The Martian Ambassador

by Alan K Baker

  As he rose, washed and shaved, however, Blackwood could not shake himself free of the apprehension which he invariably felt on those rare occasions when his presence before the Queen was requested. There was something deeply unnerving about Victoria, an otherworldliness which, he supposed, was a combination of her own powerful personality and the Martian rejuvenation drugs with which she had been treated over the last few years, and which had gradually returned her from extreme age and infirmity to vibrant youth again.

  It was perhaps unsurprising that Victoria had agreed to undergo the treatment, since she had always embraced the new scientific developments of her own race. She had enthusiastically sat for photographs when that technology was in its infancy; she had greeted the invention of the telegraph and, later, the telephone with undisguised glee, making extensive use of both instruments; she had even allowed chloroform to be administered to her during the birth of Prince Leopold in 1853, scorning the belief that it was a woman’s lot to suffer the pain of childbirth. The concept of life extension had immediately intrigued her, and had conjured seductive images in her mind of the simultaneous continuation of the era to which she had given her name.

  The treatment produced a transformation which the masses had greeted with jubilation, and which had prompted the Prime Minister, Lord Salisbury, to declare that ‘the sun would set neither on the British Empire, nor the reign of Queen Victoria’. Blackwood had no idea what Salisbury thought in private, however (although there was a rumour at court that he considered anything which delayed the accession of that buffoon Bertie to be most welcome). Nevertheless, Blackwood sometimes wondered whether the Prime Minister felt as he did: that there was an unnatural light in Victoria’s eyes, the smouldering light of a red, alien world, containing all the strange secrets of that world and the technological geniuses who inhabited it.

  Blackwood tried to push all such thoughts from his mind as he quickly breakfasted on the sausages, bacon and toast which had been prepared for him by his housekeeper, Mrs Butters, who knew better than to place any eggs on his plate. (Blackwood had developed a pathological fear of eggs following his involvement with the case of the Cosmic Spheres three years previously, and the very sight of them brought him out in a cold sweat.) He drank two large cups of the excellent Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee which he procured from a small and exclusive establishment in Knightsbridge and, thus fortified, left his apartment and took the carriage which had been sent from the Palace to collect him.

  The mist and fog of the last few days had finally lifted, for which Blackwood was grateful, and he felt his mood lightening somewhat as the carriage passed through busy streets awash with bright sunlight. The cloying dampness of the air had also been banished, leaving a cool crispness which cleared his mind and lifted his spirits still further.

  Away in the distance, high above the surrounding rooftops, he could see several intercity omnibuses, their metal hulls gleaming in the sunlight, the great pillars of their legs moving with a strange, languid elegance. He found himself staring at them, unable to look away, fascinated in spite of himself. They looked like small airships perched atop living, moving scaffolds. Each of their hulls was dotted with numerous portholes, while at the front, the single large, circular observation blister of the bridge gazed blankly across the cityscape, towards the horizon. And yet, as Blackwood continued to watch their progress, it seemed to him that they were not really like airships at all: they were more like colossal insect Cyclopses surveying a world which was not theirs.

  Although only in his mid-thirties, Blackwood was old enough to remember a time when life on Mars was nothing more than an intriguing speculation. Then, in 1877, Giovanni Schiaparelli made his monumental discovery (later confirmed by Percival Lowell) of the global canal system which extended like a vast cobweb across the surface of the Red Planet, signifying the presence of a great civilisation. The scientific community was sceptical at first, of course, with many claiming that the ‘canals’ were no more than optical illusions caused by the human eye’s tendency to connect isolated and ill-defined features. They had assumed the matter to be settled, until the great inventor and engineer Nikola Tesla decided to use his giant Magnifying Transmitter in Colorado Springs to send a radio signal towards Mars on the 1st of April 1893, and was gratified to receive the honour of a reply just a few days later.

  A few weeks after that initial tentative exchange, the first exploratory cylinders arrived, landing in all the capitals of the civilised world (the cylinder bound for London had evidently miscalculated its trajectory slightly and landed on Horsell Common near Woking instead, causing no small measure of alarm among the local inhabitants). After they had learned English and a few other European languages (a feat performed in an astoundingly brief time) the Martians stated that they had been observing the Earth through their telescopes for many years and had been waiting for Mankind to display a sufficient level of technological advancement to allow contact. Tesla’s radio transmission had proved to them that human civilisation was mature enough to receive visitors from another world.

  The good people of Woking were not the only ones to express concern over these astonishing events, of course: all over the world, voices of fear and consternation were raised in response to the arrival of these strange beings from across the Æther. There were many who claimed that the Martians were conquerors who had come under the guise of friendship, and that Mankind should make ready to do battle for its very survival.

  Thankfully (and unusually), however, reason prevailed: scientific institutions throughout Europe and the United States of America considered the situation, and quickly came to the conclusion that the Martians could have no conceivable reason for wanting to conquer the Earth. For one thing, they could not survive in the atmosphere without elaborate and cumbersome equipment; for another, the chemical constituents of Earthly food offered no nourishment to their alien metabolisms; for yet another, it was quite possible that there were certain germs and bacteria in the Earth’s atmosphere that would prove lethal to organisms which had evolved on another world, and which therefore had no natural defence against them.

  And in any event, the scientists concluded, if the Martians had wanted to attack Mankind, they would surely have done so already, without first alerting Earth to their existence.

  In the six years since first contact, it had become apparent that the scientific community was quite correct. It seemed that the Red Planet, so long associated in the human mind with violence and war, in fact wanted nothing but friendship and peaceful cooperation with the people of Earth. (It had amused many to learn that the Martian name for Earth, Azquahar, translated as ‘Blue Planet’.) Plans for an economic relationship between the two civilisations were carefully laid, whereby the Martians would purchase certain useful raw materials in which their own world was growing deficient, in exchange for granting Mankind access to some of their technologies.

  Cultural bonds were likewise quickly established, with scholars from each world being invited to the other to learn of its history and to sample the vast range of its artistic endeavours. The results of these commercial and cultural exchanges could now be seen in the streets, drawing rooms and art galleries of many a city and town, in Great Britain and across the world.

  And yet, in spite of the apparent cordiality of relations between Earth and Mars, there were many who still mistrusted their planetary neighbours, believing them to harbour secret designs upon Earth and to be waiting patiently for an excuse to bring to bear the full force of their technology against Mankind.

  As his carriage made its clattering way along the Mall towards Buckingham Palace, Blackwood found himself wondering whether those people were justified in their suspicions. At the very least, their concerns were understandable: it was not easy to go blithely about one’s business, knowing that across eighty-million miles of space there was another inhabited world whose denizens possessed technology far superior to one’s own; it was not easy to have to rely for one’s continued existence
on the benevolence of a superior civilisation.

  For some, the very idea that there was a civilisation superior to that of the British Empire was difficult to accept, and it was for this reason, as much as any other, that the Martians were so heartily disliked and mistrusted by so many.

  Blackwood tried to put these thoughts from his mind as the carriage entered the East Front of the palace, passing beneath the great portico and continuing on into the vast quadrangle beyond. Designed by Edward Blore and built by Thomas Cubitt in 1847, the East Front had been intended to provide more space for the court activities and growing family of Victoria and Albert, and yet, although the edifice possessed a certain monumental grandeur, Blackwood still considered it to be rather austere and foreboding, a vast and immovable barrier which prevented the people from appreciating the beauty of what he thought of as the palace proper.

  As the carriage came to a halt, an immaculately liveried footman stepped forward and opened the door. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, as Blackwood stepped down into the crisp air.

  ‘Good morning. I believe Her Majesty is waiting for me.’

  ‘Indeed, sir. If you would be so kind as to follow me...’

  The footman led Blackwood into the palace, up the Grand Staircase and along several long and opulently decorated corridors, finally coming to a halt before the door to the Queen’s Breakfast Room. He gently knocked three times.

  A voice from within said, ‘Enter.’

  The footman opened the door for Blackwood, who took a deep breath and stepped across the threshold. The room was richly appointed, the warm burgundy of the carpet echoed in the heavy drapes flanking the three tall sash windows. The ceiling was dominated by a single large crystal chandelier that hung eight feet above the floor, while the wallpaper displayed an elegant riot of gold intaglios in the Martian style.

  These details were all but lost on Blackwood, however, as he surveyed the strange tableau at the far end of the room. Queen Victoria was seated at her breakfast table in front of the marble fireplace, while at her side stood a Martian, seven feet tall and skeletally thin, his bizarre head enclosed within the pipe-festooned glass bubble of his breathing apparatus, his narrow shoulders enveloped in an iridescent cloak of purple glowspider silk.

  ‘Mr Blackwood,’ said Victoria.

  Blackwood bowed as the footman silently closed the door behind him.

  ‘Please join us.’ The Queen indicated the vacant chair at her breakfast table.

  ‘Thank you, Your Majesty.’ Blackwood walked the length of the room, forcing himself to take confident strides while trying to ignore the vague feeling of unease which was gradually increasing in his mind like the burgeoning glow of an alien sunrise.

  Victoria was dressed in black, as she had been ever since the death of her beloved Albert in 1861, and Blackwood reflected sadly that her overpowering grief was the one thing that the powerful Martian rejuvenation drugs had been unable to ameliorate. As he approached her, he noted the smooth, white skin of her oval face, the bright petal-like fullness of her small lips, the youthful limpidity of her heavy-lidded eyes, the dark lustre of her hair, undiminished by the severity of the tight bun which she still favoured – and was astonished anew by the potency of the strange chemicals coursing through her veins.

  Victoria indicated the Martian, who was still standing perfectly still beside the fireplace. ‘Allow me to introduce Petrox Voronezh, Assistant to His Excellency Lunan R’ondd.’

  Blackwood bowed, noting the shapes of the metal braces beneath Voronezh’s clothing, which enabled him to withstand the higher gravity of Earth. ‘An honour, sir,’ he said. ‘May I offer you my sincerest condolences on the loss of Ambassador R’ondd?’

  ‘You may,’ replied Voronezh. ‘And they are gratefully received.’

  Not for the first time, Blackwood was taken aback by the singular sound produced by the Martian vocal chords. It was a sort of lilting, high-pitched chirrup, not at all in keeping with the being’s imposing appearance and bearing. And yet, when one considered the fact that the dominant life form on Mars had evolved from flightless birds, similar in appearance to egrets, one was bound to admit that the sound possessed a certain logical aptness.

  ‘Please be seated, Mr Blackwood,’ said Victoria. ‘Would you care for some breakfast?’

  Blackwood had already glanced at the table and was relieved to see that it contained only toast, butter and marmalade, along with a large silver teapot and two cups and saucers. ‘No, thank you, Ma’am. I have already breakfasted.’

  ‘I see. In that case, you will at least join us in a cup of tea.’

  Blackwood could see that this was, in fact, a command, and replied, ‘I would be most grateful, Your Majesty.’

  As she poured the tea, Victoria said, ‘I hope you will forgive us for requesting a progress report at such an early stage in your investigation, Mr Blackwood, but as I am sure you will understand, the present circumstances are as delicate as they are tragic.’

  ‘I can assure you, Ma’am, that I am distinctly aware of that unfortunate fact,’ replied Blackwood, accepting the cup.

  ‘Excellent. Well, then. Please tell us what, if anything, you have discovered so far.’

  Blackwood felt Petrox Voronezh’s huge, dark eyes upon him as he described his meeting with Dr Cutter and the pathologist’s bizarre conclusions as to the cause of the Ambassador’s death.

  ‘Then he was assassinated,’ said Voronezh when the Special Investigator had finished.

  ‘I’m afraid that is the likeliest explanation for his tragic demise.’

  Victoria glanced from Blackwood to Voronezh. ‘We hope that you are now pursuing at least one line of enquiry,’ she said in a quiet yet stern voice.

  Blackwood returned her gaze and gave a very small shudder. There it was, that quality in her eyes, that light which was not a light, as if something strange and rarefied were moving subtly there. He forced himself to concentrate on the business at hand. ‘Indeed I am, Ma’am. It seems that the microscopic creatures which proved so lethal to the Ambassador are related in some way to the experiments of a certain Mr Andrew Crosse, an amateur scientist who lives in Somerset...’

  ‘You are saying that a human was responsible for the Ambassador’s death,’ interrupted Voronezh, leaning over Blackwood.

  ‘No sir, I am not. I feel that it would be premature at this stage to arrive at such a conclusion. I am merely saying that it appears that the cause of death is an organism native to the Earth.’

  ‘Who is this Mr Crosse?’ demanded Victoria. ‘We have never heard of him.’

  ‘It seems there are few who have, Ma’am, for the man is evidently a recluse, an idiosyncrasy made worse by his spurning by the Royal Society some time ago, when he tried to present the results of his experiments in the creation of artificial life to them.’

  ‘Artificial life?’ echoed Victoria, aghast.

  Blackwood nodded. ‘It seems that Mr Crosse managed somehow to develop a means of creating microscopic living creatures from inanimate matter, through some electro-chemical process. Dr Cutter discovered very similar organisms in Ambassador R’ondd’s breathing apparatus and oesophageal tracts, which absorbed the air before it could reach his pulmonary sacs.’

  The Queen quickly recomposed herself, and added, ‘Leaving aside the outrageousness of such experiments, why would anyone contrive such a bizarre method of committing murder? It is utterly outlandish!’

  Blackwood was about to agree, but before he could do so, Voronezh spoke up again. ‘Psychological warfare,’ he said.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’ said Blackwood.

  Voronezh began to pace back and forth across the carpet, his thin arms clasped behind his back, his long legs moving in a strangely elegant way which reminded Blackwood of the motion of the Martian tripods. ‘Allow me to explain,’ he said. ‘There are certain things of which we Martians are profoundly afraid; I suppose that you might call them phobias, pathological terrors which afflict all of us, haunting
our racial memory at a deep, primordial level. We have tried to rid ourselves of these fears through various means – psychological and chemical – but they are tenacious, drawing on the strength of accumulated ages, and they will not leave us. One of those fears is that of parasitic infestation...’

  Voronezh hesitated, as if he were finding it difficult to speak of this. ‘Do please go on,’ said Blackwood, fascinated. This was a side of Martians he had never seen before; they seemed so coolly and calmly logical in their thoughts and actions that the thought of their being subject to an irrational fear of any kind was shocking.

  ‘Our scientific research has caused us to conclude that every inhabited world undergoes periods of natural upheaval, during which great extinctions occur. On your own Earth, this has happened several times – to the great saurians which once roamed its primeval forests, for example. Similar extinctions have occurred on our world also, one of which nearly destroyed our entire race.’

  ‘When did this happen?’ Blackwood asked.

  ‘A long time ago: many hundreds of thousands of your years. But the memory of those dreadful times is with us still, dwelling like some horrible canker in the depths of our psyches. It was a plague, caused by microscopic larvae which descended upon the surface of our world from the depths of the Æther, and which, once inhaled, grew to maturity within our bodies. I will not describe the symptoms of that affliction, or the manner of the death which was the inescapable outcome of infection. I will say only that our race was all but decimated: our archaeologists estimate that upwards of ninety-five percent of our people perished.’