The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(32)

And he walked out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him.





VII

ON THE WAY BACK TO HIS OWN CABIN, REYNOLDS thought of dozens of far wittier, more stinging rejoinders than the one he had muttered behind the captain’s back. Too late now. Like it or not, MacReady had come out on top, forcing Reynolds to withdraw from his quarters like a sulky child. He heaved a sigh as he opened the door to his cabin. In the end, what he most regretted about his dramatic exit was having abandoned the excellent brandy the captain had offered him. Now more than ever he longed to feel the liquor slide down his throat like a tongue of red-hot lava, calming his anger even as it warmed his insides. What he wanted, in fact, was to drink himself into oblivion without the slightest feeling of remorse. No impartial bystander could deny that his situation more than justified opening one of the bottles that had survived his discussions with Allan and polishing the whole thing off.

He grabbed the nearest one and ensconced himself in the leather armchair he had brought with him, not so much because he thought it might bring him luck, but because it belonged to a world he would not see again for a long time. This piece of furniture would become the guiding light that prevented him from losing sight of his real life, the memory of which would no doubt fade as his days at sea multiplied. It spoke to him of a more rational and comfortable world, where there were no threatening monsters and where the worst thing that could happen was to cut himself shaving.

He drank lengthily from the bottle, nearly choking a couple of times. What had MacReady meant by insisting he had been a figure of fun? he wondered. He did not know whether this was bluster on the captain’s part or whether he knew something Reynolds didn’t. Was the expedition no more than a giant smoke screen concealing interests about which he knew nothing? He took another swig of the brandy. In any event, Reynolds reasoned, if he was indeed the victim of some ruse, if those who were watching him from the shadows had arranged everything so that he would embark on this adventure for some obscure reason they had refrained from telling him about, there was clearly one thing they had been unable to plan in advance: the appearance of the creature. And now the monster from the stars was providing Reynolds with the opportunity to refuse the role of buffoon his sponsors had reserved for him and to return triumphantly to New York, holding the key to the universe. If he succeeded, the whole world would have to bow at his feet. Whatever the case, he had to do something. If they were plotting behind his back, he had to cover himself. But how? MacReady had authorized him to return to the flying machine with as many weapons as he could carry, perhaps because deep down he was convinced Reynolds would not go, that he would cower in his cabin, where MacReady would go to look for him when it was all over, a broad grin on his face, brandishing the monster’s head.

But MacReady was mistaken, Reynolds told himself, taking another swig from the bottle. He did not plan to sit there twiddling his thumbs! Far from it! If the captain refused to give him the men he had asked for, he would go alone to the Martian’s machine, blow it up, and return to the ship with the information they needed to successfully confront the demon from the sky. He was more of a man than any tulip lover could ever be! He swallowed another mouthful. And what exactly did he expect to find in the flying machine that might help them? He was not sure. A weapon, perhaps, something more sophisticated and powerful than the simple musket Man used to wage his petty wars in the privacy of his own planet. He raised the bottle to his lips once more. He actually hoped to find something quite different, something that would help him establish contact with the creature when it finally showed itself. Of course the monster would not be expecting that. Reynolds would prove to the creature that they, too, were rational beings. Or perhaps he would find some kind of sacred text revealing the history of the creature’s race, a manuscript that explained their conception of the universe and whether they viewed Earthlings as more than a mere hindrance or simple fodder.

He greedily downed the remains of the bottle and sat for a moment staring into space, lulled pleasantly by the effects of the drink, while he began to fancy that the notion of going off alone to the place where the flying machine had crashed was a less reckless endeavor than he had at first thought. Why shouldn’t he go? What the devil was stopping him? A surge of optimism gave him an uncanny sense of his own strength, as if he might crush the creature with his bare hands if it crossed his path or dissuade it from its present course of action with stirring perorations on interplanetary harmony. Reynolds rose from his armchair, determined to prove to MacReady he was no na?ve fool, but rather someone capable of rising to the occasion in an extreme situation like the one in which they found themselves. Yes, by Jove, he would revisit the machine and return triumphant, saving them all from certain death, even though they did not deserve it! He pulled on his oilskin, wound his neckerchief around his head, and lurched toward the armory.

Once there, he began enthusiastically equipping himself with weapons. He thrust two pistols into his belt and, seeing he still had space for more, grabbed a third. He slung three muskets over his shoulder, stuffed two machetes down his front, and, to top it all off, crammed his pockets with sticks of dynamite. Although tempted by one of the famous harpoons, he decided it was too heavy and contented himself with his present haul. It was only when he tried to move that he realized all that weaponry prevented him from walking normally. Undeterred, he staggered over to the ladder leading to one of hatches, ignoring the uncomfortable sensation produced by one of the gun muzzles digging into his right testicle each time he took a step. He crossed the deck, reeling helplessly, partly owing to his unwieldy load, partly due to the brandy. Such was his light-headedness that he imagined he saw Carson on watch on the poop deck. But that was impossible, unless the man’s foot had miraculously recovered from frostbite. He shook his head to rid himself of the absurd notion and moved on laboriously, pausing now and then to retrieve a stick of dynamite that had fallen out of his pocket or to adjust one of the irksome pistols. At last, he came to the snow ramp, where he had to take care not to slip. Too late: rather than sliding he was dragged down by the sheer weight of his load and ended up sprawled on the ice, half throttled by the gun straps that had become tangled as he rolled down the ramp. For some minutes he lay on the ground trying to catch his breath, glad not to have been ludicrously strangled to death at the foot of the vessel. When he recovered, he clambered to his feet, then set off toward the mountains scarcely visible in the distance, enveloped in ribbons of mist.