The Martian War Read Online Free Page A

assertion, but Lowell spoke with absolute confidence. “We must show them where to land. The Martian representative will receive an open-hearted welcome from us. Signore Schiaparelli, I intend to lead that party. I will be the first man to shake hands with a Martian.”
    * * *
    He first met Dr. Moreau in an Algerian coffee shop, of all places.
    The beefy man sat alone, drinking a glass of sweet minttea and taking apart an orange as if preparing to perform an autopsy on it. When he finished with the juicy sections, he turned to a plate of almonds and proceeded to crack the shells with his bare fingers, methodically eating one nut at a time.
    Entering the cafe to escape the North African heat, Lowell waved his hat in front of his face to cool the sweat. He took another chair at the bar, cautiously nodding to the large Englishman. Outside, from the minarets of the mosques, mullahs let out warbling calls, like territorial songbirds competing with each other.
    Lowell had just learned of delays at the Sahara construction site: Tuareg digger crews that had wandered off, French prison workers who had escaped, even supervisors who had taken money earmarked for wages and run off to Cairo. Here in Algiers, one Foreign Legion commander had accepted a retainer fee with the promise of finding Lowell other workers, but had never returned at the appointed meeting time.
    Lowell was disgusted, impatient, and growing desperate. “If a work ethic exists on this continent, I’m damned if I can find it,” he said aloud so the other man could hear him. “No wonder they’re all so frightfully poor.”
    The bearish man did not seem interested in conversation, but Lowell continued to vent his frustration. “When a man agrees to do a job, and accepts money for it, I should be able to count on him. Lazy bastards. They do bad work, they leave the site, they simply vanish—and there is not enough time to do it all over again!” He set his hat on the counter.
    The other man’s eyes were a piercing blue, set in pale skin that had been subjected to the rigors of much sun but had never achieved more than the blotchy coloring of repeated burns. Hishair was reddish gold, as was his beard; the matted strands on his forearms were thick enough to be called a pelt. In a gruff voice he said, “They abandon you because they are not afraid of you.”
    “I beg your pardon, sir?”
    “Just a matter of incentive … and terror.” He paused, as if considering. “My name is Moreau. A medical doctor by trade, at least where I’m still allowed to practice.”
    He cracked another almond and continued to stare across the tiled counter. The Algerian waiter asked in Arabic if he wanted another tea. Moreau motioned to Lowell as well, and the waiter stuffed two glasses with fresh green mint leaves then poured boiling sugar water over the top. The smell made Lowell dizzy.
    “You’re Lowell, right? I heard about your massive project out in the desert.” Moreau did not even glance at him. “No one can understand why you are doing it.”
    “No one attempts to understand. They prefer to scoff.”
    “Then explain yourself. I am a man of some education.”
    Lowell sipped his tea, made a face at the syrupy sweetness, then told the broad-shouldered doctor everything. He had nothing to gain by keeping a secret about something so vast and ambitious.
    Moreau didn’t commiserate, but his broken-ice eyes showed true understanding. “I know how it feels to be ridiculed for one’s passion. I am a researcher into anatomy and physiology. I, too, have my ignorant detractors.”
    Lowell had heard horrific tales of aspiring surgeons who paid grave robbers to provide fresh corpses for dissection. “I see. You are a … resurrectionist? Or a vivisectionist?”
    “Neither, or both. In my time, I conducted … extreme investigations into the fundamental differences between humans and animals, and the mutability of the physical form. I was a colleague of the outspoken Darwinist