The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(5)
“Some of it is . . .” The two men’s eyes met for a moment and a cavernous silence grew between them before Wells continued: “ . . . excellent.”
“Some. Of. It. Is. Excellent,” Serviss repeated, savoring each word dreamily. “Such as what, for instance?”
Wells took another swig of his beer to buy himself time. What the devil was there of any excellence in Serviss’s novel?
“The space suits. Or the oxygen pills,” he replied, because the only salvageable thing in the novel was its paraphernalia. “They are very . . . ingenious.”
“Why, thank you, George! I knew you’d love my story,” Serviss trilled, almost in raptures. “Could it have been otherwise? I doubt it. You and I are twin souls, in a literary sense, of course. Although who knows in what other ways . . . Oh, my friend, don’t you see we’re creating something hitherto unknown? Our stories will soon move away from the common path of literature and forge a new one of their own. You and I are making History, George. We’ll be considered the fathers of a new genre. Together with Jules Verne, of course. We mustn’t forget the Frenchman. The three of us, the three of us together are changing the course of literature.”
“I have no interest in creating a new genre,” Wells interrupted, increasingly annoyed at himself for his failure to steer the conversation in the direction he wanted.
“Well, I don’t think we have much choice in the matter,” objected Serviss with finality. “Let’s talk about your latest novel, George. Those Martian ships like stingrays floating over London are so startling . . . But first I’d like to ask you something: aren’t you afraid that if, after you wrote The Time Machine, someone discovered a way of traveling in time, then the next thing will be a Martian invasion?”
Wells stared at him blankly, trying to decide whether he was in earnest or whether this was another of his crazy ideas, but Serviss waited solemnly for him to reply.
“The fact that I wrote about a Martian invasion doesn’t mean I believe in life on Mars, Garrett,” he explained frostily. “It’s a simple allegory. I chose Mars more as a metaphor, to lay emphasis on the god of war, and because of its redness.”
“Ah, the iron oxide in the volcanic basalt rock covering its surface like damned lichen and giving it that disconcerting appearance,” Serviss replied, airing his knowledge.
“My sole intention was to criticize Europe’s colonization of Africa,” Wells resumed, ignoring him, “and to warn of the perils of developing new weapons at a time when Germany is engaging in a process of militarization, which seems to me unsettling to say the least. But above all, Garrett, I wanted to warn mankind that everything around us, our science, our religion, could prove ineffectual in the face of something as unimaginable as an attack by a superior race.”
He failed to add that, while he had been at it, he had allowed himself to settle a few old scores: the first scenes of Martian destruction, such as Horsell and Addlestone, were places where he had spent his rather unhappy childhood.
“And boy, did you succeed, George!” Serviss acknowledged with gloomy admiration. “That’s why I had to write my sequel: I had to give back the hope you took away from Man.”
And that hope was Edison? Wells thought, grudgingly amused, as he felt a vague sense of well-being course through him. He couldn’t tell whether this was a result of the tankards starting to clutter the tabletop, or the little man’s delightful habit of agreeing with every word he said. Whatever the reason, he couldn’t deny he was beginning to feel at ease. He wasn’t sure how they had succeeded in discussing the subject of Serviss’s novel without incident, but they had. Although how could it have been otherwise, he asked himself, if the only word he had managed to mutter was “excellent”? Consequently, Serviss now believed this was Wells’s true opinion of his novel, and he hadn’t the energy to take issue with his own words. He didn’t want to do that to Serviss. The man might deserve some punishment for having the nerve to write a sequel to his novel, but Wells didn’t think he would derive any pleasure from exacting it. Then he recalled how the novel’s outlandish humor, which, although clearly unintentional, had brought a fleeting smile to his lips several times while he was reading it. And although on various occasions he had hurled the thing against the wall, exasperated at such exemplary inelegance and stupidity, he had always picked it up and carried on reading. He found something oddly likable about the way Serviss wrote. It was the same with his absurd letters. Wells invariably ended up throwing them on the fire, yet he couldn’t help reading them first.
“Didn’t it occur to you at some point to give the story a different ending, one in which we managed to defeat the Martians?” said Serviss, interrupting his reverie.
“What?” Wells declared. “What hope do we Earthlings have of defeating the Martian technology I described?”
Serviss shrugged, unable to reply.
“In any event, I felt it was my duty to offer an alternative, a ray of hope . . . ,” Serviss finally muttered, contemplating with a faint smile the crowd in the pub. “Like any other man here, I’d like to think that if someday we were invaded from the sky, we’d have some hope of survival.”
“Perhaps we would,” Wells said, softening. “But my mistrust of Man is too great, Garrett. If there was a way of defeating the Martians, I’m sure it would be no thanks to us. Who knows, perhaps help would come from the most unexpected quarter. Besides, why does it worry you so much? Do you really believe our neighbors from Mars are going to invade us?”