The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(85)
He took out his pocket watch and looked at the time. At that very moment, Jane was probably boarding the train to London, where she would be lunching with the Garfields. Before the inspector took him off, Wells had left a note for her in the kitchen, in which he explained briefly the situation but urged her not to change her plans, because his whole morning would doubtless be taken up with the affair. In all likelihood, she would arrive back from London at about the same time as he, for it would not be long before Murray executed his next move: making a Martian jump out of the cylinder, or whatever his plan was, and at last everyone would see that the whole thing had been a practical joke. Clayton would apologize for his preposterous suspicions, and Wells would be free to go back to Worcester Park and carry on with his life, at least until Murray attempted a reenactment of his novel The Invisible Man.
After speaking with the police chief, Clayton elbowed his way impatiently through the crowd to rejoin Wells.
“Several companies of soldiers are on their way, Mr. Wells,” he informed the author. “In less than an hour they will have surrounded the cylinder. The Royal Welch Fusiliers are being deployed from Aldershot. And another company will take charge of evacuating Horsell, just to be on the safe side. They are also expecting some Maxim guns. As you see, your novel serves as an excellent source for staying ahead of events.”
Wells gave a weary sigh. “I don’t think it is necessary in this case to call in the army,” he retorted.
Clayton looked at him, amused.
“You still think this is Gilliam Murray’s doing, don’t you.”
“Naturally, Inspector.”
“Then he must have spent a small fortune on his wooing, for Captain Weisser has heard rumors of other cylinders falling on a golf course in Byfleet, and in the vicinity of Sevenoaks.”
“Falling, you say? Does he know of any sightings of them falling from the sky? Don’t you think the observatories would have noticed a thing like that?” Wells asked disdainfully.
“He didn’t mention any.” Clayton scowled.
“In that case, someone could have placed them there, as one might a chess piece, don’t you think?”
The inspector was about to respond when something caught his eye.
“What the devil is that?” he exclaimed, staring over Wells’s shoulder.
The author turned toward the cylinder and glimpsed the reason for the inspector’s surprise. A sort of metal tentacle had emerged from inside and was swaying in the air, rising up like a cobra. Attached to the end of it was a strange object resembling a periscope, but which might also have been some kind of weapon. Clayton reacted without hesitation.
“Help me make these fools move back! Apparently none of them have read your novel.”
Wells shook his head.
“Calm down, Clayton!” he insisted, grabbing the inspector’s arm. “I assure you nothing is going to happen. Believe me, this is all a sham. Murray is simply trying to frighten us. And if he succeeds . . .”
Clayton did not reply. His gaze was fixed on the tentacle’s mesmeric movement.
“The whole thing is a sham, do you hear!” Wells repeated, shaking the inspector. “That thing isn’t going to fire any heat rays.”
At that moment, the tentacle wobbled slightly, as though taking aim, and a moment later a heat ray burst forth from its tip with a deafening hiss. Then, what looked like a jet of molten lava struck the band of onlookers gathered round the pit, hitting four or five them, who burst into flames before they knew what was happening. The deflagration lasted only a few seconds. Then someone seemed to pull back the blanket of fire covering them, to reveal a handful of distorted, charred figures that instantly crumbled, scattering gently over the grass. Fear struck; the crowd observed the horrific scene and then in unison turned toward the tentacle, which was preparing to take aim anew. The response was instantaneous. People began fleeing from the pit in all directions.
Unable to comprehend how Murray could possibly have given the order to fire on innocent bystanders, Wells ran for cover toward a patch of trees a few hundred yards away. Clayton, who was running beside him, shouted to him to run in a zigzag so as not to make an easy target for the tentacle. Jostled on all sides by the terror-stricken crowd, Wells tried to do as the inspector suggested, even as he felt fear seeping into his entrails like ice-cold water. Then came another hiss, and immediately afterward a second ray hit the ground five yards to his left, hurling several people into the air. Before Wells could shield himself, a clod of earth struck him in the face, dazing him enough to make him almost lose his footing. He was forced to stop his frantic dash and glance about, trying to orient himself. When the smoke had cleared, he contemplated with horror the string of cindered corpses sprawled across the grass a few yards away. Behind them he glimpsed the woman whom he had identified as Murray’s beloved. The ray had narrowly missed her, but the accompanying blast had knocked her to the ground, and she was kneeling on the grass, too shaken to give her legs the order to stand up. The tentacle swayed once more in the air, choosing a fresh target, and Wells took the opportunity of the moment’s calm between blasts to hurry to the young woman’s aid. Avoiding the burnt remains and the hollows in the ground, he managed to reach her side and grabbed her by the arms so as to lift her to her feet. The girl allowed this without putting up any resistance.
“I didn’t want . . . I told him it was enough to . . . ,” she gasped, seized by a fit of panic.