The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(164)
This was when we realized definitively that judging from their lengthy journey through the eternal night of space, the invaders did not come from Mars, but from a far more remote and unimaginable place. And yet to this day we still had been referring to them as Martians, perhaps out of habit, perhaps because this infantile refusal to recognize our conquerors’ true greatness was a final act of rebellion, or simply because in order for Man to understand horror he has to contain it within familiar, nearby borders. Be that as it may, the word “Martian” represents everything we now fear and detest, and this is why I have used it to refer to them throughout this diary.
But let us return to the office where that pulsating universe revealed that crimson thread extending to the Earth, staining it red. It filled me with a mixture of fear and sorrow, yet, to be honest, what upset me more was a sense of what I can only describe as our cosmic humiliation. There we were on our insignificant planet, caught up in our wars, boasting of our achievements, completely oblivious to the majesty of the Cosmos or the conflicts that convulsed it.
“This is the true Map of the Sky,” Emma said. “I think my great-grandfather would have felt very disappointed.”
“No one could have envisaged it like this, Emma,” Murray hastened to assure her. “Except Mr. Wells, of course.”
“Only you envisaged such a universe, George.” Murray addressed Wells with a hint of derision. “Do you remember the conversation we had two years ago, when I asked you to help me publish my novel? You told me the future I’d described could never exist because it wasn’t credible. I had great difficulty accepting those words, because I longed to be able to imagine what the world would be like in years to come. Yes, I wanted to be a visionary like you, George. But I can tell you now, I don’t envy your ability to—”
“I’d give my right arm to have been wrong, Gilliam,” Wells replied coldly.
“And I’d give my right arm to be able to tell you that Man’s imagination is considered one of the treasures of the universe,” said a voice behind us, mimicking Wells, “but I’d be lying.”
We turned toward the door where a dark shape stood. My companions shuddered as one, like a bush touched by the wind, for we knew this could only be the Envoy, entering the room in an undeniably human guise, just as I had imagined.
“I’m afraid no one but you considers it as such,” he went on, without moving, “which is logical, for you have only yourselves as a reference. Yet the universe is inhabited by many species, which possess all manner of qualities, the majority inconceivable to you, and compared to which I can assure you Man’s imagination isn’t prized sufficiently for its loss to be a source of regret. You ought to travel more.”
We remained silent, not knowing how to respond or whether the Envoy even expected a reply. And although he was still lurking in the shadows, I could see he had chosen to walk around on Earth in the guise of a rather feeble, emaciated-looking fellow. A weakling, to put it bluntly. But something made me uneasy: his voice sounded incredibly familiar.
“Even so, I confess that you, Mr. Wells, possess an imagination far superior to that of most men,” said the Envoy, addressing the author. Then he stepped out of the shadows, at last exposing himself to the lamplight so that we could all see his face. “Or should I say we,” he added.
We gazed with astonishment at the Envoy’s appearance, for it was none other than that of Mr. Wells. Seeing him standing there, hands in pockets, smiling at us with Wells’s familiar good-natured skepticism, we were suddenly confused. Not nearly as confused as the real Wells, of course, who stood staring at his double, pale and rigid as a statue, his face twisted in a grimace. Wells’s amazement was quite understandable, for as the reader will appreciate, he was seeing himself without the aid of a mirror, and from angles a mirror would never reveal. He was seeing himself in three dimensions, gesturing, talking even. He was seeing himself for the first time in his life from the outside, the way others saw him. Wells’s reaction made his reflection laugh.
“I suppose you didn’t expect me to appear before you in the guise of Mr. Wells, given that he’s still alive.” The Envoy contemplated our bewilderment disdainfully. “I, too, was surprised when I discovered that the man whose appearance I had borrowed was asking to see me and had come all the way down here, to our humble refuge in the sewers of London.” The Envoy stroked his whiskers, the way the real Wells sometimes did, and gave a contented smile. “Though by describing them as humble I don’t wish to criticize this network of tunnels running alongside the real sewers, built by our brothers who infiltrated the teams of engineers and laborers of the period. A hidden world, secreted behind the other underground world that lies beneath London. As if your adorable Alice had followed the White Rabbit twice. A mirror behind another mirror, wouldn’t you say? I believe you humans are fond of such ideas and images.”
Wells went on staring at the Envoy with the same contorted look on his face, as though he was about to faint.
“How?” he managed to splutter.
His question appeared to move the Envoy.
“Forgive my rudeness, Mr. Wells. I expect you want to know how I managed to duplicate you,” he said, stroking his whiskers once more. “Very well, allow me to explain. I imagine you’ve realized by now that we can adopt the form of various living creatures. Thanks to this ability, my brothers have been able to live clandestinely among you all this time. Apart from when we’re born, of course, only in death is our true appearance revealed. Yes, death robs us of our disguise, which is why our ancestors decided to build a private cemetery down here. And in order to make the transformation, one drop of your blood is enough. After obtaining it we’re careful to get rid of the donor. We don’t wish to give ourselves away by producing a suspicious epidemic of twins.”