The Map of the Sky (49 page)

“Quite, Gilliam, you needn’t apologize,” said Wells, still a little pale, although unable to prevent a hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice. “And you needn’t make excuses for him either, Miss Harlow. Not on this occasion.”

They all shuffled over to the open window and found themselves gazing down at an alleyway piled with refuse. The man named Mike lay in a crumpled heap on the ground. Next to him, still attached by its monstrous tongue, the thing was sprawled in a pool of greenish blood.

The group raced downstairs and into the alley where the bizarre creature had fallen. But when they arrived, they found only the body of their former prisoner. All that remained of the creature was a big patch of greenish liquid on the ground.

“Curses! Where the devil is it hiding?” Murray declared, rubbing his shoulder, which had a small scratch, visible through the rent in his jacket.

“I don’t know. The alleyway appears to have no other exit,” Clayton replied, pacing around the group in circles. “But it was here only a moment ago!”

In his irritation, he kicked at the greenish puddle, causing the revolting substance to splatter in all directions. With a martyred look, Wells noticed that some of it had landed on his trousers.

“Do you think it had time to reach the main street?” asked the millionaire.

“It’s possible,” Clayton replied pensively.

“I doubt it,” remarked Wells. “There’s no trace of blood, or whatever it is the creature exudes, leading to the—”

He broke off as Clayton, oblivious to what he was saying, ran toward the street, swinging his head from side to side like a street sweeper’s broom. Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks, then, retracing his steps, he stood dramatically, arms akimbo, tut-tutting mechanically as he eagerly examined the fronts of the buildings facing the alley. Wells gave a sigh. He could not decide which irritated him more: the inspector’s supercilious attitude in moments of calm or the theatrical gestures with which he accompanied his deductions in tense situations.

“Do you think the creature can climb, or . . . fly?” Wells heard him ask.

“If he could fly, he would have done so before hitting the ground, don’t you think?” the author retorted.

“Perhaps the prisoner’s weight made that impossible,” Clayton surmised.

“Surely you aren’t serious?” Wells said scornfully. “That thing must weigh twice as much as—”

“Do be quiet!” cried Emma. Until then, although pale and trembling, the girl had managed to control her nerves, but now she seemed on the point of collapse. Murray gallantly offered her his arm, and the girl leaned on him like a delicate bird. “My God, didn’t you see that . . . thing? Garrett was turning into a . . . Oh, my God, it looked like a . . .”
Her voice gave way suddenly, and Murray had to seize her to stop her from falling to the floor.

“Emma . . . ,” he whispered, holding her in both arms. “Emma, look at me. You can’t give in now, do you hear? Not now.”

“But what are we to do, Gilliam? What is that thing?” she said, gasping for breath.

“Calm yourself, Emma,” whispered Murray. “I won’t let anything happen to you, do you see? I swear on my life.”

The young woman looked at him in silence for a few moments. She gulped hard several times before replying in a faint voice.

“But Gilliam . . . How can I believe someone who swears on their life and yet has been dead for two years?” she replied, in an attempt to revive her beleaguered sense of humor.

“Emma . . . ,” Murray breathed, transforming her name into a vault in which the tumult of his feelings could scarcely be contained.

“Ahem . . .” Clayton cleared his throat awkwardly. “Clearly we shall gain nothing if we give way to panic. We must keep our heads and try to look on the bright side,” he suggested. “The fact is we are better informed now. We know the Martians can change into any one of us. And I’m sure knowing that will give us an enormous advantage over them.”

“We also know they aren’t merely out there, trying to invade London,” Wells said. “They’ve already infiltrated and are here among us. And who knows since when,” the author added, and, remembering the cadaver that had been lying in the basement of the Natural History Museum for the last twenty years, he glanced meaningfully at the inspector, who of course did not take the hint.

“Well,” concluded Clayton, “let’s not waste time speculating. We know what the situation is—or at least part of it. We must go to a safe place where we can consider what to do. We need to pool our information and devise a plan.”

“Didn’t you say your department was prepared for this kind of contingency?” the author asked dryly. “I thought you already had a plan.”

“My aunt!” Emma remembered suddenly. “She’s an old lady . . . We must rescue her! And my maids! My God, we must tell them they can’t trust anyone!”

“Calm yourself, Miss Harlow,” the inspector hastened to reassure her, ignoring Wells’s comments. “Naturally, the very first thing we will do is to send for your venerable aunt and your beloved maids. After that . . . But let’s not waste time chattering, I shall inform you on the way. Now let’s be going!” he cried, clapping loudly and marching ahead, even as he shot Wells an annoyed glance. “Man has a thousand plans, Heaven but one,” he murmured.

Murray and Wells followed behind resignedly. When they reached the main street, they perceived a reddish glow and plumes of smoke rising above the rooftops down toward Chelsea. And as if that were not enough to make plain what was going on, the evening breeze brought the familiar hiss of the Martian rays. Emma clutched Murray’s arm, and he squeezed her hand tight.

“It looks as if they’ve already entered London,” Wells declared solemnly, trying to conceal the fear he felt for Jane’s safety.

XXVIII

E
MMA WAITED FOR A FEW MOMENTS, MAKING SURE
her face betrayed none of the shame she felt. When she had composed herself sufficiently, she turned toward the three men, who were standing behind her in the middle of the opulent drawing room they had just entered, and gave them a nonchalant smile.

“Well, clearly the house is empty!” she declared with a shrug. “We’ve searched every inch of it, from the servants’ quarters down to the last sitting room. Evidently my aunt Dorothy and her staff, and my maids, have vanished, no doubt to find somewhere more secure.” She pretended to smooth down the cuffs of her dress, struggling to contain her growing anger. “And it seems they’ve done so without any thought of me. Without even leaving so much as a note telling me where they’ve gone.”

“You mustn’t think that, Emma,” Murray hastened to console her. “Perhaps they had to leave in a hurry. Imagine how terrified your aunt must have felt when she learned of the invasion, a frail old lady like her.”

“My aunt is no more a frail old lady than you are a missionary,” the girl objected, finally venting her fury. “She’s a selfish old spinster who has never cared a bit for anything or anyone, least of all her only niece, as you can see.” Emma smiled ruefully as she stared at the three men, then gave a bitter laugh. “Do you know what my mother used to threaten me with when I spurned another of my suitors? ‘You’ll end up like your aunt, old, alone, and embittered!’ she would say. But the prospect never scared me. On the contrary, my mother would despair when I told her I couldn’t imagine a more agreeable fate. Only now . . . now . . .” The
girl was surprised to feel her eyes suddenly brim at the memory of her mother. She could picture her sitting in the small sunny music room, peering at her daughter over her gold-rimmed spectacles with her usual look of concern, and it seemed so far away and dreamlike now, that world without Martians, where the worst she could expect was to end up like Aunt Dorothy. “I’d give anything now to take back all the times I made my mother angry,” she said at last, turning her grief-stricken face toward the large drawing room window, through which Southwark Cathedral loomed.

“Don’t fret, Emma,” Murray implored, taking a few hesitant steps toward her. “I promise you will live to infuriate your mother many more times. And even your father. I don’t know how yet, but you will return to New York safe and sound.”

Wells glanced sideways at Clayton, who was rolling his eyes to Heaven, a gesture that only added to the author’s dislike of the young man. Who the devil did that prig take himself for? Much as it pained Wells to admit it, Murray had so far proved himself a much more invaluable companion than the conceited inspector from Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. Indeed, apart from his timely intervention at the farm, Wells had yet to see what they had gained from having ferried the insufferable young man back and forth. Fortunately, the two others did not notice Clayton’s rude gesture, for they were too involved in their own drama.

“Would you care to ask your aunt’s neighbors as to her whereabouts, Miss Harlow?” Wells suggested, taking advantage of the sudden silence. “Perhaps they might know something.”

“We have no time for that, Mr. Wells.” Clayton frowned, his limited patience wearing thin. “Can’t you hear the gunfire coming from Lambeth? I’m sure the tripods are invading London from that side, too. We must leave immediately, or else . . .”

As though to illustrate the inspector’s argument, a couple of blasts in quick succession lit up the horizon through the drawing-room window. They sounded much closer.

“I have no intention of traipsing around London in search of my
aunt, gentlemen. I believe I’ve already fulfilled my duty as her niece,” Emma announced boldly. “However, if it’s all the same to you, Inspector Clayton, I’d like to go up to my rooms and change into something more comfortable. I have a riding outfit that is much better suited to fleeing Martians. I’ll only take a few minutes.”

“Go ahead, Miss Harlow,” Clayton conceded, “but I implore you to hurry.”

The girl gave Clayton a little nod and swept out of the room followed by her huge, faithful guardian.

“May I go with you, Miss Harlow?” Murray asked. “Only as far as the door, of course.”

“Oh please do,” replied the girl. “That way, if a Martian leaps unexpectedly out of my trunk, you can rush in and hurl us both out of the window.”

“I’d never do such a thing, miss. Perhaps to Wells or the inspector, but not to you.”

The millionaire’s reply scarcely reached Wells’s and the inspector’s ears, coming as it did after a series of loud creaks on the stairs. Clayton clapped Wells so hard on the back that he gave a start.

“Good! Now help me find something to write with, Mr. Wells,” the inspector ordered, pulling open drawers and rummaging around as though he were intending to steal the old woman’s jewelry. “Let’s use the time to work out the safest route from here to where we want to go. We’ll try to anticipate the path the tripods will take, even if we have to do so following the logic of Earthlings’ military advances. We’ll take the alleyways and backstreets leading away from the line of—Hells bells! Doesn’t anyone in this house use a pen? Perhaps in the library . . . Incidentally, Mr. Wells, are you familiar with this area?”

“Do I look like a cabby?” said Wells, visibly irritated, as he walked over to an elegant escritoire in a corner of the drawing room, where of course he found what he was looking for. “Here’s your ink and paper, Inspector. There’s no need to dig holes in the walls or lift up the flooring.”

“Good, there, that’s something,” Clayton replied, snatching them
from Wells. He walked toward the table in the center of the room and without a second thought swept a pair of candlesticks from it with his arm. “However, since neither of us is familiar with the area, we’ll have to draw the route from memory. Let’s see, if the cathedral is here and Waterloo Bridge is over there . . .”

“Clayton,” Wells interrupted solemnly. “You don’t believe we’re going to get out of this alive, do you?”

The inspector looked at him in astonishment.

“What makes you think that? I’m sure that with a little luck . . .”

“You can’t fool me, Inspector. I saw the face you made when Murray told Miss Harlow he would take her back to New York safe and sound.”

“Don’t be mistaken, my friend.” Clayton smiled. “I wasn’t expressing disbelief at the possibility of getting out of London alive, but rather at the probability that New York is still a safe place to go.”

For a moment, Wells looked at him, demoralized.

“Do you mean to say . . . Good God . . . The Martians might be invading New York . . . and perhaps other cities, too?”

“It’s a possibility,” replied Clayton, turning his attention to the sheet of paper on the table, flattened beneath his battered prosthesis. “And as such, we ought to take it into consideration . . . No, the bridge is farther up . . .”

“But, in that case . . . ,” Wells murmured, ignoring the inspector’s lack of interest in the conversation, for he had to express this horror in words. “If the whole planet is being invaded, what is the use of fleeing?”

Clayton looked up from the sheet of paper. He gazed intently at Wells, his narrow eyes glinting.

“Staying alive for a single second is worthwhile, Mr. Wells. And each second we stay alive multiplies our chances of surviving the next one. I suggest you think of nothing else,” he said gravely, and then focused once more on his map. “Now, where’s Waterloo Bridge?”

•   •   •

W
HILE
M
URRAY STOOD GUARD
outside the door, Emma began changing out of her clothes. Exasperated at the difficulty of undoing all
the fastenings of her dress without a maid, she took a small pair of silver scissors and simply cut the dress open, then tossed it under the bed. She slipped into her riding outfit, a Parisian ensemble consisting of a lightweight jacket, a pair of culottes, and a pale green belt. She tied her hair back in a low bun and, with the air of a delicate youth, gazed at herself in the mirror, unable to help wondering what Murray would think of her in that apparel. She was about to leave the room when something poking out of one of her trunks caught her eye.

She recognized it immediately, yet hesitated for a moment, her hand on the door, before flinging herself at the trunk and seizing the object, as if she feared it might dissolve in the air. Still kneeling on the floor, she clasped it to her for a few moments before untying the red ribbon around it and carefully unrolling it. The Map of the Sky, which her great-grandfather had drawn for his daughter Eleanor, opened out effortlessly, with a melodious crackle, like a fire in the hearth. Apparently it did not resent her having locked it away for so many years. Emma recalled the moment, seemingly ages ago, when she had decided to take it with her on her trip to London to see her aged aunt. What use could she possibly have had for it on such a voyage, the sole purpose of which was to humiliate the most insufferable of men? Yet now she was glad she had brought it with her, to be able to admire it once more, for perhaps the last time.