The Map of the Sky (55 page)

S
HACKLETON CAUGHT ME LOOKING AT HIM, AND, ARCHING HIS EYEBROWS SKEPTICALLY, HE SPREAD HIS ARMS TO ENCOMPASS ALL THIS DESTRUCTION.

“A
S YOU SEE,
M
R.
W
INSLOW, WE CAN
’
T POSSIBLY TRAVEL TO THE YEAR 2000.
”

I
SHRUGGED, AMUSED BY WHAT WAS UNDOUBTEDLY NOTHING MORE THAN A MINOR SETBACK.

“I
N THAT CASE,
I’
M AFRAID WE
’
LL JUST HAVE TO DEFEAT THE
M
ARTIANS ON OUR OWN,
C
APTAIN
,” I
REPLIED, GRINNING
.

XXXI

C
HARLES
W
INSLOW WOULD HAVE LIKED TIME TO BE A
river whose banks offered a quiet haven in an unchanging landscape of stately, chiseled mountains, of lakes where the evening would descend softly, of undulating hills, or something similar. Its actual makeup did not concern him so much as its permanency. For this landscape had to stay the same not only when he paused to contemplate it, but also when he decided to leave, rowing upstream in his little boat or letting himself drift downstream. No matter what he did, it must remain unchanged, a place of tranquil repose, tied with unbreakable threads to the banks of the river.

But, apparently, time did not resemble a river at all, and it was a mistake to think that if one went away everything stayed the same. Thanks to Murray’s Time Travel, Charles had traveled to the year 2000, had witnessed the bloody war of the future where mankind did battle with the evil automatons for control of the planet, and had subsequently returned to the year 1898, when automatons were still considered mere toys. But that present had carried within it, like a latent disease, the seeds of the future. And two years later, events had so substantially altered the present that it could no longer lead to the future Charles had once considered immutable. The world he lived in now in 1900 had taken a different path and was no longer headed for the year 2000 as shown to them by Murray. Charles did not know where it was headed, but certainly not there, he said to himself, as he stood up from his straw pallet and stumbled jerkily toward the cell door. From there, he peered despondently at
the outside world and gave a sigh: another morning and he had still not awoken from the nightmare in which he seemed to be living. As if to remind himself of this fact, he ran his fingers despairingly over the iron collar around his neck.

Dawn had not yet broken, but night was beginning to fade on the horizon, and a dim, faintly coppery light was slowly spreading over the plain where the gigantic metal construction built by the Martians stood. By now, everyone was aware the invaders did not come from Mars, but since their true origin was unknown, most people went on calling them that, possibly because they believed it was insulting to the invaders. Charles contemplated the tower with a rage deadened somewhat by the profound exhaustion that had seeped into his bones until it became part of his being. It was rumored that the pyramid was a machine that, once finished, would convert the Earth’s atmosphere into an element less harmful to the invaders. This transformation was one of many the Martians were carrying out on the planet in preparation for the long-awaited arrival of their emperor, who would be accompanied by the other members of their race, crossing space in a convoy of vast airships, their whole world packed into its holds. The handful of invaders that had conquered the Earth with such ease had in fact been no more than a small advance guard.

Farther away, close to the ruins of what until two years ago had been the greatest city in the world, stood the Martian camp, a jumble of randomly positioned globular tin shacks that housed the tiny task force in charge of the work camp where Charles was a prisoner. He had no idea where the extraterrestrials that had led the invasion lived, but he knew there were camps all over England and throughout the rest of the world, because now, two years after the invasion had begun, it could be said that the conquest of Earth was complete. After reducing London to rubble, the invaders had attacked other British cities, as their counterparts had done in Europe and on other continents, encountering nothing more than the token resistance offered by the mighty British Empire. And so Paris, Barcelona, Rome, Athens had all fallen. The entire planet
had been subjugated, millions of humans had perished during the great war, and the few who had survived, among whom Charles had the dubious fortune to be counted, had been turned into slaves, into a labor force that the invaders had no qualms about working to death.

How could this possibly have happened? Charles asked himself again and again as the familiar feelings of despair and disbelief stirred within him. He had seen the future, a future that was clearly no longer going to happen. And there was something strange, something not quite right about all of it. No one else seemed to think so, not even Captain Shackleton, who was in the same camp, and whose cell Charles would visit as often as he could, perhaps because he hoped Shackleton might be able to answer all these questions. Most of the time, the captain would simply shrug or look at Charles with sympathy when he brought the subject up, when he insisted this
couldn’t
be happening. Well, it had been happening for two years, damn it! Shackleton would occasionally exclaim angrily when Winslow’s ceaseless questions tried his patience. The conversation would usually end there.

Charles shook his head, trying to chase away these thoughts. Why go on tormenting himself by insisting he was living a mistaken life, today of all days, when he needed every precious moment left to him? As soon as it was light, the Martians would drag them all from their cells, and they would have to return to work, to the draining task of building the purification machine. Charles had only a few hours until then, so he walked over to the small table in a corner of his cell, sat down, and took out the pen and notebook for which he had bartered five of his least rotten teeth. He had no idea what Ashton, his fellow prisoner who could procure anything, wanted them for, but he knew he himself would soon have no use for them. He had asked Ashton for these writing tools because he planned to put something down on paper, something he supposed could be described as a diary, although he did not intend to record his day-to-day life (which could be summed up in a few lines) but rather the events leading up to his present predicament. The one thing clear to him was that he had to write it before he died, which would be soon now. As if
to confirm his fears, Charles was racked by another of the coughing fits that had been assailing him increasingly in the past few weeks. After it had passed, throat parched and lungs aching, Charles tried to loosen his iron collar with the same gesture he had once used on his bow tie. Then he knitted his brow, remaining silent for a few moments, gathering his thoughts before he began to write:

D
IARY OF
C
HARLES
W
INSLOW

12 February, 1900

My name is Charles Leonard Winslow; I am twenty-nine years old and a prisoner at the Martian work camp in Lewisham. But I shan’t waste the little time I have left writing about myself. Suffice it to say that before the invasion I wanted for nothing: I enjoyed a privileged position in society, a charming wife, and the perfect combination of cynicism and robust health necessary to be able to take full advantage of the daily pleasures life offered me. As things stand, I have been stripped of everything, both materially and spiritually, even my belief in myself. I have nothing left except the certainty that within a week I shall be dead. For that reason I am writing this diary, so that everything I have learned about the invaders will not die with me. For I know things about them that not everyone is aware of, and while this can no longer help me, it may yet prove of some use to others. I am conscious, however, of how unlikely it is that any human will ever read these pages. I need only look around me to realize this. And yet, something inside me makes me cling to the thought that one day, sooner or later, we will overcome the Martians. And if that happens, the information in these pages might play a part in it. Even if I am mistaken and my intuition is no more than the foolish longing of a madman, this diary might still provide the only evidence that Earth was not always ruled over by Martians or whatever they may be. No, over vast stretches of time, Earth belonged
to Man, who came to believe he was lord and master of the universe.

Only a few exceptional minds, such as that of the author H. G. Wells, to whose memory I dedicate these pages, were able to observe the Cosmos with a clarity that helped them understand that not only were we not its only inhabitants, we were also probably not the most powerful. Wells announced this to the world in his novel
The War of the Worlds,
which, with their habitual arrogance, his fellow men read as if it were a simple work of fiction. No one believed anything like that could really come to pass. No one. And, I confess, neither did I, not because I believed we were alone and powerful, but because I had seen the future that awaited my grandchildren. Yes, I had seen the year 2000, and in it there was no trace of any Martians.

For that reason, on the day of the invasion, I found myself at Madame M——’s brothel, the exquisite sanctuary I frequented at least once a week. I seem to recall that the appearance of strange machines on Horsell Common, Byfleet golf course, and at Sevenoaks, Enfield, and Bexley, had already been announced in successive editions of the
St. James’s Gazette.
It gradually became clear that the machines were hostile, for some of them had opened fire on the bystanders, who had gathered around them as if they were a fairground attraction. Apparently, they made their way toward London on legs that looked like stilts, destroying everything in their path with their terrible heat ray. However, the newspaper assured its readers that there was no need for alarm, for, in an unprecedented display of military strength, the great British army was waiting for them on the outskirts of London and had created a cordon around the city. Rather than spread fear among the population, all of this caused a buzz of interest and anticipation. Keen to see their army defeat the invaders, which some claimed were Martians from outer space, many Londoners had traveled to the outskirts to witness the spectacular confrontation as advertised. However, this crowd of
would-be onlookers had been swiftly turned back by the troops, foiled in their desire to see our soldiers give the enemy a drubbing. For reasons of security, nobody was permitted to leave London, and even the train stations had been closed down by order of the government. It was only possible to enter the city, and many of those fleeing Molesey, Walton, Weybridge, and adjacent towns were doing so in droves, flooding the streets with their vehicles crammed with luggage and valuables. According to these fugitives, the devastation in the outlying towns was terrible, and yet no one believed for a moment that we might lose the imminent battle. The final edition of the
St. James’s Gazette
announced the breakdown of telegraph communications, and with no more news coming through, we all waited to see what happened.

As one might imagine, this created some unease among the population, but no undue panic. And in my own case, I must confess it scarcely caused me any concern. Why should it, when I was convinced our powerful army would destroy these bizarre machines before they managed to march into London? There was no question in my mind that we would defeat the Martians, or whatever they were. It couldn’t be any other way, and not because their machines were marching toward us on ridiculous stilts, instead of soaring through the air with unquestionable superiority, as Wells had described them in his novel. No, we would defeat them because the future said we would. However much they terrified us, and however powerful they seemed, I was already sure of the outcome and therefore incapable of worrying about it. I only felt condescension for those who, incapable of putting two and two together, were afraid for their lives. And so, free from fear, I resolved to go about my daily life as usual. Alas, Victoria, my wife, did not share my peace of mind, despite also having traveled to the year 2000 and seen no sign of any Martian invasion. Much to my annoyance, she insisted on sitting out the battle with my cousin Andrew and his wife—her sister—and a few
of our friends at my uncle’s mansion in Queen’s Gate. None of them seemed able to understand that there was nothing to fear.

Unable to take refuge with this group of startled children without feeling ridiculous, I left the house in the opposite direction. People had crowded into the streets and taverns and formed restless clusters in the squares, but they appeared curious rather than alarmed about what might be happening on the city’s outskirts. Strolling aimlessly, I noticed a knot of people eager for information surround one of the fugitives’ carts, their faces aghast as its owner related in a garbled manner the destruction from which he had miraculously escaped. These simple folk had not traveled to the year 2000, and so their fear, whilst grotesque, was in some sense justified. I, on the other hand, had been there, and so I resolved to make my way to Madame M——’s brothel as I already mentioned—one of my favorites owing to its exotic merchandise. I couldn’t think of any better place to amuse myself while the invasion was being quelled. After that, I would return to Queen’s Gate to fetch Victoria and with a smirk on my face try to resist the temptation to point out her lack of judgment with a cutting remark. I might even take her out to dinner to make up for the anxiety she had suffered unnecessarily.

Inside the brothel, I crossed the spacious, rococo hall with its caricature of
The Birth of Venus,
far less sublime and more brazenly sensual than that of Botticelli, on the back wall. The room, perfumed and intimate, was strangely empty. Almost no one occupied the chairs and tables where the whores would usually converse, engage in banter, or smoke their long-stemmed opium pipes with the clientele. Nor did I glimpse any movement behind the drapes, through which it was customary to see some bigwig floating on a sea of fluffy cushions. The women weren’t even shimmying around the room, flaunting their contours swathed in diaphanous gauze. Most were seated in gloomy silence, giving the impression of being at a wake, regardless of their plumed headdresses. The bleakness enveloping the brothel discouraged me; even so, I resolved to cheer
myself by taking advantage of the lull in proceedings to enjoy two of the most sought-after girls, who were amazed I could muster an erection in such a situation. What better way to die than in your arms, I told them. After pleasuring myself, I took an apple from the fruit bowl beside the bed, although I couldn’t help biting into it with a degree of annoyance. I had enjoyed myself, yet I had sensed the girls’ minds were elsewhere. Even these poor wretches were concerned about the invasion.