The Martian War (5 page)

PART I

1894

A
nother day of writing finished already, and the morning was still fresh. H.G. Wells set his handwritten pages aside and fairly leaped from his desk, satisfied with what he had done and ready for the rest of the day with Jane. Despite its lack of great literary merit, he was confident the article would bring in a few more shillings from the
Pall Mall Gazette
.

Such pieces were easy to do, and the readers certainly enjoyed them, though few of his writings contained any profound insights. Earning money as a writer was certainly better than being a teacher, a shopkeeper, or—he shuddered—a draper, handling bolts of cloth in a dreary warehouse. No, writing suited him best and, at twenty-eight years old, Wells had little
chance for a more active profession since his latest collapse and the continued decline of his health.

Five years earlier, one of Wells’s hateful students had intentionally hurt him while they were playing football in the schoolyard. The bully had viciously kicked his teacher in the kidneys, though he later claimed it was an accident. Wells spat blood for months and never really recovered.

In the seven years since Wells had graduated from the Normal Academy in South Kensington, he had accepted various teaching positions. But one night when returning from the train station he’d begun coughing blood, a relapse of his old kidney injury. The hemorrhage had continued, leading to a severe breakdown, which now required a long convalescence. When he first gave up teaching, he had stared at the specter of poverty—until he realized that he could write his little articles, and sell them.

Now he was attempting to be a full-time writer, producing short stories and essays and a constant stream of ruminations that the magazines liked. Luckily, the 1870 Education Act had opened schooling to many formerly illiterate British children, and now the population had a new crop of readers hungry for fiction and articles. Wells was happy to fill the need. As long as he was with Jane, nothing could be so bad after all.

He glanced at the pages he had finished, picked up the pen again and instinctively scratched out a few words, scribbling in corrections. Before he realized it, another ten minutes had passed. He forced himself to stop.
Priorities, Wells!
old T.H. Huxley would have told him, ten years ago. The lovely Miss Jane would be waiting for him, probably already dressed to go out.

He grinned like an eager schoolboy as he pulled open the door to his makeshift study. Spending time with her was far more enjoyable than writing inane articles.

Jane had tied back all the curtains and opened the windows to let in fresh breezes, since their rented rooms in Euston were far enough away from the dirty factory smoke in London and upwind from the smelly waters of the Thames. Now, in spring, the flowers the landlady had planted around the small house were in bloom. Starlings sat in the trees, and blackbirds flew over the nearby hedgerows and fields.

Jane was indeed there, ostensibly waiting for him but preoccupied with her own studies. She sat at the window with a guidebook of the birds of England on her lap, a pair of opera glasses obscuring her dark, wide-set eyes, as she stared out at the trees and the nearby meadow. Her loveliness always took his breath away.

“My dear Miss Robbins,” he said, a smile appearing below his thin moustache. He sketched a bow. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Indeed, Mr. Wells,” she answered, setting her book and her opera glasses aside and standing up to offer him a curtsey. “I believe we had an appointment?” She wore a long white skirt and black boots. A lacy shawl covered her shoulders, though Wells doubted the air would be cool enough to require it. Her high-cheekboned face was finely featured, and the irises of her brown eyes were lenses to a clever mind that showed the sharpness of her wit and intelligence. “Besides, this close to home I am not likely to see anything more interesting than a robin or a pigeon. On our walk, perhaps I should take my
Guidebook of Wildflowers?”

“I shall not be looking at anything but you, my dear.”

“You are a liar, H.G.”

“I am a writer, Jane. There is a difference.”

She was quite the opposite from Wells’s newly estranged wife, Isabel. Years ago, as soon as he’d been able to support himself after graduating from the Normal School, he had ill-advisedly married his cousin on the recommendation of her mother and his own parents. It had been a terrible error in judgment. Isabel Wells had a calm personality, a beatific acceptance of things, and an utter lack of curiosity. She was unworldly, shy, and— worst of all—uninteresting. Within weeks of their marriage, they had both known that they’d made a mistake.

“Shall we go for our walk?” Jane asked him now, taking her opera glasses and the guidebooks for birds and flowers. “I’ve been waiting all morning.”

“I can think of nothing better to do with the rest of the day.”

She sniffed. “Really? So much for your supposedly refined imagination.” Jane came forward to give him a quick kiss, then a longer one before reluctantly pulling away with a long sigh.

“Let me think on it.”

For a time, Wells had loved Isabel well enough, but she possessed no spark, nothing to engage his furiously working mind. One of Wells’s students, however—Amy Catherine Robbins, whom he called “Jane”—held the fire he needed. Meeting Jane was like sipping fine wine after he’d had only vinegar all his life.

Now, while Jane adjusted the pale yellow hat that perched on her neatly coiffed auburn hair, he admired her. “Of all the discoveries made by men of science, I believe that you, Jane, will always be my greatest discovery.”

She took him by the arm, guiding him to the door. “The day awaits us, H.G., and if you continue with this flattery, we will never be about our business.”

“We certainly could be about
some
business,” he joked, but followed her anyway.

Since it would still be some time until his divorce from Isabel was final, he and Jane lived together quietly in their new Euston home, calling little attention to themselves. The starry-eyed couple had already been ousted from one set of rooms when a suspicious landlady insisted that they produce their marriage certificate.

As she took the lead down the path, Jane said, “Shall we go boating today? Or bicycling? Or just take a romantic walk down the lane?”

He donned a straw boater hat to protect his pale skin from the sun. “Since I finished another
Pall Mall
article, let us celebrate by renting bicycles.”

“Can we afford it?”

“Not at all, but with our debts, what difference will a few farthings make?”

In addition to their own expenses, circumstances required him to support his old mother, who still toiled as a servant at Uppark. His father, long separated from her, had never been able to hold a job or make a success of anything in his life. Sadly, Wells’s brother Frank seemed to be following in their ne’er-do-well father’s footsteps. Frank tinkered with clocks, fancying himself a skilled mechanic, but he had no business sense and little ambition to do any work that did not set itself in front of him. It was left to Wells to pay for Isabel’s needs. It never seemed to end, and he kept “writing away for dear life.”

Times were hard … but they had always been hard, and he was accustomed to having no more than a few coins in his pockets. Though Wells had not achieved the goals he had hoped for in his life, he was happier than he had ever been before. He was with Jane. What could be finer? He would find a way to survive, somehow.

After they reached the bicycle shop and Wells paid for their rental, he helped Jane situate herself, adjusting her skirts. “Someday a great man will invent a bicycle with two seats, so that you and I can be even closer.”

She pedaled ahead, weaving in circles as she waited for him to join her. “It sounds impractical.”

“Impracticalities have never stopped the common man from doing anything he found amusing.” Wells rode beside her, and they turned down a lane overshadowed by elms. Puffy white clouds scudded across the blue skies, and the day was warm.

“Someday we should rent one of Mr. Benz’s new fourwheeled motorcars to drive around the parks,” Jane suggested. “Noisy new machines, all that clatter and smoke!”

“If you desire such a vehicle, my dear, then we’ll do more than rent one—we shall
own
one. I read in the newspaper that Henry Ford in America has begun to market his own automobile.”

“You always look to the future, H.G.”

“On the day that everyone owns a four-wheeled motorcar, Jane, you and I shall have to ride horses—just to be different.”

They talked together, barely paying attention to where they were riding. The mention of Karl Benz’s four-wheeled car led to a discussion of German industrial dominance and growing aggressiveness, now that Prussia and Germany had been fused
into the Second Reich. Kaiser Wilhelm II had just signed a commercial treaty with the Russians that would make them into a much more powerful nation, and many Britons were worried.

Next, Jane wanted to discuss the unusual art nouveau movement sweeping across Europe, after which Wells insisted on talking about Nansen’s departure from Norway on an ambitious expedition to reach the North Pole. When the conversation turned to politics, they discussed the Independent Labour Party, which Wells hoped would assist the downtrodden working class created by the Industrial Revolution.

The lively exchange of ideas reminded Wells of just how different this was from his painfully silent afternoons with Isabel, who never even read the newspapers and couldn’t tell the difference between a starling and an ostrich, a thistle or a rose. At first Wells had talked with Isabel a great deal, but she had always remained quiet, listening with a flat, unengaged smile, her expression as devoid of interest as a porcelain doll’s might have been … .

After two hours of slow riding, he and Jane made their way back to the bicycle shop, before they would incur an additional rental fee.

* * *

When they returned home for a late tea, the landlady was waiting with a letter in her hand. “Mr. Wells, this note was delivered for you this afternoon. It looks to be important, but the messenger would tell me nothing of its contents.” She seemed to expect him to open the message in front of her and read it aloud.

Wells stiffly thanked her, knowing the woman already had
her suspicions about him and Jane. “I’m exhausted from my bike ride. Jane, let’s rest for awhile and then look at this at our leisure.” They closed the door, leaving the frustrated landlady behind.

Wells quickly looked at the note, fearing it might be from Isabel’s solicitor, or someone demanding payment of a long overdue bill.

“What is it, H.G.?”

“A mystery.” The amorphous glob of sealing wax reminded him of the single-celled amoebae he had studied under a microscope in biology class long ago. When he saw that it came from the Imperial Institute, he withdrew the letter and was astonished to learn the identity of its sender.

“Professor Huxley! He was my teacher long ago, but I thought he’d retired. He certainly hasn’t been in public view for years. But why would he write me?”

Jane did not hold back the obvious explanation. “If you were his student, H.G., he must be proud of you. Perhaps he’s read your articles.”

“I can’t imagine that he would.” Wells went to the light by the window and read the note.

To Mr. H.G. Wells:

Please forgive this intrusion, if such you find it, but I have a matter of utmost importance that I wish to present to you.

After encountering some of your recent writings, I recalled with no small degree of pride how you excelled in the course I taught. Ten years ago I considered you to be a young man of ambition, vision, and intelligence, and your articles and essays have convinced me that my judgment remains sound.

With this in mind, I offer you a proposition.
As
you must be aware, the Imperial Institute was formed last year to promote higher education. What you do not know is that the Institute also has a vital and secret purpose. I invite you here to visit me for a week to learn what that purpose is.

I offer you my personal guarantee that it will be one of the most important things you ever do. I require the advice and input of the author of “Man of the Year Million.”

“Your Professor Huxley is very mysterious,” Jane said. “But he did read your article.”

“And I am naturally intrigued … exactly as Professor Huxley expected, no doubt.” He leaned close and gave her a kiss. “But how can I bear to be away from you for so long? You are my sounding board, the genesis and regulator of my ideas.”

She gently pushed him away, then removed the pins from her hat and let her beautiful hair fall free. “I will miss you too, H.G. But we both know that you simply must go. Your imagination and intellect are up to the task, even without me.”

W
hen he arrived at the Imperial Institute, Wells stood at the ornate wrought-iron gates with a small suitcase in hand and imagined himself a young student again, eager to learn but knowing so little. He lifted his gaze to the imposing brick structure that housed so many great educators under one immense roof, feeling that he couldn’t possibly belong in such an auspicious place. But he was no intruder here. He, Herbert George Wells, an invited guest of the great T.H. Huxley, was seizing an opportunity.

Holding his chin up, he stepped through the gate and into the well-manicured grounds.

Though he was eager to embark on something new, he
wished the old professor had given him some hint as to why he’d been called here. What could Wells possibly offer this impressive institute?

He climbed the stone steps of the main building and stopped at the imposing front doors. Again, Wells felt terribly out of place in the echoing halls that smelled of oiled wood and polished stone.