The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(91)
“I am not only worried about my baggage! Did you hear a word I said, Mr. Murray?” Emma exclaimed, clenching her teeth angrily. “You are the most insufferable man I have ever met! I’ve just told you I have relatives here in London, and I wish to join them as soon as possible. Besides, my parents’ reply to my telegram will be sent to my aunt’s house, and they will want to know we are together and out of harm’s way. I have responsibilities, don’t you see? No, of course you don’t. What can someone who stages his own death know of responsibilities, someone who by his actions deprives the world of what is undoubtedly the greatest discovery in the History of Mankind, the possibility of traveling to the future, out of pure selfishness, no doubt because he has enriched himself enough and wishes to enjoy his wealth in peace? And a man such as he, who thinks only of himself, dares to criticize me for worrying about my clothes? Do you really think I would place myself in your hands, Mr. Murray? Why, you are to blame for my being stuck in the middle of this chaos in the first place!”
“I am to blame?” the millionaire protested. “Let me remind you that you challenged me to re-create the Martian invasion in Mr. Wells’s novel as a condition for marrying me, despite not loving me. Yet I love you, Emma. And I promise you that if I’d known something like this was going to happen, I would never have allowed you to travel to London. I only took up your challenge because it was a chance to make you happy, while your sole intention was to humiliate me! Which of us is more selfish?”
“I forbid you from calling me by my Christian name again, Mr. Murray!” the girl cried. Then she took several deep breaths to try to calm herself before adding in a serene but stinging voice: “And I’d like to make one thing perfectly clear before leaving for London, which is where I intend to go, given that both Mr. Wells and Inspector Clayton consider it the most sensible thing to do: not only are you the last person on Earth I would ever marry, you are also the last person with whom I would want to survive the destruction of this planet.”
The young woman’s words seemed to knock the wind out of Murray. His face grew dark, and for a moment he looked as if he might explode, but then he lowered his head, too abject to hold the angry gaze of the girl, whose eyes appeared capable of blasting him with a heat ray more powerful than any Martian machine.
“I understand, Miss Harlow,” he murmured. “Then I suppose there is nothing more to say.”
In spite of himself, Wells could not help giving the millionaire a pitying smile.
“Come on, Gilliam. Be sensible,” he heard himself say cheerily. “Where else would we go, for the love of God?”
Still staring at his feet, Murray gave a sigh of resignation.
“Very well,” he murmured. “We’ll go to London.”
Just then, a fresh explosion, closer than the previous ones, made the walls shudder, and a shower of plaster fell on them from the ceiling.
“Whatever our destination, the quicker we leave the station the better, don’t you agree?” said the author, once the echo from the blast had died away.
“Yes, let’s get out of here as quickly as possible,” Murray concurred.
He made as if to leave, but the girl’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“What do we do with him?” he heard her say, pointing at the inspector’s inert body.
“For Heaven’s sake!” Murray exclaimed, at the end of his tether. “What do you expect us to do with him, Miss Harlow?”
“We can’t leave him here,” Wells interposed. “If that machine destroys the station, he’ll be buried alive. We must take him with us.”
“What?” the millionaire protested. “Have you lost your senses, George? He was planning to arrest us the moment we reached London.”
“Do you want us to abandon him to his fate?” the author cried.
“Oh, no, Mr. Wells. Naturally Mr. Murray wouldn’t dream of leaving him here. He isn’t that selfish. Are you, Mr. Murray?”
The millionaire did not know how to respond and simply looked at her dumbfounded.
“I didn’t think so,” Wells jested, and, hoisting the inspector up by his armpits, he said to Murray: “Come on, Gilliam, don’t sulk, take his feet and help me get him out of here.”
? ? ?
IN THE STATION, THE peace that had reigned when they arrived had turned to violent chaos. As they had gleaned from the noises and shouts reaching them in their cell, people were rushing back and forth, or clustered together in bewildered groups into which a gradual panic was creeping. “The Martians are coming!” many of them cried, dragging their luggage from place to place, as if suddenly no refuge felt secure enough in the face of such a threat. The Martians are coming! They watched as a desperate tide of people tried to clamber aboard the only train standing in the station, clogging its doorways so that many could only get on by smashing the windows. Some tried to force their way through, brutally thrusting aside anyone blocking their way, even women and children, some of whom fell onto the tracks. Looked at from the calm of the platform, that chaos offered a spectacle at once shocking and fascinating, a display of barbarism that illustrated perfectly how fear can destroy people’s reason, reducing them to simple animals driven only by a selfish will to survive.
“Let’s get to my carriage,” said Murray urgently.