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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.

CHAPTER TWO

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

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