The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(88)
“I’m not responsible for the invasion, George,” Murray said at last, in an almost pleading tone. Wells was not sure whether this was an attempt to strike up a conversation or he’d spoken because it tormented him not to be able to prove his innocence.
Whatever the reason, the author continued to glare at Murray, exasperated that circumstances obliged him to communicate with the man. Although Wells had dreamed that Fate would provide him with an opportunity to unleash his anger on Murray, time had dampened his anger, burying it beneath a layer of contempt, with the result that it had lost some of its urgency. It was too late to rake it all up now, especially considering the alarming situation they found themselves in, which demanded they put aside personal grievances. And so Wells set himself to focus on the present, to discover who was behind it all.
“Are you suggesting we believe that this is a genuine Martian invasion?” he inquired coldly.
Murray gave a worried groan.
“I’ve no idea what we should believe, George,” exclaimed the millionaire, who in his agitated state tried to pace round in circles, something the confined space would not allow. “This can’t be happening!”
“Well, Gilliam, it is happening. The invasion I described in my novel is taking place exactly as you intended. Let me remind you there is a letter signed by you, in which you plead with me to help you carry it out,” Wells retorted, not pulling any punches.
“But in that letter did I say anything about killing hundreds of people?” the millionaire groaned. “Of course not, George! All I wanted was to build a cylinder from which that accursed overdeveloped octopus of yours would emerge and make headlines to win the heart of the most beautiful woman in the world! You must believe me, George! I would never do anything to hurt Emma! Never!” And with that, Murray brought his fist crashing down on one of the boxes, causing the wood to splinter in various places and making Wells wonder whether provoking Murray was the best approach at that moment. Fortunately, venting his frustration appeared to calm the millionaire, who placed both hands on the shattered box, sank his head to his chest, and whispered, “I love her, George, I love her more than my own life.”
Wells shifted awkwardly on his feet, to the extent a room as narrow as a coffin would allow. Here he was, locked in this room with Murray, listening to him speak about love in such childish terms, while outside someone, or something, was killing innocent people, using his novel as a blueprint. And then, contemplating with faint embarrassment the bleating millionaire’s ridiculous ode to love, Wells realized he could not go on denying the obvious: much as his hatred of the man compelled Wells to hold him responsible, Murray had nothing to do with the invasion. The fact that the tentacle had fired so nonchalantly on the onlookers, and particularly on the girl he intended to marry, almost incontrovertibly proved his innocence. And to Wells’s astonishment, a wave of pity swept over him, something he would have never believed he could feel toward the man he had diligently devoted himself to loathing for the past two years. Pity! And for Gilliam Murray! For the giant fellow next to him, struggling not to burst into tears, who must not only defend himself against a false accusation but who would at some point have to admit to the woman he adored that he had failed, that he was unworthy of her love. And as if that were not dreadful enough, Emma almost certainly held him entirely to blame for the fact that she was fleeing for her life, far from home, along with a smart-aleck investigator and an author of fantasy novels, who it so happened had written The War of the Worlds. Yes, it was only logical he should feel pity for Murray. But also for the girl, he thought. And even for himself. But more than anything because he was unable to feel more than a conventional concern for Jane’s well-being.
Jane, his Jane. Was she in danger? He had no idea, and for the time being he preferred to imagine her safe and sound in London with the Garfields, who, if news of events in Horsell had reached the city, were undoubtedly cheering her up at that very moment, assuring her that he was all right. He gave a sigh. He must not torment himself with these thoughts. His life was in peril, and if anything he must focus his efforts on discovering what the devil was going on and on finding a way to stay alive as long as possible, at least until it became clear whether the entire human race was going to perish and surviving would be the worst thing that could happen to him.
“Very well, Gilliam,” he said, carefully adopting a gentle tone. “Let’s accept that the invasion has nothing to do with you. Who is behind it, then? Germany?”
The millionaire gazed at him in astonishment.
“Germany? Possibly . . . ,” he said at last, trying to collect his thoughts and give his voice a firm sound. “Although I think it unlikely that any country has a sophisticated enough technology to produce the lethal ray that almost killed us.”
“Really? I don’t see why such a thing couldn’t have been carried out in secret,” Wells proposed.
“Perhaps you’re right,” replied the millionaire, who appeared to have regained some of his composure. “What is certain, George, is that those behind the attack are copying your novel.”
Yes, that much was certain, the author acknowledged to himself. The location of the cylinders, their appearance, the heat ray . . . Everything was happening almost exactly as he had described. Accordingly, the next phase would be the construction of flying machines shaped like stingrays that soared across the counties on their way to London, ready to raze it to the ground. Perhaps at that very moment, in the deserted meadows of Horsell Common, strewn with charred corpses and smoldering trees, the relentless hammering sound of their construction was echoing in the silence. But, in the meantime, there was no way of knowing who was behind all this. And given that as yet no Martian had popped its gelatinous head out of the cylinder, the only thing they could be sure of was that these machines were deadly, and that anyone could be operating them, or no one, he thought, wondering whether they might be activated from a distance, via some kind of signal. Anything was possible. Wells then realized with surprise that he felt no fear, although he suspected his sudden display of pluck was because he still did not know exactly what it was they ought to be afraid of. The test would be if he managed to stay calm when the attackers made their next move and things began to make sense; only then would he discover whether at heart he was a hero or a coward.