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My maid was host to a Marsian!

I tripped over the carpet and fell back into the arm-chair. My nerve was resolute, but my limbs betrayed me — some side-effect of Dr. Tirmoary’s, I’ll be bound, for which the manufacturer will receive a stern letter from my solicitor. I could not stand. The room became a swirling red blur, as much Mars as Greenwich. I fancied that the beings I saw working on their cannon could see me across the void, and might crawl through the portal.

Polly set down the wicker basket.

She attempted a clumsy curtsey, and craned her cheek against her Marsian master, stroking its slimy hide as if she were indulging a kitten. The creature, bereft of its native atmosphere, was in evident difficulty. I’ll wager they can’t last long among us. Susceptible to all manner of Earthly ailments, drowning in our alien air, boiling in what was to us a cool evening.

The lid lifted from the basket, and a curious contraption rose from within — like a brass diving bell, on three mechanical legs. Some sort of clockwork enabled it to ‘stand’, and ‘walk’. A thick window showed the tentacle-fringed, scarlet face of a Marsian. Within the sphere, it was comfortable — sustained by some sort of liquid atmosphere, doubtless rich with the nutrients of Mars.

This must be the chief of the Marsians on Earth, leader of the expedition, the planet’s most able diplomat. I looked it — him! — in the eyes, and began to introduce myself.

“We … know … who … you … are … Mr…. Stent…”

The words came from a hooded figure who had slipped into the room. I realized at once that the superior creature in the bell could exert mental control over a human without the need for physical contact. This facility must be developed among the higher castes of the planet. The hooded figure was a meaningless person. His head bobbed from side to side like an imbecile’s as the Marsian Master spoke through him.

“It strikes me that you have not conducted yourselves in the proper manner,” I told him. “You should have come to me first, not wasted your time with this rag-tag Red Planet League.”

Meaningless syllables stuttered from the hooded puppet. The laughter of Mars!

“Well you may laugh, sir! A serious misunderstanding could have come about between our two great planets, as a result of your congress with the likes of George Ogilvy. He holds no great office. Now you have come to the proper person, the Astronomer Royal. You are in communication with someone best-placed to reveal your presence to the worthies of Great Britain. Treaties can be brokered, as trade agreements are being made in our world’s Orient. If travel between planets is possible, we may send you missionaries, medical staff, advisers. We must form a limited company. Anglo-Marsian Trading. I perceive you get scant use from your famous canals, but a few Scots engineers will have a railway system up and running across your red sands in no time. You have a surfeit of coolies, I see.”

The syllables continued. Not laughter, I think — but song! A native hosanna at the prospect of deliverance from a state of ignorance and depravity.

I looked into the Marsian’s huge, lidless eyes.

The hooded man spoke. “I … speak … for … you … would … call … him … Roi … Marty … King … of … Mars.”

I was impressed that such an exalted personage should be my guest.

“And what service may I do the King of Mars?”

Polly and the hooded figure raised now-familiar copper tubes, which caught the red light from the telescope. I sensed Marsian treachery!

“You … can … burn…”

Then, things happened swiftly.

A sturdy broom scythed down on Polly’s shoulder, squelching her alien master — which detached from her with a hideous shriek and flew across the room to explode against the mantelpiece, swollen organs bursting through its skin. The redoubtable Mrs. Huddersfield was in my study, swinging her broom like a yeoman’s quarterstaff. The hooded figure turned, and fire broke out on the wall where fell the beam from his copper tube. Mrs. H. tripped him, and he tumbled in a heap.

“Take that, you fiend from another world,