we can explore the rest of the ship. Maybe there are other survivors.” Lowell relayed the orders, and two Tuareg men reluctantly entered what must have seemed a demon’s lair to them.
With the known survivor accounted for, we ventured deeper inside, breathing the remnants of flat, dusty Martian air. I turned slowly around, shining the lamp inside the spaceship’s large open cavity. I saw a sight that I shall never forget.
The crashed spaceship was a charnel house. Inhuman bodies—fifteen, we later counted—were strewn about like rag dolls on the interior deck, no doubt jumbled from the violence of the cylinder’s impact. It seemed a tragedy to me that so few of them had survived the long and perilous voyage across interplanetary space. They had come so far … .
The dead creatures were slightly smaller than adult humans, the majority of them with whitish-gray skin and smooth shells on their body parts. These specimens clearly belonged to an entirely different phylum from the tentacled Martian.
Unlike a clipper ship or an ocean steamer, the Martian vessel did not contain a large cargo hold or numerous crates of supplies. The white-shelled aliens had been kept in a separate section of the vessel, like cattle in a corral. The advanced Martian—the creature with the soft body and the enormous brain—had apparently operated the controls, such as they were. The Martian projectile had apparently been launched from a giant cannon on the red planet, fired ballistically toward Earth, with only a few attitude-adjustment rockets to guide its course. Either these creatureswere fools, or optimists. Either way, they had achieved their desire, and the cylinder had arrived at Earth.
Lowell, being more mechanically minded than myself, inspected the “bridge” of the cylinder, a strange curved affair that would never have been designed by the shipbuilders of the Royal Navy. He studied the levers and knobs designed for a race equipped with tentacles instead of manipulating digits. He could not decipher the Martian written language scribed onto the buttons and switches, nor could he comprehend the basis of the alien guidance system.
Since my background was in biology, I had other priorities, however. I knelt to perform a cursory study of the cadavers. They seemed oddly desiccated and shriveled, as if their bodily juices had been sucked away. Only mummified husks remained.
“Moreau! I’ve found a second large Martian.” In the reflected lamplight, I could see another of the brownish brain sacs—this one clearly dead, its tentacles clenched to itself like the legs of a poisoned beetle. It, too, had been desiccated, drained.
“The crash could not have killed them all. Not in this fashion.” Lowell pursed his lips. “I wonder if this Martian and these others died of some sickness. Or maybe they were murdered during the voyage.”
I was not, however, worried about those answers for the time being. My immediate delight was in knowing that I now had so many specimens to dissect.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A WELCOME VISITOR AND UNWELCOME NEWS
A fter Moreau had delivered his shocking news to the symposium audience, the Institute scientists, military officers, lords, and even Prime Minister Gladstone, surged to their feet and gathered close to see the nightmarish specimen.
Moreau clearly understood the tumult his revelations would cause, and Wells could see that the bearish man enjoyed the effect of his announcement. Moreau stood confident and arrogant in the middle of the uproar.
Professor Huxley’s words cut across the excitement and confusion in the lecture hall. “In light of these new developments, I hereby adjourn this symposium until we can further assess the news Dr. Moreau has brought us.”
Griffin shot to his feet, his face reddened with anger, his bristly hair standing up as if in indignation. He did not even glance at the alien’s tank. “We cannot stop the symposium! We must compile all knowledge so we can fight the
editor Elizabeth Benedict