The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(187)

My dear Gilliam,

Strange as it might seem, learning that you have fallen in love fills me with joy. And yet, I can do little to help you, except to suggest that, rather than endeavoring to re-create the Martian invasion, you make her laugh. For if you succeed in making this girl laugh, if you make her laughter ring in the air like a fountain of silver coins cascading to the floor, you will win her heart forever.

Fond regards from your friend, George.

He placed the letter in an envelope and, three days later, posted it to Murray’s Time Travel. Back at his house, Wells could not help smiling as he imagined the look of astonishment on Murray’s face when he read it. He knew Murray would be confused by the friendly tone of his missive, and by Wells signing off so warmly, but he had not wanted to deny himself this pleasure. It might even teach Murray that while finding true love was one of the most wonderful things that could happen to you in life, finding a friend was equally splendid.





XLIII

ON AUGUST 1, 1898, THE DAY THE MARTIANS ARRIVED, H. G. Wells went to Horsell Common very early in the morning to see the cylinder that had supposedly fallen from the sky the night before. The carriage dropped him in front of a gaggle of vehicles clogging the entrance to the common, and after paying the driver, Wells sauntered across the grass toward the crowd of onlookers in the distance, who were obscuring the strange object. On his first trip there, Wells had not been calm enough to observe things as closely as he would have liked, owing to the presence of Inspector Clayton. But this time he intended to savor every last detail of this scene, which he had already portrayed in his novel. With the contented smile of someone taking a carefree stroll, Wells made his way through the scores of people crowding onto the common, most of whom hailed from Woking and Chertsey, amused by some of the sensational newspaper headlines being cried out. He even cooled himself in the morning heat by taking a ginger beer at one of the many stalls dotted along the path, before approaching the cylinder.

When he at last reached the site where the cylinder had supposedly crashed, making an enormous crater in the sand, he could see that Murray had done an excellent job of re-creating the cylinder. The author stood for a long time, admiring the enormous ash-covered object, at which a few children were timidly throwing stones. Now it only remained to be seen what was inside, for if Murray had finally decided to drag the piece of junk all the way there, thus accepting Emma’s challenge, it was because he was intending to surprise her in some way. Would he forget about the Martian and try to make her laugh as Wells had suggested in his letter? He did not know, but whatever emerged from the cylinder, Wells did not want to miss it.

Although it was unlikely they would have recognized the old man he had become with the passing of the years, Wells remained at a distance from the throng, close to where some of the more timorous onlookers had retreated, and from there he gazed contentedly around him. He caught sight of his thirty-one-year-old self, standing at the front of the crowd next to Inspector Clayton. Just then, the inspector pointed with his metal hand at the cylinder, and Wells’s twin, dressed in a garish plaid suit, shook his head with an air of skepticism.

A dozen yards to the right of them, he saw Emma, protected from the throng by the cocoon of her extraordinary beauty. The young American woman, who, unlike the first time he had seen her, was no stranger to Wells, was shielding herself from the sun with her parasol, solemnly watching the cylinder, forcing herself to hide how annoyed she was that Murray had accepted her challenge and organized all this simply to win her heart. The only person Wells could not see anywhere was Murray. He assumed he must be directing proceedings from somewhere, probably from behind the trees in the distance, waiting to make his entry.

But although everything seemed just as he remembered it, Wells felt a nervous flutter in his stomach. Suddenly, he had the unpleasant impression that something was not right, something was out of place, though he could not discern what it was. He surveyed the scene once more, in close detail this time, trying to discover what was amiss. A crowd had formed around the cylinder, Emma was watching from a distance, nervously twirling her parasol, Inspector Clayton was making his way through the onlookers to speak to the policeman in charge, exactly as Wells remembered he had the first time, and his twin remained dutifully in his place, grinning sardonically at the Martian cylinder, his plaid suit vibrant in the morning sun. Hold on! Wells said to himself, with a sudden pang of fear. That was it! It was the suit that was out of place. The plaid suit his twin was wearing! With a shudder, Wells remembered seeing it in the window of the clothier’s where he usually shopped, and how, after reflecting at length whether this daring pattern would look elegant or ridiculous, he had decided to play it safe and purchase a dark brown suit similar to the ones he usually wore, which would not upset the harmony that reigned inside his wardrobe. He had sported his new purchase for the first time that very day, but his twin had bought the plaid suit, proving he was more daring than his original self and had had the effrontery to turn up in this garb to see the Martian.

Wells gazed at him, puzzling over this small act of rebellion by his double, who had improvised instead of keeping strictly to the script. He wondered how this was possible without the universe exploding into a thousand pieces, or at least suffering some kind of ripple effect, similar to that caused by a stone hitting water. Then the author remembered the scar on his twin’s chin, another anomaly, which to begin with he had considered unimportant. And these small differences, whilst changing nothing fundamental, disturbed Wells, for they showed that this was not his world. It was incredibly akin to his world, but certain details in it were different. He had already discovered two of these, but there were undoubtedly many more. All these years that he had been spying on himself, he had been so focused on the main events that he had paid scant attention to the details, which, like the scar on his chin, and now the garish plaid suit, had been whispering to him that this was not his universe.