Kim Newman - Professor Moriarty The Hound of the D'Urbervilles

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. 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. is 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 armchair…

I was awakened by a whirring which I recognised as the sound of the telescope when the egg-portal is open. The room was bathed in a red, flickering light. The window to Mars!

Again, I saw Stent’s Plain, the Victoria Regina 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 cannon-like 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 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 in her throat.

My maid was host to a Marsian!

I tripped over the carpet and fell back into the armchair. 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. I could not stand. The room became a swirling red blur, as much Mars as Greenwich. I fancied 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 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 realised 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 ragtag 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 involvement 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, you,’ Mrs H. shouted, with some relish. ‘I’ll not have you botherin’ the Astronomer Royal !’

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’ 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.