She shrugged. ‘You need to ask? You wrote about Edison inventing super-weapons to defeat the Martians.’
‘That was just fiction. In real life -’
‘In real life, Edison has been inventing super-weapons to defeat the Martians.’
Harry Kane could only stare.
But he thought he saw the argument; he’d worked through some of it himself. If the Martians were to invade the New York area, surely they would come down on the mainland for ease of movement, and for access to the continental interior. So Long Island, protected by the Sound, a barricade of water, might be bypassed, for a time at least. Yes, this was a sensible place to stash a national treasure like the brain of Edison.
And that was why Harry himself was there, for many of the city’s rich seemed to have come to a similar conclusion. There had been a veritable flight to the island’s resorts in the last few days, and Harry had come to observe that expensive flocking.
Harry had enough of a sense of history to understand that the recent floods of new wealth, at which journalists and writers like himself marvelled, were based on genuine economic growth in the country; you had the opening-up of huge mineral assets – silver from Nevada, copper from Montana – and you had the exhilarating expansion of modern industries such as telephones, movies and photography, electricity, cars. But in the cities, especially in Manhattan - thanks to financial speculation, and services like bond trading, the dealing of long-term secured loans – you could get rich quick perfectly legitimately. And also, of course, illegitimately; prohibition had created a major black market all by itself. And that extraordinary wealth found expression in the hedonistic, hectic culture that underpinned this very villa, this very party.
Against this background, trouble overseas meant little. So what, if the Germans had whipped up a storm of flags and guns in Europe - if they seemed to be developing ambitions for a global empire? These were remote problems that could be dealt with in the future. Even the Martian invasions of England seemed fantastical and distant – something detached from the normal processes of the world.
But now had come the drizzle of predictions of a new wave of Martian invaders. What if they had come to Boston or New York this time, not London? Harry suspected that most Americans rather looked down on the British response to the invasion of 1907, and even that of two years ago. Surely the American military would have put up a better fight than the British; surely the American character, tested, would have fared better. It was this intuition about his native culture that had prompted Harry to pen his own Edisonades, about heroic resistance and jut-jawed counter-invasions. His sales told him, and his publisher, that he had hit a nerve.
Tonight, though, Harry, picking up on the gossip and chatter, had looked for an unusual angle. If the Martians did come to America there would be a million eyewitness accounts of military manoeuvres and the defence of the cities and the fleeing masses - but who would tell the story of the privileged rich? What would they do? Long Island would be something of a refuge, he had figured, where you could watch the Martians be wiped out in Manhattan while you drank champagne . . . and then return to the ruins, like so many precious birds. Martians of the Jazz Age: that was the book he’d write about this some day. He’d publish under his own name too.
Now, hideously, that fantasy seemed to be coming true; and it was no comfort to Harry, that glittering night, that his story instincts had been good. Because the Martians weren’t playing ball.
Woodward glanced up at the trails in the sky. ‘I’m no expert on Mars, but I have been under artillery fire. And I don’t figure those shots are heading for Manhattan. Sure looks to me like those cylinders are heading for a spot on the Island. Here. And a spot not so far away from where we stand.’
Marigold said, ‘So much for a safe refuge. I think I’d better call Mr Edison.’
3
IN THE BIGELOW MANSION
Inside, the house was a cave of light. Harry waited with Bill Woodward, both of them smoking, while Marigold went in search of a phone to call Edison’s residence. The band was playing, right now a rather sad waltz that Harry recognised, called ‘Three O’Clock in the Morning’ – badly timed, it wasn’t yet one a.m. There were plenty of people still there, plenty of champagne and claret still to be poured, plenty of noise from the bright chorus of voices. And yet, it seemed to Harry, there was a certain brittleness about the scene. Harry accepted a mint julep from a passing waiter - but then he caught Woodward’s eye, who nodded, and Harry thought it was as if an unspoken message passed between them: We stay sober. Kane took one sip of the mint julep and set it aside.
Woodward asked softly, ‘You have a car?’
‘Not here. My house is a short walk away.’
‘I have mine here. Beat-up Dodge, but it does the job; I don’t hold with this habit of changing up every year just to keep up with the fashion in interior colour schemes . . . Maybe I ought to go check up on it, there was a lot of traffic a little earlier.’
‘I heard it, after midnight. A lot of drunken drivers.’ Harry found himself looking for Marigold, a little anxiously, as if the three of them had formed a bond, a unit. ‘But where were they going?’
‘If cylinders have come down on the Island, there would have been wireless broadcasts, even police messages. Phone calls from anybody nearby the landing site.’
‘So people drove out to see it.’ Harry imagined it, the beautiful people, already drunk, clutching bottles of champagne and brandy, bowling in their expensive cars along the dirt-track roads towards the Martian pits with their walls of smashed earth and wisps of green smoke rising in the American air . . . ‘We figured the Martians wouldn’t come to the Island because it’s a dumb place for them to land. Right? And yet they came, it seems. Why?’
‘I can think of two reasons,’ Woodward said. ‘One is just to do precisely the opposite of what we would expect, to catch us wrong-footed. A human general might think that way; you don’t walk into the other guy’s punch. But, from what I’ve read of them – which isn’t much aside for those Edisonades - I don’t think they care much what we do or think, we just can’t hurt them enough. Or we haven’t so far.
‘So my second possible reason is that it suits them. Given the accounts from England, they’re less vulnerable in that period just after landing than they were, but must still be somewhat; even a few minutes to get your weapons out of those cylinders is an opportunity for your opponent. My guess is they looked at the geography, saw the Island as a place where we’d give them no trouble for the first few minutes or hours - and then they can march on the mainland, the city, in good order. Anyhow, whyever they did it, I guess it worked. We don’t have much to oppose them on the Island. The National Guard, the police - maybe the guns from a couple of Navy boats if they can be brought in fast enough.’
‘Soldiery isn’t my line. We’re going to stop them – right?’
Woodward eyed him. ‘Look, Harry, the US Army isn’t the force you might think it is. After all, most of the fighting we’ve done since the Revolution has been small-scale stuff against the Indians out west, or in Mexico, or against the Spanish in ’98. We don’t have the kind of big conscript army you get over in Europe, the Germans, the Russians – even the British since the Martians came. The only time we had millions in uniform, they were the conscripts from North and South during the Civil War. Maybe if we’d gotten involved in that big European war in ’14 it might be different. As it is, I believe we have a hundred thousand regulars right now, plus the Guard and the state militias. And most of those are nowhere near the east coast. Or the west, come to that.’
Harry didn’t like the sound of any of this. ‘Then where are they?’
‘In our garrisons on Puerto Rico, Cuba, the Philippines: the possessions we won in the Spanish War. Keeping the Germans and others at bay. Some on the Mexican border. And a lot of the rest are out west – the old Indian country. Of course that threat has subsided now, but the Army bases are all out that way for historica
l reasons.’
‘Historical reasons. Holy cow! It’s a shame the Martians ain’t coming down in the wild west, then. Maybe Hopalong Cassidy could save the day.’
‘Take it easy,’ Woodward murmured gently.
‘Sorry. But the federal government must have prepared for the Martian threat. They must have got some warning from the astronomers, even if it wasn’t released to the public.’
‘Sure. But how do you plan for an attack that might hit you anywhere, on the continental US and beyond – an attack coming down from the sky? Anyhow don’t ask me. I’m injured and on leave, remember?’
‘Hey, can you hear cars? Sounds like they’re all coming back . . .’
4
AN EXODUS
Out front of the house, the traffic noise had got a lot louder. The driveway was, Harry supposed, one of the Bigelow mansion’s more elegant features, long and brilliantly lit by elegant electric lamps and carpeted with crisp pink gravel imported from England at huge expense, the gravel was the same stuff they had used on the Mall in London, or so rumour had it. When Woodward and Harry walked out, the driveway was still crowded with cars, Dodges and Fords and even some station wagons. There was one magnificent Rolls Royce with a green leather interior.
‘You’re salivating,’ Woodward said.
‘One day,’ Harry said. ‘One day.’
‘Keep writing those Edisonades. In the meantime, for a journalist you ain’t so smart at spotting what’s important, seems to me.’
‘Hm?’ Harry looked around. ‘Oh – you mean that empty garage over there.’
‘That’s where Dan Bigelow, our host, keeps his own car. His latest is a Daimler, I think.’
‘He’s gone, then,’ Harry said. ‘I never noticed.’
‘Did you meet him? . . . Nor did I. I suppose, with a party like this, the host isn’t the point. And I suppose it’s possible that as the house-owner he might have gotten the news earlier than we did.’
Harry felt chilled. ‘Wouldn’t you warn your guests?’
‘What, and risk the roads being clogged up before you made your own escape? I don’t think men like Dan Bigelow get where they are in the world without a little ruthless calculation.’ That traffic noise rose to a roar. They turned to look out at the road, which ran past the wrought-iron gates of the mansion.
More Dodges and Fords and a few grander cars were barrelling at speed along the road, coming out of the east and heading west, Harry realised, west towards the bridges, and Manhattan. ‘Party guests,’ Woodward said. ‘On their way back through.’
‘Right.’ Harry glanced at his watch; it was not yet half past one in the morning. ‘So at midnight they go pouring out to find the Martian landing site.’
‘They find it. And now -’
‘They’re back and fleeing in terror. The pits can’t be far from here, then – maybe a half hour’s fast drive east – twenty, twenty-five miles?’
‘Look out -’
Woodward pulled him back as one car took the turn into the gateway at speed, nearly clipped a post, and skidded to a halt on the pink English gravel. ‘Help me! Help me!’
Woodward and Harry were among the first of the revellers to get to the car, and among the more sober. They found that a young woman had been driving the car, inexpertly. ‘It’s his car!
Not mine! We just went for a drive! We just thought we’d go see – it was supposed to be fun!’
In the passenger seat was a man, almost as young-looking, crumpled over; his white jacket and flannels were stained with blood. A dozen pairs of hands grabbed for him, but Bill Woodward took control. With a peremptory snap he ordered everyone back – and to Harry’s bemusement they obeyed. That was military command for you.
Woodward knelt by the young man, feeling for a pulse. ‘He’s breathing. Pulse feathery. I don’t know if he’s conscious. Hold in there, son; I’ve seen men survive worse.’ He glanced around at the party-goers, who looked to Harry like curious, faintly horrified peacocks. ‘You may come forward only if you are a trained nurse, or a doctor. Only if.’
After some hesitation a young man in a slightly distressed morning suit came out of the crowd. ‘I’m a student. Will that do? I’m in my fourth year at -’
‘Shut up and take over.’
The boy came forward, knelt down, and immediately began to work with the injured man.
Woodward, with Harry, hurried around to the far side of the car. A couple of women were trying to soothe the driver, the girl. ‘I did my best! I never drove in my life! . . .’
‘You did fine. Was it the Martians, though?’
She nodded, dropping her head, as if it was her fault. She said that the Martians had come down near Stony Brook. ‘The whole town was there, it felt like. Looking at those darn pits. But they came out of their shells, those cylinders, the Martians, soon as they landed. Well, the Guard and the police were there, and they fired their guns. But the Martians just – the Guard and the cops, they just – burned. And the big machines rose up on those stilts of theirs, like some kind of circus act, and everybody started to run away. We all ran back for the cars. But Simpson fell, I think he twisted his ankle, and I tried to help him up. But we were in the road, and a car came, and it just hit him, it just knocked him aside, like you’d shove a baby deer out of your way, I’ll swear it was deliberate . . .’
‘How did you get him to the car?’
‘My dear, have some brandy, just a nip to calm your nerves.’
‘This other car. You get his number? The police will want to know about this, Martians or no Martians . . .’
Woodward plucked Harry’s sleeve. ‘Nothing more we can do here. Let’s get back to the house.’
They walked back up the drive, to a house that was still brightly lit. But now the guests seemed to be streaming out, word of the first refugees from the Stony Brook landings evidently having spread, and Harry heard more cars starting up and crunching over the gravel and out of the drive.
Inside the house the band was, remarkably, still playing, a jazzy number now that Harry recognised as ‘Beale Street Blues’.
Waiters and other staff circulated, there was still drink to be had if you wanted it - and some did, evidently intent on partying to the end – but there was coffee too, and Harry and Woodward both grabbed cups gratefully.
Woodward kept glancing at his watch. ‘We probably still have a few hours’ grace. In England a couple of years ago, they landed at midnight – just like here - and they seem to have waited until dawn before moving out in big numbers.’
‘Hm. But the longer we wait the harder it’s likely to be to get off the island.’
Woodward grinned. ‘“We.” Are we a team now, sport?’
‘I reckon I’d be a better driver than you with that busted shoulder of yours.’
Woodward nodded. ‘You’re probably right. You say you live close by. Your car?’
‘A Model T.’
‘Hmph. What are you, a hobbyist? We’ll take my Dodge. But -’
‘But we wait for Miss Rafferty.’
‘Marigold, yes.’
Harry glanced around. ‘Maybe we can find out what’s going on. There must be wireless sets around, away from these party rooms anyhow.’
‘You’re supposed to be a reporter. Can’t you call your news room? They should know.’
‘Hey, that’s a thought. I could even file a report.’ Woodward stood up. ‘Another day, another dollar, huh?’
It was a long night of waiting, for Harry and Woodward.
They stayed close to a radio set. There was little news coming out of the landing sites on the island. Harry considered calling his family, his parents in Iowa. He figured he’d only scare them to death to be called in the middle of the night, for no good reason.
At around three a.m., they learned from the newsroom of the Post that President Harding had announced a second Martian landing, in the hills outside Los Angeles. It had been local midnight there, just as at Long Island. America was under
attack from Mars.
At around four a.m. a servant circulated through the house, calling for Woodward; there was a telephone call for him. It was Marigold Rafferty. She’d found Edison and his staff at his rented villa. After a brief discussion it had been decided to load the old man on a power-boat and take him across the Sound to Manhattan. There hadn’t been room to take everybody, and despite Edison’s vigorous protestations Marigold had got left behind. She was waiting on a ride back to the Bigelow place, but everything was very disorganised. Woodward told her they would wait for her, and Harry, despite his growing anxiety at being stuck there, nodded agreement.
Five a.m. came and went.
At six came the first reports of the Martians moving out of their pit at Stony Brook. To nobody’s surprise they were heading west, parallel to the Sound, towards Manhattan. The island’s authorities could mount only minimal resistance, and were anyhow more concerned with organising evacuations.
At ten past six Marigold Rafferty was at the door.
The three of them ran to Woodward’s car, and with Harry behind the wheel fled the residence, heading west, soon joining a slow river of cars and people funnelling down the length of the island. Glancing back, Harry saw that even now, in the gathering daylight, the Bigelow place was glowing with light. Somewhere in there, he suspected, the band was still playing.
5
I ARRIVE AT THORNBOROUGH
It had been at five a.m. (in Britain, midnight on Long Island) that Verity and I, in the Martian Cordon, had demanded of Albert Cook that we be taken to Eric Eden.
Cook responded immediately, and quite impressively. He got us out of the Redoubt, made a phone call from a concealed station to the Army contact he’d been using to negotiate his terms, and then took us to a heavily camouflaged car of his own and raced us across the Cordon. He assured us the Martians wouldn’t touch him, but I was never confident about that.
At the perimeter we were met by a couple of taciturn soldiers in unmarked camouflage gear and with dirt-blackened faces, and led to another bolt-hole. This time the Martians did not detect our passing under the Trench, or interfere with it.
The Massacre of Mankind Page 35
