The Martian War (9 page)

The screw-hatch turned slightly again, then stopped. The skittish Tuaregs backed off, but Lowell clapped his hands. “Go on, you brutes! See what you can do to help.”

The robed nomads clanged their bars against the hull, searching for some notch that would catch their bars. Eventually, as Lowell and I supervised, the men managed to get their bars into the hatch seam. Working together, grunting and cursing in their incomprehensible language, the natives dragged the hatch cover around. It finally began to turn freely.

Eager to see the first light from the open crack, I wanted to push forward. My own face should be the first human the aliens saw—or, at the very least, Percival Lowell’s. But the heavy screw made its last turn and fell off into the cooked sand. The Tuaregs scrambled back as hissing air gushed out like the steam from a tea kettle. Alien air, I thought, from the skies of Mars.

I saw only darkness inside the open hatch high up on the cylinder’s hull. When the venting atmosphere had faded to silence again, one of the Tuaregs pulled his face close to the opening.

Suddenly an enormous shape thrust itself forward from within the cylinder. It had slick leathery skin, huge eyes, and a Medusa’s cluster of tentacles. It made no sound as its appendages grabbed the Tuareg by his robes. The man screamed and thrashed, tearing his garments.

Despite their fear, the Tuareg’s companions protected their own. Howling, they drew curved swords from their dusty robes and lunged for the Martian beast. The tentacled thing loomed up, seemingly furious at us.

For the briefest instant, Lowell and I stood stunned and amazed. Such a creature was unlike anything I had imagined in all my biological studies. I reacted more quickly than Lowell when I saw the Tuaregs with murder in their eyes. “No swords! Do not harm it. It is a creature from another planet.”

With a swift stroke of his blade, one desert man slashed the fabric of his comrade’s robe, cutting him loose. The terrified victim tumbled to the sand and scrambled away. The other Tuaregs, glowering at me, seated their swords back in their belts and took up the crowbars as clubs. In a group, they rushed the open hatch and pummeled the Martian, which scuttled backward into its large ship.

The Tuaregs paused at the dark opening, none of them willing to venture inside. Lowell came close with the kerosene lamp he had brought. “Stand aside, but be ready to defend us.”

When I saw Lowell hesitate at the hatch opening, I snatched the lamp from him. This was no time for doubts and reservations. Without a thought for my own safety, I thrust the lamp into the cylinder’s interior.

The kerosene glow reflected from strange shapes and curves, objects no human had ever seen. Inside, the Martian squirmed away on its lumpy tentacles. It did not manage to avoid the light, but it did avoid us.

“It appears to be weak, perhaps injured,” I said when Lowell came up beside me. “It has backed off, so we can enter safely.”

Before Lowell could nod, I swung my leg over the lip of the hatch and climbed inside, pushing the lamp in front of me.

The Martian scuttled away without voicing any sound; I wondered whether it had vocal cords. Many animals on Earth were speechless, as I was aware from my vivisection experiments. Perhaps Martians were mute, or they communicated in another manner entirely.

I shouted back to Lowell, “Call some of the Tuaregs inside. Look there, the Martian is backed against that bulkhead. I want them to keep it at bay, so we can explore the rest of the ship. Maybe there are other survivors.” Lowell relayed the orders, and two Tuareg men reluctantly entered what must have seemed a demon’s lair to them.

With the known survivor accounted for, we ventured deeper inside, breathing the remnants of flat, dusty Martian air. I turned slowly around, shining the lamp inside the spaceship’s large open cavity. I saw a sight that I shall never forget.

The crashed spaceship was a charnel house. Inhuman bodies—fifteen, we later counted—were strewn about like rag dolls on the interior deck, no doubt jumbled from the violence of the cylinder’s impact. It seemed a tragedy to me that so few of them had survived the long and perilous voyage across interplanetary space. They had come so far … .

The dead creatures were slightly smaller than adult humans, the majority of them with whitish-gray skin and smooth shells on their body parts. These specimens clearly belonged to an entirely different phylum from the tentacled Martian.

Unlike a clipper ship or an ocean steamer, the Martian vessel did not contain a large cargo hold or numerous crates of supplies. The white-shelled aliens had been kept in a separate section of the vessel, like cattle in a corral. The advanced Martian—the creature with the soft body and the enormous brain—had apparently operated the controls, such as they were. The Martian projectile had apparently been launched from a giant cannon on the red planet, fired ballistically toward Earth, with only a few attitude-adjustment rockets to guide its course. Either these creatures
were fools, or optimists. Either way, they had achieved their desire, and the cylinder had arrived at Earth.

Lowell, being more mechanically minded than myself, inspected the “bridge” of the cylinder, a strange curved affair that would never have been designed by the shipbuilders of the Royal Navy. He studied the levers and knobs designed for a race equipped with tentacles instead of manipulating digits. He could not decipher the Martian written language scribed onto the buttons and switches, nor could he comprehend the basis of the alien guidance system.

Since my background was in biology, I had other priorities, however. I knelt to perform a cursory study of the cadavers. They seemed oddly desiccated and shriveled, as if their bodily juices had been sucked away. Only mummified husks remained.

“Moreau! I’ve found a second large Martian.” In the reflected lamplight, I could see another of the brownish brain sacs—this one clearly dead, its tentacles clenched to itself like the legs of a poisoned beetle. It, too, had been desiccated, drained.

“The crash could not have killed them all. Not in this fashion.” Lowell pursed his lips. “I wonder if this Martian and these others died of some sickness. Or maybe they were murdered during the voyage.”

I was not, however, worried about those answers for the time being. My immediate delight was in knowing that I now had so many specimens to dissect.

A
fter Moreau had delivered his shocking news to the symposium audience, the Institute scientists, military officers, lords, and even Prime Minister Gladstone, surged to their feet and gathered close to see the nightmarish specimen.

Moreau clearly understood the tumult his revelations would cause, and Wells could see that the bearish man enjoyed the effect of his announcement. Moreau stood confident and arrogant in the middle of the uproar.

Professor Huxley’s words cut across the excitement and confusion in the lecture hall. “In light of these new developments, I hereby adjourn this symposium until we can further assess the news Dr. Moreau has brought us.”

Griffin shot to his feet, his face reddened with anger, his bristly hair standing up as if in indignation. He did not even glance at the alien’s tank. “We cannot stop the symposium! We must compile all knowledge so we can fight the Germans! We must not allow ourselves to be distracted by … Martians. My formula is too important.”

Huxley gave the eccentric chemist a conciliatory look. “Dr. Griffin, much as I dislike Dr. Moreau, we have an important new factor to consider. It may be that the entire focus of our symposium will change dramatically.”

“No! It can’t.” But his voice was lost among the shouts of amazement or disgust as people peered into the aquarium. Huxley paid no further attention to Griffin.

Moreau walked across the stage like a conquering general. “I think you will agree, Thomas, that my intrusion is warranted.”

“If your words are indeed true.” Huxley turned down his lips in continued skepticism. “Numerous hoaxes have been perpetrated upon a gullible public. The circus man P.T. Barnum in America has made a living at it, and let us not forget the Cardiff Giant, which many scientists insisted was real.”

Wells hurried up to them, notepaper in hand, his mind full of questions. But he did not interrupt the conversation—or was it a confrontation?—between the two men.

“This is no joke.” Moreau sounded dangerous. “We have known each other for many years. At one time, you respected my biological investigations. I realize that you disagree with the morality of my experiments, but have you ever known me to be a liar?” Moreau thrust the bound volume forward. “Here, take my journal. It documents everything. It includes sketches I made of dissections and a full account of my dealings with the Martians.” His eyes were full of challenge. “Read it and see if you still consider this a hoax.”

Huxley took the book. “I will make up my own mind.”

Wells fought back a smile. This was precisely what Huxley taught all of his students: to study the facts for themselves and to make their own decisions.

Moreau continued, his voice louder than before. “Something must be done immediately. Toward the end of this year, Mars and Earth will be at their closest point at opposition. Already, the two worlds are approaching each other inexorably along their orbital paths. We must stop the Martians before they launch their invasion upon Earth.”

Huxley stared him down. Wells looked from one man to the other, holding his breath.

“Even if what you say is true, Moreau, exactly how do you expect us to fight a distant planet? Shall we shoot fireworks and hope they reach escape velocity? How can we possibly defend against invaders from Mars?”

Moreau gestured toward the scientists clustered around the aquarium. “You claim this Institute has the greatest minds in Britain. Think of something.”

* * *

Wells retired to his small room and feverishly documented everything he had witnessed, adding parenthetical comments of his own, which helped him put his thoughts in order. He hoped that Huxley meant for him to do such editorializing. It was unlikely he would ever be able to publish these accounts— certainly not as factual articles, due to Britain’s national security.

A student assistant rapped sharply on the door of his room. “Mr. Wells, you have a visitor in the front office. We could not allow her to come to the secure wing, but she wishes to see you—most insistently, sir.”

Wells’s heart leaped. Jane had come! With a happy expression and a light step, he hurried after the volunteer to the administrative office. Jane’s face lit up as soon as he passed through the door. Her expression, her eyes, her gently pointed chin all reminded him of a perfect sunset on a beautiful summer day.

“Jane! I did not expect you, but I certainly can’t complain.”

“I have been sitting here for the past hour, H.G., trying to think of an appropriate excuse as to why I have come. I tried to divert my mind by studying the flowers and birds and butterflies in my guidebooks. At night, I worked on memorizing all the constellations. But nothing seems as interesting if I don’t have you to share it with. I’m sorry if I’m disturbing your visit here, but I’ve missed you so.”

“You and I need never make excuses for wanting to be together, my dear.” He kissed her, much to the embarrassment of the frowning secretary who sat at his desk. The poor man shuffled papers and made an inordinate amount of noise to remind the two that he was there and watching.

At that moment the door swung open and T.H. Huxley strode in. “Have you drafted those letters yet, Henderson? They must be posted immediately. I require the advice of other experts—” He looked up, distracted. “Ah, Mr. Wells! I should have
you
write my correspondence. Then my demands will be clear and concise, and my urgency made plain.”

Wells chuckled in disbelief. “Professor, you are one of the
finest writers of our age. I wouldn’t presume to have a literary ability equivalent to your own.”

“I do not require
literature,
Wells, simply a request for information.” He looked at Jane, and suddenly his personality brightened. “And who is this? She appears to be a fine specimen.”

“Indeed she is, sir.” Wells beamed. “One that should be included in every textbook of the female form and mind.”

Jane extended her hand. “Apparently H.G. doesn’t believe I have a name. I am Miss Amy Catherine Robbins. I’m very pleased to meet you, sir. H.G. speaks of you often.”

Huxley said, “Wells is proving to be a shining star just as I had hoped. Especially after today, I need his insights more than ever.”

“Then you need Jane’s insights as well, Professor,” Wells said impulsively. “She has an imagination as sharp as my own, and often sheds light on questions in a way I have never before considered.”

“Excellent. We could certainly use a fresh perspective on these matters. Will you be staying with us, young lady?”

“Professor, we have no rooms available,” said the dour secretary. “Especially not for a lady.”

“I would love to stay, if I’m invited,” Jane said, ignoring the secretary. “I can, of course, share a room with H.G. We are to be married soon anyway.”

Henderson appeared extremely embarrassed, but Huxley was too distracted to show any reaction. “Can you vouch for her loyalty to the Crown, Wells? Are you certain she’s not a Prussian spy? More importantly, are you convinced she will not be bored by our technical discussions and scientific talk?”

Wells squared his narrow shoulders to look as imposing as
he could manage. “Jane has one of the most insightful minds and interesting perspectives of any person I know. She was once a student of mine, by far the best. I have decided to keep her.”

“It is settled then,” Huxley said. “You two follow me back to the research wing. After Moreau’s announcement today, not even a woman could disrupt my researchers further. Tell her about our Martians, Wells, and see what she thinks about the whole matter.”

“Martians?” Jane arched her eyebrows as they followed the professor into the private wing.

Huxley took his leave of the pair while Wells showed Jane to their room. Once inside, they became much more interested in each other than in interplanetary invasions. With all the privacy they could wish for, the two occupied themselves with kissing, laughing. Reacquainting themselves with each other involved the tedious and time-consuming task of removing the appropriate layers of clothing. They did not begrudge the time, but went through all the necessary steps … .