The Map of Time Collection by Félix J. Palma

Author:Félix J. Palma
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books

XXII

WHEN THEY REACHED WOKING STATION, Wells and his companions were astonished to discover everything carrying on as normal in the station. People came and went, apparently unflustered, while the trains were shunted around like beasts of burden. Fascinated, they watched how a train arrived from the north, emptied its passengers onto the platform, and then picked up others and continued on its way, as though nothing untoward was happening nearby. Only a faint red glow lit up the horizon, and a thin veil of smoke shrouded the sky. It was the horror of war, which from a distance gave the impression of an exquisitely decorative display. If news of the slaughter they had survived had reached Woking, no one there seemed unduly alarmed by it. No doubt they believed in the might of the British army, which was advancing toward the cylinders with great military strides, ready to defeat the Martians, or whatever they were, in a matter of hours, the same way they had always done when an enemy dared threaten the Empire.

“So far, the panic doesn’t seem to have spread here,” Clayton observed, glancing about. “Just as well: that means we need only concern ourselves with our plan.”

Pointing his pistol discreetly at Wells and Murray, Clayton ushered them to the stationmaster’s office, where he introduced himself, gave the stationmaster a prompt and in no way alarming account of the situation, and persuaded the man to let him lock the suspects up in one of the station’s storerooms.

“Try to behave like gentlemen,” Clayton appealed to Wells and Murray before shutting them in and leaving with Miss Harlow to telegraph his superiors.

The two men were obliged to remain on their feet in the center of the tiny room crammed with boxes, provisions, and tools, but which contained nothing they could sit on while they waited. In the moments that followed, they were content to simply eye each other in mistrust.

“I’m not responsible for the invasion, George,” Murray said at last, in an almost pleading tone. Wells was not sure whether this was an attempt to strike up a conversation or he’d spoken because it tormented him not to be able to prove his innocence.

Whatever the reason, the author continued to glare at Murray, exasperated that circumstances obliged him to communicate with the man. Although Wells had dreamed that Fate would provide him with an opportunity to unleash his anger on Murray, time had dampened his anger, burying it beneath a layer of contempt, with the result that it had lost some of its urgency. It was too late to rake it all up now, especially considering the alarming situation they found themselves in, which demanded they put aside personal grievances. And so Wells set himself to focus on the present, to discover who was behind it all.

“Are you suggesting we believe that this is a genuine Martian invasion?” he inquired coldly.

Murray gave a worried groan.

“I’ve no idea what we should believe, George,” exclaimed the millionaire, who in his agitated state tried to pace round in circles, something the confined space would not allow.

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