The Martian Ambassador

by Alan K Baker

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ said Voronezh. ‘We are well aware that many humans view us with fear and mistrust; it is only natural, after all, for any being to fear the unknown, the other – especially when that other possesses power and technology far in advance of one’s own. We appreciate the friendship extended to us by some, while sympathising with the trepidation of others, and we have read enough of your history to note how contact between human civilisations at different stages of development has ended badly for the less developed. Contact between Europe and what was once called the New World, for example, resulted in the catastrophic decline of those cultures which were “discovered”.’

  ‘You think the Venusians have sent an agent to sow discord between Earth and Mars?’ said Blackwood.

  ‘It is a reasonable assumption, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘But why? For what purpose?’

  ‘I am not sure. Nor do I believe that a few random attacks are all that this creature and his masters have planned. It seems to me that they are merely the groundwork – a preamble to other events which have yet to unfold.’

  Blackwood nodded. ‘By the way, I believe the brute’s name to be Indrid Cold. At least, that’s the one he gave to Andrew Crosse when he visited him in Somerset.’

  ‘That is indeed a Venusian name,’ Voronezh replied.

  Something else occurred to Blackwood just then. ‘If the Venusian civilisation is in ruins,’ he said, ‘how did Indrid Cold get to Earth?’

  ‘It was noted during our initial expeditions that they still have the capacity to produce Æther ships,’ Voronezh replied. ‘I suspect that Indrid Cold arrived in a one-man vessel, which is hidden somewhere near London. That, however, is the least important of the questions facing us.’

  ‘True enough,’ Blackwood nodded. ‘Mr Voronezh, may I ask another question?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why has the departure of the interplanetary cylinder been brought forward from the twenty-ninth to tomorrow?’

  ‘Our Government has received a request from Ambassador R’ondd’s family that his body be brought home as soon as possible.’

  ‘Is that the only reason?’

  Voronezh regarded his guest with unblinking eyes. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  Blackwood took a deep breath, wondering how wise it was to say what he was about to say. He supposed that he would soon find out. ‘It was the intention of the Queen to provide your Government with a full and comprehensive account of what happened to Ambassador R’ondd, along with her letter of condolence. I was wondering whether there might be certain individuals on Mars who don’t want that to happen: individuals who would rather he be returned with little or no explanation…’

  ‘So that humans might be seen as dangerous fools by the people of Mars, who would then demand that diplomatic relations be broken off,’ said Voronezh. ‘An interesting theory.’

  ‘Please forgive my candour, sir, but I can’t help thinking of what you said during our meeting with the Queen. You threatened direct intervention in this investigation unless results were achieved very quickly.’

  ‘We are merely anxious to resolve this matter without delay, Mr Blackwood,’ Voronezh replied. ‘I am certain you would too, were our positions reversed.’

  ‘What is the Martian attitude to Humanity? How are we seen on your world?’

  ‘You are viewed with curiosity – benign curiosity – and the desire for friendship. I assure you that there is no one on Mars who harbours any animosity whatsoever towards the people of Earth, the present situation notwithstanding. We are all children of the star you call Sol, the life-giver at the centre of this Solar System. We value your presence, we rejoice in the existence of fellow intelligent beings… for we have caught glimpses of what lies beyond the outermost planets, in the dark depths of Space, and we believe that all should cling to each other in bonds of friendship and support in the face of what dwells… out there.’

  Blackwood was taken aback by this utterance. Voronezh noted his surprised expression, and made the gentle chittering sound that was Martian laughter. ‘Do not look so shocked, Mr Blackwood. You understand that of which I speak, for you yourself have caught a glimpse of it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am speaking of what you call the Cosmic Spheres, of course.’

  Blackwood’s expression became one of outright astonishment. ‘You know about that? How?’

  ‘We obtained access to your file; we claimed that right when we learned that you would be handling this investigation, and your Government conceded it and allowed us to view your professional history. Five years ago, you investigated a series of mysterious deaths at a secret research laboratory on the west coast of Scotland. The scientists were attempting, with the full support of your Government, to harness the ætherial force known as Vril, the force which powers our interplanetary cylinders.’

  ‘They wanted to use it as a weapon,’ muttered Blackwood, shuddering inwardly at the memory. ‘They hoped it would consolidate the military power of the Empire… but they failed. Catastrophically.’

  ‘On the contrary, they succeeded,’ said Voronezh. ‘But there are areas of enquiry which are so dangerous that success is failure. Your scientists managed, for an infinitesimal moment, to open a fissure between this world and the astral realm containing the Vril force, but they did so carelessly, with the wrong intentions, and without taking the necessary precautions, with the result that one of the denizens of that realm, a Sha’halloth, was able to deposit its eggs in the laboratory.’

  Don’t, Blackwood thought, struggling against the temptation to shut his eyes tight and flee the room. Please don’t say any more!

  But Voronezh continued, ‘The eggs of the Sha’halloth are intelligent and ravenous; they fed on the scientists’ minds in order to fuel the growth of the abominations they contained. They drove the men insane, and when you were sent to the laboratory, and saw what they had done to each other, your own mind was nearly unhinged. And yet, you conquered your terror and revulsion; you destroyed the eggs, neutralised the threat…’

  ‘I destroyed the scientists, too,’ Blackwood whispered. ‘I… I killed them all.’

  ‘You had no choice, for they were already lost.’

  Blackwood shook his head. ‘God… the things they’d done!’ He felt tears welling in his eyes at the memories which had risen to prominence in his mind, memories he had tried desperately to rid himself of in the five years since those terrible events, but which now lay exposed once again in their filthy nakedness before his mind’s eye. He remembered the eggs: pulsating globs of glistening jelly, faintly glowing with impossible colours, covered with writhing tendrils that seemed to fade in and out of visibility, as though still connected somehow to the realm from which they had come. To look upon them had been intolerable; to feel them probing his mind had been utterly unbearable, akin to a sexual molestation, but far more intimate. He felt his stomach churning at the memories, threatening to void itself there and then. He put a hand up to his mouth, and was surprised when it collided with the faceplate: he had completely forgotten that he was wearing the breathing apparatus, so powerful were the memories. He forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly. He looked at Voronezh and saw that the Martian was watching him intently.

  ‘You did a great service to your country,’ said Voronezh, ‘to your Empire, to your world. If the Sha’halloth eggs had hatched, it would have been the end of all of you. After reading your report, your Government decided to place an indefinite moratorium on Vril research. It was a wise decision. The people of Earth have much to thank you for. But we have digressed considerably. We were speaking of the Martian attitude to Earthmen. I repeat: we bear you no animosity whatsoever; we consider you as friends.’

  ‘But that attitude could change,’ said Blackwood, grateful that they had returned to the matter at hand.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Voronezh. ‘Of course it could change, given sufficient impetus.’

  ‘
The Venusians want it to change. They want us to become enemies. Why?’

  ‘I do not know. But it does seem likely that they will continue with their agenda. Their activities, I think, will escalate in seriousness.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Blackwood with a sigh. ‘I think you’re right that these attacks by Spring-Heeled Jack, or Indrid Cold – whatever you want to call him – are only the first phase of some dark plan. The assassination of Lunan R’ondd was the second phase. He isn’t finished yet, not by a long way. But the question is: what does he intend to do next?’

  ‘The only thing that can be said with any certainty,’ replied Voronezh, ‘is that he will do something.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT:

  De Chardin of New Scotland Temple

  While Blackwood was discussing Spring-Heeled Jack and his nefarious plans with Petrox Voronezh, Sophia’s carriage turned from Richmond Terrace onto Victoria Embankment and came to a halt outside New Scotland Temple. Beyond the Gothic ramparts, which were banded in red brick and white Portland stone, the elegant spire of the great Clock Tower rose from the Palace of Westminster in the growing murk of another London particular. Through the veil of dun-coloured fog, the Tower took on a sinister, spectral aspect, which Sophia found entirely in keeping with her present mission.

  She asked her driver, John, to wait for her; then, gathering the collar of her coat tight about her neck to ward off the dank chill, which she found most inconvenient despite its aptness, she walked quickly to the main entrance and through the arched granite portico.

  The desk sergeant smiled and nodded to her as she approached, for Sophia was well-known and respected by the Metropolitan Templar Police. ‘Good morning, your Ladyship,’ he said. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

  Sophia returned his smile. ‘Good morning to you, sir. I wonder if I might speak with Detective de Chardin? Is he here?’

  ‘He’s in his office, I believe.’

  Sophia indicated the door leading from the entrance lobby into the interior of the building. ‘May I?’

  ‘Of course, Lady Sophia,’ replied the sergeant. ‘I’m sure he’ll be very happy to see you.’ There was a subtle note of sadness or regret in the man’s voice, which suggested to Sophia that the Spring-Heeled Jack investigation was not going particularly well, and that de Chardin would indeed be pleased to see anyone who might shed further light upon it.

  She nodded her thanks, went through the door and walked briskly along a series of corridors leading further into the warren-like depths of the building. Here and there, she passed police officers who recognised and greeted her cordially, and despite the sinister strangeness of the case upon which she was engaged, she felt a sudden, powerful sense of safety and wellbeing.

  Along with all other decent, law-abiding citizens of the British Empire, Sophia believed the Metropolitan Templar Police to be one of its greatest assets. The organisation had changed frequently and radically in the nearly eight centuries since its creation in 1119, when a knight of Champagne named Hugh de Payens bound himself, along with eight trusted companions, in a perpetual vow to defend the Holy Land and the pilgrims who travelled there.

  Within two hundred years, this knightly order, which became known as the Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Jesus Christ and the Temple of Solomon, or simply as the Knights Templar, became one of the richest and most powerful organisations in the world, possessing lands and wealth beyond the wildest dreams of most, together with a military power to rival that of many nations. Their success was not to last much longer, however, for it bred jealousy and animosity in the hearts of many, including Philip the Fair of France. Bankrupt, fearful and envious of the enormous power and wealth wielded by the Knights Templar, Philip contributed to the spreading of dark and terrible rumours about the Order: that they fought for no other reason than to swell their own coffers; that they were secretly in league with the Saracens against whom they had ostensibly sworn to fight; that they secretly worshipped the Devil, and so on, and so on.

  Philip the Fair ordered the arrest of the Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, along with sixty of his fellow knights, who had accepted Pope Clement V’s invitation to go to Paris to discuss a new Crusade with the kings of Armenia and Cyprus. While de Molay and the other Templars were suffering the most hideous tortures designed to elicit confessions of devil-worship and other blasphemies, Philip took possession of the Paris Temple and sent word to the English King Edward II, advising him to take similar action against the Order there. Edward replied that he had serious doubts as to the veracity of the charges levelled against the Templars and wrote to the kings of Portugal, Castile, Aragon and Sicily, asking if there were any truth to the accusations. Although the replies Edward received maintained the Templars’ innocence of all such charges, Pope Clement assured him that they were true and ordered him to suppress the Order.

  In 1314, after years of imprisonment, Jacques de Molay was burned alive on a charcoal fire on the Ile-des-Javiaux in the Seine, and many of his fellow Templars fled their lands, seeking safe havens across Europe. One of these was western Scotland, where they allied themselves with Robert the Bruce in his war of independence against the English, contributing to his victory at the Battle of Bannockburn, in return for which they were allowed to remain in that country unmolested. Thus did the unhappy and unjustly victimised Order maintain its presence in the British Isles.

  In the centuries that followed, the Knights Templar gradually re-established themselves as bankers, entrepreneurs and philanthropists in Britain, ever mindful of their betrayal by the Catholic Church, declaring themselves the enemies of social injustice and the oppression of the weak by the powerful.

  Such was their reputation for decency and fairness that when Sir Robert Peel was appointed as Home Secretary in 1822, and put forward his plan to standardise the police and make it an official paid profession, his thoughts turned first to the Knights Templar. Until then, inefficiency and corruption, combined with the lack of proper organisation, had largely robbed the public of its faith in the volunteer parish constables, watchmen and Bow Street Runners who had hitherto policed London’s streets. The Knights Templar, Peel believed, were the perfect group from which to recruit his new force. Thus was the Metropolitan Templar Police Act passed in 1829, and the Order which had begun its life protecting pilgrims on their journeys through the Holy Land in the twelfth century, now protected law-abiding citizens going about their business in the heart of the British Empire in the nineteenth.

  Sophia came to a halt at the door of de Chardin’s office and gave a knock.

  A voice drifted out to her. ‘Come!’

  Gerhard de Chardin was sitting at his desk with his head in his hands when Sophia entered. On seeing her, he sprang to his feet, a look of surprise on his finely-chiselled features. ‘Lady Sophia!’ he cried. ‘Do please come in.’

  ‘Thank you, Detective de Chardin,’ Sophia replied, watching in amusement as he hurriedly moved a small pile of papers from a chair and placed it before his desk, and then (with a rather charming self-consciousness) smoothed his neatly trimmed goatee.

  ‘Would you care for some refreshment?’ he asked, taking his own seat again. ‘A cup of tea, perhaps?’

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  ‘Well… to what do I owe the honour, your Ladyship?’

  ‘I have come to offer you my assistance in the case you are currently investigating.’

  ‘The Spring-Heeled Jack business?’ he asked, surprised.

  ‘The same.’

  ‘I see. May I ask what interest the SPR has in the affair?’

  ‘Our interest was piqued by the apparently supernatural abilities which he seems to possess,’ she explained. ‘As a result of my own investigations, I have come into possession of a piece of metal from one of the villain’s talons.’

  De Chardin sat forward suddenly. ‘You have? May I see it?’

  ‘You may indeed, sir – but not now, for I do not have it with me; it is at present at the SPR headquarters, where it has been ex
amined by our best chemists and psychometrists.’

  ‘And what were their conclusions?’ de Chardin asked.

  When Sophia told him, the detective gazed at her, open-mouthed, for several moments. ‘Venus?’ he managed to say, presently.

  ‘Venus,’ she replied.

  ‘Good grief.’ De Chardin stroked his beard, contemplatively this time. ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘That is what I’m endeavouring to find out, along with Mr Thomas Blackwood of Her Majesty’s Bureau of Clandestine Affairs.’

  De Chardin nodded. ‘I know Mr Blackwood. He’s a good man, a credit to the Empire.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Sophia replied, suppressing the smile which seemed to have begun to spring unbidden to her lips whenever she thought of the Special Investigator. As de Chardin listened with mounting interest, she related everything that had happened thus far in the affair of the Martian Ambassador’s assassination, and how it appeared to be intimately connected with the activities of the mysterious attacker. ‘I take it,’ she concluded, ‘that you will be interviewing witnesses to last night’s assaults.’

  ‘Certainly. In fact, I was about to make my way to the scene of the first incident. Would you care to accompany me?’

  Sophia smiled. ‘I’d be delighted. We can use my carriage.’

  *

  In spite of the trust and esteem in which the Templar Police were held, Sophia and de Chardin found it surprisingly difficult to find witnesses, or to persuade them to talk when they did find them.

  ‘It’s as if they’re still terrified of the miscreant,’ the detective commented as they rode in Sophia’s carriage towards Bermondsey and the scene of the previous night’s murder of the young prostitute. ‘Terrified that if they talk, he will know and return to exact his vengeance upon them.’

  ‘One cannot blame them for being so afraid,’ Sophia replied. ‘They believe Spring-Heeled Jack to be possessed of supernormal powers – and they are right.’

  ‘Supernormal, yes,’ said de Chardin, ‘but not supernatural. If this Indrid Cold is from another world, then he is a physical being, and as such he is mortal and capable of being apprehended.’