How I Got Home

For my own part, I remember nothing of my flight except the stress of blundering against trees and stumbling through the heather. All about me gathered the invisible terrors of the Martians; that pitiless sword of heat seemed whirling to and fro, flourishing overhead before it descended and smote me out of life. I came into the road between the crossroads and Horsell, and ran along this to the crossroads.

I remember nothing of my escape except the strain of crashing into trees and stumbling through the heather. All around me, the invisible terrors of the Martians gathered. That merciless sword of heat seemed to swing back and forth overhead. It seemed ready to strike me dead. I reached the road between the crossroads and Horsell and ran along it to the crossroads.

At last I could go no further; I was exhausted with the violence of my emotion and of my flight, and I staggered and fell by the wayside. That was near the bridge that crosses the canal by the gasworks. I fell and lay still.

At last I could go no farther. I was exhausted from the intensity of my emotions and from running away. I staggered and fell by the side of the road. It was near the bridge over the canal by the gasworks. I fell and lay still.

I must have remained there some time.

I must have stayed there for some time.

I sat up, strangely perplexed. For a moment, perhaps, I could not clearly understand how I came there. My terror had fallen from me like a garment. My hat had gone, and my collar had burst away from its fastener. A few minutes before, there had only been three real things before me—the immensity of the night and space and nature, my own feebleness and anguish, and the near approach of death. Now it was as if something turned over, and the point of view altered abruptly. There was no sensible transition from one state of mind to the other. I was immediately the self of every day again—a decent, ordinary citizen. The silent common, the impulse of my flight, the starting flames, were as if they had been in a dream. I asked myself had these latter things indeed happened? I could not credit it.

I sat up, strangely confused. For a moment, perhaps, I could not understand how I had come to be there. My terror had fallen away like a garment. My hat was gone, and my collar had come loose from its fastener. A few minutes before, only three things had seemed real to me: the vastness of the night, space, and nature; my own weakness and anguish; and the approach of death. Now it was as if something had turned over, and my point of view suddenly changed. There was no noticeable transition between the two states of mind. I was immediately my everyday self again, a decent, ordinary citizen. The silent common, the urge to flee, and the flames breaking out seemed like things I had dreamed. I asked myself if they had really happened. I could not believe it.

I rose and walked unsteadily up the steep incline of the bridge. My mind was blank wonder. My muscles and nerves seemed drained of their strength. I dare say I staggered drunkenly. A head rose over the arch, and the figure of a workman carrying a basket appeared. Beside him ran a little boy. He passed me, wishing me good night. I was minded to speak to him, but did not. I answered his greeting with a meaningless mumble and went on over the bridge.

I got up and walked unsteadily up the steep slope of the bridge. My mind was blank with wonder. My muscles and nerves seemed drained of strength. I suppose I staggered like a drunk. A head appeared over the arch, followed by a workman carrying a basket. A little boy ran beside him. The workman passed me and wished me good night. I wanted to speak to him, but I did not. I answered his greeting with a meaningless mumble and continued over the bridge.

Over the Maybury arch a train, a billowing tumult of white, firelit smoke, and a long caterpillar of lighted windows, went flying south—clatter, clatter, clap, rap, and it had gone. A dim group of people talked in the gate of one of the houses in the pretty little row of gables that was called Oriental Terrace. It was all so real and so familiar. And that behind me! It was frantic, fantastic! Such things, I told myself, could not be.

A train flew south over the Maybury arch, trailing clouds of white smoke lit by fire. Its lighted windows formed a long caterpillar. Clatter, clatter, clap, rap, and it was gone. A shadowy group of people talked at the gate of a house on Oriental Terrace, a pretty little row of gabled houses. It all felt so real and familiar. And that behind me! It was wild, unreal! Such things, I told myself, could not exist.

Perhaps I am a man of exceptional moods. I do not know how far my experience is common. At times I suffer from the strangest sense of detachment from myself and the world about me; I seem to watch it all from the outside, from somewhere inconceivably remote, out of time, out of space, out of the stress and tragedy of it all. This feeling was very strong upon me that night. Here was another side to my dream.

Perhaps I am a man with unusual moods. I do not know how common my experience is. At times, I feel strangely detached from myself and the world around me. I seem to watch it all from the outside, from somewhere unimaginably remote. It is a place beyond time and space, beyond all the stress and tragedy. This feeling was very strong that night. Here was another side to my dream.

But the trouble was the blank incongruity of this serenity and the swift death flying yonder, not two miles away. There was a noise of business from the gasworks, and the electric lamps were all alight. I stopped at the group of people.

But what troubled me was the stark contrast between this peaceful scene and the swift death flying less than two miles away. The gasworks were busy and noisy, and the electric lamps were all lit. I stopped by the group of people.

“What news from the common?” said I.

“What news is there from the common?” I asked.

There were two men and a woman at the gate.

There were two men and a woman at the gate.

“Eh?” said one of the men, turning.

“Huh?” said one of the men, turning.

“What news from the common?” I said.

“What’s the news from the common?” I said.

“Ain’t yer just been there?” asked the men.

“Haven’t you just been there?” asked the men.

“People seem fair silly about the common,” said the woman over the gate. “What’s it all abart?”

“People seem really silly about the common,” said the woman over the gate. “What’s it all about?”

“Haven’t you heard of the men from Mars?” said I; “the creatures from Mars?”

“Haven’t you heard of the men from Mars?” I said. “The creatures from Mars?”

“Quite enough,” said the woman over the gate. “Thenks;” and all three of them laughed.

“Quite enough,” said the woman over the gate. “Thanks.” All three of them laughed.

I felt foolish and angry. I tried and found I could not tell them what I had seen. They laughed again at my broken sentences.

I felt foolish and angry. I tried to tell them what I had seen, but I couldn't. They laughed again at my broken sentences.

“You’ll hear more yet,” I said, and went on to my home.

“You’ll hear more soon,” I said, and continued home.

I startled my wife at the doorway, so haggard was I. I went into the dining room, sat down, drank some wine, and so soon as I could collect myself sufficiently I told her the things I had seen. The dinner, which was a cold one, had already been served, and remained neglected on the table while I told my story.

I startled my wife when I appeared in the doorway, looking so haggard. I went into the dining room, sat down, and drank some wine. As soon as I had gathered myself enough, I told her what I had seen. Our cold dinner had already been served, but it sat untouched on the table while I told my story.

“There is one thing,” I said, to allay the fears I had aroused; “they are the most sluggish things I ever saw crawl. They may keep the pit and kill people who come near them, but they cannot get out of it. . . . But the horror of them!”

“There’s one thing,” I said, trying to calm the fears I had stirred up. “They’re the slowest things I’ve ever seen crawl. They may stay in the pit and kill people who come near them, but they can’t get out of it. . . . But how horrifying they are!”

“Don’t, dear!” said my wife, knitting her brows and putting her hand on mine.

“Don’t, dear!” said my wife, frowning and putting her hand on mine.

“Poor Ogilvy!” I said. “To think he may be lying dead there!”

“Poor Ogilvy!” I said. “He may be lying dead there!”

My wife at least did not find my experience incredible. When I saw how deadly white her face was, I ceased abruptly.

At least my wife believed my account. When I saw how deathly pale her face was, I stopped abruptly.

“They may come here,” she said again and again.

“They may come here,” she said again and again.

I pressed her to take wine, and tried to reassure her.

I urged her to drink some wine and tried to reassure her.

“They can scarcely move,” I said.

“They can hardly move,” I said.

I began to comfort her and myself by repeating all that Ogilvy had told me of the impossibility of the Martians establishing themselves on the earth. In particular I laid stress on the gravitational difficulty. On the surface of the earth the force of gravity is three times what it is on the surface of Mars. A Martian, therefore, would weigh three times more than on Mars, albeit his muscular strength would be the same. His own body would be a cope of lead to him, therefore. That, indeed, was the general opinion. Both The Times and the Daily Telegraph, for instance, insisted on it the next morning, and both overlooked, just as I did, two obvious modifying influences.

I began to comfort her and myself by repeating all that Ogilvy had told me. He had said it was impossible for the Martians to establish themselves on Earth. I especially stressed the problem of gravity. On Earth’s surface, gravity is three times as strong as on Mars. A Martian would therefore weigh three times more than on Mars, though his muscles would be just as strong. His own body would feel like a cloak of lead to him. This was, in fact, the general opinion. For example, both The Times and the Daily Telegraph insisted on it the next morning. And both overlooked two obvious factors that would alter the situation, just as I did.

The atmosphere of the earth, we now know, contains far more oxygen or far less argon (whichever way one likes to put it) than does Mars’. The invigorating influences of this excess of oxygen upon the Martians indisputably did much to counterbalance the increased weight of their bodies. And, in the second place, we all overlooked the fact that such mechanical intelligence as the Martian possessed was quite able to dispense with muscular exertion at a pinch.

We now know that Earth’s atmosphere contains far more oxygen, or far less argon, than Mars’s atmosphere. You can put it either way. The extra oxygen gave the Martians more energy, which undoubtedly did much to offset their increased body weight. Second, we all overlooked the fact that the Martians’ mechanical ingenuity allowed them to do without muscular effort when necessary.

But I did not consider these points at the time, and so my reasoning was dead against the chances of the invaders. With wine and food, the confidence of my own table, and the necessity of reassuring my wife, I grew by insensible degrees courageous and secure.

But I did not consider these points at the time, so I reasoned that the invaders had little chance. The wine and food, the confidence I felt at my own table, and my need to reassure my wife gradually made me feel brave and secure.

“They have done a foolish thing,” said I, fingering my wineglass. “They are dangerous because, no doubt, they are mad with terror. Perhaps they expected to find no living things—certainly no intelligent living things.”

“They have done a foolish thing,” I said, fingering my wineglass. “They are dangerous because they are no doubt frantic with terror. Perhaps they expected to find no living things, certainly no intelligent ones.”

“A shell in the pit,” said I, “if the worst comes to the worst, will kill them all.”

“If the worst happens, a shell in the pit will kill them all,” I said.

The intense excitement of the events had no doubt left my perceptive powers in a state of erethism. I remember that dinner table with extraordinary vividness even now. My dear wife’s sweet anxious face peering at me from under the pink lamp shade, the white cloth with its silver and glass table furniture—for in those days even philosophical writers had many little luxuries—the crimson-purple wine in my glass, are photographically distinct. At the end of it I sat, tempering nuts with a cigarette, regretting Ogilvy’s rashness, and denouncing the short-sighted timidity of the Martians.

The intense excitement of the events had no doubt left my senses unusually sensitive. Even now, I remember the dinner table with extraordinary clarity. I can see my dear wife’s sweet, anxious face peering at me from beneath the pink lampshade. I can see the white tablecloth, the silverware and glasses, and the crimson-purple wine in my glass, all as clearly as a photograph. In those days, even philosophical writers enjoyed many small luxuries. At the end of dinner, I sat eating nuts and smoking a cigarette, regretting Ogilvy’s rashness and condemning the Martians’ shortsighted timidity.

So some respectable dodo in the Mauritius might have lorded it in his nest, and discussed the arrival of that shipful of pitiless sailors in want of animal food. “We will peck them to death tomorrow, my dear.”

In the same way, some respectable dodo in Mauritius might have sat proudly in his nest, discussing the arrival of a ship full of merciless sailors looking for meat. “We will peck them to death tomorrow, my dear.”

I did not know it, but that was the last civilised dinner I was to eat for very many strange and terrible days.

I did not know it, but that was the last civilized dinner I would eat for many strange and terrible days.