The Martian Ambassador

by Alan K Baker

  He headed west, out of the night-time heart of London, leaving blood and screams in his wake, into open countryside, where he attacked a pair of wagoners whom he encountered in the lonely darkness, leaving them battered and bloody in a ditch.

  His last port of call was the army barracks in Aldershot in Hampshire, where he descended upon the roof of a sentry box and reached down to slash the face of the hapless soldier who was manning the post. The man screamed in agony, alerting two officers who were passing, and they arrived in time to see the ghost-like figure hurtling into the distance. One officer grabbed the injured sentry’s rifle and loosed a couple of shots after him, but if the bullets found their target, they did not slow the fiend’s escape.

  *

  Indrid Cold left Aldershot far behind, heading once more into the dark Hampshire countryside, bounding across fields and over hedges on powerful, tireless limbs. Eight miles from the town, he came upon a high stone wall bordering a large estate, over which he leaped with ease.

  With his great strides, he ran towards a vast manor house that stood resplendently in the midst of a wide, elegantly tended lawn. A warm, orange glow emanated from many of the leaded windows. One in particular, on the first floor, was open, and it was towards this that Cold directed his course.

  Without even breaking his stride, he launched himself at the window, and with cat-like elegance landed neatly upon the sill. Through narrowed eyes, he regarded the room – a luxuriously appointed office – and its single occupant. The man was standing with his back to the window, looking down into the flames dancing in the maw of a huge marble fireplace.

  Cold stepped silently into the room and slowly approached the man, who was dressed in a burgundy velvet smoking jacket and dark grey trousers.

  The man turned, regarded him, and smiled. ‘Welcome, my friend. Have you delivered your message?’

  Indrid Cold nodded. ‘Verbal and physical.’

  ‘Mars will triumph!’ whispered the man and gave a low, soft chuckle.

  ‘Do you really think it will work?’ asked Cold. ‘Are humans really so gullible?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied the man as he walked across the room to a large Louis XIV cabinet containing several crystal decanters. He selected one and poured some of the rich, amber liquid into an elegant tulip glass, which he raised to his guest. Cold shook his head. ‘Are you sure? It’s a Delamain, Reserve de la Famille. One of the finest cognacs – quite exquisite.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ replied Cold. ‘But as you know, Lord Pannick, alcohol does not sit well with me – however exquisite.’

  Lord Pannick chuckled again. ‘I pity you your alien metabolism, my friend.’ He took a delicate sip of the cognac. ‘Yes... humans really are that gullible: they will believe what their newspapers tell them, and their politicians... and since I own so many – newspapers and politicians – I am in the perfect position to fill their heads with whatever I choose.’

  ‘Including that I am a Martian terrorist, an agent provocateur sowing the seeds of war between Earth and Mars?’

  ‘That, too.’

  ‘I still find it hard to believe that their thoughts can be guided so easily, and down such unlikely avenues.’

  ‘When words are combined with violence and the threat of more violence, people sit up and take notice. They listen, and they look to their leaders for guidance, for explanations, and remedies. This has always been so, throughout the history of this world. “Mars will triumph!” Ha! You have no idea how powerful a simple phrase can be. And soon, that particular phrase will be repeated throughout the city, and then the country, and then the Empire! And then the Martians, already feared and mistrusted by a few, will be feared and hated by all.’

  ‘And war between your worlds will come a large step closer,’ said Indrid Cold.

  Lord Pannick laughed. ‘As large as one of your own singular leaps, Mr Cold!’

  ‘What about Blackwood? Your plan failed; he is still alive and sane.’

  Lord Pannick waved this aside. ‘Don’t worry about Mr Blackwood. It’s true that it would have been more convenient for us had he been removed from the picture, but even if he discovers our plan, he will not succeed in preventing its conclusion. And when that happens, my friend, it will not be Mars which triumphs... it will be Venus!’

  CHAPTER SIX:

  The Metal Fragment

  ‘Venus?’ Blackwood said incredulously. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m quite sure, Thomas,’ replied Sophia.

  They were sitting in Blackwood’s office at the Bureau of Clandestine Affairs, having taken the late omnibus from Taunton to London the previous evening. The strange metal fragment left behind by Spring-Heeled Jack at the Alsop residence lay on the desk between them, its iridescent surface contrasting strangely with the green Moroccan leather of the desktop.

  Sophia had just come from the Society for Psychical Research in Kensington and had brought the report on the fragment’s analysis, which she handed to Blackwood. He leafed through the pages, raising his eyebrows in gradual increments until his expression was one of unalloyed astonishment.

  ‘The chemical analysis correlates quite strikingly with the impressions experienced by our psychometrists,’ said Sophia. ‘They bear each other out to such an extent that I don’t think there’s any room for doubt: this piece of metal came from the planet Venus.’

  ‘Quite so, my dear,’ Blackwood murmured as he continued to scan the pages. ‘Carbon dioxide… sulphur dioxide… inert nitrogen, silicates, carbonates, quartz. What a strange brew!’

  Sophia leaned forward in her chair. ‘The really striking parallels are between the psychometrists. We asked our three most talented ones to hold the fragment and describe the psychic sensations it evoked. Of course, we kept them isolated from each other and did not offer them any information whatsoever on how we came by the artefact.’

  Blackwood nodded. ‘A wise precaution.’

  ‘As you will see if you read from page four onwards, their psychic impressions were virtually identical.’

  He did as Sophia suggested, and read aloud, ‘The air in the place from which this object came is hot and heavy… suffocating… unbearably oppressive. There is a livid yellow sky above me; I can see neither sun nor stars, for the firmament is obscured by thick, churning clouds. The ground below is hard and brittle… desiccated, with broken rocks strewn everywhere. It’s a horrible place – a dying place! No trace of green paints the distant mountains, whose jagged peaks reach up to the yellow sky as if begging for escape. This is not Earth… although it might be what Earth will become in future aeons, when the ancient Sun reaches out angrily to smite its children. No, it is not Earth: I feel that I am closer to the Sun here… a little closer… oh, the heat! It beats upon me, stifling, relentless!’

  Blackwood turned the page to the account given by the second psychometrist. ‘I see vast ranges of orange dust and chaotically-strewn boulders… great valleys sweeping into indigo depths of hot shadow. Nothing moves on the plains: all is silence; all is death. But below… in the depths of the valleys, at the bottoms of deep gorges and chasms, and at the poles of this world… there are lights in the dark. There is life. Furtive, frightened, cloaking itself in eternal dusk, amidst the last of the boreal ice and in the darkness of vast caverns underground… there is life!’

  Again, Blackwood turned the page and read the words of the third of the psychometrists who had held the metal fragment and opened their minds to the psychic impressions it generated. ‘A mighty civilisation once dwelled upon this world. Rich in ability but poor in wisdom, it ate and drank of its resources, stripping the world bare with its ceaseless activity. Its industry was an insatiable maw into which all was hurled, until all was machine, and the machine breathed in the air of life and exhaled the miasma of death, and the world was covered with it … and all the while the nearby Sun continued to pour its light and warmth upon the surface of the world, until the world became overheated with the ceaselessness of the machine and the
brightness of the Sun… and began to suffocate. And the people looked with hatred upon their ruined world, for they did not regret their excesses and believed the world to have betrayed them, and they retreated to the poles and into caverns they made with their great machines, which had become no more than shovels to dig their ultimate graves. And there they wait, wondering what will become of them…’

  Blackwood laid the pages aside and gave a deep sigh. ‘Good grief, Sophia, what a strange and terrible picture your psychics have painted!’

  ‘Monstrous, isn’t it? I could barely bring myself to read those descriptions. What a horrible, tragic place it must be!’ Sophia suppressed a shudder and sipped at the tea which Blackwood’s secretary had prepared for her.

  ‘I see that there’s no actual description of the Venusians themselves,’ said Blackwood. ‘Why is that? Were the psychic impressions not powerful enough to provide even a glimpse?’

  ‘Yes, they were,’ Sophia replied. ‘But not one of the psychometrists could bring himself to write down a description of them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Sophia hesitated, and Blackwood now saw genuine fear in her eyes. ‘Because of what they looked like. They were horrible beyond words – indescribably awful. I spoke with the psychometrists myself, and asked them to give me just a vague description… but they wouldn’t, and they became visibly distressed even at the question.’

  Blackwood raised his eyebrows. ‘I see.’

  At that moment, there was a high-pitched whistle, and a small cylinder of paper dropped from the vacuum tube beside Blackwood’s desk into a tray at his elbow. He took the cylinder, unrolled it and read the brief message it contained. ‘Grandfather would like to see us,’ he said.

  *

  ‘Have you seen the papers?’ Grandfather growled. He was leaning over his desk as Blackwood and Sophia entered his office. Several newspapers were spread out before him, including The Times, The Telegraph, The Daily News and The Morning Post. He took up The Times and thrust it at Blackwood, who accepted it and scanned the front page. The report’s heading brought a frown of consternation to his brow:

  SPRING-HEELED JACK STRIKES AGAIN

  _____

  ‘MARS WILL TRIUMPH!’ HE SHOUTS AS HE ATTACKS PASSERSBY ACROSS LONDON AND THE HOME COUNTIES

  WHAT CAN IT MEAN?

  _____

  NOW, HE ADDS MURDER TO HIS LIST OF CRIMES

  _____

  A SENTRY AT THE ALDERSHOT BARRACKS SET UPON BY THE MANIAC

  ‘Murder?’ said Blackwood. ‘He killed a soldier?’

  Grandfather shook his head. ‘Some poor girl in Bermondsey: threw her into a sewer and watched her drown, he did!’

  ‘Oh!’ Sophia put a hand to her mouth in horror.

  Grandfather glanced at her. ‘Do forgive me, your Ladyship. I did not mean to shock you so. Please, take a seat, both of you.’

  ‘Did he really say that?’ asked Blackwood. ‘Did he really say that Mars will triumph?’

  ‘New Scotland Temple are investigating,’ Grandfather replied. ‘So far, they have testimony from at least a dozen witnesses that that is exactly what he said. But what the deuce it means, I have no idea, for the brute is clearly no Martian.’

  ‘Indeed not,’ Blackwood replied in a measured tone. ‘In fact, we have evidence to suggest that he hails from Venus.’

  ‘What?’ Grandfather spluttered. ‘What the dickens are you talking about, man?’

  ‘It’s quite true, I assure you sir,’ said Sophia, as she handed the SPR report and the waxed envelope containing the metal fragment across the desk to him.

  Grandfather took them both and glanced at the envelope. ‘This is the thing you showed me yesterday.’

  Sophia nodded. ‘And you also have there the metallurgical and psychometrical analyses. Our chemists and psychometrists concur that the fragment originated on Venus.’

  Grandfather read the report, periodically muttering to himself in amazement as he did so.

  Blackwood waited for him to finish and then said, ‘It looks like you were right, sir: there does seem to be a connection between the activities of Spring-Heeled Jack and the death of Ambassador R’ondd – a connection which is strengthened by what we were told by Andrew Crosse.’

  ‘Explain,’ said Grandfather.

  Blackwood described their questioning of the amateur scientist the previous day, along with his description of his singular visitor, who had called himself ‘Indrid Cold’.

  ‘If this Johnnie is from Venus,’ said Grandfather when his Special Investigator had finished, ‘then why in God’s name is he babbling about a Martian victory?’ He picked up The Times again and waved it at Blackwood. ‘Lord knows, I’ve no particular liking for journalists, but they ask a fair question: what can it mean?’

  ‘I’m afraid that has yet to be ascertained, sir,’ replied Blackwood with a sigh. ‘As far as we were aware, there was no life on Venus – at least, no intelligent life. And yet, apparently there is…’

  Grandfather grunted. ‘Well, how could we have known for sure? Our new Æther zeppelins have yet to be tested in the depths of space, although of course there are now designs afoot to build craft capable of reaching Mars.’ He slapped the paper down on his desk. ‘One thing’s for sure: this “Mars will triumph” business puts us in the wrong ditch, and we’d better climb out of it before people start thinking that the Martians are behind all this.’

  ‘Can we be absolutely sure that they’re not?’ asked Blackwood.

  Grandfather sat back in his chair and gave his Investigator an appraising look. ‘What, you mean employ some ruffian from another planet to attack the centre of the British Empire, and then assassinate their own Ambassador? What could they possibly gain from such a plan?’

  ‘Perhaps they need an excuse to attack Earth,’ Blackwood replied.

  Sophia glanced at him in shock. ‘Thomas! I mean… Mr Blackwood! Do you really think so?’

  ‘I really don’t know. But we’ll do well to examine all possibilities.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Grandfather. ‘Well, examine as much as you want, but do it quickly. Time is rapidly becoming our enemy.’ He picked up a piece of paper from his desk and handed it to Blackwood, who read it.

  ‘They’ve brought forward the departure of the interplanetary cylinder from the twenty-ninth!’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Grandfather. ‘It lifts off from Biggin Hill Cosmodrome at ten forty-five tomorrow morning. Personnel from the Martian Embassy have already retrieved the Ambassador’s body from us and are preparing it for its journey as we speak.’

  ‘But why?’ wondered Sophia. ‘Why bring the departure forward?’

  ‘Her Majesty wanted to prove to the Martian Government that we have made some significant progress with our investigation,’ Blackwood replied. ‘She wanted to include that information in her letter of condolence. Perhaps someone on Mars doesn’t want that to happen: perhaps someone wants Lunan R’ondd’s body to be sent home without an explanation.’

  ‘That would certainly cause a great deal of upset,’ conceded Grandfather.

  ‘Even anger,’ Sophia added.

  ‘There is a great deal we don’t know about the political situation on Mars,’ Blackwood continued. ‘There may well be factions there who don’t want anything to do with Earth, or with Humanity. It’s possible that there are influences at work of which we know nothing, but which are working against the continued forging of peaceful relations between the two planets.’

  ‘But where does Venus fit into all this?’ demanded Grandfather.

  Blackwood fell silent, suddenly lost in thought.

  Grandfather sighed. ‘Well, whatever the answer, it’s quite clear we’re operating on two fronts. Blackwood, I’d like you to go to the Martian Embassy and have a chat with the Ambassador’s Assistant… what’s the fellow’s name?’

  ‘Petrox Voronezh.’

  ‘That’s the chap. Find out what, if anything, the Martians know of Venus. They’re streets ahead of us wh
en it comes to interplanetary travel, after all, and they may have some information that we could use to our advantage.’

  Blackwood nodded.

  ‘Shall I go too?’ asked Sophia.

  ‘No, my dear,’ replied Grandfather. ‘I would like you to liaise with New Scotland Temple. I believe they’ve put one of their best men on the Spring-Heeled Jack case – Detective Gerhard de Chardin…’

  ‘I know Detective de Chardin,’ Sophia said. ‘We have collaborated once or twice in the past on cases of a supernatural nature.’

  ‘Excellent. Then join forces with him once again and interview as many witnesses to last night’s attacks as you can. I’m willing to wager that the oaf didn’t just vanish into thin air once he’d had his fun! He must have gone somewhere. See if you can’t gather any clues as to where that might be. We have about twenty-four hours until that cylinder departs. Let’s see if we can put a little more information onboard!’

  CHAPTER SEVEN:

  At the Martian Embassy

  Blackwood took a hansom to Chesham Place and got out in front of a large, elegant building overlooking Belgrave Square. The building was of five storeys, its walls whitewashed to pristine brightness, the columns about its portico tall and slender; in fact, there was nothing in its external appearance to suggest that it contained the diplomatic mission of a distant world.

  This impression of normality was quickly dispelled, however, when Blackwood rang the bell beside the heavy oak door, which was firmly locked. A thin, high-pitched voice issued from the ornately-fashioned brass loudspeaker grille beside the bell-pull.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name is Thomas Blackwood. I am here on Crown business.’

  A moment later, there was a faint buzz and the sharp clack of a withdrawing bolt, and the door unlocked – apparently, Blackwood guessed, by means of some remotely-operated electrical mechanism.

  The door swung open on soundless hinges, and he stepped into an expansive foyer, at the far end of which a Martian, formally dressed in a shimmering blue suit and wearing full breathing apparatus, sat behind a desk that appeared to be fashioned from a large slab of highly-polished mottled stone akin to onyx.