Book 1 · Chapter 7

I don’t remember much about running except for bumping into trees and tripping over the rough ground. All around me felt like invisible dangers were lurking. That intense heat blast seemed to spin back and forth, hovering above me before it knocked me out.

I ended up on the road between the crossroads and Horsell, and ran along it to the crossroads. I couldn't go any further. I was totally drained from the fear and the running, so I stumbled and collapsed by the side of the road. That was close to the bridge that goes over the canal near the gasworks.

I just lay there, out cold. I must have been out for a while. I sat up, feeling totally confused. For a moment, I couldn’t even figure out how I’d gotten there. The terror just vanished, like I was shedding a heavy coat. My hat was gone, and my collar had ripped off its button.

Just minutes before, there were only three things that felt real: the vastness of the night and nature, how weak and miserable I felt, and how close death seemed. Now, everything had shifted, like flipping a switch. There was no smooth transition from one state of mind to another.

Suddenly, I was just my normal self - a regular, ordinary guy. The dark open field, the feeling of running for my life, the starting fires - it all felt like a dream. I asked myself, did all of that actually happen? I couldn't believe it.

I got to my feet and walked unsteadily up the steep hill of the bridge. My mind was in shock. My muscles and nerves felt completely empty. I probably looked like I was staggering drunk. A guy’s head popped up over the archway, and a worker carrying a basket appeared.

A little boy was running beside him. They passed me, wishing me goodnight. I wanted to talk to him, but I didn't. I mumbled a meaningless greeting and kept walking over the bridge.

Over the Maybury arch, a train - a huge cloud of white, fire-lit smoke, and a long line of glowing windows - raced south - clatter, clatter, clap, rap - and then it was gone.

A small group of people were talking by the gate of one of the houses in a cute row of houses with gables called Oriental Terrace. Everything felt so real and so familiar. But what was behind me! It was insane, unbelievable! I told myself, things like that couldn’t happen.

Maybe I just have really intense moods. I don’t know how common my experience is.

Sometimes I feel totally detached from myself and the world around me; it’s like I’m watching everything from the outside, from somewhere impossibly far away, outside of time, outside of space, and away from all the stress and tragedy. That feeling was really strong on me that night.

This was another side to the dream. But the weird thing was how peaceful everything felt compared to the sudden threat of death just a couple miles away. You could hear the noise of the gasworks, and all the electric lights were on. I stopped by the group of people.

"What’s the news from the field?" I asked. There were two men and a woman by the gate. "Huh?" one of the men said, turning to me. "What’s the news from the field?" I asked again. "Ain’t you just been there?" the man asked.

"People are acting pretty crazy about the field," the woman said from over the gate. "What’s it all about? "Haven’t you heard about the men from Mars? I said; "the creatures from Mars? "Enough of that," the woman said over the gate. "Thanks"; and all three of them laughed. I felt stupid and angry.

I tried to tell them what I’d seen, but I couldn’t get the words out. They laughed again at my broken sentences. "You’ll hear more yet," I said, and headed home.

I startled my wife at the doorway; I looked that rough. I went into the dining room, sat down, drank some wine, and as soon as I could get my thoughts together, I told her what I’d seen. Dinner, which was already cold, sat untouched on the table while I told my story.

"There’s one thing," I said, to calm the fear I’d stirred up; "they’re the slowest things I’ve ever seen move. They can guard the pit and kill anyone who gets close, but they can’t get out of it... But they were terrifying! "Don’t, honey!" said my wife, frowning and putting her hand on mine.

"Poor Ogilvy! I said. "To think he might be lying dead there! My wife at least didn’t think I was crazy. When I saw how pale her face was, I stopped talking. "They could come here," she kept saying. I urged her to drink some wine and tried to reassure her. "They can barely move," I said.

I started comforting her and myself by repeating everything Ogilvy had told me about how impossible it would be for Martians to settle on Earth. I especially emphasized the gravity issue.

On Earth, gravity is three times stronger than on Mars, so a Martian would weigh three times more than on Mars, even though their strength would be the same. Their own bodies would feel like lead to them. That was the general opinion, anyway.

Both The Times and the Daily Telegraph said so the next morning, and both missed, just as I did, two obvious factors that could change things. We now know that Earth’s atmosphere has a lot more oxygen, or a lot less argon, than Mars’ atmosphere.

The extra oxygen definitely helped the Martians balance out the increased weight of their bodies. And we all overlooked the fact that Martians were smart enough to avoid using muscles if they had to.

But I wasn’t thinking about those things then, so my logic was totally against the idea of an invasion. With wine and food, and the comfort of my own home, and the need to reassure my wife, I gradually felt more confident and secure. "They messed up big time," I said, swirling my wine.

"They’re dangerous because they’re probably freaking out. Maybe they expected to find nothing living - certainly nothing intelligent. "A bomb in the pit," I said, "if things get really bad, will wipe them all out. The excitement of what had happened probably messed with my ability to think clearly.

I remember that dinner table with incredible clarity even now. My dear wife’s worried face peering at me from under the pink lampshade, the white tablecloth with the silver and glass, - back then even writers could afford a few luxuries - the dark red wine in my glass, are all crystal clear.

At the end of it, I was cracking nuts and smoking a cigarette, regretting Ogilvy’s recklessness and making fun of how shortsighted the Martians were. It’s like a fancy pigeon in Mauritius might have bragged from his nest and discussed the arrival of a ship full of ruthless sailors looking for food.

"We’ll peck them to death tomorrow, dear." I didn’t know it, but that was the last normal dinner I’d have for a lot of really strange and awful days.