The Martian War

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


THE MARTIAN ARRIVES IN BOSTON


FROM THE JOURNAL OF DR. MOREAU

For many anxious days and nerve-wracking nights, I sat beside my recovering alien patient, tending it with all the diligence one might have attributed to Florence Nightingale. (An amusing comparison, since no one had ever uttered the names of Moreau and Nightingale in the same breath!)

Less than an hour after I finished my extreme surgeries, transplants, and organ grafting, the creature recovered from the anesthetic. I observed it closely from outside the iron-barred cage, watchful for any sign of hemorrhaging or convulsions. I saw neither. The creature simply looked at me with pain apparent in those ominous, saucer-like eyes.

During extreme courses of vivisection, I had learned to gauge the levels of agony in my test subjects. I could sense within the Martian’s great brain a burning will to live, perhaps even a fire of vengeance directed toward me. I did not mind. If such emotions gave this being the will to survive, then so be it.

To keep up its strength, I injected the remaining beaker of the crewman’s blood. As the Martian healed, its body would require much more sustenance. That was going to cause a problem. Short of surreptitiously killing another crew member—and Lowell would never approve of that—I pursued the only other alternative to feed my Martian. Using tubes, rubber hoses, and hypodermic needles, I gave the creature regular transfusions of my own blood, hoping that when the Martian saw me draining my own life fluid so that it could feed, it might think more kindly toward me.

During long days sitting at the alien’s side, I made further fruitless attempts to communicate with it. Occasionally I grew impatient and demanded that the creature respond; at other times I used a soft voice, hoping to coax some small gesture or sound. But the Martian appeared uninterested. Not listless, just … biding its time.

Only once did it exhibit a definite flare of attention, when Lowell let me borrow the crystal egg we had found inside the crashed cylinder. As I held the shimmering ellipsoid in front of the caged Martian, it attempted to snatch the ovoid with one of its tentacles, but I kept the treasure at a safe distance.

“Speak to me,” I said. “Show me a sign that you want to communicate.”

But when I took the crystal egg away, the Martian resumed its sulking torpor. Discouraged, I returned the crystal egg to Lowell in his stateroom.

Finally, as the ship entered New York harbor, I cautiously removed the bandages from the caged Martian. The creature remained weak, but obviously had turned the corner to recovery, both healing from surgery and fighting off the Earthly infectious germ. Still silent, the alien watched me while I unwrapped the gauze and studied my tight little stitches, pleased to see that healthy scabs now covered the incisions. The wounds did not appear to be infected, and I was much relieved. The grafting had indeed taken!

As the Martian breathed, its skin inflated and deflated like a blacksmith’s bellows, and I could tell that its adopted lungs were functioning well, processing the atmosphere of a planet to which it had not been born. The human heart was beating, supplementing the Martian circulatory system.

It would live and grow strong, and if the enormous brain was as intelligent as I hoped, the Martian would realize that I was responsible for its survival. But would this alien beast understand gratitude and obligation?

The moment that the steamer docked in New York, Lowell was once more in his element. He set to work arranging carters and equipment handlers to move our research apparatus as well as the recovering extraterrestrial specimen. He spent a full day on the docks negotiating with burly, thick-lipped men. I’ve never been good at such things, preferring that lesser men simply do as they are told and leave me to my more important work.

When all the transportation was arranged to ship our secret captive to Boston, I told Lowell that I was confident the Martian would survive the journey. I was, however, concerned about what Lowell planned to do once he reached his family home. We had discussed the matter numerous times during our travels, but Lowell still refused to think through the consequences. Our specimen and our announcement would shake the Lowell family dynamic to its core. No matter what these supercilious blue bloods thought, I did not want my Martian to become a circus specimen! Did Lowell mean to show off the creature to his stern father as proof that he had been correct in his eccentric aspirations?

This return to Boston was extremely important for Lowell. He had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, the eldest son of a Brahmin family that had amassed an enormous fortune in the textile industry. His father was a humorless man with no vision beyond practical business concerns, and he was grooming Percival’s younger (and more responsible) brother Lawrence as the true successor to the family fortunes.

“I have always been the maverick in my family, Moreau,” he told me as we watched Boston approach out the side windows of the train. “I can think of nothing more maddening than to devote my energies to running a textile business. But because I am the oldest son, my father expects it of me.”

Percival Lowell has the drive and passion often seen in the wayward sons of the rich, desperate to make a name in the history books. Though he obviously enjoys the finer benefits of his wealthy upbringing, Lowell resents the expectations of his family. He does not recognize the opportunities he has. His resentments make him weak, for he does not choose to turn them to his own advantage.

Some of my disparaging comments in this journal should not be misconstrued to imply that I dislike Percival Lowell. He is a most accomplished man, who graduated from Harvard with distinction in mathematics at the age of twenty-one, and he received the Bowdoin Prize for his essay on “The Rank of England as a European Power Between the Death of Elizabeth and the Death of Anne.” He has traveled the world, studied the classics, experienced numerous foreign cultures, proved his facility in languages, even offered to fight in the Serbo-Turkish War.

Lowell sailed for Japan ten years ago, in 1883, where he was asked to serve as Foreign Secretary for a special diplomatic mission from Korea (though at the time he had never even seen Korea). Returning to Tokyo, he was later asked to help write Japan’s new constitution. In attitude, personality, and behavior, Lowell is similar to me in many ways—and that cannot help but create certain frictions.

Knowing that his father had been annoyed by this long and expensive expedition in the Sahara, Lowell now wanted to stride through the gates of the city in a triumphal march. Lowell had already wired home about his imminent arrival, and a fine social reception was planned for him. He was gruff and confident, ferociously proud of what he had done, though I could sense a nervousness in his manner.

The question remained: should we explain our awesome achievement to the family, or leave them blissfully content with their predictable lives that allowed no room for the mysteries or majesty of the universe?

As I had feared, the society party thrown by Lowell’s family was as excruciatingly dull as watching the Sahara sands.

Though Lowell claimed to be a fish out of water in such situations, he adapted remarkably well. I had seen him at the captain’s table aboard the steamer, chatting with upper-class people from different countries. I’m sure that his doting mother noted that he wasn’t his old self, but he had not been home in years. I hoped his resolve would not falter now.

Lowell was careful to give few details about me, for we didn’t know how far word of my scandal had spread. Those who spoke with me did so only out of polite obligation, for Lowell was the hero of the party. Everyone flocked around him, wanting to hear his stories of Japan and the Oriental mystics, and the wild Tuaregs of the Sahara.

Lowell mentioned nothing about the Martian. That tale we would tell later, when we were ready. These people were not the right sort to appreciate the magnitude of our discovery. They would either be titillated or horrified … but worst of all, they would not be truly interested. The revelation of our Martian’s existence must wait for the proper appreciative audience.

I amused myself by treating the tedious party as a scientific experiment, studying herd behavior and mating patterns. It was clear that the scions of Boston families were offering their daughters for marriage consideration to the eccentric but well-bred Percival. I found it amusing—like horse breeders comparing their best brood mares. Lowell seemed oblivious to the nuances, though by now he was thirty-eight years old and no longer perceived to be young enough to continue his rebellious lifestyle. He had to think of his future. I was certain his mother was pressuring him to marry into an acceptable family.

Finally, late at night when the guests had departed and Lowell’s mother had retired to bed, he came to me to share a last brandy for the evening. The two of us held our snifters, barely sipping, playing the part of drinkers. After having observed the shallowness of the average Bostonian, I whispered to Lowell, “We can’t possibly do our work in an environment such as this. They will always be watching, prying. Your parents will beg you to attend parties, picnics, luncheons. You will be forced to accept speaking engagements. Our Martian will fare badly, I fear.”

His face had a pinched look. “I know that all too well, Moreau. We must be away from Boston.”

“But where can we go? Is there a safe place?”

“Yes, completely safe and far from here. My parents won’t like it … but they have not liked many of my decisions.” Smiling, he slyly reached into his jacket pocket and removed the red-lensed spectacles I had given him. “We will go to Arizona Territory, Moreau, where I am building my own observatory, far from the closed-minded fools of Harvard.”

“Arizona Territory? Out west in the American wilderness?”

Lowell settled the red-lensed spectacles on his nose. “The Arizona desert is the closest thing to Mars one could find here on Earth. There, with the Martian, we can perform our work in total privacy.”

PART III



MARS AND ITS CANALS