Suddenly, Reynolds felt he had no more strength to go on running and came to a halt, exhausted. Without Reynolds to hold him up, Allan slid to the ground on his knees and gazed up at the explorer with a weary face. What was the point in trying to flee? he seemed to be asking. Would it not be better to surrender to the creature, to let it kill them without further ado, so that they could at last be allowed to rest in peace? Reynolds stared at the vast expanse of ice stretching in front of them, which had seemed so claustrophobic, and realized it made no sense to keep running, that it would only prolong their end. He took a deep breath and turned to face the monster, which was making its way slowly toward them over the snow, a pair of dogs still clamped to its body like some macabre adornment. Reynolds drew the pistol from his belt and gazed at it for a few seconds, as though weighing up the possibility of using it once more, before throwing it onto the snow. There was no longer any need for heroic or desperate deeds, because no one was watching. From the very first scene, the drama had taken place without an audience, in the intimacy of that godforsaken stretch of ice.
The monster came to a halt ten or twelve yards away, contemplated them, its head tilted to one side, and let out a noise resembling an animal screeching. Now that the creature was no longer using a man’s vocal cords, what they heard was its real voice, a kind of cawing sound, like a domesticated raven attempting to speak. Naturally, Reynolds could not understand it, but he fancied the tone was triumphant. He prepared to die hacked to pieces. He lowered his head and let his arms flop to his sides in an attitude of surrender, or simple exhaustion, or possibly of indifference to his fate. Then his eyes fell on the pistol he had so casually cast aside a few moments earlier, and an idea formed in his head. Why succumb to a slow and gruesome death at the hands of that creature when he could take his own life? A bullet in the head and it would all be over quickly and cleanly. That would be a far more merciful end than the one the Martian no doubt had in store for him. He glanced at Allan, who was lying flat, his cheek resting on the ice, his gaze focused on horizons that only he could see. In the meantime, the monster continued edging toward them, as though savoring the fear of its quarry. Even so, Reynolds doubted he would have time to shoot Allan, take out the gunpowder and tamping rod, reload his pistol, and then shoot himself in the head before it reached him. No, he would only have time to kill himself. In any event, the gunner seemed to have found refuge somewhere beyond consciousness or reason, and he prayed with all his might that his friend could remain in that place until the very last moment, so that he could escape in some way the torment that would be the end of his life.
“Forgive me, Allan,” he whispered, hurriedly reaching for the pistol and cocking it. “I fear that even in the final moments, I will not attain the greatness I so yearned for.”
Yet that no longer mattered. A last heroic, altruistic act would have changed nothing. He aimed the pistol at his temple, gently, almost affectionately, caressing the trigger. Then he looked at the Martian, which, as though sensing that Reynolds was about to deprive it of its satisfaction, had quickened its pace and was ominously spreading its claws. Reynolds smiled. However fast it ran, the Martian wouldn’t make it, he said to himself, as he caught a whiff of rotten flesh and chrysanthemums. The creature’s smell. A smell that also vanished when it changed itself into a human.
“I shall see you in Hell, son of a bitch,” he whispered, preparing to pull the trigger and spill all his dreams onto the snow.
Suddenly the Martian stopped dead in its tracks, raised its misshapen head to the sky, and let out a bloodcurdling cry. An instant later the tip of a harpoon burst violently through its chest. The creature looked at it with the same puzzlement as Reynolds. It grabbed the harpoon with its claws, and the explorer, lowering his pistol uneasily, watched the creature grappling vainly to pull it out, writhing in agony, as its features began dissolving once more. First it was Wallace trying to wrench himself free, then Shepard, then Peters, then the young gunner, even though the real one was lying at Reynolds’s feet. The appearance of Carson, howling, mouth contorted, eyes popping out of his head, ended the sequence of transformations, the chain of agonized corpses. It was then that Reynolds noticed that whoever had fired the harpoon had also taken the trouble to tie a couple of sticks of dynamite to it. Without a second thought, he threw himself on top of Allan, shielding him with his body. A second later, a thunderous roar rang out and the Martian exploded into a thousand pieces that scattered in all directions. When silence returned to the ice field, Reynolds ventured to look up, half dazed, his ears ringing. And through the smoke that had begun to clear, he made out the calm figure of Griffin silhouetted against the polar twilight.
XI
I IMAGINE THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE BEEN FOLLOWING my tale at all closely will have realized that despite my precautions I have made a mistake in my choice of where to begin. Obviously, if the sailor called Griffin destroys the Martian, as he has just done in so startling a manner, no expedition will be able to find it years later entombed in the ice, nor take it back to the Natural History Museum, where Wells will stumble upon it. I fear that when going back in time I must have chosen the beginning of another story similar to this one, but with a very different ending. I cannot apologize enough! However, permit me to try to make amends for my clumsiness.
How can I make this story fit with the prologue I have already narrated? Clearly there is only one possible way: by having Griffin not kill the demon from the stars. Let us imagine, then, that this curious sailor did not make an opportune appearance. Furthermore, let us imagine, to be on the safe side, that he never boarded the Annawan at all. You will agree that the story would have evolved very differently if we had dispensed with any of the other crew members, although not all of them would have had such a dramatic effect on the course of events. Say, for example, we had omitted the cook, an ugly, potbellied brute who answers to the resonant name of Dunn; there would be no change to the main events, beyond those relating to the crew’s daily meals, or how much rum the aforesaid individual filched from the store cupboard each day, something I have not referred to until now, for, unless it is absolutely necessary, I prefer not to sully the image of the human race by describing the dissoluteness of some of its members. Nor would it have produced any substantial change in the story had Potter and Granger boarded the Annawan and not Wallace and Ringwald; the former pair arrived when the crew was complete and signed up on another vessel, where Potter ended up stabbing Granger over a game of cards. For Potter and Granger would have behaved in exactly the same way as their predecessors, of that I am sure, because, as I have already told you, I am able to see all the other possibilities beyond the veil of our universe, the flowers that grow in the neighboring garden. However, in the tale that concerns us, Griffin’s appearance could not have been more relevant. Would the Martian have ended up frozen in the snow if the sailor had not turned up and skewered it with his harpoon? Would Reynolds really have had the guts to shoot himself in the head, or would he have scraped the bottom of the barrel of life, despite knowing it would condemn him to a horrific end? Would they have been saved thanks to some other unforeseen miracle not of their making or, on the contrary, would a blaze of inspiration have allowed one of them to perform a checkmate in extremis on that chessboard made of ice?
Let us discover the answers to those questions by making the sailor in our story disappear, as one might remove a cuckoo’s egg from the nest, thus restoring the natural course of things. Imagine that, as we have decided, Griffin never joined the crew of the Annawan and that the ship therefore set sail on her deadly mission with one less sailor on board. This did not simply mean that Dunn had to prepare one less meal a day, or that the waste bucket needed emptying less frequently. Without Griffin, for example, no one would have noticed that the object that hurtled through the sky and crashed into the mountain was being steered; Reynolds would have had no one to talk to on the way over to the flying machine; another sailor would have helped him back on board the Anna
wan after he stumbled on Carson’s body; and no one would have intervened when Captain MacReady placed a pistol to Reynolds’s head and threatened to kill him because he might be the creature. But first and foremost, and this is what should most concern us, no one would have harpooned the Martian just as it was about to end the lives of poor Reynolds and Allan. What would have happened then? How would the hunt have continued had Griffin never boarded the Annawan to escape a woman’s clutches, only to end up confronting the demon from the stars?
Ignore my mistake, which is almost certainly due to my failings as a narrator, and travel back with me a few moments in time, to when the monster has fought off the dogs and is lurching toward Reynolds and Allan, spreading its claws, and let us see how things turn out.
The explorer, pressing the pistol to his head, watched the powerful, inhuman, enormous creature approaching and noticed that a strange calm had come over him. He no longer felt fear, euphoria, or defeat. He felt nothing. He had used up his supply of emotions during the drama of the past few hours. Now he was empty, save for a flicker of terrible indifference about his own fate. None of this seemed to be happening to him. It was as if he were watching it from a great distance, as might a bird sailing overhead, only vaguely interested in the strange goings-on below, where usually nothing much happened. The explorer stroked the trigger, pressing it lightly. He looked up at the Martian, which, as though sensing that Reynolds was about to deprive it of its satisfaction, had quickened its pace. The explorer smiled, watching the creature approach, its gaze fixed on him. He wanted to keep his own eyes open until the moment he pulled the trigger, so that he could take with him to the afterlife the look of defeat that would no doubt register on the Martian’s face when it realized he had escaped its claws by taking the shortcut of suicide. Reynolds tried to swallow the lump in his throat. Would it hurt, or would he feel nothing when the bullet made his brain burst into a spray of thoughts, scattering his dreams over the snow? How easy it is to destroy a man and all he brings with him! Reynolds thought. And how naïve of them to imagine they could destroy with their pathetic weapons that powerful being, whose superiority far outstripped Man’s wildest dreams! That creature was Evil incarnate, indestructible and eternal. It had survived repeated shootings, as well as the explosion. The cold did not affect it. He knew now that even the bullet encrusted in MacReady’s skull would not have killed it. Everything had failed. All that was left to him was the pyrrhic victory of taking his own life.
“Burn in Hell, demon,” he said, contemplating the creature’s colossal build, its gigantic proportions and powerful musculature, with a scientist’s detachment.
He wondered idly how many tons a creature like that would weigh. Would it be heavier than an ox? Lighter than a baby elephant? And then, to his astonishment, a crazy idea struck him like a bolt from the blue. He withdrew his finger from the trigger. What if . . . ? Would it be worth a gamble? He glanced at Allan, who was stretched out on the snow, mesmerized by the monster’s advance, like a lamb waiting for slaughter. The change of plan Reynolds had in mind would upset the gunner, but he might forgive him if in the process he was spared dying at the hands of the creature, even if it only meant dying from starvation or exposure instead.
With a swift movement, Reynolds turned the gun away from his head and pointed it at the Martian, who gazed at him, surprised by this unexpected gesture. Reynolds shot the monster in the head without remorse or pleasure, as one carrying out a routine task. The blow knocked the monster to the ground, and although Reynolds knew he had not killed it, he hoped this would give him time enough to carry out his plan. Quick as a flash, he wrenched Allan to his feet once more and forced him to run, circling round the monster this time and heading for the wrecked ship.
“Run, run for your life!” he urged the gunner, who had begun a flailing sprint with what appeared to be the last of his energy.
Reynolds ran beside him, trying to keep the young man on the right track, all the while glancing back over his shoulder at the monster. Once it had recovered from the gun blast, the Martian had stood up, still a little dazed, and resumed its pursuit, although for the moment it did not seem in too much of a hurry, like a predator that knows its victim has no chance of escape. All the better, Reynolds thought, reaching the destroyed vessel on the point of collapse. He made the gunner stop next to a pile of debris so they could catch their breath. When he managed to tear his eyes from MacReady’s privy, which was perched incongruously on top of a pile of timber, the explorer glanced once more over his shoulder. He saw the Martian still coming toward them, taking ever greater leaps across the ice, perhaps because it was suddenly in a hurry to end that stupid chase. Smiling to himself, Reynolds skirted round the ship and pushed Allan ahead of him out onto the ice on the port side, where the unfortunate MacReady had forbade the men from walking. Allan looked at him with alarm as the ice creaked under their weight, threatening to break up like pastry crust. But instantly, a flash of comprehension crossed his dark face. Reynolds urged him on, and the gunner obeyed, filled with renewed energy, even as the ice began to crack more and more with every step. They soon had the alarming feeling of walking on a moving sea.
When they considered they had ventured a sufficient distance onto the flimsy surface, they stopped and turned toward the wreck of the Annawan, just as the Martian was rounding it. The creature took a spectacular leap, unaware it was falling into the improvised trap Reynolds had laid, and landed some five yards from where they had come to a halt. To the amazed relief of the supposed victims, the ice gave way under the monster’s incredible weight, and they watched it go down, arms thrashing about in a sea as dark as wine, as the ice closed up again. The impact, similar to a blast of dynamite, caused a skein of cracks to spread out in all directions, splintering the ice within a twenty-yard radius. The sudden tremor knocked Reynolds and Allan to the ice, and they clung to each other so as not to be separated as the ice broke into fragments around them. They listened in terror as the Martian struggled to punch its way through the thick frozen layer above its head, but it only succeeded in cracking, not piercing the ice. Gradually the frantic thudding grew fainter, until it was no more than a sinister tapping sound, ever more distant, leading them to conclude that some timely coastal current was dragging the monster away. When the tapping finally stopped, Reynolds prayed aloud to the Creator, or rather he demanded imperiously that He entomb the monster in that frozen sea. Yes, even if the Martian proved as immune to drowning and freezing as it was to bullets and fire, he prayed it would in one form or another meet its end there, for indestructible though it might seem, as far as he knew, the Creator had never shown the slightest interest in blessing any of His creatures with immortality.
After he had finished praying, Reynolds slumped down next to the gunner on the improvised raft that was floating down one of the channels the fractured ice had created. The two men were so exhausted and breathless they could scarcely speak. Even so, Reynolds heard the soft flutter of Allan’s voice.
“Thank you for saving my life, Reynolds. The last thing I expected to find in this hellhole was a friend.”
The explorer smiled. “I hope you remember that when you have no more need of me,” he replied between gasps. “Assuming such a moment ever arrives.”
The gunner gave a chuckle, which died away no sooner than it touched the air. Then there was silence. Reynolds half dragged himself up and saw that Allan had spent his last reserves of energy laughing at his jest, for the gunner lay unconscious beside him. Reynolds smiled wearily and fell back onto the ice, close to collapse, reflecting about what he had just said to Allan. Why had he carted the gunner back and forth, never even considering leaving him to his fate? It wasn’t like him. And yet he had, for he was incapable of ignoring the spell the poet’s voice cast on him each time he called out his name, with the blind trust of a child calling to its mother in the dark. Answering that desperate appeal had made him feel something profound and alien, something he had never felt before, he realiz
ed in the haze of his fatigue: for the first time in his life, someone had placed his trust in him, someone had needed him. Allan, the gunner who dreamed of being a poet, had called his name in the hold, up on deck, on the ice, and he had gone to his aid instantly. He sensed that by saving Allan, he would in some way also be saving his own selfish soul. Yes, that is what had motivated him. And who could tell—perhaps that last-minute gesture would redeem him from Hell and redirect him to Heaven. For one thing was certain: unless some miracle occurred, the merciless cold would kill them within a matter of hours.
The Map of the Sky Page 17
