Book 2 · Chapter 7

I spent that night in the inn at the top of Putney Hill, sleeping in a real bed for the first time since I ran away to Leatherhead. I’m not going to tell you about the trouble I had getting in - turns out the front door was unlocked - or how I tore every room apart looking for food.

I was about to give up when I found a crust chewed by rats and two cann't of pineapple in what looked like a maid’s room. The place had already been searched and emptied. Later in the bar, I found some biscuits and sandwiches that someone had missed.

The sandwiches were totally gross, but the biscuits not only stopped my hunger, they filled my pockets. I didn’t light any lamps, afraid a Martian might be wandering around London looking for food.

Before I went to bed, I couldn't settle down and paced from window to window, looking for any sign of those monsters. I barely slept a wink. Lying in bed, I found myself thinking clearly - something I hadn’t done since my last argument with the priest.

Everything in between had been a jumble of feelings or just a blank space in my head. But that night, my brain, probably helped by the food, came back to me, and I thought. Three things kept popping into my head: killing the priest, where the Martians were, and what might have happened to my wife.

Remembering the priest didn’t give me any horror or regret; I just saw it as something I’d done, a really bad memory, but nothing I felt bad about. I saw myself then as I see myself now, pushed step by step towards that quick blow, a result of a bunch of accidents that led right to it.

I didn’t feel guilty, but the memory stuck with me, frozen in time. In the quiet of the night, with that feeling of being close to God that sometimes comes in the stillness and darkness, I put myself on trial - my only trial - for that moment of anger and fear.

I went over every part of our conversation, from the moment I found him huddled beside me, ignoring my thirst, and pointing to the fire and smoke rising from the ruins of Weybridge. We couldn't have worked together - bad luck hadn’t taken that into account.

If I’d known what was coming, I would have left him at Halliford. But I didn't know, and crime is about seeing what's coming and doing it anyway. And I’m writing this down, like I’m writing down everything else, just as it was. There were no witnesses - I could have hidden all this.

But I’m putting it all out there, and you can decide what you think. And when, with a huge effort, I pushed that picture of a body on the floor out of my head, I faced the problem of the Martians and my wife’s fate.

I had no clues about the Martians, and I could imagine a hundred terrible things, and, unfortunately, I could for her too. And suddenly, that night became terrifying. I found myself sitting up in bed, staring into the dark.

I found myself praying that the Heat-Ray might have instantly and painlessly erased her from existence. Since I got back from Leatherhead, I hadn’t prayed.

I’d mumbled prayers, like a pagan muttering charms when I was desperate; but now I prayed for real, pleading earnestly and sensibly, face to face with the darkness of God. Strange night!

Strangest thing was that as soon as dawn came, I, who had talked to God, crept out of the house like a rat leaving its hiding place - a creature barely bigger, an inferior animal, a thing that our masters could hunt and kill on a whim. Maybe they also prayed confidently to God.

Surely, if we’ve learned anything, this war has taught us pity - pity for those clueless souls who suffer our control.

The morning was bright and clear, and the eastern sky glowed pink, dotted with tiny golden clouds. On the road between the top of Putney Hill and Wimbledon, there were a few sad reminders of the panic that had swept Londonward the Sunday night after the fighting started.

There was a little two-wheeled cart with the name "Thomas Lobb, Greengrocer, New Malden" on it, with a smashed wheel and a forgotten metal trunk. There was a straw hat trampled into the now-hard mud, and at the top of West Hill, a bunch of blood-stained glass near an overturned water trough.

I was moving slowly, with no real plans. I thought about heading to Leatherhead, even though I knew I’d probably have the worst luck finding my wife there.

My cousins and she probably got out of there fast, unless they suddenly died, but I figured I might find some clues about where the people from Surrey had gone. I really wanted to find my wife - my heart ached for her and for the world - but I had no idea how to go about it.

I also realized how incredibly lonely I was. I ducked under a thicket of trees and bushes to the edge of Wimbledon Common, which stretched out wide and far. That dark area was lit up in patches by yellow gorse and broom; I didn’t see any reddish weeds.

As I wandered around, pausing, at the edge of the open space, the sun rose, flooding everything with light and energy. I came across a busy group of little frogs in a swampy spot among the trees. I stopped to watch them, drawing strength from their determination to live.

Then, suddenly turning, with a weird feeling like I was being watched, I saw something crouched among a bunch of bushes. I stared at it. I took a step toward it, and it stood up and turned out to be a man with a cutlass. I approached him slowly. He stood silent and still, looking at me.

As I got closer, I noticed he was dressed in clothes as dusty and dirty as mine; he looked like he’d been dragged through a ditch. Closer still, I could see the green slime of ditches mixed with the pale gray of dried clay and shiny, black patches.

His black hair fell over his eyes, and his face was dark, dirty, and sunken, so at first I didn’t recognize him. There was a red cut across the lower part of his face. "Stop!" he shouted when I was about thirty yards away, and I stopped. His voice was raspy. "Where are you from?" he asked.

I studied him. "I’m from Mortlake," I said. "I was buried near the pit the Martians made around their cylinder. I dug my way out and escaped. "There’s no food around here," he said. "This is my territory. This whole hill, down to the river, and back to Clapham, and up to the edge of the common."

There’s only enough food for one. Where are you headed? I answered slowly. I don’t know, I said. I’m been buried in the ruins of a house for thirteen or fourteen days. I don’t know what’s happened. He looked at me doubtfully, then jumped, and looked at me with a changed expression.

"I don’t want to stick around here," I said. "I think I’ll go to Leatherhead, because my wife was there. He shot out a pointing finger. "It’s you!" he said; "the man from Woking. And you weren’t killed at Weybridge? I recognized him at the same moment.

"You’re the artilleryman who came into my garden. "Good luck!" he said. "We’re lucky ones! Can you believe it? He held out a hand, and I shook it. "I crawled up a drain," he said. "But they didn’t kill everyone. And after they left, I got off towards Walton across the fields."

"But - - It hasn’t been quite sixteen days - and your hair is gray. He looked over his shoulder suddenly. "Just a rook," he said. "You get to know that birds have shadows these days. This is a bit open. Let’s crawl under those bushes and talk. "Have you seen any Martians? I asked.

"Since I crawled out - - "

"They’re gone, all across London," he said. "I think they’re setting up a bigger camp over there. At night, all over Hampstead way, the sky’s buzzing with their lights. It’s like a whole city up there, and you can just make out them moving in the glare. You can’t see them during the day, though."

But closer - I haven’t seen them - " (he counted on his fingers) "for five days. Then I spotted a couple across Hammersmith way carrying something huge. And the night before last" - he paused, speaking seriously - "it was just a bunch of lights, but it was something up in the air.

"I think they’ve built a flying machine and are learning to fly. I stopped, dropping to my hands and knees, because we’d reached the bushes. "Fly! "Yeah," he said, "fly. I went into a little clearing and sat down. "It’s over for humanity," I said.

"If they can do that, they’ll just go around the whole world. He nodded. "They will. But - it’s gonna ease things up around here a bit. And besides - " He looked at me. "Aren’t you okay with the fact that humanity’s done for? I am. We’re down; we’re beat. I stared.

Weird as it sounds, I hadn't realized it - a fact that was pretty obvious once he said it. I’d still been holding onto a vague hope; more like a lifelong habit. He repeated his words, We’re beat. They just felt...true. It’s all over, he said. They lost one - just one.

And they’ve got a solid foothold and crippled the biggest power in the world. They’re walking all over us. That death at Weybridge was an accident. And these are just the pioneers. They’re still coming.

"Those green stars - I haven’t seen any in five or six days, but I’m sure they’re falling somewhere every night. There’s nothing we can do. We’re under! We’re beat! I didn’t reply. I just sat there, staring, trying to think of something - anything - to fight back.

"This isn’t a war," the artilleryman said. "It never was a war, any more than there’s a war between people and ants. Suddenly, I remembered that night at the observatory. "After the tenth shot they didn’t fire again - at least, not until the first cylinder came."

"How do you know?" the artilleryman asked. I explained. He thought for a moment. "Something 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 end? It’s just people and ants."

"The ants build their cities, live their lives, have wars, revolutions, until people want them gone, and then they’re gone. That’s what we are now - just ants. Only - " "Yeah," I said. "We’re edible ants. We just looked at each other. "And what will they do with us? I asked.

"That’s what I’m thinking," he said; "that’s what I’m thinking. After Weybridge, I went south - thinking. I saw what was up. Most people were panicking, getting worked up. But I’m not really into that."

I’ve been face-to-face with death a couple of times; I’m not an ornamental soldier, and at best or worst, death - it’s just death. And the guy who keeps thinking is the one who makes it through. I saw everyone running south. I said, ‘Food’s not gonna last like this,’ and I turned right around.

"I went for the Martians like a sparrow goes for a person. Everywhere" - he waved his hand across the horizon - "they’re starving in piles, bolting, stepping on each other... . He saw my face and stopped awkwardly. "No doubt lots of people with money have gone to France," he said.

He seemed to hesitate whether to apologize, met my eyes, and went on: "There’s food all around here. Canned stuff in shops; wines, spirits, mineral water; and the water mains and drains are empty. Well, I was telling you what I was thinking."

‘Here’s smart stuff,’ I said, ‘and it looks like they want us for food. First, they’re gonna smash us up - ships, machines, guns, cities, all the order and organization. All of that’s gonna 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?" I nodded.

"That’s it; I’ve figured it out. Okay, so - next. Right now, we’re stuck, and they’re looking for us. A Martian just has to go a few miles to get a bunch of people running scared. And I saw one, one day, out by Wandsworth, tearing houses apart and messing with the wreckage."

But they won’t keep doing that forever. As soon as they’re done taking out our guns and ships, and wrecking our train lines, and doing all the stuff they’re doing over there, they’ll start catching us, picking out the best ones, and sticking us in cages and stuff.

That’s what they’ll start doing soon. Seriously! They haven’t even started with us yet. Don’t you get it? "Not started! I blurted out. "Not started. Everything that’s happened so far is because we didn’t keep quiet - bothering them with guns and dumb stuff.

And we lost our heads, and ran off in crowds to places that weren’t any safer than where we were. They don’t want to mess with us just yet. They’re building their things - making all the stuff they couldn’t bring with them, getting ready for the rest of their people.

Probably that’s why the cylinders stopped for a bit, so they wouldn’t hit anyone who’s here. And instead of us running around blindly, or blowing up dynamite to try and take them out, we need to get ourselves together, according to how things are now. That’s how I see it.

"It’s not exactly what a person wants for humanity, but it’s what the facts are pointing to. And that’s the principle I’ve been acting on. Cities, countries, civilization, progress - it’s all over. That game’s done. We’re toast. "But if that’s true, what’s the point of even living?"

The artilleryman looked at me for a second. "There aren’t going to be any more concerts for a million years or so; there won’t be any Royal Academy of Arts, and no nice dinners at restaurants. If you’re looking for fun, the game is over."

If you’re all about good manners or hate dropping your 'h's, you better ditch them. They’re not useful anymore." "You mean - - " "I mean that guys like me are going to keep living - for the sake of our species. I’m serious about living.

And if I’m not mistaken, you’ll show what you’re made of soon enough. We’re not getting wiped out. And I’m not letting myself get caught, tamed, fattened, and bred like a crazy ox. Ugh! Just thinking about those creepy crawlers! "You don’t mean to say - - " "I do.

"I’m going on, right 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 stay independent while we learn. See? That’s what needs to happen."

I stared, amazed and deeply affected by the man’s determination. "Great God!" I cried. "But you’re a man indeed!" And suddenly I grabbed his hand. "Eh!" he said, his eyes shining. "I’ve thought it out, eh?" "Go on," I said.

"Okay, so anyone trying to escape needs to get ready. I’m getting ready. Look, not everyone’s cut out for wild beasts; and that’s basically what this is. That’s why I was watching you. I had my doubts. You’re kind of thin. I didn’t know if it was you, you know, or how you’d been hiding out."

All these - the kind of people who lived in these houses, and all those annoying little office workers who used to live down that way - they’re useless. They’re just soft. No big dreams, no real desires; and a guy without one or the other - seriously!

What is he but a scaredy-cat, always playing it safe?

They just rush off to work - I’ve seen hundreds of them, grabbing a quick bite, racing to catch their commuter train, terrified of getting fired if they’re late; working jobs they’re too afraid to even try to understand; rushing back home to make it for dinner; staying inside after dinner because they’re afraid of the back alleys, and sleeping with the wives they married, not because they’re into them, but because they’ll provide some financial security for their one little, safe life.

Insurance policies and investments, just in case something goes wrong. And Sundays - worrying about the afterlife. As if hell was built for rabbits! Well, the Martians will be a total blessing for these guys. Nice roomy cages, good food, careful breeding, no stress.

After a week or so of running around the fields and lands on empty stomachs, they’ll come around and get caught, happy as can be. They’ll be glad after a bit. They’ll wonder what people even did before there were Martians to take care of them.

And the guys hanging out at the bar, the smooth talkers, and the singers - I can picture them. I can picture them," he said, with a kind of dark satisfaction. "There’s going to be tons of sentiment and religion floating around.

I’ve seen things with my own eyes that I’m only just starting to understand clearly these last few days. Lots will just accept things as they are - fat and clueless; and lots will be bothered by a feeling that it’s all wrong, and they should be doing something.

Now, whenever things are like that - when a lot of people feel they should be doing something - the weak ones, and those who get weak from overthinking, always fall into some do-nothing religion, super pious and superior, and submit to persecution and the will of the Lord.

"You’ve probably seen it before. It’s energy fueled by fear, turned completely inside out. These cages will be full of psalms and hymns and piety. And some of the others will get into a bit of - what is it? - eroticism." He paused.

It’s likely these Martians will make pets of some of them; train them to do tricks - who knows? - get all sentimental over the pet boy who grew up and had to be killed. And some, maybe, they’ll train to hunt us. No, I shouted, that’s impossible!

No human being - - " "What’s the point of pretending otherwise?" said the artilleryman. "There are people who’d do it happily. Don’t be ridiculous! And I gave in to his conviction. "If they come after me," he said; "man, if they come after me!" and fell silent, lost in thought."

I sat there thinking about all this. I couldn’t find anything wrong with his reasoning.

Before the invasion, nobody would have questioned my intelligence compared to his - me, a recognized writer on philosophical themes, and him, a regular soldier; and yet he had already figured out a situation I hadn’t even realized. "What are you doing? I said finally. "What plans do you have?"

He hesitated.

"Okay, so here’s the deal," he said. "What do we do? We need to build a kind of life where people can live, have kids, and feel safe enough to raise them. Yeah - wait a sec, let me explain better what I think we should do."

The tame ones will be like all tame animals; in a few generations, they’ll be big, beautiful, rich, and totally clueless - a mess! The risk is that we who stay wild will become savage - degrade into a giant, savage rat... You get it? How I want to live is underground.

I’ve been thinking about the sewers. Of course, people who don’t know sewers think awful things; but under this London are miles and miles - hundreds of miles - and a few days of rain and London will be empty, leaving them clean and fresh. The main sewers are big enough and airy enough for anyone.

Then there are cellars, vaults, storage rooms, where we can make passages to the sewers. And the railway tunnels and subways. See? You’re getting it? And we form a group - strong, clear-thinking men. We’re not picking up any random people who wander in. Weaklings have to go back out.

" "Like you meant for me to go? "Well - I talked it over, didn’t I? "We’re not gonna argue about that. Go on. "Those who stop obey orders. We need strong, clear-thinking women too - mothers and teachers. No space for flaky ladies - no rolling eyes. We can’t have anyone weak or silly.

Life is real again, and the useless, clumsy, and troublemakers have to go. They should go. They should be willing to go. It’s a kind of disloyalty, really, to live and pollute the race. And they can’t be happy. Plus, dying isn’t so bad; it’s the freaking out that makes it terrible.

And in all those places, we’ll gather. Our area will be London. And we might even be able to keep an eye out and run around outside when the Martians aren’t around. Play cricket, maybe. That’s how we’ll save the race. Get it? It’s possible? But saving the race isn’t really the point.

As I said, that’s just being rats. It’s saving our knowledge and adding to it that’s important. That’s where guys like you come in. There are books, there are models.

We need to build huge, safe places deep underground, and gather all the books we can - not just novels and poetry, but ideas, science books. That’s where guys like you come in. We need to go to the British Museum and go through all those books. Especially, we need to keep up our science - learn more.

We need to watch these Martians. Some of us need to go as spies. When it’s all working, maybe I will. Get caught, I mean. And the big thing is, we need to leave the Martians alone. We shouldn’t even steal. If we get in their way, we clear out. We need to show them we mean no harm. Yeah, I know.

But they’re smart, and they won’t hunt us down if they have everything they want and think we’re just harmless pests." The artilleryman paused and put a brown hand on my arm. "After all, it might not be so much we’ll have to learn before -

Just imagine this: four or five of their fighting machines suddenly starting off - Heat-Rays left and right, and not a Martian in any of them. Not a Martian in any of them, but men - men who’ve learned how to do it. It could even happen in my lifetime - those men.

Imagine having one of those awesome things, with its Heat-Ray wide open! Imagine controlling it! What would it matter if you got blown to smithereens at the end of the run, after a win like that? I bet the Martians’ll open their eyes! Can’t you see them, man?

"Can’t you see them hurrying, hurrying - panting and hooting to their other machines? Something messed up in every case. And swish, bang, rattle, swish! Just as they’ll be messing with it, swish goes the Heat-Ray, and, look! Man has come back to his own."

For a while, the artilleryman’s imagination and confidence totally dominated my mind.

I believed completely in his predictions about what would happen to humanity and in his crazy plan, and anyone who thinks I’m easily fooled should compare his position - focused on his work, thinking about his subject - to mine, huddled nervously in the bushes and listening, distracted by worry.

We talked like this all through the early morning, and later we crept out of the bushes and, after checking the sky for Martians, hurried to the house on Putney Hill where he’s been setting up.

It was the coal cellar, and when I saw what he’s been working on for a week - a tunnel barely ten yards long, designed to reach the main drain on Putney Hill - I realized how far apart his dreams and his abilities really were. I could have dug that hole in a day.

But I believed in him enough to work with him all that morning, until after midday. We had a garden wheelbarrow and shot the dirt we removed against the kitchen stove. We refreshed ourselves with a can of mock-turtle soup and wine from the pantry next door.

I felt a real sense of relief from the weird, unsettling feeling in the world, just doing this steady work. As we worked, I kept thinking about his project, and soon doubts and objections started popping up, but I kept working there all morning, so glad to have a purpose again.

After an hour, I started wondering how far you had to dig to reach the sewer, and what the chances were of missing it entirely. My immediate problem was why we were digging this long tunnel when we could just climb down one of the manholes and work back to the house.

It also seemed like the house was in a really inconvenient spot, adding a bunch of unnecessary tunnel length. And just as I was starting to think about all this, the artilleryman stopped digging and looked at me. "We’re doing a good job," he said. He put down his shovel.

"Let’s take a break," he said. "I think it’s time we checked things out from the roof of the house. I wanted to keep going, and after a little hesitation, he picked up his shovel again. Then suddenly, I had a thought. I stopped, and he stopped too.

"Why were you walking around the common," I asked, "instead of being here? "Getting some fresh air," he said. "I was coming back. It’s safer at night. "But the work? "Oh, you can’t always work," he said, and in a flash, I understood who he really was. He hesitated, holding his shovel.

"We should check things out now," he said, "because if anyone gets close, they might hear the shovels and drop down on us without warning." I wasn’t going to argue. We went up to the roof and stood on a ladder, peeking out of the roof door.

No Martians were to be seen, and we ventured out onto the tiles, slipping down under the shelter of the wall. From this spot, a thicket of bushes hid most of Putney, but we could see the river below, a bubbly mess of red seaweed, and the lower parts of Lambeth flooded and red.

The red vines covered the trees around the old palace, and their branches stretched out, gaunt and dead, covered with shriveled leaves, from among its clusters. It was weird how completely dependent these things were on flowing water to spread.

Nothing had taken root around us yet; laburnums, pink mays, snowballs, and arbor-vitae trees rose out of laurels and hydrangeas, bright green into the sunlight. Beyond Kensington, thick smoke was rising, and that and a blue haze hid the hills to the north.

The artilleryman started telling me about the kinds of people still left in London.

"One night last week," he said, "some guys messed with the power, and Regent Street and the Circus were totally lit up - packed with drunk, wild people, men and women, dancing and yelling until morning. A guy who was there told me."

And as the day came, they realized there was this huge machine standing nearby the Langham, looking down at them. Who knows how long it had been there? It must have freaked some of them out.

It came down the road towards them, and picked up almost a hundred people who were too drunk or scared to run away. Wild, crazy scene that no history book will ever fully capture! From that, answering my questions, he went back to his big plans. He got super excited."

He talked so well about the possibility of capturing a fighting machine that I almost believed him again. But now that I was starting to understand what he was like, I could tell he was all about not rushing into anything.

And I noticed that there was no doubt he wanted to capture and fight the huge machine himself. After a while, we went down to the basement. Neither of us felt like digging anymore, and when he suggested a meal, I was totally up for it.

He suddenly became really generous, and when we were done eating, he went away and came back with some awesome cigars. We lit them, and his optimism was glowing. He thought my visit was a big deal. "There’s some champagne in the basement," he said.

"We can dig better with this Thames-side burgundy," I said. "Nah," he said; "I’m hosting today. Champagne! Seriously! We’ve got a huge job ahead of us! Let’s take a break and get some strength while we can. Look at these busted-up hands!"

And to go with this holiday idea, he insisted on playing cards after we ate. He taught me euchre, and after splitting London between us - I taking the northern part and he the southern - we played for parish points.

It might seem goofy and silly to a serious person, but it’s absolutely true, and what’s even more crazy, I found the card game and a few others we played really interesting. Strange thing about people!

With our species facing extinction or falling apart, with no clear future except the chance of a horrible death, we could sit there following the luck of this painted cardboard, and playing the "joker" with real excitement. Afterwards he taught me poker, and I beat him at three tough chess games.

When it got dark, we decided to take the risk and lit a lamp. After a ton of games, we ate, and the artilleryman finished the champagne. We kept smoking the cigars. He wasnn't the energetic guy trying to save our species that I’d met in the morning .

He was still optimistic, but it was calmer, more thoughtful. I remember he ended up giving a toast about my health, a speech that was a little rambling and not super polished. I took a cigar and went upstairs to look at the lights he’d talked about, blazing so greenly along the Highgate hills.

At first, I stared blankly across the London valley. The northern hills were dark; the fires near Kensington glowed red, and now and then an orange-red burst of flame flashed up and disappeared into the deep blue night. The rest of London was black.

Then, closer, I saw this weird light, a pale, violet-purple glow, shimmering in the night breeze. For a moment, I didn’t get it, and then I realized it had to be the red weed that was causing this faint light.

With that realization, my sense of wonder, my understanding of how things fit together, woke up again. I glanced from that to Mars, red and clear, shining high in the west, and then I stared for a long time at the darkness of Hampstead and Highgate.

I stayed up on the roof for ages, totally tripping out over how crazy the day had changed. I kept thinking about everything that had happened - from my midnight prayer to the dumb card game. I felt this huge wave of disgust. I remember just tossing my cigar away, like a super dramatic move.

My mistakes hit me hard, like, really obvious. I felt like I'd betrayed my wife and everyone I cared about; I was seriously regretting things. I decided to ditch this weird, out-of-control dreamer who was always going on about big plans and just drinking and overeating.

I figured London was the best place to figure out what the Martians and people were up to. I was still on the roof when the moon finally came out.