A Diary of the Dying

How strange the words look scribbled at the top of the empty page of my book! How stranger still that it is I, Edward Malone, who have written them—I who started only some twelve hours ago from my rooms in Streatham without one thought of the marvels which the day was to bring forth! I look back at the chain of incidents, my interview with McArdle, Challenger's first note of alarm in the Times, the absurd journey in the train, the pleasant luncheon, the catastrophe, and now it has come to this—that we linger alone upon an empty planet, and so sure is our fate that I can regard these lines, written from mechanical professional habit and never to be seen by human eyes, as the words of one who is already dead, so closely does he stand to the shadowed borderland over which all outside this one little circle of friends have already gone. I feel how wise and true were the words of Challenger when he said that the real tragedy would be if we were left behind when all that is noble and good and beautiful had passed. But of that there can surely be no danger. Already our second tube of oxygen is drawing to an end. We can count the poor dregs of our lives almost to a minute.

How strange those words look, scribbled at the top of the blank page in my book! Stranger still that I, Edward Malone, wrote them. Only about twelve hours ago, I left my rooms in Streatham with no thought of the wonders the day would bring! I look back at the chain of events: my interview with McArdle, Challenger's first warning in the Times, the absurd train journey, the pleasant lunch, and the catastrophe. And now it has come to this: we linger alone on an empty planet. Our fate is so certain that I can regard these lines as the words of someone already dead. I write them out of mechanical professional habit, though human eyes will never see them. I stand so close to that shadowed borderland which everyone outside this little circle of friends has already crossed. I realize how wise and true Challenger's words were. He said the real tragedy would be if we were left behind after all that is noble, good, and beautiful had passed away. But surely there can be no danger of that. Already our second tube of oxygen is running out. We can count the pitiful remains of our lives almost to the minute.

We have just been treated to a lecture, a good quarter of an hour long, from Challenger, who was so excited that he roared and bellowed as if he were addressing his old rows of scientific sceptics in the Queen's Hall. He had certainly a strange audience to harangue: his wife perfectly acquiescent and absolutely ignorant of his meaning, Summerlee seated in the shadow, querulous and critical but interested, Lord John lounging in a corner somewhat bored by the whole proceeding, and myself beside the window watching the scene with a kind of detached attention, as if it were all a dream or something in which I had no personal interest whatever. Challenger sat at the centre table with the electric light illuminating the slide under the microscope which he had brought from his dressing room. The small vivid circle of white light from the mirror left half of his rugged, bearded face in brilliant radiance and half in deepest shadow. He had, it seems, been working of late upon the lowest forms of life, and what excited him at the present moment was that in the microscopic slide made up the day before he found the amoeba to be still alive.

Challenger has just treated us to a lecture lasting a good fifteen minutes. He was so excited that he roared and bellowed as if addressing his old rows of scientific skeptics in the Queen's Hall. He certainly had a strange audience. His wife was perfectly agreeable and had no idea what he meant. Summerlee sat in the shadows, complaining and critical but interested. Lord John lounged in a corner, somewhat bored by the whole affair. I sat beside the window, watching with a kind of detached attention. It was as if the whole scene were a dream or something that did not concern me at all. Challenger sat at the center table, with an electric light illuminating the slide under the microscope he had brought from his dressing room. A small, vivid circle of white light from the mirror left half his rugged, bearded face brilliantly lit and the other half in deepest shadow. It seems he had lately been studying the lowest forms of life. What excited him now was that the amoeba on a microscope slide prepared the day before was still alive.

"You can see it for yourselves," he kept repeating in great excitement. "Summerlee, will you step across and satisfy yourself upon the point? Malone, will you kindly verify what I say? The little spindle-shaped things in the centre are diatoms and may be disregarded since they are probably vegetable rather than animal. But the right-hand side you will see an undoubted amoeba, moving sluggishly across the field. The upper screw is the fine adjustment. Look at it for yourselves."

"You can see it for yourselves," he kept repeating, very excited. "Summerlee, will you come over and see for yourself? Malone, will you please check what I say? The little spindle-shaped things in the center are diatoms. You can ignore them because they are probably plants rather than animals. But on the right you can see a definite amoeba, moving slowly across the field of view. The upper screw is the fine adjustment. Look for yourselves."

Summerlee did so and acquiesced. So did I and perceived a little creature which looked as if it were made of ground glass flowing in a sticky way across the lighted circle. Lord John was prepared to take him on trust.

Summerlee did so and agreed. I did the same and saw a little creature that looked as if it were made of ground glass. It flowed in a sticky way across the circle of light. Lord John was prepared to take his word for it.

"I'm not troublin' my head whether he's alive or dead," said he. "We don't so much as know each other by sight, so why should I take it to heart? I don't suppose he's worryin' himself over the state of our health."

"I'm not troubling my head over whether he's alive or dead," he said. "We don't even know each other by sight. So why should I take it to heart? I don't suppose he's worrying about our health."

I laughed at this, and Challenger looked in my direction with his coldest and most supercilious stare. It was a most petrifying experience.

I laughed at this, and Challenger gave me his coldest, most superior stare. It was a terrifying experience.

"The flippancy of the half-educated is more obstructive to science than the obtuseness of the ignorant," said he. "If Lord John Roxton would condescend——"

"The careless joking of the half-educated is a greater obstacle to science than the stupidity of the ignorant," he said. "If Lord John Roxton would be so kind..."

"My dear George, don't be so peppery," said his wife, with her hand on the black mane that drooped over the microscope. "What can it matter whether the amoeba is alive or not?"

"My dear George, don't be so irritable," said his wife, resting her hand on his thick black hair as he bent over the microscope. "What does it matter whether the amoeba is alive or not?"

"It matters a great deal," said Challenger gruffly.

"It matters a lot," said Challenger gruffly.

"Well, let's hear about it," said Lord John with a good-humoured smile. "We may as well talk about that as anything else. If you think I've been too off-hand with the thing, or hurt its feelin's in any way, I'll apologize."

"Well, let's hear about it," said Lord John with a friendly smile. "We may as well talk about that as anything else. If you think I've been too casual about the thing, or hurt its feelings in any way, I'll apologize."

"For my part," remarked Summerlee in his creaky, argumentative voice, "I can't see why you should attach such importance to the creature being alive. It is in the same atmosphere as ourselves, so naturally the poison does not act upon it. If it were outside of this room it would be dead, like all other animal life."

"Personally," said Summerlee in his creaky, argumentative voice, "I don't see why you think it matters so much that the creature is alive. It is breathing the same air as we are, so naturally the poison doesn't affect it. If it were outside this room, it would be dead, like all other animal life."

"Your remarks, my good Summerlee," said Challenger with enormous condescension (oh, if I could paint that over-bearing, arrogant face in the vivid circle of reflection from the microscope mirror!)—"your remarks show that you imperfectly appreciate the situation. This specimen was mounted yesterday and is hermetically sealed. None of our oxygen can reach it. But the ether, of course, has penetrated to it, as to every other point upon the universe. Therefore, it has survived the poison. Hence, we may argue that every amoeba outside this room, instead of being dead, as you have erroneously stated, has really survived the catastrophe."

"Your remarks, my good Summerlee," said Challenger with enormous condescension. (Oh, if only I could paint that overbearing, arrogant face in the bright circle of light reflected from the microscope mirror!) "Your remarks show that you do not fully understand the situation. This specimen was mounted yesterday and is completely sealed. None of our oxygen can reach it. But the ether, of course, has reached it, as it has every other point in the universe. Therefore, the specimen has survived the poison. So we may conclude that every amoeba outside this room has actually survived the catastrophe, rather than died, as you wrongly claimed."

"Well, even now I don't feel inclined to hip-hurrah about it," said Lord John. "What does it matter?"

"Well, even now I don't feel like cheering about it," said Lord John. "What does it matter?"

"It just matters this, that the world is a living instead of a dead one. If you had the scientific imagination, you would cast your mind forward from this one fact, and you would see some few millions of years hence—a mere passing moment in the enormous flux of the ages—the whole world teeming once more with the animal and human life which will spring from this tiny root. You have seen a prairie fire where the flames have swept every trace of grass or plant from the surface of the earth and left only a blackened waste. You would think that it must be forever desert. Yet the roots of growth have been left behind, and when you pass the place a few years hence you can no longer tell where the black scars used to be. Here in this tiny creature are the roots of growth of the animal world, and by its inherent development, and evolution, it will surely in time remove every trace of this incomparable crisis in which we are now involved."

"What matters is that the world is alive, not dead. If you had scientific imagination, you would think ahead from this one fact. You would see the whole world teeming again with animal and human life, springing from this tiny root. That would happen a few million years from now, a mere moment in the vast flow of ages. You have seen a prairie fire sweep away every trace of grass and plants, leaving only blackened ground. You would think the land must remain a desert forever. Yet the roots of growth remain. When you pass the place a few years later, you can no longer tell where the black scars were. This tiny creature holds the roots of growth for the animal world. Through its natural development and evolution, it will surely, in time, erase every trace of this incomparable crisis we now face."

"Dooced interestin'!" said Lord John, lounging across and looking through the microscope. "Funny little chap to hang number one among the family portraits. Got a fine big shirt-stud on him!"

"Deuced interesting!" said Lord John, strolling over and looking through the microscope. "Funny little chap to hang first among the family portraits. Got a fine big shirt stud on him!"

"The dark object is his nucleus," said Challenger with the air of a nurse teaching letters to a baby.

"The dark object is his nucleus," said Challenger, as if he were a nurse teaching a baby its letters.

"Well, we needn't feel lonely," said Lord John laughing. "There's somebody livin' besides us on the earth."

"Well, we don't have to feel lonely," said Lord John, laughing. "There's somebody living besides us on Earth."

"You seem to take it for granted, Challenger," said Summerlee, "that the object for which this world was created was that it should produce and sustain human life."

"You seem to assume, Challenger," said Summerlee, "that the world was created to produce and sustain human life."

"Well, sir, and what object do you suggest?" asked Challenger, bristling at the least hint of contradiction.

"Well, sir, what purpose do you suggest?" asked Challenger, bristling at the slightest hint of disagreement.

"Sometimes I think that it is only the monstrous conceit of mankind which makes him think that all this stage was erected for him to strut upon."

"Sometimes I think that only humanity's enormous arrogance makes us believe that all this stage was built for us to strut on."

"We cannot be dogmatic about it, but at least without what you have ventured to call monstrous conceit we can surely say that we are the highest thing in nature."

"We cannot be certain about it. But surely we can say that we are the highest thing in nature. At least, we can say that without what you have dared to call monstrous conceit."

"The highest of which we have cognizance."

"The highest we know of."

"That, sir, goes without saying."

"Of course, sir."

"Think of all the millions and possibly billions of years that the earth swung empty through space—or, if not empty, at least without a sign or thought of the human race. Think of it, washed by the rain and scorched by the sun and swept by the wind for those unnumbered ages. Man only came into being yesterday so far as geological times goes. Why, then, should it be taken for granted that all this stupendous preparation was for his benefit?"

"Think of all the millions, possibly billions, of years that the earth traveled through space empty. Or, if it was not empty, at least there was no sign or thought of the human race. Think of the earth, washed by rain, scorched by the sun, and swept by wind for those countless ages. In geological time, humans only came into being yesterday. So why should we assume that all this enormous preparation was for their benefit?"

"For whose then—or for what?"

"Then whose, or what, is it for?"

Summerlee shrugged his shoulders.

Summerlee shrugged.

"How can we tell? For some reason altogether beyond our conception—and man may have been a mere accident, a by-product evolved in the process. It is as if the scum upon the surface of the ocean imagined that the ocean was created in order to produce and sustain it, or a mouse in a cathedral thought that the building was its own proper ordained residence."

"How can we tell? For some reason completely beyond our understanding. And humanity may have been a mere accident, a by-product of the process. It is as if the scum on the ocean's surface imagined that the ocean was created to produce and sustain it. Or as if a mouse in a cathedral thought the building was meant to be its home."

I have jotted down the very words of their argument, but now it degenerates into a mere noisy wrangle with much polysyllabic scientific jargon upon each side. It is no doubt a privilege to hear two such brains discuss the highest questions; but as they are in perpetual disagreement, plain folk like Lord John and I get little that is positive from the exhibition. They neutralize each other and we are left as they found us. Now the hubbub has ceased, and Summerlee is coiled up in his chair, while Challenger, still fingering the screws of his microscope, is keeping up a continual low, deep, inarticulate growl like the sea after a storm. Lord John comes over to me, and we look out together into the night.

I have written down the exact words of their argument, but now it turns into a noisy quarrel. Both sides use plenty of long scientific terms. No doubt it is a privilege to hear two such minds discuss the greatest questions. But they constantly disagree, so ordinary people like Lord John and me learn little definite from the display. They cancel each other out, leaving us no wiser than before. Now the noise has stopped, and Summerlee is curled up in his chair. Challenger is still adjusting the screws on his microscope. He keeps up a continuous low, deep, wordless growl, like the sea after a storm. Lord John comes over to me, and we look out into the night together.

There is a pale new moon—the last moon that human eyes will ever rest upon—and the stars are most brilliant. Even in the clear plateau air of South America I have never seen them brighter. Possibly this etheric change has some effect upon light. The funeral pyre of Brighton is still blazing, and there is a very distant patch of scarlet in the western sky, which may mean trouble at Arundel or Chichester, possibly even at Portsmouth. I sit and muse and make an occasional note. There is a sweet melancholy in the air. Youth and beauty and chivalry and love—is this to be the end of it all? The starlit earth looks a dreamland of gentle peace. Who would imagine it as the terrible Golgotha strewn with the bodies of the human race? Suddenly, I find myself laughing.

There is a pale new moon in the sky. It is the last moon human eyes will ever see. The stars are brilliant. Even in the clear air of the South American plateau, I have never seen them brighter. Perhaps this etheric change has some effect on light. Brighton’s funeral pyre is still burning. Far away in the western sky is a patch of scarlet. It may mean trouble at Arundel or Chichester, perhaps even at Portsmouth. I sit and reflect, making a note now and then. There is a sweet sadness in the air. Youth and beauty and chivalry and love: is this the end of it all? The starlit earth looks like a dreamland of gentle peace. Who would imagine it as a terrible Golgotha, strewn with the bodies of the human race? Suddenly, I find myself laughing.

"Halloa, young fellah!" says Lord John, staring at me in surprise. "We could do with a joke in these hard times. What was it, then?"

"Hello, young fellow!" says Lord John, staring at me in surprise. "We could use a joke in these hard times. What was it?"

"I was thinking of all the great unsolved questions," I answer, "the questions that we spent so much labor and thought over. Think of Anglo-German competition, for example—or the Persian Gulf that my old chief was so keen about. Whoever would have guessed, when we fumed and fretted so, how they were to be eventually solved?"

"I was thinking of all the great unsolved questions," I answer, "the questions we spent so much time and thought on. Think of Anglo-German competition, for example, or the Persian Gulf, which my old chief cared so much about. While we worried and fussed over them, who would have guessed how they would eventually be solved?"

We fall into silence again. I fancy that each of us is thinking of friends that have gone before. Mrs. Challenger is sobbing quietly, and her husband is whispering to her. My mind turns to all the most unlikely people, and I see each of them lying white and rigid as poor Austin does in the yard. There is McArdle, for example, I know exactly where he is, with his face upon his writing desk and his hand on his own telephone, just as I heard him fall. Beaumont, the editor, too—I suppose he is lying upon the blue-and-red Turkey carpet which adorned his sanctum. And the fellows in the reporters' room—Macdona and Murray and Bond. They had certainly died hard at work on their job, with note-books full of vivid impressions and strange happenings in their hands. I could just imagine how this one would have been packed off to the doctors, and that other to Westminster, and yet a third to St. Paul's. What glorious rows of head-lines they must have seen as a last vision beautiful, never destined to materialize in printer's ink! I could see Macdona among the doctors—"Hope in Harley Street"—Mac had always a weakness for alliteration. "Interview with Mr. Soley Wilson." "Famous Specialist says 'Never despair!'" "Our Special Correspondent found the eminent scientist seated upon the roof, whither he had retreated to avoid the crowd of terrified patients who had stormed his dwelling. With a manner which plainly showed his appreciation of the immense gravity of the occasion, the celebrated physician refused to admit that every avenue of hope had been closed." That's how Mac would start. Then there was Bond; he would probably do St. Paul's. He fancied his own literary touch. My word, what a theme for him! "Standing in the little gallery under the dome and looking down upon that packed mass of despairing humanity, groveling at this last instant before a Power which they had so persistently ignored, there rose to my ears from the swaying crowd such a low moan of entreaty and terror, such a shuddering cry for help to the Unknown, that——" and so forth.

We fall silent again. I imagine each of us is thinking of friends who have gone before us. Mrs. Challenger is sobbing quietly, and her husband is whispering to her. I find myself thinking of the most unlikely people. I see each of them lying pale and stiff, like poor Austin in the yard. There is McArdle, for example. I know exactly where he is, with his face on his writing desk and his hand on his telephone. He must be just as he was when I heard him fall. And Beaumont, the editor. I suppose he is lying on the blue-and-red Turkish carpet that decorated his private office. Then there are the fellows in the reporters' room: Macdona, Murray, and Bond. They certainly died hard at work, holding notebooks full of vivid impressions and strange events. I could imagine one of them being sent off to the doctors, another to Westminster, and a third to St. Paul's. What glorious rows of headlines they must have seen as a last beautiful vision, never to appear in print! I could see Macdona among the doctors. "Hope in Harley Street." Mac had always had a weakness for alliteration. "Interview with Mr. Soley Wilson." "Famous Specialist says 'Never despair!'" "Our Special Correspondent found the eminent scientist sitting on the roof. He had gone there to escape the crowd of terrified patients who had stormed his house. The celebrated physician clearly understood the immense gravity of the situation. But he refused to admit that every avenue of hope had been closed." That's how Mac would start. Then there was Bond. He would probably cover St. Paul's. He was proud of his literary touch. My word, what a subject for him! "I stood in the little gallery under the dome, looking down at that packed mass of despairing humanity. At this last moment, they were groveling before a Power they had so persistently ignored. From the swaying crowd, I heard such a low moan of pleading and terror, such a shuddering cry for help to the Unknown, that..." And so forth.

Yes, it would be a great end for a reporter, though, like myself, he would die with the treasures still unused. What would Bond not give, poor chap, to see "J. H. B." at the foot of a column like that?

Yes, it would be a great way for a reporter to go. Though, like me, he would die with his treasures still unused. What wouldn't Bond, poor guy, give to see "J. H. B." at the end of a column like that?

But what drivel I am writing! It is just an attempt to pass the weary time. Mrs. Challenger has gone to the inner dressing-room, and the Professor says that she is asleep. He is making notes and consulting books at the central table, as calmly as if years of placid work lay before him. He writes with a very noisy quill pen which seems to be screeching scorn at all who disagree with him.

But what nonsense I am writing! I am just trying to pass the long, weary hours. Mrs. Challenger has gone to the inner dressing room, and the Professor says she is asleep. He is making notes and consulting books at the central table. He is as calm as if he had years of peaceful work ahead of him. His quill pen is very noisy. It seems to screech with scorn at everyone who disagrees with him.

Summerlee has dropped off in his chair and gives from time to time a peculiarly exasperating snore. Lord John lies back with his hands in his pockets and his eyes closed. How people can sleep under such conditions is more than I can imagine.

Summerlee has fallen asleep in his chair and snores from time to time in a peculiarly irritating way. Lord John leans back with his hands in his pockets and his eyes closed. I can’t imagine how people can sleep under such conditions.

Three-thirty a.m. I have just wakened with a start. It was five minutes past eleven when I made my last entry. I remember winding up my watch and noting the time. So I have wasted some five hours of the little span still left to us. Who would have believed it possible? But I feel very much fresher, and ready for my fate—or try to persuade myself that I am. And yet, the fitter a man is, and the higher his tide of life, the more must he shrink from death. How wise and how merciful is that provision of nature by which his earthly anchor is usually loosened by many little imperceptible tugs, until his consciousness has drifted out of its untenable earthly harbor into the great sea beyond!

3:30 a.m. I have just woken with a start. It was five minutes past eleven when I made my last entry. I remember winding my watch and noting the time. So I have wasted about five hours of the little time we have left. Who would have believed it possible? But I feel much fresher and ready to face my fate, or I try to persuade myself that I am. And yet, the healthier and more full of life a man is, the more he must shrink from death. How wise and merciful nature is in usually loosening his earthly anchor with many small, unnoticed tugs. At last, his consciousness drifts out of the earthly harbor that can no longer hold it, into the great sea beyond!

Mrs. Challenger is still in the dressing room. Challenger has fallen asleep in his chair. What a picture! His enormous frame leans back, his huge, hairy hands are clasped across his waistcoat, and his head is so tilted that I can see nothing above his collar save a tangled bristle of luxuriant beard. He shakes with the vibration of his own snoring. Summerlee adds his occasional high tenor to Challenger's sonorous bass. Lord John is sleeping also, his long body doubled up sideways in a basket-chair. The first cold light of dawn is just stealing into the room, and everything is grey and mournful.

Mrs. Challenger is still in the dressing room. Challenger has fallen asleep in his chair. What a picture! His enormous body leans back, and his huge, hairy hands are clasped across his waistcoat. His head is tilted so far back that I can see nothing above his collar but his thick, tangled beard. His body shakes from the force of his snoring. Summerlee occasionally adds his high tenor to Challenger's deep bass. Lord John is sleeping too, his long body folded sideways in a basket chair. The first cold light of dawn is just creeping into the room, and everything is gray and gloomy.

I look out at the sunrise—that fateful sunrise which will shine upon an unpeopled world. The human race is gone, extinguished in a day, but the planets swing round and the tides rise or fall, and the wind whispers, and all nature goes her way, down, as it would seem, to the very amoeba, with never a sign that he who styled himself the lord of creation had ever blessed or cursed the universe with his presence. Down in the yard lies Austin with sprawling limbs, his face glimmering white in the dawn, and the hose nozzle still projecting from his dead hand. The whole of human kind is typified in that one half-ludicrous and half-pathetic figure, lying so helpless beside the machine which it used to control.

I look out at the sunrise, that fateful sunrise that will shine on a world without people. The human race is gone, wiped out in a day. But the planets keep circling, the tides rise and fall, and the wind whispers. All nature goes on its way, apparently down to the very amoeba. There is no sign that those who called themselves the lords of creation ever blessed or cursed the universe with their presence. Down in the yard lies Austin, his limbs sprawled and his face pale in the dawn. The hose nozzle still sticks out of his dead hand. That figure, both faintly ridiculous and pathetic, represents all humanity. He lies helpless beside the machine he once controlled.

Here end the notes which I made at the time. Henceforward events were too swift and too poignant to allow me to write, but they are too clearly outlined in my memory that any detail could escape me.

Here end the notes I made at the time. After that, events were too swift and painful for me to write. But they remain so clear in my memory that I cannot forget a single detail.

Some chokiness in my throat made me look at the oxygen cylinders, and I was startled at what I saw. The sands of our lives were running very low. At some period in the night Challenger had switched the tube from the third to the fourth cylinder. Now it was clear that this also was nearly exhausted. That horrible feeling of constriction was closing in upon me. I ran across and, unscrewing the nozzle, I changed it to our last supply. Even as I did so my conscience pricked me, for I felt that perhaps if I had held my hand all of them might have passed in their sleep. The thought was banished, however, by the voice of the lady from the inner room crying:—

A choking feeling in my throat made me look at the oxygen cylinders. I was startled by what I saw. The sands of our lives were running very low. Sometime during the night, Challenger had switched the tube from the third cylinder to the fourth. Now the fourth was clearly almost empty too. That horrible feeling of tightness was closing in on me. I ran across, unscrewed the nozzle, and connected it to our last supply. Even as I did so, my conscience troubled me. I felt that perhaps, if I had done nothing, all of them might have died in their sleep. But the lady’s voice from the inner room drove the thought away as she cried:

"George, George, I am stifling!"

"George, George, I can't breathe!"

"It is all right, Mrs. Challenger," I answered as the others started to their feet. "I have just turned on a fresh supply."

"It's all right, Mrs. Challenger," I replied as the others jumped to their feet. "I've just turned on a fresh supply."

Even at such a moment I could not help smiling at Challenger, who with a great hairy fist in each eye was like a huge, bearded baby, new wakened out of sleep. Summerlee was shivering like a man with the ague, human fears, as he realized his position, rising for an instant above the stoicism of the man of science. Lord John, however, was as cool and alert as if he had just been roused on a hunting morning.

Even at a moment like this, I could not help smiling at Challenger. With a large, hairy fist in each eye, he looked like a huge, bearded baby who had just woken up. Summerlee was shivering as if he had a fever. As he realized his situation, human fear briefly overcame his stoicism as a man of science. Lord John, however, was as cool and alert as if he had just been awakened on a hunting morning.

"Fifthly and lastly," said he, glancing at the tube. "Say, young fellah, don't tell me you've been writin' up your impressions in that paper on your knee."

"Fifth and last," he said, glancing at the tube. "Say, young fellow, don't tell me you've been writing up your impressions on that paper on your knee."

"Just a few notes to pass the time."

"Just a few notes to pass the time."

"Well, I don't believe anyone but an Irishman would have done that. I expect you'll have to wait till little brother amoeba gets grown up before you'll find a reader. He don't seem to take much stock of things just at present. Well, Herr Professor, what are the prospects?"

"Well, I don't believe anyone but an Irishman would have done that. I expect you'll have to wait until little brother amoeba grows up before you find a reader. He doesn't seem to pay much attention to things right now. Well, Herr Professor, what are the prospects?"

Challenger was looking out at the great drifts of morning mist which lay over the landscape. Here and there the wooded hills rose like conical islands out of this woolly sea.

Challenger looked out at the thick banks of morning mist covering the landscape. Here and there, wooded hills rose like cone-shaped islands from this woolly sea.

"It might be a winding sheet," said Mrs. Challenger, who had entered in her dressing-gown. "There's that song of yours, George, 'Ring out the old, ring in the new.' It was prophetic. But you are shivering, my poor dear friends. I have been warm under a coverlet all night, and you cold in your chairs. But I'll soon set you right."

"It could be a burial shroud," said Mrs. Challenger, who had come in wearing her bathrobe. "There's that song of yours, George, 'Ring out the old, ring in the new.' It foretold this. But you're shivering, my poor dear friends. I've been warm under a blanket all night, while you've been cold in your chairs. But I'll soon make you comfortable."

The brave little creature hurried away, and presently we heard the sizzling of a kettle. She was back soon with five steaming cups of cocoa upon a tray.

The brave little woman hurried away, and soon we heard a kettle hissing. She returned with five steaming cups of cocoa on a tray.

"Drink these," said she. "You will feel so much better."

"Drink these," she said. "You'll feel so much better."

And we did. Summerlee asked if he might light his pipe, and we all had cigarettes. It steadied our nerves, I think, but it was a mistake, for it made a dreadful atmosphere in that stuffy room. Challenger had to open the ventilator.

And we did. Summerlee asked if he could light his pipe, and we all had cigarettes. I think smoking calmed our nerves. But it was a mistake, because it made the air in that stuffy room dreadful. Challenger had to open the ventilator.

"How long, Challenger?" asked Lord John.

"How long, Challenger?" asked Lord John.

"Possibly three hours," he answered with a shrug.

"Maybe three hours," he replied with a shrug.

"I used to be frightened," said his wife. "But the nearer I get to it, the easier it seems. Don't you think we ought to pray, George?"

"I used to be scared," said his wife. "But the closer I get to it, the easier it seems. Don't you think we should pray, George?"

"You will pray, dear, if you wish," the big man answered, very gently. "We all have our own ways of praying. Mine is a complete acquiescence in whatever fate may send me—a cheerful acquiescence. The highest religion and the highest science seem to unite on that."

"You can pray, dear, if you wish," the big man answered very gently. "We all have our own ways of praying. Mine is to accept whatever fate may send me, and to accept it cheerfully. The highest religion and the highest science seem to agree on that."

"I cannot truthfully describe my mental attitude as acquiescence and far less cheerful acquiescence," grumbled Summerlee over his pipe. "I submit because I have to. I confess that I should have liked another year of life to finish my classification of the chalk fossils."

"I can't honestly say I've accepted this, much less accepted it cheerfully," grumbled Summerlee over his pipe. "I submit because I have to. I admit I would have liked another year of life to finish classifying the chalk fossils."

"Your unfinished work is a small thing," said Challenger pompously, "when weighed against the fact that my own magnum opus, 'The Ladder of Life,' is still in the first stages. My brain, my reading, my experience—in fact, my whole unique equipment—were to be condensed into that epoch-making volume. And yet, as I say, I acquiesce."

"Your unfinished work is a small thing," said Challenger pompously, "compared with the fact that my own masterpiece, 'The Ladder of Life,' is still in its early stages. That groundbreaking book was to contain the essence of my intellect, my reading, and my experience. In fact, it was to contain everything that makes me uniquely qualified. And yet, as I say, I accept this."

"I expect we've all left some loose ends stickin' out," said Lord John. "What are yours, young fellah?"

"I expect we've all left some loose ends sticking out," said Lord John. "What are yours, young fellow?"

"I was working at a book of verses," I answered.

"I was working on a book of poems," I replied.

"Well, the world has escaped that, anyhow," said Lord John. "There's always compensation somewhere if you grope around."

"Well, at least the world has escaped that," said Lord John. "There's always a bright side somewhere if you look for it."

"What about you?" I asked.

"What about you?" I asked.

"Well, it just so happens that I was tidied up and ready. I'd promised Merivale to go to Tibet for a snow leopard in the spring. But it's hard on you, Mrs. Challenger, when you have just built up this pretty home."

“Well, as it happens, I had put my affairs in order and was ready. I had promised Merivale I would go to Tibet for a snow leopard in the spring. But it’s hard on you, Mrs. Challenger, when you’ve just made this lovely home.”

"Where George is, there is my home. But, oh, what would I not give for one last walk together in the fresh morning air upon those beautiful downs!"

"Wherever George is, that is my home. But, oh, I would give anything for one last walk together in the fresh morning air on those beautiful downs!"

Our hearts re-echoed her words. The sun had burst through the gauzy mists which veiled it, and the whole broad Weald was washed in golden light. Sitting in our dark and poisonous atmosphere that glorious, clean, wind-swept countryside seemed a very dream of beauty. Mrs. Challenger held her hand stretched out to it in her longing. We drew up chairs and sat in a semicircle in the window. The atmosphere was already very close. It seemed to me that the shadows of death were drawing in upon us—the last of our race. It was like an invisible curtain closing down upon every side.

Our hearts echoed her words. The sun had broken through the thin mist that veiled it. The whole broad Weald was bathed in golden light. As we sat in our dark, poisonous atmosphere, the glorious, clean, windswept countryside seemed like a dream of beauty. Mrs. Challenger held out her hand toward it, longing to reach it. We pulled up chairs and sat in a semicircle at the window. The air was already very stuffy. It seemed to me that the shadows of death were closing in on us, the last of our race. It was like an invisible curtain closing around us on every side.

"That cylinder is not lastin' too well," said Lord John with a long gasp for breath.

"That cylinder is not lasting too well," said Lord John, taking a long gasp for breath.

"The amount contained is variable," said Challenger, "depending upon the pressure and care with which it has been bottled. I am inclined to agree with you, Roxton, that this one is defective."

"The amount inside varies," said Challenger. "It depends on the pressure and the care taken in bottling it. I think you may be right, Roxton, that this one is defective."

"So we are to be cheated out of the last hour of our lives," Summerlee remarked bitterly. "An excellent final illustration of the sordid age in which we have lived. Well, Challenger, now is your time if you wish to study the subjective phenomena of physical dissolution."

"So we're going to be cheated out of the last hour of our lives," Summerlee said bitterly. "A perfect final example of the sordid age we've lived in. Well, Challenger, now is your chance if you want to study what it feels like to die."

"Sit on the stool at my knee and give me your hand," said Challenger to his wife. "I think, my friends, that a further delay in this insufferable atmosphere is hardly advisable. You would not desire it, dear, would you?"

"Sit on the stool beside my knee and give me your hand," Challenger said to his wife. "My friends, I think we should hardly stay longer in this unbearable atmosphere. You wouldn't want to stay longer, dear, would you?"

His wife gave a little groan and sank her face against his leg.

His wife gave a little groan and rested her face against his leg.

"I've seen the folk bathin' in the Serpentine in winter," said Lord John. "When the rest are in, you see one or two shiverin' on the bank, envyin' the others that have taken the plunge. It's the last that have the worst of it. I'm all for a header and have done with it."

"I've seen people bathing in the Serpentine in winter," said Lord John. "Once the rest are in, you see one or two shivering on the bank. They envy the others who have taken the plunge. The last ones have the worst of it. I'm all for diving in and getting it over with."

"You would open the window and face the ether?"

"Would you open the window and face the ether?"

"Better be poisoned than stifled."

"Better to be poisoned than suffocated."

Summerlee nodded his reluctant acquiescence and held out his thin hand to Challenger.

Summerlee nodded reluctantly in agreement and held out his thin hand to Challenger.

"We've had our quarrels in our time, but that's all over," said he. "We were good friends and had a respect for each other under the surface. Good-by!"

"We've had our quarrels, but that's all over," he said. "We were good friends and respected each other beneath the surface. Goodbye!"

"Good-by, young fellah!" said Lord John. "The window's plastered up. You can't open it."

"Goodbye, young fellow!" said Lord John. "The window is plastered shut. You can't open it."

Challenger stooped and raised his wife, pressing her to his breast, while she threw her arms round his neck.

Challenger bent down and lifted his wife, holding her close as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Give me that field-glass, Malone," said he gravely.

"Give me those binoculars, Malone," he said seriously.

I handed it to him.

I handed it to him.

"Into the hands of the Power that made us we render ourselves again!" he shouted in his voice of thunder, and at the words he hurled the field-glass through the window.

"We give ourselves back into the hands of the Power that made us!" he shouted in a thunderous voice. As he spoke, he hurled the binoculars through the window.

Full in our flushed faces, before the last tinkle of falling fragments had died away, there came the wholesome breath of the wind, blowing strong and sweet.

Before the last tinkle of falling fragments had faded, the fresh wind blew strong and sweet against our flushed faces.

I don't know how long we sat in amazed silence. Then as in a dream, I heard Challenger's voice once more.

I don't know how long we sat there in stunned silence. Then, as if in a dream, I heard Challenger's voice again.

"We are back in normal conditions," he cried. "The world has cleared the poison belt, but we alone of all mankind are saved."

"We are back to normal," he cried. "The world has passed through the poison belt, but we alone have survived."