Christopher Priest - The Space Machine

My exertions, and the drag of the tentacles, had taken me to the very front of the platform, so that I was before the face of the monster itself!

Here it was as if the whole interior was alive with the tentacles, for ten or a dozen were wrapping themselves around me. I cannot record how appalling was that touch! The tentacles themselves were weak, but the combined effect of several, stroking and clutching me, was as if I had fallen headlong into a nest of constrictors. Before me, the beak-like mouth opened and closed, shrieking in pain or anger; once the beak closed around my leg, but there was no strength in it and it was not able even to rip the cloth.

Above all were the eyes: those large, expressionless eyes, watching my every action.

I was now in trouble, for both my arms were pinned, and although I still held the knife I could not use it. Instead, I kicked at the soft face before me, aiming at the roots of the tentacles, the shrilling mouth, the saucer eyes… anything that came within range. Then at last my knife-arm came free, and I slashed wildly at any part of the filthy body that presented itself.

This was the turning-point in the squalid affair, for from then on I knew I could win. The front of the creature’s body was firm to the touch, and therefore vulnerable to the knife. Every blow I landed now drew forth blood, and soon the platform was a bedlam of gore, severed tentacles and the frightful screams of the dying monster.

At last I drove the blade straight in between the creature’s eyes, and with one last fading scream it finally expired.

The tentacles relaxed and sagged to the floor, the beak-mouth fell open, from within the corpse there came a long eructation of noxious vapours and the great lidless eyes stared bleakly and lifelessly through the darkened oval window at the front of the platform.

I glanced through this window just once, and saw dimly that the massacre had been brought to a timely end. The weed-bank no longer shot forth flame, although steam and smoke still drifted from various places, and the surviving slaves were dragging themselves from the mire.

With a shudder I flung aside the bloodied knife, and hauled myself past the sagging corpse to the door. I struggled through with some difficulty for my hands were slick with blood and ichor. At last I pulled myself back to the roof, breathing in the thin air with relief, now that I was away from the rank odours of the monster. The hand-bag was where I had left it on the roof.

I picked it up, and, because I should need free use of my hands, looped one of the long handles over my neck.

For a moment I stared down at the ground. For as far as I could see in every direction those slaves that had survived the massacre had abandoned their toils and were wading through the mud towards the tower. Some had already reached dry land, and were running across to me, waving their long spindly arms and calling out in their high, reedy voices.

The leg nearest me seemed to be the straightest of the three, bent in only one place. With the greatest difficulty I eased myself over the protruding shelf, and managed to grip the metal limb with my knees. Then I released my hold on the platform, and placed my hands around the rough metal of the leg. Much blood had spilled from the platform, and although it was drying quickly in the sunshine it made the metal perilously slippery. With great caution at first, then with more confidence as I grew accustomed to it, I shinned down the leg towards the ground, the hand-bag swinging ludicrously across my chest.

As I reached the ground and turned, I saw that a huge crowd of the slaves had watched my descent and were waiting to greet me. I took the bag from around my neck, and stepped towards them. At once they moved back nervously, and I heard their voices twittering in alarm. Glancing down at myself I saw that my clothes and skin were soaked with the blood of the monster, and in the few minutes I had been in the sunlight the radiant heat had dried the mess and an unpleasant smell was exuding.

The slaves regarded me in silence.

Then I saw that one slave in particular was struggling through the crowd towards me, pushing the others aside in her haste. I saw that she was shorter than the rest, and fairer of skin. Although she was caked in the mud of the weed-bank, and raggedly dressed, I saw that her eyes were blue, and bright with tears, and her hair tumbled around her shoulders.

Amelia, my lovely Amelia, rushed forward and embraced me with such violence that I was nearly toppled from my feet!

“Edward!” she shouted deliriously, covering my face with kisses. “’Oh, Edward! How brave you were!”

I was overcome with such excitement and emotion that I could hardly speak. Then at last I managed a sentence, choking it out through my tears of joy.

“I’ve still got your bag,” I said.

It was all I could think to say.

Amelia was safe, and I was safe! Life was to be lived again! We disregarded everything and everyone around us; ignored the malodorous condition we were both in; forgot the encircling, curious Martian slaves. The mysteries and dangers of this world were of no consequence, for we were together again!

We stood in each other’s arms for many minutes, saying nothing. We wept a little, and we held each other so tight that I thought we might never separate but become fused in one single organism of undistilled joy.

We could not,of course, stand like that forever, and the interruption was approaching even as we embraced. Soon we could not ignore the warning voices of the slaves around us, and we pulled reluctantly apart, still holding each other’s hand.

Glancing towards the distant city I saw that one of the huge battle-machines was striding across the desert towards us.

Amelia looked about the slaves.

“Edwina?” she called. “Are you there?”

In a moment a young, female Martian stepped forward. She was no, more than a child, roughly equivalent to about twelve Earth years old.

She said (or at least it sounded as if she said): “Yes, Amelia?”

“Tell the others to go back to work quickly. We will return to the camp.”

The little girl turned to the other slaves, made some intricate hand and head signs (accompanied by a few of the high, sibilant words), and within seconds the crowd was dispersing.

“Come along, Edward,” said Amelia.: “The thing in that machine will want to know how the monster was killed.”

I followed her as she strode towards a long, dark building set near the weed-bank. After a moment, one of the city-Martians appeared and fell in beside us. He was carrying one of the electrical whips.

Amelia noticed the askance expression with which I registered this.

“Don’t worry, Edward,” she said. “’He won’t hurt us.”

“Are you sure?”

In answer, Amelia held out her hand and the Martian passed her the whip. She took it carefully, held it out for me to see, then returned it.

“We are no longer in Desolation City. I have established a new social order for the slaves.”

“So it would appear,” I said. “’Who is Edwina?”

“One of the children She is naturally adept at languages—most young Martians are—and so I have taught her the rudiments of English.”

I was going to ask more, but the ferocious pace Amelia was setting in this thin air was making me breathless.

We came to the building, and at the doorway I paused to stare back. The battle-machine had stopped by the crippled tower on which I had ridden, and was examining it.

There were four short corridors into the building, and inside I was relieved to find that it was pressurized. The city-Martian walked away and left us, while I found myself coughing uncontrollably after the exertions of our walk. When I had recovered I embraced Amelia once more, still unable to believe the good fortune that had reunited us. She returned my embraces no less warmly, but after a moment drew away.