The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(144)

From where I was standing, struggling not to be trampled by the swarm of people fighting their way past the barricade of coaches, I could see the Martian machine trap Shackleton against a massive edifice, no doubt an administrative building, with a splendid neoclassical frontage and half a dozen elegant pillared archways. Together with the handful of onlookers who had stopped in their tracks to observe the apparently suicidal actions of a madman, I saw the captain contemplate the tentacle’s cobralike dance, seemingly paralyzed with fear. The limb stopped moving a few yards from Shackleton, dangling in the air, before it aimed at him. The captain was a dead man, I thought, but suddenly Shackleton overcame his paralysis, hurling himself to one side, so that the ray struck the pillar behind him, producing a shower of lethal debris that scattered in all directions. The destruction of the pillar caused the front of the building to rock and a maze of cracks to spread across its fa?ade. Through a veil of dust I saw the captain scramble to his feet, but the Martian at the controls of the machine wasn’t ready to give up. Steadying itself on its long legs, the tripod launched another tongue of fire, forcing the captain to fling himself to the ground once more. The ray struck a second pillar, throwing up another fountain of debris.

Quick as a flash, Shackleton was again on his feet, and I saw him running as far away as he could from the tripod. The tentacle tried again to strike Shackleton with its ray, slicing through the remaining columns of the building like a scythe felling weeds, but still failed to hit its elusive prey. Having lost several of its sustaining columns, the building began to crumple forward with a deafening crack. Shackleton came to a halt beneath the last archway but could scarcely do more than watch as the huge building collapsed on top of him. Before the tripod had time to realize what was going on, an avalanche of rubble fell on top of it, jolting it violently. The tentacle thrashed around in the air, its heat ray sweeping the street and slicing through the fronts of the adjoining buildings.

This sudden, random destruction sent down a torrent of stones, bricks, and every imaginable type of architectural ornamentation, which landed on us from every direction. Not all of us were able to shield ourselves from the onslaught. Harold and I managed to take shelter behind our carriage, which only shook violently, but some of the nearby vehicles were not so lucky: we looked on appalled as a massive gargoyle plummeted from the sky onto the roof of one of them, crushing its occupants, a terrified couple who scarcely had time to grasp each other’s hand. The cascade was brutal but short-lived, and when it was over, a sudden deathly hush descended, broken only by the relentless bells.

Spluttering, I peered through the thick cloud of dust filling the street. As it cleared, the few of us who had survived discovered with relief that our lives were no longer threatened by the Martian: the tripod had vanished beneath a pile of rubble, but alas so had Captain Shackleton. Alarmed, I contemplated the immense dusty tomb from which two of the tripod’s legs were poking out. There lies the future savior of the human race, I said to myself, with a mixture of sadness and bewilderment, unsure what to think of this unexpected occurrence, which had once again confounded my thinking. As tolling bells and distant explosions shook the sky above our heads, someone suggested a prayer, but most of us were too shocked to respond. Suddenly, we heard the scraping sound of a stone being dislodged at the top of the mound. We all stared in bewilderment as the rubble began to stir, terrified the tripod was trying to raise itself up, but the two legs remained motionless. After the first stone, two more tumbled down, then several in quick succession, until a small avalanche of rubble began sliding down one side of the mound. Then a hand pushed a huge stone aside, sending it rolling slowly to the ground. After that, an arm appeared, and finally, as though emerging with difficulty from a stony womb, we saw Shackleton climb out, miraculously unscathed. I gazed at him with a mixture of joy and disbelief. God be praised . . . this was impossible. He was alive! After a few moments of stunned silence, the small crowd of onlookers began cheering, and several of us approached the mound. When I looked beneath the surface of the debris, I saw immediately what had saved the captain from certain death: the archway had formed a kind of shell around him. There, protected like a baby bird in a nest, he had withstood the building’s collapse.

Shackleton greeted us awkwardly from atop the pile of rubble, then he clambered down timidly, brushing the dust off his suit. He walked somewhat unsteadily toward the carriage, followed by a group of admirers who insisted on shaking his hand and even clapping him enthusiastically on the back. When he finally reached the coach, he climbed aboard, bade farewell to his admirers with a dusty wave of his hand, and sat down stiffly in his seat, ready to resume our journey. I sat beside him, brimming with admiration, if slightly ashamed of myself for what I had thought of him. How could I have considered for a moment that he would leave us to our fate? Nothing could have been further from the truth. While we were all desperately running away, Shackleton had judged the situation with his mind of the future: he had grasped the tripod’s vulnerability; he had surveyed the street; he had analyzed the surrounding buildings with a cursory glance and had positioned himself in front of one resting on half a dozen arches, which if destroyed by the heat ray would cause the building to collapse; and finally, he had considered the possibility of sheltering beneath one of those arches. He had the courage necessary to carry out a daring plan he had elaborated in a matter of seconds, a plan that demanded he risk his life to save ours, without a moment’s hesitation, displaying great mental as well as physical agility, for what I had initially thought was a clumsy way of rolling on the ground, I now realized were the deliberate movements of a panther.