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The next morning, a report written by the base doctor was waiting for the Investigators. It did not make pretty reading.
All the science team working on the dismantling of the Martian machines - especially those researching the power sources - were developing or suffering symptoms of some unknown illness or affliction. Many had also developed cancerous growths. Apart from one case - Dr Lawhead - the symptoms were very similar. Lawhead was apparently also prone to hallucinations.
In the course of the morning, reports also came in from the soldiers sent to track the Remote Walkers back to where they came from. Apparently they headed west and a little south, then turned south until they crossed the River Arun, where they disappeared. No trace was found on the other side, and it appeared likely that the machines had come up the river. After digesting this, Cavendish ordered regular patrols along the river and through the surrounding countryside.
The report from the Black Smoke team was delayed, for no readily explained reason.
- That night, too, there was another jetting out of gas from the distant planet. I saw it. A reddish flash at the edge, the slightest projection of the outline just as the chronometer struck midnight; and at that I told Ogilvy and he took my place. The night was warm and I was thirsty, and I went stretching my legs clumsily and feeling my way in the darkness, to the little table where the siphon stood, while Ogilvy exclaimed at the streamer of gas that came out towards us. - From the memoirs of John Smith, Journalist. |
| 1 | Horsell Common, Surrey |
| 2 | Pinewoods NW Woking |
| 3 | Pyrford |
| 4 | Bushey Park |
| 5 | Mortlake (Smith witnessed this land) |
| 6 | Wimbledon |
| 7 | Unknown |
An interesting item was the records from the nights in August when the Cylinders were launched from Mars. Seven eruptions of gas had been described by Smith from his period in Ogilvy's observatory; but only six landing sites were known. No great attention had been paid to this before; if the seventh Cylinder had landed somewhere unpopulated, the occupants must nevertheless have contracted the same illnesses that killed the rest, and would all be long dead by now. If one had missed the Earth, no wonder - at such a distance, six hits out of seven was the more remarkable thing.
Telling Cavendish brusquely that there had to be better communications in this enterprise for it to succeed, Holmes took himself off home to check on his own affairs. All seemed well at 221 Baker Street. Mrs Hudson had several items of post for him and a couple of visiting cards left by prospective clients, and a card from Mycroft left without comment. He considered calling Mycroft but decided against it as there wasn't yet anything significant to report. He settled down at his desk to catch up on some paperwork and write his journal.
Quartermain and Churchill, meanwhile, set out to try and research around the peculiar occult books stored in the base library. Even Quartermain had heard of the British Library, and it seemed logical to start with the most pre-eminent establishment of the kind.
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On arrival, however, they were stopped at the door by a stout but capable-looking commissionaire. In those days, libraries were only for those of a certain quality, and Quartermain in his battered flannel veldt suit and Churchill in civvies with fresh burn scars across his face were not quite what he was expecting in patrons. Despite the best he and Churchill could manage, the best they could achieve was to leave Churchill's card to secure an appointment with the Membership Secretary the next day.
As they walked away, Churchill eyed his colleauge ruefully. "We need to get you some new togs," he said, shaking his head. "Not a common outfit in London, that." On Oxford Street they found Thompson Bros, wherein a suit of English cut was procured. Quartermain's wiry build would not have been common in London before the Martian invasion, but most surviving Londoners were much thinner in the antebellum city, and ready-cut suits in his size were to hand. He insisted on a dark cloth, clearly with something in mind. It cost three pounds fourteen and thruppence, but with the proceeds of King Solomon's Mines in his bank account Quartermain was happy enough with this.
As they walked back down Oxford Street, Quartermain was still seething. "I'm not inclined to go back and plead with the beggars to look at the books," he said, "and maybe we don't exactly want people knowing what we are looking at anyway. I'm going back tonight to do some quiet unauthorized research." Churchill, law-abidng though he was, was also impatient with bureacracy and red-tape - insofar as it impeded him, anyway - and took little persuading. As they proceeded down Oxford Street, he added a couple of boxes of Lucifers and a weatherproof case for them to his equipment.
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Late that night, dressed in dark clothing and - in Quartermain's case - heavily muffled against the cold London fog, the pair were scouting the Library buildings. The front door was locked, and well-lit, but around the back of the building was a Tradesmens' Entrance.
Securely locked railings protected it. Quartermain was used to the veldts of Africa where doors, much less locks, were uncommon, and Churchill's upper-class upbringing had not included larceny. Neither was able to pick the lock on the railings, and eventually they gave up and climbed the railings. Quartermain had some diffculty with the slick, wet iron, and needed a leg-up. "I'm all right with lions," he muttered apologetically.
The door itself proved equally resistant to subtle approaches, and in the end Quartermain simply shouldered it in, raising what sounded to the two intruders like a deafening crash. They waited for a few minutes but no-one turned up to investigate. Carefully, they went inside.
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Twenty feet inside it was as dark as the plains of Hades, and Churchill was forced to strike a match for light. Looking around, they realized that they were in the "below stairs" section of the Library; the working and storage rooms usually occupied by the servants such a big public building needed in such numbers.
After twenty minutes' fumbling through the dark, intermittently lit by struck matches, they finally reached the "Front of House" - the actual library itself. The huge, high windows of the Reading Room allowed some of the dim, fog-diffused light from outside in, giving them at least a clue to what lay around them, and cautiously they began to search.
In fairly quick time, they had located the indexes, and cautiously lit a gas mantle to search by. Flicking through, they found the following references to the books at Kensington:
| Book | Author | Language | Clue |
|---|---|---|---|
Grimorium Verum |
Marcus Sergius |
Latin |
Referenced in the Valedictus Carus, Section 311, Shelf 87, Section S |
Fourth Book of Cornelius Agrippa |
Tr. Guillermo Bartolemo |
Italian |
Section 426, Shelf 8, Section A |
Mila ya uchawi-eusi |
Nduati |
Kôric |
Nothing |
Forbidden Fables of the Destruction Faiths |
Theodorus Vogel |
English |
Nothing |
Churchill took his reference card and a candle and headed into the stacks, while Quartermain went the opposite way. Churchill soon located his book, and its' apparent age seemed to match that of the book in Kensington. Quartermain, however, found only a blank space where his book should have been, flanked by two other books apparently by the same translator - he couldn't be sure as he spoke no Italian. Perhaps wisely, he chose to leave them.
Meeting up again at the index desk, the pair examined Churchill's find, realizing belatedly that the book was also in Latin. Quartermain had never come close to the language, and Churchill's school-masters had failed to beat it into him either, so they had no idea what was contained inside. "I think Holmes speaks Latin," said Quartermain. "Let's get out of here, then," said Churchill.
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Dousing the gas, they headed towards the back of the library, only to stop short at the sound of footsteps and the steadily increasing glow of a lantern approaching. "Hide!" hissed Quartermain. Both looked wildly around, to discover they were trapped in between two shelves of books fifty yards long, with no alcoves, niches, turnings, crates - nothing - to hide in or behind. A moment later it was too late.
"'Ere! Wot're you two doin' in 'ere? Library's closed...." came a voice from the pool of light, which they now saw surrounded an elderly night-watchman, peering into the darkness beyond his lamp's radius. Churchill thought quickly.
"Quickly," he snapped, putting his Command voice on, "come here. I think there's someone in here!"
There was a pause as the old fellow thought this through. "Yers," he said finally, "and I fink it's you two." He rummaged in his pocket with his free hand and produced a small sap. "Now," he said firmly, "you just come along wiv me, boys. I'm going ta call the police now, so let's 'ave no funny business, right?"
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Quartermain's hand bulged in the pocket of his new suit, and Churchill dimly heard the grate of a hammer being eased back. He siezed Quartermain's arm. "Are you mad?" he hissed. "He's not got a look at us yet. Run for it!" Both spun and fled back out of the stack, doubling backwards towards the rear of the building. "Oi! You jist come back 'ere!" came from behind, and the sound of a lumbering run that both knew they could easily outpace.
Considering the difficulty they had had finding their way in, their headlong flight out should have left them sprawled bleeding on the floor. Incredibly, they made it to the back door at a flat sprint without mishap. On arrival, however, it belatedly occurred to them that they should perhaps have closed the door Quartermain had smashed open, as it stood betrayingly open. Very cautiously they tiptoed up to it and peered out, expecting to come face to face with the police.
They were half right. A policeman was visible - walking quietly away, having patrolled past the door without noticing it was open. Half disbelieving, they watched him until he vanished into the mist, then helped each other over the railings and put several streets between themselves and the Library as quickly as possible.
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The next morning, over breakfast, Holmes noticed that both Quartermain and Churchill appeared tired, as if they'd been up half the night. He made no comment until they approached him rather diffidently and slid heavy shape of the Valedictus Carus onto the table with a request for translation.
Holmes opened it, and paged carefully through the ancient, brittle pages. At first glance, it seemed to him like the most facile spiritualist hocus-pocus flimflam, and he said so; "Why don't you take it back to wherever you stole it?" he said. The pair exchange slightly guilty looks. "Please translate it for us first," said Churchill. "It may be relevant." Holmes snorted, and nodded, his expression eloquent of his opinion that it was a complete waste of time.
As they walked away from him, Quartermain glanced at Churchill. "That was such a bad idea." he said ruefully.
Over the next couple of days, Holmes ploughed through the first chapter or so of the ancient book, and gradually his opinion changed. Even though he was quite sure he didn't believe any of it, the logic and internal consistency of the contents were, he was troubled to have to confess, impossible to fault. Disturbingly, the references he was finding to the Grimorium Verum confirmed the title's suggestion that the latter book was a collection of magics intended for the summoning of otherworldly creatures.
Churchill went back and sorted out his membership of the library, though without returning to the sections they had been searching for the moment. He also quietly added a flask of fine brandy to his coat pocket; this looked like a stressful posting.
Quartermain was startled to note a complete failure of any stories about a breakin at the British Library to appear in the morning's newspapers. He began to compose, despite little musical ability, a concept concerto about the life of Napoleon.
As well as reading the book, Holmes secured permission to spend more time on the deepest level, studying the Martian - though he avoided feeding time and the other scientists working on it. Several questions had occurred to him; were there different levels or types of Martian? was their apparent intelligence something else? He spent some time experimenting with gestures and carefully selected states of mind while face-to-face with the creature, and occasionally blurred visons tumbled through his mind in response, though the process was exhausting and somehow disgusting.
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On the Monday morning, a special train arrived at the station and Cavendish told his team they were heading for Scotland. Holmes asked if he was taking the Crystal Egg, for security. Cavendish looked smug, and produced one from his pocket. "I carry this one," he said, "it's the one from the third Cylinder, slightly damaged but workable." Holmes asked to hold this one for a moment. Cavendish seemed reluctant to let it go, but finally handed it over.
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Visions croweded across Holmes' mind, somehow stronger and more quickly than before his work with the captive Martian. Red Mars, sandy deserts, Red Weed waving in the thin Martian air, walking machines, dark deep green underwater, a Martian city among the red sands...
Underwater?
It had only been a flash, but no scene like that had ever been seen in any of the other visions, and Holmes was quick to seize on an interpretation. The Seventh Cylinder must have landed in the sea somewhere - and its' Martians, sealed away from the lethal atmosphere, had been in communication with their doomed comrades. Maybe they had understood their fate? Solved, with their incredible science, the problem of the deadliness of Earth's biosphere to Martian-kind? It would explain the small walkers coming up rivers.
As he pondered this, Churchill and Quartermain were playing Hide and Go Seek up and down the train, seeking to improve the skills that had let them down so badly in the British Library.
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The party de-trained at Arbroath station, where motor-cars were waiting to take them to some farmland a few miles away. A large area had been fenced off with a high wire barrier with guard towers at the corners, enclosing several wooden buildings and a huge flat space like an enormous cricket pitch.
The gate was also heavily guarded, but Cavendish was instantly recognized and the convoy waved through. Inside, on the flat space, was a large, round flat machine, looking very like a “flying saucer” with the “eyes” of the standard Martian cockpit, standing on flexible legs like short Handling Machine legs. Engineers and scientists were swarming all over it, and a man stood waiting in a heavy aeronaut’s jacket, hat, goggles and boots. Cavendish introduced him as Bastable, and Churchill blinked, impressed; one of the foremost balloonists in Europe.
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While Cavendish was talking to Bastable, Churchill realized that Horton had sidled up to him and was speaking quietly. The aide looked stressed and tired, not his usual efficient, methodical self. “Get out of all this now," he murmured urgently, "It’s not what you think, and it’ll end badly for you if you don’t-“ At that moment, Cavendish bellowed for his presence, and he hurried off, casting a single emphatic look backwards. Taken aback, Churchill lost no time in describing this remarkable account to his companions. Quartermain didn't comment, but Churchill noticed his hand was in the pocket he kept his pistol in; this time he did not object.
There was no time for any more, as with much ceremony, Cavendish gave the signal to proceed and Bastable disappeared inside the strange saucer-shaped vehicle. A deep thrumming started, along with the now-familiar jets of green steam, and the Machine slowly, very slowly, lifted vertically off the ground and into the air!
All eyes were riveted to this wonder and so when the first shots rang out, the shock was like a smack in the face.
Looking around, dark-clad human figures could be seen flooding into the compound from a breach in the seaward fence, armed with rifles and laying down covering fire. A knot of them in the centre are carrying a collection of heavy objects, which they began to set up behind the screen of riflemen. Looking at the fence, Holmes noted the towers at the corners of that side were empty - the guards had been silenced.
More than a hundred yards away, Holmes, Churchill and Quartermain reacted swiftly. The range was far too long for accurate shooting with their handguns, even Quartermain's heavy revolver. Holmes, after suggesting Churchill take command of the defence, slipped out of the Observation Post and broke back towards the main gate, away from the attackers, towards where the cars were parked.
Churchill took partial cover behind the OP's brick side wall, bellowing orders for the soldiers within range to engage the attackers. Beside him, Blakeney knelt and levelled his rifle. As he rammed the bolt home, thought, there was a hideous grinding noise and it jammed solid. Swearing, he started to strip it to clear the jam.
Quartermain vaulted over the wall and sprinted towards the oncoming enemy, heading for some boxes that looked like good cover. Running feet behind suggested he was not alone in this. As he reached them, though, he realized that they were too flimsy to stop bullets. He hesitated for a fatal moment, realizing too late that an enemy rifleman was drawing a bead on him. Suddenly, a hard shove in the back sent him sprawling into a ditch he'd not noticed, and a moment later someone else landed on top of him. Turning his head, he saw Horton's face, and was about to thank him when he noticed the man's eyes were already glazing. An oozing hole behind his ear showed where the bullet had gone in.
Rolling back over to bring his pistol up to bear, Quartermain wondered for a moment from which direction the fatal shot had come...
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Session Date: 18th March 2015 |
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