XXI

After a few more miles spent in silence, the carriage reached Horsell Common. Once they had crossed the bridge at Ottershaw that led to the sand quarries, they had begun to encounter groups of curious folk who had come from Woking or Chertsey to see the same thing. However, once they reached the Martian cylinder’s supposed landing site, that trickle of people turned into a tidal wave. Peeking through the window, Wells could see for himself that it was complete mayhem out there. The common was teeming with people, and here and there, lads were vending newspapers hot off the press, announcing with shrill cries a host of headlines voicing Man’s doubts and speculations about the object that had appeared on Horsell Common: “Are we under invasion from Mars? Strange machines in Woking. Fantasy becomes fact. We are not alone! Is H. G. Wells a Martian?” They came to a halt next to a dozen other coaches and cabriolets parked at the edge of the common, among which Wells could not help noticing an exceptionally fine-looking carriage. He and Clayton stepped out of the vehicle and made their way through the throng of cyclists, apple barrows, and ginger beer stands, toward a plume of smoke that denoted the cylinder’s position. As they drew near, Wells and Clayton could see that the machine was half buried in the sand. The impact of the missile had made a vast crater in the ground, flinging sand and gravel in every direction and setting alight the adjacent heather, which was still smoldering and sending wispy threads of smoke into the midday sky. They elbowed their way through the sea of spectators until they reached the front, where Wells was able to confirm that Murray had indeed done an excellent job. The so-called Martian cylinder was nearly identical to the one he had described in The War of the Worlds. A few boys near the edge of the pit were tossing stones at it. People had reacted just as he had predicted, creating a picnic atmosphere around the lethal machine. Some were having their photograph taken with the cylinder in the background like a monument.

As though reading Wells’s mind, Clayton gestured toward the scene, arms outspread, and said, “You will agree that it is like being in your novel.”

“Indeed, it is a perfect reconstruction,” Wells avowed with admiration. “Murray is the world’s greatest charlatan.”

“Doubtless he is, Mr. Wells, doubtless he is. Why, he even managed to conjure up identical weather: warm and without any breeze,” Clayton declared sarcastically. Then he took out his pocket watch and added, with mock disappointment, “He hasn’t managed to make our watches stop, though, and I seem to recall in your novel they did, and that all the compasses pointed to where the cylinder had landed.”

“I would take that part out if I could write it again . . . ,” Wells murmured absentmindedly.

His gaze had been drawn to a well-dressed young woman, who was observing the cylinder at one remove from the crowd. Like a widow’s veil, the frill on her parasol obscured part of her face, yet as she appeared to be the only wealthy-looking young lady there, Wells assumed she must be the woman Murray loved, who had probably traveled there in the luxurious carriage he had seen earlier. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw her begin nervously twirling her parasol. So, she really did exist. Murray had not made her up, however idealized Wells considered Murray’s portrait of her in his letter. Wells watched her closely while she gazed at the cylinder, her solemn expression in stark contrast to the relaxed gaiety of the others gathered there. And he could not help pitying her, for the girl would have to marry the millionaire if Murray succeeded in making a Martian emerge from the iron cylinder he had dragged there. That meant Murray must be there, Wells thought, perhaps mingling with the crowd, delighting in all the excitement he had created with his toy. Clayton went over to talk to the chief of police, who was trying to prevent the onlookers from getting too close to the pit. Wells took the opportunity to glance fleetingly at the noisy crowd, but Murray was nowhere to be seen. Might he have drastically changed his appearance so as not to be recognized? Wells wondered.

He took out his pocket watch and looked at the time. At that very moment, Jane was probably boarding the train to London, where she would be lunching with the Garfields. Before the inspector took him off, Wells had left a note for her in the kitchen, in which he explained briefly the situation but urged her not to change her plans, because his whole morning would doubtless be taken up with the affair. In all likelihood, she would arrive back from London at about the same time as he, for it would not be long before Murray executed his next move: making a Martian jump out of the cylinder, or whatever his plan was, and at last everyone would see that the whole thing had been a practical joke. Clayton would apologize for his preposterous suspicions, and Wells would be free to go back to Worcester Park and carry on with his life, at least until Murray attempted a reenactment of his novel The Invisible Man.

After speaking with the police chief, Clayton elbowed his way impatiently through the crowd to rejoin Wells.

“Several companies of soldiers are on their way, Mr. Wells,” he informed the author. “In less than an hour they will have surrounded the cylinder. The Royal Welch Fusiliers are being deployed from Aldershot. And another company will take charge of evacuating Horsell, just to be on the safe side. They are also expecting some Maxim guns. As you see, your novel serves as an excellent source for staying ahead of events.”

Wells gave a weary sigh. “I don’t think it is necessary in this case to call in the army,” he retorted.

Clayton looked at him, amused.

“You still think this is Gilliam Murray’s doing, don’t you.”

“Naturally, Inspector.”

“Then he must have spent a small fortune on his wooing, for Captain Weisser has heard rumors of other cylinders falling on a golf course in Byfleet, and in the vicinity of Sevenoaks.”

“Falling, you say? Does he know of any sightings of them falling from the sky? Don’t you think the observatories would have noticed a thing like that?” Wells asked disdainfully.

“He didn’t mention any.” Clayton scowled.

“In that case, someone could have placed them there, as one might a chess piece, don’t you think?”

The inspector was about to respond when something caught his eye.

“What the devil is that?” he exclaimed, staring over Wells’s shoulder.

The author turned toward the cylinder and glimpsed the reason for the inspector’s surprise. A sort of metal tentacle had emerged from inside and was swaying in the air, rising up like a cobra. Attached to the end of it was a strange object resembling a periscope, but which might also have been some kind of weapon. Clayton reacted without hesitation.

“Help me make these fools move back! Apparently none of them have read your novel.”

Wells shook his head.

“Calm down, Clayton!” he insisted, grabbing the inspector’s arm. “I assure you nothing is going to happen. Believe me, this is all a sham. Murray is simply trying to frighten us. And if he succeeds . . .”

Clayton did not reply. His gaze was fixed on the tentacle’s mesmeric movement.

“The whole thing is a sham, do you hear!” Wells repeated, shaking the inspector. “That thing isn’t going to fire any heat rays.”

At that moment, the tentacle wobbled slightly, as though taking aim, and a moment later a heat ray burst forth from its tip with a deafening hiss. Then, what looked like a jet of molten lava struck the band of onlookers gathered round the pit, hitting four or five them, who burst into flames before they knew what was happening. The deflagration lasted only a few seconds. Then someone seemed to pull back the blanket of fire covering them, to reveal a handful of distorted, charred figures that instantly crumbled, scattering gently over the grass. Fear struck; the crowd observed the horrific scene and then in unison turned toward the tentacle, which was preparing to take aim anew. The response was instantaneous. People began fleeing from the pit in all directions.

Unable to comprehend how Murray could possibly have given the order to fire on innocent bystanders, Wells ran for cover toward a patch of trees a few hundred yards away. Clayton, who was running beside him, shouted to him to run in a zigzag so as not to make an easy target for the tentacle. Jostled on all sides by the terror-stricken crowd, Wells tried to do as the inspector suggested, even as he felt fear seeping into his entrails like ice-cold water. Then came another hiss, and immediately afterward a second ray hit the ground five yards to his left, hurling several people into the air. Before Wells could shield himself, a clod of earth struck him in the face, dazing him enough to make him almost lose his footing. He was forced to stop his frantic dash and glance about, trying to orient himself. When the smoke had cleared, he contemplated with horror the string of cindered corpses sprawled across the grass a few yards away. Behind them he glimpsed the woman whom he had identified as Murray’s beloved. The ray had narrowly missed her, but the accompanying blast had knocked her to the ground, and she was kneeling on the grass, too shaken to give her legs the order to stand up. The tentacle swayed once more in the air, choosing a fresh target, and Wells took the opportunity of the moment’s calm between blasts to hurry to the young woman’s aid. Avoiding the burnt remains and the hollows in the ground, he managed to reach her side and grabbed her by the arms so as to lift her to her feet. The girl allowed this without putting up any resistance.

“I didn’t want . . . I told him it was enough to . . . ,” she gasped, seized by a fit of panic.

“I know, miss,” Wells reassured her. “But what matters now is to get away from here.”

As they stumbled toward the trees, the sound of the tentacle firing indiscriminately at the terrified crowd resounded in their ears. Wells could not resist looking back over his shoulder. He watched with horror as several rays cut through the air, striking the parked carriages at the edge of the common, creating a vision of Hell from which a pair of horses emerged, enveloped in flames. The condemned animals, wreathed with golden streamers by death, careened wildly over the grass, imbuing the nightmarish scene with an eerie poetry. Just as in his novel, the ray swept over the countryside swiftly and brutally, doling out death, destroying everything in its path with a cold disregard. He saw trees burnt to a crisp, smoldering gashes in the earth, women and men fleeing terrified, and upturned carts, and he understood that the much-heralded Day of Judgment had arrived. How could Murray . . . ? But his mind was unable to finish forming the question, for a few yards to their right a ray landed suddenly, sending them flying across the grass. Stunned, his ears ringing and his skin burning as though he had been scorched by a dragon’s breath, Wells looked around for the girl and was relieved to find her sprawled beside him. Her eyes were shut tight, though she was apparently uninjured. But the longer they stayed on the ground, the more likely they were to be hit by another ray or crushed by the panic-stricken crowd. He took a deep breath and was steeling himself to get up and resume their desperate flight when he heard the inspector’s voice.

“The ray has wiped out all the carriages!” Clayton shouted as he approached. “We must make our way across the fields. Come!”

Wells helped the girl to her feet, and the two of them followed the inspector. Yet Clayton did not seem to know where to take cover either, given that nowhere was safe from the rays. After pushing their way with difficulty through the terrified crowd, Clayton decided to halt for a moment to assess the situation. They had managed to break away from the mass of onlookers but were still trapped inside the rectangle marked out by flames where the slaughter was taking place. One side of that improvised cage of fire was formed by the houses stretching toward Woking Station, which were now blazing like a funeral pyre, and another by the row of trees bordering the road, which had also been transformed into a glowing curtain. The only way out was straight ahead, over the neighboring fields toward Maybury, but that would make them a tempting target for the tentacle. Before they had time to make up their minds, they saw emerging from behind the trees a luxurious carriage with an ornate “G” painted on the door. They watched in disbelief as the carriage hurtled toward them, wondering who but a madman would drive toward that carnage. Astonished, they saw a huge man stretch his out hand to the girl.

“Come with me, if you want to live!” the man cried.

But the girl stood motionless, unable to comprehend what was happening. Without thinking, Clayton shoved her into the carriage then clambered in after her. Wells followed, flinging himself inside just as the crash of another heat ray resounded behind them. A fountain of stones and sand sprayed the carriage, shattering its windows. Wells, who was the last to get in, had served as an involuntarily parapet, his back sprayed with broken glass. When the effects of the blast had died away, the author struggled to get up as best he could, disentangling himself from the heap his companions had formed on the floor. They, too, had begun hauling themselves up, wondering perhaps whether they were alive or dead. Through what remained of the window, Wells could make out the hole the ray had made in the ground, alarmingly close to the carriage, which at that very instant began racing off once more. Wells, like the others, slumped back onto the seat, relieved the driver had not been hit by any flying debris. He could hear the whip cracking furiously across the horses’ flanks, straining to get them out of there. It was then that he recognized the man who had rescued them, who was sitting right opposite him. Wells gazed at him dumbfounded. He was remarkably slimmer, but there was no mistaking him. The Master of Time himself.

“George,” Murray said, bobbing his head slightly and giving the forced smile of someone who has bumped into his enemy at a party.

“You damned son of a bitch!” Wells cried, hurling himself at the millionaire and attempting to throttle him. “How dare you!”

“It wasn’t me, George,” Murray said, defending himself. “This is not my doing!”

“What the devil is this about?” Clayton cried, trying to come between the two men.

“Don’t you recognize him?” the author declared, breathless. “It’s Gilliam Murray!”

“Gilliam Murray?” stammered the girl, who was looking on in horror at the impromptu brawl from a corner of the carriage.

“I can explain, Emma,” Murray blurted out apologetically.

“You have a great many things to explain, you damned fool!” Wells growled, struggling to free himself from Clayton’s grip.

“Calm down, Mr. Wells,” the inspector commanded, removing his pistol from his belt and trying to point it at the author, who, owing to the lack of room inside the carriage, found himself with a gun inches from his nose. “And be so good as to return to your seat.”

Reluctantly, Wells obeyed.

“Good, now let’s all stay calm,” said Clayton, who also sat down and tried to keep control of the situation by speaking in a measured voice. “I am Inspector Cornelius Clayton of Scotland Yard.” He turned to Murray and gave him a polite smile. “And you, I assume, are Gilliam Murray, the Master of Time. Although you have been officially dead for two years.”

“Yes, I am he,” Murray replied, irate. “As you can see, I’ve risen from the grave.”

“Well, we can discuss that another time,” Clayton remarked coldly, trying to sit up straight despite being thrown about by the swaying carriage. “There’s a more pressing question that needs answering now. Tell me: are you behind all this?”

“Of course not!” the millionaire replied. “I’m no murderer!”

“Good, good. Yet it so happens that I am in possession of a letter from you addressed to Mr. Wells, here on my left, where you explain to him that you have to re-create the Martian invasion in his novel, today no less, in order to win the heart of the woman you love, whom I assume must be you, Miss . . .”

“Harlow,” the girl replied in a faint voice. “My name is Emma Harlow.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss Harlow,” said Clayton, smiling graciously and doffing his hat before readdressing the millionaire. “Well, Mr. Murray, are you the author of that letter?”

“Yes, damn it!” Murray confessed. “And everything in it is true. I asked for Mr. Wells’s help, but he refused to reply, as he himself will confirm. I persisted in trying to re-create the invasion on my own, but after failing to come up with anything credible, I gave up. I only came here today because I read in the newspaper that someone else had pulled it off.”

“Do you really expect us to believe that people have nothing better to do than try to reenact the invasion in my novel!” Wells interrupted angrily.

“Please be quiet, Mr. Wells,” Clayton said. “Or I shall have no choice but to knock you unconscious.”

Wells stared at the inspector in amazement.

“How could I do anything that would put Miss Harlow’s life in danger?” Murray exclaimed.

“So that you could come to her rescue, I imagine, as you just did,” Wells retorted. “Who knows what a warped mind such as yours is capable of thinking up.”

“I would never put Miss Harlow’s life in danger!” Murray declared angrily.

Clayton appealed for calm once more, raising his artificial hand.

“Quite so,” he said, “but in the meantime, until we discover what is in that cylinder, I’m afraid, Mr. Murray, you are under arrest. And that goes for you too, Mr. Wells.”

“What!” protested the author.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but the situation is as follows: A strange machine is killing dozens of people just as you described in your novel a year ago, Mr. Wells. And you, Mr. Murray, are the author of a letter professing that you intend to reenact the invasion described by Mr. Wells. Regardless of what is actually going on, one or other of you has some explaining to do.” He paused, giving the two men time to assimilate what he had just said. “Now, Mr. Murray, order your driver to take us to Woking Station, please. I need to send a telegram to my superiors.”

Reluctantly, Murray drew back the hatch in the roof and gave the command.

“Excellent,” declared Clayton. “I shall inform them as soon as we arrive that I have detained the two main suspects. And I am sure the young lady will wish to telegraph her family to assure them she is safe and sound. And that she could not be in better hands,” Clayton added, giving Emma what was meant to be a winning smile, but which to the others appeared more sinister than anything else. No one broke the silence that descended on the carriage as it passed alongside the Maybury viaduct, then left behind the row of houses known as Oriental Terrace as it clattered toward Woking Station, while only a few miles away, Martians were preparing their invasion of the planet.