The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(38)
The gunner nodded understandingly, although he seemed less enthusiastic about the idea than Reynolds, who felt obliged to continue haranguing him.
“This could be the biggest step forward in the History of Mankind, Allan! If we are right, we are about to discover something of immeasurable significance. Do you really want us to leave it all in the hands of a bunch of fools? We are the only two men on the ship capable of doing what needs to be done. The others are only interested in saving their skins. We owe it to humanity and to future generations to take the lead in this matter. Fate has brought us here to prevent the arrival on Earth of the first visitor from space from turning into a vulgar bloodbath.”
The gunner nodded and heaved a sigh, which Reynolds hoped was a sign of determination rather than weariness. Then he sat down once more and stared absentmindedly into space.
“Perhaps the creature’s machine crashed before it was able to reach its destination, wherever that may be,” Allan surmised, unable to help feeling a thrill at the idea of a Martian being on board, “and now it finds itself in the wrong place, trapped on an expanse of ice with no hope of escape.”
“I think you’re right,” Reynolds conceded. “Perhaps the creature sees us as the solution to its dilemma and has infiltrated the ship because it thinks we know how to get out of here.”
“I’m afraid it will be disappointed in us as an intelligent species.” The gunner grinned, and then, as though suddenly aware that allowing himself to joke about the situation might cost him dear, he put on a solemn face. “Very well, Reynolds, you can count on me. Now, what is your plan?”
Reynolds glanced at him uneasily. His plan? Yes, of course, Allan wanted to know his plan. Something he would have liked to know himself.
“Well, I have to confess, I’ve not thought much about how I will conduct the meeting,” he admitted. “I expect I will improvise depending on the creature’s reactions.”
“And what if its intentions are indeed destructive?” the gunner asked. “What will you do if it tries to attack you?”
“Of course I have considered the possibility that the Martian may refuse to converse with me, preferring to rip my guts out. That is why I want you there, Allan. As my guarantee, my life insurance,” replied Reynolds.
“But won’t the thing be surprised to find me in your cabin?” the gunner protested, clearly preferring to wait in his cabin until the encounter was over.
“The creature won’t see you, Allan. You will be hiding in the cupboard, and if things get ugly, you will jump out and shoot it before it has a chance to attack me.”
“Ah, I see . . . ,” Allan breathed, white as a sheet.
“Can I count on you, then?” Reynolds said in an almost plaintive voice.
The gunner narrowed his eyes and remained silent. For what seemed like an eternity the only sound they could hear was the groaning the ice made as it slowly tightened its stranglehold on the ship.
“Of course you can, Reynolds, why do you even ask?” he said at last, hesitating slightly, as though he himself were unsure how to respond. “Besides, I am the only sailor on the ship who could fit into your cupboard.”
“Thank you, Allan.” Reynolds smiled, genuinely moved by the gunner’s gesture, and he believed he was being sincere when he added, “The last thing I expected to find in this hellhole was a friend.”
“I hope you remember that when you no longer have need of me,” murmured Allan. “Incidentally, do you have any brandy left? If I am to shoot at a being from another planet, I think I could do with a glass or two.”
“Why not wait and drink a toast with the Martian?” Reynolds hurriedly suggested, wondering how to remove the brandy from his cupboard before the gunner hid inside.
IX
REYNOLDS CAST A CRITICAL EYE OVER HIS tiny cabin, like a theater director assessing the stage props. He had emptied the cupboard he used as a pantry, taking care to conceal the two or three unopened brandy bottles from view. Allan, a gun in his poet’s hand, was now hiding in its narrow interior. Reynolds had placed one of the bottles and two glasses on the table in the middle of the cabin and, adding a sinister touch to this everyday scene, to the right he had placed a freshly loaded pistol. Reynolds preferred to display the weapon openly as opposed to concealing it in his pocket, where he had stuffed the tamping rod and the gunpowder. He thought this would arouse less suspicion, given that everyone had been armed since the state of siege began. On one side of the table was a chair, and facing it the comfortable, reassuring armchair he had brought from his other life. All that was missing was one of the actors, who, if his theory was correct, would come in disguise.
In a state of nerves, the explorer caressed his bandaged hand, trying to calm himself. Carson would be arriving any minute, and he had still not decided how to open the conversation. What was the most polite way of greeting a being from another planet? A few moments earlier, despite their differences of opinion on the matter, he and Allan had managed to agree on how to conduct the interview. They had ruled out broaching the subject directly, in favor of a more subtle approach. Reynolds would begin with a few stock remarks in order to create a relaxed atmosphere and, when the creature’s guard was down, would fire a series of cleverly aimed questions designed to corner it and force it to tear away its mask. Yes, that was what they had agreed. No direct questions or threatening tones. They must first reassure the monster, so that when the time came to reveal that they knew the truth, they could still offer it the chance of a dialogue. Reynolds was not entirely satisfied with this overly cautious approach, which had been Allan’s idea. The explorer had advocated getting straight to the point, but Allan had objected, on the grounds that the Martian might respond aggressively the moment it felt harried. Thus Reynolds’s unmasking of the monster should be as graceful and restrained as possible, little less than a master class in manipulation, in order to demonstrate to the creature “the exquisite wisdom of the human species,” the poet had concluded somewhat pompously, before installing himself in the pantry with the dignity of a pharaoh trying out his new sarcophagus, leaving Reynolds even more confused about what strategy to follow. The only thing the explorer knew for sure was that at some point during the conversation he and the creature would both be forced to show their hands. And the question that really tormented him was whether the Martian would attack or be willing to converse once it discovered it had been found out. In fact, much depended on the way he conducted the interview: his own life, for one, as well as that of everyone on board ship, but also the place his name would occupy in History, and even History itself.