Christopher Priest - The Space Machine

Our confidence was increasing; with four kills behind us we were establishing a deadly routine. Now, as we rose above the Park, and saw the approaching battle-machine, we could not help but see that its heat-cannon was raised and its articulate arms were poised to strike. Clearly its monstrous driver knew that someone or something had attacked successfully, and was determined to defend itself.

We stayed at a safe distance, and watched as the newcomer went to the tower and closely inspected the damage.

I said: “Mr Wells, shall we bomb it now?”

Mr Wells stayed silent, his brow furrowed over the top of his goggles.

“The creature is very alert,” he said. “We cannot risk a chance shot from the heat-cannon.”

“Then let us seek another target,” I said.

Nevertheless, we stayed on watch for several minutes, hoping the Martian would relax its guard long enough to allow us to attack. However, even as the creature inside carried out a cautious examination of the damage, the heat-cannon turned menacingly above the roof and the tentacular metal arms flexed nervously.

With some reluctance we turned away at last, and headed back towards the west. As we flew, Amelia and I cast several backward glances, still wary of what the second Martian would do. Thus it was that we saw, when we were less than half a mile away, that our grenade had, after all, weakened the casing of the furnace. We saw an immense, billowing explosion of green … and the second battle-machine staggered backwards and crashed in a tangle of metal to the floor of the Park.

That was how, by a stroke of good fortune, we slaughtered our fifth Martian monster.

Considerably cheered by this accidental success we continued our quest, although it was now with a bravura tempered by caution. As Mr Wells pointed out, it was not the Martian machines we had to destroy, but the monster-creatures them selves. A battle-machine was agile and well-armed, and although its destruction certainly killed its driver, the legged ground vehicles were easier targets because the driver was not enclosed above.

So it was that we agreed to concentrate on the smaller vehicles.

That afternoon was one of almost unqualified success. Only once did we fail to kill a Martian with our first strike and that was when I, in my haste, neglected to pull the pin from the grenade. However, on our second pass the monster was effectively and spectacularly destroyed.

When we returned to Reynolds House in the evening, we had accounted for a total of eleven of the Martian brutes. This, if our estimate that each projectile carried five monsters was correct, accounted for more than one-fifth of their total army!

It was with considerable optimism that we retired to bed that night.

The following day we loaded our Space Machine with more grenades, and set off again.

To our consternation we discovered that the Martians had learned by our ventures of the day before. Now no legged ground vehicle moved unless it was accompanied by a battle-machine, but so assured of our impregnability were we that we resolved that this presented us with two targets instead of one!

Accordingly, we prepared our attack with great precision, swooped down from above, and were rewarded with the sight of the battle-machine being blown to smithereens! From there, it was but a simple task to chase and destroy the legged ground vehicle.

Later that day we disposed of two more in the same way, but that was our total score for the day. (One legged vehicle was allowed to pass unharmed, for it was carrying a score or more of human captives.) Four was not as healthy a tally as eleven, but even so we considered we had done well, and so once more retired in a state of elation.

The next day was one with no success at all, for we saw no Martians about. We ranged, in our search, even as far as the fire-blackened heath at Woking, but here simply found the pit and its projectile empty both of Martians and their devices.

At the sight of the ruined town on the hill, Amelia and I noticed that Mr Wells grew wistful, and we recalled how he had been so abruptly separated from his wife.

“Sir, would you like us to fly to Leatherhead?” I said.

He shook his head forcefully.’ “I wish I could allow myself the indulgence, but our business is with the Martians. My wife will be well; it is obvious that the invaders moved to the north-east from here. There will be time enough for reunion.”

I admired the resolution in his voice, but later that evening Amelia told me that she had noticed a tear running down Mr Wells’s cheek. Perhaps, she said, Mr Wells suspected that his wife had already been killed, and that he was not yet ready to face up to this.

For this reason, as well as for our lack of success, we were in no great spirits that night, and so we retired early.

The next day we were luckier: two Martians succumbed to our grenades. This was the odd fact though: both the battle-machines stood, like the one we had found near Kingston, alone and still, the three legs drawn together. There was no attempt at self-defence; one stood with its heat-cannon pointing stiffly towards the sky, the other had not even raised its. Of course, as we were attacking battle-machines we swooped with great care, but we all agreed that our kills were suspiciously easy.

Then came another day with no more Martians seen at all, and on that evening Mr Wells pronounced a verdict.

“We must,” he said, “turn our attention at last to London. We have so far been snipers against the straggling flanks of a mighty army. Now we must confront the concentrated strength of that army, and fight it to the death.”

Brave words indeed, but ones which did not reflect the suspicion which, I afterwards discovered, had been growing in us all for the last three days.

The day following Mr Wells’s stem pronouncement, we stowed the remainder of our hand-grenades aboard the Space Machine, and set off at a moderate speed towards London. We kept our eyes open for a sign of the battle-machines, but there was none about.

We flew first over Richmond town, and saw the dark residue of the black smoke that had suffocated its streets. Only by the river, where the red weed grew in mountainous tangling clumps, was there relief from the sight of the black, sooty powder that covered everything. North of Richmond was Kew Gardens, and here, although the Pagoda still stood, most of the priceless plantations of tropical plants had succumbed to the vile weed.

We headed more directly towards London then, flying over Mortlake. Not far from the brewery, in the centre of an estate of modern villas, one of the projectiles had landed, and here it had caused untold damage with the force of its explosive landing. I saw that Mr Wells was regarding the scene thoughtfully, so I suggested to him that we might fly a little closer. Accordingly he brought the Space Machine down in a gentle approach, and for a few minutes we hovered above the terrible desolation.

In the centre of the pit was, of course, the empty shell of the projectile. What was much more interesting was the evidence that, for some time at least, this place had been a centre of the Martians’ activity. There were no battle-machines in sight, but standing beside the gaping mouth of the projectile were two of the legged ground vehicles, and sprawled untidily behind them was one of the spider-like handling-machines. Its many metal tentacles were folded, and the normal brilliant sheen of the polished surfaces had started to corrode in the oxygen-rich air.

I was all for landing the Space Machine and exploring on foot, so quiet was the scene, but neither Amelia nor Mr Wells considered it safe. Instead, we allowed the Machine to drift slowly about the pit, while we sat in silence. We were daunted and impressed by what we saw: the pit itself had been refashioned, so that the earth thrown up by the impact had been built into high ramparts, and the floor had been levelled to facilitate the machines’ movements. One end of the pit had been reworked to provide a sloping ramp for the ground vehicles.