The Map of Time Collection, page 185
Ramsey nodded and asked the Executioner to proceed. Placing himself at the center of the cramped office, 2087V waited for Ramsey to pull down the blinds and then raised his cane aloft with the solemnity of a king showing his scepter to his subjects. A moment later, a faint bluish spark flickered up and down the cane, growing in intensity, and the sapphire glow finally began to illumine the encircling darkness, spreading round the room inch by inch, like a piece of paper unfolding, until it enveloped them all. Then, when it had filled almost the entire office, red lines began to emerge on its surface, like a network of veins, mapping out the geography of the multiverse. Before the Day of Chaos, those crimson lines, which represented each of the infinite worlds, had been arranged in parallel, like the strings of a harp, but now they were rippling and bending toward those next to them, touching in places or becoming entangled or even fusing together, producing continuous explosions and purple-tinged rents in the seemingly smooth blue surface that was the fabric of the universe. That chaotic tangle was a faithful replica of what was going on outside, a blueprint of devastation. But among the mass of lines were also hundreds of greenish trails hopping between them, pulling them together like the strings of a corset. Those were the cronotemics, jumping desperately between worlds, as if they thought they could flee that ferocious, unexpected Chaos. But Chaos was inevitable. There was no escape from it. And all the cronotemics achieved with their demented leaps was to make more holes in the beleaguered tapestry of life.
“This is the true map of Chaos,” whispered the old lady.
Ramsey nodded. “If Clayton were to fall asleep right now, somewhere on it a golden trail would appear,” he told her, pointing at the glorious haze of light and color, which nevertheless represented the greatest cataclysm the universe had ever known.
“Then we can only wait,” said Mrs. Lansbury, “and hope that he falls asleep soon . . .”
37
PLEASE, GOD, DON’T LET ME fall asleep now, Clayton was thinking at that precise moment. The Villain had snatched Clayton’s pistol and the book from Wells, and both were floating in the air a few yards in front of the inspector.
“Well, dear friends!” came the Villain’s honeyed voice from behind the weapon, which was pointing first at the couple, then at Clayton. “I’m afraid this pleasant reunion has come to an end. Much as I enjoy your company, there are countless worlds out there that I have yet to explore, and so, regretfully, I must take my leave. George, I promised you I would kill you painlessly, and I am a man of my word. Of all the methods I have used so far, a bullet in the head is the most civilized one, I think. But, of course,” he whispered as the black muzzle of the pistol spun round toward Jane, “ladies first.”
Wells placed himself in front of his wife, his face deathly pale, but then Clayton guffawed loudly. The pistol paused for a few seconds before whirling round toward the inspector, who was convulsed with laughter.
“What is it you find so amusing, Inspector?” the creature snapped.
Clayton took a few deep breaths, trying to compose himself.
“Oh, forgive me . . . I just couldn’t help remembering the day I shot you in the leg at Mrs. Lansbury’s house . . . That trail of blood appearing out of nowhere, and then vanishing, as if by magic . . . one last drop and then puff! gone.”
“Believe me, I haven’t forgotten it either, Inspector,” the Invisible Man snarled. “That bullet forced me to jump and leave the book behind . . . after all the trouble I went to, finding the old woman among all the possible worlds!” The pistol drifted toward Clayton, like some menacing insect. “So it was you . . . ,” hissed the voice, oozing hatred. “I didn’t get a good look at you because it was dark on the stairs. I assumed one of the old woman’s stupid servants had shot me . . .”
“What a shame”—Clayton shrugged—“because if you had known there was a police officer in the house that day, it might have occurred to you that I was the custodian of the book, and you wouldn’t have wasted all that time chasing Wells . . . That was your big mistake!”
“A trivial one, as it turns out, now that I have it!” roared the creature, waving the book in the air. “Although you are right: if I hadn’t believed it was in George’s possession, we would all have been spared a lot of unpleasantness. But it never occurred to me that the old woman could have entrusted it to anyone else. When I went back to her house to finish what I had started, I realized she had jumped, thanks to some of the remarks made by the policemen searching her house. Once more I was forced to chase her to another world, although I found her more easily that time. My powers were being enhanced, and now I could smell the fresh trail of a jumper. And so, after wandering through a few similar worlds, I managed to track her down. She was living in a humble dwelling, which I entered one night with the aim of stealing the book. The old woman was sleeping, though not very soundly. The tears seeped from her closed eyelids and rolled down her cheeks as she murmured, ‘Forgive me, Bertie, dear . . . I had to do it, I had to give him the book and jump, forgive me . . .’ ” The Villain imitated the old lady’s quavering speech in a reedy voice before resuming his angry tone. “Damnation! I should have woken her up and tortured her until she told me who she was talking about . . . but I just assumed it was the Wells from this world. After all, the note she gave her stupid maid was addressed to him. That was how I first got wind of her plan, and when I overheard those policemen, I assumed she must have somehow got the book to him before she jumped. The book had remained in this world, and Wells had it! I tried for several years to find my way back to this universe, but, believe me, returning to the same world isn’t as easy as it sounds,” he boasted. “Only someone with my immense talent could pull it off . . . I had done it a few days after you shot me by following my own trail! But after I heard the old woman talking in her sleep, my last trail had gone cold, or at least I couldn’t find it, and my search for this world turned into something of an odyssey. But I found it. Not just once, but twice! The first time I appeared at Brook Manor, where I was forced to jump again, this time with a bolt in my shoulder and an eye missing . . .” The pistol seemed to glance sideways at Jane, who shivered in her husband’s arms. “By that time, all of me was invisible—even my clothes, which were shedding molecules at the same rate as my body, and that only increased my power . . . Though I have to admit, George and his friends won that battle. But my peculiar molecular structure not only gives me invisibility, it also causes my wounds, however serious, to heal more quickly than normal. And so, as soon as I had recovered, and before the tracks from my last jump vanished, I came back here. I appeared early this morning at my dear friend George’s house, still believing he had THE MAP OF CHAOS. But George was kind enough to tell me who its true guardian was and even offered to bring me here . . . for which I intend to thank him by giving him a swift and painless death. However, I see no reason why your death should be so merciful, Inspector Clayton. Perhaps I shall blow your kneecaps off and let you bleed to death, as payment for that bullet that brought me so many problems . . . What do you think?”
Clayton looked at him in surprise and then burst into even louder guffaws than before.
“Stop that cackling!” yelled the Villain.
“Oh, forgive me, forgive me . . . I just can’t help laughing when I think of the way you describe as an immense, unique gift a simple disease caused by a tiny virus accidentally brought into this universe . . .” The inspector dried his eyes. “I confess I admire your unwavering belief in yourself. I think we should all take a lesson from your irrepressible optimism, Mr. Rhys . . .”
“I see you know my name and everything about the cronotemia virus . . . ,” the voice hissed. “The old woman had time to tell you a lot before she jumped.”
“Oh, no. Alas, Mrs. Lansbury scarcely had time to tell me anything. Actually, it was you who told me everything I know . . .”
Beaming, Clayton turned around, picked up the kettle sitting on the table, and flicked a small switch on its side. Instantly, the Villain’s voice boomed out, crossing time and space:
“Very well, George. But I warn you, if you are trying to buy time, it won’t do you any good. I have all the time in all the worlds at my disposal! So, you want to know who I am! Are you sure you want to know? I am the most powerful being in all creation! I am the epilogue of mankind! When the universe comes to an end, only I will remain . . . presiding over all your accursed graves. My name is Marcus Rhys, and I am the God of Chaos!”
Clayton flicked the switch back and the kettle went quiet. He patted it lightly, as one would a dog that has just performed a trick, before turning to the Villain, smiling.
“We are very proud of these little gadgets at Scotland Yard’s Special Branch. They can record any conversation and transmit it to a similar terminal on the other side of the city, and they work as remote alarms . . .” Clayton clucked his tongue in admiration. “Thanks to the fact that, courtesy of the Division, Mr. Wells also has one of these kettles, he was able to warn me this morning when he sensed danger. And not just me. As soon as Wells placed his special kettle on the fire, another kettle started whistling in my boss’s house . . . Isn’t that so, Captain Sinclair?” he addressed the air, hands clasped behind his back.
At this, several police officers popped up from behind the piles of wonders kept in the Chamber, silently aiming their weapons at the empty space where the book and the pistol were floating. Finally, the plump Captain Sinclair stepped out from behind one of the strange columns, his false eye glowing red in the dark, like an infernal lighthouse beacon. He placed one hand on a lever to the side of the column and raised the other slowly, also aiming his pistol at the invisible man.
“Quite right, lad,” he said to Clayton. “Only, next time, remind me to adjust the volume on that damned thing. My wife is threatening to leave me next time that unbearable whistling wakes her up . . .”
“Oh, I am sure Marcia would never do such a thing.”
“Be quiet! Be quiet, both of you!” the voice roared, the book and the pistol gyrating in the air, as if the Villain was spinning round, observing the ring of police officers now surrounding him. “What is this farce? Do you really think you have caught me in your silly trap?” He let out a menacing guffaw and the pistol and the book instantly dropped to the floor. “I am the Invisible Man! You can’t see me, and you can’t stop me from escaping. I can leap into another world! And when I come back for what is mine, you will never know when I am behind you. You will never see me coming!”
Clayton contemplated him with the weary expression of someone realizing that the most boring guest is still at the party.
“Invisible, really?” he retorted scornfully. “Take a good look at yourself. Do you still think we can’t see you?”
At that moment, the captain pressed down the lever on which his hand had been resting, and the strange columns dotted about the Chamber lit up with a subdued hum, emitting a ghostly bluish light. Before everyone’s eyes, clearly traced in the air was the gelatinous outline of a hand, slowly extending to an arm, a rounded shoulder, and part of a chest and neck, as if someone were blowing up a blue bubble in the shape of a human.
“What the devil is happening to me?” the Villain stammered, his watery hand opening and closing in front of his still-invisible face.
“I don’t wish to bore you with complex chemical explanations,” replied Clayton amiably, “so I shall try to sum up the most important facts: that book isn’t The Map of Chaos, it is an amusing novella I wrote when I was younger. I had it bound to look like the original, and then our scientists impregnated the cover with a substance you have been absorbing through your skin for the last few minutes, which reacts to a certain kind of light . . . It is now in your bloodstream and, as you can see, is already coloring your cells . . . irreversibly. Soon your body will be visible even in daylight. Congratulations, Mr. Rhys, you have ceased to be a monster! At least in appearance . . .”
The Villain’s lower jaw and mouth had started to appear, and a savage cry of rage issued from his lips. Then the outline of his body, which was gradually becoming whole, began to flicker, as though intermittent pulses of forgetfulness were racing through it.
“He is going to jump to another world!” Wells cried out.
Just then, Captain Sinclair lowered the lever to a second position. The gentle hum of the columns gave way to a deafening roar, and hundreds of lights flashed through the encircling cables at an incredible speed. A blinding light filled the room, forcing everyone to screw up their eyes. Marcus Rhys’s body stopped hovering between the real and the imaginary and resumed its solid shape, which was beginning to look more and more like an irate ice sculpture.
“I left out the most important part!” Clayton cried as he walked toward him, straining to make his voice heard above the roar of the columns. “These masts also give off a very special kind of radiation. We commissioned them from Sir William Crookes, one of the greatest scientists of our time . . . I met him at that séance at Madame Amber’s and took an instant liking to him, which wasn’t the case with you. I have a sixth sense that allows me to see people’s true natures; it is a gift that has failed me only once in my life . . . but not with Sir William. When I went to see him a few days ago to tell him about an outlandish theory of parallel worlds, and to ask whether he could design some sort of machine to stop people from jumping between them, he didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow. And yesterday he sent us these splendid columns. Just in the nick of time, it would seem. Obviously, he didn’t have time to test them, but he thought there was a good chance they would work. And judging from your expression, Mr. Rhys, and more important from the fact that you are still here, I don’t think Sir William was boasting.” Clayton had walked right up to the Villain, who was roaring like a caged animal, baring his teeth and clenching his fists. The inspector knelt down, picked up his pistol, and put it back in his jacket. Then he took a book out of one of his pockets and dangled it in front of the watery silhouette into which the Villain had been transformed. “This is the real book, Mr. Rhys, The Map of Chaos! I have kept it safe from you for twelve years, knowing that one day you would come back for it! And now, finally, it is all over. You have lost, Mr. Rhys. You will spend the rest of your life in a miserable cell specially designed for you, from which you will never be able to escape. The book is no longer in danger, and all its mysteries have been unraveled,” he said, almost to himself, unable to hide his satisfaction. “It only remains for me to find those for whom it was intended, those who come from the Other Side, and I will have fulfilled the promise I made to Mrs.—”
Inspector Clayton broke off suddenly, his eyes glazed, the blood draining from his face. He staggered back a few paces, murmuring softly, “No, please, not now . . .”
Then he fainted.
38
BY THIS TIME, GILLIAM MURRAY and Arthur Conan Doyle were hastening down Cromwell Road toward the Natural History Museum. They had passed through a Kensington in uproar, with streets overrun by transparent ghosts. Doyle was maneuvering the carriage with difficulty through the terrified crowd fleeing in all directions, trying not to be distracted by the translucent figures all around him. Murray wasn’t helping much.
“Would you believe me if I told you I had just seen a white rabbit in a waistcoat looking at his watch?” he said with the same amazement he had been expressing ever since they left the house.
“In any other situation, no. But in this one I will believe anything you tell me, Gilliam,” muttered Doyle.
He tried to concentrate on the road ahead, dodging the real carriages and letting the translucent ones pass through them with a shudder while Murray enumerated each preposterous apparition that popped up, like a child in a safari park.
“Good God, Arthur! Was that a Cyclops?”
Doyle ignored him. If, as he suspected, the troupe of fantastical creatures Murray was describing ceased to be harmless mirages and became flesh and bone, they would be in serious trouble. They had to reach the Chamber of Marvels before that happened, although he wasn’t sure what awaited them there. If Clayton’s idea of setting a trap had been successful, they would find the Invisible Man caught in the device Crookes had invented. Wells and Jane would also be there, and between them all they might come up with a solution. It was conceivable the creature knew how to use the book to put a stop to this mayhem and could be persuaded to reveal its secrets. Doyle knew how to help the creature overcome any reluctance he might have; all he needed was a few minutes alone with him and a heavy stone to crush his hands with. And if that got them nowhere, it was still possible they could find the solution on their own, in a flash of collective inspiration. Human beings rose to the occasion in moments of great crisis, and he doubted there could be a greater crisis than this . . . He breathed a sigh. Who was he trying to fool? According to Clayton, the most celebrated mathematicians in the land had pored over the book and had not been able to decipher a single page, so what chance did they have? They were doomed to perish along with the rest of the universe . . .
When they reached Marloes Road, they found the street blocked by a barricade of rubble. Doyle pulled up the carriage and observed with irritation the obstruction they would be forced to climb. The museum was not far, but this would certainly delay them. Stepping wearily down from the carriage, he began to scale the hillock, with Murray following him. When they reached the tiny summit, they saw that the rest of the street revealed the same devastation; as far as the eye could see it was littered with a layer of rubble and chunks of masonry. Treading gingerly, they started to make their way along it.
“How odd,” Doyle murmured, noticing that the buildings along either side of the street were intact.
Where did all that rubble come from? It was as though someone had brought it there simply to pave that stretch of Cromwell Road. They had scarcely walked a few yards when, on the corner of Gloucester Road, they glimpsed the clock tower of Big Ben lying at the end of the street like a severed fish head, flattening several buildings. Murray contemplated it with a mixture of suspicion and melancholy, which Doyle couldn’t help noticing. They proceeded to pick their way among the mounds of debris, and as they walked past the remains of a staircase sticking out of the rubble, a sound of clanking metal reached their ears on the breeze. The two men stopped in their tracks and squinted. Emerging from a cloud of black smoke at the end of the street, they saw a group of strange, vaguely human metallic creatures walking with a sinister swaying movement, propelled by what appeared to be miniature steam engines on their backs. Four of them were bearing a throne, on which another automaton sat stiffly, a crown on his iron head.
