Christopher Priest - The Space Machine

The Martians were expected, and this time they would meet their match.

Reassured, I rowed on, trying to ignore the tiredness in my arms and back.

A mile north of Kingston, the Thames, in its meandering way, swings to the north-west, and so the rise of Richmond Park moved further away to our right. Now, temporarily, we were moving towards the Martians once more, and as if this were significant, we heard a renewed volley from the distant artillery. This was echoed a few moments later by the guns laid in Bushy Park, and then too we heard the first shots from Richmond Park. All three of us craned our necks, but there was still no sign of the Martians. It was most unnerving to know that they were in our vicinity, yet invisible to us.

We passed Twickenham, and saw no signs of evacuation; perhaps the town had been emptied already, or else the people were lying low, hoping the Martians would not come their way.

Then, heading directly east again as the river turned towards Richmond, Amelia shouted that she had seen some smoke. We looked to the south-west, and saw, rising from the direction of Molesey, a column of black smoke. The artillery was speaking continuously. The Martians, moving quickly through the Surrey countryside, were difficult targets, and the towns they approached were laid helplessly before them.

Smoke rose from Kingston, and from Surbiton, and from Esher. Then, too, from Twickenham… and at last we could see one of the Martian marauders. It was stalking quickly through the streets of Twickenham, not one mile from where we presently were. We could see its heat-beam, swinging indiscriminately, and we could see the ineffectual air-burst of the artillery-shells, never exploding less than a hundred feet from the predatory engine.

A second Martian tripod appeared,this one striking northwards towards Hounslow. Then a third: away to the south of burning Kingston.

“Edward, dear. hurry! They are almost upon us!”

“I am doing my best!” I cried, wondering if we should now head for the bank.

Mr Wells clambered towards, me from the prow, and placed himself on the seat beside me. He took the right-hand oar from me, and in a moment we had established a fast rhythm.

Fortunately, the Martians seemed to be paying no attention to the river for the moment. The towns were their main objectives, and the lines of artillery. In the repeated explosions near at hand, I realized that the deeper sounds of the more distant batteries had long been silenced.

Then came what was perhaps the most disturbing noise of all. The Martian driving the tripod by Kingston uttered a note… and it drifted towards us, distorted by the breeze. The Martian in Twickenham took it up, and soon we heard others from various directions. Here on Earth the note was deeper in timbre, and seemed more prolonged … but there could be no mistaking the sinister braying siren of the Martians calling for food.

At last the tree-lined slope of Richmond Hill was before us, and as we rowed frantically around the bend past the green meadows we saw the white, wooden building of Messum’s boat house. I remembered the day I had called on Sir William, and how I had strolled along the riverside walk past the boat-house… but then there had been promenading crowds. Now we were apparently alone, all but for the rampaging battle-machines and the answering artillery.

I pointed out the jetty to Mr Wells, and we rowed energetically towards it. At long last we heard the scraping of the wooden hull against the hard stone, and without further ceremony I held out my hand to help Amelia ashore. I waited until Mr Wells had stepped down, and then I too followed. Behind us, the little boat bobbed away, drifting with the current of the river.

Both Mr Wells and I were exhausted from our long ordeal, but even so were prepared for the last part of our effort: the climb up the side of the Hill towards Sir William’s house. Accordingly, we hastened away from the jetty, but Amelia held back. As soon as we realized she was not following, we turned and waited for her.

Amelia had not been at her most talkative for the last hour, but now said: “Mr Wells, you told us earlier that you went to the Martians’ pit in Woking. What day was that?”

“It was the Friday morning,” Mr Wells said.

Looking across the river towards Twickenham I saw that the brazen cowl of the nearest battle-machine was turned our way. Artillery shells burst around it.

I said’ with great anxiety: “Amelia… we can talk later! We must get under cover!”

“Edward, this is important!” Then to Mr Wells: “And that was the 19th, you say?”

“No, the Thursday was the 19th. It came down at about midnight.”

“And today we have seen excursionists. so this is Sunday.

Mr Wells, this is 1903, is it not?”

He looked a little puzzled, but confirmed this.

Amelia turned to me, and seized my hand.

“Edward! Today is the 22nd! This is the day in 1903 to which we came! The Time Machine will be in the laboratory!”

With that she turned abruptly away from me, and ran quickly up through the trees.

At once I ran after her, shouting to her to comeback!

Amelia, rested and agile, scrambled without difficulty up the side of the Hill; I was more tired, and although I used every remaining scrap of energy I could do no more than maintain my distance behind her. Below us, by the river, I heard the sound of the Martian’s braying siren, answered at once by another. Somewhere behind us, Mr Wells followed. Ahead of me, from a point on the ridge, I heard the sound of a man’s voice shouting an order… and then there came the detonation of the artillery-pieces mounted on the Hill. Smoke poured down from them through the trees. More shots followed, from positions all along the ridge. The noise was deafening, and the acrid cordite fumes burned in my throat.

Ahead of me, showing through the trees, I could see the towers of Reynolds House.

“Amelia!” I shouted again over the noise. “My dearest, come back! It is not safe!”

“The Time Machine! We can find the Time Machine!”

I could see her ahead of me, brushing without regard for herself through the tangle of bushes and undergrowth towards the house.

“No!” I screamed after her, in utter desperation. “Amelia!”

Through the multitude of intervening events, across the seeming years and the millions of miles… a stark memory of our first journey to 1903.

I remembered the artillery shots, the smoke, the alien sirens, the woman running across the lawn, the face at the window, and then the consuming fire …

Destiny!

I hurled myself after her, and saw her reach the edge of the overgrown lawn.

Amelia started to run across to the glass wall of the laboratory: a lithe, distant figure, already beyond any help, already doomed by the destiny I had not after all averted…

As I also reached the lawn, too breathless to shout again, I saw her come to the glass and stop by it, pressing her face against the panes.

I stumbled across the lawn… and then I was behind her, and near enough to see beyond her, into the dim interior of the laboratory.

There, set beside one of the many benches, was placed a crude mechanical device, and upon it sat two youthful figures.

One was a young man, a straw boater set at a jaunty angle on his head … and the other was a pretty girl holding herself to him.

The young man was staring at us, his eyes wide with surprise.

I reached out my hand to take Amelia, just as the young man within raised his own, as if to ward off the horror of what he too was seeing.

Behind us there was a scream from the Martian’s siren, and the brazen cowl of the battle-machine appeared over the trees. I threw myself against Amelia, and dashed her to the ground. In the same instant the heat-beam was turned upon us, and a line of fire raced across the lawn and struck the house.