The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(12)
Needless to say Wells was not ready, but he nodded and swallowed hard. Then, with exasperating slowness and a conspiratorial air, Serviss began lifting the lid, which let out a blast of icy vapor. When at last it was open, Serviss stood back to allow Wells to look inside. With gritted teeth, Wells leaned gingerly over the edge. For a few moments, he could not understand what the devil he was seeing, for the thing in front of him resisted any known form of biological classification. Unable to describe the indescribable, in his novel Wells had placed the Martians somewhere on the spectrum between amoebas and reptiles. He had depicted them as slimy, amorphous lumps, loosely related to the octopus family and thus intelligible to the human mind. But the strange creature in the coffin defied his attempts to classify it, or to use familiar words to describe it—which, by definition, was impossible. All the same, Wells endeavored to do so, aware that however precise he aimed to be, his portrayal of that creature’s appearance would be nowhere near the truth. The Martian had a greyish hue, reminiscent of a moth, although darker in places. He must have been at least ten feet tall, and his body was long and thin, like an evening shadow. He was encased in a kind of skinlike membrane, which appeared to be part of his structure. This sprouted from his shoulders, covering his body down to the tops of his slender legs, which were made of three segments, like a praying mantis. His equally slender upper limbs also poked out from beneath the mantle, ending in what looked to Wells like a pair of sharp spikes. But the most remarkable thing of all was the Martian’s head, which seemed to be tucked inside a hood of the same textured cartilaginous skin as the mantle. Although it was scarcely visible among the enveloping folds, Wells could make out a triangular shape, devoid, of course, of any recognizable features, except for a couple of slits, possibly the eyes. The presumed face was dark and terrifying and covered in protrusions. He thought he saw a thick cluster of cilia around the creature’s jaw, from which emerged a kind of proboscis, like that of a fly, which now lay inert along his long throat. Naturally, the Martian looked nothing like how he remembered the phantasmagoric Spring-Heeled Jack, Wells thought. Unable to stop himself, he reached over and stroked one of the Martian’s arms, curious to know what the incredibly alien skin felt like. Yet he could not tell whether it was smooth or rough, moist or dry, repulsive or pleasant. Strange as it seemed, it was all those things at once. But at least he could be sure of one thing, Wells thought: judging from his expressionless face and lifeless eyes, the terrifying creature was dead.
“All right, George, it’s time for us to get out of here now,” Serviss announced, closing the casket lid. “It won’t do to stay here too long.”
Wells nodded, still a little light-headed, and took care to avoid knocking over any of the wondrous objects as he followed Serviss toward the door.
“Remember everything you’ve seen, George,” Serviss recommended, “and whether you believe these marvels are real or fake, depending on your intellectual daring, never mention this room to anyone you wouldn’t trust with your life.”
Serviss opened the door and, after making sure the coast was clear, told Wells to step outside. They walked through the interminable corridors of the basement until they finally emerged on the ground floor. There they slipped in among the crowd, unaware that beneath their unsteady feet, inside the wooden casket, the skin of the creature from the stars was absorbing the drops of blood Wells had left on its arm. Like a clay figure dissolving in the rain, his shape began to change, taking on the appearance of an extraordinarily thin, pale, youngish man with a birdlike face, identical to the one who at that very moment was leaving the museum like an ordinary visitor.
? ? ?
ONCE OUTSIDE, SERVISS SUGGESTED to Wells that they dine together, but Wells refused, claiming the journey back to Worcester Park was a long one and he would prefer to set off as soon as possible. He had already gathered that meals with Serviss were conspicuous by their lack of food, and he felt too inebriated to go on drinking. Besides, he was keen to be alone so that he could reflect calmly about everything he had seen. They bade each other farewell, with a vague promise of meeting again the next time Serviss was in London, and Wells flagged down the first cab he saw. Once inside, after giving the driver the address, he tried to clear his mind and reflect on the day’s astonishing events, but he was too drowsy from drink and soon fell asleep.
And as the eyes of that somnolent, light-headed Wells closed, inside a casket in the basement of the Natural History Museum, those of another Wells opened.
II
FROM THE LOOK OF ASTONISHMENT ON YOUR faces, I can tell you are wondering what really happened to the Annawan and her crew at the South Pole. Is the Martian in the Chamber of Marvels really alive? Is our world threatened by a strange and sinister danger? It will give me the greatest pleasure to provide you with the answers as we go along, but in order to so in a proper, orderly fashion, I ought to go back in time to the very beginning of this tale. Since I have to begin somewhere, I think it would be best to travel back in time and place to the year of our Lord 1830 and the frozen wasteland of the Antarctic. As you will recall if you were paying attention to the clippings Wells browsed through in the museum’s basement, that was where the illfated Annawan became icebound, and her valiant crew had the misfortune to be the first to welcome the Martian when it landed on Earth, a role for which undoubtedly none of them was prepared.
Let us repair to the South Pole, then, where we shall see that as the flying machine shaped like a saucer was hurtling through space toward our planet, Jeremiah Reynolds, the leader of the disastrous polar expedition, was examining the ice that had trapped his vessel and wondering how they would get out of there, unaware that this would soon be the very least of his worries. It occurred to the explorer that in all likelihood no other human being had ever set eyes on this place before. He wished he were in love so that he could baptize it in the name of a woman, as was the custom; the sea ice he was standing on, for example, or the distant mountain range to the south, or the bay sweeping away to his right, blurred by snow, or even one of the many icebergs. It was important for the world to see that his heart belonged to someone. But unfortunately, Reynolds had never experienced anything remotely resembling love, and the only name he could have used would be that of Josephine, the wealthy young woman from Baltimore whom he had been courting for several different reasons. And, frankly, he could not imagine saying to her as they took tea under her mother’s watchful gaze, “Incidentally, my dear, I have named a continent in the polar circle after you. I hope you are pleased.” No, Josephine would be incapable of appreciating such a gift. Josephine only valued what she could wear on her fingers or around her wrist or neck—provided they were not shackles, of course. What use would she have for a gift she could never see or touch? It was too subtle an offering for someone like her, impervious to subtleties. Stuck there in the middle of the ice, in temperatures under forty degrees below zero, Reynolds made a decision he could never have made anywhere else: he firmly resolved to stop courting Josephine. It was unlikely he would ever return to New York, but if by some miracle he did, he solemnly promised he would only marry a woman sensitive enough to be inspired by having a frozen wasteland in the South Pole named after her. Although, in case fortune failed to smile upon him, his uncompromising pragmatism insisted on adding, it would not be a bad thing if the woman in question had enough money to be able to excuse him for that remote island being all he could offer her.