“It was Carson’s,” Reynolds declared, staring straight at him. He let his revelation hang in the air for a few moments before adding, “I assumed you had followed me when you saw me leave the ship, and that you had been unfortunate enough to cross the path of the monster from the stars. Yet when I returned, I found you on deck. And now here you are sitting opposite me, alive and well, even though only hours ago I saw you dead in the snow, your chest sliced open. What conclusion would you draw from all this?”
Carson’s habitual dumb expression intensified.
“Since I am here, sir, I’d think you were mistaken,” he replied, bewildered. “Perhaps it was another sailor you mistook for me.”
“Hmm . . . possibly,” Reynolds acknowledged, “except that I checked and no one else is missing from the ship. Moreover, I know what I saw. The body I found in the snow had your features, Harry Carson’s features.” He paused for a moment to make his voice sound more harsh, his heart beating with such force he thought it might burst through his chest. “Now imagine for a moment that I am convinced of what I saw. What conclusion do you think I reached? I shall tell you: I believe poor Carson was killed during the first expedition, that the monster assumed his appearance, and that is how it slipped on board. That explains why we found no hole in the ship’s hull, and how it was able to kill the surgeon and then vanish.”
The sailor stared at him blankly for a moment. Suddenly, he burst into fits of laughter. Reynolds observed his charade with a frown.
“I’m sorry, sir, but that is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard,” Carson said when he had finished laughing. Then he shook his head slowly, gazing at Reynolds with sudden curiosity. “What does Captain MacReady think of all this?”
Reynolds did not reply.
“Oh, I see. You haven’t dared tell him,” the sailor concluded with a sad look the explorer found grotesque. “I understand, sir. It must be difficult to find someone who would believe such a load of nonsense. That means you are the only who knows about it, doesn’t it? And now me, of course.”
Reynolds felt every sinew in his body tighten. He glanced anew at the cupboard, wondering whether the gunner was also alert, ready to leap out as soon as the Martian confirmed that threat. Beads of cold sweat broke out on Reynolds’s brow and trickled down his temples. He wiped them away with a trembling hand, while Carson watched him impassively, with the blank expression of a simpleton. If at that moment, Reynolds reflected, someone was asked to judge their guilt based on appearances, he would certainly be the one condemned. He gave a grunt of irritation and decided the time had come to end the charade by addressing the monster directly.
“At all events, you disappoint me,” said he, making no attempt to hide his vexation. “Can’t you see I am giving you the chance to talk before exposing you?”
Carson went on staring at him in silence.
“We humans are not an inferior race. You and I can communicate as equals!” Reynolds declared, but the sailor showed no sign of being interested in his offer. Reynolds gave a resigned sigh. “I assume from your behavior that you disagree. I truly regret it. I honestly believed our two races could learn a great deal from each other.”
Carson sniggered unpleasantly, as if to say the human race had nothing to teach him. Although, of course, it could also have been interpreted as the desperate laughter of a sailor who did not know how to respond to the ravings of his superior. When he stopped, he resumed staring stupidly at Reynolds. The explorer settled back in his armchair and contemplated him in silence for a long time, wondering how to resume their discussion. It was obvious he had been unable to conduct it with the skill and discernment he had promised Allan, and he imagined the gunner shaking his head disapprovingly inside the cupboard. Somehow he had lost control of the conversation, and now it was at an impasse. How could he revive it? Should he continue goading the Martian until it revealed itself simply to stop him from talking? But nothing prevented Carson from walking out of the cabin and going to complain to the captain. Reynolds had no doubt that this would provide MacReady with the perfect opportunity to accuse him of mutiny or some other trumped-up charge and throw him in the hold. He looked beseechingly at the cupboard. What more could he do, for the love of God? He rested his elbows on the table and looked straight at Carson.
“You may be surprised to know that our species is a lot more intelligent than you think,” he said, a hint of desperation in his voice. “And I can assure you my intentions are entirely honorable and well meaning. My only wish is to talk to you, to reach an understanding. However, if you persist with this attitude, I shall have no choice but to expose you.”
“Sir, I—”
“Confound it, Carson, stop playing games!”
The sailor sighed and leaned back in his chair. Reynolds shook his head, disappointed and disgusted by his stubbornness.
“And you’re mistaken if you think I am the only one who knows your secret. I took the precaution of covering myself before revealing my discovery to you. So, if anything happens to me, someone will raise the alarm, and I can assure you there will be nowhere, and no body, left for you to hide in on this ship. We outnumber you, and once the others know your secret they will waste no time in cornering you. Only by then I will no longer be there to offer to speak with you. Believe me, they will shoot you down. And despite having seen what you can do to an elephant seal, I am afraid you won’t be able to slaughter an entire ship’s crew before they slaughter you,” he said, aware of how ridiculous he felt addressing those words to the diminutive man in front of him.
“Oh, of course I couldn’t, sir!” the sailor exclaimed, shaking his head in despair. Then he added in hushed tones: “Only the monster from the stars could do that . . .”
“Are you threatening me again, Carson?” Reynolds said, more annoyed than afraid. “Yes, of course. The monster could do it. But not you, because you are a simple sailor, aren’t you?” Reynolds looked straight at him, and added: “A simple sailor who came back with his foot so badly frostbitten that the doctor recommended amputation, and who is now miraculously able to walk around. Do you suppose a simple sailor could cure himself in that way?”
“Doctor Walker, may God rest his soul, obviously made a mistake in his diagnosis,” said Carson with a shrug.
“I very much doubt it: Doctor Walker was no novice. He had been practicing for years.”
“But all men make mistakes, sir,” the sailor said, smiling timidly. “And Doctor Walker was only human, like you or me. As fragile, mortal, and prone to making mistakes as all humans are.”
Exhausted and annoyed, Reynolds fell silent once more. Clearly his words, whether friendly or aggressive, were having no effect. Perhaps his fate was not to attain glory, but to carry on that conversation until the thaw came, or until Judgment Day, although he did not think the creature’s patience would last that long. In fact, it seemed to be playing cat and mouse with him, waiting for the moment when it would tire of the game and gobble him up. That was when Reynolds understood there was only one thing left for him to do. Of course it would change everything irreversibly, as well as ending that interplanetary dialogue between species he had so longed for: a longing that in the light of events seemed as ludicrous as it was childish. Surely a being that wished to communicate would have embraced his offer? He was forced to admit that MacReady had been right all along. Faced with a creature that had more than proven its hostility, the most intelligent solution was to shoot it down the moment it came within range. However, Reynolds had ruined that option by alerting the creature with his insistence on sitting down for a friendly chat. And the result spoke for itself: there he was in his cabin, the monster in front of him, all his cards on the table, frantic, humiliated, terrified, and only too aware that he had handled the situation like an arrogant fool. He glanced one last time in the direction of the cupboard, hoping Allan would understand that their fleeting moment of glory had arrived, and praying he was equal to the task.
He contemplated the
creature with genuine disappointment. He would have liked to speak with it, to discover why it had landed on Earth, to know where it came from. Unfortunately, he would have to be content with shooting it. His hand darted to the pistol, and he aimed it between the sailor’s eyes. And yet he did not pull the trigger. He remained with his arm outstretched, observing the sailor coldly.
“I’m sorry you do not wish to communicate, because you leave me with no choice.”
“You’re going to shoot me?” Carson asked, with a look of utter stupefaction. “Are you going to kill one of your men? They will convict you, arrest you, the—”
“Your concern is touching, Carson; however, I am sure that as soon as I shoot, you will change shape, and everyone will be able to see that I have killed the monster from the stars,” Reynolds replied with a calm he did not possess. “I gave you the chance to resolve this in a civilized way, but you refused. You have until the count of three to change your mind, and then I will pull the trigger.”
Carson stared at him, his face contorted in terror.
“One,” said Reynolds.
The sailor squirmed in his chair, overcome with anguish, and immediately burst out crying, his hands clasped in prayer.
“I beg you, sir, don’t shoot! You’re mistaken; the body you found in the snow can’t be mine. For the love of God, you are about to commit a folly!” he wailed, tears streaming down his cheeks and into his mouth.
A moment of terrible doubt flashed through Reynolds’s mind, and he had to force himself to steady the hand holding the gun. What in the name of God was he going to do now? Kill the sailor in cold blood? What if he was mistaken and the body in the snow was not Carson? Was he prepared to shoot an innocent man? Yet he was sure it was Carson! And the sailor cringing in front of him could not also be Carson. No, he was the Martian. That was the simplest explanation, and Allan had told him that, however crazy, the simplest explanation was always the—But all of that depended on his being certain that the body in the snow was Carson, and he was not completely certain. Or was he?
“Please, sir, I beg you,” sobbed the sailor.
“Two,” Reynolds went on, doing his best not to let the terrible inner conflict he was suffering show in his voice.
The sailor sank his head on his chest in an attitude of surrender, his body wracked with sobs. Overcome by doubt and indecision, Reynolds, who was also shaking, observed Carson for a few moments. Finally, he dropped the pistol on the table. He could not kill him without being completely sure. He was no murderer. Or at least he was incapable of killing a possibly innocent man in cold blood, someone who had never done him any harm and was not standing in the way of his plans, as Symmes had been.
“Three.”
At first, Reynolds did not know where the voice had come from that had finished the count. He glanced uneasily toward the cupboard, thinking it might have been Allan urging him to shoot, to be resolute, to believe what he had seen in the snow, but the cupboard door remained closed. Then he turned his gaze once more to the sailor, and his heart froze when he discovered Carson staring at him, with no sign of any tears, a twisted smile suffusing his face with evil. Reynolds reached for the pistol, but before he could seize it, the sailor’s mouth opened in a grotesque fashion, as if he were dislocating his own jaw, and a greenish tentacle shot out, cracking in the air like a whip before darting the short distance across the table and coiling itself around the explorer’s neck. Taken aback as much by the abrupt appearance of the slippery snake as by the sudden pain gripping his throat, Reynolds let out a cry of panic, which was instantly stifled by a lack of air. Terrified, he gripped with both hands the tentacle attempting to choke him and struggled to free himself, but he could gain no purchase on the slippery loop. Before he knew it, the tentacle had snatched him from his armchair and was lifting him high above the table, until he was almost touching the skylight. All of a sudden, he found himself thrashing about ridiculously in midair, held aloft by that muscular snake, while out of the corner of his eye he could see Carson sitting rigid in his chair, oblivious to the nightmarish member sprouting from his mouth and writhing above his head, with Reynolds dangling from one end. But he also saw Allan burst from his hiding place, pale with fear at the ghastly scene unfolding in the cabin, and aim his gun at the sailor’s throat. Looking down, Reynolds saw Carson turn abruptly, reaching for Allan’s pistol with his left hand. As it moved closer to the weapon, it turned into a monstrous claw. Allan cried out in pain as the razor-sharp talon slashed his hand open, but he managed to fire the pistol before the monster could snatch it from him. The two men heard what sounded like a loud yelp. The bullet hit the sailor in the left shoulder, and the impact sent him reeling backward. Reynolds felt the tentacle’s hold on him slacken, and the next thing he knew, he had fallen onto the table. Half dazed and gasping for breath like a fish on dry land, he saw Allan standing in front of him, gazing with horror toward where the creature had collapsed.
Reynolds could not see from his position but was able to deduce from the look on the gunner’s face that the monster was recovering. Being shot at close range must have caused the creature enough pain for it to cast off its disguise, so that no doubt poor Allan was now confronted with whatever its true appearance might be. Or perhaps the Martian was simply trying to raise itself up off the floor in order to renew the attack, still only half transformed, still looking like Carson, but with one of the monster’s claws, as though the sailor had been surprised while dressing up for carnival. But what rose from the floor was neither of these things. Reynolds could not help his mouth opening in a grimace of horror as he found himself contemplating two Allans. Two Allans facing each other, with the mirror that should have stood between them missing, as though someone had smashed it. Two identical men, differentiated only by their wounds. The hand in which the real Allan was holding the pistol was bleeding, and the shoulder of the Allan whose appearance the creature was using as a disguise was oozing a gelatinous green liquid. But there was one other difference: the false Allan was smiling calmly at his real double, who was trembling as he attempted to aim at him.
“Are you going to fire at yourself, Allan?” he heard the creature say.
Allan hesitated, and the creature’s smile widened into a sinister leer as it stepped forward.
“Of course not,” the creature concluded. “No one can fire at himself, no matter how much despair darkens his soul.”
A second later, the false Allan’s chest received the full force of the bullet, which knocked it back to the floor. The real Allan turned toward where the shot had come from and saw Reynolds holding a smoking gun.
“Thank you, Reynolds,” he murmured, trembling.
“You needn’t thank me. I was merely showing the creature the exquisite wisdom of the human species, as you requested,” Reynolds replied, a smile flickering on his lips. Then, looking down at the creature, which had begun groaning, he commanded Allan: “Shoot! Shoot before it gets up again!”
Before the gunner had time to reload his pistol, the creature had scuttled under the table. Reynolds watched with a mixture of horror and disgust as the bundle of tentacles darted across the room toward the door, scurrying like a kind of spider the size of a large dog and sweeping aside everything in its path, which, given Reynolds’s scant possessions, amounted to his armchair. The explorer watched in dismay as it flew through the air, smashing to pieces against the nearest wall. Just then, Griffin opened the cabin door, pistol at the ready. But before he had a chance to shoot, the creature knocked him over and fled down the passage.
“Son of a bitch,” muttered Reynolds, surveying his wrecked armchair, at last finding the perfect excuse to vent all the fear and hatred that had built up inside him over the past few hours. “You won’t escape this time.”
X
HE WAS STILL ALIVE.
He had exposed the Martian and was still alive. And that made him absurdly, deliriously happy, despite his plan having turned into a complete fiasco. He had failed to persuad
e the creature, peaceably or by any other means, and as a result his dream of a glorious future as Earth’s ambassador to outer space was in tatters; indeed, following that debacle he doubted they would allow him to manage an interplanetary telegraph office. Moreover, he had failed to kill or capture the Martian. On the contrary, he had so enraged the creature that in all likelihood Fate had already decreed the death warrant of the entire ship’s crew. But that did not matter. For the moment, he was still alive: breathing, running, feeling life flowing through his veins like a raging river. Whereas before he had considered his life dull, mediocre, and despicable, now it seemed to him like an invaluable gift. He was alive, damn it! he said to himself, as he sprinted down the passage on the lower deck brandishing a pistol, followed closely by Allan, who was groaning bad-temperedly, and the skinny sailor Griffin, who was running behind him, lips pursed, silent and tense. Reynolds had been struck by how swiftly Griffin had come to their aid. Almost as though he had been listening at the door. Perhaps Reynolds’s peculiar behavior up on deck, insisting to Griffin that Carson was dead, then blaming it on a drunken hallucination, had puzzled him, but Reynolds was in too much of a hurry to reflect about that now; he was content that the mysterious, dogged fellow was following him with a loaded weapon.
When their pursuit of the creature took them to the crew’s quarters, the explorer had to hold his breath as they were hit by a stench of lamp oil, soiled clothes, buckets of urine, and even fear, if, as some people claim, fear can be smelled. The creature had left a trail of greenish blood, as well as a row of sailors quaking against the walls, unable to believe the aberration they had just seen scuttle past them. Reynolds instantly realized that the gunshots had brought the whole crew running, from the lookouts up on deck to the carpenters and the kitchen boys. Right at the back, he could make out Captain MacReady, roaring above the noise, trying to get someone to explain to him what the devil was going on.
The Map of the Sky Page 14
