The Martian War (8 page)

Huxley stood abruptly to cut off the other man’s rant. “Ah, thank you very much, Dr. Griffin. None of us needs to be reminded that the aim of Britannia is to protect herself and carry on the burden of the Empire, not to conquer the world— as, perhaps, Kaiser Wilhelm wants to do.”

Without much subtlety, Huxley escorted the chemist away from the lectern, turning to smile reassuringly at Gladstone. “Dr. Griffin’s formulas have already succeeded in significantly increasing the transparency factor. Before long, he will have an effective demonstration. For now, ponder the applications and
possibilities, should his work come to completion soon.”

Next, Dr. Selwyn Cavor talked about his extremely lightweight alloy. “My demonstration sphere is fully armored and impenetrable to even the heaviest artillery shell, yet it weighs less than a hundredth of a similar vessel covered in iron plating.”

“A weightless ironclad? Amazing.” The admirals and generals were abuzz with excitement.

“Well … not entirely weightless yet, Mr. Prime Minister. However, I believe I’m on the cusp of making a material that is opaque to gravity itself, immune to the tug of the Earth.”

For hours, one by one, prominent researchers gave brief demonstrations of their schemes. Wells continued writing his furious notes, and all the listeners continued to be amazed.

A medical expert and bacteriologist named Philby spoke about isolating the deadly cholera bacillus. He had already separated, purified, and concentrated the germ, which he kept in a locked container in his laboratory. Hearing Philby’s scheme, one of the uniformed generals blew through his long moustache, then grumbled with anger. “This is preposterous! A truly horrendous means of waging war, and very ungentlemanly.”

“But is it not something we must consider?” Philby insisted. “One small vial contains more ammunition than a hundred thousand bullets. We must not blindfold ourselves to reality. Certainly the Germans have already considered such a thing.” The general was obviously sobered as he pondered the implications.

Late in the afternoon, the auditorium door opened with a loud crash. Everyone in the audience turned as a disheveled but arrogant-looking man strode in as if he were a king. In the corridors behind him, incensed security men hustled forward, blowing whistles and shouting for the man to stop. But the
barrel-chested intruder strode down the central aisle.

At the side of the stage, Huxley wore a terrible expression on his face. “Moreau! How dare you enter here?”

Moreau squared his shoulders, and his voice boomed out. “I dare, Thomas, because I must save you all from becoming fools.” His eyes were bright and defiant. “The Imperial Institute has a much too narrow view of the true threat that is upon us.”

Huxley struggled to regain his composure. “Guards, remove this man. He is not welcome here, nor in any facility of higher education in the British Empire. In fact, Scotland Yard has several outstanding warrants for his arrest.”

“Thomas Henry Huxley, you pride yourself on being a scientist, but you are pathetic when you allow emotions to rule you.” Moreau crossed his arms over his chest. “I know you dislike me. You and I have a bitter history, and you have accused me of committing heinous crimes.” He pointed an accusing finger at the professor. “But will you—before all these other researchers and the prime minister himself
—refuse
to hear what I have to say, though it may have a bearing upon the survival of every man, woman, and child on Earth? Where is your much-vaunted scientific objectivity?”

Huxley glowered. Wells had never seen the professor so angry. Moreau directed his words to Prime Minister Gladstone, but his voice still held an overconfident sneer. “I swear to you that the coming war will not only encompass all of the British Empire, but the entire world—nay, two worlds. You sit here clucking like old hens, worried about an insignificant shadow when the whole sky is falling on you.”

“What is this man saying?” Gladstone said, flustered. Guards had come into the auditorium, ready to drag Moreau away, but
the unwelcome scientist did not budge. Wells wondered how Moreau had learned of this gathering of great scientists, when the entire research wing was supposedly a closely guarded secret.

Huxley fumed. “Very well, Moreau. What is it? Be succinct and make your words pertinent. Do not waste our time here.”

The audience members stirred and grumbled. “Silence! So that I may speak!” Moreau bellowed. The hubbub dwindled, and he waited for complete silence. “You will consider my information vital, though some may have been squeamish about my past methods. If you would drive me out now, you would blind yourselves to the most terrible danger the Earth itself has ever known!”

Huxley tapped the lectern impatiently. “Enough grandstanding, Moreau. What threat is greater than the Germans, or the Russians, or the French?”

Moreau said a single word in a deep, forbidding tone.
“Martians.”

The lecture hall resounded with gasps, then chuckles.

“Enough! I assure you this is not a joke.” Moreau turned to the anxious-looking guards still standing in the doorway. “You there! Haul in my specimen. Go on!”

When the men hesitated, Moreau looked as if he intended to chase them into the corridor himself. “Come, come! Men entrusted with protecting this facility should be capable of lugging a single crate!”

While Wells watched with intense curiosity, the guards returned through the doors. Grunting and straining, they dragged a heavy rectangular crate nearly as large as the cages that had held the enormous rats. The crate was covered with a tarpaulin that hid its contents from view.

Moreau strode up to the crate and clutched the fabric with both hands. He looked back at Huxley. “Now you shall see. You all will see.” With a flourish, he yanked away the sheet to reveal an abominable, misshapen creature contained inside a glass-walled aquarium.
“This
is the true face of our enemy, gentlemen.”

The lecture hall resounded with gasps and exclamations. The unearthly creature was obviously dead, preserved in murky formaldehyde. The bulbous, brown-skinned thing was composed mostly of a gigantic brain sac. Huge milky-white eyes looked like overcooked eggs. Snake-like tentacle appendages dangled from a soft and hideous body.

“It looks like that deformed Merrick chap,” cried Philby, the medical researcher. But Wells, who had seen pictures of the “elephant man,” knew that this supposed Martian was much more disgusting in appearance.

Wells scribbled notes furiously, attempting to record or even sketch what he witnessed. He swallowed hard as he scratched with his lead pencil, sure he had blundered onto the doorstep of history in the making.

He looked at the blustering bearded man. His immediate reaction was one of distaste. Moreau seemed to be a person of some genius, but little tact. Wells preferred Huxley’s approach to the mysteries of science, yet Moreau’s convictions stood taller and more impregnable than all of Wells’s book learning. The abrasive man did not seem to care that he was liked among his colleagues, so long as he was proved
right.
Moreau stood buffeted by the wash of the audience’s distaste, but showed no sign of backing down. His shocking announcement had at least shaken them, forced them to listen.

Smug now that he had their full attention, Moreau raised his voice. “This Martian died in the crash of a first cylinder in the Sahara, apparently a scout ship from the red planet. I have dissected and analyzed it thoroughly and recorded the full details here in my personal journal.”

He removed a bound volume from his suit and held it up in a large hand. “This specimen is only the first—the first of an entire invasion force from Mars!”

FROM THE JOURNAL OF DR. MOREAU

Grand discoveries require careful documentation. I am a participant in events that will change the course of human history, and therefore I have determined to set down all that I have observed and pondered. History must remember what occurred in the Sahara, on the Atlantic steamer, and at Percival Lowell’s observatory in Arizona Territory.

If the impending Martian invasion is not thwarted, then this journal may be all that remains of our civilization. I will tell what happened, and how the human race failed in its time of greatest crisis. I am fully aware of my obligation to the truth.

* * *

After the silvery cylinder had torn a smoky line through the sky and crashed near our still-burning canals, Lowell and I rushed forward, awestruck and eager. We were impetuous men, and neither of us wasted time with undue caution. Hesitation results only in lost opportunities: that is a motto by which I choose to live my life. Now was not the time for us to be cowards.

A plume of dust curled into the air from the distant impact crater. “I hope the Martian ship did not explode when it struck the ground!” Lowell shouted.

“Impossible!” I replied over the rumble of the fire from the raw impact wound. “They would be too advanced to make such a foolish mistake.”

Both Lowell and I were accustomed to leading, not following, and so we climbed the lip of the fresh crater in tandem. Together, we gazed down at the steaming ruin.

Deep below, I could make out a silver cylinder with snub ends like a bullet. It was mirror-bright, dazzling our eyes, though the hull was stained from entering the atmosphere like a giant meteor. But this was no meteor: the cylinder was clearly formed by the hands of an intelligent race.

I confess that I had a more scientific curiosity than a diplomatic one. If the alien civilization had sent a spacecraft across interplanetary distances, then Martian technology was obviously far superior to anything our greatest industrial nations had developed. I was eager to learn what these creatures could teach me.

The heat from the pit rose in a tremendous wave, preventing us from approaching closer. We could only stand to observe for a few seconds. Lowell dropped back, coughing,
but I remained hunched over, shielding my watering eyes, until I, too, had no choice but to stagger back. With savage disappointment, Lowell clenched his hands at his sides. “I have waited years for this moment. I can tolerate a few more hours—but not much longer.”

Impatient and frustrated, we retired to our shaded tents. We both felt as if our life’s work was coming to its climax. Lowell fetched toiletries, shaved with a basin of tepid water, then changed into a fine new suit and straightened his collar. All the while he kept his gaze intent on the still-glowing pit visible through the propped-open tent flap.

And the hours dragged on.

After eating a quickly prepared meal, we shared a celebratory brandy and a cigar. Lowell told me of his longstanding passion for Mars and his intention to use part of the family fortune to build an observatory dedicated to the study of the red planet. His young assistant, A.E. Douglass, had already been sent to scout appropriate locations in the American Southwest, Mexico, and even South America. Then he talked about his journeys as an ambassador to Japan and the insights he had gained from the Eastern mind and its philosophies.

Oh, our frivolous conversation seems so absurd now as I record it, and I cannot in good conscience set down all our inane thoughts on paper. Let us say that Percival Lowell and I were equally naive and optimistic, and I shall leave the matter at that.

Soon, we would have a chance to meet a real Martian face to face.

* * *

When evening cooled the desert, we set off again. I commanded the remaining Tuaregs to follow with crowbars and pickaxes from the trench excavations, as I thought the Martians might need assistance in opening their armored spacecraft. The superstitious natives accompanied us, though reluctantly.

Although their culture retained its belief in mysteries and demons, the Tuaregs had seen locomotives and white men coming in large ships. To them, a spaceship cylinder or a creature from Mars was no more fantastic.

Lowell was mulling over an appropriate speech to welcome the alien visitors, and I wondered if he had considered that the Martians were not likely to speak English. Still, Lowell had a knack for languages. On impulse, he reached into the pocket of his cream-colored jacket and withdrew the oxide-red spectacles I had given him, placing them over his eyes. Now he saw the world as a Martian would, the better to understand them.

When we finally stood on the crater rim, I could see a dull glow, but most of the cylinder had cooled. The immense object, larger than two railroad cars, made a ticking and crackling sound as its temperature continued to adjust to our environment.

Lowell noticed the hatch first, and excitement intensified his Bostonian accent. “Look there, Moreau! A circle protruding from the side of the cylinder.” Indeed, a rounded cap was moving like an immense screw, rising from the cylinder’s hull.

“Someone inside is trying to open it,” I said.

Before Lowell could say anything, I scrambled down the
loose slope. The thin crust of vitrified sand broke beneath my feet, but I dug in my heels and skidded to a halt at the base of the crashed Martian projectile. Breathless, I gazed up at the curved cylinder, awestruck by its sheer size.

Lowell called from above, “Moreau! Are you all right?”

Without waiting, I reached forward, amazed that I could feel no heat radiating from the hull. Tentatively, I brought my hand closer and then, with brash resolve, touched it. The metal was still warm, but not unendurable. “It’s completely safe, Lowell.” He needed no further encouragement to join me.

Above, I heard a scraping sound, and the screw-hatch rotated visibly by a quarter of a turn, then gradually a quarter more. “Perhaps they are too weak to open it the rest of the way,” I said when Lowell stood panting beside me.

He bellowed to the desert workers gathered around the rim. “Come here and bring your crowbars! We must get this cylinder open.” He glared up them, his wavy pale hair ghostly under the starlight. “There will be no pay for anyone who hesitates.”

Three of the dark-clad workers disappeared from the edge, and Lowell and I never saw them again. Four other men—either braver or more desperate for money—came down brandishing their crowbars like weapons, though we meant for them to be used only as tools.