possessed the conditions most advantageous for the creation of life. And for some this suspicion had become a certainty when, a few years earlier, the astronomer Giovanni Schiaparelli had discovered grooves on its surface that might be canals: undeniable evidence of Martian engineering.
But what if Martians existed and were not inferior to us? What if, unlike the indigenous tribes of the New World, they were not a primitive people eager to welcome a missionary visit from Earth, but a more intelligent species than man, capable of looking down their noses at him as he did at monkeys and lemurs? And what would happen if their technology allowed them to travel through space and land on our planet, motivated by the same conquering zeal as man? What would his compatriots, the great conquerors, do if they encountered another species that sought to conquer them, to destroy their values and their self-respect, as they did those of the peoples they invaded, applauded by those like his brother?
Wells stroked his moustache, reflecting on the potential of this idea, imagining a surprise Martian attack, steam-propelled cylinders raining down on Woking’s sleepy commons.
He wondered whether he had stumbled upon the theme of his next novel. The buzz of exhilaration he felt in his brain told him he had, but he was worried about what his editor would say. Had he heard right? A Martian invasion was what he had come up with, after inventing a time machine, a scientist who operated on animals to make them human, and a man suffering from invisibility? Henley had praised his talent after the excellent reviews of his last book,
But Henley seriously doubted whether books pulled out of a hat like that were true literature. If Wells wanted his name to endure longer than a new brand of sauce or soap, he must stop wasting his considerable talent on novels that, while undeniably a feast for the imagination, lacked the necessary depth to impress themselves on his readers’ minds. In brief: if he wanted to be a brilliant writer, and not just a clever, competent storyteller, he must demand more of himself than dashing off little fables. Literature was more than that, much more. True literature should rouse the reader, unsettle him, change his view of the world, give him a resolute push over the cliff of self- knowledge.
But was his understanding of the world profound enough for him to unearth its truths and transmit them to others? Was he capable of changing his readers with what he wrote? And, if so, into what? Supposedly into better people. But what kind of story would achieve that? What should he write in order to propel them towards the self- knowledge of which Henley had spoken? Would a slimy creature with a slavering mouth, bulbous eyes and slippery tentacles change his readers’ lives? In all probability, he thought, if he portrayed the Martians in this way the subjects of the British Empire would never eat octopus again.
Something disturbed the calm of the night, stirring him from his meditations. This was no cylinder falling from the sky but the Scheffer boy’s cart. Wells watched it pull up in front of his gate, and smiled when he recognised the sleepy young lad on the driver’s seat. The boy had no objection to getting up early to earn a few extra pennies. Wells made his way downstairs, grabbed his overcoat and left the house quietly, so as not to wake Jane. He knew his wife would disapprove of what he was doing, and he could not explain to her why he had to do it, even though he was aware that it was not the behaviour of a gentleman.
He greeted the lad, cast an approving eye over the cargo (he had excelled himself this time) and clambered on to the driver’s seat. Once he was safely installed, the lad snapped the reins and they set off towards London.
During the journey they exchanged a few pleasantries. Wells spent most of the time silently absorbed in fascinated contemplation of the drowsy, defenceless world around him, crying out to be attacked by creatures from space. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the Scheffer boy, and wondered how such a simple soul, for whom the world probably only extended as far as the horizon, would react to an invasion of extra-terrestrials. He imagined a small huddle of country-folk approaching the place where a Martian ship had landed, nervously waving a white flag, and the extra-terrestrials responding to the innocent greeting by instantaneously annihilating them with a blinding flame, a sort of heat ray that would raze the ground, leaving a burning crater strewn with charred corpses and smouldering trees.
When the cart reached the slumbering city he stopped imagining Martian invasions to concentrate on what he had come to do. They drove through a maze of streets, each more deserted than the last, the clatter of hoofs shattering the silence of the night, until they reached Greek Street. Wells could not help grinning mischievously when the boy stopped the cart in front of Murray’s Time Travel. He glanced up and down the street, pleased to see no one was about.
‘Well, my boy’ he said, climbing down, ‘let’s go to it’
They each took a couple of buckets from the back of the cart and approached the front of the building. As quietly as possible, they plunged the brushes into the buckets of cow dung and began daubing the walls round the entrance. The repellent task took no more than ten minutes. Once they had finished, a nauseating stench filled the air, although Wells breathed it in with great delight: it was the smell of his rage, the loathing he was obliged to suppress, the never-ending directionless anger bubbling inside him. Startled, the boy watched him inhale the foul odour.
‘Why are you doing this, Mr Wells?’ he ventured to ask.
For a moment, Wells stared at him with furious intent. Even to such an unthinking soul, devoting one’s nights to a task that was as eccentric as it was disgusting must have appeared ridiculous.
‘Because between doing something and doing nothing, this is all I can do.’
The lad nodded in bewilderment at this gibberish, no doubt wishing he had not ventured to try to understand the mysterious motivations of writers. Wells paid him the agreed sum and sent him back to Woking, telling him he still had a few errands to run in London. The boy nodded, visibly relieved at not having to consider what these might be. He leaped on to his cart and, after geeing up the horse, disappeared at the end of the street.
Chapter XLIII
Wells contemplated the ornate facade of Murray’s Time Travel and wondered again how this modest theatre could possibly contain the vast stage set Tom had described to him of a devastated London in the year 2000. Sooner or later he would have to try to get to the bottom of the mystery, but for the moment he must forget about it if he did not want his adversary’s unarguable shrewdness to put him in a bad mood. Determined to push the thought aside, he shook his head and stood admiring his work for a few moments.
Then, satisfied with a job well done, he began to walk in the direction of Waterloo Bridge. He knew of no better place from which to observe the beautiful spectacle of morning. Cracks of light would soon begin to appear in the dark sky as dawn broke, and there was nothing to stop him dallying to witness the colourful duel before he went to Henley’s office.
In fact, any excuse was good enough to delay his meeting with his editor, for he felt certain Henley would not be overly pleased with the new manuscript. Of course he would agree to publish it, but this would not spare Wells
