The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(36)
Reynolds nodded to himself. He had done the right thing in coming there, he reflected, his eyes still fixed on the gunner. Only a mind like Allan’s could grasp what Reynolds was about to tell him, only a soul as devoid of worldliness as his could join him in the venture he was about to propose. Most important of all, only a man possessed by the demon of creativity would agree to remain discreetly in the shadows when it came to reaping the rewards of earthly fame, for Reynolds suspected Allan was only interested in the glory he might obtain through his writings. Yes, the sergeant was undoubtedly the ideal person to assist him in the foolhardy plan he had elaborated whilst speaking with Carson up on deck, a plan he could never hope to carry out alone. Now all Reynolds needed to do was tell the gunner about it without seeming as though he had completely lost his mind. When Allan finally set aside his quill and turned to Reynolds, his eyes glowing faintly like the embers of a fire, the explorer still did not know where to begin.
“An unusual theory has occurred to me regarding the Martian, Allan,” he said, for he had to begin somewhere, “so unusual that were I to make it known, no one on this ship would take me seriously.”
“Are you in need of someone who does?” Allan grinned, gathering up his writing implements as a pathologist might carefully tidy away his instruments.
Reynolds nodded with brooding solemnity.
“I am, and I believe you are the only one capable of it. Therefore, I am going to share it with you, in the hope you may shed some light on this madness, for I fear if you do not, we shall all perish even sooner than we thought.”
Allan shook his head in amusement, raising his slender harpist’s hands in a theatrical gesture.
“We have seen a Martian come down from the sky in a flying machine, Reynolds. How could my poor wits refuse to believe anything now?”
“I hope you are right, for I think I know how the monster got on board.” He let his words hang in the air and settle like specks of dust on the surface of Allan’s mind before resuming. “And, more importantly, I believe it is still among us.”
“Do you know where it is now?” the young man asked, sitting bolt upright in his seat.
“If I’m not mistaken,” the explorer murmured gloomily, “it is up on deck, finishing its watch. And in ten minutes’ time, it will be in my cabin having a drink with me.”
Reynolds contemplated Allan as he digested those words in silence. He had been unable to resist giving that cryptic reply, but he knew Allan needed no further explanation. Such were the gunner’s extraordinary powers of mind that sometimes Reynolds could not help thinking he viewed the world around him not necessarily from above but at one remove, and that from his watchtower, wherever that was, all of mankind’s victories, advances, and triumphs over his environment and over himself must appear little more than a quaint child’s game. And yet, over time, Reynolds had also noticed, not without some regret, that Allan’s tumultuous, fragile mind was too fanciful for its own good.
“Do you mean to say that . . . it has changed into one of us?” the gunner said at last.
Hearing Allan voice his own suspicions, Reynolds felt a shiver run down his spine as though he had stepped barefoot onto cold marble. Spoken aloud, the idea sounded at once insane and terrifying. Reynolds nodded and smiled feebly. The young man had not disappointed him, and, judging from his inquiring expression, as a reward he wanted more details. Reynolds cleared his throat, ready to provide them, although he decided to leave out a few in order to save face in front of the only ally he had on the ship.
“A few hours ago I left the ship with the aim of going back to the flying machine, but I lost my way in the fog. For a while, I walked around in circles, fearful the monster would pounce on me at any moment . . . until I stumbled on Carson’s body. It had been ripped open just like the elephant seal and poor Doctor Walker, and lay half buried in the snow. It was frozen solid and must have been there for at least a day or two. I ran back to the ship as fast as I could to raise the alarm, but when I arrived I was surprised to find Carson on watch on deck, his entrails intact.” He paused for breath and gave a wry smile before going on: “I was bewildered at first, as you can imagine, but then I had a mad idea, which, the more I think about it, seems like the only possibility: what if the sailor who came back with the seal was not the real Carson, but something that had—”
“Taken on his appearance,” Allan concluded.
“Yes, let’s suppose for a minute that while the others were searching the area around the flying machine, Carson and Ringwald lost each other in the fog, and the creature took the opportunity to kill Carson and, well . . . to step into his shoes.”
“And now, according to you, that thing, whatever it is, is on watch up on deck.”
“Precisely. And God only knows what its intentions are,” Reynolds replied, smiling awkwardly at the gunner, as though apologizing for making him listen to such ravings. “What do you think, Allan? Does the idea strike you as completely insane?”
The gunner stared silently into space for what seemed to Reynolds like an eternity.
“The question is not, I think, whether the idea is insane,” he spoke at last. “The mere fact of being alive has for a long time seemed to me an unfathomable riddle. What we should be asking ourselves is whether there is any other possible explanation, one that allows us to rule out this apparent madness. For example, are you sure the body you found out there belonged to Carson? You said yourself the fog was thick and it was half buried in the snow. In addition”—Allan coughed uneasily—“I don’t wish to seem impolite, but I confess I can smell the alcohol on your breath from here.”