The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(165)
“Good God,” murmured Emma. “And the children, are they, too . . . ?”
“Naturally, miss,” the Envoy replied politely. “It isn’t the most suitable form for us, nor is it our first choice: a child’s body has few advantages, but we’ve occasionally been obliged to duplicate them. And yes, the original children die, of course. But their parents have no idea and therefore don’t lament their loss. They only think their children have become more intelligent, or more unruly.” The Envoy gave a much more sinister version of Wells’s familiar laugh. “However, in the case of Mr. Wells, he gave me his blood without my asking for it, and without my being able to kill him. This is why there are now two of us in this place that is so unworthy of him.”
“He gave it to you?” Murray asked, seeing that Wells was still incapable of responding. “How the devil did he do that?”
“By chance—to use an expression only employed by your race,” the Envoy replied, looking at Murray contemptuously. Then he turned his attention back to Wells. “But, as I just explained, the notion of chance doesn’t exist in the rest of the universe. And so, from a loftier point of view, we might say you gave it to me because you had to, Mr. Wells. Because it was written, to use another of your popular expressions.”
“Stop philosophizing and tell me how I did it,” Wells demanded brusquely, rousing himself from his daze.
“Can’t you guess?” Wells’s double sighed and shook his head, half disappointed, half amused. “Of course you can’t. Perhaps it would help if I told you I arrived on this planet sixty-eight years ago and spent the last eighteen years in an uncomfortable tomb in your Natural History Museum.”
The Envoy’s words once again stunned Wells, but not Clayton.
“I knew it! The creature wasn’t dead!” the inspector exclaimed, taking the opportunity of placing himself before the Envoy. “Our scientists were mistaken. But how did you do it? How did you wake up?”
The Envoy raised his eyebrows, surprised by Clayton’s outburst, but immediately resumed his disdainful sneer.
“I was about to tell you,” he replied, while Clayton withdrew his artificial hand behind his back, so the Envoy couldn’t see it. “Clearly I wasn’t dead, contrary to all appearances, as the shrewd inspector has just observed. I was in a similar state to what you call hibernation. They transported me to London in a block of ice from the Antarctic, where I had inadvertently crashed my spaceship, and they thought I was dead, but I only needed a little blood to bring me back to life. Mr. Wells supplied me with that, unintentionally, of course. I assume he must have had an open wound when he touched me. In any event it was more than enough. And so I was able to launch the invasion, as you have seen. An invasion that would have started long ago had it not been for my untimely accident.” He gave Wells a look of amused compassion. “Yes, Mr. Wells, thanks to you I was able to continue the mission that brought me to this planet. However, I’m not the only one who should thank you. All my people should thank you, in particular the brothers who have been living among you for centuries. Since the sixteenth century, to be precise, when the first volunteers arrived, charged with watching over the Earth and evaluating it as a possible future sanctuary for our race. A noble and often thankless task, in this case, because on this planet my brothers die.” The Envoy gave a theatrical grimace of sorrow. “Yes, the excess of oxygen in the Earth’s atmosphere is detrimental to us, which is why we never considered Earth a viable home. However, we have used up all the ideal planets and must be content to colonize those we can adapt. With the suitable transformations, we will be able to survive on your planet for several generations. This is why I came, to organize the conquest of Earth and prepare it for the arrival of our race. So, you see, if it weren’t for your selfless gesture, Mr. Wells, I wouldn’t have woken up in time and the clandestine colony on your planet would have died out, perhaps in one or two generations. Earth would have survived, at least until it destroyed itself.”
The Envoy’s words crushed Wells almost bodily, for he appeared to lean forward, suddenly pale and trembling. He stood there while Jane put her arms around him, and the rest of us gazed at him, more amazed than disapproving.
“Don’t torment yourself, Mr. Wells!” I heard the Envoy say reassuringly, as I watched Inspector Clayton getting ready to unscrew his forefinger. “You aren’t to blame, not in the sense you humans give to the word anyway. It is simply that, whilst you are an extremely inferior race, some of you possess more developed minds than the rest. And such is the case with you, Mr. Wells. Put in a language you can easily understand, your mind is capable of communicating with the universe, of tuning in to what we might refer to as a higher consciousness, the nature of which is beyond your comprehension, of course. This is completely inconceivable to the rest of your fellow men, with a few rare exceptions. Although, naturally, you yourself are unaware of it.” The Envoy contemplated Wells, a tender smile on his face. “I know that you continually wonder why certain things happen to you, or why you make them happen. But you see, Mr. Wells, things don’t happen to you, or because of you—things happen through you.”
“And what the devil is that supposed to mean?” exclaimed Murray, who must also have seen what Clayton was doing. “Are you insinuating that all of us here who don’t look like H. G. Wells belong to an inferior race? Do you think we others don’t understand what you’re blathering on about? I think we all understand perfectly.”