XIX
IN A COTTAGE ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF LONDON, IN Worcester Park, on the exact day Murray had chosen for the Martians to arrive, Herbert George Wells was sleeping soundly in the belief that the day awaiting him beyond the rising curtain of dawn would be the same as any other. He slipped out of bed carefully, so as not to rouse Jane, who was still sleeping beside him, her breath imitating the ebb and flow of the surf. He left the bedroom, had a strip wash, and began his habitual pilgrimage through the house, which was plunged into a dense silence at that time of the morning. Wells liked to get up before dawn, when the world had not yet arisen, and, free of any obligations, creep around the house like an intruder before his working day began. Like a field marshal strutting proudly over the battleground strewn with his enemy’s remains, he surveyed each room, making sure no one had invaded the territory he had struggled so hard to conquer. Everything appeared in order: the furniture was in its proper place, the dawn light was streaming in through the windows at the correct angle, the wallpaper was the same color. The Wellses’ house was far from luxurious, but was bigger than the one they had in Woking and infinitely bigger than the warren they had inhabited in Mornington Crescent. For Wells the steady increase in the size of his sanctums reflected better than anything else the measure of his success. Ranged on a special shelf in the sitting room were his five published novels to date, the palpable fruit of his imagination. The renown those few works had won him in England had recently spread to America. He plucked from the end of the row the copy of The War of the Worlds, recently published by Heinemann, and cupped it gingerly in his hands, as he might a batch of eggs. “The War of the Worlds,” he murmured solemnly in the gloom of the sitting room, “by H. G. Wells.” He liked to whisper the titles of his books, as though somehow that brought them to life. Then he noticed a letter sticking out from between its pages. He grasped it between his thumb and forefinger, as though with revulsion. The letter had arrived well over a month before and was from Gilliam Murray, the person he most hated in the whole world. Yes, he bore that man a deep and abiding grudge, which in Wells’s case was quite an achievement, because from the earliest age he had shown an unerring inability to sustain any emotion, even hatred.
Wells remembered the shiver that had run up his spine when he discovered Murray’s letter in his mailbox, a reminder of the old days when he was plagued by Murray’s invitations to travel to the future. Wells had torn it open with trembling fingers, unable to stop his mind from inventing a hundred reasons why Murray might have written to him, each more alarming than the last, before his eyes finally absorbed its contents. When he had finished reading, he gave a sigh of relief, and his fear gave way to loathing. Murray had apparently emerged from his lair and returned to London, where he had the nerve to ask for Wells’s help for nothing less than to re-create the Martian invasion the author had depicted in his novel. Murray had no qualms in his letter about acknowledging the limits of his imagination, and he hinted at a reward if Wells agreed to help him and even appealed to Wells’s sentiments by confessing that his motives this time were far from pecuniary, and that he was driven by the noblest feeling of all: love. If he was able to make a Martian cylinder appear on Horsell Common on August 1, the woman he loved would agree marry him. Why would anyone devise such an outlandish test? Wells wondered. Had the mysterious woman whom Murray loved set him a challenge she knew he could not meet? But more importantly: did such a woman even exist, or was this all a cunning ruse to secure his aid? Whether Murray’s story was true or not, Wells had decided to refuse his request. He had slipped Murray’s letter between the pages of his novel and thought no more of it until that morning. He loathed Murray too deeply to want to help him, regardless of how much in love the man was or pretended to be. Placing the book back on the shelf, Wells realized that if his story turned out to be true, then the deadline was this very day. Had Murray pulled it off? he wondered with vague curiosity. Had he actually managed to make a Martian cylinder land on Horsell Common? He doubted it. Even for a man like Murray, who could apparently achieve anything, it was an impossible feat.
Wells went into the kitchen to make his morning cup of coffee, assailed by a tormenting thought: had he refused to help Murray simply because he was his enemy? Perhaps it was time he answered the question. No, he reflected, assembling the percolator. Of course not; there had been other equally important reasons. Such as the fact that for the past six weeks he had been a different man. A bewildered, terrified man. A man forced every day to convince himself he had not taken leave of his senses, for, ever since he had entered the Chamber of Marvels in the basement of the Natural History Museum, where the unimaginable was stored, where he had beheld wonders no one knew existed, extraordinary things that made the world a miraculous place, Wells had wondered how he was to live. For days afterward, he had been plunged into a state of confusion similar to the incomprehension he had felt when, as a child, he discovered that the world extended beyond the British Isles, the only focus of the geography class at school. It seemed incredible, but the world did not end at the coast. Beyond it loomed the Colosseum, the Taj Mahal, the Pyramids. Thus Wells had gained a notion of the Earth’s size, just as a visit to the Dinosaur Court at the Crystal Palace to see the plaster reconstructions of, among others, the megatherium, had enabled him to establish its age, the beginning of time, before which existence was a mere euphemism. Thus, from an early age, Wells had believed he lived in the world that was, and always had been, a world whose coordinates in time and space had been carefully mapped out by science. Yet he knew now that those coordinates were wrong, that there was a world beyond the fictitious boundaries that their rulers, who determined what they ought to know about and what not, were intent on drawing up. On leaving the museum, Serviss had told Wells it was up to him whether or not he believed in the authenticity of the wonders in the Chamber of Marvels. And Wells had decided to accept as true the existence of the supernatural, because logic told him there was no other reason why it should be kept under lock and key. As a result he felt surrounded by the miraculous, besieged by magic. He was aware now that one fine day he would go into the garden to prune the roses and stumble on a group of fairies dancing in a circle. It was as though a tear had appeared in every book on the planet, and the fantasy had begun seeping out, engulfing the world, making it impossible to tell fact from fiction.
However, as the days went by, Wells had managed to overcome his bewilderment, since in the long run knowing that miracles existed changed nothing, for perhaps the fairies only danced in his garden while he was asleep. Life went on as before, and he had no choice but to continue existing within the confines of the tangible world, the dull, quantifiable, inhospitable world. The rest was fantasy, fables, and old wives’ tales. Even so, Wells could not help feeling a tinge of resentment, the uncomfortable impression of being in a farce on a miniature stage designed by those in power who determined which props remained in the wings. What right did those men have to limit the world? Like him, they were mere specks of dust in the universe, a moment in time. But as the museum’s head curator had explained to Serviss, there were boundaries not all men were ready to cross. And Wells had paid the price, for he was clear about one thing: he would never write another fantasy novel. How could he, now that he knew there were more impossible things in the world than any writer could ever imagine? He had written a book speculating about the existence of Martians because he had never touched one before with his own hands. But that had changed: now he had, he had touched the arm of a genuine Martian, a Martian that had hurtled through space in a flying saucer, and that looked more like a moth than an octopus. With that in mind, what sense was there in helping Murray to re-create a Martian invasion as preposterous as the one he himself had described?
He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table in front of the picture window overlooking the garden. On the other side of the glass, a soft orange light was slowly tracing the outline of things. Wells gazed with quiet sadness at th
e vista appearing before him, knowing this was merely the tip of the iceberg, the rest of which was submerged, hidden from the vast majority of mankind. He sipped his coffee and sighed. That was enough. If he wanted to stay sane he should forget everything he had seen in the Chamber of Marvels, he told himself. And he tried to concentrate on resolving the problems he was having with the plot of Love and Mr. Lewisham, the realist novel he was planning to write.
It was then that something blinded him. A flash coming from outside. Wells stood up and narrowed his eyes, trying to see what had dazzled him, perhaps secretly hoping to glimpse at last one of the fairies he had seen in the photographs in the Chamber of Marvels. But, to his astonishment, he saw a metallic hand grappling with the latch on his gate. He watched, disconcerted. The prosthesis belonged to a slender young man in an elegant, sober three-piece suit. When at last he managed to open the gate with the aid of his left hand, Wells watched the young man walk up the stone path leading to the front door. Wells could tell from the air of frustration on his face that the man was annoyed at the clumsy artificial hand poking out of his right sleeve. Perhaps he had wanted to practice using it to open the gate, with disastrous results. What could such a fellow want with him? Wells hurried to open the door before the bell rang, so as not to wake Jane.
“Are you H. G. Wells, the author?” the stranger asked.
“I am,” Wells replied warily. “How can I help you?”
“I am Inspector Cornelius Clayton from the Special Branch at Scotland Yard,” the young man said, waving a credential in Wells’s face, “and I’m here to request that you accompany me to Woking.”
Wells remained silent, gazing at the stranger, who in turn gazed back at him without a word. The young man had a long, resolute-looking face, crowned by a mop of wavy hair that fell over his brow in a cascade of dark curls. Bushy eyebrows accentuated his narrow, intense eyes, and his full lips were set in a faint grimace, as though he were constantly aware of some nauseating stench. Lastly, his body was so angular it was not difficult to imagine him thrust down the barrel of a cannon waiting to be shot out in a circus ring.
“What for?” Wells asked at last, although he already knew the answer.
The inspector stared at him ominously before replying:
“A Martian cylinder appeared on Horsell Common tonight, exactly as you described in your novel.”
XX
NO MATTER HOW HARD THE INSPECTOR’S driver urged on the horses, it was impossible to make the journey from Worcester Park to Woking in less than three hours, Wells reflected, doing his best to give the impression that he was oblivious to the irksome jolting of the carriage. He was sitting bolt upright, hands folded neatly in his lap, having allowed his gaze to wander across the fields racing by outside as he tried to assimilate the absurd, exasperating situation in which the affairs of the heart had landed him. Another man’s heart this time, his own being so dull as to scarcely cause him any problem. For it appeared that Murray had succeeded. And without his help. Wells had no idea how, but the millionaire had contrived to adorn Horsell Common with a replica of the cylinder he had described in his novel. And it must have been quite a convincing one for Scotland Yard to send Inspector Clayton to ferry him to the scene. The young man had explained to Wells that although he had not yet seen the artifact in question, the description he had been given corresponded in every particular with the one in Wells’s novel, not to mention that it had turned up in exactly the same place. How could he possibly have known what the Martians were going to do a year in advance? he had inquired rather casually, even as he looked at the author askance. As far as the head of Special Branch, who had sent Clayton, was concerned, this was a logical question, especially if he believed in Martians, and on that matter Wells was in no doubt, for he had noticed a familiar-looking key decorated with a pair of angel’s wings round the young man’s neck. Even so, Wells could not help feeling a flash of anger at the hint of accusation in the inspector’s plainly rhetorical question. Wasn’t it more logical to think that someone might be trying to emulate his novel? Wells had replied, making no effort to conceal his irritation. And he was still waiting for an answer. He turned his gaze toward the inspector, who was silently absorbed in Murray’s letter, which Wells had produced to back up his argument. That letter cleared him of any accusation the inspector might make, however wild. The author awaited his reaction, trying to appear calm.
“So, the Master of Time isn’t dead after all . . . ,” Clayton muttered to himself, without looking up from the letter he was cradling in his hands, as he might a dove.
“Evidently not,” Wells replied disdainfully.
Clayton folded Murray’s letter, and, instead of giving it back to Wells, he slipped it inside his jacket pocket, a gesture that for Wells transformed it into an incontrovertible piece of evidence that absolved him of all guilt.
“Naturally this letter provides us with another possible explanation to consider,” said Clayton, in an amiable yet guarded manner.
Another! Wells bridled. How many more could there be? “Forgive me, Inspector,” he said, “but I am at a loss as to how any other explanation could be as simple and logical as the conclusive evidence of that letter.”
The young man smiled. “Quite so, Mr. Wells. However, I was trained to consider every avenue, without being restricted by logic or simplicity, concepts which are, moreover, subjective and overrated. My job is not to whittle down the possibilities, but rather to increase them. And that is why I refuse to ascribe the adjective ‘conclusive’ to any fact. The letter’s existence opens in my mind a host of fresh alternatives: you may have written it yourself, for example, to hamper the investigation and point the finger at a dead man.”
“B-but then,” stammered the astonished Wells, “am I to understand that the preposterous notion that I predicted a Martian invasion one year in advance, down to the very last detail, is in your view still worthy of consideration? Do you think I have some connection to the Martians, that my novel was a kind of premonition rather than a product of my imagination? Do you think I am their typist, or their messenger?”
“Calm down, Mr. Wells, there is no need to upset yourself,” the inspector insisted. “Nobody is accusing you of anything. We are simply two gentlemen having an informal discussion, are we not? And during the course of this interesting conversation I am communicating to you my tedious working methods. That is all.”
“The fact that you feel it necessary to reassure me about this hypothetical accusation only strengthens my anxiety, I can assure you.”
Clayton chuckled softly.
“All the same, allow me to insist that you have no reason to worry. I am not taking you in for questioning, much less arresting you. Not for the moment, anyway,” he added, gazing at Wells with an intensity that belied for an instant his mild, friendly manner. “I have simply requested that you accompany me to Woking in the hope that your presence there might help shed light on a mystery, which, for the time being, implicates you because of a connection to your novel. And you have been kind enough to accept, for which I am infinitely grateful.”
“Everything you say is true, Inspector; however, I feel I must emphasize that I have already been of assistance by handing over to you a letter that, in my opinion, clears up any mystery surrounding this tiresome affair,” Wells reiterated, unable to prevent a tone of sarcasm from entering his voice.
“Let us hope you are right, Mr. Wells. If so, we shall both be home in time for supper, and you will have an amusing story with which to regale your charming wife.”
With those words, Clayton became absorbed in contemplating the scenery, bringing the conversation to a close. Wells gave a sigh of resignation and did the same. For a few moments both men pretended they had an inordinate interest in studying the monotonous English countryside filing past the windows, until the silence became unbearable for Wells.
“Tell me, Inspector Clayton, what cases does Special Branch at Scotland Yard deal with?”
“I�
��m afraid I can’t give you any details about that, Mr. Wells,” the young man replied respectfully, his eyes still glued to the landscape outside.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, Inspector. I’m not suggesting you disclose the contents of any secret files or anything. In fact, I know more than you think about the kind of information our country’s rulers conceal from their citizens,” Wells said, unable to resist showering the inspector with some of the mounting indignation he had been feeling since his visit to the Chamber of Marvels.
As though prey to a sudden spasm, the inspector turned his eyes from the window and fixed them on Wells.
“What are you trying to insinuate, Mr. Wells?”
“Nothing, Inspector,” Wells replied, backing down, daunted by the young man’s penetrating gaze. “I am merely curious about the kinds of cases your division deals with. As a writer I am in the habit of gathering information for future novels. It is something I do almost automatically.”
“I see,” the other man replied skeptically.
“Good, then can you not even tell me what kind of cases you investigate? Murders, political crime, espionage? The comings and goings of Martians on our planet?” Wells said with a forced smile.
The inspector reflected for a few moments, gazing back at the scenery. Then he turned to Wells, his lips set in that distinctive scowl conveying an impression of smugness, which whether deliberate or not, was beginning to get on the author’s nerves.
“Let’s say we deal with cases that at first sight defy any rational explanation, as it were,” the inspector finally conceded. “Everything that Man, and consequently Scotland Yard, cannot explain using reason, is passed on to Special Branch. You could say, Mr. Wells, that we are the dumping ground for all things inconceivable.”
The author shook his head, feigning surprise. Was it true, then? he wondered. Was everything he had seen in the Chamber of Marvels real?
The Map of the Sky Page 27
