by Alan K Baker
Blackwood walked across the marble floor and came to a halt before the desk. Even though the Martian was sitting down, his large head, which presented aspects of the avian and reptilian in equal measure, was on a level with Blackwood’s.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said the Martian.
‘Good morning.’ Blackwood withdrew his calling card and placed it on the strangely-patterned surface of the desk. ‘I am investigating the death of Ambassador R’ondd on behalf of Her Majesty’s Government, and I wonder if it would be possible to speak with Mr Petrox Voronezh.’
The Martian lowered his huge, dark eyes to the card and regarded it in silence for several moments, as if trying to decipher the characters printed upon it. Then, suddenly, a piercing twitter escaped from the speaker grille set into the burnished neck ring of his breathing apparatus. Blackwood winced as the Martian language stabbed at his eardrums.
Almost immediately, another Martian appeared in a nearby doorway and ambled across the floor towards them. A brief exchange ensued in their bizarre, chirruping language, after which the new arrival took the calling card and vanished once again through the door.
‘If you would care to take a seat, Mr Blackwood,’ said the Martian behind the reception desk, ‘my colleague will inform Petrox Voronezh of your desire to speak with him.’
‘Thank you.’ Blackwood glanced around at the Chesterfield standing against the wall to his left and sat himself down. While he waited, he allowed his mind to turn over the various aspects of the case which he and Sophia had so far uncovered. As was his habit, he thought in brief phrases, examining each in turn, much in the manner of an antiquary browsing amongst curious artefacts:
Ambassador murdered by means of artificial life forms… Andrew Crosse, their creator, visited by a strange man calling himself Indrid Cold… who may be Spring-Heeled Jack… apparently from Venus… takes a sample of the creatures… somehow introduces them into R’ondd’s breathing apparatus… how does he do that? Past Martian security? Unlikely.
A Venusian attacking people in London… the heart of the Empire… shouting ‘Mars will triumph!’… to what purpose? Is he in the employ of the Martians? Again… why? If they wanted to attack us, why not simply do so? Unless such an attack would be considered an outrage by the majority of the Martian people. An excuse, then: an agent provocateur to sow seeds of mistrust and hatred between the two species.
They know we’re building new Æther zeppelins with a range sufficient to reach Mars. Do they want that? At the moment, we have to request passage on their cylinders if we want to go to Mars… that will soon change. Is that enough to make them want to destroy us? Is the forging of economic and cultural relations between our two worlds nothing more than a ruse, a means by which they can learn of our strengths and weaknesses? Perhaps… but what the deuce is the Venus connection?
Blackwood’s thoughts were interrupted by the return of the Martian who had taken his card and who now stood towering above him. ‘Petrox Voronezh will see you now, Mr Blackwood,’ he said.
Blackwood got to his feet. ‘Thank you.’
As they crossed the foyer, the Martian said, ‘Have you ever been in our environment?’
Somewhat taken aback by the question, Blackwood shook his head. ‘No… no, I have not.’ He had expected Voronezh to don breathing apparatus and meet him in the atmosphere of Earth, as a courtesy. He was slightly irritated that the opposite was apparently the case. And yet, he supposed, this was Martian territory… When in Rome, he thought, philosophically.
It was only when he followed his guide through the door from which he had originally appeared that Blackwood realised the reason for this apparent incivility. The room in which he found himself was unremarkable save for the rows of breathing apparatuses hanging upon one wall, like the disembodied heads of weird automata, and the large, circular metal door which dominated the far wall.
An airlock, Blackwood thought. Of course! The entire building must be given over to the Martian atmosphere. The rooms must be hermetically sealed to preserve the correct proportion of gases. Voronezh isn’t being discourteous in bidding me enter the Embassy-proper – quite the opposite, in fact! It would have been impolite – not to mention indiscreet – to hold a conversation in the foyer.
Blackwood’s guide selected one of the smaller items of headgear and turned to him. ‘If you will allow me, sir…’
‘Of course.’
The Martian placed the bulbous helmet of the breathing apparatus over Blackwood’s head and helped him into the harness supporting the air tanks. ‘We keep several of these smaller types,’ he explained as he began to manipulate knobs and switches beyond Blackwood’s field of view, ‘for humans visiting the Embassy. The tanks contain gases in the correct Earthly proportions, for a maximum duration of four hours.’
‘I see,’ said Blackwood. He was about to say more but was surprised into silence by the curious – and rather unpleasant – sensation of something pliable and slightly damp closing around his neck. ‘Ugh!’ he said.
‘Please do not be alarmed,’ said the Martian. ‘That is merely the neck ring self-sealing.’
Damned thing feels alive! Blackwood thought, and then he added to himself, Lunan R’ondd died in one of these...
Suppressing a shudder, he followed his guide to the circular metal door, which reminded him somewhat of the entrance to a bank vault. The Martian began to turn the large, five-spoked wheel at the centre of the door, and as he did so, Blackwood heard the faint hiss of well-oiled precision machinery.
The door swung slowly open – Blackwood noted that it was more than a foot thick – and they passed through into a rather smaller chamber whose walls were covered with what looked like air vents. The Martian closed the outer door and went to a wall panel covered with complex-looking levers and dials, from which numerous metal pipes sprouted before disappearing into the floor and ceiling.
There was a loud hiss as the Martian completed his operation, and Blackwood felt goose pimples rise all over his body at the sudden touch of cold, unfamiliar air.
Presently, when the atmosphere of Earth had been replaced with that of Mars, Blackwood’s guide opened the inner airlock door and beckoned him through to another dressing room, where the Martian divested himself of his own breathing apparatus.
To Blackwood, the sight was surprising – shocking, even – for although he knew perfectly well what Martians looked like and had viewed Lunan R’ondd’s body in its dead nakedness, he had never seen a living Martian without his breathing apparatus. Although he hadn’t realised it, the helmets they wore, while affording an unobstructed view of their features, nevertheless acted as a kind of screen or barrier separating them from their environment on a subtle emotional level as well as a crudely physical one. The fact that Blackwood himself was now ensconced within his own apparatus did nothing to lessen the intense impression of alienness which the bare-headed Martian now evoked in him.
The Martian gave him a look which he perceived as strange even for that singular race. What was behind that look? he wondered. Was it due to a sudden sense of vulnerability… or perhaps the opposite?
I am at you mercy…
The thought sprang unbidden into Blackwood’s mind, and he could not banish it, for it struck him as profoundly true: just as the Martians in London were at the heart of the British Empire, so had he entered the heart of their presence on Earth. It was not a comfortable feeling, and it was only exacerbated by the self-sealing neck ring of the breathing apparatus which had closed so powerfully and cloyingly about his neck.
He followed his guide out of the dressing room and into a long corridor containing several doors. Blackwood noted the complete lack of Martian decoration; it might have been a corridor in any large and well-appointed house.
He mentioned this to his guide, who replied, ‘We do not consider corridors to be living spaces; even in our cities, they are rare and are unfurnished and undecorated. However, we are also well aware of our status as guests on your wor
ld, and as such we consider it discourteous to alter the appointment of any rooms, in any houses, which we may use. You will see what I mean when you are in the Assistant’s office.’
Blackwood tried to shrug, but it was no easy feat in the contraption he was wearing, and so he simply nodded and followed his guide to the end of the corridor, where the Martian chirruped loudly at a wide double door. An answering chirrup came immediately, and the Martian opened the door. ‘Please go in,’ he said and then, turning on his heels, started off down the corridor.
As soon as he stepped into Petrox Voronezh’s office, Blackwood understood what his guide had meant with his brief explanation of Martian decorative practices while on Earth. The room was tastefully furnished with a number of very fine pieces, and the intricately-patterned rug covering the parquet floor was evidently of Turkish provenance. Such was the elegance and harmony of the furnishings that Blackwood assumed that the choices must have been made by humans, perhaps at the behest of the building’s interplanetary residents.
And yet, the room also contained a number of exceedingly tall screens, some of which reached right up to the ceiling fifteen feet above Blackwood’s head. These screens, which were arranged about the room in a haphazard fashion (haphazard, at least, to human eyes), were painted with a variety of Martian scenes, which struck Blackwood as beautiful and outré in equal measure. There were desert scenes rendered in exquisite shades of red and ochre, sunsets of cloud-strewn pink and lilac, canals of glittering azure beneath million-starred night skies, and distant cities filled with pinpoints of light which seemed to flicker as Blackwood looked at them, their light catching and playing upon the strange geometries of the alien buildings.
‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ said Petrox Voronezh, who had risen from his desk and was now approaching Blackwood.
‘Very.’
‘I confess I spend a few minutes every morning simply standing here amid the scenes of my home world. It – what is the English expression? – it sets me up for the day.’
‘You must miss it very much.’
‘I do.’ Voronezh offered Blackwood his hand and then indicated the single chair facing the desk. Blackwood noted that the desk was made of the same curious stone as the one in the foyer. He also noted that the cogitator which sat upon it was of a Martian design which appeared to operate on completely different principles to Earthly machines. In fact, there was only a complex keyboard and a scrying glass; of the cogitator itself, there was no sign.
‘May I ask what type of stone this is?’ asked Blackwood as he took the proffered chair.
‘Its name translates to English as World Mind Stone,’ replied Voronezh. ‘A rather clumsy phrase, I admit, but then, if you will forgive me for saying so, English is a rather clumsy language.’
‘World Mind Stone,’ Blackwood echoed, ignoring the slight.
‘We believe that our world is a conscious being and that its awareness is concentrated in certain minerals, including this.’ Voronezh gently laid a long-fingered hand upon the polished surface of the desk. ‘It gives us comfort to bring it with us when we visit other worlds.’
Other worlds, thought Blackwood. Plural. Interesting. ‘Certain humans have similar beliefs,’ he replied. ‘The shamanic cultures of the Americas and the Far East believe that everything has a soul, including animals, trees, rocks…’
‘I did not say “soul”, Mr Blackwood: I said “awareness”.’
‘Is there a difference?’
The Martian responded with a curious expression, which Blackwood took to be a smile. ‘Why do you wish to see me? Have you made any further progress in your investigation?’
‘Indeed we have. Tell me, have you read this morning’s papers?’
Voronezh nodded.
‘Then you will be aware of the attacks perpetrated by the creature known as Spring-Heeled Jack across London last night, and what he is reported to have said to the witnesses.’
The Martian gave another nod – albeit a more tentative one, Blackwood thought.
‘Do you have any idea what he could have meant by that?’ the Investigator asked.
‘None whatsoever,’ came the reply.
‘I see. Are you similarly unaware that this creature comes from the planet Venus?’
Voronezh blinked at him. ‘How do you know that?’
Blackwood smiled. ‘The details are unimportant, Mr Voronezh, but we do know.’
Voronezh stood up and went to a nearby table, on which stood a large, bulbous decanter fashioned in a highly unusual shape, as if the glass had been blown from several different directions at once. He poured a pale blue liquid into an equally bizarre tumbler and sipped it contemplatively.
Playing for time, Blackwood thought. He knows more than he’s letting on. ‘We were unaware of any intelligent life on Venus,’ he said. ‘Were you?’
Voronezh sighed. ‘Yes, Mr Blackwood. We are well aware of what lives on Venus.’
‘It’s been only six years since contact was established between our two worlds,’ said Blackwood. ‘And in that short time, we have already begun to forge strong links – scientific and cultural.’
Voronezh gave a brief nod.
‘One would think that the existence of a third civilisation in the solar system is of such significance that you would have shared the knowledge with us more or less straight away. May I ask why you haven’t?’
Petrox Voronezh drained his glass and replaced it carefully on the table. He turned to Blackwood. ‘We kept the knowledge from you to protect you.’
‘Protect us?’
‘From the terrible things which inhabit that sad and dying world.’
‘Hostile intelligences?’
Voronezh sat down at his desk. ‘You said that the details of how you came by this knowledge are unimportant, Mr Blackwood, but I would appreciate it if you would tell me, nevertheless.’
‘Very well. My colleague, Lady Sophia Harrington, has been investigating the attacks perpetrated by Spring-Heeled Jack. While interviewing a family who had recently encountered him, she discovered a fragment of metal, which had apparently broken off from one of his talons. That fragment has been analysed by chemists and psychometrists at the Society for Psychical Research, and it has been established beyond all reasonable doubt that it comes from Venus.’
‘I see.’
‘I therefore believe it to be vitally important that we learn all we can of that world and its inhabitants.’
Voronezh considered this for several moments. ‘Very well,’ he said presently. ‘I will tell you something of Venus. As I said, it is a dying world. Once, in ages long past, it was a kind of paradise: verdant and warm, with lush forests in the northern and southern latitudes, and thick jungles in the equatorial regions. Life was abundant there – all manner of life. Its skies were painted with the thousand-hued plumages of great birds, and its vast oceans glittered with a countless myriad fishes, their scales catching the rays of the sun like living jewels, making the water alive with light and movement.
‘On the land, great civilisations rose and fell with the passing of millennia – much like on your world and mine. Gradually, the people of Venus developed technologies of greater and greater power: they were confident and industrious – one is bound to say too much so, for they saw their world, in all its beauty and magnificent abundance, as nothing more than a resource to be used as they saw fit. They had great intelligence, but they were also prey to great foolishness.’
Blackwood nodded, thinking of the words one of the psychometrists had used. ‘Rich in ability, but poor in wisdom,’ he said.
‘Precisely.’
‘And their industry grew out of control, until it had consumed their world’s resources, tainting its air and poisoning its soil.’
Voronezh nodded. ‘They made a desolation and called it Progress.’
‘Are there many of them left?’
‘At its height, the planetary civilisation of Venus numbered in excess of nine thousand million, but
their numbers are vastly reduced. We estimate there can’t be much more than a thousand million left, living at the poles, which are still tolerably cool, and in deep valleys and gorges…’
‘And in subterranean caverns,’ said Blackwood.
‘Yes. Their civilisation is in ruins, but their intelligence remains, as does their arrogance and acquisitiveness. You may think me callous to speak in such terms, but an animal is most dangerous when it is under threat… and the Venusians are threatened with extinction. They have damaged their world to such an extent that it will soon kill all who remain. Every year, the atmosphere grows hotter, as if Venus itself has sought collaboration with the Sun to rid itself of its children, who have turned against it.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Blackwood. ‘Have Martians visited Venus?’
Voronezh nodded.
‘Haven’t you tried to help them? You have technological expertise and wisdom. Didn’t you try to…?’
Voronezh held up his hand. ‘Yes, Mr Blackwood, we tried. Our first exploratory cylinders reached Venus decades ago. They were met with a hostility that has not diminished in the intervening years, in spite of our efforts to forge diplomatic relations. We tried to offer them our guidance in rebuilding their world and their civilisation – perhaps that was arrogance on our part, but it was born of the most benign intentions. Our overtures were rebuffed in quite unequivocal terms. They saw our desire to help as mere condescension, perhaps masking colonial ambitions, and they threatened death to any Martian who set foot on Venus again.’
Blackwood considered this in silence. Assuming that Petrox Voronezh was telling the truth, he felt rather guilty at having suspected the Martians of underhand dealings. It was the Venusians who were up to something – and something pretty serious at that.
He thanked Voronezh for his candour and added, ‘All of this brings us to the present question: why is there a Venusian on Earth? What’s he up to?’
