The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells (best large ereader TXT) 📖

CHAPTER THREE

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 flies 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.