The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(42)

“Doctor Walker, may God rest his soul, obviously made a mistake in his diagnosis,” said Carson with a shrug.

“I very much doubt it: Doctor Walker was no novice. He had been practicing for years.”

“But all men make mistakes, sir,” the sailor said, smiling timidly. “And Doctor Walker was only human, like you or me. As fragile, mortal, and prone to making mistakes as all humans are.”

Exhausted and annoyed, Reynolds fell silent once more. Clearly his words, whether friendly or aggressive, were having no effect. Perhaps his fate was not to attain glory, but to carry on that conversation until the thaw came, or until Judgment Day, although he did not think the creature’s patience would last that long. In fact, it seemed to be playing cat and mouse with him, waiting for the moment when it would tire of the game and gobble him up. That was when Reynolds understood there was only one thing left for him to do. Of course it would change everything irreversibly, as well as ending that interplanetary dialogue between species he had so longed for: a longing that in the light of events seemed as ludicrous as it was childish. Surely a being that wished to communicate would have embraced his offer? He was forced to admit that MacReady had been right all along. Faced with a creature that had more than proven its hostility, the most intelligent solution was to shoot it down the moment it came within range. However, Reynolds had ruined that option by alerting the creature with his insistence on sitting down for a friendly chat. And the result spoke for itself: there he was in his cabin, the monster in front of him, all his cards on the table, frantic, humiliated, terrified, and only too aware that he had handled the situation like an arrogant fool. He glanced one last time in the direction of the cupboard, hoping Allan would understand that their fleeting moment of glory had arrived, and praying he was equal to the task.

He contemplated the creature with genuine disappointment. He would have liked to speak with it, to discover why it had landed on Earth, to know where it came from. Unfortunately, he would have to be content with shooting it. His hand darted to the pistol, and he aimed it between the sailor’s eyes. And yet he did not pull the trigger. He remained with his arm outstretched, observing the sailor coldly.

“I’m sorry you do not wish to communicate, because you leave me with no choice.”

“You’re going to shoot me?” Carson asked, with a look of utter stupefaction. “Are you going to kill one of your men? They will convict you, arrest you, the—”

“Your concern is touching, Carson; however, I am sure that as soon as I shoot, you will change shape, and everyone will be able to see that I have killed the monster from the stars,” Reynolds replied with a calm he did not possess. “I gave you the chance to resolve this in a civilized way, but you refused. You have until the count of three to change your mind, and then I will pull the trigger.”

Carson stared at him, his face contorted in terror.

“One,” said Reynolds.

The sailor squirmed in his chair, overcome with anguish, and immediately burst out crying, his hands clasped in prayer.

“I beg you, sir, don’t shoot! You’re mistaken; the body you found in the snow can’t be mine. For the love of God, you are about to commit a folly!” he wailed, tears streaming down his cheeks and into his mouth.

A moment of terrible doubt flashed through Reynolds’s mind, and he had to force himself to steady the hand holding the gun. What in the name of God was he going to do now? Kill the sailor in cold blood? What if he was mistaken and the body in the snow was not Carson? Was he prepared to shoot an innocent man? Yet he was sure it was Carson! And the sailor cringing in front of him could not also be Carson. No, he was the Martian. That was the simplest explanation, and Allan had told him that, however crazy, the simplest explanation was always the—But all of that depended on his being certain that the body in the snow was Carson, and he was not completely certain. Or was he?

“Please, sir, I beg you,” sobbed the sailor.

“Two,” Reynolds went on, doing his best not to let the terrible inner conflict he was suffering show in his voice.

The sailor sank his head on his chest in an attitude of surrender, his body wracked with sobs. Overcome by doubt and indecision, Reynolds, who was also shaking, observed Carson for a few moments. Finally, he dropped the pistol on the table. He could not kill him without being completely sure. He was no murderer. Or at least he was incapable of killing a possibly innocent man in cold blood, someone who had never done him any harm and was not standing in the way of his plans, as Symmes had been.

“Three.”

At first, Reynolds did not know where the voice had come from that had finished the count. He glanced uneasily toward the cupboard, thinking it might have been Allan urging him to shoot, to be resolute, to believe what he had seen in the snow, but the cupboard door remained closed. Then he turned his gaze once more to the sailor, and his heart froze when he discovered Carson staring at him, with no sign of any tears, a twisted smile suffusing his face with evil. Reynolds reached for the pistol, but before he could seize it, the sailor’s mouth opened in a grotesque fashion, as if he were dislocating his own jaw, and a greenish tentacle shot out, cracking in the air like a whip before darting the short distance across the table and coiling itself around the explorer’s neck. Taken aback as much by the abrupt appearance of the slippery snake as by the sudden pain gripping his throat, Reynolds let out a cry of panic, which was instantly stifled by a lack of air. Terrified, he gripped with both hands the tentacle attempting to choke him and struggled to free himself, but he could gain no purchase on the slippery loop. Before he knew it, the tentacle had snatched him from his armchair and was lifting him high above the table, until he was almost touching the skylight. All of a sudden, he found himself thrashing about ridiculously in midair, held aloft by that muscular snake, while out of the corner of his eye he could see Carson sitting rigid in his chair, oblivious to the nightmarish member sprouting from his mouth and writhing above his head, with Reynolds dangling from one end. But he also saw Allan burst from his hiding place, pale with fear at the ghastly scene unfolding in the cabin, and aim his gun at the sailor’s throat. Looking down, Reynolds saw Carson turn abruptly, reaching for Allan’s pistol with his left hand. As it moved closer to the weapon, it turned into a monstrous claw. Allan cried out in pain as the razor-sharp talon slashed his hand open, but he managed to fire the pistol before the monster could snatch it from him. The two men heard what sounded like a loud yelp. The bullet hit the sailor in the left shoulder, and the impact sent him reeling backward. Reynolds felt the tentacle’s hold on him slacken, and the next thing he knew, he had fallen onto the table. Half dazed and gasping for breath like a fish on dry land, he saw Allan standing in front of him, gazing with horror toward where the creature had collapsed.