The Map of the Sky

by Félix J Palma

  His heart knocking in his chest, Reynolds cursed that idiot Griffin for making him so absurdly anxious. Clearly that bright spark had been mistaken, and doubtless once he had covered the four or five paces between himself and the lookout, and had placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, he would feel a wave of relief as he saw Kendricks, Wallace, or even George IV staring back at him. Then, after suggesting to Griffin he purchase a pair of spectacles at the first opportunity, he would go straight to Captain MacReady to inform him of the sad news. Having resolved to get to the bottom of the mystery, Reynolds took a deep breath and stepped forward once more. But before he was able to move, the dark figure, alerted to his arrival by the creaking boards, began slowly to turn around. Forgetting to breathe, Reynolds watched the man’s hazy profile emerge from behind the earflaps of his hat, growing ever more distinct as the sailor turned with exasperating slowness, until the two men stood face to face. On the Annawan’s deck, Reynolds and the sailor who lay dead out in the snow stared at each other in silence. Reynolds’s face registered surprise and disbelief, while that of Carson had a slightly lost look, as though the explorer had woken him abruptly from a deep sleep. And yet it was Carson who broke the silence enveloping the two men.

  “Can I help you, sir?” he asked.

  Reynolds thought his voice sounded a little hoarse, like someone who has not used it for a long time. He had to make a supreme effort to overcome his astonishment and utter a reply.

  “No, thank you, Carson . . . I just came to say how glad I am to see you have recovered.”

  “Very kind, sir, I’m sure,” the other man said amiably.

  Reynolds could not help comparing his face with the one he had dug out of the snow—that bruised countenance, contorted by fear, identical to the one before him now, which had been etched on his memory forever. Carson’s face. But if that was Carson’s body . . . Reynolds’s heart missed a beat as a terrifying question formed in his mind: who was he talking to now? Yes, who the devil was he?

  “Sir . . . can I help you?” the sailor repeated.

  The explorer shook his head slowly, unable to speak. There was definitely something strange about the sailor’s voice. It belonged to Carson all right, yet it was subtly different. Perhaps all this was pure imagination on his part, thought Reynolds, and yet he sensed something was not quite right about the man. His gestures, his way of speaking, of looking . . . It was as if he were watching someone forcing himself to play a role. What are you? Reynolds said to himself, mesmerized by Carson’s small, unremarkable eyes, which seemed to peer back at him in an overly guarded manner, with a look of mistrust uncharacteristic of the sailor.

  Just then, a bulky figure that could only be Peters emerged on deck, interrupting the two men’s mutual scrutiny. Peters descended the ramp agilely and, hunched against the cold, made his way over to the dogs’ cages, which he usually kept covered with a tarpaulin for a few hours during the day to enable the animals, unsettled by the continual half-light, to fall asleep. Carson and Reynolds watched the Indian go about his business in silence, grateful for the respite afforded by his sudden appearance—especially the explorer, who desperately needed time to order his thoughts. However, no sooner had Peters drawn back the tarpaulin than the dogs began to stir, visibly uneasy, scenting the air. All at once, as though following a choreographed gesture, the dogs turned as one toward where Reynolds and Carson were standing and almost immediately broke into a frenzy of barking, pressing themselves against the bars, lunging at the cage door. Reynolds was taken aback at the dogs’ sudden outburst of aggression, those wild barks and growls directed at them. Peters did his best to calm them, but the animals appeared possessed. Then the explorer looked at Carson, who stared back at him blankly.

  “The dogs seem on edge,” Reynolds remarked, holding Carson’s gaze with difficulty.

  Carson simply shrugged. But the explorer thought he glimpsed a flash of anger behind his tiny eyes. Then a mad thought occurred to Reynolds, swift as a bolt of lightning streaking across the sky; beneath all his layers of clothing he broke into a cold sweat. He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and with the complete calm of a suicide, who, hours before taking his own life, already feels he is dead, addressed the sailor once more.

  “When you have finished your watch, Carson, come to my cabin. I’d like to offer you a glass of brandy. I think you’ve earned it.”

  “That’s kind of you, sir,” said the sailor, looking straight at him with alarming intensity, “only I don’t drink.”

  The look on Carson’s face, together with the disturbing tone of his reply, made Reynolds shudder. Or perhaps it was simply Carson’s thick Irish brogue that made his voice sound menacing, Reynolds reflected, trying to reassure himself.

  “Think about it,” he forced himself to say, feeling a knot in his stomach. “A brandy like the one I’m offering you is not something to be passed up.”

  Carson contemplated him in silence for a few moments.

  “Very well, sir,” he replied at last, still fixing him with that disconcerting gaze. “I’ll go to your cabin when I’ve finished my watch.”

  “Marvelous, Carson,” the explorer declared with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, his heart in his throat. “I shall be expecting you.”

  With this, Reynolds turned around and walked casually toward the nearest hatch, unable to avoid feeling the dead sailor’s eyes boring into the back of his head. The die was cast, he told himself with a shudder. He had decided on that course of action almost on impulse, and now it was too late to change his mind. Like it or not, he had no choice but to carry it through to the end. However, he would need assistance, and there was only one person on the Annawan who could help him. Feigning nonchalance, he made his way toward Allan’s cabin, leaving the sound of the dogs’ frenzied barking behind him.

  • • •

  THE GUNNERY SERGEANT WAS in the middle of composing a poem when Reynolds burst into his cramped quarters. The explorer was visibly agitated and breathed uneasily, yet the young poet scarcely looked up at him before returning to his labors, as though inspiration were like a handful of sand that would slip through his fingers if he slackened his grasp. And despite having little time to spare, the explorer bit his tongue rather than interrupt. Allan had explained to him that many years earlier, after one of his countless arguments with his stepfather, he had set sail for Boston to try his luck there and had succeeded in publishing his first book of poetry, although sadly he did not sell enough copies to save him from poverty. Desperate, and without a penny to his name, he had enlisted in the army as a foot soldier and had even risen to the rank of sergeant major before fleeing that rough environment, scarcely appropriate for someone wishing to pursue his vocation as a poet. He had been forced to return, tail between his legs, to his benefactor’s home. This had happened prior to Allan’s strategy of enrolling at West Point, and Reynolds could see how vital it was to him to try to make his living from writing. So he sat down on his bunk and waited for Allan to finish, taking the opportunity to catch his breath and gather his thoughts. The trance into which Allan was plunged, however, ended up diverting Reynolds. The pale young man sat hunched over his table, a cascade of dark hair falling down over his eyes. He seemed more fragile than usual, his body wracked by an almost imperceptible spasm, as though he were distilling on paper the dark essence of his soul.

  Reynolds nodded to himself. He had done the right thing in coming there, he reflected, his eyes still fixed on the gunner. Only a mind like Allan’s could grasp what Reynolds was about to tell him, only a soul as devoid of worldliness as his could join him in the venture he was about to propose. Most important of all, only a man possessed by the demon of creativity would agree to remain discreetly in the shadows when it came to reaping the rewards of earthly fame, for Reynolds suspected Allan was only interested in the glory he might obtain through his writings. Yes, the sergeant was undoubtedly the ideal person to assist him in the foolhardy plan he had elaborated whilst speaking with Ca
rson up on deck, a plan he could never hope to carry out alone. Now all Reynolds needed to do was tell the gunner about it without seeming as though he had completely lost his mind. When Allan finally set aside his quill and turned to Reynolds, his eyes glowing faintly like the embers of a fire, the explorer still did not know where to begin.

  “An unusual theory has occurred to me regarding the Martian, Allan,” he said, for he had to begin somewhere, “so unusual that were I to make it known, no one on this ship would take me seriously.”

  “Are you in need of someone who does?” Allan grinned, gathering up his writing implements as a pathologist might carefully tidy away his instruments.

  Reynolds nodded with brooding solemnity.

  “I am, and I believe you are the only one capable of it. Therefore, I am going to share it with you, in the hope you may shed some light on this madness, for I fear if you do not, we shall all perish even sooner than we thought.”

  Allan shook his head in amusement, raising his slender harpist’s hands in a theatrical gesture.

  “We have seen a Martian come down from the sky in a flying machine, Reynolds. How could my poor wits refuse to believe anything now?”

  “I hope you are right, for I think I know how the monster got on board.” He let his words hang in the air and settle like specks of dust on the surface of Allan’s mind before resuming. “And, more importantly, I believe it is still among us.”

  “Do you know where it is now?” the young man asked, sitting bolt upright in his seat.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” the explorer murmured gloomily, “it is up on deck, finishing its watch. And in ten minutes’ time, it will be in my cabin having a drink with me.”

  Reynolds contemplated Allan as he digested those words in silence. He had been unable to resist giving that cryptic reply, but he knew Allan needed no further explanation. Such were the gunner’s extraordinary powers of mind that sometimes Reynolds could not help thinking he viewed the world around him not necessarily from above but at one remove, and that from his watchtower, wherever that was, all of mankind’s victories, advances, and triumphs over his environment and over himself must appear little more than a quaint child’s game. And yet, over time, Reynolds had also noticed, not without some regret, that Allan’s tumultuous, fragile mind was too fanciful for its own good.

  “Do you mean to say that . . . it has changed into one of us?” the gunner said at last.

  Hearing Allan voice his own suspicions, Reynolds felt a shiver run down his spine as though he had stepped barefoot onto cold marble. Spoken aloud, the idea sounded at once insane and terrifying. Reynolds nodded and smiled feebly. The young man had not disappointed him, and, judging from his inquiring expression, as a reward he wanted more details. Reynolds cleared his throat, ready to provide them, although he decided to leave out a few in order to save face in front of the only ally he had on the ship.

  “A few hours ago I left the ship with the aim of going back to the flying machine, but I lost my way in the fog. For a while, I walked around in circles, fearful the monster would pounce on me at any moment . . . until I stumbled on Carson’s body. It had been ripped open just like the elephant seal and poor Doctor Walker, and lay half buried in the snow. It was frozen solid and must have been there for at least a day or two. I ran back to the ship as fast as I could to raise the alarm, but when I arrived I was surprised to find Carson on watch on deck, his entrails intact.” He paused for breath and gave a wry smile before going on: “I was bewildered at first, as you can imagine, but then I had a mad idea, which, the more I think about it, seems like the only possibility: what if the sailor who came back with the seal was not the real Carson, but something that had—”

  “Taken on his appearance,” Allan concluded.

  “Yes, let’s suppose for a minute that while the others were searching the area around the flying machine, Carson and Ringwald lost each other in the fog, and the creature took the opportunity to kill Carson and, well . . . to step into his shoes.”

  “And now, according to you, that thing, whatever it is, is on watch up on deck.”

  “Precisely. And God only knows what its intentions are,” Reynolds replied, smiling awkwardly at the gunner, as though apologizing for making him listen to such ravings. “What do you think, Allan? Does the idea strike you as completely insane?”

  The gunner stared silently into space for what seemed to Reynolds like an eternity.

  “The question is not, I think, whether the idea is insane,” he spoke at last. “The mere fact of being alive has for a long time seemed to me an unfathomable riddle. What we should be asking ourselves is whether there is any other possible explanation, one that allows us to rule out this apparent madness. For example, are you sure the body you found out there belonged to Carson? You said yourself the fog was thick and it was half buried in the snow. In addition”—Allan coughed uneasily—“I don’t wish to seem impolite, but I confess I can smell the alcohol on your breath from here.”

  Reynolds let out a sigh of despair.

  “I don’t deny I’ve been drinking, Allan, but I assure you I have never felt more sober. And I would like nothing more than to tell you I was too drunk, and terrified, to know what I saw. It would save me having to defend a position that no one in his right mind would willingly accept. Why, I myself would question the sanity of anyone who told me such a story. But I’m afraid I know perfectly well what I saw, Allan. It’s Carson’s body lying out there in the snow.”

  “I see . . . ,” murmured the gunner.

  “At all events, Allan, if the body was not Carson’s, then whose was it? No one else has disappeared from the ship. It would be equally absurd, if not more so, to think that the body belonged to someone who did not travel here with us, don’t you agree?” Reynolds paused for a moment before adding: “But there is something more, Allan, something that makes me believe my theory is right. The Carson I spoke with up on deck seemed . . . How can I explain it? . . . He seemed odd, different. And when the dogs caught a whiff of him they began barking like mad. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

  The gunner rose from his chair and began pacing the narrow cabin, visibly on edge.

  “Assuming you are right, how could that thing change into Carson? Do you know how complex our bodies are? It would have to duplicate each one of our organs, not to mention language, consciousness, knowledge . . . the psyche, Reynolds, memory! Carson was not a hollow shell, a suit of clothing anyone could put on. Carson was a man, a masterpiece of creation . . . How could it possibly imitate the Creator’s exquisite work, and without anyone noticing, to boot!”

  “Come, come, Allan, I understand the difficulty of replicating a man from his nose down to his accursed penis, but you know as well as I do that Carson’s mind would scarcely present much of a challenge. That yokel was not exactly the most shining example of our species. We both know he was a man of few words and unusually limited intelligence. And I don’t suppose Carson being quieter than usual would have aroused the rest of the crew’s suspicions. But besides the dogs, there is further evidence to back up my theory. Don’t you find it odd that despite his frostbitten foot Carson is able to carry out his watch without the slightest difficulty? Can a human being recover from frostbite as if by magic?”

  “Yes, I have to admit that is rather odd,” the gunner agreed, musingly. “Still, I find it hard to believe that—”

  Reynolds lost his patience. “For the love of God, Allan! Didn’t you try to convince me the creature must come from Mars because the simplest answer is always the most logical? Well, now we have two Carsons in the Antarctic, one lying dead in the snow, and the other up on deck, bewildered but very much alive. I don’t know about you, but it seems to me the simplest explanation for this extraordinary phenomenon is that the Martian has changed itself into the sailor. Having ripped his guts out first, naturally.”

  Allan made no reply. He gazed at the wall for a long while, as though at any moment he expected the answers he was s
earching for to spell themselves out there.

  “Very well, Reynolds,” he finally murmured somewhat grudgingly. “Let’s say that the Martian is able to transform itself into one of us, and that it has taken on the appearance of Carson. For what reason? What are its intentions? Why did it attack Doctor Walker and not us? What is it waiting for?”

  “I’ve no idea,” confessed the explorer. “That’s why I have invited it to my cabin, to try to understand it, to converse with it, because I’m beginning to suspect the creature does not wish to kill us. Otherwise it would have done so by now, don’t you think? Disguised as Carson, it could easily move unhindered about the ship, picking us off one by one. This leads me to think that Doctor Walker’s death was an accident. The Martian must have killed him in self-defense, as it were, when the good doctor tried to saw off its foot.”

  “That is possible,” murmured Allan.

  “We have no idea how the creature sees us,” Reynolds went on. “Perhaps it is more afraid than we are and is simply struggling to survive in what it considers a hostile environment. All we know is that its responses can be extremely violent, and we must therefore approach it with the utmost caution. I believe this is the only chance we have of communicating with the Martian. And if there is one man on this ship I can count on to help me do that, it is you, Allan.”

  “I understand your motives, Reynolds, but why not tell Captain MacReady about this? Why do you want us to do this alone?”

  “You know how highly the captain thinks of me, Allan,” the explorer said forthrightly. “It’s obvious he would not believe me unless he saw Carson’s dead body with his own eyes, and I doubt I could guide him back there. If I told you that only a few hours ago he and I had an . . . exchange of views in his cabin, after which he suggested I lock myself in mine for the rest of the voyage and even threatened to have me locked up in the hold if I insisted on pestering him with my crazy ideas, perhaps you’ll understand why I have not hurried to tell him that the Martian has taken on the form of one of his men. Even if MacReady did believe me, he would no doubt be hell-bent on killing the creature, thereby destroying any possibility of communicating with it. And that is exactly what I intend to do: to communicate with it. Not simply because I think it is our only way of saving ourselves, but because of what it signifies. If we are right and there is a Martian on board ship, don’t you see how incredible it would be to make contact with it? To converse with a being from another planet, Allan!”