The Map of the Sky (64 page)

When the conversation died away, I lit a cigarette and looked around for a place where I could smoke in peace. I needed a few moments alone to reflect about our situation. I noticed that to our right, amid a dizzying succession of identical archways, there was a tunnel that seemed to lead to the back of beyond, and I walked into it, not intending to stray far. Strolling absentmindedly, I came to a door, which was ajar. Intrigued, I pushed it open and discovered a tiny storeroom filled with tools and building materials. I glanced about, in case there was something in there we could use, but saw nothing, or rather everything in there looked useful, but I had no idea what our needs might be. In the end, I decided to sit down on a crate near the door and smoke my cigarette, imagining the startled look on Victoria’s face when, instead of returning with the invincible army of the future, I showed up in the basement with that ragged bunch, only to inform her we planned to flee through the stinking sewers of London to God knows where. Just then, I heard voices and footsteps echoing in the tunnel. Apparently someone else had felt a similar need for solitude. I could make out the voices of Murray and the American girl.

“Gilliam,” I heard Miss Harlow say, “you’re being unfair to Captain Shackleton. Knowing what you do about him gives you no right to speak to him like that.”

This admonishment surprised me. What had Emma meant? I wondered. What was it Murray knew about the captain?

“I don’t think—” Murray protested.

“Your remarks are hurtful, Gilliam,” she interrupted him, uninterested in his excuses. “But above all, unfair. Right now all of us need a reason, any reason, to carry on.”

“I already have a reason to go on, Emma. You know that.”

“Yes, I know,” the girl said softly. “Not that you need one; after all, you’re the great Gilliam Murray, the Master of Time—you don’t
have to believe in anything or anyone. But the others do need something to believe in. And I’m convinced that the only thing that keeps them going now is their belief in Shackleton.” She paused before adding, “And it’s all your fault.”

“M-my fault?” Murray stammered. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, Gilliam, of course you do: you opened the doors to our world for him, taking him away from his world and the fate that awaited him. If he’s with us today, it’s because you paraded him to everyone as the savior of the human race. Do you think it’s right to try to destroy him now, when everyone believes in him?”

“Yes, yes . . . ,” Murray muttered. “Damn it, Emma, you’re right! I don’t know why I’m behaving like this. But the captain isn’t the answer to their prayers!” he countered angrily, only to end in a controlled whisper. “And you know it. You and I both know it.”

“But the fact that we have no hope doesn’t give us the right to destroy theirs,” she said in that stern but soft voice that invariably succeeded in calming Murray.

What the devil did it all mean? I wondered from my hiding place. Why shouldn’t we put all our hopes on a hero of the future like Shackleton? What was it Emma and Gilliam knew about him? I had too many questions, which my unwitting confidants appeared unwilling to satisfy, because a moment later I heard the girl say, rather abruptly, “I think we should rejoin the others.”

“Wait, Emma,” Murray said, and I imagined I heard a rustle of fabric, which made me think Murray had probably grasped her arm. “We haven’t had a chance to talk in private since we left Clayton’s cellar, and I need to know what you think of what I told you. Since then you seem to be avoiding me. I’ve caught you looking at me a couple of times, and you immediately turn away.”

Sensing the approach of a lover’s tiff, I rose from the crate I’d been sitting on and crouched behind it as noiselessly as I could, stubbing my cigarette out on the sole of my shoe so the smoke wouldn’t
give me away and hoping that if Murray and Emma came into the storeroom in search of more privacy, they wouldn’t find me curled up there like a hedgehog.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” the girl objected. “That isn’t true.”

“Just tell me one thing, Emma,” Murray interrupted her accusingly. “I shouldn’t have let you in on my secret, should I? Instead of winning your heart, I’ve managed to make you despise me.”

“Of course I don’t despise you, Gilliam. You always misunderstand what I—”

“Evidently my confession has had the opposite effect to what I intended,” Murray reflected, oblivious to the girl’s words, his own voice accompanied by the sound of footsteps, as if he had set off down the tunnel. “I suppose that the part of you who believes there is only one orderly way of doing things in a world as disorderly as this one despises me now.”

“Gilliam . . .”

“Clearly you’ve had time to think about what I told you and, well, this is the result. I wanted you to love me, and yet I’ve become the most hateful person you’ve ever met.”

“Hateful? Gilliam, I—”

“But, since all is lost, at least let me tell you how I feel about you, Emma,” Murray said pathetically.

“Gilliam, if you’d give me a chance to speak, I could—”

“Emma Harlow!” Murray’s voice boomed, with such authority that even I couldn’t help jerking upright in my hiding place. “I want you to know that these have been the happiest few days of my selfish, absurd life. Being with you, consoling your tears, making you laugh, irritating you from time to time, or simply watching you looking at me . . .”

“They have been for me, too.”

“And if a few Martians had to come from outer space and turn the planet into a slaughterhouse for it to happen, then so be it! I
don’t care if you think I’m being cruel, and even—Wait! Did you just say,
They’ve been for me, too
?”

For a moment the girl’s laughter left me breathless. Good God, how could this aloof young woman have such an enchanting laugh?

“Oh, Gilliam, Gilliam. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. These have been the happiest days of my life, too. Isn’t it crazy? The world is being destroyed around us, and we . . .”

Their laughter intertwined, like fireflies crossing in the night sky.

“But it’s crazy, crazy,” Emma gasped delightfully, slowly beginning to calm down. I was relieved that one of them finally came to her senses. “Look around you, Gilliam. The Martians are destroying London, and we’re talking about love as though we were at a ball. Oh, Gilliam.” Her voice sounded suddenly sad. “Don’t you see that if I were in love with you it would make no difference?”

“No, I don’t. Be so good as to enlighten me. Remember I’m a
petit imbécile.
”

“For goodness’ sake . . .” Emma sighed with feigned annoyance. “I hope I die before you. I can’t think of a more exasperating man with whom to survive a Martian invasion.”

“Is that so? Well, I can only think of one good reason why I’d want to be the only other survivor on the planet apart from such an arrogant, unfeeling, obstinate young woman as you!”

Emma must have been questioning him with her eyes as to what that reason was, perhaps afraid that her voice would betray the wave of emotions undoubtedly sweeping over her. Murray’s words rang out.

“To be able to kiss you once and for all, without worrying about being interrupted by the distinguished author H. G. Wells or by Inspector Clayton.”

After a few moments of tense silence, I heard the girl’s laughter bubble over once more, so infectious that even I smiled, despite not
having heard Murray’s jest. Suddenly the delightful tinkle stopped. I didn’t need to be a genius to know that Murray had decided to kiss the girl without waiting to be the last survivors on the planet, and despite the continued threat posed by Wells and Inspector Clayton. A few moments later, I heard the girl give a faint moan, almost a sigh, and the rustle of clothing when two bodies separate with voluptuous slowness.

“I love you, Gilliam,” Emma said. “I’m in love with you, as I never thought I’d be with anyone.”

How can I describe her tone of voice as she said this? How can my clumsy words convey what Murray must have felt when he heard them, what I myself felt in my gloomy hiding place? Emma uttered these words with a voice as sweet as it was solemn, conscious that she was saying them for the very first time. She had waited years to be able to say them, fearing that day would never come, and if it did, envisaging herself in a conservatory or a garden, surrounded by beautiful flowers, not in the stinking sewers of London with only the repulsive rats for company. But that didn’t matter. She had uttered these words in the tone they merited, as though they were part of an ancient spell, as though her voice were magically emanating from her heart and not her throat. Her words were unadorned, the same words I had heard spoken hundreds of times by lovers, actors, friends, yet now they brimmed with an emotion so pure it stirred me to the depths. I reflected sadly that the girl had uttered them with full awareness that, the way things were going, she would not have many opportunities to repeat them in the future.

“I realized it when you confessed to me in Clayton’s cellar,” she went on, “yet since then I’ve done nothing but try to suppress it. I’m sorry, Gilliam, I’m sorry. But when I found out I’d fallen in love for the first time in my life, all I could feel was great sorrow. What good was this to me, a few hours before the end of the world?” There was a catch in the girl’s voice. “I thought if I told you we would suffer much more. I don’t want to see the man I love die, and I don’t want
to die so soon after I’ve found you! And so I refused to accept it. But it seems that it’s impossible to refuse the Master of Time anything.”

“You’ve just made me the happiest man in the world, a title I shall bear with great honor.”

“But it’s a world that is being demolished, don’t you see?” Emma sighed. “It’s too late, Gilliam . . .”

“Too late? No, Emma, no. At your aunt’s house you told me you’d never stop dreaming again. You said you knew now that the Map of the Sky was part of you. And that map is the guardian of your dreams. Time doesn’t exist in dreams, Emma. Time stops, as it did on the pink plains of the fourth dimension . . .”

And in the long silence that followed, suggesting another passionate embrace, I breathed as noiselessly as I could, trying to get rid of the lump in my throat. I had always insisted that other people’s love was ridiculous to those outside it. In fact, I was convinced that love, as such, did not exist. I believed everyone confused it with a more or less elegant, overblown, or pompous sublimation of our fear of loneliness, boredom, or of roasting in the eternal hellfire of yearning. My feelings for my wife Victoria amounted to little more than mild affection, a vague tenderness that waxed and waned, which I was sure was no fault of hers, for I doubted I could love any other woman more. So, why had I married her? Simply because I wished to be married, to raise a family, to stop squandering my father’s fortune on ephemeral pleasures and to enjoy the illusion of peace afforded by planning a future with someone else. As you can see, my wretched, selfish, misguided way of loving was very different from how Murray loved, and realizing this I felt overwhelmingly sorry for myself. I was going to leave this world without ever having loved anyone, and what was worse, having belittled the love of every woman who had ever loved me.

My clear inability to love had shaped my life. And it was still doing so now, because from the moment I left my uncle’s house, my main concern had been to find a way of defeating the Martians in
order to save the human race—a somewhat vague concept. Whom in particular did I want to save? No one, I told myself, with a sense of horror and deep regret, no one in particular. Naturally, I didn’t want my wife to die, or my cousin Andrew or his wife, but not for their sake, rather for mine, because of the way their sudden disappearance would affect me. For this reason I took refuge in an idea as abstract as the human race. At that moment, I would have given anything for there to have been someone, somewhere on the planet whose death could truly matter to me, could cause me more pain than my own. But there was no one, I realized with bitterness; there was not a single person among the millions of inhabitants on Earth whom I loved selflessly. The tripods were slaughtering my fellows, yet I was incapable of grieving for any one of them on his or her own. None stood out among the rest as Claire did for Shackleton, or Emma for Murray. I could only grieve for the extinction of the whole of which they were a part: the human race. The race to which I did not deserve to belong.

My eyes still brim with tears when I recall that moment, despite only managing at the time to sneer at my new and unexpected sensitivity. And although my hand is trembling so much I am having difficulty writing, I wouldn’t want to finish without telling the reader that if I have described these facts in such detail it is not because I wish to celebrate my discovery of the true meaning of what it is to love, but to leave a record of the noble, sublime sentiments that the finest specimens of our race are capable of generating. Perhaps love is a sentiment shared by other species in the universe. But the love that a human being can generate is exclusively his own and will die with him. After that the universe, despite its unfathomable vastness, its apparent infinity, will no longer be complete.

XXXV

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY, FOR THE FIRST TIME, THE
Martians sent Charles and a small group of other men to work deep inside the pyramid. Until then he had always worked on the outside, transporting and soldering the heavy girders that took it skyward with the slowness of a stalagmite. A few months before, he might have felt a thrill at the prospect of seeing inside the structure, but that morning, all Charles could feel was a vague unease about the effects that being exposed to the poisonous interior of the machine might have on his precarious health. Going in there would certainly accelerate the disease and perhaps prevent him from finishing his diary. Those working in the bowels of the pyramid usually died within a few days, and so, in order not to squander the workforce, the Martians would employ prisoners who already showed signs of carrying the disease. If his neck shackle, which apparently registered the state of prisoners’ blood through the tendrils embedded in their flesh, considered him ready to work inside the machine, that meant he was doomed. This came as no surprise to Charles; he knew he had the mark of death on him the moment he coughed up onto the floor a clot of blood that gave off a greenish glow.