The War of the Worlds

«You are the artilleryman who came into my garden.»

«Good luck!» he said. «We are lucky ones! Fancy you!» He put out a hand, and I took it. «I crawled up a drain,» he said. «But they didn't kill everyone. And after they went away I got off towards Walton across the fields. But – It's not sixteen days altogether – and your hair is grey.» He looked over his shoulder suddenly. «Only a rook,» he said. «One gets to know that birds have shadows these days. This is a bit open. Let us crawl under those bushes and talk.»

«Have you seen any Martians?» I said. «Since I crawled out—»

«They've gone away across London,» he said. «I guess they've got a bigger camp there. Of a night, all over there, Hampstead way, the sky is alive with their lights. It's like a great city, and in the glare you can just see them moving. By daylight you can't. But nearer – I haven't seen them—» (he counted on his fingers) «five days. Then I saw a couple across Hammersmith way carrying something big. And the night before last» – he stopped and spoke impressively – «it was just a matter of lights, but it was something up in the air. I believe they've built a flying-machine, and are learning to fly.»

I stopped, on hands and knees, for we had come to the bushes.

«Fly!»

«Yes,» he said, «fly.»

I went on into a little bower, and sat down.

«It is all over with humanity,» I said. «If they can do that they will simply go round the world.»

He nodded.

«They will. But – It will relieve things over here a bit. And besides—» He looked at me. «Aren't you satisfied it is up with humanity? I am. We're down; we're beat.»

I stared. Strange as it may seem, I had not arrived at this fact – a fact perfectly obvious so soon as he spoke. I had still held a vague hope; rather, I had kept a lifelong habit of mind. He repeated his words, «We're beat.» They carried absolute conviction.

«It's all over,» he said. «They've lost one – just one. And they've made their footing good and crippled the greatest power in the world. They've walked over us. The death of that one at Weybridge was an accident. And these are only pioneers. They kept on coming. These green stars – I've seen none these five or six days, but I've no doubt they're falling somewhere every night. Nothing's to be done. We're under! We're beat!»

I made him no answer. I sat staring before me, trying in vain to devise some countervailing thought.

«This isn't a war,» said the artilleryman. «It never was a war, any more than there's war between man and ants.»

Suddenly I recalled the night in the observatory.

«After the tenth shot they fired no more – at least, until the first cylinder came.»

«How do you know?» said the artilleryman. I explained. He thought. «Something wrong with the gun,» he said. «But what if there is? They'll get it right again. And even if there's a delay, how can it alter the end? It's just men and ants. There's the ants builds their cities, live their lives, have wars, revolutions, until the men want them out of the way, and then they go out of the way. That's what we are now – just ants. Only—»

«Yes,» I said.

«We're eatable ants.»

We sat looking at each other.

«And what will they do with us?» I said.

«That's what I've been thinking,» he said; «that's what I've been thinking. After Weybridge I went south – thinking. I saw what was up. Most of the people were hard at it squealing and exciting themselves. But I'm not so fond of squealing. I've been in sight of death once or twice; I'm not an ornamental soldier, and at the best and worst, death – it's just death. And it's the man that keeps on thinking comes through. I saw everyone tracking away south. Says I, 'Food won't last this way,' and I turned right back. I went for the Martians like a sparrow goes for man. All round» – he waved a hand to the horizon – «they're starving in heaps, bolting, treading on each other…»

He saw my face, and halted awkwardly.

«No doubt lots who had money have gone away to France,» he said. He seemed to hesitate whether to apologise, met my eyes, and went on: «There's food all about here. Canned things in shops; wines, spirits, mineral waters; and the water mains and drains are empty. Well, I was telling you what I was thinking. 'Here's intelligent things,' I said, 'and it seems they want us for food. First, they'll smash us up – ships, machines, guns, cities, all the order and organisation. All that will go. If we were the size of ants we might pull through. But we're not. It's all too bulky to stop. That's the first certainty.' Eh?»

I assented.

«It is; I've thought it out. Very well, then – next; at present we're caught as we're wanted. A Martian has only to go a few miles to get a crowd on the run. And I saw one, one day, out by Wandsworth, picking houses to pieces and routing among the wreckage. But they won't keep on doing that. So soon as they've settled all our guns and ships, and smashed our railways, and done all the things they are doing over there, they will begin catching us systematic, picking the best and storing us in cages and things. That's what they will start doing in a bit. Lord! They haven't begun on us yet. Don't you see that?»

«Not begun!» I exclaimed.

«Not begun. All that's happened so far is through our not having the sense to keep quiet – worrying them with guns and such foolery. And losing our heads, and rushing off in crowds to where there wasn't any more safety than where we were. They don't want to bother us yet. They're making their things – making all the things they couldn't bring with them, getting things ready for the rest of their people. Very likely that's why the cylinders have stopped for a bit, for fear of hitting those who are here. And instead of our rushing about blind, on the howl, or getting dynamite on the chance of busting them up, we've got to fix ourselves up according to the new state of affairs. That's how I figure it out. It isn't quite according to what a man wants for his species, but it's about what the facts point to. And that's the principle I acted upon. Cities, nations, civilisation, progress – it's all over. That game's up. We're beat.»

«But if that is so, what is there to live for?»

The artilleryman looked at me for a moment.

«There won't be any more blessed concerts for a million years or so; there won't be any Royal Academy of Arts, and no nice little feeds at restaurants. If it's amusement you're after, I reckon the game is up. If you've got any drawing-room manners or a dislike to eating peas with a knife or dropping aitches, you'd better chuck 'em away. They ain't no further use.»

«You mean—»

«I mean that men like me are going on living – for the sake of the breed. I tell you, I'm grim set on living. And if I'm not mistaken, you'll show what insides you've got, too, before long. We aren't going to be exterminated. And I don't mean to be caught either, and tamed and fattened and bred like a thundering ox. Ugh! Fancy those brown creepers!»

«You don't mean to say—»

«I do. I'm going on, under their feet. I've got it planned; I've thought it out. We men are beat. We don't know enough. We've got to learn before we've got a chance. And we've got to live and keep independent while we learn. See! That's what has to be done.»

I stared, astonished, and stirred profoundly by the man's resolution.

«Great God!» cried I. «But you are a man indeed!» And suddenly I gripped his hand.

«Eh!» he said, with his eyes shining. «I've thought it out, eh?»

«Go on,» I said.

«Well, those who mean to escape their catching must get ready. I'm getting ready. Mind you, it isn't all of us that are made for wild beasts; and that's what it's got to be. That's why I watched you. I had my doubts. You're slender. I didn't know that it was you, you see, or just how you'd been buried. All these – the sort of people that lived in these houses, and all those damn little clerks that used to live down that way – they'd be no good. They haven't any spirit in them – no proud dreams and no proud lusts; and a man who hasn't one or the other – Lord! What is he but funk and precautions? They just used to skedaddle off to work – I've seen hundreds of 'em, bit of breakfast in hand, running wild and shining to catch their little season-ticket train, for fear they'd get dismissed if they didn't; working at businesses they were afraid to take the trouble to understand; skedaddling back for fear they wouldn't be in time for dinner; keeping indoors after dinner for fear of the back streets, and sleeping with the wives they married, not because they wanted them, but because they had a bit of money that would make for safety in their one little miserable skedaddle through the world. Lives insured and a bit invested for fear of accidents. And on Sundays – fear of the hereafter. As if hell was built for rabbits! Well, the Martians will just be a godsend to these. Nice roomy cages, fattening food, careful breeding, no worry. After a week or so chasing about the fields and lands on empty stomachs, they'll come and be caught cheerful. They'll be quite glad after a bit. They'll wonder what people did before there were Martians to take care of them. And the bar loafers, and mashers, and singers – I can imagine them. I can imagine them,» he said, with a sort of sombre gratification. «There'll be any amount of sentiment and religion loose among them. There's hundreds of things I saw with my eyes that I've only begun to see clearly these last few days. There's lots will take things as they are – fat and stupid; and lots will be worried by a sort of feeling that it's all wrong, and that they ought to be doing something. Now whenever things are so that a lot of people feel they ought to be doing something, the weak, and those who go weak with a lot of complicated thinking, always make for a sort of do-nothing religion, very pious and superior, and submit to persecution and the will of the Lord. Very likely you've seen the same thing. It's energy in a gale of funk, and turned clean inside out. These cages will be full of psalms and hymns and piety. And those of a less simple sort will work in a bit of – what is it? – eroticism.»

He paused.

«Very likely these Martians will make pets of some of them; train them to do tricks – who knows? – get sentimental over the pet boy who grew up and had to be killed. And some, maybe, they will train to hunt us.»

«No,» I cried, «that's impossible! No human being—»

«What's the good of going on with such lies?» said the artilleryman. «There's men who'd do it cheerful. What nonsense to pretend there isn't!»

And I succumbed to his conviction.

«If they come after me,» he said; «Lord, if they come after me!» and subsided into a grim meditation.

I sat contemplating these things. I could find nothing to bring against this man's reasoning. In the days before the invasion no one would have questioned my intellectual superiority to his – I, a professed and recognised writer on philosophical themes, and he, a common soldier; and yet he had already formulated a situation that I had scarcely realised.

«What are you doing?» I said presently. «What plans have you made?»

He hesitated.