Christopher Priest - The Space Machine

“What are the Martians doing?” I said.

“The heat-beam is still in use. It seemed as if the whole Thames Valley is on fire. There is smoke everywhere, and it is of amazing intensity. The whole of Twickenham has vanished under a mountain of smoke. Black, thick smoke, like tar, but not rising. It is shaped like an immense dome.”

“It will be dispersed by the wind,” Amelia said.

“The wind is up,” said Mr Wells, “but the smoke stays above the town. I cannot account for it.”

It seemed to be a minor enigma, and so we paid little attention to it; it was enough to know that the Martians were still hostile and about.

All three of us were faint from hunger, and the preparation of a meal became a necessity. It was clear that Sir William’s house had not been occupied for years, and so we held out no hope of finding any food in the pantry. We did discover that the artillerymen had left some of their rations behind—some tins of meat and a little stale bread—but it was hardly enough for one meal.

Mr Wells and I agreed to visit the houses nearest to us, and see if we could borrow some food from there. Amelia decided to stay behind; she wanted to explore the house and see how much of it would be habitable.

Mr Wells and I were away for an hour. During this time we discovered that we were alone on Richmond Hill. The other inhabitants had presumably been evacuated when the soldiers arrived, and it was evident that their departure had been hasty. Few of the houses were locked, and in most we found considerable quantities of food. By the time we were ready to return, we had with us a sackful of food—consisting of a good variety of meats, vegetables and fruit—which should certainly be enough to sustain us for many days. In addition we found several bottles of wine, and a pipe and some tobacco for Mr Wells.

Before returning to the house, Mr Wells suggested that we once more survey the valley; it was suspiciously quiet below, to a degree that was making us most uneasy.

We left the sack inside the house we had last visited, and went forward cautiously to the edge of the ridge. There, concealing ourselves amongst the trees, we were afforded an uninterrupted view to north and west. To our left we could see up the Thames Valley at least as far as Windsor Castle, and before us we could see the villages of Chiswick and Brentford. Immediately below us was Richmond itself.

The sun was setting: a deep-orange ball of fire touching the horizon. Silhouetted against it was one of the Martian battle-machines. It was not moving now, and even from this distance of three miles or so we could see that the metal-mesh net at the back of the platform had been filled with bodies.

The black kopje of smoke still obscured Twickenham; another lay heavily over Hounslow. Richmond appeared still, although several buildings were on fire.

I said: “They cannot be stopped. They will rule the entire world.”

Mr Wells was silent, although his breathing was irregular and heavy. Glancing at his face I saw that his bright-blue eyes were moist. Then he said: “You opine that they are mortal, Turnbull, but we must now accept that we cannot resist them.”

At that moment, as if defying his words, a solitary gun placed on the riverside walk by Richmond Bridge fired a shot. Moments later the shell burst in the air several hundred feet away from the distant battle-machine.

The Martian’s response was instant. It whirled round and strode in our direction, causing Mr Wells and me to step back into the trees. We saw the Martian extend a broad tube from its platform, and a few seconds later something was fired from this. A large cylinder flew through the air, tumbling erratically and reflecting the orange brilliance of the sun. It described a high arc, and fell crashing somewhere into the streets of Richmond town. Moments later there was an incontinent release of blackness, and within sixty seconds Richmond had vanished under another of the mysterious static domes of black smoke.

The gun by the river, lost in the blackness, did not speak again.

We waited and watched until the sun went down, but heard no more shots fired by the Army. The Martians, arrogant in their total victory, went about their macabre business of seeking out the human survivors, and placing such unfortunates in their swelling nets.

Much sobered, Mr Wells and I retrieved our sack of food and returned to Reynolds House.

We were greeted by an Amelia transformed.

“Edward!” she called as soon as we walked through the broken door of the house. “Edward, my clothes are still here!”

And dancing into our sight came a girl of the most extraordinary beauty. She wore a pale-yellow dress and buttoned boots; her hair was brushed and shaped about her face; the wound which had so disfigured her was concealed by the artistic application of maquillage. And, as she seized my hand gaily, and exclaimed happily over the amount of food we had gathered, I sensed once more that gentle fragrance of perfume, redolent of herbs.

For no reason I could understand, I turned away from her and found myself weeping.

The house had evidently been closed after Sir William’s final departure on the Time-Machine, for although everything was intact and in its place (excepting those items damaged or destroyed in the explosion and fire), the furniture had been covered with dust-sheets, and valuable articles had been locked away in cupboards. Mr Wells and I visited Sir William’s dressing-room, and there found sufficient clothing to dress ourselves decently.

A little later, smelling slightly of moth-balls, we went through the house while Amelia prepared a meal. We discovered that the servants had confined their cleaning to the domestic areas of the house, for the laboratory was as cluttered with pieces of engineering machinery as before. Everything here was filthy dirty, though, and much littered with broken glass. The reciprocating engine which generated electricity was in its place, although we dared not turn it on for fear of attracting the Martians’ attention.

We ate our meal in a ground-floor room furthest away from the valley, and sat by candlelight with the curtains closed. All was silent outside the house, but none of us could feel at ease knowing that at any moment the Martians might come by.

Afterwards, with our stomachs satisfactorily filled and our minds pleasantly relaxed by a bottle of wine, we talked again of the totalness of the Martians’ victory.

“Their aim is quite clearly to take London,” said Mr Wells. “If they do not do so during this night, then there can be nothing to stop them in the morning.”

“But if they control London, they would control the whole country!” I said.

“That is what I fear. Of course, by now the threat is under stood, and I dare say that even as we speak the garrisons in the north are travelling down. Whether they would fare any better than the unfortunates we saw in action today is a matter for conjecture. But the British Army is not slow to learn by its errors, so maybe we shall see some victories. What we do not know, of course, is what these monsters seek to gain.”

“They wish to enslave us,” I said. “They cannot survive unless they drink human blood.”

Mr Wells glanced at me sharply. “Why do’ you say that, Turnbull?”

I was dumbfounded. We had all seen the gathering of the people by the Martians, but only Amelia and I, with our privy knowledge, could know what was to happen to them.

Amelia said: “I think we must tell Mr Wells what we know, Edward.”

“Do you have a specialist knowledge of these monsters?” said Mr Wells.

“We were… in the pit at Woking,” I said.

“I too was there, but I saw no blood-drinking. This is an astonishing revelation, and, if I may say so, more than a little sensational. I take it you are speaking with authority?”