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Polly, bereft of a controlling mind, stood staring, still as a statue, angry weals on her neck and bosom. Mrs. H. took to battering and sweeping the King of Mars’s puppet, driving him from the room, and — indeed — out of the house.

The King’s Bell began to move, edging away on its three legs. With all the skill of my days as a varsity three-quarter, I fell on the contraption, pinning it down, preventing its escape.

Robbed of its puppet, the King had no way to converse. Its eyes bulged in mute, frustrated fury.

“Your highness, you are captured!” I told it. “You will surrender yourself to my authority.”

The spell of the crystal egg was broken. A last unsteady image held for a few moments, then bright red light replaced the vista of Mars. The whirring sped up after the picture was lost. Something flapped loosely inside the telescope before it shut off entirely.

Mrs. H. returned, broom over her shoulder, and the puppet’s hood in her grip. She reported that she had seen the puppet — a demented tramp, she believed — high-tailing it down the drive. He was unimportant, I knew. No more than a set of vocal chords.

Polly was recovered from her upright faint, but still in a dazed state. She did not relish the memory of communion with the creature which lay dead in a jumble in the fireplace. All she could say was that its touch was slimy and sharp. I suggested a dose of Dr. Tirmoary’s, but she turned it down — she has promised her mother not to have truck with such potions, apparently. Mrs. H. similarly passed up the opportunity to taste her own medicine, but I felt another dose would be restorative and invigorating. I am becoming quite partial to its effects. A certain gaiety is upon me after each infusion. Of course, I am in a heightened state of excitement just now, in the midst of these great events.

War is over before it is begun! I have captured the Marsian King!

Also, I have one of the copper tubes. A gun of Mars. I must find out how the hot-beam works. The burned patch on my study wall has a chemical smell, as if some reactive compound were smeared on the paper and left to ignite — but I sense the truth of the process is to do with transforming light into heat. I shall experiment with this device in safer, less expensively-decorated premises.

The King squirms and writhes in his metal shell. The three legs are wired together, so it may not ‘walk’ free.

I have communicated by telegram with the Royal Society, setting a date three days hence for my Marsian lecture. I shall use the crystal egg and display the terrain and inhabitants of the Red Planet to those who would call themselves my scientific peers. I shall demonstrate the use of the copper tube — maybe singe the trousers of some of my more disbelieving colleagues, to make a point. Then, as the crowning moment, I shall present the King of Mars!

Surely, ennoblement must follow. I shall be Lord Flamsteed of Mars!

Considered congress with Mrs. H. and/or Polly, but was persuaded instead to cap off the evening with another infusion of Good Old Dr. Tirmoary’s.

I am Conqueror of Mars!

Being a reprint from the Reminiscences of Col. Sebastian Moran, Late of the 1st Bengalore Pioneers — continued

Pah! Ever read such rot, eh? Believe me, those were the interesting pages. The rest of Stent’s journal is fit only to start fires. His entries are stuffed with menus and ‘congresses’ and remarks about how brilliant, acclaimed, well-loved and admirable he is. By my count, the Astronomer Royal penned seventeen thousand heated words about a controversial boot-scraper installed, removed, installed again, relocated by six inches and finally removed from outside the servants’ door at Flamsteed House.

How did I get hold of the journal? Stole it, of course. Not that Stent was in any state to complain.

By pasting in these pages, I’ve saved myself a deal of pen-work, which is all to the good. More time down the pub, rather than filling up an exercise book with this scribble.

Of course, you knew