The Martian War Read Online Free Page B

T.H. Huxley in London, but my work was too extraordinary even for his comprehension. He called it ‘unethical,’ when it was really no more than unorthodox.” He cracked another almond. “Ethics! What do ethics have to do with pure discovery?”
    Despite himself, Lowell was interested in this man. Moreau’s personality seemed as overpowering as his own. “And why are you here, in this godforsaken place?”
    “Because Huxley discovered my work before I was ready to present it to the Imperial Institute. Damn him! I barely escaped England without being arrested. I am a wanted man there, probably reviled in all the newspapers, called a monster.”
    “Oh. I think I read something about it. In the Hong Kong Post?”
    Moreau swept the crushed almond shells onto his plate with surprising delicacy. He turned to Lowell so abruptly that it startled the other man. “If I help you accomplish this strange task, will you promise me one thing?”
    “I haven’t asked for your help, sir.”
    “Nevertheless, you need it. If your scheme turns out to be true, if creatures from the planet Mars do arrive here, then I must be the one to study them, physiologically.” For a moment, Moreau looked vulnerable. “It will restore my reputation in the scientific community.”
    Lowell finished his tea, then rubbed his teeth with his monogrammed handkerchief, removing bits of bright green leaf. “Just like that? You don’t think I’m mad?”
    “I have been called that myself.” Moreau extended his hand. “Remember, I will be the one to study the Martian. Agreed?”
    Lowell reached out to grasp the hand of the criminal vivisectionist.
    * * *
    Tuareg work crews and criminal laborers toiled day and night to move the sand. Some complained; some were happy for the meager pay or a reduction in their penal sentences; some shook their sweat-dripping heads at the insanity of this wealthy American’s incomprehensible obsession, and the bearded doctor who drove them as fiercely as if they were animals.
    The florid-faced surgeon allowed no slacking in the construction, and he was not above whipping the men if necessary. “Savages!” He often left Lowell behind in the camp, riding a horse up and down the miles of diggings.
    Shovels tossed sand up over the ditches; half-naked boys ran back and forth with ladles and buckets from camels that strained to drag barrels of water along the dry canal that went from nowhere, to nowhere. Every third day, Lowell himself went to inspect the other two straight-line trenches that were moving with excruciating slowness to intersect with this one.
    For the past month, when the teams grew too tired to continue, he had sent word to any oasis, tribal camp, or village, as far as Timbuctoo and Tripoli to hire more workers. Lowell had spread his inexhaustible funds as far as Alexandria, Tangier, and Cairo. He had bribed port officials and paid for the construction of a new railroad spur from Algiersout into the stark heart of the dunes, so that a private train could deliver supplies and workers directly to the diggings.
    Blown sand hissed in the breeze. A drummer pounded a cadence to give the workers a steady rhythm, like galley slaves. Moreau had suggested the technique, and it seemed to be working. “They’re being paid for this labor, Lowell, and they volunteered. Don’t feel sympathy for them.”
    Smoke curled into the air, carrying an acrid, sulfurous stench as French convicts dumped wagonloads of hot bitumen into the trench. The sticky black flow would seal the sands with a thick, flammable mass that would also hold fuel. Even so, the walls still shifted, and the tarry bitumen ran soft and smelly in the heat of the day.
    If one of the great dust storms of the Sahara swept across the dunes, God could erase all of Lowell’s handiwork with one mighty breath. But he needed his luck to hold until he sent his signal. By now, the Martian vessel had to be close.
    Moreau strutted up and down, a dusty bandanna wrapped