Christopher Priest - The Space Machine

Once more occupied with the regular physical task of rowing, I found my thoughts returning to the orderly procession they had enjoyed shortly before we met Mr Wells arid the curate.

Until this moment I had not tried to understand why we were so determined to reach Sir William’s house. Mr Wells’s mention of the Time Machine, though, had focused my thoughts directly on the reason: in some instinctive way it had occurred to me that the Machine itself might be used against Martians. It was, after all, the instrument by which we had first reached Mars, and its weird movements through the attenuated dimensions of Space and Time were certainly unequalled by anything the Martians commanded.

However, if the Time Machine were no longer available, then any such idea had to be abandoned. We were pressing on to Richmond, though, for Sir William’s house, lying in its secluded position just behind the ridge of the Hill, would be a safer sanctuary than most from the Martians.

Facing Amelia as I was, I noticed that she too seemed lost in thought, and I wondered if she had been coming to the same conclusion.

At last, not wishing to ignore Mr Wells, I said: “Sir, do you know what preparations the Army is making?”

“Only what we have seen today. They were taken quite unawares. Even from the early moments of the invasion, no one in authority was prepared to take the situation seriously.”

“You speak as if you are critical.”

“I am,” said Mr Wells. “The fact that the Martians were sending an invasion-fleet has been known for several weeks. As I told you, the firing of their projectiles was observed by many scientists. Any number of warnings was issued, both in scientific papers and in the popular press, yet even when the first cylinder landed the authorities were slow to move.”

Amelia said: “You mean that the warnings were not taken seriously?”

“They were dismissed as sensation-mongering, even after there had been several deaths. The first cylinder landed not a mile from my house. It came down at about midnight on the 19th. I myself visited it during the morning, along with a crowd of others, and although it was clear from the outset that some thing was inside, the press would not publish more than a few inches about it. This I can attest to myself, because in addition to my literary activities I occasionally contribute scientific pieces to the press, and the papers are noted for their caution with all scientific matters. Even yesterday, they were treating this incursion with levity. As for the Army… they did not turn out until nearly twenty-four hours after the arrival of the projectile, and by then the monsters were out and well established.”

“In the Army’s defence,” I said, still feeling that it had been incumbent upon myself to alert the authorities, “such an invasion is unprecedented.”

“Maybe so,” Mr Wells said. “But the second cylinder had landed before a single shot was fired by our side. How many more landings are needed before the threat is understood?”

“I think they are alert to the danger now,” I said, nodding towards yet another artillery emplacement on the banks of the river. One of the gunners was hailing us, but I rowed on with out answering. It was now well into the afternoon, and there were about four more hours until sunset.

Amelia said: “You say that you visited the pit. Did you see the adversary?”

“That I did,” said Mr Wells, and I noticed then that his hands were trembling. “Those monsters are unspeakable!”

I suddenly realized that Amelia was about to talk of our adventures on Mars, so I frowned at her, warning her to silence. For the moment at least, I felt we should not reveal our rôle in the invasion.

Instead, I said to Mr Wells: “You are clearly shaken by your experiences.”

“I have been face to face with Death. Twice I have escaped with my life, but only by the greatest good fortune.” He shook his head. “These Martians will go on and conquer the world. They are indestructible.”

“They are mortal, sir,” I said. “They can be killed as easily as other vermin.”

“That has not been the experience so far. By what evidence do you say that?”

I thought of the screams of the dying monster inside the platform, and the ghastly eructation of gases. And then, remembering the warning I had signalled to Amelia only a few seconds before, I said: “There was one killed at Weybridge.”

“A chance artillery shell. We cannot depend on chance to rid the world of this menace.”

Mr Wells took the oars again when we reached Hampton Court, as I was tiring. We were now only a short distance from Richmond, but here the river swings to the south, before turning a second time to flow northwards, and so we still had a considerable distance before us. For a while we debated whether to abandon the boat and complete our journey on foot, but we could see that the roads were crowded with the traffic of those escaping towards London. On the river we had our way almost to ourselves. The afternoon was warm and tranquil, the sky a radiant blue.

Here, by Hampton Court Palace, we saw a curious sight. We were now a sufficient distance from the effects of the Martians’ destruction for the immediate dangers to seem diminished, yet still near enough for evacuations to be taking place. As a consequence, there was a conflict of moods. The local people, from Thames Ditton, Molesey and Surbiton, were abandoning their houses, and under the guidance of the overworked police and fire-brigades, were leaving for London.

However, the Palace grounds are a favourite resort for excursionist Londoners, and on this fine summer’s afternoon the riverside paths were well thronged with people enjoying the sunshine. They could not be unaware of the noise and bustle around them, but they seemed determined not to let such activities affect their picnics.

Thames Ditton Station, which is on the south bank opposite the Palace, was crowded, and people were queuing up along the pavement outside, waiting for a chance to board a train. Even so, each train that arrived from London brought with it a few more late-afternoon excursionists.

How many of those blazered young men, or those young ladies with silken parasols, were ever to see their homes again? Perhaps to them, in their unguarded innocence, we three in our rowing-boat presented a strange sight: Amelia and I, still wearing our much begrimed underwear, and Mr Wells, naked but for his trousers. I think the day was unusual enough for our appearance to pass unremarked upon…

It was as we were rowing towards Kingston-upon-Thames that we first heard the artillery, and at once we were on our guard. Mr Wells rowed more vigorously, and Amelia and I turned in our seats, looking westwards for a first sight of the deadly tripods.

For the moment there was no sign of them, but the distant artillery muttered endlessly. Once I saw a heliograph flickering on the hills beyond Esher, and ahead of us we saw a signal-rocket burst bright red at the peak of its smoky trail, but in our immediate vicinity, at least, the guns remained silent.

At Kingston we changed hands once more, and I braced myself for the final effort towards Richmond. We were all restless, eager for this long journey to be over. As Mr Wells settled himself in the prow of the boat, he remarked on the unseemly noise of the evacuees crossing Kingston Bridge. There were no excursionists to be seen here; I think that at last the danger had been brought home to everyone.

A few minutes after we left Kingston, Amelia pointed ahead.

“Richmond Park, Edward! We’re nearly there.”

I glanced briefly over my shoulder, and saw the splendid rise of ground. It was not unexpected that there, on the crest of the hill and black against the sky, I saw the protruding muzzles of the artillery.