The Map of the Sky

by Félix J Palma

  “The ray has wiped out all the carriages!” Clayton shouted as he approached. “We must make our way across the fields. Come!”

  Wells helped the girl to her feet, and the two of them followed the inspector. Yet Clayton did not seem to know where to take cover either, given that nowhere was safe from the rays. After pushing their way with difficulty through the terrified crowd, Clayton decided to halt for a moment to assess the situation. They had managed to break away from the mass of onlookers but were still trapped inside the rectangle marked out by flames where the slaughter was taking place. One side of that improvised cage of fire was formed by the houses stretching toward Woking Station, which were now blazing like a funeral pyre, and another by the row of trees bordering the road, which had also been transformed into a glowing curtain. The only way out was straight ahead, over the neighboring fields toward Maybury, but that would make them a tempting target for the tentacle. Before they had time to make up their minds, they saw emerging from behind the trees a luxurious carriage with an ornate “G” painted on the door. They watched in disbelief as the carriage hurtled toward them, wondering who but a madman would drive toward that carnage. Astonished, they saw a huge man stretch his out hand to the girl.

  “Come with me, if you want to live!” the man cried.

  But the girl stood motionless, unable to comprehend what was happening. Without thinking, Clayton shoved her into the carriage then clambered in after her. Wells followed, flinging himself inside just as the crash of another heat ray resounded behind them. A fountain of stones and sand sprayed the carriage, shattering its windows. Wells, who was the last to get in, had served as an involuntarily parapet, his back sprayed with broken glass. When the effects of the blast had died away, the author struggled to get up as best he could, disentangling himself from the heap his companions had formed on the floor. They, too, had begun hauling themselves up, wondering perhaps whether they were alive or dead. Through what remained of the window, Wells could make out the hole the ray had made in the ground, alarmingly close to the carriage, which at that very instant began racing off once more. Wells, like the others, slumped back onto the seat, relieved the driver had not been hit by any flying debris. He could hear the whip cracking furiously across the horses’ flanks, straining to get them out of there. It was then that he recognized the man who had rescued them, who was sitting right opposite him. Wells gazed at him dumbfounded. He was remarkably slimmer, but there was no mistaking him. The Master of Time himself.

  “George,” Murray said, bobbing his head slightly and giving the forced smile of someone who has bumped into his enemy at a party.

  “You damned son of a bitch!” Wells cried, hurling himself at the millionaire and attempting to throttle him. “How dare you!”

  “It wasn’t me, George,” Murray said, defending himself. “This is not my doing!”

  “What the devil is this about?” Clayton cried, trying to come between the two men.

  “Don’t you recognize him?” the author declared, breathless. “It’s Gilliam Murray!”

  “Gilliam Murray?” stammered the girl, who was looking on in horror at the impromptu brawl from a corner of the carriage.

  “I can explain, Emma,” Murray blurted out apologetically.

  “You have a great many things to explain, you damned fool!” Wells growled, struggling to free himself from Clayton’s grip.

  “Calm down, Mr. Wells,” the inspector commanded, removing his pistol from his belt and trying to point it at the author, who, owing to the lack of room inside the carriage, found himself with a gun inches from his nose. “And be so good as to return to your seat.”

  Reluctantly, Wells obeyed.

  “Good, now let’s all stay calm,” said Clayton, who also sat down and tried to keep control of the situation by speaking in a measured voice. “I am Inspector Cornelius Clayton of Scotland Yard.” He turned to Murray and gave him a polite smile. “And you, I assume, are Gilliam Murray, the Master of Time. Although you have been officially dead for two years.”

  “Yes, I am he,” Murray replied, irate. “As you can see, I’ve risen from the grave.”

  “Well, we can discuss that another time,” Clayton remarked coldly, trying to sit up straight despite being thrown about by the swaying carriage. “There’s a more pressing question that needs answering now. Tell me: are you behind all this?”

  “Of course not!” the millionaire replied. “I’m no murderer!”

  “Good, good. Yet it so happens that I am in possession of a letter from you addressed to Mr. Wells, here on my left, where you explain to him that you have to re-create the Martian invasion in his novel, today no less, in order to win the heart of the woman you love, whom I assume must be you, Miss . . .”

  “Harlow,” the girl replied in a faint voice. “My name is Emma Harlow.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Harlow,” said Clayton, smiling graciously and doffing his hat before readdressing the millionaire. “Well, Mr. Murray, are you the author of that letter?”

  “Yes, damn it!” Murray confessed. “And everything in it is true. I asked for Mr. Wells’s help, but he refused to reply, as he himself will confirm. I persisted in trying to re-create the invasion on my own, but after failing to come up with anything credible, I gave up. I only came here today because I read in the newspaper that someone else had pulled it off.”

  “Do you really expect us to believe that people have nothing better to do than try to reenact the invasion in my novel!” Wells interrupted angrily.

  “Please be quiet, Mr. Wells,” Clayton said. “Or I shall have no choice but to knock you unconscious.”

  Wells stared at the inspector in amazement.

  “How could I do anything that would put Miss Harlow’s life in danger?” Murray exclaimed.

  “So that you could come to her rescue, I imagine, as you just did,” Wells retorted. “Who knows what a warped mind such as yours is capable of thinking up.”

  “I would never put Miss Harlow’s life in danger!” Murray declared angrily.

  Clayton appealed for calm once more, raising his artificial hand.

  “Quite so,” he said, “but in the meantime, until we discover what is in that cylinder, I’m afraid, Mr. Murray, you are under arrest. And that goes for you too, Mr. Wells.”

  “What!” protested the author.

  “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but the situation is as follows: A strange machine is killing dozens of people just as you described in your novel a year ago, Mr. Wells. And you, Mr. Murray, are the author of a letter professing that you intend to reenact the invasion described by Mr. Wells. Regardless of what is actually going on, one or other of you has some explaining to do.” He paused, giving the two men time to assimilate what he had just said. “Now, Mr. Murray, order your driver to take us to Woking Station, please. I need to send a telegram to my superiors.”

  Reluctantly, Murray drew back the hatch in the roof and gave the command.

  “Excellent,” declared Clayton. “I shall inform them as soon as we arrive that I have detained the two main suspects. And I am sure the young lady will wish to telegraph her family to assure them she is safe and sound. And that she could not be in better hands,” Clayton added, giving Emma what was meant to be a winning smile, but which to the others appeared more sinister than anything else. No one broke the silence that descended on the carriage as it passed alongside the Maybury viaduct, then left behind the row of houses known as Oriental Terrace as it clattered toward Woking Station, while only a few miles away, Martians were preparing their invasion of the planet.

  XXII

  WHEN THEY REACHED WOKING STATION, Wells and his companions were astonished to discover everything carrying on as normal in the station. People came and went, apparently unflustered, while the trains were shunted around like beasts of burden. Fascinated, they watched how a train arrived from the north, emptied its passengers onto the platform, and then picked up others and continued on its way, as though nothing untoward was
happening nearby. Only a faint red glow lit up the horizon, and a thin veil of smoke shrouded the sky. It was the horror of war, which from a distance gave the impression of an exquisitely decorative display. If news of the slaughter they had survived had reached Woking, no one there seemed unduly alarmed by it. No doubt they believed in the might of the British army, which was advancing toward the cylinders with great military strides, ready to defeat the Martians, or whatever they were, in a matter of hours, the same way they had always done when an enemy dared threaten the Empire.

  “So far, the panic doesn’t seem to have spread here,” Clayton observed, glancing about. “Just as well: that means we need only concern ourselves with our plan.”

  Pointing his pistol discreetly at Wells and Murray, Clayton ushered them to the stationmaster’s office, where he introduced himself, gave the stationmaster a prompt and in no way alarming account of the situation, and persuaded the man to let him lock the suspects up in one of the station’s storerooms.

  “Try to behave like gentlemen,” Clayton appealed to Wells and Murray before shutting them in and leaving with Miss Harlow to telegraph his superiors.

  The two men were obliged to remain on their feet in the center of the tiny room crammed with boxes, provisions, and tools, but which contained nothing they could sit on while they waited. In the moments that followed, they were content to simply eye each other in mistrust.

  “I’m not responsible for the invasion, George,” Murray said at last, in an almost pleading tone. Wells was not sure whether this was an attempt to strike up a conversation or he’d spoken because it tormented him not to be able to prove his innocence.

  Whatever the reason, the author continued to glare at Murray, exasperated that circumstances obliged him to communicate with the man. Although Wells had dreamed that Fate would provide him with an opportunity to unleash his anger on Murray, time had dampened his anger, burying it beneath a layer of contempt, with the result that it had lost some of its urgency. It was too late to rake it all up now, especially considering the alarming situation they found themselves in, which demanded they put aside personal grievances. And so Wells set himself to focus on the present, to discover who was behind it all.

  “Are you suggesting we believe that this is a genuine Martian invasion?” he inquired coldly.

  Murray gave a worried groan.

  “I’ve no idea what we should believe, George,” exclaimed the millionaire, who in his agitated state tried to pace round in circles, something the confined space would not allow. “This can’t be happening!”

  “Well, Gilliam, it is happening. The invasion I described in my novel is taking place exactly as you intended. Let me remind you there is a letter signed by you, in which you plead with me to help you carry it out,” Wells retorted, not pulling any punches.

  “But in that letter did I say anything about killing hundreds of people?” the millionaire groaned. “Of course not, George! All I wanted was to build a cylinder from which that accursed overdeveloped octopus of yours would emerge and make headlines to win the heart of the most beautiful woman in the world! You must believe me, George! I would never do anything to hurt Emma! Never!” And with that, Murray brought his fist crashing down on one of the boxes, causing the wood to splinter in various places and making Wells wonder whether provoking Murray was the best approach at that moment. Fortunately, venting his frustration appeared to calm the millionaire, who placed both hands on the shattered box, sank his head to his chest, and whispered, “I love her, George, I love her more than my own life.”

  Wells shifted awkwardly on his feet, to the extent a room as narrow as a coffin would allow. Here he was, locked in this room with Murray, listening to him speak about love in such childish terms, while outside someone, or something, was killing innocent people, using his novel as a blueprint. And then, contemplating with faint embarrassment the bleating millionaire’s ridiculous ode to love, Wells realized he could not go on denying the obvious: much as his hatred of the man compelled Wells to hold him responsible, Murray had nothing to do with the invasion. The fact that the tentacle had fired so nonchalantly on the onlookers, and particularly on the girl he intended to marry, almost incontrovertibly proved his innocence. And to Wells’s astonishment, a wave of pity swept over him, something he would have never believed he could feel toward the man he had diligently devoted himself to loathing for the past two years. Pity! And for Gilliam Murray! For the giant fellow next to him, struggling not to burst into tears, who must not only defend himself against a false accusation but who would at some point have to admit to the woman he adored that he had failed, that he was unworthy of her love. And as if that were not dreadful enough, Emma almost certainly held him entirely to blame for the fact that she was fleeing for her life, far from home, along with a smart-aleck investigator and an author of fantasy novels, who it so happened had written The War of the Worlds. Yes, it was only logical he should feel pity for Murray. But also for the girl, he thought. And even for himself. But more than anything because he was unable to feel more than a conventional concern for Jane’s well-being.

  Jane, his Jane. Was she in danger? He had no idea, and for the time being he preferred to imagine her safe and sound in London with the Garfields, who, if news of events in Horsell had reached the city, were undoubtedly cheering her up at that very moment, assuring her that he was all right. He gave a sigh. He must not torment himself with these thoughts. His life was in peril, and if anything he must focus his efforts on discovering what the devil was going on and on finding a way to stay alive as long as possible, at least until it became clear whether the entire human race was going to perish and surviving would be the worst thing that could happen to him.

  “Very well, Gilliam,” he said, carefully adopting a gentle tone. “Let’s accept that the invasion has nothing to do with you. Who is behind it, then? Germany?”

  The millionaire gazed at him in astonishment.

  “Germany? Possibly . . . ,” he said at last, trying to collect his thoughts and give his voice a firm sound. “Although I think it unlikely that any country has a sophisticated enough technology to produce the lethal ray that almost killed us.”

  “Really? I don’t see why such a thing couldn’t have been carried out in secret,” Wells proposed.

  “Perhaps you’re right,” replied the millionaire, who appeared to have regained some of his composure. “What is certain, George, is that those behind the attack are copying your novel.”

  Yes, that much was certain, the author acknowledged to himself. The location of the cylinders, their appearance, the heat ray . . . Everything was happening almost exactly as he had described. Accordingly, the next phase would be the construction of flying machines shaped like stingrays that soared across the counties on their way to London, ready to raze it to the ground. Perhaps at that very moment, in the deserted meadows of Horsell Common, strewn with charred corpses and smoldering trees, the relentless hammering sound of their construction was echoing in the silence. But, in the meantime, there was no way of knowing who was behind all this. And given that as yet no Martian had popped its gelatinous head out of the cylinder, the only thing they could be sure of was that these machines were deadly, and that anyone could be operating them, or no one, he thought, wondering whether they might be activated from a distance, via some kind of signal. Anything was possible. Wells then realized with surprise that he felt no fear, although he suspected his sudden display of pluck was because he still did not know exactly what it was they ought to be afraid of. The test would be if he managed to stay calm when the attackers made their next move and things began to make sense; only then would he discover whether at heart he was a hero or a coward.

  Just then, the two men heard a loud clamor outside. They looked up toward the tiny storeroom window, straining to determine the cause of the row, but were unable to make out what the voices were saying. They could only conclude that some unrest had now broken out in the station, hitherto immersed in an unnerving cal
m. People seemed to be running hither and thither, and, although their cries did not yet sound panic-stricken, something strange was definitely going on. Wells and Murray exchanged solemn glances. During the next few minutes, the din appeared to intensify: they heard doors slamming, objects crashing to the floor, bundles being dragged along the ground, and occasionally someone barking an unintelligible order or uttering a frantic oath. The two men were starting to get nervous when the door to their temporary cell swung open and in walked Inspector Clayton and Miss Harlow with looks of unease on their faces, which did not bode well.

  “I’m glad to see you are both still in one piece, gentlemen,” the inspector said with a sardonic grin as he closed the door hurriedly behind him. “Well then, I bring both good and bad news.”

  The two men looked at him expectantly.

  “The good news is that whoever is doing this isn’t as keen on your novel as we had thought, Mr. Wells,” Clayton announced, scrutinizing Wells with exaggerated curiosity. “It seems the Martians haven’t built flying machines shaped like stingrays with which to attack us from the skies. I recall that in your novel they were propelled by magnetic currents that affected the Earth’s surface . . .”