Reynolds fell silent, glowering at the captain. He bitterly regretted having to resort to threats, but that stubborn, arrogant devil had proved immune to every other approach. It seemed, however, that even this outburst did not have the slightest effect on MacReady, who simply sighed wearily.
“Reynolds, you are the stupidest man I have ever met,” he said. “And I have nothing more to say to you. This conversation has already gone on too long, and we have both made our positions clear. With all due respect, I shan’t deny that your wild fantasies have been a source of great amusement to certain gentlemen and myself. But this is no time for laughter, and the last thing I need on board now is a buffoon.”
Reynolds stared at the captain openmouthed.
“If that is all, Reynolds,” said MacReady, standing up and turning his back on the explorer, “kindly allow me to carry on with my duties. Go ahead with your plan if you want, but don’t even think about approaching my men.”
Speechless, Reynolds contemplated the captain’s broad back. There was no point insisting. He let out a grunt of frustration and rose to his feet.
“As you wish, Captain. But you can forget about ever naming a tulip after your mother,” he retorted.
And he walked out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him.
VII
ON THE WAY BACK TO HIS OWN CABIN, REYNOLDS thought of dozens of far wittier, more stinging rejoinders than the one he had muttered behind the captain’s back. Too late now. Like it or not, MacReady had come out on top, forcing Reynolds to withdraw from his quarters like a sulky child. He heaved a sigh as he opened the door to his cabin. In the end, what he most regretted about his dramatic exit was having abandoned the excellent brandy the captain had offered him. Now more than ever he longed to feel the liquor slide down his throat like a tongue of red-hot lava, calming his anger even as it warmed his insides. What he wanted, in fact, was to drink himself into oblivion without the slightest feeling of remorse. No impartial bystander could deny that his situation more than justified opening one of the bottles that had survived his discussions with Allan and polishing the whole thing off.
He grabbed the nearest one and ensconced himself in the leather armchair he had brought with him, not so much because he thought it might bring him luck, but because it belonged to a world he would not see again for a long time. This piece of furniture would become the guiding light that prevented him from losing sight of his real life, the memory of which would no doubt fade as his days at sea multiplied. It spoke to him of a more rational and comfortable world, where there were no threatening monsters and where the worst thing that could happen was to cut himself shaving.
He drank lengthily from the bottle, nearly choking a couple of times. What had MacReady meant by insisting he had been a figure of fun? he wondered. He did not know whether this was bluster on the captain’s part or whether he knew something Reynolds didn’t. Was the expedition no more than a giant smoke screen concealing interests about which he knew nothing? He took another swig of the brandy. In any event, Reynolds reasoned, if he was indeed the victim of some ruse, if those who were watching him from the shadows had arranged everything so that he would embark on this adventure for some obscure reason they had refrained from telling him about, there was clearly one thing they had been unable to plan in advance: the appearance of the creature. And now the monster from the stars was providing Reynolds with the opportunity to refuse the role of buffoon his sponsors had reserved for him and to return triumphantly to New York, holding the key to the universe. If he succeeded, the whole world would have to bow at his feet. Whatever the case, he had to do something. If they were plotting behind his back, he had to cover himself. But how? MacReady had authorized him to return to the flying machine with as many weapons as he could carry, perhaps because deep down he was convinced Reynolds would not go, that he would cower in his cabin, where MacReady would go to look for him when it was all over, a broad grin on his face, brandishing the monster’s head.
But MacReady was mistaken, Reynolds told himself, taking another swig from the bottle. He did not plan to sit there twiddling his thumbs! Far from it! If the captain refused to give him the men he had asked for, he would go alone to the Martian’s machine, blow it up, and return to the ship with the information they needed to successfully confront the demon from the sky. He was more of a man than any tulip lover could ever be! He swallowed another mouthful. And what exactly did he expect to find in the flying machine that might help them? He was not sure. A weapon, perhaps, something more sophisticated and powerful than the simple musket Man used to wage his petty wars in the privacy of his own planet. He raised the bottle to his lips once more. He actually hoped to find something quite different, something that would help him establish contact with the creature when it finally showed itself. Of course the monster would not be expecting that. Reynolds would prove to the creature that they, too, were rational beings. Or perhaps he would find some kind of sacred text revealing the history of the creature’s race, a manuscript that explained their conception of the universe and whether they viewed Earthlings as more than a mere hindrance or simple fodder.
He greedily downed the remains of the bottle and sat for a moment staring into space, lulled pleasantly by the effects of the drink, while he began to fancy that the notion of going off alone to the place where the flying machine had crashed was a less reckless endeavor than he had at first thought. Why shouldn’t he go? What the devil was stopping him? A surge of optimism gave him an uncanny sense of his own strength, as if he might crush the creature with his bare hands if it crossed his path or dissuade it from its present course of action with stirring perorations on interplanetary harmony. Reynolds rose from his armchair, determined to prove to MacReady he was no naïve fool, but rather someone capable of rising to the occasion in an extreme situation like the one in which they found themselves. Yes, by Jove, he would revisit the machine and return triumphant, saving them all from certain death, even though they did not deserve it! He pulled on his oilskin, wound his neckerchief around his head, and lurched toward the armory.
Once there, he began enthusiastically equipping himself with weapons. He thrust two pistols into his belt and, seeing he still had space for more, grabbed a third. He slung three muskets over his shoulder, stuffed two machetes down his front, and, to top it all off, crammed his pockets with sticks of dynamite. Although tempted by one of the famous harpoons, he decided it was too heavy and contented himself with his present haul. It was only when he tried to move that he realized all that weaponry prevented him from walking normally. Undeterred, he staggered over to the ladder leading to one of hatches, ignoring the uncomfortable sensation produced by one of the gun muzzles digging into his right testicle each time he took a step. He crossed the deck, reeling helplessly, partly owing to his unwieldy load, partly due to the brandy. Such was his light-headedness that he imagined he saw Carson on watch on the poop deck. But that was impossible, unless the man’s foot had miraculously recovered from frostbite. He shook his head to rid himself of the absurd notion and moved on laboriously, pausing now and then to retrieve a stick of dynamite that had fallen out of his pocket or to adjust one of the irksome pistols. At last, he came to the snow ramp, where he had to take care not to slip. Too late: rather than sliding he was dragged down by the sheer weight of his load and ended up sprawled on the ice, half throttled by the gun straps that had become tangled as he rolled down the ramp. For some minutes he lay on the ground trying to catch his breath, glad not to have been ludicrously strangled to death at the foot of the vessel. When he recovered, he clambered to his feet, then set off toward the mountains scarcely visible in the distance, enveloped in ribbons of mist.
After walking some twenty yards, Reynolds realized he would not have the strength to carry his arsenal all the way to where the flying object had crashed, and when one of the pistols slipped from his belt for a third time, he decided to leave it where it lay. Next he dropped one of the muskets, and thus, gradually sheddin
g his weapons, he began closing the distance, straining not to lose sight of the mountains as the fog thickened. Much to Reynolds’s despair, they soon vanished altogether in the accursed mist, as did the rest of the landscape. He suddenly realized in bewilderment that he could not see anything around him. Through his drunken haze, he dimly perceived that what he was doing was complete madness and doomed to failure. Not only had he lost sight of his objective in the dense fog but he could no longer see his way back to the ship. With a weary gesture, he flung the last musket to the ground. There was no need to play the hero anymore. But what was he to do? He needed to think, to weigh up the situation. Clearly he could not stay where he was, out on the ice, exposed to that merciless cold. Unfortunately, his head was spinning and his thoughts were muddled as he flailed around desperately in search of a solution. He was forced to accept that he was stuck in the middle of nowhere and too drunk to think straight. Not only that, but he must not forget the monster from the stars, which was doubtless lurking out there, perhaps even spying on him at that very moment from behind the wall of fog, smacking its lips at the sight of his vulnerability. Suddenly aware that he was at the creature’s mercy, Reynolds was seized with the same terror he had felt when he saw Doctor Walker’s dismembered body. He grabbed one of the two remaining pistols and aimed it frantically in all directions. The monster could pounce on him from any side, he realized with horror. He thought he glimpsed a shadow in the fog but could not tell whether it was real or a figment of his overwrought imagination. His fear reached an intolerable pitch, causing his arm to twitch uncontrollably, and all of a sudden he found himself running helter-skelter through the fog, he did not know where or why, feeling the monster’s breath on his neck, aware that his panic would spur him on as far as his legs would carry him.
It was then he tripped over something and landed flat on his face on the ice. Half dazed, he got to his knees and felt his way nervously in the fog, trying to discover whatever had made him stumble. What the devil could it be out there in the middle of the snow? Then his hands touched a boot, which seemed to rise from the snow like a grotesque mushroom. Mystified, the explorer clutched it for a few moments, as though warming it, unsure of what to do next. Then, as his shock subsided, he slowly began to dig in the snow. He soon managed to excavate the calf that was attached to the boot and, a few handfuls of snow later, the thigh that was joined to the calf. He went on digging, gradually exposing an entire corpse buried under the snow. Finally out of the white grave a reddened face loomed, still blurry beneath a thin layer of ice that covered it like a widow’s veil. Gingerly, he brushed the ice off with one of his gloves. And, gazing at him from his snowy grave and from the great beyond with the astonished look of someone receiving an unexpected visitor, was Carson. Reynolds’s jaw dropped; he was unable to comprehend what he was seeing. Then his eye fell upon the horribly familiar wound to Carson’s abdomen, which had been sliced open. Bewildered, the explorer tried to fathom what the devil Carson was doing there. It must have been him on watch on the poop deck, and when he saw Reynolds leave the ship in that drunken state on his way to God only knew where, he had followed him, unluckily as it turned out, for the monster had found Carson first.
When he realized this, Reynolds leapt to his feet and cast a horrified glance about him. The demon was out there watching him. He knew that now; he could sense its presence. It had ripped Carson’s guts out, and it was only a matter of time before it tore Reynolds limb from limb, because that was what the monster did, that was its way of communicating with them. Yes, was it not clear enough to him now that there was apparently no guarantee that a superior being would show any kindness or consideration toward the poor, inferior races in the Cosmos? Beset by panic, Reynolds did the only thing he could do in his situation: he ran. He ran in any direction, on and on through the fog. He ran as he had never run in his life. He ran with the unnerving sensation of not knowing whether he was running away from the monster or straight into its clutches.
VIII
WHEN REYNOLDS GLIMPSED THE DARK OUTLINE of the Annawan in the distance, faintly illuminated by the dozen lanterns, his one thought was that the Creator’s hand had guided him there. How else could his frenzied path through the fog, now running, now walking exhausted, have led him to exactly where he wanted to be? He hurried toward the ship, turning constantly to look over his shoulder, afraid the creature would materialize at any moment. Once he reached the vessel, Reynolds dragged himself, on the point of collapse, up the ramp. Griffin, who was on watch on the starboard side, observed his labored ascent with compassion, and when Reynolds passed close by, Griffin kindly held out his hand to help him.
“Carson is dead!” Reynolds managed to gasp, struggling for breath. “The monster has torn him to pieces!”
Far from responding with shock to the terrible news, as Reynolds had expected, Griffin stared at him blankly.
“Did you hear what I said, Griffin?” Reynolds repeated, more loudly this time. “Carson is dead, I tell you!”
“Calm yourself, sir,” the sailor responded at last. “I heard you perfectly well, only I think you are mistaken: Carson is over there.”
The explorer looked toward where Griffin had pointed, and saw the lookout standing some twenty yards from them, on the poop deck.
“Is that Carson?” he asked, confused, peering at the dark figure with its back turned, busily keeping watch.
Griffin nodded.
“Are you sure?”
The sailor gazed at the distant shape almost ruefully.
“Yes, sir, absolutely certain,” he replied. “It’s Carson.”
Reynolds went on staring at the figure, incredulous.
“Are you all right, sir?” he heard the sailor say again.
“Yes, Griffin, quite all right, do not fret . . . ,” Reynolds murmured slowly. “I must have had too much to drink, that’s all.”
“I understand, sir,” Griffin replied sympathetically. “This situation is intolerable for everyone.”
Reynolds nodded absentmindedly as he walked away from Griffin as if in a trance, indifferent to what the man might think of him. Indeed, he was scarcely aware of the sailor, whose eyes remained fixed on his back, contemplating him with something more than simple curiosity as he crossed the deck of the Annawan. Ironically, despite what he had said to Griffin, Reynolds had never been more sober. The long trek through the snow had cleared his head, and he felt oddly lucid as he walked with measured steps toward the dark figure of the other lookout. The closer he got, the more terrifying the man’s imposing stillness became. Griffin had assured Reynolds this was Carson, but the explorer knew that was impossible: he had just found Carson’s body in the snow. He only had to close his eyes and he could see Carson’s contorted face, that look of terror preserved for all eternity. He strained to make out the figure he was approaching but found it difficult in the pale half-light and due to all the layers of clothing they were obliged to don before venturing out. The easiest figures to recognize from a distance were no doubt those of Peters, the giant Indian, and Allan, whose painful thinness rendered him almost wraithlike. But that formless blob, scanning the white plain, unaware that Reynolds was watching it, could have been anyone, from the ship’s cook to George IV to President Jackson. And Reynolds would have been less surprised to encounter any of those three than the sailor who lay with his guts torn out in the snow.
But what if that figure really was Carson, as Griffin claimed? Reynolds pondered as he moved toward it slowly and deliberately, as though carrying a pitcher on his head. Ought he then to doubt what he had seen out there in the snow? Surely doubting his senses was the most logical thing to do. After all, there could not possibly be two Carsons, one up there on watch and the other lying in the snow, his innards spilled to the air! And he must not forget that he had been drunk. The dead sailor had looked to him like Carson, but it could have been another sailor who resembled Carson. Could he remember the face of every sailor on board? Good Lord, no, he had not given most
of them a second glance! When Reynolds was close enough to glimpse the lookout’s vaporous breath rising from his padded head, a sudden thought struck him like a stone, causing him to stop dead in his tracks a few yards from the figure. He had been forced to dig the body out from under a thick blanket of snow! And, on further reflection, it must have been lying in the snow a lot longer than an hour, for even the raging winds and subzero temperatures could not freeze a body solid in such a short time. Reynolds’s theory that Carson had followed him off the ship suddenly seemed completely absurd. Why had he not realized this when he was digging him out? The body might have been there for a day or two.
Reynolds remained motionless on deck, a few yards from the lookout, scouring his memory. The last time he saw Carson was in the infirmary, where he had been reduced to a catatonic stupor after witnessing the surgeon’s brutal murder. Several of Carson’s fellow sailors had gone to see him there, keen to find out more about the monster. But since then Reynolds had seen nothing more of him. True, when he had left the armory he had thought he recognized Carson on watch, but now he was not so sure. He must have mixed him up with someone else, as no doubt had Griffin. Carson had probably left the infirmary and slipped off the ship without anyone noticing, God only knew for what reason. Perhaps he had fled in a moment of delirium brought on by the fever, or because he could no longer bear the apprehension of waiting. It did not really matter why. Had he, Reynolds, not committed the same act of folly? Whatever the case, the poor wretch had stumbled on the creature, which had given him the same treatment as it had the surgeon. And Reynolds had found his body scarcely an hour ago, while everyone thought Carson was still on board ship. But he could not have been, he said to himself, contemplating the shadowy shape standing out against the mist, almost within reach.
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