The Martian War

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


THE MONSTER OF MARS HILL


FROM THE JOURNAL OF DR. MOREAU

We made many mistakes with our Martian, Lowell and I. As I write these last entries, I recall numerous things we should have handled differently, obvious risks that led to dire consequences. Our worst error, though, was that neither of us was suspicious enough. Not until it was too late—much too late.

After locking up the Martian, Lowell and I discussed what we must do. The shaken construction crew had returned to their camp settlement, but we would lose many of them. They’d refuse to work, afraid the “monster of Mars Hill” would go on another rampage. By the following night, the stores, streets, and saloons of Flagstaff would be abuzz with the terrifying story of the hideous alien beast.

As I feared, the construction site sat idle the next day. Mars Hill was eerily silent. The support buildings and sheds were built and painted; the largest dome was finished, waiting to receive the Clark refractor from Massachusetts. But all the workers had stayed away. The observatory would never be finished in time for the alignment of Earth and Mars later this year.

Lowell stewed with indecision, pacing about the main house. The Martian stirred and thumped within its padlocked shed, but Lowell and I avoided the creature, letting it brood over what it had done to poor Douglass. Foolishly, we imagined it might have feelings of guilt or remorse. We were so stupid.

I am a scientist, a biologist; some even call me a genius. I am not, however, an undertaker. But since I knew Lowell would be loath to do it, I prepared the young man’s body. I understood the need to prevent questions and superstitious terror from hindering our work here.

I cleaned up Douglass’s fatal injuries, wiped away the blood, and tried to disguise his worst bruises and contusions. With his face still somewhat pliable, though rigor had begun to set in, I did my best to erase the expression of terror, making him look much more at peace.

After Lowell had already fortified himself with at least one snifter of brandy, we wrapped the corpse and placed it in the back of the Benz motorcar. No doubt after hearing the rumors, the sheriff of Flagstaff expected us. I was surprised he hadn’t already come up to Mars Hill to make inquiries.

We stopped the puttering motorcar in front of the jailhouse and told the sheriff of our companion’s murder. The man had a drooping moustache and grizzled whiskers so thick that he was either attempting to grow a beard or avoiding the prospect of a regular shave. I did most of the talking, for I had a cooler head. When I described how Douglass had provoked and been attacked by a large exotic animal (“from Borneo”) we kept caged at the observatory site, Lowell simply agreed with the story. The “monster” had escaped, and the men from the work site had assisted us in rounding it up.

“I assure you, Sheriff,” I said, “the specimen is now properly caged. We have added additional locks and chains to ensure that it has no further opportunity to escape. Much as we grieve for our lost colleague, the blame for his death lies in his own misadventure.”

The sheriff sucked on his lips, considering. He didn’t seem to want to make extra work for himself. “And both of you gentlemen guarantee that this creature of yours will cause no further danger? If it’s like a rabid dog, we need to put it down.”

“It is not a rabid animal. This entire mishap was a fluke, nothing more.”

Lowell had said little, and the sheriff turned to him with narrowed eyes. “Do you agree with this gentleman’s account, Mr. Lowell? Is that exactly the way things happened last night?”

With only the briefest hesitation, Lowell nodded. “You can take the word of Dr. Moreau.”

The man sat up in his chair. “All right then. You’d best take the body over to the undertaker’s and get him prepared for burial.”

The sheriff’s lack of questions did not surprise me. While he might have met Douglass once or twice, everyone in Flagstaff knows that Percival Lowell is a wealthy man with a great deal of influence. His observatory project was welcomed by the town, and the local economy had prospered greatly from it. If the sheriff had any sense, he would take Lowell at his word.

“We won’t be burying young Andrew in Arizona Territory,” Lowell said. “I’ll have the undertaker build a sturdy box and pack him in salt for shipment to Massachusetts.” He turned to me, his face set and determined. “He doesn’t belong here. We will send him back to his own people. Let Harvard take care of him.”

We spent the afternoon in town, taking care of the arrangements. I sensed that no one in Flagstaff was willing to be hurried even at the best of times, and when it came to a dead man about to be sent across the country, no one understood why we needed to be impatient.

In a noisy local cafe, we ate beefsteaks, eggs, and beans spiced with hot chiles. Lowell looked exhausted and diluted of stamina. Finally, late in the day as clouds were gathering for an afternoon thunderstorm, we climbed into the motorcar and headed home.

With the construction workers gone, Mars Hill seemed like a ghost town. By the time we drove up to the main house, rain had begun pelting down. Lowell disengaged the Benz’s gears and shut down the engine. As I climbed out of the car and into the downpour, the wind picked up, making the pines scratch and rustle together.

I shouted, “Shouldn’t we check on the Martian? We’ve left it alone all day.”

“I have no further interest in that creature.”

Not wanting to push him, especially now, I joined Lowell inside the main house, where we sat together in the withdrawing room. Our small telescopes stood under the shelter of the porch, but with the dense clouds and rain, we would have no opportunity for any observing this night.

Finally I raised the question. “We must make our announcement to the world, Lowell. If rumors of Douglass’s death strike anger or horror in the astronomical community, we will not be heard objectively. But if we reveal our Martian now, the sheer excitement will make the young man’s murder a mere footnote to the story.”

“Yes,” Lowell said, his voice empty, “it will be a sensation. We have the Martian itself and the preserved cadavers of the other specimens. We can even send an expedition out to salvage the silver cylinder that crashed in the Sahara.”

I frowned. “Let us hope Tuareg scavengers haven’t stripped all the metal from it and destroyed any scientific benefit we might gain.”

Lowell refilled his brandy snifter and swallowed another large gulp. “Most importantly, we have the crystal egg.”

He went to the cabinet and took out the lovely, shining object. We sat together as he turned and tilted the ellipsoid. By now we had lit all the lamps in the room against the early darkness from the continuing rainstorm.

Thunder rattled the windowpanes like blows from a hammer, and water poured down, streaking the glass. I thought about the Martian confined in its outbuilding. On its arid, dying world, had it ever seen a summer rainstorm? Was it terrified or delighted to see droplets of water falling from the sky?

Lowell hunched over the crystal egg, turning it under the lamplight. “Look, the images are sharp again today, clear as a bell. Not like the blurred pictures Andrew saw.” He heaved a despondent sigh. “And I gazed with him, helping him gently turn it to study different views.”

Everything seemed sharper and brighter now, and I wondered if the denizens of Mars had previously been blocking or distorting the signals. The red planet was a place of grandeur, open and vast … but it seemed far too empty, too dead. How could a superior technological civilization thousands of years old have accomplished so little? Even the Egyptians left huge pyramids, the Greeks and Romans their temples and coliseums.

The Martians had cities and canals, but given the fact that they had been capable of constructing such things for millennia, shouldn’t the red planet have been a utopia, with cities and parks spanning all the open continents? Instead, Mars was just a … skeleton, the landscape entirely dead.

When Lowell turned the crystal egg, a new image astounded us into speechlessness. There on a vast open field, we saw row upon row of silver cylinders ready for launch. Newly constructed ships, all of them outfitted and ready to launch en masse toward Earth.

To me it was readily apparent that these ships were not designed to deliver Martian delegates and scientists to mankind. No, this was a massive invasion fleet, hundreds of ships, all of them filled with Martian conquerors. I felt my face grow hot with disbelief and then anger.

The Martian cylinders would fall like rain from the skies, descending upon an unsuspecting blue planet. The crashed ships would crack open, and the Martian invaders would build towering war machines. What we saw in the image was an incredible armada that would easily engulf the British, German, and Russian navies combined.

Lowell’s eyes went wide, then hardened into ice chips. “It is a full-scale invasion fleet. There can be no doubt of it, Moreau! With such a force, they could conquer the whole Earth.”

“But … but the one cylinder that crashed in the Sahara—” I stammered, then realized. “Of course! Our captive Martian is a scout sent to study our defenses and our weaknesses.”

I imagined it being launched on what was sure to be a suicide mission, with no possibility of return to Mars—at least not until the rest of the invasion fleet arrived. Our Martian had been packed aboard with a comrade and numerous white drones—for food? Yes, the bodies had all been drained and desiccated, just as the Martian had drained the hapless redheaded crewman on the Atlantic steamer, and like poor Douglass.

But the voyage had been longer than anticipated, and so the drones had all been consumed. Our Martian had killed his comrade to drain it of its lifeblood, sustenance for its own survival, until it could complete its reconnaissance mission of Earth. Had the two superior Martians drawn lots, deciding the survivor in a civilized fashion? Or had our Martian attacked its companion unawares, murdering it and then drinking its blood?

My fists knotted. “It has come to study us, and we have told it everything. It has sent its report through the crystal egg to its superiors back on Mars. Even now they must be planning their attack! What naive fools we have been, Lowell!”

Lowell set the transparent ovoid on the desktop, his face flushed. “The villain has deceived us with all it has said. While we listened entranced to the propaganda about its venerable civilization, the Martians were completing their invasion ships.”

I wanted to disbelieve him, but could find no evidence to the contrary, no better explanation. Our Martian specimen was evil, an enemy of mankind.

Lowell’s brow furrowed, as if he were doing mental calculations. “We still have time. It is months until the opposition. The Martians will surely launch their ships then.” He marched to the door and flung it open with murderous intent. Lowell was always bullish once he made up his mind. Heedless of the cold rain, or the possible danger our alien spy might pose, he stepped out into the dusk. “We’ll see what the Martian has to say about this.” I ran after him.

Heavy rain came down like wet gunshots. With a splash of lightning, white light flickered across the construction site, illuminating the empty buildings. Behind us, the only light on Mars Hill came from the lamps in the main house. Thunder boomed like a cannonade, and we splashed through the mud together. Lowell ignored the weather entirely and strode ahead, ready to accuse our specimen.

But when we reached the locked shed, the Martian was gone. The door had been smashed open again, cast aside like kindling, discarded and useless. The chains and lock were removed, all metal gone.

“Damn him!” Lowell peered into the musty building, but we knew it would be empty. I did not doubt that it could have escaped us at any time … possibly even from the moment we took it prisoner out in the Sahara. The creature had played us for fools.

Another lightning flash illuminated our surroundings, and I could see that many things seemed to be missing. Construction tools had vanished, as well as equipment left lying around the observatory buildings, scrap metal and pipes, all stolen. “The Martian is doing something, Lowell.”

“It’s been planning this all along. We would be well advised to prevent whatever mischief that creature intends.” When he frowned, his moustache formed a bridge over his lips. “No one will make a fool out of me, Moreau—not even a creature from another planet.”

The rain pounded harder, and I shielded my head, wishing I had brought a hat or an umbrella. Water streamed down my face. I turned around, searching for any movement. “Martian! Where are you?” I shouted into the night. We could hear no sounds other than the fury of the storm.

When lightning flashed again, accompanied by an almost immediate crack of thunder, I turned to where Lowell had parked his Benz motorcar only an hour earlier. To my astonishment, the vehicle lay disassembled—not torn apart in fury, but carefully dismantled, components removed, resources stripped.

Lowell looked angrier than I had ever seen him. “Come with me, Moreau.” He stalked off.

The roaring storm fell into a lull, as if the rain and wind were taking a momentary rest before returning with redoubled strength. I heard the clanking sounds of labor: metal upon metal, heavy objects clattering against each other. Then the sounds were drowned out again by the thunder and downpour.

“Over here!” Lowell switched direction, striding off with determination.

We arrived at the observatory dome to see the Martian busy at work out in the open in the pouring rain. I instantly saw why the alien had ransacked the construction site for materials and torn apart the motorcar’s engine. It had used the scavenged components to construct an ominous device of its own, taller even than the observatory dome.

“What is that ghastly thing?” Lowell said. “A … tripod?”

Crawling up on the structure like a bloated spider, the Martian worked its tentacles, pulling together girders and struts, pipes and wires. I realized with horror that I had seen this awful thing before, back in the Sahara.

Ingeniously resourceful with construction equipment around the observatory site, the Martian had built another ray weapon.