The Map of the Sky

by Félix J Palma

  The gunner nodded understandingly, although he seemed less enthusiastic about the idea than Reynolds, who felt obliged to continue haranguing him.

  “This could be the biggest step forward in the History of Mankind, Allan! If we are right, we are about to discover something of immeasurable significance. Do you really want us to leave it all in the hands of a bunch of fools? We are the only two men on the ship capable of doing what needs to be done. The others are only interested in saving their skins. We owe it to humanity and to future generations to take the lead in this matter. Fate has brought us here to prevent the arrival on Earth of the first visitor from space from turning into a vulgar bloodbath.”

  The gunner nodded and heaved a sigh, which Reynolds hoped was a sign of determination rather than weariness. Then he sat down once more and stared absentmindedly into space.

  “Perhaps the creature’s machine crashed before it was able to reach its destination, wherever that may be,” Allan surmised, unable to help feeling a thrill at the idea of a Martian being on board, “and now it finds itself in the wrong place, trapped on an expanse of ice with no hope of escape.”

  “I think you’re right,” Reynolds conceded. “Perhaps the creature sees us as the solution to its dilemma and has infiltrated the ship because it thinks we know how to get out of here.”

  “I’m afraid it will be disappointed in us as an intelligent species.” The gunner grinned, and then, as though suddenly aware that allowing himself to joke about the situation might cost him dear, he put on a solemn face. “Very well, Reynolds, you can count on me. Now, what is your plan?”

  Reynolds glanced at him uneasily. His plan? Yes, of course, Allan wanted to know his plan. Something he would have liked to know himself.

  “Well, I have to confess, I’ve not thought much about how I will conduct the meeting,” he admitted. “I expect I will improvise depending on the creature’s reactions.”

  “And what if its intentions are indeed destructive?” the gunner asked. “What will you do if it tries to attack you?”

  “Of course I have considered the possibility that the Martian may refuse to converse with me, preferring to rip my guts out. That is why I want you there, Allan. As my guarantee, my life insurance,” replied Reynolds.

  “But won’t the thing be surprised to find me in your cabin?” the gunner protested, clearly preferring to wait in his cabin until the encounter was over.

  “The creature won’t see you, Allan. You will be hiding in the cupboard, and if things get ugly, you will jump out and shoot it before it has a chance to attack me.”

  “Ah, I see . . . ,” Allan breathed, white as a sheet.

  “Can I count on you, then?” Reynolds said in an almost plaintive voice.

  The gunner narrowed his eyes and remained silent. For what seemed like an eternity the only sound they could hear was the groaning the ice made as it slowly tightened its stranglehold on the ship.

  “Of course you can, Reynolds, why do you even ask?” he said at last, hesitating slightly, as though he himself were unsure how to respond. “Besides, I am the only sailor on the ship who could fit into your cupboard.”

  “Thank you, Allan.” Reynolds smiled, genuinely moved by the gunner’s gesture, and he believed he was being sincere when he added, “The last thing I expected to find in this hellhole was a friend.”

  “I hope you remember that when you no longer have need of me,” murmured Allan. “Incidentally, do you have any brandy left? If I am to shoot at a being from another planet, I think I could do with a glass or two.”

  “Why not wait and drink a toast with the Martian?” Reynolds hurriedly suggested, wondering how to remove the brandy from his cupboard before the gunner hid inside.

  IX

  REYNOLDS CAST A CRITICAL EYE OVER HIS tiny cabin, like a theater director assessing the stage props. He had emptied the cupboard he used as a pantry, taking care to conceal the two or three unopened brandy bottles from view. Allan, a gun in his poet’s hand, was now hiding in its narrow interior. Reynolds had placed one of the bottles and two glasses on the table in the middle of the cabin and, adding a sinister touch to this everyday scene, to the right he had placed a freshly loaded pistol. Reynolds preferred to display the weapon openly as opposed to concealing it in his pocket, where he had stuffed the tamping rod and the gunpowder. He thought this would arouse less suspicion, given that everyone had been armed since the state of siege began. On one side of the table was a chair, and facing it the comfortable, reassuring armchair he had brought from his other life. All that was missing was one of the actors, who, if his theory was correct, would come in disguise.

  In a state of nerves, the explorer caressed his bandaged hand, trying to calm himself. Carson would be arriving any minute, and he had still not decided how to open the conversation. What was the most polite way of greeting a being from another planet? A few moments earlier, despite their differences of opinion on the matter, he and Allan had managed to agree on how to conduct the interview. They had ruled out broaching the subject directly, in favor of a more subtle approach. Reynolds would begin with a few stock remarks in order to create a relaxed atmosphere and, when the creature’s guard was down, would fire a series of cleverly aimed questions designed to corner it and force it to tear away its mask. Yes, that was what they had agreed. No direct questions or threatening tones. They must first reassure the monster, so that when the time came to reveal that they knew the truth, they could still offer it the chance of a dialogue. Reynolds was not entirely satisfied with this overly cautious approach, which had been Allan’s idea. The explorer had advocated getting straight to the point, but Allan had objected, on the grounds that the Martian might respond aggressively the moment it felt harried. Thus Reynolds’s unmasking of the monster should be as graceful and restrained as possible, little less than a master class in manipulation, in order to demonstrate to the creature “the exquisite wisdom of the human species,” the poet had concluded somewhat pompously, before installing himself in the pantry with the dignity of a pharaoh trying out his new sarcophagus, leaving Reynolds even more confused about what strategy to follow. The only thing the explorer knew for sure was that at some point during the conversation he and the creature would both be forced to show their hands. And the question that really tormented him was whether the Martian would attack or be willing to converse once it discovered it had been found out. In fact, much depended on the way he conducted the interview: his own life, for one, as well as that of everyone on board ship, but also the place his name would occupy in History, and even History itself.

  Reynolds repositioned the glasses on the table for the umpteenth time and looked up at the clock, wondering whether Allan could hear his heart pounding in his chest from inside the cupboard. The mixture of dread and exhilaration that overwhelmed him was understandable: he was about to speak with a creature from outer space. Two intelligent life-forms originating on two different planets in the universe were about to listen to each other, have a conversation, perform a small miracle unbeknownst to the world. Realizing this, Reynolds felt strangely light-headed. Then he remembered the flash of anger he had glimpsed in Carson’s eyes when the dogs began to bark, and he wondered whether, exposed to his scrutiny for a longer time, their owner would be able to hide the memory of what they had seen, for that creature from the stars had traveled through space in a flying machine on its way to Earth and must have seen a host of meteorites, shooting stars, and all manner of things the Creator had been pleased to place out of Man’s sight.

  At that moment, there was a gentle knock at the cabin door. Reynolds started. Casting a meaningful glance at the cupboard, where he knew Allan could see him through the latticework, he nodded, as though signaling to the audience that the show was about to begin, and went to open the cabin door, doing his best to keep his knees from knocking. Carson entered, greeting him timidly as he unraveled the kerchief wound around his head and took off his mittens. Reynolds was struck by Carson’s rather clumsy
way of walking, which despite the sailor’s attempts to conceal it, looked unnatural, as though he were wearing his shoes on the wrong foot. Doing his best not to give in to panic at the thought that this hideous little man might be no man at all, but a monster from outer space capable of pulverizing him in a second, Reynolds offered Carson a seat before quickly ensconcing himself in his armchair, where he felt instantly cocooned by its leather and wood. Once they were seated, Reynolds poured two glasses of brandy as calmly as he could. The sailor watched him in silence with a blank expression. The explorer fancied he had never seen a face less fitted to registering any form of emotion. It looked like the work of a Creator already weary of inventing men. When he had finished pouring their drinks, he picked up his glass and quickly raised it in the air, as though thrusting with a rapier, before downing it in one. Reynolds had been unable to avoid taking advantage of this point in the pantomime to steel himself. Carson looked on impassively, his glass untouched before him.

  “Go ahead, Carson, try it,” Reynolds urged, doing his best to steady his voice. “You will see I wasn’t exaggerating when I said it was an excellent brandy.”

  The sailor picked up his glass gingerly, as though fearful he might break it if he gripped it too tightly, raised it to his lips, and took a small mouthful. He contrived a grimace of pleasure that replaced the bovine look stuck to his face when it had nothing to express, then set his glass down again on the table, as though with that birdlike sip he had observed the customary courtesies required of him.

  “I imagine you have still not recovered from the shock of what you saw,” Reynolds remarked, trying to recall whether he had ever seen the real Carson drink, or whether he was in fact in the presence of the only teetotaler in the entire crew and was jumping to conclusions. “Although I have to confess, your description of the creature has not been much help in understanding what we are up against.”

  As he spoke, Reynolds fancied he glimpsed that strange flash in Carson’s eyes once more. He instinctively drew back slightly from the table as he imagined the creature observing him with suspicion from inside the sailor.

  “I’m sorry, sir, it all happened so quickly,” Carson said at last, as if he had suddenly noticed Reynolds was waiting for him to reply.

  “There’s no need to apologize, Carson. It’s normal you should not want to speak of the matter. I imagine you are afraid.” The explorer waved a reassuring hand. Then he stared fixedly at him. “I am right in thinking that you are afraid, am I not . . . Carson?”

  Reynolds uttered the sailor’s name with deliberate irony, wondering whether Allan would find that subtle or downright crude.

  “I suppose I am, sir,” replied the sailor.

  “Of course you are, of course you are, we all are,” the explorer went on, his smile broadening. “There is no need to be ashamed. However, you must understand that a more detailed description of the creature would be invaluable. It is quite conceivable that we appear as hideous and threatening to the monster as it does to us, perhaps even more so. I am only interested in knowing as much about it as possible because I wish to acquaint myself with it, to try to communicate with it,” Reynolds said, staring intently at the sailor. “I am convinced we may be able to understand each other. Do you see what I am saying . . . Carson?”

  “I think so, but I’m afraid I can’t help you,” the sailor said apologetically. “I remember nothing of what I saw. Only the sound of my own screams. Although in my humble opinion the creature wasn’t afraid when it tore the doctor limb from limb, at least no more than I was . . . sir.”

  Reynolds forced himself to nod sympathetically.

  “So you don’t think the creature was afraid,” Reynolds went on, willing himself to produce one of his most dazzling smiles. “Isn’t that a very bold statement, Carson? After all, who could possibly understand the feelings of a creature so different from us? Surely only the creature itself. We could only discover what it felt if we asked it directly, don’t you think?”

  “Possibly, sir,” the sailor acknowledged, somewhat intimidated by Reynolds’s words.

  “For example, you and I are human beings and therefore recognize each other’s expressions. You see me smile and you know I am happy.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it, sir,” Carson said, visibly bewildered.

  “No, no . . . I do not mean I am happy this very minute,” Reynolds explained, “only that if I were, you would have no difficulty knowing it, because we share the same codes. By the same token, I could read your face like a book and name any emotion reflected on it. Such as fear, for example, or despair—emotions I, too, am familiar with, and have even experienced at times in my life. Do you follow me?”

  “I think so, sir,” the sailor replied, his face devoid of any expression.

  “Good. Now reflect on this,” Reynolds requested. “The differences between the creature and ourselves are no doubt so great that we are sending each other the wrong messages. Our mutual attempts at communication, such as they are, must have gone unnoticed by the other. Rather like someone raising a white flag before an army of blind men.”

  Carson remained silent.

  “What is your view on the matter?” Reynolds was obliged to ask.

  The sailor gave him a faintly startled look.

  “That only an army of fools would surrender to an army of blind men, sir,” he replied at length.

  Reynolds observed him silently for a few moments.

  “Indeed, that would be so if this were not a metaphor, Carson. What I am trying to explain is the idea that a peaceful gesture would not be interpreted as such by the other,” he said. “Now do you understand?”

  Carson gave no sign of having done so.

  “Very well, we shall forget that example,” Reynolds said, visibly impatient. “Something else concerns me, Carson. We found no hole in the ship’s hull through which the creature could enter or leave. Are you not concerned the creature might still be among us?”

  Hearing this, Carson gave a look of terror, which Reynolds found somewhat exaggerated.

  “God forbid, sir,” replied Carson, trembling. “If that’s true, then you can take it from me we’re all doomed.”

  The sailor’s reply sent a shiver down Reynolds’s spine. Saints alive, he told himself, that gave every appearance of being a threat. Was the creature warning him to let the matter drop, telling him how dangerous it would be to upset the seeming calm on board?

  Reynolds tried not to become agitated. He must not let fear cloud his thinking. Not now when it was imperative he hold his nerve if he wanted to bring the conversation to a successful conclusion. He cast a furtive glance toward the cupboard. At that moment, he would have given anything to know what Allan thought of Carson’s words.

  “You may be right. But what concerns me most now is to find out how the creature came aboard the ship,” Reynolds went on pensively, avoiding as best he could the presumed threat. “What do you reckon, Carson?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Have you no theories on the matter? I find that hard to believe. Why, the thing almost killed you in the infirmary. And its appearance terrified you so much that it left you in a state of shock for almost an entire day. I am sure you see it each time you close your eyes, or am I mistaken?”

  “No, sir, you aren’t mistaken,” the sailor conceded.

  “Good. In that case I am sure the question of how it got onto the ship has been bothering you as much as it has me. What have you concluded?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t concluded anything, sir,” the other man replied with a puzzled grin.

  Once more, the sailor’s manner sowed a seed of doubt in Reynolds’s mind. Was the creature mocking him or was he unconsciously imbuing the little man’s words with a sinister tone they did not have? He could not be sure. All he knew was that he was getting nowhere and there was no longer any point in beating about the bush. The time had come to try a different, more perilous approach. He shot a glance at the cupboard, hopin
g Allan would know how to interpret it.

  “On the other hand, I do have a theory. Would you like to hear it, Carson?” he asked, smiling through clenched teeth, as though he had an invisible pipe in his mouth.

  Carson shrugged, clearly beginning to tire of the conversation. The explorer gave a slight cough before continuing.

  “I believe it came up the ice ramp the same way as the rest of us.”

  “But what about the lookouts?” the sailor declared, astonished. “None of them saw it, did they?”

  Reynolds smiled at him with amused benevolence.

  “D’you know that something curious happened to me a few hours ago?” he said, ignoring Carson’s question, his hand moving surreptitiously closer to the pistol lying on the table. “I went for a walk in the snow and stumbled upon a dead body.”

  He paused so that he could study Carson’s response. The sailor held his gaze. He was no longer smiling, and when his face showed no emotion it had the same stupid expression. And yet, once again, Reynolds fancied he saw something flicker deep inside the eyes, alert and uneasy.

  “And do you know whose it was?” Reynolds asked.

  The sailor contemplated him rather cagily. “No.”