Book 2 · Chapter 3

The arrival of another fighting-machine sent us scrambling from our peephole into the scullery, because we were worried that from his height, the Martian could see us behind our barrier.

Later, we started to feel less threatened by their eyes, since to an eye out there in the bright sunlight, our refuge must have looked like just blackness. But at first, even the slightest hint of them approaching sent us into the scullery in a panic.

Still, even though we were in serious danger - between starving and something even worse - we couldn't resist peeking. I remember now with a weird kind of amazement that, despite being stuck between starvation and a terrifying death, we’d fight each other fiercely for that awful chance to see.

We’d race across the kitchen in a goofy way, balancing eagerness and the fear of making noise, and shove each other, pushing and kicking within just inches of being exposed. The thing is, we had totally different personalities and habits, and being trapped and isolated just made things worse.

Back at Halliford, I already hated the curate’s habit of helpless exclamations and his stubborn way of thinking. His endless rambling monologue messed with every plan I tried to make, and at times, trapped and stressed out like that, it almost drove me crazy.

He had as little self-control as a silly girl. He’s cry for hours, and I truly believe that until the very end, this spoiled kid thought his weak tears somehow helped. And I’d sit in the darkness, unable to stop thinking about him because he wouldn’t stop bothering me.

He ate more than I did, and it was pointless to tell him that our only chance of survival was to stay inside until the Martians were done with their pit - that eventually, patience would bring a time when we’d need food. He ate and drank impulsively, in huge meals spaced far apart. He barely slept.

As the days went on, his complete lack of consideration made our distress and danger so much worse that, even though I hated doing it, I had to resort to threats, and eventually, to hitting him. That got him to come to his senses for a while.

But he was one of those weak people, without pride, scared, and sickly - hateful souls, full of sneaky tricks, who didn't face God or people, not even themselves. It's hard for me to remember and write these things, but I’m writing them down so my story is complete.

People who have escaped the dark and terrible parts of life will probably find my anger and rage in our final tragedy easy to blame, because they know what’s wrong as well as anyone, but they don't know what’s possible for people who are tortured.

But people who have been in the shadow, who have gone down to the basics, will have more understanding.

And while we fought it out inside - with quiet arguments, snatched food and drink, and grabbing hands and blows - outside, in the pitiless sunlight of that terrible June, was the strange sight, the unfamiliar routine of the Martians in the pit. Let me go back to my first new experiences.

After a long time, I dared to go back to the peephole, and found that the newcomers had been joined by people from at least three of the fighting-machines. These last had brought with them some new equipment that stood in an orderly way around the cylinder.

The second handling-machine was now finished, and was busy using one of the new things the big machine had brought. This was a thing that looked like a milk can, with a pear-shaped container wobbling above it, and from which a stream of white powder flowed into a circular basin below.

The machine’s arm moved, pushing the material. With two wide, flat hands, the machine scooped out and tossed huge chunks of clay into a pear-shaped container above. Another arm periodically opened a door and removed clumps of blackened slag from the middle of the machine.

A steely arm directed the powder from a basin along a ridged channel toward something I couldnn't see, hidden behind a pile of blue dust. From this unseen spot, a thin stream of green smoke rose into the quiet air.

As I watched, the machine, with a soft clicking sound, extended a tentacle - just a blunt tip a moment before - until its end disappeared behind the pile of clay.

In another second, it lifted a bar of shiny white aluminum into view, still untarnished and dazzling, and placed it on a growing stack beside the pit.

From sunset to starlight, this clever machine must have made over a hundred of these bars from the rough clay, and the pile of blue dust grew steadily, topping the side of the pit.

The difference between the fast, complicated movements of these machines and the slow, clumsy movements of their operators was striking. For days, I had to remind myself that these were the living things, not the machines.

The curate was guarding the opening when the first people were brought to the pit. I was sitting below, huddled up, listening carefully. He suddenly moved backward, and, fearing we’re being watched, I froze in terror.

He slid down the debris and crept beside me in the darkness, gesturing and unable to speak. For a moment, I shared his panic. His gesture suggested he was giving up the opening, and after a bit, my curiosity gave me courage. I stood up, stepped over him, and climbed up to the opening.

At first, I couldn’t see why he’s been so frantic. Twilight had fallen, the stars were small and faint, but the pit was lit by the flickering green light from the aluminum factory. The whole scene was a shifting pattern of green flashes and shadowy black shapes, strange to look at.

Bats flew overhead, ignoring it all. The massive Martians were no longer visible; the pile of blue-green dust had risen, hiding them from view. A fighting-machine, with its legs folded in, stood in the corner of the pit.

Then, amid the noise of the machinery, I heard a faint sound of human voices, which I initially dismissed. I crouched, watching the fighting-machine closely, finally confirming that the hood really did contain a Martian.

As the green flames flared, I saw the oily sheen of his skin and the brightness of his eyes. Suddenly, I heard a shout, and saw a long tentacle reaching over the machine’s shoulder toward a small cage on its back.

Then, something - struggling wildly - was lifted high against the sky, a dark, unclear shape against the starlight. As this dark object came down again, I saw by the green light that it was a man. For a split second, he was clearly visible.

He was a stout, ruddy, middle-aged man, well-dressed; three days earlier, he must have been walking the world, a man of some importance. I could see his wide eyes and the glint of light on his studs and watch chain. He disappeared behind the pile, and for a moment, there was silence.

Then, began a shrieking and a sustained, cheerful hooting from the Martians.

I slid down the junk, struggled to my feet, clapped my hands over my ears, and bolted into the kitchen. The curate, who had been crouching silently with his arms over his head, looked up as I passed, yelled out pretty loudly at me for ditching him, and came running after me.

That night, as we hid out in the kitchen, caught between our fear and the creepy fascination of watching, even though I really wanted to do something, I couldnn't think of a way to get out. But later, on the second day, I was able to think about our situation pretty clearly.

The curate, I realized, was totally useless for a conversation; this new, worst thing had taken away any sense of reason or planning he had. He was basically acting like an animal. But like the saying goes, I pulled myself together.

It hit me, once I could face the facts, that even though our situation was awful, there was no reason to completely lose hope. Our best chance was if the Martians just saw the pit as a temporary campsite. Or even if they kept it forever, they might not bother guarding it, and we could find a way out.

I also thought about digging a way out, away from the pit, but the idea of popping up in front of one of their robot guards seemed too risky. And I’d have to do all the digging myself. The curate wouldn’t have helped at all. It was on the third day, if I remember right, that I saw the kid get killed.

It was the only time I actually saw the Martians eat. After that, I stayed away from the hole in the wall for most of the day. I went into the kitchen, took the door off, and spent hours digging with my hatchet as quietly as possible.

But when I’d dug about two feet, the loose dirt collapsed with a loud crash, and I didn’t dare keep going. I lost hope and lay on the kitchen floor for a long time, too bummed out even to move. And after that, I gave up on the idea of escaping by digging.

It says a lot about how much the Martians freaked me out that at first, I didn’t think there was any chance we’d get out unless they were defeated by humans. But on the fourth or fifth night, I heard a sound like big guns firing. It was really late, and the moon was shining bright.

The Martians had taken away the digging machine, and except for a robot guard standing far off on the edge of the pit and a handling machine buried out of my sight in a corner right below my peephole, the place was empty.

Except for the faint glow from the handling machine and the patches of white moonlight, the pit was dark, and except for the clinking of the handling machine, totally quiet. That night was so peaceful; besides the moon, it felt like the whole sky was hers.

I heard a dog howling, and that familiar sound made me stop and listen. Then I heard a boom, exactly like the sound of big guns. I counted six shots, and after a long pause, six more. And that was it.