave a small gasp. ‘Unless someone knew that you would be assigned to the case, which means–’

  ‘Which means that there is a traitor in Her Majesty’s Bureau of Clandestine Affairs!’ said Blackwood in a grim, bitter voice. ‘It’s the only explanation that makes sense. The events must have run like this: on the evening of the twenty-second, Lunan R’ondd dies during the banquet at Buckingham Palace; a post-mortem is performed the following day, during which the Acarus galvanicus larvae are discovered in his body; while I am buying my cogitator, Grandfather decides to put me on the case and sends for me; while I am away from my rooms, Shanahan and the other De Dananns complete the set up procedure and leave the cogitator; sometime thereafter, something enters the machine and removes the dream catcher.’

  ‘You say “something”, but couldn’t it have been a person who broke into your apartments and sabotaged your cogitator?’

  ‘I think not, for although you yourself have proved how easily a lock can be picked, I have ways of detecting unauthorised entry to my home: telltale signs which I will not go into now. Suffice it to say that when I returned from Buckingham Palace this morning, I saw no signs of a break-in. But regarding the train of events I have described, the only hypothesis that can account for them is that someone at the Bureau knew of Grandfather’s intention to give the case to me.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who that could be?’ asked Sophia.

  ‘Peter Meddings.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man who delivered Grandfather’s summons to me. Meddings obviously knew that the Bureau was about to begin an investigation, and he clearly guessed the reason for his own assignment.’

  Sophia sat quietly for a moment, digesting this. ‘Do you think that Meddings could be the one who murdered the Ambassador?’ she wondered.

  Blackwood shook his head. ‘I doubt it. I suspect that he is merely somebody’s flunky. As to who that somebody is... well, it’s certainly someone with a profound knowledge of the occult.’

  ‘Including Arabian Star Magick.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘But surely we are headed in the wrong direction!’ exclaimed Sophia. ‘Surely we should apprehend this Meddings fellow immediately and question him.’

  Blackwood smiled at his companion. ‘I admire your readiness to spring to action, but I don’t believe that would be wise – at least, not yet. Assuming that Meddings is indeed culpable in this affair, it may be better to let him believe he is not under suspicion for a little while longer, during which time we may be able to gather more evidence against him.’

  ‘And in the meantime,’ added Sophia, ‘Mr Shanahan may be able to come up with additional information.’

  ‘Quite right. I will, however, telegraph Grandfather from Paddington, to let him know of our suspicions and to ask him to keep an eye on Mr Meddings.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you run the risk of alerting Meddings by doing so?’

  ‘I think not. Grandfather has his own telegraph machine in his office, to which no one else has access – not even Miss Ripley...’

  ‘Miss Ripley? Grandfather’s secretary?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘Is it not possible that she might be the traitor?’

  Blackwood guffawed at this, then recovered himself and apologised. ‘Forgive me, Sophia. It’s possible, of course, but most unlikely, I assure you: Miss Ripley has served t
he Bureau faithfully and admirably for many years.’

  ‘I see,’ Sophia smiled. ‘In that case, you must forgive me for impugning her good character.’

  ‘Not at all, my dear. We must consider all options, after all.’ And then Blackwood hesitated, and fell silent. Yes, he thought, we must consider all options...

  *

  As the cab approached Paddington Station, Blackwood and Sophia caught a glimpse of the great, grey bulk of an intercity omnibus rising above the platforms. Its pillar-like legs were folded up around it, giving it the appearance of a gargantuan insect, poised and ready to pounce upon some unsuspecting prey. The rear quarter of the hull displayed an advertisement which depicted a pair of Martians relaxing in armchairs in front of a roaring fire, each holding a large mug in his long-fingered hand. Above them, huge red letters declared: MARTIANS LOVE BOVRIL!

  ‘Is that the West Country omnibus?’ asked Sophia.

  ‘It is,’ replied Blackwood as he fished in his pocket for the cab fare.

  ‘I must confess I’m rather looking forward to this journey. I do so love travelling by walking machine,’ she cried as she opened the door and descended to the street with an elegant little jump, leaving Blackwood to hurry after her. ‘I really should do it more often.’

  Although he generally disliked frivolity, Blackwood found himself smiling at Sophia’s sudden girlish enthusiasm, finding it as charming as it was surprising. He didn’t particularly care for this new mode of transportation himself; he didn’t feel it was quite natural to travel two hundred feet above the landscape, like some bizarre circus performer on stilts. Nevertheless, it would get them to Somerset in pretty short order.

  The West Country omnibus was due to depart within a few minutes, so while Blackwood stepped into the telegraph office to send a message to Grandfather, Sophia bought two first class return tickets to Taunton. They met at the end of the platform and walked to the foot of the wrought iron gangway leading up into the main hull of the vehicle.

  As they climbed up the gangway, along with the few other remaining passengers, Blackwood took in the huge hydraulic pistons protruding from their housings in the disc-shaped engine section beneath the hull. They looked to him like the components of a steam locomotive that had been designed by an opium addict and then constructed by a maniacal engineer with delusions of grandeur. Above the engine section was the complex gimbal assembly which kept the hull stable while the machine was walking. Above that, the lozenge-shaped hull itself, one hundred feet long and sixty wide, loomed with a weird magnificence against the overcast sky.