Gaslight Grimoire_ Fantastic Tales of Sherlock Holmes - Barbara Hambly [138]
Moran turned to me. Purbright had also produced one of the heat-casting devices. Both were aimed in my direction.
I sensed I was in danger. But if the egg left the house, I would have no proof, no basis for my findings!
Og.s’ screams still echoed.
“We … must … be … going…” said Moran.
“Not with my crystal egg.”
The copper discs were glinting at me but I was resolute. No somnambulists, puppeteered by angry-eyed inhuman humps, would stand between me and recognition for my achievements.
“I am Sir Nevil Airey Stent, the Astronomer Royal,” I reminded them. “I will thank you to return my property. On this world, sirs, I am not to be sneezed at.”
“Sneezed … at?” they both said.
At that inopportune moment, my cold struck again — and I had a sneezing fit.
This had the most peculiar effect on my threatening guests. They turned tail, in something like panic, and ran. Purbright dropped the egg which — mercifully — did not shatter. As they ran, they slumped over, arms dangling uselessly, heads lolling — as if they were piloted by their tentacular humps, who could no longer concentrate on even the semblance of normal conduct.
My sheer physical presence, and the dignity of my office, had overwhelmed these creatures.
But I did not doubt they would be back.
I took some brandy, for my chest and sinuses, and reflected over my triumph in this skirmish of the spheres.
Mrs. H. called me to the garden. On the gravel driveway lay a human-shaped pile of ashes, already drifting in the wind. It seems I don’t have to worry about Ogilvy horning in on my findings any more…
Feeling much better, despite sniffles, I returned to my study.
In Lady Caroline’s continued absence, attempted congress with Polly — but, for some reason, was thwarted. Have much on my mind.
D — this cold!
September 8 — later: I Capture a Marsian!
Mrs. H. has obtained a supply of a patent medicine, Dr. Tirmoary’s Infusion for Coughs, Colds and Wheezes. According to the label, it is mostly diacetylmorphine hydrochloride. The stuff burns in a basin, and is inhaled under a damp towel. I spent ten minutes breathing acrid fumes before supper — dressed Cornish crab, lamprey surpris, calamari, conger mousse, langoustines — and, finally, gained some measure of relief from congestion, sniffles and associated symptoms. Not only am I sneezing less, I am thinking more clearly.
After a fresh, post-prandial infusion of Dr. Tirmoary’s, I retired to my study, determined to tinker with the crystal egg until it yielded its secrets. But, light-headed and with a sense of fullness in my stomach and other parts, I fell into a doze in an arm-chair…
I was awakened by a whirring, which I recognized as the sound of the telescope when the egg-portal was open. The room was bathed in a red, flickering light. The window to Mars!
Again, I saw Stent’s Plain, the Victoria Chasm, the Caroline Range. Now, there was great activity. Structures had changed, been erected or expanded. Many Marsian creatures could be seen, crawling about their purpose — which seemed to me to be the construction, within the Chasm, of a great cannonlike device. This could be aimed, I saw at once, at the tiny bluish speck on the Marsian horizon.
I recalled Og.’s ravings about a Marsian armada readying for a trip across the gulf of space.
Poppycock and nonsense!
My study door opened, and Polly came in. The possibility of a renewed attempt at congress arose, and I bound from my chair, into the beam of egg-light. For a moment, I was distracted by my own silhouette, cast on the wall as images from Mars played across my body.
Something was amiss. Polly, hunched over, wore a heavy shawl — not suitable for indoors. She carried a wicker basket, which I had not asked to be brought to me. Emboldened, I tore away her shawl. A red, wet creature pulsed on her shoulder, tentacles wound around her neck, face buried