The Martian Ambassador

by Alan K Baker

  The passengers entered through the main hatch behind the gimbals, and Blackwood and Sophia followed them through and onto E Deck, the lowest level, which contained the control room and various items of electrical equipment pertaining to the running of the vehicle. They then climbed a wide spiral staircase, ascending through D Deck, which was given over to luggage storage, and then C and B Decks, which contained third and second class accommodation respectively, before terminating on A Deck, which contained the first class seating, restaurant and observation gallery.

  Blackwood would quite happily have settled into his seat and not moved for the duration of the journey, but he took note of Sophia’s expression and suggested that they observe their departure through the wide promenade windows at the front of the cabin. She readily agreed, and they walked past the restaurant section, in which a couple of liveried waiters were flitting between tables, laying out cutlery ready for lunch.

  As they stood looking out at the rooftops around Paddington, they heard a faint hum from somewhere far below in the depths of the vehicle, which rose steadily in pitch until it was a faint but continuous whine. They both took hold of the brass railing beneath the windows as the floor lurched slightly, and Sophia gave a small gasp as the vast metal legs to the left and right of the observation gallery slowly unfolded, dropping out of view as the great walking machine rose upon them.

  ‘It’s like being in an airship that is somehow alive,’ whispered Sophia, as she looked down upon streets and buildings that rapidly diminished in size until they looked like a child’s toys.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Blackwood, as the machine moved off from the station, its rubber-shod feet treading with uncanny delicacy along the shallow trenches of the omnibus lanes, with a barely audible WHUMP... WHUMP.

  ‘Have you ever been to Mars, Thomas?’ Sophia asked, her eyes now fixed upon the horizon.

  ‘No, although I must confess that I am tempted to make a trip there one of these days. Have you?’

  She shook her head. ‘Although, I also would like to go. One can barely imagine the wonders to be discovered there.’ Her gaze drifted up towards the sky. ‘And one wonders how many other worlds are inhabited... out there in the Æther, and what their inhabitants are like.’

  ‘It’s an intriguing question,’ Blackwood conceded, noting once more the strange, dreamy quality in his companion’s voice. ‘There may well be many inhabited worlds out there in the dark depths of the firmament. After all, our own Solar System possesses two...’

  ‘Only two?’ Sophia murmured.

  ‘I beg your pardon, my dear?’

  She smiled at him, but the expression was small, sad and somehow cryptic. ‘Nothing. Shall we take luncheon?’

  They entered the restaurant section, where a few other first class passengers were already seated, and were shown to a table by a waiter. Hanging from the curved ceiling above them, a small chandelier tinkled faintly and swayed almost imperceptibly as the walking machine strode across southwest London.

  As Blackwood and Sophia perused the menu, a large, horn-shaped loudspeaker mounted above the forward observation window crackled to life, and a voice said, ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome aboard the 12.45 West Country omnibus to Plymouth. I am Captain Gordon Cavendish, and my co-pilot is Lieutenant Duncan Broadbent. We shall be calling at Woking, Basingstoke, Andover, Warminster, Glastonbury, Taunton, Tiverton and Launceston, before reaching Plymouth at 3.15 this afternoon. We do hope you will enjoy your journey with us. Thank you.’

  A waiter approached with a bottle of mineral water, which he opened and poured for them both. ‘Are sir and madam ready to order?’ he asked.

  ‘I think I’ll have the Indian Omelette,’ said Sophia. Blackwood glanced at her, and felt the blood draining from his face.

  She returned his look, and frowned. ‘Thomas... are you all right?’

  ‘Yes... yes, I’m fine,’ he replied. Oh God, he thought. Eggs!

  ‘And sir’s choice?’ said the waiter.

  ‘I, er, I’ll have the lemon sole. And a bottle of your best white wine, whatever it is.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the waiter, and left.

  ‘Are you quite sure you’re all right?’ Sophia persisted, her frown deepening into genuine concern. ‘You have gone quite pale.’

  ‘A very slight case of motion sickness. I get it sometimes on trains and walking machines. Please do not be concerned; it will pass.’

  Blackwood decided to try to take his mind away from what was being prepared in the kitchen. ‘Tell me, Sophia: how did you become involved with the Society for Psychical Research?’

  ‘I joined the Society five years ago, at the invitation of the President, Sir William Crookes, who is a great friend to the Harrington family.’

  ‘I know Sir William; he is a fine man and a brilliant scientist.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And so, in five years, you have risen to become the Society’s Secretary. A most impressive achievement. I was under the impression, however, that Dr Henry Armistead was Secretary...’

  ‘Dr Armistead left a few months ago to pursue a lecturing opportunity at Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island. Sir William did me the honour of offering the vacant position to me.’

  ‘I see,’ Blackwood replied, regarding her carefully.

  Sophia returned his gaze, and again offered that small, cryptic smile. ‘Let me guess: you are finding it difficult to believe that a woman of my tender years should rise so quickly through the ranks of such an august institution as the SPR, even under the patronage of its President.’

  Blackwood gave an embarrassed laugh. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have put it in so many words, myself...’

  ‘It is a reasonable question,’ Sophia replied levelly, ‘and since we are to be working together, I believe it deserves a reasonable and truthful response, and so I shall tell you a little of my history. How much do you know of the Harrington family?’

  ‘I was aware of the name, of course, but beyond that, I’m afraid I must admit to almost total ignorance – although I naturally read of the mysterious disappearance of Lord Percival Harrington some ten years ago.’

  Sophia nodded. ‘He was my father. A natural explorer and hunter, his fascination with the world and curiosity as to its remotest locations consumed him, and it directed the course of his entire life. I inherited that love of strange and distant places, and by the time I was eighteen, I had accompanied him on numerous safaris in Africa and India and had become passably acquainted with the singular lands of the Far East.’

  ‘Did your mother accompany you on these excursions?’ asked Blackwood.

  Sophia took a sip of her water. ‘Although my parents were devoted to each other, my mother never shared this wanderlust, and so she remained on the estate while my father and I were off on our various travels.’ She smiled. ‘Never once did Mama begrudge us our interests, and when we returned, she would always ply us for stories of our experiences in far regions.

  ‘However, as time passed, I began to grow weary of oppressive heat, of sand and dust and tropical forests. I have always loved the snows of winter in England, its deep frosts, the immaculate stillness of its coldest mornings when the very world seems carved in alabaster, and I suggested to my father that I should like to explore the pristine lands of the Arctic north. He readily agreed and straight away began to make arrangements for a hunting trip to the Canadian wilderness, which he himself had not visited for many years.

  ‘We set sail on my eighteenth birthday. I still recall the excitement I felt at the thought of pitting myself against the implacable, frozen world that awaited us.’ Sophia hesitated as the memories returned, and Blackwood was struck by the expression of profound sadness that had crept upon her features. ‘Little did I know how implacable that strange world would turn out to be.’ She stopped again and took another sip of water, and Blackwood had the impression that she would much rather be drinking something a little stronger at that moment.

 
The waiter arrived with the wine, and Blackwood thanked him and waved him away before he could pour it. He filled their wine glasses himself as he said to her, ‘That was when your father disappeared.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sophia, I promise you I will understand if you do not wish to speak of this further. I hadn’t intended for you to revisit the pain of earlier years...’

  She took a long sip of wine before replying, ‘It’s quite all right, Thomas. I have gone over the horrors of that journey so many times in my mind since then... to describe them to you will place little further strain upon me. And somehow...’ She gave him a strange look. ‘Somehow it feels appropriate that I should tell you.’

  Blackwood inclined his head slightly. ‘In that case, please do go on, my dear.’

  ‘We had been in the depths of the forest for three days, along with our two guides – men of rough manners but good character, who had been recommended to my father for their knowledge of woodcraft and bush-lore. One of them was a Canuck, a native of the Province of Quebec, who possessed a profoundly superstitious frame of mind. In spite of the season, the hunting was not good, and try as we might, we could not come upon a single moose trail. Our Canuck guide claimed to know the reason, and it was only with the greatest insistence that my father was able to drag an explanation from him, although the explanation, when it came, was more problematical than the scarcity of moose which had inspired it.

  ‘The Canuck claimed that the animals had been driven away by the presence in the forest of something abnormal and unholy, something incomprehensible to human thought, which had ventured forth from its own mysterious and horrible realm to trouble this frozen world. He added that, had it not been for the handsome remuneration my father had offered, which would see him and his poor family in good order for many months to come, he would not have ventured into the wilderness on this occasion – for he had begun to suspect the presence of this monstrous thing as soon as the forest closed about us on the first day.

  ‘Both my father and the other guide laughed at this and dismissed it as no more than quaint legend. This angered the Canuck, and he declared that the wilderness was no place for a woman, and that my father would be well-advised to take me back to the comforts of our grand house in England, where I belonged.’

  Although he refrained from saying as much, Blackwood found himself in agreement with this sentiment and wondered to himself what could have possessed Lord Percival to place his daughter in the path of such peril, supernatural or otherwise.

  Sophia herself answered the question for him. ‘My father declared indignantly that I was fully the equal in courage and ability of any boy my age. “My daughter,” he said, “has looked into the eyes of charging tigers and brought them down with a single shot. She will meet any challenge this forest of yours can present to her, and she will prevail!”’

  ‘He was clearly very proud of you,’ said Blackwood.

  Sophia was about to reply, but she fell silent as the waiter approached with their lunch. He placed their plates before them, gave a slight bow and withdrew.

  Blackwood’s lemon sole smelled delicious, but his attention was exercised far more by Sophia’s Indian Omelette. It mattered little to him that most other people might have looked favourably at the tomatoes, chopped green chillis and coriander which made up the main flavors of the dish; however, the fluffy yellow mass of beaten eggs made Blackwood’s flesh crawl and his breath catch in his throat, and he would have fled from the restaurant and the first class cabin and hidden amongst the luggage on D Deck if he could have done so without arousing the alarm of the haunted young woman sitting opposite him.

  Sophia breathed in the aroma and smiled, clearly grateful for this momentary respite from the terrible memories she had been revisiting. ‘I developed a taste for this while on safari in India,’ she said. ‘It’s a most interesting and unusual variation on the traditional recipe. Would you care to try some, Thomas?’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ he replied between two large gulps of wine, trying to banish his own hideous memories. Calm yourself! he thought. It’s in the past. The Cosmic Spheres are gone – never to return, if there be any mercy in the universe!

  Sophia ate in silence, while Blackwood half-heartedly prodded at his fish, taking the occasional small bite. His appetite had completely deserted him, and he found his attention seeking escape towards the promenade windows and the seating aft of the restaurant. Thankfully, Sophia didn’t notice, or if she did, she chose not to comment.

  Presently, she laid down her knife and fork. ‘That was rather good – although not quite enough chilli. But then, I suppose care must be taken with the parochial English palate.’

  ‘Indeed. Would you care for dessert?’

  ‘No, thank you. Coffee will suffice, I think.’

  Blackwood ordered coffee for them, and breathed a sigh of relief when the waiter took their plates.

  ‘Yes, my father was very proud of me,’ Sophia continued, as if no interruption had occurred. ‘And my heart swelled at the thought of it, and I resolved to be worthy of his praise. I resolved to be the first to bag a moose.’ She gave a small, bitter laugh. ‘Had I but known that we were not the hunters in that God-forsaken forest, but the hunted!’

  ‘Hunted?’ said Blackwood. ‘By what, or by whom?’

  ‘By the thing of which the Canuck spoke... for he was right: the forest did contain something ungodly and awful...’

  ‘Forgive me, Sophia,’ said Blackwood, leaning forward. ‘But it sounds to me like you are speaking of the Wendigo.’

  Sophia visibly shuddered at the word, and Blackwood reached out and took her trembling hands in his. ‘You’ve heard of it?’ she whispered.

  ‘Cogitators may not be my speciality... but I do know something of the abnormal and supernatural. My line of work, you understand.’

  ‘Then you know what it is... the thing that rides the night wind in far, cold hinterlands. You know that the American Indian tribes of the north know it and fear it, that it is an evil, cannibalistic spirit, a skeletal apparition whose desiccated skin is like cracked parchment, and that the smell of death and decay hangs upon it like a cloak of corruption. You know these things,’ Sophia said, fixing Blackwood with her agonised gaze, ‘and I know them too: for the Wendigo came for us while we were in that forest. It dragged my father, kicking and screaming, out of our tent one night, and I heard his anguished cries fading into the night sky above our camp. I never saw him again.’

  ‘Good God,’ whispered Blackwood. ‘How did you escape?’

  ‘Our two guides took me and dragged me bodily from the camp, even as I screamed my father’s name again and again into the night. We fled back along the trail we had followed, for two days and two nights, the Canuck leading us. And through each of those two nights, my protectors watched over me, shunning sleep, ever alert for the approach of the monster. I owe them my life, for their roughness of demeanour could not hide their decency and stoutness of heart. On the third day, we reached civilisation and raised the alarm. A search party of volunteers was assembled in short order and headed off into the forest to look for my father... but no trace of him was ever found.’

  Blackwood gazed at her in silence. He could think of nothing useful to say.

  ‘Upon my return to England, I fell into such a state of despair that our friends and relatives feared for my sanity. It was my mother who saved me – ironically, you might think – for so utterly heartbroken was she by the loss of her beloved husband that she underwent a sudden and terrible decline in health, and I realised that it was up to me to pull both of us through that awful period.’

  ‘Which you did,’ said Blackwood.

  ‘Yes. Gradually, my mother and I recovered, with the help and support of our family, and friends such as Sir William Crookes. He was the only one with whom I felt able to discuss what had really happened to my father, and it was he who supported me in my resultant desire to study the supernatural.’

  Blackwood was shock
ed by this. ‘One would have thought that after such a tragic and ghastly experience, you would never again want to hear the word “supernatural”, much less study it.’

  ‘Oh, but I did! I wanted to know its ways and the means by which it interacts with our world. I wanted to seek out the darkness, to do battle with it and defeat it, and I wanted also to seek out the light, to learn from it and gain strength from it – for as I’m sure you know, the realms of the supernatural contain much that is good, as well as much that is wicked and destructive.’

  ‘True enough,’ Blackwood nodded.

  ‘And so this is what brought me to the Society for Psychical Research, the institution which is allowing me to fulfil my vocation. With my permission, Sir William shared my experience with certain other key members, and they had no objections to my becoming Secretary.’

  ‘And well they might not!’ declared Blackwood. ‘For I have no doubt that you are a great asset to the organisation. You have already proved your qualities to me, for otherwise I would have been carted off to the madhouse by now!’

  Sophia lowered her eyes. ‘You are kind to say so, Thomas.’

  Kindness has nothing to do with it, thought Blackwood. With a woman like this by my side, and the little chap from Faerie helping out as well... why, we’ll get to the bottom of this caper in no time!

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  At Fyne Court

  The omnibus arrived at Taunton a little after half past two. With a hiss of hydraulics and a bell-like clang of moving metal, its great piston-driven legs folded up, and the hull settled toward the station’s platform. Blackwood and Sophia were already at the main hatch on E Deck, and they waited patiently as the gangway was wheeled into position by a trio of station porters.