“I am to blame. However, my journey was eventful, to say the least,” explained the Envoy. “As I entered the Earth’s atmosphere, one of my engines failed, and I was forced to make an emergency landing in the Antarctic. There, I attempted to sneak on board a ship in the hope of reaching civilization, but an accursed human called Reynolds foiled my plans, and I ended up trapped in the ice: that’s why you stopped hearing my signal.”
“Your cry for help was the last thing that was heard of you,” the priest said, secretly impressed that a human had succeeded in putting the Envoy out of action, at least for several decades.
“It was a cry of rage, Father,” the Envoy retorted. “That arrogant Earthling Reynolds was hoping to communicate with me. He didn’t realize it would take several thousand more years of evolution before they could understand our minds. Can you imagine them conversing with their cockroaches before crushing them underfoot? Of course not!” the Envoy roared, slapping the table. Then he let out a sigh and controlled himself. “But let us talk no more of that unpleasant experience. Other humans must have rescued me and brought me here, together with my machine. That’s why I was able to salvage this.”
He took the ivory cylinder out of his jacket pocket, placed it on the table, and caressed it gently with his mind. The inscribed lid lifted, revealing something resembling a cluster of small bluish-green gemstones.
“Are these what activate the combat machines?”
The Envoy nodded with theatrical fatalism.
“So, in a few days’ time the devastation will be complete,” the priest murmured with an air of foreboding.
“It will, Father, it will.”
They stared at each other, plunged into an awkward silence.
“Something intrigues me, Father,” the Envoy said at last. The priest’s deference had renewed his desire to continue their conversation. “Do Earthlings believe in other forms of life in the universe, or are they one of those races blinded by their own megalomania?”
The priest paused briefly before replying.
“That is a question I have followed with great interest, in view of our situation. And I can assure you Man has believed in life on other planets since ancient times, even though his desire to explore the universe is, shall we say, a more recent phenomenon. Until a few centuries ago, he was content to dream about it. However, thanks to the advances of science, he now sees it as a tangible possibility. This is reflected in the increasing number of scientific romances produced by Earthlings, which, as you will appreciate, I find irresistible.” He stood up, walked over to the cabinet lined with books, which the Envoy had mistaken for missals, and selected a handful, depositing them on the table. “This is one of the first books to speak of their interest in space. It’s a story about the building of a giant cannon that shoots a manned missile onto the Moon.”
The Envoy took the book the priest was holding out to him and contemplated it without much interest.
“From the Earth to the Moon, by Jules Verne,” he read aloud.
The priest nodded, gesturing toward the pile of books on the table.
“As you can see, I like to gauge the pulse of the Earthlings’ desires, and above all to keep abreast of their notions about us. I’m sure you would find many of these books extremely amusing.”
“Possibly,” the Envoy said, unconvinced.
“And you might be interested to know that our invasion will come as no surprise to them,” the priest said, regarding the Envoy pensively. “I suppose you already know.”
“And why would you suppose that?”
The priest gazed at him in surprise.
“Because many people have considered the possibility of being invaded thanks to a man whose name must be familiar to you,” he said, handing him another book from the pile.
“The War of the Worlds, by H. G. Wells,” the Envoy read aloud, unaware of what the priest was referring to.
“Don’t you recognize the book? The author is the man whose form you have taken on!” the priest explained.
“I wrote this book?”
“The human you are impersonating did. H. G. Wells, a well-known and highly respected man here in England. But don’t you have that information in his head?”
“I confess that the brain of this human makes me extremely . . . uneasy,” the Envoy avowed, somewhat embarrassed. “It’s a peculiar feeling I didn’t experience with the other minds I reproduced. And to be honest, I try not to delve more than is necessary into his memories, which are of little interest to me anyway,” he added disdainfully.
“Strange indeed. Although I have heard of cases of our brothers finding some bodies incompatible and even having to change host. Unusual, but it does happen,” the priest reassured him. “Then you will also be unaware that you are impersonating the first Earthling who dared turn the accepted scenario on its head.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Unlike in the majority of the novels by his colleagues, in Wells’s The War of the Worlds Earthlings don’t conquer other planets inhabited by primitive people unable to confront technology. Instead, Earth itself is invaded by the inhabitants of its neighboring planet, Mars.”
“Mars?” The Envoy chortled. “But Mars is uninhabited.”
“They don’t know that,” the priest replied. “Their primitive telescopes have recently discovered strange marks on its surface, which they have elevated to canals. And many astronomers believe the Martians are a dying race that uses these canals to channel water from the poles to the arid equator.”
“Don’t they know that the average temperature of the planet is too low to stop water from freezing?” the Envoy asked with astonishment.
The priest simply shrugged. The Envoy shook his head with a mixture of amusement and disappointment.
“And how does Wells depict us? Does he come even close to understanding our nature?”
“Oh no, of course not,” the priest replied, before adding rather ashamedly, “In fact, he portrays us as monsters similar to one of Earth’s sea creatures.”
“Do you think they see us as we really are when we aren’t projecting their appearance?” the Envoy asked the priest.
“I doubt it. Remember, we are completely alien to them. We aren’t animal, vegetable, or mineral. Not even a mixture of those. We are quite simply beyond the bounds of their comprehension.”
“But they must perceive us in some way, don’t you think? We have a shape, we make sounds and give off odors,” the Envoy surmised.
“I assume that in order to stay sane, their minds compare us to what we most resemble,” the priest reflected. “And since we are the unknown, I imagine what they see is not exactly flattering. They undoubtedly portray us as monsters with claws, tentacles, and fangs, a hideous amalgamation of all their fears. It is even conceivable they all see us differently, according to their own innermost fears. You’d be surprised to what extent men’s hearts are ruled by fears: some are afraid of spiders, others of reptiles, still others of dragons. They can even develop a phobia of peas if they are forced to eat them when they are small. That is the way their minds work.”
“The possibilities are endless,” the Envoy murmured, “but always monstrous.”
“Exactly. That’s why our scientists enabled us to project the appearance of any one of them by using the information stored in his or her blood.”
The Envoy seemed to find it comical that the Earthlings would envisage them as the most hideous thing they could imagine, for he found the current inhabitants of that planet just as repulsive, with their conceited vulgarity.
“And do they succeed, Father? Do the Martians in his novel conquer the Earth?” he said, indicating Wells’s book.
“Yes,” the priest replied. “Their technology is far superior to that of the humans, and they conquer the Earth in a matter of days.”
“Then this Wells fellow is the most sensible Earthling I have met so far.” The Envoy nodded approvingly. “It is fitting I should have adopted h
is appearance.”
“That isn’t all, sir. Wells also guessed where our machines are buried,” the priest revealed. “Imagine what I felt when I read the novel and discovered that an Earthling had guessed where the majority of them are located.”
“Well, Father, you better than anyone ought to know that the Earthlings still haven’t learned how to make full use of their minds. They still only utilize an infinitesimal part of their brains. But I suspect this doesn’t prevent a few of the more developed human minds from perceiving, in a completely unconscious way of course, some aspects of the universal energy we have been tapping into for thousands of years. How else would we be able to converse across unfathomable space or create mental projections in order to assume different shapes before their eyes? Humans are oblivious to all that, even though some may occasionally be able to perceive the odd energy wave, in a way they are unable to define.”
“Are you suggesting they might be able to intercept our messages?” the priest said in astonishment.
“It’s possible. But in a completely random way, and they would interpret them differently, as premonitions, obsessions, fantasies. It could be that their so-called inspiration simply consists of these accidental thefts.”
“Yes, perhaps . . . ,” the priest replied, unable to stifle the overwhelming enthusiasm he always felt when discussing certain phenomena and eccentricities he had observed in his beloved humans. “It is curious, for instance, that a philosophical idea, or a literary trend, or even a piece of scientific investigation often crops up simultaneously in different parts of the planet without there having been any prior contact between their human authors. To take an obvious example, the great American inventor Thomas Edison once said, when lauded for his discoveries, that the air is full of ideas, which came to him from a higher source, and if he hadn’t had them someone else would have. The air is full of ideas. Doesn’t that strike you as a poetic way of describing the energy of the universe?”
“Possibly, and yet our dear Mr. Wells doesn’t seem to think Edison deserves to be liked,” the Envoy remarked ponderously, oblivious to the priest’s enthusiasm. “I am inhabiting the body of a decidedly peculiar mind. Wells obviously intercepted some of our communications, and that is where the idea for his novel sprang from.”
“Really? I don’t believe Wells is simply a medium. He’s an intelligent man with a talent for—”
“In any case,” the Envoy cut in, “you wouldn’t need to be a genius to discover where we concealed our machines. All it proves is that Wells is a good strategist. Where else would we place them if not in a circle around the largest city of the planet, which we propose to conquer?”
“I daresay you are right,” the priest conceded.
“I hope he will not determine the whereabouts of our headquarters, Father, which I presume has been completed.”
“Naturally, sir,” the priest replied hurriedly. “We have had ample time.”
“Excellent, Father. I shall oversee the attack from there. And then we will rebuild London from the rubble in our own image and likeness, a London that will be the center of a new empire. A magnificent London that will await the arrival of our emperor.”
The priest nodded sadly. He fell silent for a few moments before asking, with feigned indifference, “Did you kill him?”
“Who?”
“Wells. Did you kill Wells?”
“Ah, no, I couldn’t,” the Envoy responded, waving away the question. “I received his blood by accident.”
“I’m glad,” the priest said, relieved. “As you yourself mentioned, he possesses one of the most . . . exceptional minds on the planet.”
“Yes, but not in the way you imagine,” the Envoy acknowledged enigmatically.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure how to explain it . . .” The Envoy stroked his whiskers pensively. “His mind contains something peculiar, an additional feature lacking in the brains of the other bodies I usurped. A button he hasn’t yet pressed. And I’ve no idea what it’s for. Yet it makes me feel uneasy and stops me from venturing into the furrows of his mind as I should like. If it weren’t for the fact that no human can pose a threat to us, I’d even go so far as to say that it feels menacing.”
The priest looked at him quizzically, unsure how to respond. “Well, tomorrow even that won’t matter,” he concluded, rising to his feet and gathering up his books. “Despite his mysterious mind, Wells will no doubt perish during the invasion, together with most of the rest of humanity.”
The Envoy felt a twinge of pity as he watched the priest place the books back in the cabinet. He could not help giving him a warm smile when he returned to his seat.
“I recommend you look at things in a different light, Father,” he said. “Remember, it is the survival instinct of an entire race that drives us.”
“I hadn’t forgotten,” the priest grunted.
The Envoy gave a solemn nod. “Besides, we shall also prevent the Earthlings from spreading through the Cosmos like a harmful virus.” He grinned.
The priest suppressed a bitter laugh. “I suppose that’s how they would see us if they knew we existed,” he said, “like a dormant virus in their organism.”
“I believe you have become too fond of the Earthlings,” the Envoy snapped.
“It is inevitable,” the priest murmured, shrugging his shoulders. “We were born and raised among them. And despite their limitations they are truly . . . unique. They are my flock.”
“From what I’ve observed, they certainly are resilient,” the Envoy resumed, ignoring the priest’s words. “They will make superb slaves. And their minds are abuzz with energy. They will be of more use to us than even they could imagine. Don’t weep for them, Father. How long before they drain all their natural resources and make themselves extinct: three, perhaps four hundred years? What is that in comparison to the age of the universe?”
“From that point of view, perhaps only the blink of an eye,” the priest persisted, “but from their position it is whole lives, generations, History.”
“They could only survive by fleeing to other planets, like we do,” the Envoy replied, trying to conceal his frustration. “Do you think their science will be sufficiently advanced by then to allow them to travel into space? And if it were, what do you think they would find? Only remnants, depleted planets, worlds squeezed dry. Scraps from the banquet table. As you know, all the other races in the universe are doing the same as us. In fact, the matter is very simple: it is them or us. There is no God to decide who deserves to prevail. You may not believe it, but we are alone. Cast adrift. No one knows what we should do, what game of chess we are playing, or for whom.”
The Envoy peered curiously at the priest before adding, “Could it be that you consider them a model of civilization, an irreparable loss?”
The priest gazed at him for a few moments in silence. “No,” he replied, with an air of regret. “They wage war on one another, they commit atrocities, they kill in the name of absurd ideologies and invent vengeful gods to soothe the pain of their loneliness.”
“Good,” the Envoy said contentedly, rising to his feet. “I wouldn’t like to think you were siding with them. You know that in any case we will conquer the Earth. And afterward you will have a good position, providing I don’t send any negative reports about you. Don’t forget that.”
“So, let’s slaughter them,” the priest said at last, with an air of resignation, lowering his head and clasping his hands reverentially above his head.
“No, Father,” the Envoy replied almost with affection, turning his back on the priest and walking slowly toward the arched doorway leading to the church. Then he paused, closing his eyes once more and listening. When he spoke again, his voice sounded distant and faint, as though floating on the breeze. “Remember, this will only be a slaughter from their point of view. The Cosmos cares nothing for the Earthlings’ absurd morality.”
The priest lowered his hands with a downcast air. A solemn
silence descended on the sacristy, a silence undisturbed even by the clamor of the minds of the colony. The Envoy remained with his eyes closed, listening, as a wistful smile played over his borrowed lips.
“They are all here, sir,” the priest announced timidly. “They are eager to greet you.”
The Envoy nodded and, turning toward the priest, he opened his eyes.
“Then let us not keep them any longer,” he said, buttoning his jacket. “They have waited long enough, don’t you think?”
The priest smiled wearily back at him. He stood up from the table and led the Envoy toward the church, trying hard to appear excited about what was happening, which was nothing less than the event they had all been waiting for since their ancestors first arrived on Earth. The priest motioned to his guest to go before him. The Envoy lifted his head as he stepped through the curtain separating the sacristy from the church and walked forward with as much grace as his human form allowed. He was aware of a murmur of expectancy, this time from the hundreds of throats in the church. A varied sample of humanity filled the benches and aisles, a range of social classes, of men and women, all very different, yet all with the same awed expression. The Envoy raised his hand slowly in a gesture of greeting, which the reddish glow filtering through the stained glass windows imbued with solemnity. Then he walked ceremoniously over to the pulpit, planted his hand on it, and spoke to the colony.
“First of all, please accept my apologies for the sixty-eight-year delay, brothers and sisters. My journey here has not been easy, but I have arrived at last. And it is you who will fulfill your ancestors’ dream, for tomorrow we shall conquer London.”
XXIV
LET US NOW RETURN TO THE REAL WELLS, whom we left clasping Miss Harlow inside a luxurious carriage with an ornate “G” emblazoned on one of its doors, which at that moment was hurtling toward the Martian tripod in an insane bid to pass beneath its legs. I hope you will forgive me for having left our hero in such a delicate situation; think of it as my homage to the serialized novels of the time. As the jolting carriage careered across the dozen or so yards separating it from the lethal machine, Wells gritted his teeth, expecting the heat ray to vaporize them at any moment. However, the author was still able to wonder whether the flames would consume their bodies so swiftly that they wouldn’t have time to feel any pain. But death’s caress was slow to arrive. Astonished that the machine had still not fired at them, Wells opened his eyes and turned toward the window, convinced these would be his last gestures. As he did so, he saw one of the tripod’s legs pass so close to the carriage that it sheared off a lantern on the left side. A second later, he heard a deafening blast from behind, which shook the coach violently once again. Then Murray gave a cry of triumph. Looking over his shoulder through the rear window, Wells could see the vast hole the ray had bored in the road. With a mixture of relief and joy, he realized the tentacle had waited too long before firing at them. The speed at which the millionaire had driven the horses had confused the machine, and it had not had time to take proper aim. And as the tripod grew smaller in the rear window, so the likelihood of it firing at them again diminished, for as Murray had realized, the machine could not turn as quickly as they. The author watched as it tried to swivel round in the middle of the road like a clumsy ballerina, realizing that by the time it did so, their carriage would be out of sight. He turned once more in his seat, breathless with anxiety, and gently lifted the girl’s head, which was still pressed against his chest.
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