The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(43)

Reynolds could not see from his position but was able to deduce from the look on the gunner’s face that the monster was recovering. Being shot at close range must have caused the creature enough pain for it to cast off its disguise, so that no doubt poor Allan was now confronted with whatever its true appearance might be. Or perhaps the Martian was simply trying to raise itself up off the floor in order to renew the attack, still only half transformed, still looking like Carson, but with one of the monster’s claws, as though the sailor had been surprised while dressing up for carnival. But what rose from the floor was neither of these things. Reynolds could not help his mouth opening in a grimace of horror as he found himself contemplating two Allans. Two Allans facing each other, with the mirror that should have stood between them missing, as though someone had smashed it. Two identical men, differentiated only by their wounds. The hand in which the real Allan was holding the pistol was bleeding, and the shoulder of the Allan whose appearance the creature was using as a disguise was oozing a gelatinous green liquid. But there was one other difference: the false Allan was smiling calmly at his real double, who was trembling as he attempted to aim at him.

“Are you going to fire at yourself, Allan?” he heard the creature say.

Allan hesitated, and the creature’s smile widened into a sinister leer as it stepped forward.

“Of course not,” the creature concluded. “No one can fire at himself, no matter how much despair darkens his soul.”

A second later, the false Allan’s chest received the full force of the bullet, which knocked it back to the floor. The real Allan turned toward where the shot had come from and saw Reynolds holding a smoking gun.

“Thank you, Reynolds,” he murmured, trembling.

“You needn’t thank me. I was merely showing the creature the exquisite wisdom of the human species, as you requested,” Reynolds replied, a smile flickering on his lips. Then, looking down at the creature, which had begun groaning, he commanded Allan: “Shoot! Shoot before it gets up again!”

Before the gunner had time to reload his pistol, the creature had scuttled under the table. Reynolds watched with a mixture of horror and disgust as the bundle of tentacles darted across the room toward the door, scurrying like a kind of spider the size of a large dog and sweeping aside everything in its path, which, given Reynolds’s scant possessions, amounted to his armchair. The explorer watched in dismay as it flew through the air, smashing to pieces against the nearest wall. Just then, Griffin opened the cabin door, pistol at the ready. But before he had a chance to shoot, the creature knocked him over and fled down the passage.

“Son of a bitch,” muttered Reynolds, surveying his wrecked armchair, at last finding the perfect excuse to vent all the fear and hatred that had built up inside him over the past few hours. “You won’t escape this time.”





X

HE WAS STILL ALIVE.

He had exposed the Martian and was still alive. And that made him absurdly, deliriously happy, despite his plan having turned into a complete fiasco. He had failed to persuade the creature, peaceably or by any other means, and as a result his dream of a glorious future as Earth’s ambassador to outer space was in tatters; indeed, following that debacle he doubted they would allow him to manage an interplanetary telegraph office. Moreover, he had failed to kill or capture the Martian. On the contrary, he had so enraged the creature that in all likelihood Fate had already decreed the death warrant of the entire ship’s crew. But that did not matter. For the moment, he was still alive: breathing, running, feeling life flowing through his veins like a raging river. Whereas before he had considered his life dull, mediocre, and despicable, now it seemed to him like an invaluable gift. He was alive, damn it! he said to himself, as he sprinted down the passage on the lower deck brandishing a pistol, followed closely by Allan, who was groaning bad-temperedly, and the skinny sailor Griffin, who was running behind him, lips pursed, silent and tense. Reynolds had been struck by how swiftly Griffin had come to their aid. Almost as though he had been listening at the door. Perhaps Reynolds’s peculiar behavior up on deck, insisting to Griffin that Carson was dead, then blaming it on a drunken hallucination, had puzzled him, but Reynolds was in too much of a hurry to reflect about that now; he was content that the mysterious, dogged fellow was following him with a loaded weapon.

When their pursuit of the creature took them to the crew’s quarters, the explorer had to hold his breath as they were hit by a stench of lamp oil, soiled clothes, buckets of urine, and even fear, if, as some people claim, fear can be smelled. The creature had left a trail of greenish blood, as well as a row of sailors quaking against the walls, unable to believe the aberration they had just seen scuttle past them. Reynolds instantly realized that the gunshots had brought the whole crew running, from the lookouts up on deck to the carpenters and the kitchen boys. Right at the back, he could make out Captain MacReady, roaring above the noise, trying to get someone to explain to him what the devil was going on.

“The monster is on the ship, Captain,” he heard someone cry out amid the uproar. “It’s gone into the hold.”

“On the ship?” MacReady said, drawing his pistol. “That’s impossible! How in damnation did it get on board?”

No one except Reynolds could answer that. Buffeted like a leaf in the wind, the explorer forced his way through the crowd of anxious sailors until he reached the captain.