The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(90)
“With a—Martian invasion?” the girl stammered.
“Strange though it may sound, yes,” Clayton replied, without looking her in the eye. “An invasion of our planet by Martians or other extraterrestrials was always a possibility, and consequently my division is prepared for it.”
The inspector’s speech was punctuated by a fresh explosion, a deafening bang whose echo went on for several seconds before dying out. They looked at one another in alarm. It was even closer this time.
“Are you sure, Inspector?” the millionaire asked, a sardonic smile on his face.
“Certainly, Mr. Murray,” Clayton replied solemnly.
“Aren’t we perhaps jumping to conclusions when we refer to them as Martians?” Wells chimed in. “They could be machines designed by Germans, for example.”
Ignoring Wells’s remark, Clayton drifted off into another of those brooding daydreams to which he seemed so partial, this time studying the ceiling of the tiny storeroom.
A few seconds later, the inspector emerged from his meditations. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll take the carriage and drive to London as swiftly and safely as possible. We’ll do our best to travel inconspicuously and avoid any cylinders along the way—in the unlikely event we encounter any. We may need to camouflage the carriage, but we can see about that as we go along. An invasion takes longer than a few hours . . . yes, indeed,” he said suddenly, as if to himself, and nodded vigorously. “It takes time to wipe out a planet. I wonder if the same thing is happening everywhere? Is this the destruction of our civilization? I expect we’ll find out soon enough . . . In the meantime, they are here, in our country. The Martians have clearly understood the strategic importance of the British Isles. But we’re ready for them, of course!” He turned to the others, giving a reassuring smile. “We mustn’t give way to panic. The whole thing will be over before we even realize it. At this very moment our defense plan is being put into place in London. This area is outside my division’s jurisdiction, but while you are with me you have absolutely nothing to fear. I shall get you to London safe and sound. You have my word.”
And with that, the inspector rolled his eyes and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Startled, his three companions stared at one another, and then finally gazed with interest at Inspector Clayton’s body curled up in a ball on the floor, wondering whether this was part of his plan.
“What the devil?” Murray exclaimed when he realized the inspector was out cold.
Murray made as if to give him a kick, but Wells preempted him, kneeling beside the inspector.
“He’s alive,” he told them, attempting to take Clayton’s pulse.
“Then what’s the matter with him?” the millionaire asked, bewildered. “Has he fallen asleep?”
“Clearly he has suffered some kind of fainting fit,” Wells replied, remembering vaguely what Serviss had told him. “Perhaps he suffers from low blood pressure, or diabetes, although I’ll wager—”
“In the best possible hands!” Murray cut across, raising his eyes to Heaven in despair. “For God’s sake, one of them is made of metal!”
Wells stood up and looked with an air of disappointment at the inspector lying on the floor at their feet.
“What are we going to do now?” the girl asked Wells in a faint voice.
“I think we should stick to the plan of going to London,” Wells proposed, eager to get there as soon as possible to look for Jane.
“I’m not taking Miss Harlow to London, George,” the millionaire protested.
“If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Gilmore, or Murray, or whatever your name is, I shall decide for myself where I want to go,” the girl intervened coldly. “And I do want to go to London.”
“What! But why, Emma?” Murray became frantic. “We may as well walk straight toward the gates of Hell!”
“Because things can only be done in the proper manner,” Emma retorted. Apparently she had recovered the conceited self-assurance she displayed at home, and Murray found this unacceptable, given their current predicament, which seemed to have completely slipped the girl’s mind. He was about to object, but Emma silenced him with an angry stare. “And for your information, Mr. Murray, seeing as you haven’t deigned to ask, I happen to be staying in London—at my aunt Dorothy’s house in Southwark, to be exact. And I left there this morning without telling a soul, because my intention was to witness your pathetic spectacle, to settle the tiresome and humiliating episode of your defeat, and arrive back in time for lunch without anyone having noticed my absence. However, that wasn’t to be . . . ,” she murmured, glancing about the storeroom with the bewildered look of someone having just woken from a deep sleep. But she instantly took hold of herself, continuing in a resolute voice. “If news of the invasion has reached London, my poor aunt, who must have realized by this time that I’m not in my room, will be in a dreadful flap, and so I must go put her mind at rest. And besides, my things are there, all my trunks containing my dresses, not to mention the two maids I brought with me from New York, whose well-being is my responsibility. Are you suggesting I flee with you to goodness knows where, with nothing more than the clothes on my back, and forget about everything else?”
“Listen to me, Emma,” Murray said with undisguised exasperation, as though trying to drum sense into the head of a spoiled little girl, “we are being invaded by an army of alien machines intent upon killing us, and I’m afraid no one will care very much what you are wearing when they aim their heat rays at you. Don’t you think that in a situation like this your baggage should be the least of your worries?”