• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

“This one was sent here, to England. I don’t know how Cave came by it. Dishonestly, I suppose.”

“It is mine,” I reminded him. “Paid for and bought.”

He wasn’t listening to me. “Stent, have they seen you? The portal opens both ways. That we can see them is incidental, an accident, a flaw in the great plan. From the other side, from Mars, they spy us. Spy on us. It’s what the eggs are for. They are taking our measure, making a study. Drawing plans. At first, the meteorites just brought the eggs. It’s only recently that they have come. Just a few, but enough — for their purpose. Across millions of miles of empty space! What explorers they must be, what conquerors. They ready their armada, Stent, their fleet…”

I concede that Og. was alarming me. A great deal of what he said struck me as fanciful drivel. Conquerors, indeed — what nonsense, as if creatures without hands or clothing could hope to stand up to the military might of Great Britain! But I worried there were eggs in other hands. Dangerous hands — other scientists eager to ‘scoop’ the Great Stent. If half of what Og. said is true, someone else might publish first.

I can not let that happen.

The doorbell rang. Mrs. H. came into the study, and presented a carte de visite.

Colonel Sebastian Moran, Conduit Street.

“Your comrade in the League has extricated himself from the police,” I told Og.

The fellow looked further stricken, which was not what I expected. I got little sense from him. I feared this would also be true of Moran — yesterday, he had been singing from the same hymn-book.

“Don’t let him in,” said Og., grabbing my lapel. “In the name of all that’s…”

“There’s a policeman with the caller, sir,” said Mrs. H. “Constable Purbright.”

I could not have been more relieved. With all the ranting, raving and lapel-grabbing, a policeman might be just what the doctor ordered. Clap these madmen up in irons, and leave me to conclude my Marsian studies.

“Show them in,” I said.

“Very good, Sir Nevil. Don’t you be straining yourself. Remember you’re not a well man.”

Og. threw himself into an armchair, in a pose of stark terror. Under his sunburn, he even went pale.

“Hullo … Sir … Nevil … Hullo … Ogilvy…”

It was the madman from the Strand, but much changed. His demeanor was more sober, respectable. His voice was uninflected, somehow metallic. And, since yesterday, he had grown a humpback. A long, red scarf wound around his neck, ends trailing down his back.

“Good … morning … gentlemen,” said the police constable beside Moran.

They could have been brothers, with the same shifting deformity, the same strange manner of speech.

“Keep them away from me,” shrieked Og. “They’re … them!”

“Don’t … make … a … fuss … old … chap.”

Moran and Purbright spoke in unison, like a music hall turn. Their voices scraped the nerves. I was overcome by a powerful wish that all my visitors should leave. I could do with a medicinal tot, and some peace.

The constable walked, stiff-legged, across the room, to the telescope. He laid a hand on the crystal egg.

“That’s delicate scientific equipment,” I warned Purbright.

“Evidence … sir,” he said, twisting the egg free.

“I must protest…”

“Obey … the … law—” said Colonel Moran.

Moran was in my way. Beyond him, I saw the constable slipping the crystal egg into his tunic.

“I paid five pounds for that!”

“Stolen … goods,” said Moran.

I tried to strong-arm him out of the way, but he was immovable. My hand fell on his hump, and his long scarf unwound, showing where his jacket seam was split by the swelling. An angry, inhuman eye looked out from the hole! Sinewy, venous scarlet ropes wound around Moran’s exposed neck. A beak-like barb was fixed to his throat, under the ear, blood dribbling from the conjunction.

A cowardly knee met my groin, and I doubled over.

When I righted myself, Moran had rearranged his scarf. I knew what I had seen.

Og. leaped up from the chair and flew at Moran.

From a pocket, Moran pulled a curious object — a tube with a burnished