Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [135]
Inside V. R. Chasm, something stirred. My heart stopped, I am sure — for long, long seconds. Pads like large leaves, a richer scarlet than the crimson of the desert dirt, flopped over the rim and anchored in the soil. These were the tips of sinewy tentacles, which held fast and contracted as a Marsian being hauled itself out of its hole.
What manner of men might inhabit the Red Planet? Not men at all, it seems — but creatures beyond classification.
I saw its bulging, filmed-over eyes. Its beak-like mouth. Its mess of limbs. Its swelling carapace.
The thinner atmosphere of Mars and a colder, drier climate have shaped that planet’s ruling species differently from us. I had no doubt that I was looking at a Man of Mars, not a brute animal. All around were signs of an intelligent species, a civilization perhaps older than our own.
There were structures — a Marsian factory, perhaps, or a school. The Marsian hauled itself across metal frames, fighting the pull of its planet, and came closer to the window.
I confess to a moment of stark, irrational fear. As I could see the Marsian, could it see me? Did the crystal egg have a twin on Mars?
With no earthly object for comparison, it was difficult to get a sense of scale. The Marsian could be the size of a puppy or an elephant.
It wriggled closer to the ‘window’. Its features grew gigantic on the study wall. I could see the wallpaper, the bookshelves and pictures through its phantasmal image. Then, suddenly, it shut off. There was a flapping sound, and a brief burst of bright, blank light — that died too, along with the incandescent bulb inside the Red Planet League’s reflecting telescope.
How ironic that a body named after Mars should provide the device which led me to gain such an unprecedented view of our planetary neighbor!
I turned the switch on and off, and I fiddled with the crystal in its aperture, trying to re-open the line of communication, but the window closed as mysteriously as it had opened.
Still, I am too excited to be frustrated. I am certain that the phenomena shall be repeated.
Otherwise, I fear I have a head-cold coming on. It may be the turn in the weather. I took a solution of salts, in lemon and barley-water. Though especially prepared by Mrs. H. from her own curative recipe, this concoction served only to exacerbate my condition. I passed an indifferent night, with frequent recourse to the c. p. and my handkerchief.
September 8: Invasions!
That confounded cold has set in, in my head and chest. The servants have plainly been lax in tending draught-excluders. Or else Signor Galvani’s foreign crew have imported alien bacteria into the household — for which they will be reprimanded. I am known for my good health, and these minor ailments do not normally afflict me.
Breakfast — porridge, honey-glazed gammon, courgettes, preserved pears. More of Mrs. H.’s vile (and inefficacious) home remedy. It’ll get worse before it gets better, I am assured — which is scarce comfort. I have instructed the housekeeper to dispense with her brews, and procure proper medicine from the chemist’s.
My digestion was incomplete when Flamsteed was impertinently invaded. In my study, making a start on notes for my Marsian Announcement, I became aware of a great ringing on the bell and knocking at the door. My first thought was that barbarians were at the gates. This proved to be the case — though, a singular barbarian, the opprobrious Ogilvy, rather than a horde.
I ventured out into the hallway and found Mrs. Huddersfield in the process of calling the stable-boy to throw Og. off our front step. Much as it would have pleased me to see the inky git tossed into the gravel and given a good kicking, it occurred to me that he should be consulted. Plainly, he had some dim perception of the importance of