The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(9)
“A plate?” Wells asked in astonishment.
“Yes, a soup plate. Or to be more precise a saucer. Like the ones you Britishers use under your teacups,” Serviss added.
“In short, a flying saucer,” Wells said, eager for him to go on.
“Precisely. According to what I read in the notebooks, an expedition of some years past to the South Pole found the machine buried in the Antarctic ice. It appeared to have crashed into a mountain range inland, which is what led them to believe the thing could fly. Except they were unable to open it, because there was no hatch or anything resembling a door.”
“I see. But what made them think it came from another planet?” Wells asked. “Couldn’t it have been built in Germany? The Germans are always experimenting with—”
“No, George.” Serviss butted in forcefully. “One look was enough to see the thing had been built using technology far superior to anything the Germans, or for that matter any country on Earth, could possibly possess. For example, there’s nothing to suggest it is steam driven. But in any case, it wasn’t only its appearance that made them think it came from space.”
“Really? What then?”
Serviss paused for dramatic effect, using the opportunity to take a swig of beer.
“They found the machine not far from a vessel, the Annawan, that had set sail from New York Harbor on October 15, 1829, on an exploratory voyage from which she never returned. The ship had caught fire, and the crew had perished. The frozen bodies of the sailors lay scattered about, half buried in the ice. Most were charred, but those that weren’t still wore a look of terror on their faces, as if they had been fleeing the fire . . . or who knows what other horrors. They also found the bodies of several dogs, their limbs mysteriously torn off. The members of the expedition described the scene as gruesome. But the real discovery came a few days later, when they found the probable pilot of the machine buried in the ice nearby. And I can assure you he wasn’t German, George: I knew that as soon as I opened the casket where he’s kept.”
Serviss paused once more and gave Wells a warm, almost affectionate smile, as if to apologize for scaring him. Wells looked at him with as much trepidation as his drunkenness would allow.
“And what did he look like . . . ?” he asked in a faint voice.
“Needless to say, nothing like the Martians you describe in your novel, George. In fact, he reminded me of a darker, more sophisticated version of Spring-Heeled Jack. Have you heard of Spring-Heeled Jack, that peculiar jumping creature that terrorized London about sixty years ago?”
Wells nodded, unable to fathom what possible similarity there might be between the two.
“Yes, they said he had springs on his feet, which allowed him to take great leaps.”
“And that he would spring out of nowhere in front of young girls, and caress their bodies lasciviously before disappearing again. Many depicted him as diabolical, with pointed ears and clawed hands.”
“I suppose that was a result of the hysteria at the time,” Wells reflected. “The man was probably a circus acrobat who decided to use his skills to sate his appetites.”
“Probably, George, probably. But the thing in the museum reminded me of the monstrous version the illustrators of the more salacious newspapers and magazines produced. I saw copies of those old newspapers when I was a child, and Jack’s appearance made my blood run cold. But, yes, perhaps that similarity is only visible to me, and it comes from my deepest fears.”
“So what you are saying,” Wells said, attempting to sum up, “is that there is a Martian in the Natural History Museum?”
“Yes. Only it’s dead, of course,” Serviss replied, as though somehow that made it less appealing. “Actually, it’s little more than a dried-up kind of humanoid. The only thing that might offer some interesting revelations is the inside of the machine. Maybe it contains a clue as to the Martian’s origins, or some maps of space, or something. Who knows? And we mustn’t forget what a step forward it would be for human science if we were able to figure out how it worked. But unfortunately they can’t open it. I don’t know whether they’re still trying, or whether they’ve given up and both machine and Martian are gathering dust in the museum. Whatever happens, the fact is, my dear George, that thing didn’t come from Earth.”
“A Martian!” Wells said, finally giving free rein to his bewilderment when he realized Serviss had come to the end of his story. “Good God in Heaven!”
“That’s right, George, a Martian, a hideous, horrible Martian,” Serviss confirmed. “And this key can take us to him. Although I only saw him that one time; I haven’t used the key since. I just keep it round my neck like a lucky charm, to remind me that there are more impossible things in the world than we story writers could ever imagine.”
He unfastened the chain and handed it to Wells ceremoniously, like someone surrendering a sacred object. Wells examined it carefully with the same solemnity.
“I’m convinced the true history of our time isn’t what we read in newspapers or books,” he rambled, while Wells went on examining the key. “True history is almost invisible. It flows like an underground spring. It takes place in the shadows, and in silence, George. And only a chosen few know what that history is.”
He deftly snatched the key from Wells and placed it in his jacket pocket. Then he said with a mischievous grin: “Do you want to see the Martian?”