The Epilogue

I cannot but regret, now that I am concluding my story, how little I am able to contribute to the discussion of the many debatable questions which are still unsettled. In one respect I shall certainly provoke criticism. My particular province is speculative philosophy. My knowledge of comparative physiology is confined to a book or two, but it seems to me that Carver’s suggestions as to the reason of the rapid death of the Martians is so probable as to be regarded almost as a proven conclusion. I have assumed that in the body of my narrative.

As I conclude my story, I regret how little I can contribute to the discussion of the many questions still in dispute. In one respect, I will certainly draw criticism. My own field is speculative philosophy. My knowledge of comparative physiology comes from only a book or two. But Carver’s suggestion about why the Martians died so quickly seems so likely that I regard it as almost proven. I have assumed it was true throughout my account.

At any rate, in all the bodies of the Martians that were examined after the war, no bacteria except those already known as terrestrial species were found. That they did not bury any of their dead, and the reckless slaughter they perpetrated, point also to an entire ignorance of the putrefactive process. But probable as this seems, it is by no means a proven conclusion.

In any case, all the Martian bodies examined after the war contained only bacteria already known to be Earth species. The Martians did not bury any of their dead, and they carried out reckless slaughter. These facts also suggest that they knew nothing about the process of decay. But although this seems likely, it is by no means proven.

Neither is the composition of the Black Smoke known, which the Martians used with such deadly effect, and the generator of the Heat-Rays remains a puzzle. The terrible disasters at the Ealing and South Kensington laboratories have disinclined analysts for further investigations upon the latter. Spectrum analysis of the black powder points unmistakably to the presence of an unknown element with a brilliant group of three lines in the green, and it is possible that it combines with argon to form a compound which acts at once with deadly effect upon some constituent in the blood. But such unproven speculations will scarcely be of interest to the general reader, to whom this story is addressed. None of the brown scum that drifted down the Thames after the destruction of Shepperton was examined at the time, and now none is forthcoming.

The composition of the Black Smoke, which the Martians used with such deadly effect, is also unknown. The device that generated the Heat-Rays remains a mystery. Terrible disasters at the Ealing and South Kensington laboratories have discouraged analysts from investigating the device further. Spectral analysis of the black powder clearly shows an unknown element, with a brilliant group of three lines in the green. This element may combine with argon to form a compound that immediately and fatally affects some component of the blood. But such unproven speculation is unlikely to interest the general reader, for whom this story is intended. After the destruction of Shepperton, brown scum drifted down the Thames. None was examined at the time, and none can be found now.

The results of an anatomical examination of the Martians, so far as the prowling dogs had left such an examination possible, I have already given. But everyone is familiar with the magnificent and almost complete specimen in spirits at the Natural History Museum, and the countless drawings that have been made from it; and beyond that the interest of their physiology and structure is purely scientific.

I have already described the results of the anatomical examination of the Martians. The prowling dogs had left enough remains for only a limited examination. But everyone knows the magnificent, almost complete specimen preserved in alcohol at the Natural History Museum. Everyone also knows the countless drawings made from it. Beyond that, their physiology and structure are of interest only to scientists.

A question of graver and universal interest is the possibility of another attack from the Martians. I do not think that nearly enough attention is being given to this aspect of the matter. At present the planet Mars is in conjunction, but with every return to opposition I, for one, anticipate a renewal of their adventure. In any case, we should be prepared. It seems to me that it should be possible to define the position of the gun from which the shots are discharged, to keep a sustained watch upon this part of the planet, and to anticipate the arrival of the next attack.

A more serious question, important to everyone, is whether the Martians might attack again. I do not think this possibility is getting nearly enough attention. Mars is currently in conjunction, but I expect the Martians to try again each time it returns to opposition. In any case, we should be prepared. I think we should be able to locate the gun they use to fire their shots. We could then keep that part of the planet under constant watch and anticipate the next attack.

In that case the cylinder might be destroyed with dynamite or artillery before it was sufficiently cool for the Martians to emerge, or they might be butchered by means of guns so soon as the screw opened. It seems to me that they have lost a vast advantage in the failure of their first surprise. Possibly they see it in the same light.

In that case, the cylinder might be destroyed with dynamite or artillery before it cooled enough for the Martians to emerge. Or the Martians might be slaughtered with guns as soon as the screw opened. It seems to me that they have lost a huge advantage because their first surprise failed. Perhaps they see it the same way.

Lessing has advanced excellent reasons for supposing that the Martians have actually succeeded in effecting a landing on the planet Venus. Seven months ago now, Venus and Mars were in alignment with the sun; that is to say, Mars was in opposition from the point of view of an observer on Venus. Subsequently a peculiar luminous and sinuous marking appeared on the unillumined half of the inner planet, and almost simultaneously a faint dark mark of a similar sinuous character was detected upon a photograph of the Martian disk. One needs to see the drawings of these appearances in order to appreciate fully their remarkable resemblance in character.

Lessing has offered excellent reasons to believe that the Martians have actually landed on Venus. Seven months ago, Venus and Mars were aligned with the sun. In other words, an observer on Venus would have seen Mars in opposition to the sun. Later, a strange, glowing, winding mark appeared on the unlit half of Venus. Almost simultaneously, a faint, dark mark with a similar winding shape was detected in a photograph of Mars. You need to see the drawings of these marks to fully appreciate their remarkable resemblance.

At any rate, whether we expect another invasion or not, our views of the human future must be greatly modified by these events. We have learned now that we cannot regard this planet as being fenced in and a secure abiding place for Man; we can never anticipate the unseen good or evil that may come upon us suddenly out of space. It may be that in the larger design of the universe this invasion from Mars is not without its ultimate benefit for men; it has robbed us of that serene confidence in the future which is the most fruitful source of decadence, the gifts to human science it has brought are enormous, and it has done much to promote the conception of the commonweal of mankind. It may be that across the immensity of space the Martians have watched the fate of these pioneers of theirs and learned their lesson, and that on the planet Venus they have found a securer settlement. Be that as it may, for many years yet there will certainly be no relaxation of the eager scrutiny of the Martian disk, and those fiery darts of the sky, the shooting stars, will bring with them as they fall an unavoidable apprehension to all the sons of men.

In any case, whether or not we expect another invasion, these events must greatly change our view of humanity’s future. We now know that we cannot regard this planet as a protected, secure home for humanity. We can never foresee what unseen good or evil may suddenly come upon us from space. In the larger design of the universe, the invasion from Mars may ultimately benefit humanity. It has robbed us of the calm confidence in the future that is the greatest source of decline. It has brought enormous gifts to human science and done much to promote the idea of humanity’s common good. Perhaps the Martians have watched from across the vastness of space as these pioneers of theirs met their fate. They may have learned their lesson and found a safer settlement on the planet Venus. Whatever the case, for many years to come we will certainly continue to watch the disk of Mars closely. And as shooting stars, those fiery darts in the sky, fall, they will bring unavoidable fear to all humanity.

The broadening of men’s views that has resulted can scarcely be exaggerated. Before the cylinder fell there was a general persuasion that through all the deep of space no life existed beyond the petty surface of our minute sphere. Now we see further. If the Martians can reach Venus, there is no reason to suppose that the thing is impossible for men, and when the slow cooling of the sun makes this earth uninhabitable, as at last it must do, it may be that the thread of life that has begun here will have streamed out and caught our sister planet within its toils.

The resulting expansion of human understanding can hardly be exaggerated. Before the cylinder fell, people generally believed that no life existed anywhere in space beyond the tiny surface of our minute planet. Now we see further. If the Martians can reach Venus, there is no reason to think humans cannot do the same. As the sun slowly cools, it will eventually make Earth uninhabitable. By then, the thread of life that began here may have spread out and caught our sister planet in its web.

Dim and wonderful is the vision I have conjured up in my mind of life spreading slowly from this little seed bed of the solar system throughout the inanimate vastness of sidereal space. But that is a remote dream. It may be, on the other hand, that the destruction of the Martians is only a reprieve. To them, and not to us, perhaps, is the future ordained.

I have a faint and wonderful vision of life spreading slowly from this little seedbed of the solar system. I imagine it spreading through the vast, lifeless reaches of space between the stars. But that is a distant dream. On the other hand, the destruction of the Martians may only have given us a temporary reprieve. Perhaps the future is destined for them, not us.

I must confess the stress and danger of the time have left an abiding sense of doubt and insecurity in my mind. I sit in my study writing by lamplight, and suddenly I see again the healing valley below set with writhing flames, and feel the house behind and about me empty and desolate. I go out into the Byfleet Road, and vehicles pass me, a butcher boy in a cart, a cabful of visitors, a workman on a bicycle, children going to school, and suddenly they become vague and unreal, and I hurry again with the artilleryman through the hot, brooding silence. Of a night I see the black powder darkening the silent streets, and the contorted bodies shrouded in that layer; they rise upon me tattered and dog-bitten. They gibber and grow fiercer, paler, uglier, mad distortions of humanity at last, and I wake, cold and wretched, in the darkness of the night.

I must admit that the stress and danger of that time have left me with a lasting sense of doubt and insecurity. I sit in my study, writing by lamplight, and suddenly I see the recovering valley below, filled with writhing flames. I feel the house around me and behind me, empty and desolate. I go out into the Byfleet Road, and vehicles pass me: a butcher’s boy in a cart, a cab full of visitors, and a workman on a bicycle. Children pass me on their way to school. Suddenly, they all become vague and unreal, and I am hurrying again with the artilleryman through the hot, oppressive silence. At night, I see the black powder darkening the silent streets and the twisted bodies covered by it. The bodies rise before me, tattered and bitten by dogs. They gibber and grow fiercer, paler, and uglier, until they are monstrous distortions of humanity. Then I wake, cold and miserable, in the darkness of the night.

I go to London and see the busy multitudes in Fleet Street and the Strand, and it comes across my mind that they are but the ghosts of the past, haunting the streets that I have seen silent and wretched, going to and fro, phantasms in a dead city, the mockery of life in a galvanised body. And strange, too, it is to stand on Primrose Hill, as I did but a day before writing this last chapter, to see the great province of houses, dim and blue through the haze of the smoke and mist, vanishing at last into the vague lower sky, to see the people walking to and fro among the flower beds on the hill, to see the sight-seers about the Martian machine that stands there still, to hear the tumult of playing children, and to recall the time when I saw it all bright and clear-cut, hard and silent, under the dawn of that last great day. . . .

I go to London and see the busy crowds on Fleet Street and the Strand. It occurs to me that they are only ghosts of the past, haunting streets I have seen silent and miserable. They move back and forth like phantoms in a dead city, a mockery of life in an electrically animated body. It is strange, too, to stand on Primrose Hill, as I did just a day before writing this last chapter. From there, I see the vast expanse of houses, dim and blue through the haze of smoke and mist. At last, the houses fade into the indistinct sky near the horizon. I see people walking back and forth among the flower beds on the hill. I see sightseers around the Martian machine that still stands there. I hear the noise of children playing. And I remember when I saw it all bright and sharply defined, stark and silent, under the dawn of that last great day. . . .

And strangest of all is it to hold my wife’s hand again, and to think that I have counted her, and that she has counted me, among the dead.

And strangest of all is holding my wife’s hand again and thinking that we each believed the other was dead.