The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(95)

Like a blind man suddenly able to see, the false Wells studied the place he found himself in, crammed with bric-a-brac that meant nothing to him, relics of a fantasy world that belonged only to Earthlings. He felt an enormous relief as he glimpsed something familiar amid the plethora of nonsensical artifacts: his vehicle, raised on a plinth, considered as miraculous as the other objects in the room. The machine appeared intact, exactly as he had left it in the snow when he infiltrated the Earthlings’ ship, though it was still no doubt out of action: it did not take much intelligence to see that the humans had not even managed to open it. He walked over to the machine, halting a few yards from the plinth, and he narrowed his eyes in concentration. A chink slowly appeared in the machine’s domed lid. The bogus Wells climbed inside. Seconds later, he emerged carrying an ivory-colored cylindrical box, smooth and shiny save for the tiny symbols on its lid that gave off a coppery glow. In the box was what had forced him to fly through space to Earth, that faraway planet almost 30,000 light-years from the center of the galaxy, which the Council had chosen as the new home of its race. And although he had taken longer to get there than predicted, at last he was able to continue his mission.

He opened the door of the chamber and left the museum like any other human, mingling with the late-afternoon crowd of visitors. Once outside, he took a deep breath and glanced around him, testing his newly acquired senses even as he tried to ignore the thrum produced by the mind of the man whose body he had replicated. The din of the real Wells’s thoughts surprised him, as it was far more intense than that emitted by any of the men he had replicated in the Antarctic. But he had no time to enter into that mind and rummage among its quaint ponderings, and so he tried to ignore them and to focus instead on perceiving the world through his own senses, not the rudimentary ones of the Earthling he was inhabiting. And then, all of a sudden, he was filled with an intense feeling of well-being, a serene and tender melancholy such as a man might feel when evoking scenes of his childhood. He had discovered that he was in the place where the colony had been established. Yes, his last memory was the ice closing over his head like the lid of a coffin, and now, after floating in limbo for many years, outwitting death by lowering his energy requirements to enable his body to enter a state of hibernation, he had awoken in London, exactly where he had been headed when his vehicle came down in the Antarctic. He did not know whom he should thank, but, unluckily for the human race, someone had clearly rescued him from the ice and brought him here.

He climbed one of the turrets of the Natural History Museum and from that vantage point narrowed his eyes and sent out another signal. And that call, inaudible to any human, soared across the late-afternoon sky, riding on the warm breeze to spread through the city. Almost instantaneously, in a rowdy Soho tavern, Jacob Halsey stopped washing up glasses, raised his head to the ceiling, and for a few moments remained motionless, heedless of his customers’ requests, until, all of a sudden, tears began to slowly trickle down his face. The same happened to a watchman, Bruce Laird, who for no apparent reason stopped in the middle of a corridor in Guy’s Hospital, as though he had suddenly forgotten where he was going, and wept with joy. A baker in Holborn by the name of Sam Delaney repeated the gesture, as did Thomas Cobb, the owner of a clothier’s shop near Westminster Abbey; a nanny watching over some children playing in a Mayfair park; an old man hobbling down a street in Bloomsbury; Mr. and Mrs. Connell, a couple strolling in Hyde Park feeding the squirrels; and a moneylender who had a shop on Kingly Street. They all looked up at the sky in silent rapture, as though listening to a tune no one else could hear, before stopping what they were doing, eyes brimming with tears, leaving glasses in the sink, business premises unlocked, young charges unprotected, and walking out of their houses and places of work to march slowly through the streets like a trail of ants. Gradually swelling in number, their ranks were joined by teachers, shop assistants, librarians, stevedores, secretaries, members of Parliament, chimney sweeps, civil servants, prostitutes, blacksmiths, coalmen, retired soldiers, cab drivers, and policemen, all moving in an orderly fashion toward the place to which the voice that had interrupted their thoughts was summoning them. It was a long-awaited call, heralding what their parents and their parents’ parents had yearned for: the arrival of the long-awaited one, the Envoy.

? ? ?

FATHER NATHANIEL WRAYBURN, MINISTER of a small parish church in Marylebone, contemplated himself solemnly in the looking glass in the sacristy. He had carefully shaved and slicked back his unruly hair, put on his collar and brushed his cassock, all with slow, ceremonious gestures as if he were performing a service—not because he was required to, but because of the solemnity of the occasion. He sighed with relief when he saw that the wrinkles furrowing his desiccated face gave him an air of dignity rather than decrepitude, and that while the body he had usurped was worn out and emaciated, at least he was blessed with bright blue eyes, much revered by mankind and more particularly by womankind. The Heaven you speak of is reflected in your eyes, Father, a member of his flock had declared. She was unaware that the promised Heaven was inhabited by creatures none of which, unfortunately, enjoyed the status of divinity—however much Father Wrayburn liked to toy with the idea that his race embodied the gods whom human beings venerated. But if that were true, they would not be planning to exterminate them, he said to himself with a pained expression. No god would treat his worshippers like that. He finished smoothing down his hair and walked toward the door of the sacristy, hoping the Envoy would be pleased with his appearance.