The Map of the Sky (62 page)

When I saw how concerned he was for Claire, I understood why great heroes are nearly always loners. Love makes them vulnerable. I knew almost nothing about Captain Shackleton’s private life in the year 2000, only the brief biography Mr. Murray had given the passengers before they climbed aboard the
Cronotilus.
Yet I thought it likely that in his time, the captain had been a sullen, solitary fellow, whose heart was filled with loathing and the desire to destroy, and who would have forsaken love and a female companion with whom to share the terrible burden of defending the human race. However, the Shackleton before me now, the Shackleton who lived among us, was a man in love and apparently unwilling to put anything before his beloved Claire, even the whole of the human race. Obviously I couldn’t ask him, as I would have liked, if he could damn well forget about his wife for once, much less argue that a hero should be prohibited from falling in love while on duty. And so I agreed to go back to my uncle’s house, but not before convincing him to find
some elevated spot with a good view over London, where we could get a clearer idea of the progress and extent of the invasion. This would help us to reach Queen’s Gate without any mishaps and to plan our next moves. We decided to go to Primrose Hill, that natural balcony overlooking the city, where Londoners spent their Sundays, and to this end we crossed the Euston Road. It was the luckiest decision we could have made, for there we bumped into another group of people who had survived that terrible night. What they had endured, together with the view from Primrose Hill of a London brought to its knees, had discouraged them to the point where what they needed most was a hero. And I had brought with me the greatest hero of all.

The group was made up of the author H. G. Wells and his wife Jane, whom I had had the pleasure of meeting a few years before because of something that has no relevance here, and whom I greeted with genuine affection and pleasure; a beautiful young American woman by the name of Emma Harlow; a young drunkard propped up against a tree, who would later be introduced to us as Inspector Cornelius Clayton of Scotland Yard; and a phantom: Mr. Gilliam Murray. After I had recovered from the shock of discovering he was still alive, I greeted Murray with enthusiasm, which was not entirely due to my admiration for the Master of Time, but also because I was certain this coincidence could only be another sign that we were indeed on our true destined path. Was it not striking that we should by chance bump into the man responsible for Captain Shackleton meeting Claire, and therefore for his presence among us now? However, I should first point out that, as I already mentioned, the group seemed extremely disheartened by the situation, which was understandable, as from the hill we could see that the tripods had overrun the city and were destroying it with the slow tenacity of the termite. The majority of the city’s districts had been reduced to smoldering ruins, and here and there fires had broken out, giving
off dense clouds of smoke, while crowds of panic-stricken Londoners attempted, amid a throng of vehicles of all types, to flee the city to the north and east, toward the distant fields, where there apparently were no Martians. And so, with the aim of lifting their spirits, I instantly, and in an admittedly unnecessarily theatrical manner, revealed to them the identity of my mysterious companion. And, as if Shackleton’s credentials did not speak for themselves, I described how I had just seen him annihilate a tripod before my very eyes. Unfortunately, Shackleton’s presence did not hearten them as much as I had expected. When I had finished relating his exploit, Murray looked askance at the captain, but finally stepped toward him, proffering his hand.

“Pleased to meet you, Captain Shackleton,” he said.

I watched as they shook hands with grave solemnity for what seemed like an eternity. Unbeknownst to the captain, Gilliam had been spying on him through the keyhole of the future, letting us admire him from afar; consequently, the captain had traveled to a time where everyone knew of his exploits before he had even performed them. The two men could be said to have worked together without ever having met.

Murray finally released the captain’s hand, much to the relief of the others, and then said, with an exaggerated smile, “What a surprise to find you here. I could never imagine you in our world.”

“I’m sorry I can’t say the same,” Shackleton replied, in a tone that was surprisingly reserved in contrast, “but I’m sure you’ll understand that it gives me no pleasure to meet the man who turned my duel with Solomon into a circus sideshow for the amusement of bored aristocrats.”

Murray’s mouth grew taut with displeasure, but with surprising adroitness he resolved it into a smile.

“Why deprive the English people of such an exciting duel? You’re an extraordinarily accomplished swordsman, Captain. And one
could even say I’m your most loyal admirer: I never tired of watching you fight Solomon. I confess that no matter how many times I witnessed your duel, I was always astonished that you defeated such a formidable adversary. If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a difficult person to kill, Captain . . . it seems you’re protected by mysterious forces.”

“Perhaps my adversaries aren’t as formidable as you think,” Shackleton retorted coldly.

“Don’t you think we might leave this vigorous exchange of opinions for another moment, gentlemen?” Wells interposed, gesturing toward the beleaguered city below. “I fear we have more pressing issues to attend to.”

“You’re quite right, Mr. Wells,” Shackleton hurriedly agreed. “I, at least, have something much more important to do than to argue with Mr. Murray. My wife Claire, the woman for whom I left behind my time, is down there, in Queen’s Gate, and I need to go to her immediately.” He gave the author a meaningful look, which seemed to me disproportionate, and murmured, “She believes in me. And I won’t let her down for anything in the world. Do you understand?”

“Of course, Captain. We all do,” Wells replied solemnly, taking his own wife’s hand, “and I think I speak for all of us if I suggest we make our way there without delay. However, afterward, things being as they are, I think we ought to leave the city as soon as possible, which is what everyone else appears to be doing. We might, for example, try to reach Folkestone and from there sail to France.”

Needless to say, this new plan made me uneasy. How were we going to halt the invasion by fleeing London? Had Captain Shackleton traveled to our time only to run away from the Martians like a terrified maiden?

“I’m afraid I can’t accept this plan, gentlemen,” I protested. “Naturally, I’m grateful to you all for wanting to accompany us to
Queen’s Gate, and I’m aware that, given the way the invasion seems to be going, leaving London is the most sensible course of action, but I don’t think that’s what we should do.”

The author was surprised. “And why ever not?”

“Because in the year 2000 our problem is the automatons, not the Martians,” I said for the hundredth time, feeling I was telling an unfunny joke. “Clearly, this can only mean the invasion will fail. Someone will find a way of defeating the Martians, and I think that person will be Captain Shackleton. I don’t believe he came here by chance. I’m certain the greatest hero in the world will do something to turn the situation around, because the fact is, he already has.”

Murray and Wells looked at each other doubtfully, then they observed the captain, who shrugged with annoyance, and finally they fixed their gaze on me, with a look of incredulity that exceeded even that of my own wife. This took me by surprise, because I was convinced my reasoning would appear obvious to someone with Wells’s intelligence.

“Even if your theory is correct, Mr. Winslow,” Wells replied, “and the year 2000 is immutable, because, as you so rightly say, in a sense it has already happened, the invasion could still be stopped in a thousand different ways without our involvement. Furthermore, if we’re the ones destined to put a stop to it, then that will happen regardless of whether or not we stay in London. Consequently, I insist we go ahead with our plan to leave the city once we have been to Queen’s Gate.”

“What if leaving the city is precisely what we
shouldn’t
do? What if by fleeing we change the future?” I looked imploringly at Shackleton. “What is your view, Captain? As a hero, isn’t your main concern to save the human race?”

“I may be a hero, Mr. Winslow,” Shackleton said, looking straight at Murray, “but first and foremost I’m a husband, whose duty it is to rescue his wife.”

“I understand, Captain,” I said, somewhat disgruntled by his
stubbornness. “However, Claire and my wife will remain quite safe in my uncle’s basement, I’m sure, while we—”

“I’m afraid Mr. Wells is quite right, Mr. Winslow,” Murray cut in impatiently. “I don’t think the captain can be of much help to us in this situation. Clearly he is out of his depth.” Then he leered at the captain: “I trust you won’t be offended, Captain, if, notwithstanding your celebrated victory over the automatons, we doubt your ability to defeat the Martians, but you see these machines of theirs are infinitely more powerful than a handful of toys with steam engines stuck to their backs.”

“Of course I’m not offended, Mr. Murray,” Shackleton replied, with his thinnest smile. “At least I saved the human race. All you’ve managed to do so far is to empty people’s pockets.”

Murray paled briefly, then gave a loud guffaw.

“I made them dream, Captain, I made them dream. And, as everyone knows, dreams have a price. I don’t know how you traveled to our time, but I can assure you ferrying people across the fourth dimension to the empire of the future is expensive. But why not leave this agreeable discussion for another time, Captain, and concentrate on our predicament.” Murray put his arm around Shackleton, steering him gently to face the vista afforded by the hill. “As you can see, the city is overrun by Martians. How would a hero like you reach Queen’s Gate without running into the tripods?”

Shackleton observed bleakly how the tripods were mechanically, almost indifferently, destroying London.

“I thought as much,” Murray responded to Shackleton’s silence. “Even you can’t do that.” He moved away from the captain, shrugging at us to show his disappointment. Only I was aware of the smile that at that moment had appeared on the captain’s face. “As you can see, some situations are insurmountable, even to the greatest heroes,” Murray announced in a tone of mock regret. “However, I’m sure we’ll find a way to—”

“You should have more faith in the heroes whose exploits line
your pockets, Mr. Murray,” the captain interrupted him, his gaze fixed on the Martians’ progress. “We’ll go underneath the tripods to Queen’s Gate.”

“Underneath them?” Murray said with astonishment, turning to Shackleton. “What the devil do you mean?”

“We’ll use the sewers,” the captain replied without looking at him.

“The sewers? Are you out of your mind, Captain? Are you suggesting these charming ladies should go down into the stinking sewers of London?” Murray declared, gesturing toward Emma and Jane. “I’ll never let Emma—”

“Oh, take no notice of him, Captain,” the American girl chimed in, stepping forward and placing her hand gently on Murray’s arm. “Mr. Murray has the annoying habit of deciding where I should and shouldn’t go and doesn’t seem to realize that I have a tendency to do the opposite of what he says.”

“But, Emma . . . ,” Murray protested, in vain.

“Honestly, Gilliam, I think you should let Captain Shackleton explain his idea,” the girl said, so sweetly I found her quite disarming.

If this beautiful girl was Murray’s beloved, I told myself, clearly the oversized braggart I had met two years ago had made excellent use of his death and subsequent resurrection.

Murray gave an exasperated grunt but gestured to the captain to continue.

“It’s the safest way,” Shackleton said, addressing the others. “There are hundreds of miles of tunnels below this city, spacious enough for anyone to move about in. Not to mention the cellars and underground storehouses. There’s a whole world down there.”

“How do you know the sewers so well, Captain?” I asked, intrigued.

Shackleton paused for a few moments before replying.

“Er . . . because we hide in them in the future.”

“So, you hid in the sewers, did you?” Murray scoffed. “Well, isn’t the quality of British plumbing extraordinary! I’d never have thought they would last a whole century.”

The American girl was about to call Murray to order when someone preempted her:

“You ought to have more faith in the empire, Mr. Murray.”

We turned as one toward the owner of the sonorous voice, who was none other than the young man I had taken to be a drunkard when I first arrived on the hill.

“Captain Shackleton, I’m Inspector Clayton of Scotland Yard,” he said, doffing his hat. “And from what I could gather while I was, er . . . recovering my strength, you think you can guide us through the sewers to Kensington, is that right?”

Shackleton nodded with grim determination, as only a hero can, accepting responsibility for our little flock. Then I stepped forward, somewhat nettled that this peculiar fellow, who saw fit in such a situation to doze off under a tree, was unaware of my presence. Clearing my throat noisily, I caught his attention and thrust out my hand.

“Inspector Clayton, I’m Charles Winslow, the . . .” I hesitated. To say “the man who discovered Captain Shackleton” suddenly seemed a trifle pompous, so eventually all I said was, “Well, let’s just say I’m the captain’s faithful shield bearer on this mission.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Winslow,” the inspector said, pressing my hand perfunctorily before turning back to Shackleton. “Yes, Captain, you were saying—”

“Actually, while you were . . . taking a nap,” I interrupted the inspector once more, “
I
was saying I didn’t think we should leave London, because—”

“Mr. Winslow, we’ve already established that we all wish to leave London,” Wells chimed in. “What we’re now discussing is how to go first to—”

“Just so,” Murray reiterated, frowning, “but
I
continue to insist
that the captain’s absurd idea of fleeing London through the sewers, as if we were rats, is not the most appropriate way.”