Speedreed

The

War

of

the

Worlds

by

H.

G.

Wells

‘But

who

shall

dwell

in

these

worlds

if

they

be

inhabited?

.

.

.

Are

we

or

they

Lords

of

the

World?

.

.

.

And

how

are

all

things

made

for

man?’

KEPLER

(quoted

in

The

Anatomy

of

Melancholy)

BOOK

ONE

THE

COMING

OF

THE

MARTIANS

I.

THE

EVE

OF

THE

WAR.

No

one

would

have

believed

in

the

last

years

of

the

nineteenth

century

that

this

world

was

being

watched

keenly

and

closely

by

intelligences

greater

than

man’s

and

yet

as

mortal

as

his

own;

that

as

men

busied

themselves

about

their

various

concerns

they

were

scrutinised

and

studied,

perhaps

almost

as

narrowly

as

a

man

with

a

microscope

might

scrutinise

the

transient

creatures

that

swarm

and

multiply

in

a

drop

of

water.

With

infinite

complacency

men

went

to

and

fro

over

this

globe

about

their

little

affairs,

serene

in

their

assurance

of

their

empire

over

matter.

It

is

possible

that

the

infusoria

under

the

microscope

do

the

same.

No

one

gave

a

thought

to

the

older

worlds

of

space

as

sources

of

human

danger,

or

thought

of

them

only

to

dismiss

the

idea

of

life

upon

them

as

impossible

or

improbable.

It

is

curious

to

recall

some

of

the

mental

habits

of

those

departed

days.

At

most

terrestrial

men

fancied

there

might

be

other

men

upon

Mars,

perhaps

inferior

to

themselves

and

ready

to

welcome

a

missionary

enterprise.

Yet

across

the

gulf

of

space,

minds

that

are

to

our

minds

as

ours

are

to

those

of

the

beasts

that

perish,

intellects

vast

and

cool

and

unsympathetic,

regarded

this

earth

with

envious

eyes,

and

slowly

and

surely

drew

their

plans

against

us.

And

early

in

the

twentieth

century

came

the

great

disillusionment.

The

planet

Mars,

I

scarcely

need

remind

the

reader,

revolves

about

the

sun

at

a

mean

distance

of

140,000,000

miles,

and

the

light

and

heat

it

receives

from

the

sun

is

barely

half

of

that

received

by

this

world.

It

must

be,

if

the

nebular

hypothesis

has

any

truth,

older

than

our

world;

and

long

before

this

earth

ceased

to

be

molten,

life

upon

its

surface

must

have

begun

its

course.

The

fact

that

it

is

scarcely

one

seventh

of

the

volume

of

the

earth

must

have

accelerated

its

cooling

to

the

temperature

at

which

life

could

begin.

It

has

air

and

water

and

all

that

is

necessary

for

the

support

of

animated

existence.

Yet

so

vain

is

man,

and

so

blinded

by

his

vanity,

that

no

writer,

up

to

the

very

end

of

the

nineteenth

century,

expressed

any

idea

that

intelligent

life

might

have

developed

there

far,

or

indeed

at

all,

beyond

its

earthly

level.

Nor

was

it

generally

understood

that

since

Mars

is

older

than

our

earth,

with

scarcely

a

quarter

of

the

superficial

area

and

remoter

from

the

sun,

it

necessarily

follows

that

it

is

not

only

more

distant

from

time’s

beginning

but

nearer

its

end.

The

secular

cooling

that

must

someday

overtake

our

planet

has

already

gone

far

indeed

with

our

neighbour.

Its

physical

condition

is

still

largely

a

mystery,

but

we

know

now

that

even

in

its

equatorial

region

the

midday

temperature

barely

approaches

that

of

our

coldest

winter.

Its

air

is

much

more

attenuated

than

ours,

its

oceans

have

shrunk

until

they

cover

but

a

third

of

its

surface,

and

as

its

slow

seasons

change

huge

snowcaps

gather

and

melt

about

either

pole

and

periodically

inundate

its

temperate

zones.

That

last

stage

of

exhaustion,

which

to

us

is

still

incredibly

remote,

has

become

a

present-day

problem

for

the

inhabitants

of

Mars.

The

immediate

pressure

of

necessity

has

brightened

their

intellects,

enlarged

their

powers,

and

hardened

their

hearts.

And

looking

across

space

with

instruments,

and

intelligences

such

as

we

have

scarcely

dreamed

of,

they

see,

at

its

nearest

distance

only

35,000,000

of

miles

sunward

of

them,

a

morning

star

of

hope,

our

own

warmer

planet,

green

with

vegetation

and

grey

with

water,

with

a

cloudy

atmosphere

eloquent

of

fertility,

with

glimpses

through

its

drifting

cloud

wisps

of

broad

stretches

of

populous

country

and

narrow,

navy-crowded

seas.

And

we

men,

the

creatures

who

inhabit

this

earth,

must

be

to

them

at

least

as

alien

and

lowly

as

are

the

monkeys

and

lemurs

to

us.

The

intellectual

side

of

man

already

admits

that

life

is

an

incessant

struggle

for

existence,

and

it

would

seem

that

this

too

is

the

belief

of

the

minds

upon

Mars.

Their

world

is

far

gone

in

its

cooling

and

this

world

is

still

crowded

with

life,

but

crowded

only

with

what

they

regard

as

inferior

animals.

To

carry

warfare

sunward

is,

indeed,

their

only

escape

from

the

destruction

that,

generation

after

generation,

creeps

upon

them.

And

before

we

judge

of

them

too

harshly

we

must

remember

what

ruthless

and

utter

destruction

our

own

species

has

wrought,

not

only

upon

animals,

such

as

the

vanished

bison

and

the

dodo,

but

upon

its

inferior

races.

The

Tasmanians,

in

spite

of

their

human

likeness,

were

entirely

swept

out

of

existence

in

a

war

of

extermination

waged

by

European

immigrants,

in

the

space

of

fifty

years.

Are

we

such

apostles

of

mercy

as

to

complain

if

the

Martians

warred

in

the

same

spirit?

The

Martians

seem

to

have

calculated

their

descent

with

amazing

subtlety—their

mathematical

learning

is

evidently

far

in

excess

of

ours—and

to

have

carried

out

their

preparations

with

a

well-nigh

perfect

unanimity.

Had

our

instruments

permitted

it,

we

might

have

seen

the

gathering

trouble

far

back

in

the

nineteenth

century.

Men

like

Schiaparelli

watched

the

red

planet—it

is

odd,

by-the-bye,

that

for

countless

centuries

Mars

has

been

the

star

of

war—but

failed

to

interpret

the

fluctuating

appearances

of

the

markings

they

mapped

so

well.

All

that

time

the

Martians

must

have

been

getting

ready.

During

the

opposition

of

1894

a

great

light

was

seen

on

the

illuminated

part

of

the

disk,

first

at

the

Lick

Observatory,

then

by

Perrotin

of

Nice,

and

then

by

other

observers.

English

readers

heard

of

it

first

in

the

issue

of

Nature

dated

August

2.

I

am

inclined

to

think

that

this

blaze

may

have

been

the

casting

of

the

huge

gun,

in

the

vast

pit

sunk

into

their

planet,

from

which

their

shots

were

fired

at

us.

Peculiar

markings,

as

yet

unexplained,

were

seen

near

the

site

of

that

outbreak

during

the

next

two

oppositions.

The

storm

burst

upon

us

six

years

ago

now.

As

Mars

approached

opposition,

Lavelle

of

Java

set

the

wires

of

the

astronomical

exchange

palpitating

with

the

amazing

intelligence

of

a

huge

outbreak

of

incandescent

gas

upon

the

planet.

It

had

occurred

towards

midnight

of

the

twelfth;

and

the

spectroscope,

to

which

he

had

at

once

resorted,

indicated

a

mass

of

flaming

gas,

chiefly

hydrogen,

moving

with

an

enormous

velocity

towards

this

earth.

This

jet

of

fire

had

become

invisible

about

a

quarter

past

twelve.

He

compared

it

to

a

colossal

puff

of

flame

suddenly

and

violently

squirted

out

of

the

planet,

“as

flaming

gases

rushed

out

of

a

gun.”

A

singularly

appropriate

phrase

it

proved.

Yet

the

next

day

there

was

nothing

of

this

in

the

papers

except

a

little

note

in

the

Daily

Telegraph,

and

the

world

went

in

ignorance

of

one

of

the

gravest

dangers

that

ever

threatened

the

human

race.

I

might

not

have

heard

of

the

eruption

at

all

had

I

not

met

Ogilvy,

the

well-known

astronomer,

at

Ottershaw.

He

was

immensely

excited

at

the

news,

and

in

the

excess

of

his

feelings

invited

me

up

to

take

a

turn

with

him

that

night

in

a

scrutiny

of

the

red

planet.

In

spite

of

all

that

has

happened

since,

I

still

remember

that

vigil

very

distinctly:

the

black

and

silent

observatory,

the

shadowed

lantern

throwing

a

feeble

glow

upon

the

floor

in

the

corner,

the

steady

ticking

of

the

clockwork

of

the

telescope,

the

little

slit

in

the

roof—an

oblong

profundity

with

the

stardust

streaked

across

it.

Ogilvy

moved

about,

invisible

but

audible.

Looking

through

the

telescope,

one

saw

a

circle

of

deep

blue

and

the

little

round

planet

swimming

in

the

field.

It

seemed

such

a

little

thing,

so

bright

and

small

and

still,

faintly

marked

with

transverse

stripes,

and

slightly

flattened

from

the

perfect

round.

But

so

little

it

was,

so

silvery

warm—a

pin’s

head

of

light!

It

was

as

if

it

quivered,

but

really

this

was

the

telescope

vibrating

with

the

activity

of

the

clockwork

that

kept

the

planet

in

view.

As

I

watched,

the

planet

seemed

to

grow

larger

and

smaller

and

to

advance

and

recede,

but

that

was

simply

that

my

eye

was

tired.

Forty

millions

of

miles

it

was

from

us—more

than

forty

millions

of

miles

of

void.

Few

people

realise

the

immensity

of

vacancy

in

which

the

dust

of

the

material

universe

swims.

Near

it

in

the

field,

I

remember,

were

three

faint

points

of

light,

three

telescopic

stars

infinitely

remote,

and

all

around

it

was

the

unfathomable

darkness

of

empty

space.

You

know

how

that

blackness

looks

on

a

frosty

starlight

night.

In

a

telescope

it

seems

far

profounder.

And

invisible

to

me

because

it

was

so

remote

and

small,

flying

swiftly

and

steadily

towards

me

across

that

incredible

distance,

drawing

nearer

every

minute

by

so

many

thousands

of

miles,

came

the

Thing

they

were

sending

us,

the

Thing

that

was

to

bring

so

much

struggle

and

calamity

and

death

to

the

earth.

I

never

dreamed

of

it

then

as

I

watched;

no

one

on

earth

dreamed

of

that

unerring

missile.

That

night,

too,

there

was

another

jetting

out

of

gas

from

the

distant

planet.

I

saw

it.

A

reddish

flash

at

the

edge,

the

slightest

projection

of

the

outline

just

as

the

chronometer

struck

midnight;

and

at

that

I

told

Ogilvy

and

he

took

my

place.

The

night

was

warm

and

I

was

thirsty,

and

I

went

stretching

my

legs

clumsily

and

feeling

my

way

in

the

darkness,

to

the

little

table

where

the

siphon

stood,

while

Ogilvy

exclaimed

at

the

streamer

of

gas

that

came

out

towards

us.

That

night

another

invisible

missile

started

on

its

way

to

the

earth

from

Mars,

just

a

second

or

so

under

twenty-four

hours

after

the

first

one.

I

remember

how

I

sat

on

the

table

there

in

the

blackness,

with

patches

of

green

and

crimson

swimming

before

my

eyes.

I

wished

I

had

a

light

to

smoke

by,

little

suspecting

the

meaning

of

the

minute

gleam

I

had

seen

and

all

that

it

would

presently

bring

me.

Ogilvy

watched

till

one,

and

then

gave

it

up;

and

we

lit

the

lantern

and

walked

over

to

his

house.

Down

below

in

the

darkness

were

Ottershaw

and

Chertsey

and

all

their

hundreds

of

people,

sleeping

in

peace.

He

was

full

of

speculation

that

night

about

the

condition

of

Mars,

and

scoffed

at

the

vulgar

idea

of

its

having

inhabitants

who

were

signalling

us.

His

idea

was

that

meteorites

might

be

falling

in

a

heavy

shower

upon

the

planet,

or

that

a

huge

volcanic

explosion

was

in

progress.

He

pointed

out

to

me

how

unlikely

it

was

that

organic

evolution

had

taken

the

same

direction

in

the

two

adjacent

planets.

“The

chances

against

anything

manlike

on

Mars

are

a

million

to

one,”

he

said.

Hundreds

of

observers

saw

the

flame

that

night

and

the

night

after

about

midnight,

and

again

the

night

after;

and

so

for

ten

nights,

a

flame

each

night.

Why

the

shots

ceased

after

the

tenth

no

one

on

earth

has

attempted

to

explain.

It

may

be

the

gases

of

the

firing

caused

the

Martians

inconvenience.

Dense

clouds

of

smoke

or

dust,

visible

through

a

powerful

telescope

on

earth

as

little

grey,

fluctuating

patches,

spread

through

the

clearness

of

the

planet’s

atmosphere

and

obscured

its

more

familiar

features.

Even

the

daily

papers

woke

up

to

the

disturbances

at

last,

and

popular

notes

appeared

here,

there,

and

everywhere

concerning

the

volcanoes

upon

Mars.

The

seriocomic

periodical

Punch,

I

remember,

made

a

happy

use

of

it

in

the

political

cartoon.

And,

all

unsuspected,

those

missiles

the

Martians

had

fired

at

us

drew

earthward,

rushing

now

at

a

pace

of

many

miles

a

second

through

the

empty

gulf

of

space,

hour

by

hour

and

day

by

day,

nearer

and

nearer.

It

seems

to

me

now

almost

incredibly

wonderful

that,

with

that

swift

fate

hanging

over

us,

men

could

go

about

their

petty

concerns

as

they

did.

I

remember

how

jubilant

Markham

was

at

securing

a

new

photograph

of

the

planet

for

the

illustrated

paper

he

edited

in

those

days.

People

in

these

latter

times

scarcely

realise

the

abundance

and

enterprise

of

our

nineteenth-century

papers.

For

my

own

part,

I

was

much

occupied

in

learning

to

ride

the

bicycle,

and

busy

upon

a

series

of

papers

discussing

the

probable

developments

of

moral

ideas

as

civilisation

progressed.

One

night

(the

first

missile

then

could

scarcely

have

been

10,000,000

miles

away)

I

went

for

a

walk

with

my

wife.

It

was

starlight

and

I

explained

the

Signs

of

the

Zodiac

to

her,

and

pointed

out

Mars,

a

bright

dot

of

light

creeping

zenithward,

towards

which

so

many

telescopes

were

pointed.

It

was

a

warm

night.

Coming

home,

a

party

of

excursionists

from

Chertsey

or

Isleworth

passed

us

singing

and

playing

music.

There

were

lights

in

the

upper

windows

of

the

houses

as

the

people

went

to

bed.

From

the

railway

station

in

the

distance

came

the

sound

of

shunting

trains,

ringing

and

rumbling,

softened

almost

into

melody

by

the

distance.

My

wife

pointed

out

to

me

the

brightness

of

the

red,

green,

and

yellow

signal

lights

hanging

in

a

framework

against

the

sky.

It

seemed

so

safe

and

tranquil.

II.

THE

FALLING

STAR.

Then

came

the

night

of

the

first

falling

star.

It

was

seen

early

in

the

morning,

rushing

over

Winchester

eastward,

a

line

of

flame

high

in

the

atmosphere.

Hundreds

must

have

seen

it,

and

taken

it

for

an

ordinary

falling

star.

Albin

described

it

as

leaving

a

greenish

streak

behind

it

that

glowed

for

some

seconds.

Denning,

our

greatest

authority

on

meteorites,

stated

that

the

height

of

its

first

appearance

was

about

ninety

or

one

hundred

miles.

It

seemed

to

him

that

it

fell

to

earth

about

one

hundred

miles

east

of

him.

I

was

at

home

at

that

hour

and

writing

in

my

study;

and

although

my

French

windows

face

towards

Ottershaw

and

the

blind

was

up

(for

I

loved

in

those

days

to

look

up

at

the

night

sky),

I

saw

nothing

of

it.

Yet

this

strangest

of

all

things

that

ever

came

to

earth

from

outer

space

must

have

fallen

while

I

was

sitting

there,

visible

to

me

had

I

only

looked

up

as

it

passed.

Some

of

those

who

saw

its

flight

say

it

travelled

with

a

hissing

sound.

I

myself

heard

nothing

of

that.

Many

people

in

Berkshire,

Surrey,

and

Middlesex

must

have

seen

the

fall

of

it,

and,

at

most,

have

thought

that

another

meteorite

had

descended.

No

one

seems

to

have

troubled

to

look

for

the

fallen

mass

that

night.

But

very

early

in

the

morning

poor

Ogilvy,

who

had

seen

the

shooting

star

and

who

was

persuaded

that

a

meteorite

lay

somewhere

on

the

common

between

Horsell,

Ottershaw,

and

Woking,

rose

early

with

the

idea

of

finding

it.

Find

it

he

did,

soon

after

dawn,

and

not

far

from

the

sand-pits.

An

enormous

hole

had

been

made

by

the

impact

of

the

projectile,

and

the

sand

and

gravel

had

been

flung

violently

in

every

direction

over

the

heath,

forming

heaps

visible

a

mile

and

a

half

away.

The

heather

was

on

fire

eastward,

and

a

thin

blue

smoke

rose

against

the

dawn.

The

Thing

itself

lay

almost

entirely

buried

in

sand,

amidst

the

scattered

splinters

of

a

fir

tree

it

had

shivered

to

fragments

in

its

descent.

The

uncovered

part

had

the

appearance

of

a

huge

cylinder,

caked

over

and

its

outline

softened

by

a

thick

scaly

dun-coloured

incrustation.

It

had

a

diameter

of

about

thirty

yards.

He

approached

the

mass,

surprised

at

the

size

and

more

so

at

the

shape,

since

most

meteorites

are

rounded

more

or

less

completely.

It

was,

however,

still

so

hot

from

its

flight

through

the

air

as

to

forbid

his

near

approach.

A

stirring

noise

within

its

cylinder

he

ascribed

to

the

unequal

cooling

of

its

surface;

for

at

that

time

it

had

not

occurred

to

him

that

it

might

be

hollow.

He

remained

standing

at

the

edge

of

the

pit

that

the

Thing

had

made

for

itself,

staring

at

its

strange

appearance,

astonished

chiefly

at

its

unusual

shape

and

colour,

and

dimly

perceiving

even

then

some

evidence

of

design

in

its

arrival.

The

early

morning

was

wonderfully

still,

and

the

sun,

just

clearing

the

pine

trees

towards

Weybridge,

was

already

warm.

He

did

not

remember

hearing

any

birds

that

morning,

there

was

certainly

no

breeze

stirring,

and

the

only

sounds

were

the

faint

movements

from

within

the

cindery

cylinder.

He

was

all

alone

on

the

common.

Then

suddenly

he

noticed

with

a

start

that

some

of

the

grey

clinker,

the

ashy

incrustation

that

covered

the

meteorite,

was

falling

off

the

circular

edge

of

the

end.

It

was

dropping

off

in

flakes

and

raining

down

upon

the

sand.

A

large

piece

suddenly

came

off

and

fell

with

a

sharp

noise

that

brought

his

heart

into

his

mouth.

For

a

minute

he

scarcely

realised

what

this

meant,

and,

although

the

heat

was

excessive,

he

clambered

down

into

the

pit

close

to

the

bulk

to

see

the

Thing

more

clearly.

He

fancied

even

then

that

the

cooling

of

the

body

might

account

for

this,

but

what

disturbed

that

idea

was

the

fact

that

the

ash

was

falling

only

from

the

end

of

the

cylinder.

And

then

he

perceived

that,

very

slowly,

the

circular

top

of

the

cylinder

was

rotating

on

its

body.

It

was

such

a

gradual

movement

that

he

discovered

it

only

through

noticing

that

a

black

mark

that

had

been

near

him

five

minutes

ago

was

now

at

the

other

side

of

the

circumference.

Even

then

he

scarcely

understood

what

this

indicated,

until

he

heard

a

muffled

grating

sound

and

saw

the

black

mark

jerk

forward

an

inch

or

so.

Then

the

thing

came

upon

him

in

a

flash.

The

cylinder

was

artificial—hollow—with

an

end

that

screwed

out!

Something

within

the

cylinder

was

unscrewing

the

top!

“Good

heavens!”

said

Ogilvy.

“There’s

a

man

in

it—men

in

it!

Half

roasted

to

death!

Trying

to

escape!”

At

once,

with

a

quick

mental

leap,

he

linked

the

Thing

with

the

flash

upon

Mars.

The

thought

of

the

confined

creature

was

so

dreadful

to

him

that

he

forgot

the

heat

and

went

forward

to

the

cylinder

to

help

turn.

But

luckily

the

dull

radiation

arrested

him

before

he

could

burn

his

hands

on

the

still-glowing

metal.

At

that

he

stood

irresolute

for

a

moment,

then

turned,

scrambled

out

of

the

pit,

and

set

off

running

wildly

into

Woking.

The

time

then

must

have

been

somewhere

about

six

o’clock.

He

met

a

waggoner

and

tried

to

make

him

understand,

but

the

tale

he

told

and

his

appearance

were

so

wild—his

hat

had

fallen

off

in

the

pit—that

the

man

simply

drove

on.

He

was

equally

unsuccessful

with

the

potman

who

was

just

unlocking

the

doors

of

the

public-house

by

Horsell

Bridge.

The

fellow

thought

he

was

a

lunatic

at

large

and

made

an

unsuccessful

attempt

to

shut

him

into

the

taproom.

That

sobered

him

a

little;

and

when

he

saw

Henderson,

the

London

journalist,

in

his

garden,

he

called

over

the

palings

and

made

himself

understood.

“Henderson,”

he

called,

“you

saw

that

shooting

star

last

night?”

“Well?”

said

Henderson.

“It’s

out

on

Horsell

Common

now.”

“Good

Lord!”

said

Henderson.

“Fallen

meteorite!

That’s

good.”

“But

it’s

something

more

than

a

meteorite.

It’s

a

cylinder—an

artificial

cylinder,

man!

And

there’s

something

inside.”

Henderson

stood

up

with

his

spade

in

his

hand.

“What’s

that?”

he

said.

He

was

deaf

in

one

ear.

Ogilvy

told

him

all

that

he

had

seen.

Henderson

was

a

minute

or

so

taking

it

in.

Then

he

dropped

his

spade,

snatched

up

his

jacket,

and

came

out

into

the

road.

The

two

men

hurried

back

at

once

to

the

common,

and

found

the

cylinder

still

lying

in

the

same

position.

But

now

the

sounds

inside

had

ceased,

and

a

thin

circle

of

bright

metal

showed

between

the

top

and

the

body

of

the

cylinder.

Air

was

either

entering

or

escaping

at

the

rim

with

a

thin,

sizzling

sound.

They

listened,

rapped

on

the

scaly

burnt

metal

with

a

stick,

and,

meeting

with

no

response,

they

both

concluded

the

man

or

men

inside

must

be

insensible

or

dead.

Of

course

the

two

were

quite

unable

to

do

anything.

They

shouted

consolation

and

promises,

and

went

off

back

to

the

town

again

to

get

help.

One

can

imagine

them,

covered

with

sand,

excited

and

disordered,

running

up

the

little

street

in

the

bright

sunlight

just

as

the

shop

folks

were

taking

down

their

shutters

and

people

were

opening

their

bedroom

windows.

Henderson

went

into

the

railway

station

at

once,

in

order

to

telegraph

the

news

to

London.

The

newspaper

articles

had

prepared

men’s

minds

for

the

reception

of

the

idea.

By

eight

o’clock

a

number

of

boys

and

unemployed

men

had

already

started

for

the

common

to

see

the

“dead

men

from

Mars.”

That

was

the

form

the

story

took.

I

heard

of

it

first

from

my

newspaper

boy

about

a

quarter

to

nine

when

I

went

out

to

get

my

Daily

Chronicle.

I

was

naturally

startled,

and

lost

no

time

in

going

out

and

across

the

Ottershaw

bridge

to

the

sand-pits.

III.

ON

HORSELL

COMMON.

I

found

a

little

crowd

of

perhaps

twenty

people

surrounding

the

huge

hole

in

which

the

cylinder

lay.

I

have

already

described

the

appearance

of

that

colossal

bulk,

embedded

in

the

ground.

The

turf

and

gravel

about

it

seemed

charred

as

if

by

a

sudden

explosion.

No

doubt

its

impact

had

caused

a

flash

of

fire.

Henderson

and

Ogilvy

were

not

there.

I

think

they

perceived

that

nothing

was

to

be

done

for

the

present,

and

had

gone

away

to

breakfast

at

Henderson’s

house.

There

were

four

or

five

boys

sitting

on

the

edge

of

the

Pit,

with

their

feet

dangling,

and

amusing

themselves—until

I

stopped

them—by

throwing

stones

at

the

giant

mass.

After

I

had

spoken

to

them

about

it,

they

began

playing

at

“touch”

in

and

out

of

the

group

of

bystanders.

Among

these

were

a

couple

of

cyclists,

a

jobbing

gardener

I

employed

sometimes,

a

girl

carrying

a

baby,

Gregg

the

butcher

and

his

little

boy,

and

two

or

three

loafers

and

golf

caddies

who

were

accustomed

to

hang

about

the

railway

station.

There

was

very

little

talking.

Few

of

the

common

people

in

England

had

anything

but

the

vaguest

astronomical

ideas

in

those

days.

Most

of

them

were

staring

quietly

at

the

big

table

like

end

of

the

cylinder,

which

was

still

as

Ogilvy

and

Henderson

had

left

it.

I

fancy

the

popular

expectation

of

a

heap

of

charred

corpses

was

disappointed

at

this

inanimate

bulk.

Some

went

away

while

I

was

there,

and

other

people

came.

I

clambered

into

the

pit

and

fancied

I

heard

a

faint

movement

under

my

feet.

The

top

had

certainly

ceased

to

rotate.

It

was

only

when

I

got

thus

close

to

it

that

the

strangeness

of

this

object

was

at

all

evident

to

me.

At

the

first

glance

it

was

really

no

more

exciting

than

an

overturned

carriage

or

a

tree

blown

across

the

road.

Not

so

much

so,

indeed.

It

looked

like

a

rusty

gas

float.

It

required

a

certain

amount

of

scientific

education

to

perceive

that

the

grey

scale

of

the

Thing

was

no

common

oxide,

that

the

yellowish-white

metal

that

gleamed

in

the

crack

between

the

lid

and

the

cylinder

had

an

unfamiliar

hue.

“Extra-terrestrial”

had

no

meaning

for

most

of

the

onlookers.

At

that

time

it

was

quite

clear

in

my

own

mind

that

the

Thing

had

come

from

the

planet

Mars,

but

I

judged

it

improbable

that

it

contained

any

living

creature.

I

thought

the

unscrewing

might

be

automatic.

In

spite

of

Ogilvy,

I

still

believed

that

there

were

men

in

Mars.

My

mind

ran

fancifully

on

the

possibilities

of

its

containing

manuscript,

on

the

difficulties

in

translation

that

might

arise,

whether

we

should

find

coins

and

models

in

it,

and

so

forth.

Yet

it

was

a

little

too

large

for

assurance

on

this

idea.

I

felt

an

impatience

to

see

it

opened.

About

eleven,

as

nothing

seemed

happening,

I

walked

back,

full

of

such

thought,

to

my

home

in

Maybury.

But

I

found

it

difficult

to

get

to

work

upon

my

abstract

investigations.

In

the

afternoon

the

appearance

of

the

common

had

altered

very

much.

The

early

editions

of

the

evening

papers

had

startled

London

with

enormous

headlines:

“A

MESSAGE

RECEIVED

FROM

MARS.”

“REMARKABLE

STORY

FROM

WOKING,”

and

so

forth.

In

addition,

Ogilvy’s

wire

to

the

Astronomical

Exchange

had

roused

every

observatory

in

the

three

kingdoms.

There

were

half

a

dozen

flys

or

more

from

the

Woking

station

standing

in

the

road

by

the

sand-pits,

a

basket-chaise

from

Chobham,

and

a

rather

lordly

carriage.

Besides

that,

there

was

quite

a

heap

of

bicycles.

In

addition,

a

large

number

of

people

must

have

walked,

in

spite

of

the

heat

of

the

day,

from

Woking

and

Chertsey,

so

that

there

was

altogether

quite

a

considerable

crowd—one

or

two

gaily

dressed

ladies

among

the

others.

It

was

glaringly

hot,

not

a

cloud

in

the

sky

nor

a

breath

of

wind,

and

the

only

shadow

was

that

of

the

few

scattered

pine

trees.

The

burning

heather

had

been

extinguished,

but

the

level

ground

towards

Ottershaw

was

blackened

as

far

as

one

could

see,

and

still

giving

off

vertical

streamers

of

smoke.

An

enterprising

sweet-stuff

dealer

in

the

Chobham

Road

had

sent

up

his

son

with

a

barrow-load

of

green

apples

and

ginger

beer.

Going

to

the

edge

of

the

pit,

I

found

it

occupied

by

a

group

of

about

half

a

dozen

men—Henderson,

Ogilvy,

and

a

tall,

fair-haired

man

that

I

afterwards

learned

was

Stent,

the

Astronomer

Royal,

with

several

workmen

wielding

spades

and

pickaxes.

Stent

was

giving

directions

in

a

clear,

high-pitched

voice.

He

was

standing

on

the

cylinder,

which

was

now

evidently

much

cooler;

his

face

was

crimson

and

streaming

with

perspiration,

and

something

seemed

to

have

irritated

him.

A

large

portion

of

the

cylinder

had

been

uncovered,

though

its

lower

end

was

still

embedded.

As

soon

as

Ogilvy

saw

me

among

the

staring

crowd

on

the

edge

of

the

pit

he

called

to

me

to

come

down,

and

asked

me

if

I

would

mind

going

over

to

see

Lord

Hilton,

the

lord

of

the

manor.

The

growing

crowd,

he

said,

was

becoming

a

serious

impediment

to

their

excavations,

especially

the

boys.

They

wanted

a

light

railing

put

up,

and

help

to

keep

the

people

back.

He

told

me

that

a

faint

stirring

was

occasionally

still

audible

within

the

case,

but

that

the

workmen

had

failed

to

unscrew

the

top,

as

it

afforded

no

grip

to

them.

The

case

appeared

to

be

enormously

thick,

and

it

was

possible

that

the

faint

sounds

we

heard

represented

a

noisy

tumult

in

the

interior.

I

was

very

glad

to

do

as

he

asked,

and

so

become

one

of

the

privileged

spectators

within

the

contemplated

enclosure.

I

failed

to

find

Lord

Hilton

at

his

house,

but

I

was

told

he

was

expected

from

London

by

the

six

o’clock

train

from

Waterloo;

and

as

it

was

then

about

a

quarter

past

five,

I

went

home,

had

some

tea,

and

walked

up

to

the

station

to

waylay

him.

IV.

THE

CYLINDER

OPENS.

When

I

returned

to

the

common

the

sun

was

setting.

Scattered

groups

were

hurrying

from

the

direction

of

Woking,

and

one

or

two

persons

were

returning.

The

crowd

about

the

pit

had

increased,

and

stood

out

black

against

the

lemon

yellow

of

the

sky—a

couple

of

hundred

people,

perhaps.

There

were

raised

voices,

and

some

sort

of

struggle

appeared

to

be

going

on

about

the

pit.

Strange

imaginings

passed

through

my

mind.

As

I

drew

nearer

I

heard

Stent’s

voice:

“Keep

back!

Keep

back!”

A

boy

came

running

towards

me.

“It’s

a-movin’,”

he

said

to

me

as

he

passed;

“a-screwin’

and

a-screwin’

out.

I

don’t

like

it.

I’m

a-goin’

’ome,

I

am.”

I

went

on

to

the

crowd.

There

were

really,

I

should

think,

two

or

three

hundred

people

elbowing

and

jostling

one

another,

the

one

or

two

ladies

there

being

by

no

means

the

least

active.

“He’s

fallen

in

the

pit!”

cried

some

one.

“Keep

back!”

said

several.

The

crowd

swayed

a

little,

and

I

elbowed

my

way

through.

Every

one

seemed

greatly

excited.

I

heard

a

peculiar

humming

sound

from

the

pit.

“I

say!”

said

Ogilvy;

“help

keep

these

idiots

back.

We

don’t

know

what’s

in

the

confounded

thing,

you

know!”

I

saw

a

young

man,

a

shop

assistant

in

Woking

I

believe

he

was,

standing

on

the

cylinder

and

trying

to

scramble

out

of

the

hole

again.

The

crowd

had

pushed

him

in.

The

end

of

the

cylinder

was

being

screwed

out

from

within.

Nearly

two

feet

of

shining

screw

projected.

Somebody

blundered

against

me,

and

I

narrowly

missed

being

pitched

onto

the

top

of

the

screw.

I

turned,

and

as

I

did

so

the

screw

must

have

come

out,

for

the

lid

of

the

cylinder

fell

upon

the

gravel

with

a

ringing

concussion.

I

stuck

my

elbow

into

the

person

behind

me,

and

turned

my

head

towards

the

Thing

again.

For

a

moment

that

circular

cavity

seemed

perfectly

black.

I

had

the

sunset

in

my

eyes.

I

think

everyone

expected

to

see

a

man

emerge—possibly

something

a

little

unlike

us

terrestrial

men,

but

in

all

essentials

a

man.

I

know

I

did.

But,

looking,

I

presently

saw

something

stirring

within

the

shadow:

greyish

billowy

movements,

one

above

another,

and

then

two

luminous

disks—like

eyes.

Then

something

resembling

a

little

grey

snake,

about

the

thickness

of

a

walking

stick,

coiled

up

out

of

the

writhing

middle,

and

wriggled

in

the

air

towards

me—and

then

another.

A

sudden

chill

came

over

me.

There

was

a

loud

shriek

from

a

woman

behind.

I

half

turned,

keeping

my

eyes

fixed

upon

the

cylinder

still,

from

which

other

tentacles

were

now

projecting,

and

began

pushing

my

way

back

from

the

edge

of

the

pit.

I

saw

astonishment

giving

place

to

horror

on

the

faces

of

the

people

about

me.

I

heard

inarticulate

exclamations

on

all

sides.

There

was

a

general

movement

backwards.

I

saw

the

shopman

struggling

still

on

the

edge

of

the

pit.

I

found

myself

alone,

and

saw

the

people

on

the

other

side

of

the

pit

running

off,

Stent

among

them.

I

looked

again

at

the

cylinder,

and

ungovernable

terror

gripped

me.

I

stood

petrified

and

staring.

A

big

greyish

rounded

bulk,

the

size,

perhaps,

of

a

bear,

was

rising

slowly

and

painfully

out

of

the

cylinder.

As

it

bulged

up

and

caught

the

light,

it

glistened

like

wet

leather.

Two

large

dark-coloured

eyes

were

regarding

me

steadfastly.

The

mass

that

framed

them,

the

head

of

the

thing,

was

rounded,

and

had,

one

might

say,

a

face.

There

was

a

mouth

under

the

eyes,

the

lipless

brim

of

which

quivered

and

panted,

and

dropped

saliva.

The

whole

creature

heaved

and

pulsated

convulsively.

A

lank

tentacular

appendage

gripped

the

edge

of

the

cylinder,

another

swayed

in

the

air.

Those

who

have

never

seen

a

living

Martian

can

scarcely

imagine

the

strange

horror

of

its

appearance.

The

peculiar

V-shaped

mouth

with

its

pointed

upper

lip,

the

absence

of

brow

ridges,

the

absence

of

a

chin

beneath

the

wedgelike

lower

lip,

the

incessant

quivering

of

this

mouth,

the

Gorgon

groups

of

tentacles,

the

tumultuous

breathing

of

the

lungs

in

a

strange

atmosphere,

the

evident

heaviness

and

painfulness

of

movement

due

to

the

greater

gravitational

energy

of

the

earth—above

all,

the

extraordinary

intensity

of

the

immense

eyes—were

at

once

vital,

intense,

inhuman,

crippled

and

monstrous.

There

was

something

fungoid

in

the

oily

brown

skin,

something

in

the

clumsy

deliberation

of

the

tedious

movements

unspeakably

nasty.

Even

at

this

first

encounter,

this

first

glimpse,

I

was

overcome

with

disgust

and

dread.

Suddenly

the

monster

vanished.

It

had

toppled

over

the

brim

of

the

cylinder

and

fallen

into

the

pit,

with

a

thud

like

the

fall

of

a

great

mass

of

leather.

I

heard

it

give

a

peculiar

thick

cry,

and

forthwith

another

of

these

creatures

appeared

darkly

in

the

deep

shadow

of

the

aperture.

I

turned

and,

running

madly,

made

for

the

first

group

of

trees,

perhaps

a

hundred

yards

away;

but

I

ran

slantingly

and

stumbling,

for

I

could

not

avert

my

face

from

these

things.

There,

among

some

young

pine

trees

and

furze

bushes,

I

stopped,

panting,

and

waited

further

developments.

The

common

round

the

sand-pits

was

dotted

with

people,

standing

like

myself

in

a

half-fascinated

terror,

staring

at

these

creatures,

or

rather

at

the

heaped

gravel

at

the

edge

of

the

pit

in

which

they

lay.

And

then,

with

a

renewed

horror,

I

saw

a

round,

black

object

bobbing

up

and

down

on

the

edge

of

the

pit.

It

was

the

head

of

the

shopman

who

had

fallen

in,

but

showing

as

a

little

black

object

against

the

hot

western

sun.

Now

he

got

his

shoulder

and

knee

up,

and

again

he

seemed

to

slip

back

until

only

his

head

was

visible.

Suddenly

he

vanished,

and

I

could

have

fancied

a

faint

shriek

had

reached

me.

I

had

a

momentary

impulse

to

go

back

and

help

him

that

my

fears

overruled.

Everything

was

then

quite

invisible,

hidden

by

the

deep

pit

and

the

heap

of

sand

that

the

fall

of

the

cylinder

had

made.

Anyone

coming

along

the

road

from

Chobham

or

Woking

would

have

been

amazed

at

the

sight—a

dwindling

multitude

of

perhaps

a

hundred

people

or

more

standing

in

a

great

irregular

circle,

in

ditches,

behind

bushes,

behind

gates

and

hedges,

saying

little

to

one

another

and

that

in

short,

excited

shouts,

and

staring,

staring

hard

at

a

few

heaps

of

sand.

The

barrow

of

ginger

beer

stood,

a

queer

derelict,

black

against

the

burning

sky,

and

in

the

sand-pits

was

a

row

of

deserted

vehicles

with

their

horses

feeding

out

of

nosebags

or

pawing

the

ground.

V.

THE

HEAT-RAY.

After

the

glimpse

I

had

had

of

the

Martians

emerging

from

the

cylinder

in

which

they

had

come

to

the

earth

from

their

planet,

a

kind

of

fascination

paralysed

my

actions.

I

remained

standing

knee-deep

in

the

heather,

staring

at

the

mound

that

hid

them.

I

was

a

battleground

of

fear

and

curiosity.

I

did

not

dare

to

go

back

towards

the

pit,

but

I

felt

a

passionate

longing

to

peer

into

it.

I

began

walking,

therefore,

in

a

big

curve,

seeking

some

point

of

vantage

and

continually

looking

at

the

sand-heaps

that

hid

these

new-comers

to

our

earth.

Once

a

leash

of

thin

black

whips,

like

the

arms

of

an

octopus,

flashed

across

the

sunset

and

was

immediately

withdrawn,

and

afterwards

a

thin

rod

rose

up,

joint

by

joint,

bearing

at

its

apex

a

circular

disk

that

spun

with

a

wobbling

motion.

What

could

be

going

on

there?

Most

of

the

spectators

had

gathered

in

one

or

two

groups—one

a

little

crowd

towards

Woking,

the

other

a

knot

of

people

in

the

direction

of

Chobham.

Evidently

they

shared

my

mental

conflict.

There

were

few

near

me.

One

man

I

approached—he

was,

I

perceived,

a

neighbour

of

mine,

though

I

did

not

know

his

name—and

accosted.

But

it

was

scarcely

a

time

for

articulate

conversation.

“What

ugly

brutes!”

he

said.

“Good

God!

What

ugly

brutes!”

He

repeated

this

over

and

over

again.

“Did

you

see

a

man

in

the

pit?”

I

said;

but

he

made

no

answer

to

that.

We

became

silent,

and

stood

watching

for

a

time

side

by

side,

deriving,

I

fancy,

a

certain

comfort

in

one

another’s

company.

Then

I

shifted

my

position

to

a

little

knoll

that

gave

me

the

advantage

of

a

yard

or

more

of

elevation

and

when

I

looked

for

him

presently

he

was

walking

towards

Woking.

The

sunset

faded

to

twilight

before

anything

further

happened.

The

crowd

far

away

on

the

left,

towards

Woking,

seemed

to

grow,

and

I

heard

now

a

faint

murmur

from

it.

The

little

knot

of

people

towards

Chobham

dispersed.

There

was

scarcely

an

intimation

of

movement

from

the

pit.

It

was

this,

as

much

as

anything,

that

gave

people

courage,

and

I

suppose

the

new

arrivals

from

Woking

also

helped

to

restore

confidence.

At

any

rate,

as

the

dusk

came

on

a

slow,

intermittent

movement

upon

the

sand-pits

began,

a

movement

that

seemed

to

gather

force

as

the

stillness

of

the

evening

about

the

cylinder

remained

unbroken.

Vertical

black

figures

in

twos

and

threes

would

advance,

stop,

watch,

and

advance

again,

spreading

out

as

they

did

so

in

a

thin

irregular

crescent

that

promised

to

enclose

the

pit

in

its

attenuated

horns.

I,

too,

on

my

side

began

to

move

towards

the

pit.

Then

I

saw

some

cabmen

and

others

had

walked

boldly

into

the

sand-pits,

and

heard

the

clatter

of

hoofs

and

the

gride

of

wheels.

I

saw

a

lad

trundling

off

the

barrow

of

apples.

And

then,

within

thirty

yards

of

the

pit,

advancing

from

the

direction

of

Horsell,

I

noted

a

little

black

knot

of

men,

the

foremost

of

whom

was

waving

a

white

flag.

This

was

the

Deputation.

There

had

been

a

hasty

consultation,

and

since

the

Martians

were

evidently,

in

spite

of

their

repulsive

forms,

intelligent

creatures,

it

had

been

resolved

to

show

them,

by

approaching

them

with

signals,

that

we

too

were

intelligent.

Flutter,

flutter,

went

the

flag,

first

to

the

right,

then

to

the

left.

It

was

too

far

for

me

to

recognise

anyone

there,

but

afterwards

I

learned

that

Ogilvy,

Stent,

and

Henderson

were

with

others

in

this

attempt

at

communication.

This

little

group

had

in

its

advance

dragged

inward,

so

to

speak,

the

circumference

of

the

now

almost

complete

circle

of

people,

and

a

number

of

dim

black

figures

followed

it

at

discreet

distances.

Suddenly

there

was

a

flash

of

light,

and

a

quantity

of

luminous

greenish

smoke

came

out

of

the

pit

in

three

distinct

puffs,

which

drove

up,

one

after

the

other,

straight

into

the

still

air.

This

smoke

(or

flame,

perhaps,

would

be

the

better

word

for

it)

was

so

bright

that

the

deep

blue

sky

overhead

and

the

hazy

stretches

of

brown

common

towards

Chertsey,

set

with

black

pine

trees,

seemed

to

darken

abruptly

as

these

puffs

arose,

and

to

remain

the

darker

after

their

dispersal.

At

the

same

time

a

faint

hissing

sound

became

audible.

Beyond

the

pit

stood

the

little

wedge

of

people

with

the

white

flag

at

its

apex,

arrested

by

these

phenomena,

a

little

knot

of

small

vertical

black

shapes

upon

the

black

ground.

As

the

green

smoke

arose,

their

faces

flashed

out

pallid

green,

and

faded

again

as

it

vanished.

Then

slowly

the

hissing

passed

into

a

humming,

into

a

long,

loud,

droning

noise.

Slowly

a

humped

shape

rose

out

of

the

pit,

and

the

ghost

of

a

beam

of

light

seemed

to

flicker

out

from

it.

Forthwith

flashes

of

actual

flame,

a

bright

glare

leaping

from

one

to

another,

sprang

from

the

scattered

group

of

men.

It

was

as

if

some

invisible

jet

impinged

upon

them

and

flashed

into

white

flame.

It

was

as

if

each

man

were

suddenly

and

momentarily

turned

to

fire.

Then,

by

the

light

of

their

own

destruction,

I

saw

them

staggering

and

falling,

and

their

supporters

turning

to

run.

I

stood

staring,

not

as

yet

realising

that

this

was

death

leaping

from

man

to

man

in

that

little

distant

crowd.

All

I

felt

was

that

it

was

something

very

strange.

An

almost

noiseless

and

blinding

flash

of

light,

and

a

man

fell

headlong

and

lay

still;

and

as

the

unseen

shaft

of

heat

passed

over

them,

pine

trees

burst

into

fire,

and

every

dry

furze

bush

became

with

one

dull

thud

a

mass

of

flames.

And

far

away

towards

Knaphill

I

saw

the

flashes

of

trees

and

hedges

and

wooden

buildings

suddenly

set

alight.

It

was

sweeping

round

swiftly

and

steadily,

this

flaming

death,

this

invisible,

inevitable

sword

of

heat.

I

perceived

it

coming

towards

me

by

the

flashing

bushes

it

touched,

and

was

too

astounded

and

stupefied

to

stir.

I

heard

the

crackle

of

fire

in

the

sand-pits

and

the

sudden

squeal

of

a

horse

that

was

as

suddenly

stilled.

Then

it

was

as

if

an

invisible

yet

intensely

heated

finger

were

drawn

through

the

heather

between

me

and

the

Martians,

and

all

along

a

curving

line

beyond

the

sand-pits

the

dark

ground

smoked

and

crackled.

Something

fell

with

a

crash

far

away

to

the

left

where

the

road

from

Woking

station

opens

out

on

the

common.

Forth-with

the

hissing

and

humming

ceased,

and

the

black,

dome-like

object

sank

slowly

out

of

sight

into

the

pit.

All

this

had

happened

with

such

swiftness

that

I

had

stood

motionless,

dumbfounded

and

dazzled

by

the

flashes

of

light.

Had

that

death

swept

through

a

full

circle,

it

must

inevitably

have

slain

me

in

my

surprise.

But

it

passed

and

spared

me,

and

left

the

night

about

me

suddenly

dark

and

unfamiliar.

The

undulating

common

seemed

now

dark

almost

to

blackness,

except

where

its

roadways

lay

grey

and

pale

under

the

deep

blue

sky

of

the

early

night.

It

was

dark,

and

suddenly

void

of

men.

Overhead

the

stars

were

mustering,

and

in

the

west

the

sky

was

still

a

pale,

bright,

almost

greenish

blue.

The

tops

of

the

pine

trees

and

the

roofs

of

Horsell

came

out

sharp

and

black

against

the

western

afterglow.

The

Martians

and

their

appliances

were

altogether

invisible,

save

for

that

thin

mast

upon

which

their

restless

mirror

wobbled.

Patches

of

bush

and

isolated

trees

here

and

there

smoked

and

glowed

still,

and

the

houses

towards

Woking

station

were

sending

up

spires

of

flame

into

the

stillness

of

the

evening

air.

Nothing

was

changed

save

for

that

and

a

terrible

astonishment.

The

little

group

of

black

specks

with

the

flag

of

white

had

been

swept

out

of

existence,

and

the

stillness

of

the

evening,

so

it

seemed

to

me,

had

scarcely

been

broken.

It

came

to

me

that

I

was

upon

this

dark

common,

helpless,

unprotected,

and

alone.

Suddenly,

like

a

thing

falling

upon

me

from

without,

came—fear.

With

an

effort

I

turned

and

began

a

stumbling

run

through

the

heather.

The

fear

I

felt

was

no

rational

fear,

but

a

panic

terror

not

only

of

the

Martians,

but

of

the

dusk

and

stillness

all

about

me.

Such

an

extraordinary

effect

in

unmanning

me

it

had

that

I

ran

weeping

silently

as

a

child

might

do.

Once

I

had

turned,

I

did

not

dare

to

look

back.

I

remember

I

felt

an

extraordinary

persuasion

that

I

was

being

played

with,

that

presently,

when

I

was

upon

the

very

verge

of

safety,

this

mysterious

death—as

swift

as

the

passage

of

light—would

leap

after

me

from

the

pit

about

the

cylinder,

and

strike

me

down.

VI.

THE

HEAT-RAY

IN

THE

CHOBHAM

ROAD.

It

is

still

a

matter

of

wonder

how

the

Martians

are

able

to

slay

men

so

swiftly

and

so

silently.

Many

think

that

in

some

way

they

are

able

to

generate

an

intense

heat

in

a

chamber

of

practically

absolute

non-conductivity.

This

intense

heat

they

project

in

a

parallel

beam

against

any

object

they

choose,

by

means

of

a

polished

parabolic

mirror

of

unknown

composition,

much

as

the

parabolic

mirror

of

a

lighthouse

projects

a

beam

of

light.

But

no

one

has

absolutely

proved

these

details.

However

it

is

done,

it

is

certain

that

a

beam

of

heat

is

the

essence

of

the

matter.

Heat,

and

invisible,

instead

of

visible,

light.

Whatever

is

combustible

flashes

into

flame

at

its

touch,

lead

runs

like

water,

it

softens

iron,

cracks

and

melts

glass,

and

when

it

falls

upon

water,

incontinently

that

explodes

into

steam.

That

night

nearly

forty

people

lay

under

the

starlight

about

the

pit,

charred

and

distorted

beyond

recognition,

and

all

night

long

the

common

from

Horsell

to

Maybury

was

deserted

and

brightly

ablaze.

The

news

of

the

massacre

probably

reached

Chobham,

Woking,

and

Ottershaw

about

the

same

time.

In

Woking

the

shops

had

closed

when

the

tragedy

happened,

and

a

number

of

people,

shop

people

and

so

forth,

attracted

by

the

stories

they

had

heard,

were

walking

over

the

Horsell

Bridge

and

along

the

road

between

the

hedges

that

runs

out

at

last

upon

the

common.

You

may

imagine

the

young

people

brushed

up

after

the

labours

of

the

day,

and

making

this

novelty,

as

they

would

make

any

novelty,

the

excuse

for

walking

together

and

enjoying

a

trivial

flirtation.

You

may

figure

to

yourself

the

hum

of

voices

along

the

road

in

the

gloaming.

.

.

.

As

yet,

of

course,

few

people

in

Woking

even

knew

that

the

cylinder

had

opened,

though

poor

Henderson

had

sent

a

messenger

on

a

bicycle

to

the

post

office

with

a

special

wire

to

an

evening

paper.

As

these

folks

came

out

by

twos

and

threes

upon

the

open,

they

found

little

knots

of

people

talking

excitedly

and

peering

at

the

spinning

mirror

over

the

sand-pits,

and

the

newcomers

were,

no

doubt,

soon

infected

by

the

excitement

of

the

occasion.

By

half

past

eight,

when

the

Deputation

was

destroyed,

there