The Man on Putney Hill

I spent that night in the inn that stands at the top of Putney Hill, sleeping in a made bed for the first time since my flight to Leatherhead. I will not tell the needless trouble I had breaking into that house—afterwards I found the front door was on the latch—nor how I ransacked every room for food, until just on the verge of despair, in what seemed to me to be a servant’s bedroom, I found a rat-gnawed crust and two tins of pineapple. The place had been already searched and emptied. In the bar I afterwards found some biscuits and sandwiches that had been overlooked. The latter I could not eat, they were too rotten, but the former not only stayed my hunger, but filled my pockets. I lit no lamps, fearing some Martian might come beating that part of London for food in the night. Before I went to bed I had an interval of restlessness, and prowled from window to window, peering out for some sign of these monsters. I slept little. As I lay in bed I found myself thinking consecutively—a thing I do not remember to have done since my last argument with the curate. During all the intervening time my mental condition had been a hurrying succession of vague emotional states or a sort of stupid receptivity. But in the night my brain, reinforced, I suppose, by the food I had eaten, grew clear again, and I thought.

I spent that night in the inn at the top of Putney Hill. For the first time since my flight to Leatherhead, I slept in a made bed. I will not describe the needless trouble I had breaking into the inn. Afterwards, I found that the front door was unlocked. Nor will I describe how I searched every room for food. Just as I was about to despair, I found a rat-gnawed crust and two tins of pineapple. They were in what seemed to be a servant’s bedroom. The inn had already been searched and emptied. Later, I found some biscuits and sandwiches in the bar that had been overlooked. The sandwiches were too rotten to eat, but the biscuits satisfied my hunger, and I filled my pockets with them. I lit no lamps, fearing that a Martian might be searching that part of London for food during the night. Before going to bed, I grew restless and prowled from window to window, looking for some sign of the monsters. I slept little. As I lay in bed, I found myself thinking clearly and in order. I could not remember doing that since my last argument with the curate. In all the time between, my mind had been a hurried succession of vague emotions, or had been dulled and merely taking things in. But that night my brain grew clear again, strengthened, I suppose, by the food I had eaten, and I thought.

Three things struggled for possession of my mind: the killing of the curate, the whereabouts of the Martians, and the possible fate of my wife. The former gave me no sensation of horror or remorse to recall; I saw it simply as a thing done, a memory infinitely disagreeable but quite without the quality of remorse. I saw myself then as I see myself now, driven step by step towards that hasty blow, the creature of a sequence of accidents leading inevitably to that. I felt no condemnation; yet the memory, static, unprogressive, haunted me. In the silence of the night, with that sense of the nearness of God that sometimes comes into the stillness and the darkness, I stood my trial, my only trial, for that moment of wrath and fear. I retraced every step of our conversation from the moment when I had found him crouching beside me, heedless of my thirst, and pointing to the fire and smoke that streamed up from the ruins of Weybridge. We had been incapable of co-operation—grim chance had taken no heed of that. Had I foreseen, I should have left him at Halliford. But I did not foresee; and crime is to foresee and do. And I set this down as I have set all this story down, as it was. There were no witnesses—all these things I might have concealed. But I set it down, and the reader must form his judgment as he will.

Three things competed for control of my mind: the killing of the curate, the Martians’ whereabouts, and my wife’s possible fate. Remembering the killing gave me no feeling of horror or remorse. I saw it simply as something I had done, an infinitely unpleasant memory, but one that brought no remorse. I saw myself then as I see myself now, driven step by step toward that hasty blow. A series of accidents had shaped my actions and led inevitably to the blow. I felt no condemnation. Yet the memory haunted me, fixed and unchanging. In the silence of the night, I felt that sense of God’s nearness that sometimes comes in stillness and darkness. I stood trial for that moment of anger and fear, my only trial. I went back over every step of our conversation. I began with the moment when I found the curate crouching beside me. He had ignored my thirst and pointed to the fire and smoke rising from the ruins of Weybridge. We had been unable to work together, but grim chance had taken no notice of that. If I had foreseen what would happen, I would have left him at Halliford. But I did not foresee it, and a crime is something you foresee and do. I have written this down as I have written down the whole story, just as it happened. There were no witnesses. I could have concealed all these things. But I have written them down, and the reader must judge as he wishes.

And when, by an effort, I had set aside that picture of a prostrate body, I faced the problem of the Martians and the fate of my wife. For the former I had no data; I could imagine a hundred things, and so, unhappily, I could for the latter. And suddenly that night became terrible. I found myself sitting up in bed, staring at the dark. I found myself praying that the Heat-Ray might have suddenly and painlessly struck her out of being. Since the night of my return from Leatherhead I had not prayed. I had uttered prayers, fetish prayers, had prayed as heathens mutter charms when I was in extremity; but now I prayed indeed, pleading steadfastly and sanely, face to face with the darkness of God. Strange night! Strangest in this, that so soon as dawn had come, I, who had talked with God, crept out of the house like a rat leaving its hiding place—a creature scarcely larger, an inferior animal, a thing that for any passing whim of our masters might be hunted and killed. Perhaps they also prayed confidently to God. Surely, if we have learned nothing else, this war has taught us pity—pity for those witless souls that suffer our dominion.

With an effort, I pushed aside the image of a body lying on the ground. Then I faced the problem of the Martians and my wife’s fate. I had no information about the Martians. I could imagine a hundred possibilities, and, unhappily, I could do the same for my wife’s fate. Suddenly, the night became terrible. I found myself sitting up in bed, staring into the dark. I found myself praying that the Heat-Ray had suddenly and painlessly ended her life. I had not prayed since the night I returned from Leatherhead. I had spoken prayers, prayers treated like magic charms. When desperate, I had prayed as heathens mutter charms. But now I truly prayed. I pleaded steadily and sanely, face to face with the darkness of God. What a strange night! Strangest of all, as soon as dawn came, I crept out of the house like a rat leaving its hiding place. I had talked with God, yet I was a creature scarcely larger than a rat. I was an inferior animal, something our masters might hunt and kill on a passing whim. Perhaps they, too, prayed confidently to God. Surely, if we have learned nothing else, this war has taught us pity. It has taught us to pity those witless creatures who suffer under our rule.

The morning was bright and fine, and the eastern sky glowed pink, and was fretted with little golden clouds. In the road that runs from the top of Putney Hill to Wimbledon was a number of poor vestiges of the panic torrent that must have poured Londonward on the Sunday night after the fighting began. There was a little two-wheeled cart inscribed with the name of Thomas Lobb, Greengrocer, New Malden, with a smashed wheel and an abandoned tin trunk; there was a straw hat trampled into the now hardened mud, and at the top of West Hill a lot of blood-stained glass about the overturned water trough. My movements were languid, my plans of the vaguest. I had an idea of going to Leatherhead, though I knew that there I had the poorest chance of finding my wife. Certainly, unless death had overtaken them suddenly, my cousins and she would have fled thence; but it seemed to me I might find or learn there whither the Surrey people had fled. I knew I wanted to find my wife, that my heart ached for her and the world of men, but I had no clear idea how the finding might be done. I was also sharply aware now of my intense loneliness. From the corner I went, under cover of a thicket of trees and bushes, to the edge of Wimbledon Common, stretching wide and far.

The morning was bright and fine. The eastern sky glowed pink and was dotted with small golden clouds. On the road from the top of Putney Hill to Wimbledon, a few sorry traces remained of the panicked crowd. It must have streamed toward London on Sunday night, after the fighting began. A small two-wheeled cart stood there, bearing the name Thomas Lobb, Greengrocer, New Malden. One wheel was smashed, and a tin trunk had been abandoned beside it. A straw hat had been trampled into the mud, which had now hardened. At the top of West Hill, blood-stained glass lay around the overturned water trough. I moved slowly, and my plans were vague. I thought of going to Leatherhead, though I knew I had little chance of finding my wife there. Unless death had overtaken them suddenly, my cousins and my wife would surely have fled. But I thought I might discover there where the people of Surrey had fled. I knew I wanted to find my wife. My heart ached for her and for the world of men, but I had no clear idea how to find her. I was also painfully aware now of how intensely lonely I was. From the corner, I made my way under cover of trees and bushes to the edge of Wimbledon Common. It stretched wide and far.

That dark expanse was lit in patches by yellow gorse and broom; there was no red weed to be seen, and as I prowled, hesitating, on the verge of the open, the sun rose, flooding it all with light and vitality. I came upon a busy swarm of little frogs in a swampy place among the trees. I stopped to look at them, drawing a lesson from their stout resolve to live. And presently, turning suddenly, with an odd feeling of being watched, I beheld something crouching amid a clump of bushes. I stood regarding this. I made a step towards it, and it rose up and became a man armed with a cutlass. I approached him slowly. He stood silent and motionless, regarding me.

Patches of yellow gorse and broom lit up the dark expanse. There was no red weed in sight. As I prowled hesitantly along the edge of the open ground, the sun rose, flooding everything with light and life. I came upon a busy swarm of little frogs in a swampy place among the trees. I stopped to watch them, taking a lesson from their strong determination to live. Soon, I suddenly felt I was being watched and turned around. I saw something crouching among a clump of bushes. I stood looking at it. I took a step toward it, and it rose up. It was a man armed with a cutlass. I approached him slowly. He stood silent and still, watching me.

As I drew nearer I perceived he was dressed in clothes as dusty and filthy as my own; he looked, indeed, as though he had been dragged through a culvert. Nearer, I distinguished the green slime of ditches mixing with the pale drab of dried clay and shiny, coaly patches. His black hair fell over his eyes, and his face was dark and dirty and sunken, so that at first I did not recognise him. There was a red cut across the lower part of his face.

As I came closer, I saw that his clothes were as dusty and filthy as mine. He looked as though he had been dragged through a drain. Closer still, I could see green slime from the ditches mixed with pale gray dried clay and shiny black patches like coal. His black hair fell over his eyes. His face was dark, dirty, and sunken, so I did not recognize him at first. A red cut ran across the lower part of his face.

“Stop!” he cried, when I was within ten yards of him, and I stopped. His voice was hoarse. “Where do you come from?” he said.

“Stop!” he cried when I was within ten yards of him. I stopped. His voice was hoarse. “Where do you come from?” he asked.

I thought, surveying him.

I thought, looking him over.

“I come from Mortlake,” I said. “I was buried near the pit the Martians made about their cylinder. I have worked my way out and escaped.”

“I come from Mortlake,” I said. “I was buried near the pit the Martians made around their cylinder. I dug my way out and escaped.”

“There is no food about here,” he said. “This is my country. All this hill down to the river, and back to Clapham, and up to the edge of the common. There is only food for one. Which way are you going?”

“There’s no food around here,” he said. “This is my territory. It covers the whole hill down to the river, back to Clapham, and up to the edge of the common. There’s only enough food for one person. Which way are you going?”

I answered slowly.

I answered slowly.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I have been buried in the ruins of a house thirteen or fourteen days. I don’t know what has happened.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve been buried in the ruins of a house for thirteen or fourteen days. I don’t know what has happened.”

He looked at me doubtfully, then started, and looked with a changed expression.

He looked at me doubtfully. Then he startled and looked at me with a different expression.

“I’ve no wish to stop about here,” said I. “I think I shall go to Leatherhead, for my wife was there.”

“I don’t want to stay around here,” I said. “I think I’ll go to Leatherhead, because my wife was there.”

He shot out a pointing finger.

He quickly pointed a finger.

“It is you,” said he; “the man from Woking. And you weren’t killed at Weybridge?”

“It’s you,” he said. “The man from Woking. And you weren’t killed at Weybridge?”

I recognised him at the same moment.

I recognized him at the same moment.

“You are the artilleryman who came into my garden.”

“You’re the artilleryman who came into my garden.”

“Good luck!” he said. “We are lucky ones! Fancy you!” He put out a hand, and I took it. “I crawled up a drain,” he said. “But they didn’t kill everyone. And after they went away I got off towards Walton across the fields. But—— It’s not sixteen days altogether—and your hair is grey.” He looked over his shoulder suddenly. “Only a rook,” he said. “One gets to know that birds have shadows these days. This is a bit open. Let us crawl under those bushes and talk.”

“Good luck!” he said. “We’re the lucky ones! Imagine seeing you!” He held out his hand, and I took it. “I crawled up a drain,” he said. “But they didn’t kill everyone. After they went away, I headed toward Walton across the fields. But it hasn’t even been sixteen days, and your hair is grey.” He suddenly looked over his shoulder. “Only a rook,” he said. “These days, you learn that birds cast shadows too. It’s a bit exposed here. Let’s crawl under those bushes and talk.”

“Have you seen any Martians?” I said. “Since I crawled out——”

“Have you seen any Martians?” I asked. “Since I crawled out...”

“They’ve gone away across London,” he said. “I guess they’ve got a bigger camp there. Of a night, all over there, Hampstead way, the sky is alive with their lights. It’s like a great city, and in the glare you can just see them moving. By daylight you can’t. But nearer—I haven’t seen them—” (he counted on his fingers) “five days. Then I saw a couple across Hammersmith way carrying something big. And the night before last”—he stopped and spoke impressively—“it was just a matter of lights, but it was something up in the air. I believe they’ve built a flying-machine, and are learning to fly.”

“They’ve gone across London,” he said. “I guess they have a bigger camp there. At night, the sky all around Hampstead is alive with their lights. It’s like a great city. In the glare, you can just see them moving. You can’t see them in daylight. But closer to here, I haven’t seen them.” He counted on his fingers. “Five days. Then I saw a couple of them over by Hammersmith, carrying something big. And the night before last,” he paused and spoke with emphasis, “all I saw were lights, but something was up in the air. I believe they’ve built a flying machine and are learning to fly.”

I stopped, on hands and knees, for we had come to the bushes.

I stopped on my hands and knees because we had reached the bushes.

“Fly!”

“Run!”

“Yes,” he said, “fly.”

“Yes,” he said, “run away.”

I went on into a little bower, and sat down.

I went on into a small leafy shelter and sat down.

“It is all over with humanity,” I said. “If they can do that they will simply go round the world.”

“Humanity is finished,” I said. “If they can do that, they will simply go around the world.”

He nodded.

He nodded.

“They will. But—— It will relieve things over here a bit. And besides——” He looked at me. “Aren’t you satisfied it is up with humanity? I am. We’re down; we’re beat.”

“They will. But... It will ease things here a little. And besides...” He looked at me. “Aren’t you convinced it is over for humanity? I am. We’re down. We’re beaten.”

I stared. Strange as it may seem, I had not arrived at this fact—a fact perfectly obvious so soon as he spoke. I had still held a vague hope; rather, I had kept a lifelong habit of mind. He repeated his words, “We’re beat.” They carried absolute conviction.

I stared. Strange as it may seem, I had not realized we were beaten. Yet it was perfectly obvious as soon as he said it. I had still held on to a vague hope. Or rather, I had kept a lifelong habit of mind. He repeated his words, “We’re beaten.” His words carried absolute conviction.

“It’s all over,” he said. “They’ve lost one—just one. And they’ve made their footing good and crippled the greatest power in the world. They’ve walked over us. The death of that one at Weybridge was an accident. And these are only pioneers. They kept on coming. These green stars—I’ve seen none these five or six days, but I’ve no doubt they’re falling somewhere every night. Nothing’s to be done. We’re under! We’re beat!”

“It’s all over,” he said. “They’ve lost one, just one. And they’ve secured their position and crippled the greatest power in the world. They’ve crushed us. The death of the one at Weybridge was an accident. And these are only the first to arrive. They kept coming. I haven’t seen any of those green stars for five or six days. But I’m sure they’re falling somewhere every night. There’s nothing we can do. We’re finished! We’re beaten!”

I made him no answer. I sat staring before me, trying in vain to devise some countervailing thought.

I did not answer him. I sat staring ahead, trying in vain to think of something to counter what he had said.

“This isn’t a war,” said the artilleryman. “It never was a war, any more than there’s war between man and ants.”

“This isn’t a war,” said the artilleryman. “It never was a war, any more than humans are at war with ants.”

Suddenly I recalled the night in the observatory.

Suddenly, I remembered the night in the observatory.

“After the tenth shot they fired no more—at least, until the first cylinder came.”

“After the tenth shot, they stopped firing. At least, they fired no more until the first cylinder came.”

“How do you know?” said the artilleryman. I explained. He thought. “Something wrong with the gun,” he said. “But what if there is? They’ll get it right again. And even if there’s a delay, how can it alter the end? It’s just men and ants. There’s the ants builds their cities, live their lives, have wars, revolutions, until the men want them out of the way, and then they go out of the way. That’s what we are now—just ants. Only——”

“How do you know?” said the artilleryman. I explained. He thought for a moment. “Something’s wrong with the gun,” he said. “But what if there is? They’ll fix it. And even if there’s a delay, how can it change the outcome? It’s just men and ants. The ants build their cities, live their lives, and have wars and revolutions. Then the men want them out of the way, and the ants go out of the way. That’s what we are now, just ants. Only...”

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes,” I said.

“We’re eatable ants.”

“We’re ants they can eat.”

We sat looking at each other.

We sat looking at each other.

“And what will they do with us?” I said.

“And what will they do with us?” I said.

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” he said; “that’s what I’ve been thinking. After Weybridge I went south—thinking. I saw what was up. Most of the people were hard at it squealing and exciting themselves. But I’m not so fond of squealing. I’ve been in sight of death once or twice; I’m not an ornamental soldier, and at the best and worst, death—it’s just death. And it’s the man that keeps on thinking comes through. I saw everyone tracking away south. Says I, ‘Food won’t last this way,’ and I turned right back. I went for the Martians like a sparrow goes for man. All round”—he waved a hand to the horizon—“they’re starving in heaps, bolting, treading on each other. . . .”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. After Weybridge I went south, thinking. I saw what was happening. Most people were busy screaming and getting worked up. But I’m not much for screaming. I’ve come close to death once or twice. I’m not just a soldier for show. And at best or worst, death is just death. It’s the man who keeps thinking who gets through. I saw everyone heading south. I said to myself, ‘Food won’t last this way,’ and I turned right back. I went for the Martians like a sparrow goes for a man. All around”—he waved a hand toward the horizon—“they’re starving in heaps, fleeing, trampling each other. . . .”

He saw my face, and halted awkwardly.

He saw my face and stopped awkwardly.

“No doubt lots who had money have gone away to France,” he said. He seemed to hesitate whether to apologise, met my eyes, and went on: “There’s food all about here. Canned things in shops; wines, spirits, mineral waters; and the water mains and drains are empty. Well, I was telling you what I was thinking. ‘Here’s intelligent things,’ I said, ‘and it seems they want us for food. First, they’ll smash us up—ships, machines, guns, cities, all the order and organisation. All that will go. If we were the size of ants we might pull through. But we’re not. It’s all too bulky to stop. That’s the first certainty.’ Eh?”

“No doubt lots of people with money have gone to France,” he said. He seemed unsure whether to apologize. Then he met my eyes and went on: “There’s food all around here. Canned food in shops, wine, spirits, mineral water. And the water mains and drains are empty. Well, I was telling you what I was thinking. ‘Here are intelligent creatures,’ I said, ‘and it seems they want us for food. First, they’ll smash us up: ships, machines, guns, cities, all the order and organization. All of that will go. If we were the size of ants, we might survive. But we’re not. It’s all too bulky to stop. That’s the first certainty.’ Right?”

I assented.

I agreed.

“It is; I’ve thought it out. Very well, then—next; at present we’re caught as we’re wanted. A Martian has only to go a few miles to get a crowd on the run. And I saw one, one day, out by Wandsworth, picking houses to pieces and routing among the wreckage. But they won’t keep on doing that. So soon as they’ve settled all our guns and ships, and smashed our railways, and done all the things they are doing over there, they will begin catching us systematic, picking the best and storing us in cages and things. That’s what they will start doing in a bit. Lord! They haven’t begun on us yet. Don’t you see that?”

“It is. I’ve thought it through. All right, then, next. Right now, they catch us whenever they want. A Martian only has to travel a few miles to send a crowd running. One day, I saw one near Wandsworth, pulling houses apart and rummaging through the wreckage. But they won’t keep doing that. Once they’ve dealt with all our guns and ships, smashed our railways, and done everything they’re doing over there, they’ll start catching us systematically. They’ll pick the best of us and keep us in cages and things. That’s what they’ll start doing before long. Lord! They haven’t even begun on us yet. Don’t you see that?”

“Not begun!” I exclaimed.

“Not started!” I exclaimed.

“Not begun. All that’s happened so far is through our not having the sense to keep quiet—worrying them with guns and such foolery. And losing our heads, and rushing off in crowds to where there wasn’t any more safety than where we were. They don’t want to bother us yet. They’re making their things—making all the things they couldn’t bring with them, getting things ready for the rest of their people. Very likely that’s why the cylinders have stopped for a bit, for fear of hitting those who are here. And instead of our rushing about blind, on the howl, or getting dynamite on the chance of busting them up, we’ve got to fix ourselves up according to the new state of affairs. That’s how I figure it out. It isn’t quite according to what a man wants for his species, but it’s about what the facts point to. And that’s the principle I acted upon. Cities, nations, civilisation, progress—it’s all over. That game’s up. We’re beat.”

“Not begun. Everything that’s happened so far is because we didn’t have the sense to keep quiet. We bothered them with guns and other foolishness. We lost our heads and rushed off in crowds to places no safer than where we were. They don’t want to bother us yet. They’re making the things they couldn’t bring with them. They’re getting things ready for the rest of their people. That’s probably why the cylinders have stopped coming for a while, for fear of hitting those already here. Instead of rushing around blindly, howling, or getting dynamite in the hope of blowing them up, we need to adapt to the new situation. That’s how I see it. It’s not quite what a man wants for his species, but it’s about what the facts point to. And that’s the principle I acted on. Cities, nations, civilization, progress, it’s all over. The game is up. We’re beaten.”

“But if that is so, what is there to live for?”

“But if that’s true, what is there to live for?”

The artilleryman looked at me for a moment.

The artilleryman looked at me for a moment.

“There won’t be any more blessed concerts for a million years or so; there won’t be any Royal Academy of Arts, and no nice little feeds at restaurants. If it’s amusement you’re after, I reckon the game is up. If you’ve got any drawing-room manners or a dislike to eating peas with a knife or dropping aitches, you’d better chuck ’em away. They ain’t no further use.”

“There won’t be any more damn concerts for a million years or so. There won’t be any Royal Academy of Arts, or any nice little meals at restaurants. If it’s entertainment you’re after, I reckon that’s all over. If you have polite manners, or dislike eating peas with a knife or dropping your aitches, you’d better forget all that. It’s no use anymore.”

“You mean——”

“You mean...”

“I mean that men like me are going on living—for the sake of the breed. I tell you, I’m grim set on living. And if I’m not mistaken, you’ll show what insides you’ve got, too, before long. We aren’t going to be exterminated. And I don’t mean to be caught either, and tamed and fattened and bred like a thundering ox. Ugh! Fancy those brown creepers!”

“I mean that men like me will keep living for the sake of the human race. I’m telling you, I’m determined to live. And if I’m not mistaken, you’ll show what you’re made of before long, too. We aren’t going to be wiped out. And I don’t intend to be caught, tamed, fattened, and bred like some damn ox. Ugh! Just imagine those brown creepers!”

“You don’t mean to say——”

“You don’t mean to say...”

“I do. I’m going on, under their feet. I’ve got it planned; I’ve thought it out. We men are beat. We don’t know enough. We’ve got to learn before we’ve got a chance. And we’ve got to live and keep independent while we learn. See! That’s what has to be done.”

“I do. I’m going on, under their feet. I’ve planned it. I’ve thought it through. We men are beaten. We don’t know enough. We have to learn before we have a chance. And we have to stay alive and independent while we learn. See? That’s what we have to do.”

I stared, astonished, and stirred profoundly by the man’s resolution.

I stared, astonished and deeply moved by the man's determination.

“Great God!” cried I. “But you are a man indeed!” And suddenly I gripped his hand.

“Great God!” I cried. “But you really are a man!” Suddenly, I gripped his hand.

“Eh!” he said, with his eyes shining. “I’ve thought it out, eh?”

“Eh!” he said, his eyes shining. “I’ve figured it out, eh?”

“Go on,” I said.

“Go on,” I said.

“Well, those who mean to escape their catching must get ready. I’m getting ready. Mind you, it isn’t all of us that are made for wild beasts; and that’s what it’s got to be. That’s why I watched you. I had my doubts. You’re slender. I didn’t know that it was you, you see, or just how you’d been buried. All these—the sort of people that lived in these houses, and all those damn little clerks that used to live down that way—they’d be no good. They haven’t any spirit in them—no proud dreams and no proud lusts; and a man who hasn’t one or the other—Lord! What is he but funk and precautions? They just used to skedaddle off to work—I’ve seen hundreds of ’em, bit of breakfast in hand, running wild and shining to catch their little season-ticket train, for fear they’d get dismissed if they didn’t; working at businesses they were afraid to take the trouble to understand; skedaddling back for fear they wouldn’t be in time for dinner; keeping indoors after dinner for fear of the back streets, and sleeping with the wives they married, not because they wanted them, but because they had a bit of money that would make for safety in their one little miserable skedaddle through the world. Lives insured and a bit invested for fear of accidents. And on Sundays—fear of the hereafter. As if hell was built for rabbits! Well, the Martians will just be a godsend to these. Nice roomy cages, fattening food, careful breeding, no worry. After a week or so chasing about the fields and lands on empty stomachs, they’ll come and be caught cheerful. They’ll be quite glad after a bit. They’ll wonder what people did before there were Martians to take care of them. And the bar loafers, and mashers, and singers—I can imagine them. I can imagine them,” he said, with a sort of sombre gratification. “There’ll be any amount of sentiment and religion loose among them. There’s hundreds of things I saw with my eyes that I’ve only begun to see clearly these last few days. There’s lots will take things as they are—fat and stupid; and lots will be worried by a sort of feeling that it’s all wrong, and that they ought to be doing something. Now whenever things are so that a lot of people feel they ought to be doing something, the weak, and those who go weak with a lot of complicated thinking, always make for a sort of do-nothing religion, very pious and superior, and submit to persecution and the will of the Lord. Very likely you’ve seen the same thing. It’s energy in a gale of funk, and turned clean inside out. These cages will be full of psalms and hymns and piety. And those of a less simple sort will work in a bit of—what is it?—eroticism.”

“Well, anyone who means to escape being caught by them must get ready. I’m getting ready. Mind you, not all of us are cut out to live like wild animals. And that’s what we’ll have to do. That’s why I watched you. I had my doubts. You’re slender. You see, I didn’t know it was you, or exactly how you’d been buried. All these people, the kind who lived in these houses, would be no good. Neither would all those damn little clerks who used to live down that way. They have no spirit. They have no proud dreams and no proud desires. And a man who has neither of those, Lord! What is he but fear and precautions? They used to rush off to work. I’ve seen hundreds of them, breakfast in hand, running wildly, with their faces shining, to catch their commuter train. They were afraid they’d be fired if they missed it. They worked at businesses they were afraid to take the trouble to understand. They rushed home, afraid they’d be late for dinner. After dinner, they stayed indoors because they feared the back streets. They slept with wives they’d married, not because they wanted them, but because the women had a little money. That money would make their one little miserable dash through the world safer. They had life insurance and a little money invested, for fear of accidents. And on Sundays, they feared the afterlife. As if hell was built for rabbits! “Well, the Martians will be a godsend to them. Nice roomy cages, food to fatten them up, careful breeding, no worries. After a week or so of chasing about the fields and countryside on empty stomachs, they’ll come and be caught willingly. Before long, they’ll be quite glad. They’ll wonder what people did before there were Martians to take care of them. And the bar loafers, the ladies’ men, and the singers, I can imagine them. I can imagine them,” he said, with a kind of grim satisfaction. “There’ll be plenty of sentiment and religion among them. “There are hundreds of things I saw with my own eyes that I’ve only begun to see clearly these last few days. Lots of people will accept things as they are, fat and stupid. And lots will be troubled by a feeling that it’s all wrong and they ought to be doing something. Now, whenever things make many people feel they ought to be doing something, the weak always turn to a kind of do-nothing religion. So do those who become weak from too much complicated thinking. They become very pious and superior, and submit to persecution and the will of the Lord. You’ve very likely seen the same thing. It’s energy caught in a storm of fear and turned completely inside out. These cages will be full of psalms, hymns, and piety. And those who are less simple will work in a bit of, what is it, eroticism.”

He paused.

He paused.

“Very likely these Martians will make pets of some of them; train them to do tricks—who knows?—get sentimental over the pet boy who grew up and had to be killed. And some, maybe, they will train to hunt us.”

“Those Martians will probably make pets of some of them and train them to do tricks. Who knows? They may even get sentimental about a pet boy who grew up and had to be killed. And maybe they will train some to hunt us.”

“No,” I cried, “that’s impossible! No human being——”

“No,” I cried, “that’s impossible! No human being...”

“What’s the good of going on with such lies?” said the artilleryman. “There’s men who’d do it cheerful. What nonsense to pretend there isn’t!”

“What’s the point of keeping up such lies?” said the artilleryman. “There are men who’d do it gladly. It’s nonsense to pretend there aren’t!”

And I succumbed to his conviction.

And I gave in to his certainty.

“If they come after me,” he said; “Lord, if they come after me!” and subsided into a grim meditation.

“If they come after me,” he said, “Lord, if they come after me!” He fell into gloomy thought.

I sat contemplating these things. I could find nothing to bring against this man’s reasoning. In the days before the invasion no one would have questioned my intellectual superiority to his—I, a professed and recognised writer on philosophical themes, and he, a common soldier; and yet he had already formulated a situation that I had scarcely realised.

I sat thinking about these things. I could find no flaw in the man’s reasoning. Before the invasion, no one would have questioned my intellectual superiority to him. I was a recognized writer on philosophical subjects, and he was a common soldier. Yet he had already worked out a situation that I had barely understood.

“What are you doing?” I said presently. “What plans have you made?”

“What are you doing?” I asked after a while. “What plans have you made?”

He hesitated.

He hesitated.

“Well, it’s like this,” he said. “What have we to do? We have to invent a sort of life where men can live and breed, and be sufficiently secure to bring the children up. Yes—wait a bit, and I’ll make it clearer what I think ought to be done. The tame ones will go like all tame beasts; in a few generations they’ll be big, beautiful, rich-blooded, stupid—rubbish! The risk is that we who keep wild will go savage—degenerate into a sort of big, savage rat. . . . You see, how I mean to live is underground. I’ve been thinking about the drains. Of course those who don’t know drains think horrible things; but under this London are miles and miles—hundreds of miles—and a few days rain and London empty will leave them sweet and clean. The main drains are big enough and airy enough for anyone. Then there’s cellars, vaults, stores, from which bolting passages may be made to the drains. And the railway tunnels and subways. Eh? You begin to see? And we form a band—able-bodied, clean-minded men. We’re not going to pick up any rubbish that drifts in. Weaklings go out again.”

“Well, here’s the situation,” he said. “What do we have to do? We have to invent a way of life where men can live and breed. They must be safe enough to raise their children. Yes, wait a moment, and I’ll make my plan clearer. The tame ones will end up like all tame animals. In a few generations, they’ll be big, beautiful, rich-blooded, stupid. Rubbish! The risk is that we who stay wild will become savages. We might degenerate into a kind of big, savage rat. . . . You see, I plan to live underground. I’ve been thinking about the drains. Of course, people who don’t know the drains imagine horrible things. But there are miles and miles of drains under London, hundreds of miles. A few days of rain, with London empty, will leave them fresh and clean. The main drains are big enough and airy enough for anyone. Then there are cellars, vaults, and storerooms. We could make escape passages from them to the drains. And there are the railway tunnels and subways. Eh? Are you beginning to see? And we’ll form a band of able-bodied, clean-minded men. We won’t take in any rubbish that drifts in. Weaklings will be sent back out.”

“As you meant me to go?”

“As you wanted me to go?”

“Well—I parleyed, didn’t I?”

“Well, I negotiated, didn’t I?”

“We won’t quarrel about that. Go on.”

“We won’t argue about that. Go on.”

“Those who stop obey orders. Able-bodied, clean-minded women we want also—mothers and teachers. No lackadaisical ladies—no blasted rolling eyes. We can’t have any weak or silly. Life is real again, and the useless and cumbersome and mischievous have to die. They ought to die. They ought to be willing to die. It’s a sort of disloyalty, after all, to live and taint the race. And they can’t be happy. Moreover, dying’s none so dreadful; it’s the funking makes it bad. And in all those places we shall gather. Our district will be London. And we may even be able to keep a watch, and run about in the open when the Martians keep away. Play cricket, perhaps. That’s how we shall save the race. Eh? It’s a possible thing? But saving the race is nothing in itself. As I say, that’s only being rats. It’s saving our knowledge and adding to it is the thing. There men like you come in. There’s books, there’s models. We must make great safe places down deep, and get all the books we can; not novels and poetry swipes, but ideas, science books. That’s where men like you come in. We must go to the British Museum and pick all those books through. Especially we must keep up our science—learn more. We must watch these Martians. Some of us must go as spies. When it’s all working, perhaps I will. Get caught, I mean. And the great thing is, we must leave the Martians alone. We mustn’t even steal. If we get in their way, we clear out. We must show them we mean no harm. Yes, I know. But they’re intelligent things, and they won’t hunt us down if they have all they want, and think we’re just harmless vermin.”

“Those who stay must obey orders. We also want able-bodied, clean-minded women, as mothers and teachers. No lazy ladies or damned eye-rolling. We can’t have anyone weak or silly. Life is real again, and the useless, burdensome, and troublesome have to die. They ought to die. They ought to be willing to die. After all, it’s a kind of disloyalty to live and taint the race. And they can’t be happy. Besides, dying isn’t so dreadful. It’s being afraid that makes it bad. “And we’ll gather in all those places. Our district will be London. We may even be able to keep watch and move around in the open when the Martians stay away. Perhaps we could play cricket. That’s how we’ll save the race. Eh? Is it possible? But saving the race is nothing in itself. As I say, that’s just being rats. The important thing is to save our knowledge and add to it. That’s where men like you come in. “There are books and models. We must build great safe places deep underground and collect all the books we can. Not novels and trashy poetry, but books of ideas and science. That’s where men like you come in. We must go to the British Museum and sort through all those books. Above all, we must keep our science alive and learn more. We must watch these Martians. Some of us must go as spies. Once everything is working, perhaps I will. Get caught, I mean. “And the main thing is, we must leave the Martians alone. We mustn’t even steal. If we get in their way, we must clear out. We must show them we mean no harm. Yes, I know. But they’re intelligent creatures. If they have everything they want and think we’re just harmless vermin, they won’t hunt us down.”

The artilleryman paused and laid a brown hand upon my arm.

The artilleryman paused and placed a brown hand on my arm.

“After all, it may not be so much we may have to learn before—Just imagine this: four or five of their fighting machines suddenly starting off—Heat-Rays right and left, and not a Martian in ’em. Not a Martian in ’em, but men—men who have learned the way how. It may be in my time, even—those men. Fancy having one of them lovely things, with its Heat-Ray wide and free! Fancy having it in control! What would it matter if you smashed to smithereens at the end of the run, after a bust like that? I reckon the Martians’ll open their beautiful eyes! Can’t you see them, man? Can’t you see them hurrying, hurrying—puffing and blowing and hooting to their other mechanical affairs? Something out of gear in every case. And swish, bang, rattle, swish! Just as they are fumbling over it, swish comes the Heat-Ray, and, behold! man has come back to his own.”

“After all, perhaps we don’t have that much to learn before... Just imagine this: four or five of their fighting machines suddenly set off, firing Heat-Rays in every direction, with no Martians inside. No Martians inside, but men. Men who have learned how to operate them. Those men might come in my lifetime, even. Imagine having one of those lovely machines, with its Heat-Ray firing freely! Imagine being in control of it! What would it matter if you were smashed to pieces at the end of the run, after a rampage like that? I reckon the Martians will open their beautiful eyes! Can’t you see them, man? Can’t you see them rushing, rushing, puffing and blowing and hooting toward their other machines? Every one of those machines has something out of order. And swish, bang, rattle, swish! Just as they’re fumbling with the machines, swish comes the Heat-Ray, and there you are! Mankind has taken back what is its own.”

For a while the imaginative daring of the artilleryman, and the tone of assurance and courage he assumed, completely dominated my mind. I believed unhesitatingly both in his forecast of human destiny and in the practicability of his astonishing scheme, and the reader who thinks me susceptible and foolish must contrast his position, reading steadily with all his thoughts about his subject, and mine, crouching fearfully in the bushes and listening, distracted by apprehension. We talked in this manner through the early morning time, and later crept out of the bushes, and, after scanning the sky for Martians, hurried precipitately to the house on Putney Hill where he had made his lair. It was the coal cellar of the place, and when I saw the work he had spent a week upon—it was a burrow scarcely ten yards long, which he designed to reach to the main drain on Putney Hill—I had my first inkling of the gulf between his dreams and his powers. Such a hole I could have dug in a day. But I believed in him sufficiently to work with him all that morning until past midday at his digging. We had a garden barrow and shot the earth we removed against the kitchen range. We refreshed ourselves with a tin of mock-turtle soup and wine from the neighbouring pantry. I found a curious relief from the aching strangeness of the world in this steady labour. As we worked, I turned his project over in my mind, and presently objections and doubts began to arise; but I worked there all the morning, so glad was I to find myself with a purpose again. After working an hour I began to speculate on the distance one had to go before the cloaca was reached, the chances we had of missing it altogether. My immediate trouble was why we should dig this long tunnel, when it was possible to get into the drain at once down one of the manholes, and work back to the house. It seemed to me, too, that the house was inconveniently chosen, and required a needless length of tunnel. And just as I was beginning to face these things, the artilleryman stopped digging, and looked at me.

For a while, the artilleryman’s bold imagination and his confident, courageous manner completely took hold of my mind. I believed without hesitation in both his prediction of humanity’s future and the practicality of his astonishing plan. Any reader who thinks me gullible and foolish should compare our positions. The reader can read calmly, with all their thoughts on the subject. I was crouching fearfully in the bushes, listening, my mind distracted by fear. We talked like this through the early morning. Later, we crept out of the bushes and scanned the sky for Martians. Then we hurried to the house on Putney Hill where he had made his hiding place. It was in the coal cellar. There I saw the work he had spent a week on. It was a tunnel barely ten yards long, which he intended to extend to the main drain on Putney Hill. For the first time, I had a hint of the gulf between his dreams and his abilities. I could have dug a hole like that in a day. But I still believed in him enough to help him dig all morning, until after midday. We had a garden wheelbarrow and dumped the earth we removed against the kitchen range. We refreshed ourselves with a tin of mock-turtle soup and wine from the nearby pantry. The steady labor gave me a curious relief from the painful strangeness of the world. As we worked, I thought over his plan, and objections and doubts soon began to arise. But I worked there all morning, so glad was I to have a purpose again. After an hour of work, I began to wonder how far we had to go to reach the main drain. I also wondered how likely we were to miss it altogether. My immediate concern was why we should dig this long tunnel at all. We could have entered the drain at once through a manhole and dug back toward the house. It also seemed to me that he had chosen an inconvenient house, requiring an unnecessarily long tunnel. Just as I was beginning to face these problems, the artilleryman stopped digging and looked at me.

“We’re working well,” he said. He put down his spade. “Let us knock off a bit,” he said. “I think it’s time we reconnoitred from the roof of the house.”

“We’re working well,” he said. He put down his spade. “Let’s take a break,” he said. “I think it’s time we looked around from the roof of the house.”

I was for going on, and after a little hesitation he resumed his spade; and then suddenly I was struck by a thought. I stopped, and so did he at once.

I wanted to keep going, and after hesitating briefly, he started using his spade again. Then a thought suddenly struck me. I stopped, and he stopped at once too.

“Why were you walking about the common,” I said, “instead of being here?”

“Why were you walking around the common,” I said, “instead of being here?”

“Taking the air,” he said. “I was coming back. It’s safer by night.”

“Getting some fresh air,” he said. “I was coming back. It’s safer at night.”

“But the work?”

“But what about the work?”

“Oh, one can’t always work,” he said, and in a flash I saw the man plain. He hesitated, holding his spade. “We ought to reconnoitre now,” he said, “because if any come near they may hear the spades and drop upon us unawares.”

“Oh, you can’t work all the time,” he said, and suddenly I saw the man clearly. He hesitated, holding his spade. “We should scout around now,” he said, “because if any come near, they may hear the spades and catch us by surprise.”

I was no longer disposed to object. We went together to the roof and stood on a ladder peeping out of the roof door. No Martians were to be seen, and we ventured out on the tiles, and slipped down under shelter of the parapet.

I no longer felt like objecting. We went up to the roof together and stood on a ladder, peeking out through the roof door. We saw no Martians, so we ventured onto the tiles and slipped down behind the parapet for shelter.

From this position a shrubbery hid the greater portion of Putney, but we could see the river below, a bubbly mass of red weed, and the low parts of Lambeth flooded and red. The red creeper swarmed up the trees about the old palace, and their branches stretched gaunt and dead, and set with shrivelled leaves, from amid its clusters. It was strange how entirely dependent both these things were upon flowing water for their propagation. About us neither had gained a footing; laburnums, pink mays, snowballs, and trees of arbor-vitae, rose out of laurels and hydrangeas, green and brilliant into the sunlight. Beyond Kensington dense smoke was rising, and that and a blue haze hid the northward hills.

From where we stood, shrubs hid most of Putney. But we could see the river below, a bubbling mass of red weed, and the low parts of Lambeth, flooded and red. The red creeper covered the trees around the old palace. Their bare, dead branches, dotted with shriveled leaves, stretched out from its clusters. It was strange how completely both plants depended on flowing water to spread. Neither had taken hold around us. Laburnums, pink hawthorns, snowball bushes, and arbor-vitae trees rose above laurels and hydrangeas, green and brilliant in the sunlight. Beyond Kensington, dense smoke was rising. The smoke and a blue haze hid the hills to the north.

The artilleryman began to tell me of the sort of people who still remained in London.

The artilleryman began to tell me about the kinds of people still living in London.

“One night last week,” he said, “some fools got the electric light in order, and there was all Regent Street and the Circus ablaze, crowded with painted and ragged drunkards, men and women, dancing and shouting till dawn. A man who was there told me. And as the day came they became aware of a fighting-machine standing near by the Langham and looking down at them. Heaven knows how long he had been there. It must have given some of them a nasty turn. He came down the road towards them, and picked up nearly a hundred too drunk or frightened to run away.”

“One night last week,” he said, “some fools got the electric lights working. All of Regent Street and the Circus were lit up. They were crowded with drunk men and women, some wearing makeup and others in rags. They danced and shouted until dawn. A man who was there told me about it. As daylight came, they noticed a fighting-machine standing nearby, next to the Langham, looking down at them. Heaven knows how long it had been there. It must have given some of them a nasty fright. It came down the road toward them and picked up nearly a hundred who were too drunk or frightened to run away.”

Grotesque gleam of a time no history will ever fully describe!

A grotesque glimpse of a time no history will ever fully describe!

From that, in answer to my questions, he came round to his grandiose plans again. He grew enthusiastic. He talked so eloquently of the possibility of capturing a fighting-machine that I more than half believed in him again. But now that I was beginning to understand something of his quality, I could divine the stress he laid on doing nothing precipitately. And I noted that now there was no question that he personally was to capture and fight the great machine.

In response to my questions, he came back to his grand plans. He grew enthusiastic. He spoke so persuasively about capturing a fighting-machine that I more than half believed him again. But I was beginning to understand what sort of man he was. I could see why he stressed that nothing should be done too hastily. I also noticed that he no longer spoke of capturing and fighting the great machine himself.

After a time we went down to the cellar. Neither of us seemed disposed to resume digging, and when he suggested a meal, I was nothing loath. He became suddenly very generous, and when we had eaten he went away and returned with some excellent cigars. We lit these, and his optimism glowed. He was inclined to regard my coming as a great occasion.

After a while, we went down to the cellar. Neither of us seemed eager to start digging again. When he suggested a meal, I was happy to agree. He suddenly became very generous. After we ate, he went away and returned with some excellent cigars. We lit them, and his optimism grew. He seemed to regard my arrival as a great occasion.

“There’s some champagne in the cellar,” he said.

“There’s some champagne in the cellar,” he said.

“We can dig better on this Thames-side burgundy,” said I.

“We can dig better after drinking this Thames-side burgundy,” I said.

“No,” said he; “I am host today. Champagne! Great God! We’ve a heavy enough task before us! Let us take a rest and gather strength while we may. Look at these blistered hands!”

“No,” he said, “I’m the host today. Champagne! Good God! We have a hard task ahead of us! Let’s rest and regain our strength while we can. Look at these blistered hands!”

And pursuant to this idea of a holiday, he insisted upon playing cards after we had eaten. He taught me euchre, and after dividing London between us, I taking the northern side and he the southern, we played for parish points. Grotesque and foolish as this will seem to the sober reader, it is absolutely true, and what is more remarkable, I found the card game and several others we played extremely interesting.

Keeping with the idea of a holiday, he insisted on playing cards after we ate. He taught me euchre, and we divided London between us. I took the north side and he took the south, and we played for parish points. This may seem absurd and foolish to a sober reader, but it is absolutely true. Even more remarkably, I found the card game and several others we played extremely interesting.

Strange mind of man! that, with our species upon the edge of extermination or appalling degradation, with no clear prospect before us but the chance of a horrible death, we could sit following the chance of this painted pasteboard, and playing the “joker” with vivid delight. Afterwards he taught me poker, and I beat him at three tough chess games. When dark came we decided to take the risk, and lit a lamp.

How strange the human mind is! Our species was on the edge of extinction or terrible degradation. We had no clear prospect before us except the chance of a horrible death. Yet we could sit there, absorbed in a game of cards, and play the “joker” with great delight. Afterwards he taught me poker, and I beat him in three hard-fought chess games. When darkness came, we decided to take the risk and lit a lamp.

After an interminable string of games, we supped, and the artilleryman finished the champagne. We went on smoking the cigars. He was no longer the energetic regenerator of his species I had encountered in the morning. He was still optimistic, but it was a less kinetic, a more thoughtful optimism. I remember he wound up with my health, proposed in a speech of small variety and considerable intermittence. I took a cigar, and went upstairs to look at the lights of which he had spoken that blazed so greenly along the Highgate hills.

After an endless string of games, we had supper, and the artilleryman finished the champagne. We kept smoking the cigars. He was no longer the energetic man I had met that morning, ready to rebuild the human race. He was still optimistic, but his optimism was less energetic and more thoughtful. I remember that he ended by proposing a toast to my health. His speech was repetitive and often interrupted by pauses. I took a cigar and went upstairs to look at the lights he had mentioned. They blazed green along the Highgate hills.

At first I stared unintelligently across the London valley. The northern hills were shrouded in darkness; the fires near Kensington glowed redly, and now and then an orange-red tongue of flame flashed up and vanished in the deep blue night. All the rest of London was black. Then, nearer, I perceived a strange light, a pale, violet-purple fluorescent glow, quivering under the night breeze. For a space I could not understand it, and then I knew that it must be the red weed from which this faint irradiation proceeded. With that realisation my dormant sense of wonder, my sense of the proportion of things, awoke again. I glanced from that to Mars, red and clear, glowing high in the west, and then gazed long and earnestly at the darkness of Hampstead and Highgate.

At first I stared across the London valley without understanding what I saw. The northern hills were hidden in darkness. The fires near Kensington glowed red, and now and then an orange-red tongue of flame rose and vanished in the deep blue night. All the rest of London was black. Then, closer by, I saw a strange light. It was a pale, violet-purple fluorescent glow, trembling in the night breeze. For a while I could not understand it. Then I realized that the faint glow must be coming from the red weed. With that realization, my dormant sense of wonder and my sense of the scale of things came alive again. I glanced from the glow to Mars, red and clear, shining high in the west. Then I gazed long and intently at the darkness of Hampstead and Highgate.

I remained a very long time upon the roof, wondering at the grotesque changes of the day. I recalled my mental states from the midnight prayer to the foolish card-playing. I had a violent revulsion of feeling. I remember I flung away the cigar with a certain wasteful symbolism. My folly came to me with glaring exaggeration. I seemed a traitor to my wife and to my kind; I was filled with remorse. I resolved to leave this strange undisciplined dreamer of great things to his drink and gluttony, and to go on into London. There, it seemed to me, I had the best chance of learning what the Martians and my fellowmen were doing. I was still upon the roof when the late moon rose.

I stayed on the roof for a long time, marveling at the day's strange changes. I thought back over my moods, from the midnight prayer to the foolish card game. My feelings changed violently. I remember throwing away my cigar in a deliberately wasteful gesture. My foolishness seemed terribly exaggerated to me. I felt like a traitor to my wife and to my fellow humans. I was filled with remorse. I decided to leave this strange, undisciplined dreamer of great things to his drinking and gluttony and go on to London. There, I thought I had the best chance of learning what the Martians and my fellow humans were doing. I was still on the roof when the moon rose late.