by Eric Brown
She frowned. “I detect a patronising note in your assessment, Dr Watson. My age and gender, I rather think, do not enter into the equation.” She gestured towards the speakers. “Minds far greater than mine can see the iniquity of the Martian regime. But it does not take intelligence or insight to realise that the arrival of the Martians is founded on a great and terrible lie.” At this she bit her lip, and it occurred to me that she had vouchsafed more than she thought safe to let slip.
“I am intrigued,” I said. “Please, go on.”
She hesitated, regarding her half-finished Darjeeling. At last she said, “The Martians would have us believe that the first wave of invaders were of a tyrannical political faction that had gained dominance on Mars through ruthless oppression of the populace, terrible wars and merciless pogroms. The invasion of Earth in ’94, Martian leaders maintain, was but the logical consequence of that bellicose regime: they had subdued their own world and, seeking others to oppress, and more valuable territory to occupy, had set their sights on Earth. The story goes – or so our Martian overlords would like us to believe – that these initial aggressors were brought to their knees by a common terrestrial virus, and that the second wave of Martians were the more peaceable, liberal schism originally left behind on Mars. They further assure us that the two are distinct, and that our current Martian oppressors bear no relation to the former tyrants.”
I sat back, hiding a smile of amusement at her fervour. It made her even more beautiful, I thought. “And you think differently, Miss Hamilton-Bell?”
She swept on. “They would have us believe that, with the invasion forces intent on the subjugation of Earth in ‘94, defences back on Mars were neglected and liberal forces then took advantage to wrest control of the scant armies left behind. They claim the liberals despatched a liner to Earth, and that a scientific team alighted in Africa in 1898 and manufactured an antidote to the virus that had put paid to the initial invasion.”
“And according to you?”
She smiled, but without an iota of humour. She fixed me with a steely gaze. “The fact is, Dr Watson, that the Martians, the initial wave and the second front, are one and the same. It was merely a political expedient, promulgated by the second set of invaders, to claim that the original group were murderous tyrants. Oh, they worked it very cleverly. I would go so far as to say that they were politically brilliant – and we, sad dupes that we were, fell for their lies hook, line and sinker.”
“You seem,” I said, “certain of your rather… lurid accusations.”
She smiled at me frostily. “I am as certain as I can be,” she said.
“And how is that?”
She hesitated. “I would rather, at this juncture, keep my sources to myself.”
“Very well,” I said, and sipped my tea for a time. “But look here, if you were right, then surely we would have heard a rumour of it by now? The papers would be full of—”
“The papers,” she said quickly, “are controlled by the Martians. The press barons are in cahoots with the ruling Martian elite. They print lurid accounts of life on Mars, shallow travelogues to amuse the masses, and trumpet the benefits the invasion has brought, and all the while the barons and the editors are mere patsies to our oppressors, raking in their millions with lies.”
I sat forward. “You intrigue me. I hear what you say, but, without corroboration to back up your claims…”
“Without corroboration, Dr Watson, you think my stories the mere flights of fancy of an impressionable young woman?”
“Why, I think nothing of the kind!” I expostulated.
“But your entire manner, if I might make so bold, has been rather superior throughout our meeting. You have the air of someone allowing a child to chatter loquaciously, while you sit content in the assumption of your own superiority. Oh, I’ve seen your type before. What we need, once we’ve got rid of the egregious Martians, is another revolution to sweep away old, conservative values and traditional ideas!”
“I take it, Miss, that you are a suffragette?”
She glared at me and, I rather think, blasphemed under her breath, “Good God!”
She hurriedly gathered her bag and made to depart.
I reached out so as to delay her precipitate departure. “I wonder if we might meet again,” I said.
She snatched her hand away, said, “That, Dr Watson, remains to be seen,” and swept – rather regally, I thought – away.
I sat in silence for a while, digesting her words and feeling both chastised and, oddly, invigorated by the meeting with such a feisty young woman.
In due course I finished my tea and retraced my steps back to Baker Street.
Chapter Three
The Mystery Deepens
I found my friend deep in a brown study when I returned. He was pacing back and forth, his chin sunk upon his chest and his fists thrust into the pockets of his smoking jacket. He hardly acknowledged my arrival, merely grunted at my greeting, and I knew better than to derail his train of thought.
Over dinner he emerged from his reverie, and I felt emboldened enough to enquire: “Well, Holmes, did you learn anything at the British Library?”
“The mystery deepens, Watson.”
“How so?”
“I asked to see certain obscure Martian texts upon my arrival at the library,” he said. “They were not the originals, of course, but rather translations pertaining to abstruse areas of Martian philosophy. I was certain that in these tomes I would find reference to the work, if not to the life, of the philosopher Delph-Aran-Arapna.”
“Let me guess,” I said, slicing into my pork chop. “There was no reference to be found, hm?”
“Your sagacity astounds me, Watson. You’re right. There was no mention of the fellow in these texts, nor in more recent periodicals and journals. Although there was reference aplenty to other Martian thinkers, there was not a smidgen to be found on Delph-Aran-Arapna.”
“Perhaps,” I surmised, “he just wasn’t of the first rank.”
“Yet according to Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran,” said Holmes, “he was feted as one of the finest Martian minds of the current era.”
“So what the deuce do you think is going on?”
He pursed his thin lips thoughtfully. “That, my friend, we might very well find out when we set foot on the red planet.”
“We’re going?” I exclaimed.
“I telephoned Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran upon my return,” he said. “Our berths are booked aboard the liner Valorkian, leaving at two o’clock tomorrow. One week later we will be on Mars.”
“My word,” I said. “You weren’t deterred by finding no mention of what’s-his-name?”
“On the contrary, Watson. My curiosity is aroused. It makes the puzzle all the more intriguing, does it not? Now the mystery is not only who might have ended the life of the Martian philosopher, but why all mention of the worthy has been omitted from every pertinent translation on Earth?”
“Of course, there might be a perfectly innocent explanation.”
“You are right, there might be. I hope to learn more when I question Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran and his colleagues at the embassy in the morning. I have been granted an appointment at ten, for one hour. I will meet you at the Battersea docking station at one o’clock.”
Mrs Hudson entered the room, cleared away the dishes, and asked if we wanted coffee. Holmes requested Turkish, and I joined him in a cup.
A while later, as we sat on either side of the hearth nursing our cups, Holmes said, “And how went your day, Watson? I see that you strolled around Hyde Park, listened to the speakers demonstrating against the Martian presence and, if I am not mistaken, took tea with a rather fetching member of the opposite sex.”
I lowered my cup and stared at my friend in vexed admiration. “Confound it, Holmes! How can you possibly know?”
“Simplicity itself, my dear Watson. You returned with a copy of the Weekly Sketch, a periodical you purchase only when you take a turn around the Serpentine. That
you paused to listen to the speakers at Hyde Park corner is a given, as I read the notice advertising the demonstration in yesterday’s Times, and I have observed your enjoyment of public debate.”
“But confound it… How do you know that I stopped for tea?”
“The Earl Grey tea leaves adorning your waistcoat, adhering there from a spillage, indicate that you paused for refreshment.”
“Very well,” I said, “but how can you possibly know that I met a rather charming young lady?”
Holmes cracked a smile. “Watson, old man, I can read you like a book: the light in your eyes, your somewhat dreamy abstraction, that witless smile that crosses your face from time to time when you consider the meeting. I have seen it again and again, over the years.”
“Witless…?” I muttered.
“Am I wrong?”
I blustered for a time, then admitted, “Dash it all, Holmes. As a matter of fact I did meet a rather remarkable young woman.”
He smiled to himself and murmured, “I do think you’re smitten, Watson.”
“Not in the least! Perish the thought,” I said. “Admittedly she was a beauty, I’ll give you that. But she was young enough to be my daughter – and her ideas were somewhat far-fetched, to say the least.”
“Far-fetched?”
I outlined my conversation with Miss Freya Hamilton-Bell, and her opinion that our current Martian associates were one and the same as the original murderous mob.
“The notion is absurd,” I said. “I can’t begin to imagine how she got it into her head.”
Holmes regarded the dregs of his coffee. “I have heard the theory mooted in learned circles on more than one occasion, Watson. Mark my words, there might be a grain of truth in the idea.”
I goggled at him. “You really think so, Holmes?”
He set his cup aside. “Shaw and Chesterton are convinced that such is the case,” he said. “Just the other week, G.K. bent my ear on the very subject at the Athenaeum. Perhaps, my friend, we might learn more on this matter, and others, when we set foot on Mars one week from the morrow, hm?”
“Indeed we might,” I said.
His words set me to thinking, and that night, after we each retired to our rooms, I lay awake long into the early hours before sleep finally arrived.
Chapter Four
All Aboard for the Red Planet!
The Martian docking station at Battersea is one of the wonders of the modern world.
As one approaches from across the Thames, the station dominates the skyline of south London, a series of towers and bulbous domes – the latter a feature of Martian architecture – along with a dozen mobile launch gantries and as many docking rings where interplanetary ships make their landfall.
The station was a hive of industry, with a constant toing and froing of all manner of transportation. There was even a dedicated railway station to ferry passengers and goods from the newly arrived ships to the centre of London. A veritable hub of commerce had grown up around the port, with crowds of human stevedores bustling hither and thither. Glimpsed in amongst them, from time to time, one could observe the land vehicles used by the Martians when not riding in their iconic tripods: these were bulky, domed cars, which beetled busily back and forth on three wheels.
At noon precisely I stepped from my cab, found a porter, and had him transport my case through the busy concourse of the station to the vast, glass-covered embarkation lounge. This resonant chamber was occupied, for the most part, by Martians – no doubt diplomats, traders and the like, come to the end of their secondment on planet Earth. I wondered if they were longing for the red sands of their home planet after their sojourn on our strange world.
A dozen or so humans stood among the alien crowd, with chests and cases at their feet. These I took to be businessmen and civil servants. One fellow in particular struck me as familiar – a singular specimen of humanity, a little over five feet high but as broad as a bull across the shoulders. I was sure I had seen his barrel chest, great head and flowing black beard pictured in some periodical. He wore a tropical suit as if equipped for exploration, finished off with a sola topi.
I scanned the crowd, but of my friend there was no sign.
Through the glass roof I made out the gargantuan shape of a nearby Martian liner. Although it towered to a height of a hundred yards, it gave the impression of being squat, for it was perhaps thirty yards wide, its appearance made even broader by the addition of four scimitar-like tail fins which flared from its base. This was the Valorkian, the vessel that would transport Holmes and me to the red planet.
I had undertaken a little preliminary reading on the subject of interplanetary travel, and learned that we would pass the bulk of the week-long journey under sedation, with only an hour or so at take-off and landing being spent fully conscious. We would be able to look out upon our world as it diminished in our wake – and view our destination when we approached the orb of Mars.
I was daydreaming of our arrival there, and what adventures might await us, when I was hailed by a familiar voice and I turned to see Sherlock Holmes approaching, accompanied by a squat Martian.
“By a happy coincidence,” said Holmes, “Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran begins a period of leave today, and will be making the journey, too. He has kindly offered to be our guide while on the red planet.”
“It will be my honour to show you around our capital city,” said the ambassador, “before your investigations commence.”
“Most kind of you,” I murmured.
“Now, if you will excuse me for a moment, I must ensure that all the relevant details are in order.” And so saying, the alien scurried off towards a counter behind which stood a human customs official.
“Well, Holmes,” I said when we were alone, “what did you learn?”
“Precious little,” he said. “I informed Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran about the curious absence of all mention of the philosopher from the relevant literature, but he waved it away as of no concern. According to him, only a fraction of all information regarding Mars is translated. There is hardly time to render all information into English – or, he added, the need. For who, after all, would be interested in many of the more arcane aspects of Martian life?”
“And what did you make of his explanation?”
“Specious in the extreme, Watson. I know that the finest minds on Earth are eager to learn everything possible about Mars, its history, culture and philosophies, and the idea that all mention of one of its finest thinkers should be denied to mankind… No, Watson, I find the entire business decidedly rum.”
Before I could ask why the Martians should have elided mention of the philosopher, he went on. “There was one other thing, Watson. Intrigued by your meeting with Miss Hamilton-Bell, and her strong opinions, I took the opportunity to look her up.”
“And?” I asked eagerly.
He frowned. “Most odd, but like our enigmatic Martian philosopher, it seems that she does not exist.”
“What?” I said. “Doesn’t exist?”
“Or rather,” Holmes went on, “the name with which she supplied you does not exist. I checked in all the telephone directories and gazetteers. It would appear that ‘Freya Hamilton-Bell’, Watson, is an alias.”
I was about to question him further when, from nearby, a stentorian boom all but deafened me.
“Holmes, by Gad! As I live and breathe, what the deuce are you doing here?”
I turned to see the huge man I had noticed earlier bearing down upon us like a charging bull.
Holmes turned and, beholding our interlocutor, smiled his greeting. “Challenger, what a sight for sore eyes! You look set for an adventure into darkest Africa, sir.”
The great man bellowed his mirth. “Africa? Perish the thought! I’ve charted that neck of the woods, old boy. Now I’m set for pastures new.”
“Mars, I presume?”
“None other.” He gestured through the glass roof at the Valorkian. “Leaving aboard that ugly tin can on the dot of two. And you
?”
“Likewise,” said Holmes.
“Capital! We should take tea – or whatever noxious beverage the Martians might serve – on our arrival.”
Holmes made the introductions. “Watson, meet my old friend, Professor George Edward Challenger, zoologist, explorer and adventurer extraordinaire. Challenger, my friend and faithful companion, Dr John Watson.”
“An honour indeed,” Challenger said, gripping my hand.
I winced. “Delighted,” I said, retrieving my hand and massaging life back into the crushed metacarpals.
“But what takes you to Mars?” Holmes asked.
“A spot of lecturing, followed by a bit of sightseeing. The Martians are more than eager to avail themselves of my expertise in the area of Terran fauna, don’t y’know? I hope to climb Olympus Mons, if my hosts are willing, and I have a mind to sail the southern seas. I’d like to bag a monster said to haunt those waters, but getting the trophy home might prove somewhat problematical. And you? What takes you to Mars?”
I glanced at my friend, who said, “The Martians have roped me in to do a little investigating – but more on that later,” he added as he beheld the return of Grulvax-Xenxa-Goran.
The professor tapped the side of his nose. “Understood, Holmes. Now, excuse me while I ensure my crates are properly stowed.” And so saying he hurried across the concourse to where a porter was labouring with two vast wooden chests.
“Everything is in order, gentlemen,” the ambassador said. “We should proceed to the check-in desk.”
We passed through a perfunctory customs check, left the embarkation lounge, and crossed to the bulk of the waiting ship. Seen at close quarters, I was struck by the craft’s size and latent power – and by its bizarre alien quality. Its carapace was dark and bulbous, and somehow appeared almost biological, like the epidermis of some great ocean-dwelling leviathan.
We stepped into its shadow, climbed onto a commodious elevator plate, and were whisked in seconds into the craft’s arching atrium. Martians and humans alike scurried back and forth. I noticed, among the crowd, a dozen or so green-uniformed men and women who were employed by the shipping line as pursers and stewards.
