The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(89)
Just then, the two men heard a loud clamor outside. They looked up toward the tiny storeroom window, straining to determine the cause of the row, but were unable to make out what the voices were saying. They could only conclude that some unrest had now broken out in the station, hitherto immersed in an unnerving calm. People seemed to be running hither and thither, and, although their cries did not yet sound panic-stricken, something strange was definitely going on. Wells and Murray exchanged solemn glances. During the next few minutes, the din appeared to intensify: they heard doors slamming, objects crashing to the floor, bundles being dragged along the ground, and occasionally someone barking an unintelligible order or uttering a frantic oath. The two men were starting to get nervous when the door to their temporary cell swung open and in walked Inspector Clayton and Miss Harlow with looks of unease on their faces, which did not bode well.
“I’m glad to see you are both still in one piece, gentlemen,” the inspector said with a sardonic grin as he closed the door hurriedly behind him. “Well then, I bring both good and bad news.”
The two men looked at him expectantly.
“The good news is that whoever is doing this isn’t as keen on your novel as we had thought, Mr. Wells,” Clayton announced, scrutinizing Wells with exaggerated curiosity. “It seems the Martians haven’t built flying machines shaped like stingrays with which to attack us from the skies. I recall that in your novel they were propelled by magnetic currents that affected the Earth’s surface . . .”
“Yes, yes, please go on,” Wells said.
“Well, it was an ingenious idea in any case, truly ingenious,” the inspector mumbled as if to himself before resuming in a matter-of-fact voice: “But apparently as yet unrealized, for the would-be Martians are traveling on foot.”
“On foot?” said the author, perplexed.
“That’s right. According to my information, the accursed things have sprouted legs. Yes, spindly birdlike legs about twenty yards long. And as they move along crushing pine trees, barns, anything in their path, they keep on firing lethal rays at the terror-struck crowds.” The inspector punctuated his speech with exasperating pauses that left them all on tenterhooks. Wells realized that while he was informing them, Clayton was also attempting to assimilate his own words. “Perhaps the similarities between the beginning of your novel and the initial invasion are a coincidence, I don’t know.” He paused abruptly once more, his lips twitching as though keeping time with his thoughts, then went on: “The fact is, things have begun happening differently than in your novel, Mr. Wells, and that casts some doubt on your involvement.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, Inspector Clayton,” Wells replied curtly.
“And the same goes for you, Mr. Murray,” the inspector began, addressing the millionaire. “As I said, we have a proper invasion on our hands. There are tripods everywhere, and however wealthy you may be, I imagine such a thing is beyond even your means, not that winning Miss Harlow wouldn’t be worth every penny,” he said, beaming at Emma. “In any event, what I think doesn’t count, and so for the moment I’m sorry to say you are still under arrest. My superiors are the ones giving the orders and they like to explore every avenue. All I can—”
“What about the bad news?” snapped Murray, who could not have cared less about Clayton’s apologetic soliloquy.
The inspector looked at him inquiringly.
“The bad news? Ah, yes! The bad news is that the tripod from Horsell is coming toward us, wreaking havoc along the way,” he said.
Wells and Murray exchanged anxious looks.
“And what are we to do?” inquired the millionaire.
The inspector raised his head suddenly, as though surfacing from underwater, and said, “Right. We’ll go to London, to Scotland Yard headquarters. And not simply because I have to interrogate you there, but because, things being as they are, in a few hours’ time London will undoubtedly be the safest place in England. My superiors have informed me that the army is cordoning off the city in readiness to fend off the invader. We have to reach London before they block all access. Staying outside the perimeter would be the most perilous thing we could do at present: several battalions are marching on the cylinders, and if we stay here we’ll soon find ourselves caught in the crossfire.”
“That sounds sensible,” Wells said, suddenly remembering Jane.
“Sensible?” protested Murray. “You call heading toward the place the Martians intend to obliterate sensible, George?”
“Yes, Gilliam,” replied the author. “If we head in the other direction, we’ll probably—”
“I wasn’t inviting you to debate the plan, gentlemen,” Clayton interjected. “I was simply telling you what we’re going to do, whether you like it or not.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” Murray complained. “And neither I nor Miss Harlow is prepared to—”
A thunderous bolt rang out in the distance, causing the tiny storeroom to shudder.
“What the devil was that?” Murray exclaimed nervously.
“It was the heat ray,” Wells said grimly, “and it sounded very close.”
“My God!” cried the girl, shifting uneasily.
“Calm down, all of you,” Clayton demanded. “As I already told Miss Harlow, you are in the best possible hands. I am Inspector Cornelius Lewis Clayton of Special Branch at Scotland Yard, and I’m trained to deal with this kind of situation.”