The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(37)
Reynolds let out a sigh of despair.
“I don’t deny I’ve been drinking, Allan, but I assure you I have never felt more sober. And I would like nothing more than to tell you I was too drunk, and terrified, to know what I saw. It would save me having to defend a position that no one in his right mind would willingly accept. Why, I myself would question the sanity of anyone who told me such a story. But I’m afraid I know perfectly well what I saw, Allan. It’s Carson’s body lying out there in the snow.”
“I see . . . ,” murmured the gunner.
“At all events, Allan, if the body was not Carson’s, then whose was it? No one else has disappeared from the ship. It would be equally absurd, if not more so, to think that the body belonged to someone who did not travel here with us, don’t you agree?” Reynolds paused for a moment before adding: “But there is something more, Allan, something that makes me believe my theory is right. The Carson I spoke with up on deck seemed . . . How can I explain it? . . . He seemed odd, different. And when the dogs caught a whiff of him they began barking like mad. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”
The gunner rose from his chair and began pacing the narrow cabin, visibly on edge.
“Assuming you are right, how could that thing change into Carson? Do you know how complex our bodies are? It would have to duplicate each one of our organs, not to mention language, consciousness, knowledge . . . the psyche, Reynolds, memory! Carson was not a hollow shell, a suit of clothing anyone could put on. Carson was a man, a masterpiece of creation . . . How could it possibly imitate the Creator’s exquisite work, and without anyone noticing, to boot!”
“Come, come, Allan, I understand the difficulty of replicating a man from his nose down to his accursed penis, but you know as well as I do that Carson’s mind would scarcely present much of a challenge. That yokel was not exactly the most shining example of our species. We both know he was a man of few words and unusually limited intelligence. And I don’t suppose Carson being quieter than usual would have aroused the rest of the crew’s suspicions. But besides the dogs, there is further evidence to back up my theory. Don’t you find it odd that despite his frostbitten foot Carson is able to carry out his watch without the slightest difficulty? Can a human being recover from frostbite as if by magic?”
“Yes, I have to admit that is rather odd,” the gunner agreed, musingly. “Still, I find it hard to believe that—”
Reynolds lost his patience. “For the love of God, Allan! Didn’t you try to convince me the creature must come from Mars because the simplest answer is always the most logical? Well, now we have two Carsons in the Antarctic, one lying dead in the snow, and the other up on deck, bewildered but very much alive. I don’t know about you, but it seems to me the simplest explanation for this extraordinary phenomenon is that the Martian has changed itself into the sailor. Having ripped his guts out first, naturally.”
Allan made no reply. He gazed at the wall for a long while, as though at any moment he expected the answers he was searching for to spell themselves out there.
“Very well, Reynolds,” he finally murmured somewhat grudgingly. “Let’s say that the Martian is able to transform itself into one of us, and that it has taken on the appearance of Carson. For what reason? What are its intentions? Why did it attack Doctor Walker and not us? What is it waiting for?”
“I’ve no idea,” confessed the explorer. “That’s why I have invited it to my cabin, to try to understand it, to converse with it, because I’m beginning to suspect the creature does not wish to kill us. Otherwise it would have done so by now, don’t you think? Disguised as Carson, it could easily move unhindered about the ship, picking us off one by one. This leads me to think that Doctor Walker’s death was an accident. The Martian must have killed him in self-defense, as it were, when the good doctor tried to saw off its foot.”
“That is possible,” murmured Allan.
“We have no idea how the creature sees us,” Reynolds went on. “Perhaps it is more afraid than we are and is simply struggling to survive in what it considers a hostile environment. All we know is that its responses can be extremely violent, and we must therefore approach it with the utmost caution. I believe this is the only chance we have of communicating with the Martian. And if there is one man on this ship I can count on to help me do that, it is you, Allan.”
“I understand your motives, Reynolds, but why not tell Captain MacReady about this? Why do you want us to do this alone?”
“You know how highly the captain thinks of me, Allan,” the explorer said forthrightly. “It’s obvious he would not believe me unless he saw Carson’s dead body with his own eyes, and I doubt I could guide him back there. If I told you that only a few hours ago he and I had an . . . exchange of views in his cabin, after which he suggested I lock myself in mine for the rest of the voyage and even threatened to have me locked up in the hold if I insisted on pestering him with my crazy ideas, perhaps you’ll understand why I have not hurried to tell him that the Martian has taken on the form of one of his men. Even if MacReady did believe me, he would no doubt be hell-bent on killing the creature, thereby destroying any possibility of communicating with it. And that is exactly what I intend to do: to communicate with it. Not simply because I think it is our only way of saving ourselves, but because of what it signifies. If we are right and there is a Martian on board ship, don’t you see how incredible it would be to make contact with it? To converse with a being from another planet, Allan!”