TEXT: 11111
  Action! Classics
  The War of the Worlds
  Sourcebook
  Authors
  Christopher McGlothlin, M.Ed.
  Herbert George Wells
  Additional Material
  Mark Arsenault
  Christina Stiles
  Introduction by
  James L. Cambias
  Cover Illustration by
  Tom Kidd
  Interior Illustrations by
  Morgan Bonthoux
  Action! System rules created by
  Mark Arsenault
  Patrick Sweeney
  Action! System Core Rules written by
  Mark Arsenault
  Patrick Sweeney
  Ross Winn
  Action! Classics: The War of the Worlds Sourcebook copyright © 2003 by Gold Rush Games. All rights reserved. Action! System copyright ©
  2001-2003 by Gold Rush Games. All rights reserved.
  Action! System, Fast Action!, Action! Packed, Action! Ready, the Action! System logo and all associated marks are owned by Gold Rush Games
  (www.goldrushgames.com). ‘Gold Rush Games’ is a trademark of Gold Rush Games.
  Do you want to publish your own Action! System product? You can with the Action! System License, available at www.action-system.com.
  ‘D20 System’ and the ‘D20 System’ logo are trademarks owned by Wizards of the Coast and are used according to the terms of the D20 System License version 4.0. A
  copy of this License can be found at www.wizards.com/d20. Wizards of the Coast® is a Registered Trademark of Wizards of the Coast and is used with Permission.
  Stock # GRG4202E v1.1
  TM
  
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  Contents
  Introduction
  by James L. Cambias
  3
  The War of the Worlds
  by Herbert George (H.G.) Wells
  Introduction
  6
  Book One: The Coming of the Martians
  6
  Chapter One: The Eve of War
  6
  Chapter Two: The Falling Star
  8
  Chapter Three: On Horsell Common
  10
  Chapter Four: The Cylinder Opens
  11
  Chapter Five: The Heat-Ray
  12
  Chapter Six: The Heat-Ray in the Chobham Road 14
  Chapter Seven: How I Reached Home
  15
  Chapter Eight: Friday Night
  16
  Chapter Nine: The Fighting Begins
  17
  Chapter Ten: In the Storm
  20
  Chapter Eleven: At the Window
  22
  Chapter Twelve: What I saw of the Destruction
  of Weybridge and Shepperton
  25
  Chapter Thirteen: How I Fell in With the Curate
  29
  Chapter Fourteen: In London
  31
  Chapter Fifteen: What Had Happened in Surrey
  35
  Chapter Sixteen: The Exodus from Lodon
  38
  Chapter Seventeen: The “Thunder Child”
  43
  Book Two: The Earth Under the Martians
  47
  Chapter One: Under Foot
  47
  Chapter Two: What We Saw from the Ruined House
  50
  Chapter Three: The Days of Imprisonment
  54
  Chapter Four: The Death of the Curate
  56
  Chapter Five: The Stillness
  58
  Chapter Six: The Work of Fifteen Days
  59
  Chapter Seven: The Man on Putney Hill
  60
  Chapter Eight: Dead London
  66
  Chapter Nine: Wreckage
  69
  Chapter Ten: The Epilogue
  71
  Sourcebook
  by Christopher McGlothlin, M.Ed.,with Mark Arsenault
  and Christina Stiles
  Introduction
  73
  Chapter One: The Setting
  74
  Establishing an Exact Date
  74
  Early Edwardian Britain
  75
  Setting and Character Conception
  75
  Chapter Two: The War in Action! System
  76
  Realistic, Cnematic or Extreme?
  76
  Traits
  76
  Optional Wealth Rules
  78
  Skills
  79
  Chapter Three: Weapons
  81
  Pistols
  81
  Rifles
  81
  Machine-guns
  81
  Artillery
  82
  Naval Guns
  82
  Civilian Weapons
  82
  Martian Weapons & Equipment
  83
  Human Weapons (table)
  87
  Martian Weapons (table)
  88
  Martian Vehicle Stats
  88
  Chapter Three: The Martians
  89
  Martian Biology
  89
  Game Statistics
  90
  Chapter Four: The Novel’s Characters
  91
  The Narrator
  91
  The Narrator’s Brother
  92
  The Artilleryman
  93
  The Curate
  94
  Ogilvy
  95
  Henderson
  96
  Stent
  97
  Chapter Five: Running The War of the Worlds
  98
  Living in the Past
  98
  A Change of Scenery
  99
  Time After Time
  99
  Giving the Players a Fighting Chance
  99
  How Not To Be Seen
  99
  Fighting Back
  100
  Surviving the Game
  100
  Giving the Martians a Fighting Chance
  101
  Alternate Endings
  101
  A Sample Rewrite
  102
  Beware the Beast Called Man
  102
  Campaign and Adventure Scenario Set-Ups
  102
  Depression-Era Technology
  106
  War of the Worlds Battle Rules
  109
  Appendices
  110
  Resources (Bibliography)
  110
  Contributor Bios
  110
  Open Game License
  111
  
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  Herbert George Wells was in some ways as alien to his
  time as any of his Martians. He was born in 1866 to a
  struggling lower-middle-class family at the height of the
  Victorian age. His mother’s fondest hope was that he might
  someday become a shopkeeper. Instead, an interest in sci-
  ence got him into the Normal School of Science where he
  studied under the formidable Thomas H. Huxley (famous
  as “Darwin’s bulldog” during the early debates on evolu-
  tion). The young Wells became a religious skeptic, a So-
  cialist, and a severe critic of 19th-century British society.
  Wells took up writing, producing some science text-
  books and contributing scientific articles to magazines and
  newspapers. His first novel was The Time Machine (based
  on a series of essays he wrote speculating on the future of
  human evolution) in 1895, followed by The Island of Dr.
  Moreau in 1896 and The Invisible Man in 1897.
  By 1895, Wells was prospering as a writer, and had
  established himself in a comfortable suburban village out-
  side London. One afternoon that year he was out walking
  with his brother, discussing the sad fate of the natives of
  Tasmania, who had been completely exterminated by Brit-
  ish colonists during the preceding decades. As an analogy,
  his brother remarked “Suppose some beings from another
  planet were to drop out of the sky suddenly, and begin
  laying about them here?”
  The idea struck a chord with Wells. Mars was very much
  in the public mind at the time, thanks to the efforts of the
  American astronomer Percival Lowell. Lowell was from a
  very rich Boston family, and read with interest Giovanni
  Schiaparelli’s description of the mysterious “canali” on the
  surface of Mars. In the spring of 1894 Lowell set up a
  well-equipped private observatory atop Mars Hill, outside
  Flagstaff, with a powerful 24-inch telescope and a staff of
  assistants. From then on he studied Mars at every opportu-
  nity, churning out a series of books chronicling his obser-
  vations, beginning with Mars in 1895. He was a regular on
  the lecture circuit and always ready for an interview or an
  article in the newspapers. The fact that other astronomers
  couldn’t see the canals at all and disputed most of his find-
  ings didn’t bother Lowell one bit: “Wolves hunt in packs,
  the lion stalks alone,” he said.
  Lowell quickly became convinced that the “canali” seen
  by Schiaparelli were real, that they were artificial irriga-
  tion canals, and that they were the work of intelligent be-
  ings. In his books, Lowell described Mars as an old world,
  its surface worn smooth by erosion and its oceans long
  since dried up. Because Mars was a smaller world than
  Earth, it had cooled faster, its crust shrinking and fractur-
  ing and its oceans draining away into the interior. As Lowell
  put it in Mars and Its Canals, “Within the bounds that make
  life possible, the smaller the body the quicker it ages and
  the more advanced its denizens must be.” He believed that
  the planet-wide scale of the Martian canal network dem-
  onstrated the superior intellect and determination of the
  Martians.
  H. G. Wells himself had speculated on what humans
  might be like in the future. His 1893 essay “The Man of
  the Year Million” suggested that humans might evolve into
  little more than huge heads with vestigial bodies and large
  complex hands, feeding on some sort of specialized nutri-
  ent solution injected directly into the bloodstream. That
  became the model for his Martians.
  Wells placed the invasion point in his own suburban
  back yard. He was learning to ride a bike at the time—the
  introduction of the safety bicycle had made cycling a huge
  fad—so he pedaled all over Surrey, choosing locations for
  the invaders to land, and picking out local landmarks to be
  destroyed. Some of his neighbors were to be the first vic-
  tims of the Martian Heat-Rays in the novel.
  The War of the Worlds was first published as a serial in
  Pearson’s Magazine, and was an immediate success. Wells
  expanded it for book publication in 1898, and it was a best-
  seller. Translations into other languages followed, and the
  story has remained in print ever since. In America, the New
  York Evening Journal and the Boston Post serialized the
  story, but in order to appeal to local readers they trans-
  posed the action to New York and Boston, without bother-
  ing to get Wells’s permission. The newspaper versions also
  cut out everything but the scenes of destruction. A parody,
  The War of the Wenuses, by Charles Graves and Edward
  Lucas, lampooned the action and Wells’ sometimes preachy
  style. Garrett P. Serviss, apparently mortally offended by
  the presumption of Wells’s Martians, published Edison’s
  Conquest of Mars, in which Earth’s greatest inventors de-
  velop super-scientific weapons and launch a counter-inva-
  sion which exterminates the Martians. (If Wells ever read
  it, he must have appreciated the irony of giving the Mar-
  tians the Tasmanian treatment.)
  In 1938, Orson Welles (no relation to H. G.) produced
  a radio adaptation of The War of the Worlds for his Mer-
  Introduction
  by James L. Cambias
  
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  cury Theatre on the Air. To give the story some imme-
  diacy, Welles and his co-author Howard Koch moved the
  action to New Jersey and told the story through a series of
  fictional “news bulletins.” Many listeners tuned in late and
  got the impression the fake reports were real. Phone switch-
  boards were jammed as people tried to find out what was
  going on, and at least some residents of the Martian land-
  ing zone tried to flee. At least a million people were fooled.
  (Anybody who bothered to stay tuned got to hear Orson
  Welles explain the whole thing as a Halloween prank.)
  Spanish broadcasts in South America using Welles’ script
  had similar effects.
  One person who wasn’t amused by the radio adapta-
  tion was H. G. Wells himself. Perhaps he still had bad
  memories of his treatment at the hands of the New York
  Evening Journal, as he was moved to write a cranky letter
  to CBS and Orson Welles complaining that he had not been
  consulted. He evidently got over it, for he later sent Welles
  a congratulatory telegram after seeing Citizen Kane.
  The War of the Worlds made it onto the movie screen
  in 1953, when George Pal produced a big-budget version
  directed by Byron Haskins. Although the film is a classic
  of sci-fi cinema, it would have made H. G. Wells grind his
  teeth if he had lived to see it. George Pal moved the Mar-
  tian invasion to California and gave the film a strongly
  religious theme at odds with Wells’ staunch rationalism.
  But the manta-shaped fighting machines are superbly done,
  and the film does a good job at depicting the helplessness
  of humanity in the face of the Martian invasion—even an
  atomic bomb can’t stop them.
  The War of the Worlds is one of the absolutely central
  works of modern science fiction. So many of its themes
  and plot elements have been used by others that it almost
  sounds like a catalog of cliches (much as Hamlet or
  Casablanca could be described as a bunch of familiar quo-
  tations strung together because they have so many memo-
  rable lines). The mysterious meteorite falls to Earth. The
  humans are initially puzzled but not worried. The tentacled,
  vampiric Martians emerge and use their deadly ray guns.
  A party of naive scientists attempt to communicate with
  the aliens and are wiped out. Overconfident military offic-
  ers don’t take the threat seriously and pay with their lives.
  The Martians advance on London and the city’s inhabit-
  ants flee in panic. In a forebear of all the post-apocalyptic
  disaster novels, the narrator wanders through the empty
  city, scavenging and hiding from the invaders. The specu-
  lations of the Artilleryman character about how humans
  might survive under the heel of the Martians inspired later
  writers to depict an alien-dominated Earth.
  Wells was always interested in warfare; unlike many
  Edwardian-era Socialists he was not a pacifist, and sup-
  ported the British war effort in World War I. He was par-
  ticularly interested in the effects of technology on warfare,
  and many of his ideas were proved correct—the great po-
  tential of air power and armored vehicles, the futility of
  traditional tactics against gas and automatic weapons, and
  even the possibility of biological warfare. In later novels
  he considered the possibility of weapons using atomic en-
  ergy. A subtle example of Wells’s military insight in The
  War of the Worlds is the battle between the Martian tripods
  and the ironclad Thunderchild: the humans’ one victory is
  at sea, an environment the desert-born Martians are unfa-
  miliar with.
  So what makes the idea of invasion from Mars so com-
  pelling?
  Wells’s story was part of a whole series of novels in the
  years before World War I about the invasion of Britain by
  a hostile power. George Chesney’s The Battle of Dorking
  was probably the most famous version, describing a Prus-
  sian landing which catches England unprepared. During
  those decades Britain’s unchallenged position as “the
  world’s sole superpower” was crumbling as Germany,
  America, and even Japan transformed themselves into
  major powers. British readers worried about their nation’s
  declining position and what might happen if a superior
  adversary were to appear.
  Four decades later Orson Welles’s radio program hit
  the airwaves during another nervous period. Hitler had
  annexed Austria and Czechoslovakia, and was preparing
  the invasion of Poland that began World War II. In China,
  the Japanese had already sacked Nanking, killing thousands
  of civilians. The world was moving toward war, and
  America no longer seemed safe. Welles’s radio “news bul-
  letins” about invaders were a lightning rod for war fears.
  Like the Martians in the radio play, the Germans and the
  Japanese struck swiftly and without warning; the democ-
  racies seemed helpless to stop them.
  When the film version appeared in 1953, the United
  States was the most powerful country in the world, but
  new threats were replacing the Nazis and the Japanese.
  The Berlin Airlift had just ended, United Nations troops
  were battling the Communists in North Korea, and the
  Russians had tested an atomic bomb. The prologue to the
  film described the destruction of World War I and World
  War II, setting the stage for the super-scientific destruc-
  tion the Martians could cause. The parallel with the Com-
  munist threat was obvious: the Martian destruction of Los
  Angeles was a chilling picture of what an atomic war might
  be like.
  Nowadays the menaces we face are almost the exact
  reverse of what Wells depicted—it’s America and England
  who wield super-advanced weapons and amazing vehicles,
  commanding the air and orbital space. Our enemies hide
  out in tunnels like Wells’s Artilleryman, and strike with
  suicidal attacks like the crew of the Thunderchild. It is we
  who fear deadly germs. A news report from Afghanistan
  in 2001 even made the comparison explicit, describing a
  battle pitting high-tech American troops and air power
  against Taliban fighters as being “like something out of
  The War of the Worlds.” We have met the Martians, and
  they are us.
  
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  The War of the Worlds
  The Novel, by Herbert George (H.G.) Wells
  H
  ere 
  we 
  present 
  the 
  complete 
  text 
  of 
  the 
  original
  novel by Herbert George Wells.
  While we have made some minor editorial changes to the text, we have not
  changed the spelling or style of Mr. Wells’ original text. For example, in the origi-
  nal writing, items that today would be written in italics (such as the titles of books
  and newspapers) appeared from all capital letters. We have changed those to ap-
  pear in today’s standard italic form.
  It is our hope that by presenting this classic of science fiction literature herein
  that old fans will be able to enjoy the story again and that a new generation of fans
  will read it and experience what has become a source of imaginative storytelling
  and fantasy for millions of others.
  And thus we begin...The War of the Worlds.
  —Mark Arsenault
  “But who shall dwell in these worlds if they be inhabited? . . . Are we or they
  Lords of the World? . . . And how are all things made for man?”
  —Kepler (quoted in The Anatomy of Melancholy)
  
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  Chapter One
  The Eve of the War
  N
  o one would have believed in the last years of the
  nineteenth century that this world was being
  watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than
  man’s and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied
  themselves about their various concerns they were scruti-
  nised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man
  with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures
  that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. With infinite
  complacency men went to and fro over this globe about
  their little affairs, serene in their assurance of their empire
  over matter.
  It is possible that the infusoria under the microscope
  do the same. No one gave a thought to the older worlds of
  space as sources of human danger, or thought of them only
  to dismiss the idea of life upon them as impossible or im-
  probable. It is curious to recall some of the mental habits
  of those departed days. At most terrestrial men fancied
  there might be other men upon Mars, perhaps inferior to
  themselves and ready to welcome a missionary enterprise.
  Yet across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as
  ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast
  and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envi-
  ous eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against
  us. And early in the twentieth century came the great disil-
  lusionment.
  The planet Mars, I scarcely need remind the reader,
  revolves about the sun at a mean distance of 140,000,000
  miles, and the light and heat it receives from the sun is
  barely half of that received by this world. It must be, if the
  nebular hypothesis has any truth, older than our world; and
  long before this earth ceased to be molten, life upon its
  surface must have begun its course. The fact that it is
  scarcely one seventh of the volume of the earth must have
  accelerated its cooling to the temperature at which life could
  begin. It has air and water and all that is necessary for the
  support of animated existence.
  Yet so vain is man, and so blinded by his vanity, that no
  writer, up to the very end of the nineteenth century, ex-
  pressed any idea that intelligent life might have developed
  there far, or indeed at all, beyond its earthly level. Nor was
  it generally understood that since Mars is older than our
  earth, with scarcely a quarter of the superficial area and
  remoter from the sun, it necessarily follows that it is not
  only more distant from time’s beginning but nearer its end.
  The secular cooling that must someday overtake our
  planet has already gone far indeed with our neighbour. Its
  physical condition is still largely a mystery, but we know
  now that even in its equatorial region the midday tempera-
  ture barely approaches that of our coldest winter. Its air is
  much more attenuated than ours, its oceans have shrunk
  until they cover but a third of its surface, and as its slow
  seasons change huge snowcaps gather and melt about ei-
  ther pole and periodically inundate its temperate zones.
  That last stage of exhaustion, which to us is still incredibly
  remote, has become a present-day problem for the inhabit-
  ants of Mars. The immediate pressure of necessity has
  brightened their intellects, enlarged their powers, and hard-
  ened their hearts. And looking across space with instru-
  ments, and intelligences such as we have scarcely dreamed
  of, they see, at its nearest distance only 35,000,000 of miles
  sunward of them, a morning star of hope, our own warmer
  planet, green with vegetation and grey with water, with a
  cloudy atmosphere eloquent of fertility, with glimpses
  Book One: The Coming of the Martians
  
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  through its drifting cloud wisps of broad stretches of popu-
  lous country and narrow, navy-crowded seas.
  And we men, the creatures who inhabit this earth, must
  be to them at least as alien and lowly as are the monkeys
  and lemurs to us. The intellectual side of man already ad-
  mits that life is an incessant struggle for existence, and it
  would seem that this too is the belief of the minds upon
  Mars. Their world is far gone in its cooling and this world
  is still crowded with life, but crowded only with what they
  regard as inferior animals. To carry warfare sunward is,
  indeed, their only escape from the destruction that, gen-
  eration after generation, creeps upon them.
  And before we judge of them too harshly we must re-
  member what ruthless and utter destruction our own spe-
  cies has wrought, not only upon animals, such as the van-
  ished bison and the dodo, but upon its inferior races. The
  Tasmanians, in spite of their human likeness, were entirely
  swept out of existence in a war of extermination waged by
  European immigrants, in the space of fifty years. Are we
  such apostles of mercy as to complain if the Martians
  warred in the same spirit?
  The Martians seem to have calculated their descent with
  amazing subtlety—their mathematical learning is evidently
  far in excess of ours—and to have carried out their prepa-
  rations with a well-nigh perfect unanimity. Had our instru-
  ments permitted it, we might have seen the gathering trouble
  far back in the nineteenth century. Men like Schiaparelli
  watched the red planet—it is odd, by-the-bye, that for count-
  less centuries Mars has been the star of war—but failed to
  interpret the fluctuating appearances of the markings they
  mapped so well. All that time the Martians must have been
  getting ready.
  During the opposition of 1894 a great light was seen
  on the illuminated part of the disk, first at the Lick Obser-
  vatory, then by Perrotin of Nice, and then by other observ-
  ers. English readers heard of it first in the issue of Nature
  dated August 2. I am inclined to think that this blaze may
  have been the casting of the huge gun, in the vast pit sunk
  into their planet, from which their shots were fired at us.
  Peculiar markings, as yet unexplained, were seen near the
  site of that outbreak during the next two oppositions.
  The storm burst upon us six years ago now. As Mars
  approached opposition, Lavelle of Java set the wires of
  the astronomical exchange palpitating with the amazing
  intelligence of a huge outbreak of incandescent gas upon
  the planet. It had occurred towards midnight of the twelfth;
  and the spectroscope, to which he had at once resorted,
  indicated a mass of flaming gas, chiefly hydrogen, moving
  with an enormous velocity towards this earth. This jet of
  fire had become invisible about a quarter past twelve. He
  compared it to a colossal puff of flame suddenly and vio-
  lently squirted out of the planet, “as flaming gases rushed
  out of a gun.”
  A singularly appropriate phrase it proved. Yet the next
  day there was nothing of this in the papers except a little
  note in the Daily Telegraph, and the world went in igno-
  rance of one of the gravest dangers that ever threatened
  the human race. I might not have heard of the eruption at
  all had I not met Ogilvy, the well-known astronomer, at
  Ottershaw. He was immensely excited at the news, and in
  the excess of his feelings invited me up to take a turn with
  him that night in a scrutiny of the red planet.
  In spite of all that has happened since, I still remember
  that vigil very distinctly: the black and silent observatory,
  the shadowed lantern throwing a feeble glow upon the floor
  in the corner, the steady ticking of the clockwork of the
  telescope, the little slit in the roof—an oblong profundity
  with the stardust streaked across it. Ogilvy moved about,
  invisible but audible. Looking through the telescope, one
  saw a circle of deep blue and the little round planet swim-
  ming in the field. It seemed such a little thing, so bright
  and small and still, faintly marked with transverse stripes,
  and slightly flattened from the perfect round. But so little
  it was, so silvery warm—a pin’s—head of light! It was as
  if it quivered, but really this was the telescope vibrating
  with the activity of the clockwork that kept the planet in
  view.
  As I watched, the planet seemed to grow larger and
  smaller and to advance and recede, but that was simply
  that my eye was tired. Forty millions of miles it was from
  us—more than forty millions of miles of void. Few people
  realise the immensity of vacancy in which the dust of the
  material universe swims.
  Near it in the field, I remember, were three faint points
  of light, three telescopic stars infinitely remote, and all
  around it was the unfathomable darkness of empty space.
  You know how that blackness looks on a frosty starlight
  night. In a telescope it seems far profounder. And invisible
  to me because it was so remote and small, flying swiftly
  and steadily towards me across that incredible distance,
  drawing nearer every minute by so many thousands of
  miles, came the Thing they were sending us, the Thing that
  was to bring so much struggle and calamity and death to
  the earth. I never dreamed of it then as I watched; no one
  on earth dreamed of that unerring missile.
  That night, too, there was another jetting out of gas
  from the distant planet. I saw it. A reddish flash at the edge,
  the slightest projection of the outline just as the chronom-
  eter struck midnight; and at that I told Ogilvy and he took
  my place. The night was warm and I was thirsty, and I
  went stretching my legs clumsily and feeling my way in
  the darkness, to the little table where the siphon stood, while
  Ogilvy exclaimed at the streamer of gas that came out to-
  wards us.
  That night another invisible missile started on its way
  to the earth from Mars, just a second or so under twenty-
  four hours after the first one. I remember how I sat on the
  table there in the blackness, with patches of green and crim-
  son swimming before my eyes. I wished I had a light to
  smoke by, little suspecting the meaning of the minute gleam
  I had seen and all that it would presently bring me. Ogilvy
  watched till one, and then gave it up; and we lit the lantern
  
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  and walked over to his house. Down below in the darkness
  were Ottershaw and Chertsey and all their hundreds of
  people, sleeping in peace.
  He was full of speculation that night about the condi-
  tion of Mars, and scoffed at the vulgar idea of its having
  inhabitants who were signalling us. His idea was that me-
  teorites might be falling in a heavy shower upon the planet,
  or that a huge volcanic explosion was in progress. He
  pointed out to me how unlikely it was that organic evolu-
  tion had taken the same direction in the two adjacent plan-
  ets.
  “The chances against anything manlike on Mars are a
  million to one,” he said.
  Hundreds of observers saw the flame that night and the
  night after about midnight, and again the night after; and
  so for ten nights, a flame each night. Why the shots ceased
  after the tenth no one on earth has attempted to explain. It
  may be the gases of the firing caused the Martians incon-
  venience. Dense clouds of smoke or dust, visible through
  a powerful telescope on earth as little grey, fluctuating
  patches, spread through the clearness of the planet’s atmo-
  sphere and obscured its more familiar features.
  Even the daily papers woke up to the disturbances at
  last, and popular notes appeared here, there, and every-
  where concerning the volcanoes upon Mars. The serio-
  comic periodical Punch, I remember, made a happy use of
  it in the political cartoon. And, all unsuspected, those mis-
  siles the Martians had fired at us drew earthward, rushing
  now at a pace of many miles a second through the empty
  gulf of space, hour by hour and day by day, nearer and
  nearer. It seems to me now almost incredibly wonderful
  that, with that swift fate hanging over us, men could go
  about their petty concerns as they did. I remember how
  jubilant Markham was at securing a new photograph of
  the planet for the illustrated paper he edited in those days.
  People in these latter times scarcely realise the abundance
  and enterprise of our nineteenth-century papers. For my
  own part, I was much occupied in learning to ride the bi-
  cycle, and busy upon a series of papers discussing the prob-
  able developments of moral ideas as civilisation progressed.
  One night (the first missile then could scarcely have
  been 10,000,000 miles away) I went for a walk with my
  wife. It was starlight and I explained the Signs of the Zo-
  diac to her, and pointed out Mars, a bright dot of light
  creeping zenithward, towards which so many telescopes
  were pointed. It was a warm night. Coming home, a party
  of excursionists from Chertsey or Isleworth passed us sing-
  ing and playing music. There were lights in the upper win-
  dows of the houses as the people went to bed. From the
  railway station in the distance came the sound of shunting
  trains, ringing and rumbling, softened almost into melody
  by the distance. My wife pointed out to me the brightness
  of the red, green, and yellow signal lights hanging in a
  framework against the sky. It seemed so safe and tranquil.
  Chapter Two
  The Falling Star
  T
  hen came the night of the first falling star. It was
  seen early in the morning, rushing over Winches-
  ter eastward, a line of flame high in the atmosphere. Hun-
  dreds must have seen it, and taken it for an ordinary falling
  star. Albin described it as leaving a greenish streak behind
  it that glowed for some seconds. Denning, our greatest au-
  thority on meteorites, stated that the height of its first ap-
  pearance was about ninety or one hundred miles. It seemed
  to him that it fell to earth about one hundred miles east of
  him.
  I was at home at that hour and writing in my study; and
  although my French windows face towards Ottershaw and
  the blind was up (for I loved in those days to look up at the
  night sky), I saw nothing of it. Yet this strangest of all things
  that ever came to earth from outer space must have fallen
  while I was sitting there, visible to me had I only looked
  up as it passed. Some of those who saw its flight say it
  travelled with a hissing sound. I myself heard nothing of
  that. Many people in Berkshire, Surrey, and Middlesex must
  have seen the fall of it, and, at most, have thought that
  another meteorite had descended. No one seems to have
  troubled to look for the fallen mass that night.
  But very early in the morning poor Ogilvy, who had
  seen the shooting star and who was persuaded that a mete-
  orite lay somewhere on the common between Horsell,
  Ottershaw, and Woking, rose early with the idea of finding
  it. Find it he did, soon after dawn, and not far from the
  sand pits. An enormous hole had been made by the impact
  of the projectile, and the sand and gravel had been flung
  violently in every direction over the heath, forming heaps
  visible a mile and a half away. The heather was on fire
  eastward, and a thin blue smoke rose against the dawn.
  The Thing itself lay almost entirely buried in sand,
  amidst the scattered splinters of a fir tree it had shivered to
  fragments in its descent. The uncovered part had the ap-
  pearance of a huge cylinder, caked over and its outline
  softened by a thick scaly dun-coloured incrustation. It had
  a diameter of about thirty yards. He approached the mass,
  surprised at the size and more so at the shape, since most
  meteorites are rounded more or less completely. It was,
  however, still so hot from its flight through the air as to
  forbid his near approach. A stirring noise within its cylin-
  der he ascribed to the unequal cooling of its surface; for at
  that time it had not occurred to him that it might be hollow.
  He remained standing at the edge of the pit that the
  Thing had made for itself, staring at its strange appear-
  ance, astonished chiefly at its unusual shape and colour,
  and dimly perceiving even then some evidence of design
  in its arrival. The early morning was wonderfully still, and
  the sun, just clearing the pine trees towards Weybridge,
  was already warm. He did not remember hearing any birds
  
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  that morning, there was certainly no breeze stirring, and
  the only sounds were the faint movements from within the
  cindery cylinder. He was all alone on the common.
  Then suddenly he noticed with a start that some of the
  grey clinker, the ashy incrustation that covered the mete-
  orite, was falling off the circular edge of the end. It was
  dropping off in flakes and raining down upon the sand. A
  large piece suddenly came off and fell with a sharp noise
  that brought his heart into his mouth.
  For a minute he scarcely realised what this meant, and,
  although the heat was excessive, he clambered down into
  the pit close to the bulk to see the Thing more clearly. He
  fancied even then that the cooling of the body might ac-
  count for this, but what disturbed that idea was the fact
  that the ash was falling only from the end of the cylinder.
  And then he perceived that, very slowly, the circular
  top of the cylinder was rotating on its body. It was such a
  gradual movement that he discovered it only through no-
  ticing that a black mark that had been near him five min-
  utes ago was now at the other side of the circumference.
  Even then he scarcely understood what this indicated, un-
  til he heard a muffled grating sound and saw the black mark
  jerk forward an inch or so. Then the thing came upon him
  in a flash. The cylinder was artificial—hollow—with an
  end that screwed out! Something within the cylinder was
  unscrewing the top!
  “Good heavens!” said Ogilvy. “There’s a man in it—
  men in it! Half roasted to death! Trying to escape!”
  At once, with a quick mental leap, he linked the Thing
  with the flash upon Mars.
  The thought of the confined creature was so dreadful
  to him that he forgot the heat and went forward to the cyl-
  inder to help turn. But luckily the dull radiation arrested
  him before he could burn his hands on the still-glowing
  metal. At that he stood irresolute for a moment, then turned,
  scrambled out of the pit, and set off running wildly into
  Woking. The time then must have been somewhere about
  six o’clock. He met a waggoner and tried to make him
  understand, but the tale he told and his appearance were so
  wild—his hat had fallen off in the pit—that the man sim-
  ply drove on. He was equally unsuccessful with the potman
  who was just unlocking the doors of the public-house by
  Horsell Bridge. The fellow thought he was a lunatic at large
  and made an unsuccessful attempt to shut him into the tap-
  room. That sobered him a little; and when he saw
  Henderson, the London journalist, in his garden, he called
  over the palings and made himself understood.
  “Henderson,” he called, “you saw that shooting star
  last night?”
  “Well?” said Henderson.
  “It’s out on Horsell Common now.”
  “Good Lord!” said Henderson. “Fallen meteorite!
  That’s good.”
  “But it’s something more than a meteorite. It’s a cylin-
  der —an artificial cylinder, man! And there’s something
  inside.”
  Henderson stood up with his spade in his hand.
  “What’s that?” he said. He was deaf in one ear.
  Ogilvy told him all that he had seen. Henderson was a
  minute or so taking it in. Then he dropped his spade,
  snatched up his jacket, and came out into the road. The
  two men hurried back at once to the common, and found
  the cylinder still lying in the same position. But now the
  sounds inside had ceased, and a thin circle of bright metal
  showed between the top and the body of the cylinder. Air
  was either entering or escaping at the rim with a thin, siz-
  zling sound.
  They listened, rapped on the scaly burnt metal with a
  stick, and, meeting with no response, they both concluded
  the man or men inside must be insensible or dead.
  Of course the two were quite unable to do anything.
  They shouted consolation and promises, and went off back
  to the town again to get help. One can imagine them, cov-
  ered with sand, excited and disordered, running up the little
  street in the bright sunlight just as the shop folks were tak-
  ing down their shutters and people were opening their bed-
  room windows. Henderson went into the railway station at
  once, in order to telegraph the news to London. The news-
  paper articles had prepared men’s minds for the reception
  of the idea.
  By eight o’clock a number of boys and unemployed
  men had already started for the common to see the “dead
  men from Mars.” That was the form the story took. I heard
  of it first from my newspaper boy about a quarter to nine
  when I went out to get my Daily Chronicle. I was naturally
  startled, and lost no time in going out and across the
  Ottershaw bridge to the sand pits.
  
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  Chapter Three
  On Horsell Common
  I
   found a little crowd of perhaps twenty people sur
  rounding the huge hole in which the cylinder lay. I
  have already described the appearance of that colossal bulk,
  embedded in the ground. The turf and gravel about it
  seemed charred as if by a sudden explosion. No doubt its
  impact had caused a flash of fire. Henderson and Ogilvy
  were not there. I think they perceived that nothing was to
  be done for the present, and had gone away to breakfast at
  Henderson’s house.
  There were four or five boys sitting on the edge of the
  Pit, with their feet dangling, and amusing themselves—
  until I stopped them—by throwing stones at the giant mass.
  After I had spoken to them about it, they began playing at
  “touch” in and out of the group of bystanders.
  Among these were a couple of cyclists, a jobbing gar-
  dener I employed sometimes, a girl carrying a baby, Gregg
  the butcher and his little boy, and two or three loafers and
  golf caddies who were accustomed to hang about the rail-
  way station. There was very little talking. Few of the com-
  mon people in England had anything but the vaguest as-
  tronomical ideas in those days. Most of them were staring
  quietly at the big tablelike end of the cylinder, which was
  still as Ogilvy and Henderson had left it. I fancy the popu-
  lar expectation of a heap of charred corpses was disap-
  pointed at this inanimate bulk. Some went away while I
  was there, and other people came. I clambered into the pit
  and fancied I heard a faint movement under my feet. The
  top had certainly ceased to rotate.
  It was only when I got thus close to it that the strange-
  ness of this object was at all evident to me. At the first
  glance it was really no more exciting than an overturned
  carriage or a tree blown across the road. Not so much so,
  indeed. It looked like a rusty gas float. It required a certain
  amount of scientific education to perceive that the grey
  scale of the Thing was no common oxide, that the yellow-
  ish-white metal that gleamed in the crack between the lid
  and the cylinder had an unfamiliar hue. “Extra-terrestrial”
  had no meaning for most of the onlookers.
  At that time it was quite clear in my own mind that the
  Thing had come from the planet Mars, but I judged it im-
  probable that it contained any living creature. I thought
  the unscrewing might be automatic. In spite of Ogilvy, I
  still believed that there were men in Mars. My mind ran
  fancifully on the possibilities of its containing manuscript,
  on the difficulties in translation that might arise, whether
  we should find coins and models in it, and so forth. Yet it
  was a little too large for assurance on this idea. I felt an
  impatience to see it opened. About eleven, as nothing
  seemed happening, I walked back, full of such thought, to
  my home in Maybury. But I found it difficult to get to work
  upon my abstract investigations.
  In the afternoon the appearance of the common had
  altered very much. The early editions of the evening pa-
  pers had startled London with enormous headlines:
  “A MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM MARS.”
  “REMARKABLE STORY FROM WOKING,” and so
  forth. In addition, Ogilvy’s wire to the Astronomical Ex-
  change had roused every observatory in the three king-
  doms.
  There were half a dozen flies or more from the Woking
  station standing in the road by the sand pits, a basketchaise
  from Chobham, and a rather lordly carriage. Besides that,
  there was quite a heap of bicycles. In addition, a large num-
  ber of people must have walked, in spite of the heat of the
  day, from Woking and Chertsey, so that there was alto-
  gether quite a considerable crowd—one or two gaily
  dressed ladies among the others.  It was glaringly hot, not
  a cloud in the sky nor a breath of wind, and the only shadow
  was that of the few scattered pine trees. The burning heather
  had been extinguished, but the level ground towards
  Ottershaw was blackened as far as one could see, and still
  giving off vertical streamers of smoke. An enterprising
  sweet-stuff dealer in the Chobham Road had sent up his
  son with a barrow-load of green apples and ginger beer.
  Going to the edge of the pit, I found it occupied by a
  group of about half a dozen men—Henderson, Ogilvy, and
  a tall, fair-haired man that I afterwards learned was Stent,
  the Astronomer Royal, with several workmen wielding
  spades and pickaxes. Stent was giving directions in a clear,
  highpitched voice. He was standing on the cylinder, which
  was now evidently much cooler; his face was crimson and
  streaming with perspiration, and something seemed to have
  irritated him.
  A large portion of the cylinder had been uncovered,
  though its lower end was still embedded. As soon as Ogilvy
  saw me among the staring crowd on the edge of the pit he
  called to me to come down, and asked me if I would mind
  going over to see Lord Hilton, the lord of the manor.
  The growing crowd, he said, was becoming a serious
  impediment to their excavations, especially the boys. They
  wanted a light railing put up, and help to keep the people
  back. He told me that a faint stirring was occasionally still
  audible within the case, but that the workmen had failed to
  unscrew the top, as it afforded no grip to them. The case
  appeared to be enormously thick, and it was possible that
  the faint sounds we heard represented a noisy tumult in the
  interior.
  I was very glad to do as he asked, and so become one
  of the privileged spectators within the contemplated en-
  closure. I failed to find Lord Hilton at his house, but I was
  told he was expected from London by the six o’clock train
  from Waterloo; and as it was then about a quarter past five,
  I went home, had some tea, and walked up to the station to
  waylay him.
  
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  Chapter Four
  The Cylinder Opens
  W
  hen I returned to the common the sun was setting.
  Scattered groups were hurrying from the direction
  of Woking, and one or two persons were returning. The
  crowd about the pit had increased, and stood out black
  against the lemon yellow of the sky—a couple of hundred
  people, perhaps. There were raised voices, and some sort
  of struggle appeared to be going on about the pit. Strange
  imaginings passed through my mind. As I drew nearer I
  heard Stent’s voice:
  “Keep back! Keep back!”
  A boy came running towards me.
  “It’s a-movin’,” he said to me as he passed; “a-screwin’
  and a-screwin’ out. I don’t like it. I’m a-goin’ ‘ome, I am.”
  I went on to the crowd. There were really, I should
  think, two or three hundred people elbowing and jostling
  one another, the one or two ladies there being by no means
  the least active.
  “He’s fallen in the pit!” cried some one.
  “Keep back!” said several.
  The crowd swayed a little, and I elbowed my way
  through. Every one seemed greatly excited. I heard a pe-
  culiar humming sound from the pit.
  “I say!” said Ogilvy; “help keep these idiots back. We
  don’t know what’s in the confounded thing, you know!”
  I saw a young man, a shop assistant in Woking I be-
  lieve he was, standing on the cylinder and trying to scramble
  out of the hole again. The crowd had pushed him in.
  The end of the cylinder was being screwed out from
  within. Nearly two feet of shining screw projected. Some-
  body blundered against me, and I narrowly missed being
  pitched onto the top of the screw. I turned, and as I did so
  the screw must have come out, for the lid of the cylinder
  fell upon the gravel with a ringing concussion. I stuck my
  elbow into the person behind me, and turned my head to-
  wards the Thing again. For a moment that circular cavity
  seemed perfectly black. I had the sunset in my eyes.
  I think everyone expected to see a man emerge—pos-
  sibly something a little unlike us terrestrial men, but in all
  essentials a man. I know I did. But, looking, I presently
  saw something stirring within the shadow: greyish billowy
  movements, one above another, and then two luminous
  disks—like eyes. Then something resembling a little grey
  snake, about the thickness of a walking stick, coiled up out
  of the writhing middle, and wriggled in the air towards
  me—and then another.
  A sudden chill came over me. There was a loud shriek
  from a woman behind. I half turned, keeping my eyes fixed
  upon the cylinder still, from which other tentacles were
  now projecting, and began pushing my way back from the
  edge of the pit. I saw astonishment giving place to horror
  on the faces of the people about me. I heard inarticulate
  exclamations on all sides. There was a general movement
  backwards. I saw the shopman struggling still on the edge
  of the pit. I found myself alone, and saw the people on the
  other side of the pit running off, Stent among them. I looked
  again at the cylinder, and ungovernable terror gripped me.
  I stood petrified and staring.
  A big greyish rounded bulk, the size, perhaps, of a bear,
  was rising slowly and painfully out of the cylinder. As it
  bulged up and caught the light, it glistened like wet leather.
  Two large dark-coloured eyes were regarding me stead-
  fastly. The mass that framed them, the head of the thing,
  was rounded, and had, one might say, a face. There was a
  mouth under the eyes, the lipless brim of which quivered
  and panted, and dropped saliva. The whole creature heaved
  and pulsated convulsively. A lank tentacular appendage
  gripped the edge of the cylinder, another swayed in the air.
  Those who have never seen a living Martian can
  scarcely imagine the strange horror of its appearance. The
  peculiar V-shaped mouth with its pointed upper lip, the
  absence of brow ridges, the absence of a chin beneath the
  wedgelike lower lip, the incessant quivering of this mouth,
  the Gorgon groups of tentacles, the tumultuous breathing
  of the lungs in a strange atmosphere, the evident heaviness
  and painfulness of movement due to the greater gravita-
  tional energy of the earth—above all, the extraordinary
  intensity of the immense eyes—were at once vital, intense,
  inhuman, crippled and monstrous. There was something
  fungoid in the oily brown skin, something in the clumsy
  deliberation of the tedious movements unspeakably nasty.
  Even at this first encounter, this first glimpse, I was over-
  
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  come with disgust and dread.
  Suddenly the monster vanished. It had toppled over
  the brim of the cylinder and fallen into the pit, with a thud
  like the fall of a great mass of leather. I heard it give a
  peculiar thick cry, and forthwith another of these creatures
  appeared darkly in the deep shadow of the aperture.
  I turned and, running madly, made for the first group
  of trees, perhaps a hundred yards away; but I ran slantingly
  and stumbling, for I could not avert my face from these
  things.
  There, among some young pine trees and furze bushes,
  I stopped, panting, and waited further developments. The
  common round the sand pits was dotted with people, stand-
  ing like myself in a half-fascinated terror, staring at these
  creatures, or rather at the heaped gravel at the edge of the
  pit in which they lay. And then, with a renewed horror, I
  saw a round, black object bobbing up and down on the
  edge of the pit. It was the head of the shopman who had
  fallen in, but showing as a little black object against the
  hot western sun. Now he got his shoulder and knee up, and
  again he seemed to slip back until only his head was vis-
  ible. Suddenly he vanished, and I could have fancied a
  faint shriek had reached me. I had a momentary impulse to
  go back and help him that my fears overruled.
  Everything was then quite invisible, hidden by the deep
  pit and the heap of sand that the fall of the cylinder had
  made. Anyone coming along the road from Chobham or
  Woking would have been amazed at the sight—a dwin-
  dling multitude of perhaps a hundred people or more stand-
  ing in a great irregular circle, in ditches, behind bushes,
  behind gates and hedges, saying little to one another and
  that in short, excited shouts, and staring, staring hard at a
  few heaps of sand. The barrow of ginger beer stood, a queer
  derelict, black against the burning sky, and in the sand pits
  was a row of deserted vehicles with their horses feeding
  out of nosebags or pawing the ground.
  Chapter Five
  The Heat-Ray
  A
  fter the glimpse I had had of the Martians emerg
  ing from the cylinder in which they had come to
  the earth from their planet, a kind of fascination paralysed
  my actions. I remained standing knee-deep in the heather,
  staring at the mound that hid them. I was a battleground of
  fear and curiosity.
  I did not dare to go back towards the pit, but I felt a
  passionate longing to peer into it. I began walking, there-
  fore, in a big curve, seeking some point of vantage and
  continually looking at the sand heaps that hid these new-
  comers to our earth. Once a leash of thin black whips, like
  the arms of an octopus, flashed across the sunset and was
  immediately withdrawn, and afterwards a thin rod rose up,
  joint by joint, bearing at its apex a circular disk that spun
  with a wobbling motion. What could be going on there?
  Most of the spectators had gathered in one or two groups
  —one a little crowd towards Woking, the other a knot of
  people in the direction of Chobham. Evidently they shared
  my mental conflict. There were few near me. One man I
  approached—he was, I perceived, a neighbour of mine,
  though I did not know his name—and accosted. But it was
  scarcely a time for articulate conversation.
  “What ugly brutes!” he said. “Good God! What ugly
  brutes!” He repeated this over and over again.
  “Did you see a man in the pit?” I said; but he made no
  answer to that. We became silent, and stood watching for a
  time side by side, deriving, I fancy, a certain comfort in
  one another’s company. Then I shifted my position to a
  little knoll that gave me the advantage of a yard or more of
  elevation and when I looked for him presently he was walk-
  ing towards Woking.
  The sunset faded to twilight before anything further
  happened. The crowd far away on the left, towards Woking,
  seemed to grow, and I heard now a faint murmur from it.
  The little knot of people towards Chobham dispersed. There
  was scarcely an intimation of movement from the pit.
  It was this, as much as anything, that gave people cour-
  age, and I suppose the new arrivals from Woking also
  helped to restore confidence. At any rate, as the dusk came
  on a slow, intermittent movement upon the sand pits be-
  gan, a movement that seemed to gather force as the still-
  ness of the evening about the cylinder remained unbroken.
  Vertical black figures in twos and threes would advance,
  stop, watch, and advance again, spreading out as they did
  so in a thin irregular crescent that promised to enclose the
  pit in its attenuated horns. I, too, on my side began to move
  towards the pit.
  Then I saw some cabmen and others had walked boldly
  into the sand pits, and heard the clatter of hoofs and the
  gride of wheels. I saw a lad trundling off the barrow of
  apples. And then, within thirty yards of the pit, advancing
  
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  from the direction of Horsell, I noted a little black knot of
  men, the foremost of whom was waving a white flag.
  This was the Deputation. There had been a hasty con-
  sultation, and since the Martians were evidently, in spite
  of their repulsive forms, intelligent creatures, it had been
  resolved to show them, by approaching them with signals,
  that we too were intelligent.
  Flutter, flutter, went the flag, first to the right, then to
  the left. It was too far for me to recognise anyone there,
  but afterwards I learned that Ogilvy, Stent, and Henderson
  were with others in this attempt at communication. This
  little group had in its advance dragged inward, so to speak,
  the circumference of the now almost complete circle of
  people, and a number of dim black figures followed it at
  discreet distances.
  Suddenly there was a flash of light, and a quantity of
  luminous greenish smoke came out of the pit in three dis-
  tinct puffs, which drove up, one after the other, straight
  into the still air.
  This smoke (or flame, perhaps, would be the better word
  for it) was so bright that the deep blue sky overhead and
  the hazy stretches of brown common towards Chertsey, set
  with black pine trees, seemed to darken abruptly as these
  puffs arose, and to remain the darker after their dispersal.
  At the same time a faint hissing sound became audible.
  Beyond the pit stood the little wedge of people with
  the white flag at its apex, arrested by these phenomena, a
  little knot of small vertical black shapes upon the black
  ground. As the green smoke arose, their faces flashed out
  pallid green, and faded again as it vanished. Then slowly
  the hissing passed into a humming, into a long, loud, dron-
  ing noise. Slowly a humped shape rose out of the pit, and
  the ghost of a beam of light seemed to flicker out from it.
  Forthwith flashes of actual flame, a bright glare leap-
  ing from one to another, sprang from the scattered group
  of men. It was as if some invisible jet impinged upon them
  and flashed into white flame. It was as if each man were
  suddenly and momentarily turned to fire.
  Then, by the light of their own destruction, I saw them
  staggering and falling, and their supporters turning to run.
  I stood staring, not as yet realising that this was death
  leaping from man to man in that little distant crowd. All I
  felt was that it was something very strange. An almost noise-
  less and blinding flash of light, and a man fell headlong
  and lay still; and as the unseen shaft of heat passed over
  them, pine trees burst into fire, and every dry furze bush
  became with one dull thud a mass of flames. And far away
  towards Knaphill I saw the flashes of trees and hedges and
  wooden buildings suddenly set alight.
  It was sweeping round swiftly and steadily, this flam-
  ing death, this invisible, inevitable sword of heat. I per-
  ceived it coming towards me by the flashing bushes it
  touched, and was too astounded and stupefied to stir. I heard
  the crackle of fire in the sand pits and the sudden squeal of
  a horse that was as suddenly stilled. Then it was as if an
  invisible yet intensely heated finger were drawn through
  the heather between me and the Martians, and all along a
  curving line beyond the sand pits the dark ground smoked
  and crackled. Something fell with a crash far away to the
  left where the road from Woking station opens out on the
  common. Forthwith the hissing and humming ceased, and
  the black, domelike object sank slowly out of sight into
  the pit.
  All this had happened with such swiftness that I had
  stood motionless, dumbfounded and dazzled by the flashes
  of light. Had that death swept through a full circle, it must
  inevitably have slain me in my surprise. But it passed and
  spared me, and left the night about me suddenly dark and
  unfamiliar.
  The undulating common seemed now dark almost to
  blackness, except where its roadways lay grey and pale
  under the deep blue sky of the early night. It was dark, and
  suddenly void of men. Overhead the stars were mustering,
  and in the west the sky was still a pale, bright, almost green-
  ish blue. The tops of the pine trees and the roofs of Horsell
  came out sharp and black against the western afterglow.
  The Martians and their appliances were altogether invis-
  ible, save for that thin mast upon which their restless mir-
  ror wobbled. Patches of bush and isolated trees here and
  there smoked and glowed still, and the houses towards
  Woking station were sending up spires of flame into the
  stillness of the evening air.
  Nothing was changed save for that and a terrible aston-
  ishment. The little group of black specks with the flag of
  white had been swept out of existence, and the stillness of
  the evening, so it seemed to me, had scarcely been broken.
  It came to me that I was upon this dark common, help-
  less, unprotected, and alone. Suddenly, like a thing falling
  upon me from without, came—fear.
  With an effort I turned and began a stumbling run
  through the heather.
  The fear I felt was no rational fear, but a panic terror
  not only of the Martians, but of the dusk and stillness all
  about me. Such an extraordinary effect in unmanning me it
  had that I ran weeping silently as a child might do. Once I
  had turned, I did not dare to look back.
  I remember I felt an extraordinary persuasion that I
  was being played with, that presently, when I was upon the
  very verge of safety, this mysterious death—as swift as the
  passage of light—would leap after me from the pit about
  the cylinder and strike me down.
  
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  Chapter Six
  The Heat-Ray in the
  Chobham Road
  I
  t is still a matter of wonder how the Martians are
  able to slay men so swiftly and so silently. Many
  think that in some way they are able to generate an intense
  heat in a chamber of practically absolute non-conductiv-
  ity. This intense heat they project in a parallel beam against
  any object they choose, by means of a polished parabolic
  mirror of unknown composition, much as the parabolic
  mirror of a lighthouse projects a beam of light. But no one
  has absolutely proved these details. However it is done, it
  is certain that a beam of heat is the essence of the matter.
  Heat, and invisible, instead of visible, light. Whatever is
  combustible flashes into flame at its touch, lead runs like
  water, it softens iron, cracks and melts glass, and when it
  falls upon water, incontinently that explodes into steam.
  That night nearly forty people lay under the starlight
  about the pit, charred and distorted beyond recognition,
  and all night long the common from Horsell to Maybury
  was deserted and brightly ablaze.
  The news of the massacre probably reached Chobham,
  Woking, and Ottershaw about the same time. In Woking
  the shops had closed when the tragedy happened, and a
  number of people, shop people and so forth, attracted by
  the stories they had heard, were walking over the Horsell
  Bridge and along the road between the hedges that runs
  out at last upon the common. You may imagine the young
  people brushed up after the labours of the day, and making
  this novelty, as they would make any novelty, the excuse
  for walking together and enjoying a trivial flirtation. You
  may figure to yourself the hum of voices along the road in
  the gloaming. . . .
  As yet, of course, few people in Woking even knew
  that the cylinder had opened, though poor Henderson had
  sent a messenger on a bicycle to the post office with a spe-
  cial wire to an evening paper.
  As these folks came out by twos and threes upon the
  open, they found little knots of people talking excitedly
  and peering at the spinning mirror over the sand pits, and
  the new-comers were, no doubt, soon infected by the ex-
  citement of the occasion.
  By half past eight, when the Deputation was destroyed,
  there may have been a crowd of three hundred people or
  more at this place, besides those who had left the road to
  approach the Martians nearer. There were three policemen
  too, one of whom was mounted, doing their best, under
  instructions from Stent, to keep the people back and deter
  them from approaching the cylinder. There was some boo-
  ing from those more thoughtless and excitable souls to
  whom a crowd is always an occasion for noise and horse-
  play.
  Stent and Ogilvy, anticipating some possibilities of a
  collision, had telegraphed from Horsell to the barracks as
  soon as the Martians emerged, for the help of a company
  of soldiers to protect these strange creatures from violence.
  After that they returned to lead that ill-fated advance. The
  description of their death, as it was seen by the crowd,
  tallies very closely with my own impressions: the three
  puffs of green smoke, the deep humming note, and the
  flashes of flame.
  But that crowd of people had a far narrower escape
  than mine. Only the fact that a hummock of heathery sand
  intercepted the lower part of the Heat-Ray saved them. Had
  the elevation of the parabolic mirror been a few yards
  higher, none could have lived to tell the tale. They saw the
  flashes and the men falling and an invisible hand, as it were,
  lit the bushes as it hurried towards them through the twi-
  light. Then, with a whistling note that rose above the dron-
  ing of the pit, the beam swung close over their heads, light-
  ing the tops of the beech trees that line the road, and split-
  ting the bricks, smashing the windows, firing the window
  frames, and bringing down in crumbling ruin a portion of
  the gable of the house nearest the corner.
  In the sudden thud, hiss, and glare of the igniting trees,
  the panic-stricken crowd seems to have swayed hesitat-
  ingly for some moments. Sparks and burning twigs began
  to fall into the road, and single leaves like puffs of flame.
  Hats and dresses caught fire. Then came a crying from the
  common. There were shrieks and shouts, and suddenly a
  mounted policeman came galloping through the confusion
  with his hands clasped over his head, screaming.
  “They’re coming!” a woman shrieked, and incontinently
  everyone was turning and pushing at those behind, in or-
  der to clear their way to Woking again. They must have
  bolted as blindly as a flock of sheep. Where the road grows
  narrow and black between the high banks the crowd
  jammed, and a desperate struggle occurred. All that crowd
  did not escape; three persons at least, two women and a
  little boy, were crushed and trampled there, and left to die
  amid the terror and the darkness.
  
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  Chapter Seven
  How I Reached Home
  F
  or my own part, I remember nothing of my flight
  except the stress of blundering against trees and
  stumbling through the heather. All about me gathered the
  invisible terrors of the Martians; that pitiless sword of heat
  seemed whirling to and fro, flourishing overhead before it
  descended and smote me out of life. I came into the road
  between the crossroads and Horsell, and ran along this to
  the crossroads.
  At last I could go no further; I was exhausted with the
  violence of my emotion and of my flight, and I staggered
  and fell by the wayside. That was near the bridge that
  crosses the canal by the gasworks. I fell and lay still.
  I must have remained there some time.
  I sat up, strangely perplexed. For a moment, perhaps, I
  could not clearly understand how I came there. My terror
  had fallen from me like a garment. My hat had gone, and
  my collar had burst away from its fastener. A few minutes
  before, there had only been three real things before me—
  the immensity of the night and space and nature, my own
  feebleness and anguish, and the near approach of death.
  Now it was as if something turned over, and the point of
  view altered abruptly. There was no sensible transition from
  one state of mind to the other. I was immediately the self
  of every day again—a decent, ordinary citizen. The silent
  common, the impulse of my flight, the starting flames, were
  as if they had been in a dream. I asked myself had these
  latter things indeed happened? I could not credit it.
  I rose and walked unsteadily up the steep incline of the
  bridge. My mind was blank wonder. My muscles and nerves
  seemed drained of their strength. I dare say I staggered
  drunkenly. A head rose over the arch, and the figure of a
  workman carrying a basket appeared. Beside him ran a
  little boy. He passed me, wishing me good night. I was
  minded to speak to him, but did not. I answered his greet-
  ing with a meaningless mumble and went on over the
  bridge.
  Over the Maybury arch a train, a billowing tumult of
  white, firelit smoke, and a long caterpillar of lighted win-
  dows, went flying south—clatter, clatter, clap, rap, and it
  had gone. A dim group of people talked in the gate of one
  of the houses in the pretty little row of gables that was
  called Oriental Terrace. It was all so real and so familiar.
  And that behind me! It was frantic, fantastic! Such things,
  I told myself, could not be.
  Perhaps I am a man of exceptional moods. I do not
  know how far my experience is common. At times I suffer
  from the strangest sense of detachment from myself and
  the world about me; I seem to watch it all from the outside,
  from somewhere inconceivably remote, out of time, out of
  space, out of the stress and tragedy of it all. This feeling
  was very strong upon me that night. Here was another side
  to my dream.
  But the trouble was the blank incongruity of this seren-
  ity and the swift death flying yonder, not two miles away.
  There was a noise of business from the gasworks, and the
  electric lamps were all alight. I stopped at the group of
  people.
  “What news from the common?” said I.
  There were two men and a woman at the gate.
  “Eh?” said one of the men, turning.
  “What news from the common?” I said.
  “‘Ain’t yer just been there?” asked the men.
  “People seem fair silly about the common,” said the
  woman over the gate. “What’s it all abart?”
  “Haven’t you heard of the men from Mars?” said I;
  “the creatures from Mars?”
  “Quite enough,” said the woman over the gate.
  “Thenks”; and all three of them laughed.
  I felt foolish and angry. I tried and found I could not
  tell them what I had seen. They laughed again at my bro-
  ken sentences.
  “You’ll hear more yet,” I said, and went on to my home.
  I startled my wife at the doorway, so haggard was I. I
  went into the dining room, sat down, drank some wine,
  and so soon as I could collect myself sufficiently I told her
  the things I had seen. The dinner, which was a cold one,
  had already been served, and remained neglected on the
  table while I told my story.
  “There is one thing,” I said, to allay the fears I had
  aroused; “they are the most sluggish things I ever saw crawl.
  They may keep the pit and kill people who come near them,
  but they cannot get out of it. . . . But the horror of them!”
  “Don’t, dear!” said my wife, knitting her brows and
  putting her hand on mine.
  “Poor Ogilvy!” I said. “To think he may be lying dead
  there!”
  My wife at least did not find my experience incredible.
  When I saw how deadly white her face was, I ceased
  abruptly.
  “They may come here,” she said again and again.
  I pressed her to take wine, and tried to reassure her.
  “They can scarcely move,” I said.
  I began to comfort her and myself by repeating all that
  Ogilvy had told me of the impossibility of the Martians
  establishing themselves on the earth. In particular I laid
  stress on the gravitational difficulty. On the surface of the
  earth the force of gravity is three times what it is on the
  surface of Mars. A Martian, therefore, would weigh three
  times more than on Mars, albeit his muscular strength would
  be the same. His own body would be a cope of lead to him.
  That, indeed, was the general opinion. Both The Times and
  the Daily Telegraph, for instance, insisted on it the next
  morning, and both overlooked, just as I did, two obvious
  modifying influences.
  The atmosphere of the earth, we now know, contains
  far more oxygen or far less argon (whichever way one likes
  to put it) than does Mars. The invigorating influences of
  this excess of oxygen upon the Martians indisputably did
  much to counterbalance the increased weight of their bod-
  
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  ies. And, in the second place, we all overlooked the fact
  that such mechanical intelligence as the Martian possessed
  was quite able to dispense with muscular exertion at a pinch.
  But I did not consider these points at the time, and so
  my reasoning was dead against the chances of the invad-
  ers. With wine and food, the confidence of my own table,
  and the necessity of reassuring my wife, I grew by insen-
  sible degrees courageous and secure.
  “They have done a foolish thing,” said I, fingering my
  wineglass. “They are dangerous because, no doubt, they
  are mad with terror. Perhaps they expected to find no liv-
  ing things—certainly no intelligent living things.
  “A shell in the pit” said I, “if the worst comes to the
  worst will kill them all.”
  The intense excitement of the events had no doubt left
  my perceptive powers in a state of erethism. I remember
  that dinner table with extraordinary vividness even now.
  My dear wife’s sweet anxious face peering at me from un-
  der the pink lamp shade, the white cloth with its silver and
  glass table furniture—for in those days even philosophical
  writers had many little luxuries—the crimson-purple wine
  in my glass, are photographically distinct. At the end of it
  I sat, tempering nuts with a cigarette, regretting Ogilvy’s
  rashness, and denouncing the shortsighted timidity of the
  Martians.
  So some respectable dodo in the Mauritius might have
  lorded it in his nest, and discussed the arrival of that shipful
  of pitiless sailors in want of animal food. “We will peck
  them to death tomorrow, my dear.”
  I did not know it, but that was the last civilised dinner
  I was to eat for very many strange and terrible days.
  Chapter Eight
  Friday Night
  T
  he most extraordinary thing to my mind, of all the
  strange and wonderful things that happened upon
  that Friday, was the dovetailing of the commonplace hab-
  its of our social order with the first beginnings of the series
  of events that was to topple that social order headlong. If
  on Friday night you had taken a pair of compasses and
  drawn a circle with a radius of five miles round the Woking
  sand pits, I doubt if you would have had one human being
  outside it, unless it were some relation of Stent or of the
  three or four cyclists or London people lying dead on the
  common, whose emotions or habits were at all affected by
  the new-comers. Many people had heard of the cylinder,
  of course, and talked about it in their leisure, but it cer-
  tainly did not make the sensation that an ultimatum to Ger-
  many would have done.
  In London that night poor Henderson’s telegram de-
  scribing the gradual unscrewing of the shot was judged to
  be a canard, and his evening paper, after wiring for au-
  thentication from him and receiving no reply—the man
  was killed—decided not to print a special edition.
  Even within the five-mile circle the great majority of
  people were inert. I have already described the behaviour
  of the men and women to whom I spoke. All over the dis-
  trict people were dining and supping; working men were
  gardening after the labours of the day, children were being
  put to bed, young people were wandering through the lanes
  love-making, students sat over their books.
  Maybe there was a murmur in the village streets, a novel
  and dominant topic in the public-houses, and here and there
  a messenger, or even an eye-witness of the later occur-
  rences, caused a whirl of excitement, a shouting, and a
  running to and fro; but for the most part the daily routine
  of working, eating, drinking, sleeping, went on as it had
  done for countless years—as though no planet Mars ex-
  isted in the sky. Even at Woking station and Horsell and
  Chobham that was the case.
  In Woking junction, until a late hour, trains were stop-
  ping and going on, others were shunting on the sidings,
  passengers were alighting and waiting, and everything was
  proceeding in the most ordinary way. A boy from the town,
  trenching on Smith’s monopoly, was selling papers with
  the afternoon’s news. The ringing impact of trucks, the sharp
  whistle of the engines from the junction, mingled with their
  shouts of “Men from Mars!” Excited men came into the
  station about nine o’clock with incredible tidings, and
  caused no more disturbance than drunkards might have
  done. People rattling Londonwards peered into the dark-
  ness outside the carriage windows, and saw only a rare,
  flickering, vanishing spark dance up from the direction of
  Horsell, a red glow and a thin veil of smoke driving across
  the stars, and thought that nothing more serious than a heath
  fire was happening. It was only round the edge of the com-
  
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  mon that any disturbance was perceptible. There were half
  a dozen villas burning on the Woking border. There were
  lights in all the houses on the common side of the three
  villages, and the people there kept awake till dawn.
  A curious crowd lingered restlessly, people coming and
  going but the crowd remaining, both on the Chobham and
  Horsell bridges. One or two adventurous souls, it was af-
  terwards found, went into the darkness and crawled quite
  near the Martians; but they never returned, for now and
  again a light-ray, like the beam of a warship’s searchlight
  swept the common, and the Heat-Ray was ready to follow.
  Save for such, that big area of common was silent and deso-
  late, and the charred bodies lay about on it all night under
  the stars, and all the next day. A noise of hammering from
  the pit was heard by many people.
  So you have the state of things on Friday night. In the
  centre, sticking into the skin of our old planet Earth like a
  poisoned dart, was this cylinder. But the poison was
  scarcely working yet. Around it was a patch of silent com-
  mon, smouldering in places, and with a few dark, dimly
  seen objects lying in contorted attitudes here and there.
  Here and there was a burning bush or tree. Beyond was a
  fringe of excitement, and farther than that fringe the in-
  flammation had not crept as yet. In the rest of the world the
  stream of life still flowed as it had flowed for immemorial
  years. The fever of war that would presently clog vein and
  artery, deaden nerve and destroy brain, had still to develop.
  All night long the Martians were hammering and stir-
  ring, sleepless, indefatigable, at work upon the machines
  they were making ready, and ever and again a puff of
  greenishwhite smoke whirled up to the starlit sky.
  About eleven a company of soldiers came through
  Horsell, and deployed along the edge of the common to
  form a cordon. Later a second company marched through
  Chobham to deploy on the north side of the common. Sev-
  eral officers from the Inkerman barracks had been on the
  common earlier in the day, and one, Major Eden, was re-
  ported to be missing. The colonel of the regiment came to
  the Chobham bridge and was busy questioning the crowd
  at midnight. The military authorities were certainly alive
  to the seriousness of the business. About eleven, the next
  morning’s papers were able to say, a squadron of hussars,
  two Maxims, and about four hundred men of the Cardigan
  regiment started from Aldershot.
  A few seconds after midnight the crowd in the Chertsey
  road, Woking, saw a star fall from heaven into the pine
  woods to the northwest. It had a greenish colour, and caused
  a silent brightness like summer lightning. This was the sec-
  ond cylinder.
  Chapter Nine
  The Fighting Begins
  S
  aturday lives in my memory as a day of suspense. It
  was a day of lassitude too, hot and close, with, I am
  told, a rapidly fluctuating barometer. I had slept but little,
  though my wife had succeeded in sleeping, and I rose early.
  I went into my garden before breakfast and stood listen-
  ing, but towards the common there was nothing stirring
  but a lark.
  The milkman came as usual. I heard the rattle of his
  chariot and I went round to the side gate to ask the latest
  news. He told me that during the night the Martians had
  been surrounded by troops, and that guns were expected.
  Then—a familiar, reassuring note—I heard a train running
  towards Woking.
  “They aren’t to be killed,” said the milkman, “if that
  can possibly be avoided.”
  I saw my neighbour gardening, chatted with him for a
  time, and then strolled in to breakfast. It was a most unex-
  ceptional morning. My neighbour was of opinion that the
  troops would be able to capture or to destroy the Martians
  during the day.
  “It’s a pity they make themselves so unapproachable,”
  he said. “It would be curious to know how they live on
  another planet; we might learn a thing or two.”
  He came up to the fence and extended a handful of
  
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  strawberries, for his gardening was as generous as it was
  enthusiastic. At the same time he told me of the burning of
  the pine woods about the Byfleet Golf Links.
  “They say,” said he, “that there’s another of those
  blessed things fallen there—number two. But one’s enough,
  surely. This lot’ll cost the insurance people a pretty penny
  before everything’s settled.” He laughed with an air of the
  greatest good humour as he said this. The woods, he said,
  were still burning, and pointed out a haze of smoke to me.
  “They will be hot under foot for days, on account of the
  thick soil of pine needles and turf,” he said, and then grew
  serious over “poor Ogilvy.”
  After breakfast, instead of working, I decided to walk
  down towards the common. Under the railway bridge I
  found a group of soldiers—sappers, I think, men in small
  round caps, dirty red jackets unbuttoned, and showing their
  blue shirts, dark trousers, and boots coming to the calf.
  They told me no one was allowed over the canal, and, look-
  ing along the road towards the bridge, I saw one of the
  Cardigan men standing sentinel there. I talked with these
  soldiers for a time; I told them of my sight of the Martians
  on the previous evening. None of them had seen the Mar-
  tians, and they had but the vaguest ideas of them, so that
  they plied me with questions. They said that they did not
  know who had authorised the movements of the troops;
  their idea was that a dispute had arisen at the Horse Guards.
  The ordinary sapper is a great deal better educated than
  the common soldier, and they discussed the peculiar con-
  ditions of the possible fight with some acuteness. I de-
  scribed the Heat-Ray to them, and they began to argue
  among themselves.
  “Crawl up under cover and rush ‘em, say I,” said one.
  “Get aht!,” said another. “What’s cover against this ‘ere
  ‘eat? Sticks to cook yer! What we got to do is to go as near
  as the ground’ll let us, and then drive a trench.”
  “Blow yer trenches! You always want trenches; you
  ought to ha” been born a rabbit Snippy.”
  “‘Ain’t they got any necks, then?” said a third,
  abruptly— a little, contemplative, dark man, smoking a
  pipe.
  I repeated my description.
  “Octopuses,” said he, “that’s what I calls ‘em. Talk
  about fishers of men—fighters of fish it is this time!”
  “It ain’t no murder killing beasts like that,” said the
  first speaker.
  “Why not shell the darned things strite off and finish
  ‘em?” said the little dark man. “You carn tell what they
  might do.”
  “Where’s your shells?” said the first speaker. “There
  ain’t no time. Do it in a rush, that’s my tip, and do it at
  once.”
  So they discussed it. After a while I left them, and went
  on to the railway station to get as many morning papers as
  I could.
  But I will not weary the reader with a description of
  that long morning and of the longer afternoon. I did not
  succeed in getting a glimpse of the common, for even
  Horsell and Chobham church towers were in the hands of
  the military authorities. The soldiers I addressed didn’t
  know anything; the officers were mysterious as well as busy.
  I found people in the town quite secure again in the pres-
  ence of the military, and I heard for the first time from
  Marshall, the tobacconist, that his son was among the dead
  on the common. The soldiers had made the people on the
  outskirts of Horsell lock up and leave their houses.
  I got back to lunch about two, very tired for, as I have
  said, the day was extremely hot and dull; and in order to
  refresh myself I took a cold bath in the afternoon. About
  half past four I went up to the railway station to get an
  evening paper, for the morning papers had contained only
  a very inaccurate description of the killing of Stent,
  Henderson, Ogilvy, and the others. But there was little I
  didn’t know. The Martians did not show an inch of them-
  selves. They seemed busy in their pit, and there was a sound
  of hammering and an almost continuous streamer of smoke.
  Apparently they were busy getting ready for a struggle.
  “Fresh attempts have been made to signal, but without suc-
  cess,” was the stereotyped formula of the papers. A sapper
  told me it was done by a man in a ditch with a flag on a
  long pole. The Martians took as much notice of such ad-
  vances as we should of the lowing of a cow.
  I must confess the sight of all this armament, all this
  preparation, greatly excited me. My imagination became
  belligerent, and defeated the invaders in a dozen striking
  ways; something of my schoolboy dreams of battle and
  heroism came back. It hardly seemed a fair fight to me at
  that time. They seemed very helpless in that pit of theirs.
  About three o’clock there began the thud of a gun at
  measured intervals from Chertsey or Addlestone. I learned
  that the smouldering pine wood into which the second cyl-
  inder had fallen was being shelled, in the hope of destroy-
  ing that object before it opened. It was only about five,
  however, that a field gun reached Chobham for use against
  the first body of Martians.
  About six in the evening, as I sat at tea with my wife in
  the summerhouse talking vigorously about the battle that
  was lowering upon us, I heard a muffled detonation from
  the common, and immediately after a gust of firing. Close
  on the heels of that came a violent rattling crash, quite
  close to us, that shook the ground; and, starting out upon
  the lawn, I saw the tops of the trees about the Oriental
  College burst into smoky red flame, and the tower of the
  little church beside it slide down into ruin. The pinnacle of
  the mosque had vanished, and the roof line of the college
  itself looked as if a hundred-ton gun had been at work upon
  it. One of our chimneys cracked as if a shot had hit it, flew,
  and a piece of it came clattering down the tiles and made a
  heap of broken red fragments upon the flower bed by my
  study window.
  I and my wife stood amazed. Then I realised that the
  crest of Maybury Hill must be within range of the Mar-
  tians” HeatRay now that the college was cleared out of the
  way.
  At that I gripped my wife’s arm, and without ceremony
  
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  ran her out into the road. Then I fetched out the servant,
  telling her I would go upstairs myself for the box she was
  clamouring for.
  “We can’t possibly stay here,” I said; and as I spoke
  the firing reopened for a moment upon the common.
  “But where are we to go?” said my wife in terror.
  I thought perplexed. Then I remembered her cousins at
  Leatherhead.
  “Leatherhead!” I shouted above the sudden noise.
  She looked away from me downhill. The people were
  coming out of their houses, astonished.
  “How are we to get to Leatherhead?” she said.
  Down the hill I saw a bevy of hussars ride under the
  railway bridge; three galloped through the open gates of
  the Oriental College; two others dismounted, and began
  running from house to house. The sun, shining through the
  smoke that drove up from the tops of the trees, seemed
  blood red, and threw an unfamiliar lurid light upon every-
  thing.
  “Stop here,” said I; “you are safe here”; and I started
  off at once for the Spotted Dog, for I knew the landlord
  had a horse and dog cart. I ran, for I perceived that in a
  moment everyone upon this side of the hill would be mov-
  ing. I found him in his bar, quite unaware of what was
  going on behind his house. A man stood with his back to
  me, talking to him.
  “I must have a pound,” said the landlord, “and I’ve no
  one to drive it.”
  “I’ll give you two,” said I, over the stranger’s shoulder.
  “What for?”
  “And I’ll bring it back by midnight,” I said.
  “Lord!” said the landlord; “what’s the hurry? I’m sell-
  ing my bit of a pig. Two pounds, and you bring it back?
  What’s going on now?”
  I explained hastily that I had to leave my home, and so
  secured the dog cart. At the time it did not seem to me
  nearly so urgent that the landlord should leave his. I took
  care to have the cart there and then, drove it off down the
  road, and, leaving it in charge of my wife and servant,
  rushed into my house and packed a few valuables, such
  plate as we had, and so forth. The beech trees below the
  house were burning while I did this, and the palings up the
  road glowed red. While I was occupied in this way, one of
  the dismounted hussars came running up. He was going
  from house to house, warning people to leave. He was go-
  ing on as I came out of my front door, lugging my trea-
  sures, done up in a tablecloth. I shouted after him:
  “What news?”
  He turned, stared, bawled something about “crawling
  out in a thing like a dish cover,” and ran on to the gate of
  the house at the crest. A sudden whirl of black smoke driv-
  ing across the road hid him for a moment. I ran to my
  neighbour’s door and rapped to satisfy myself of what I
  already knew, that his wife had gone to London with him
  and had locked up their house. I went in again, according
  to my promise, to get my servant’s box, lugged it out,
  clapped it beside her on the tail of the dog cart, and then
  caught the reins and jumped up into the driver’s seat be-
  side my wife. In another moment we were clear of the
  smoke and noise, and spanking down the opposite slope of
  Maybury Hill towards Old Woking.
  In front was a quiet sunny landscape, a wheat field ahead
  on either side of the road, and the Maybury Inn with its
  swinging sign. I saw the doctor’s cart ahead of me. At the
  bottom of the hill I turned my head to look at the hillside I
  was leaving. Thick streamers of black smoke shot with
  threads of red fire were driving up into the still air, and
  throwing dark shadows upon the green treetops eastward.
  The smoke already extended far away to the east and west—
  to the Byfleet pine woods eastward, and to Woking on the
  west. The road was dotted with people running towards
  us. And very faint now, but very distinct through the hot,
  quiet air, one heard the whirr of a machine-gun that was
  presently stilled, and an intermittent cracking of rifles.
  Apparently the Martians were setting fire to everything
  within range of their Heat-Ray.
  I am not an expert driver, and I had immediately to
  turn my attention to the horse. When I looked back again
  the second hill had hidden the black smoke. I slashed the
  horse with the whip, and gave him a loose rein until Woking
  and Send lay between us and that quivering tumult. I over-
  took and passed the doctor between Woking and Send.
  
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  Chapter Ten
  In The Storm
  L
  eatherhead is about twelve miles from Maybury
  Hill. The scent of hay was in the air through the
  lush meadows beyond Pyrford, and the hedges on either
  side were sweet and gay with multitudes of dog-roses. The
  heavy firing that had broken out while we were driving
  down Maybury Hill ceased as abruptly as it began, leaving
  the evening very peaceful and still. We got to Leatherhead
  without misadventure about nine o’clock, and the horse
  had an hour’s rest while I took supper with my cousins and
  commended my wife to their care.
  My wife was curiously silent throughout the drive, and
  seemed oppressed with forebodings of evil. I talked to her
  reassuringly, pointing out that the Martians were tied to
  the Pit by sheer heaviness, and at the utmost could but
  crawl a little out of it; but she answered only in monosyl-
  lables. Had it not been for my promise to the innkeeper,
  she would, I think, have urged me to stay in Leatherhead
  that night. Would that I had! Her face, I remember, was
  very white as we parted.
  For my own part, I had been feverishly excited all day.
  Something very like the war fever that occasionally runs
  through a civilised community had got into my blood, and
  in my heart I was not so very sorry that I had to return to
  Maybury that night. I was even afraid that that last fusil-
  lade I had heard might mean the extermination of our in-
  vaders from Mars. I can best express my state of mind by
  saying that I wanted to be in at the death.
  It was nearly eleven when I started to return. The night
  was unexpectedly dark; to me, walking out of the lighted
  passage of my cousins’ house, it seemed indeed black, and
  it was as hot and close as the day. Overhead the clouds
  were driving fast, albeit not a breath stirred the shrubs about
  us. My cousins’ man lit both lamps. Happily, I knew the
  road intimately. My wife stood in the light of the doorway,
  and watched me until I jumped up into the dog cart. Then
  abruptly she turned and went in, leaving my cousins side
  by side wishing me good hap.
  I was a little depressed at first with the contagion of my
  wife’s fears, but very soon my thoughts reverted to the
  Martians. At that time I was absolutely in the dark as to the
  course of the evening’s fighting. I did not know even the
  circumstances that had precipitated the conflict. As I came
  through Ockham (for that was the way I returned, and not
  through Send and Old Woking) I saw along the western
  horizon a blood-red glow, which as I drew nearer, crept
  slowly up the sky. The driving clouds of the gathering thun-
  derstorm mingled there with masses of black and red smoke.
  Ripley Street was deserted, and except for a lighted
  window or so the village showed not a sign of life; but I
  narrowly escaped an accident at the corner of the road to
  Pyrford, where a knot of people stood with their backs to
  me. They said nothing to me as I passed. I do not know
  what they knew of the things happening beyond the hill,
  nor do I know if the silent houses I passed on my way were
  sleeping securely, or deserted and empty, or harassed and
  watching against the terror of the night.
  From Ripley until I came through Pyrford I was in the
  valley of the Wey, and the red glare was hidden from me.
  As I ascended the little hill beyond Pyrford Church the
  glare came into view again, and the trees about me shiv-
  ered with the first intimation of the storm that was upon
  me. Then I heard midnight pealing out from Pyrford Church
  behind me, and then came the silhouette of Maybury Hill,
  with its treetops and roofs black and sharp against the red.
  Even as I beheld this a lurid green glare lit the road
  about me and showed the distant woods towards
  Addlestone. I felt a tug at the reins. I saw that the driving
  clouds had been pierced as it were by a thread of green
  fire, suddenly lighting their confusion and falling into the
  field to my left. It was the third falling star!
  Close on its apparition, and blindingly violet by con-
  trast, danced out the first lightning of the gathering storm,
  and the thunder burst like a rocket overhead. The horse
  took the bit between his teeth and bolted.
  A moderate incline runs towards the foot of Maybury
  Hill, and down this we clattered. Once the lightning had
  begun, it went on in as rapid a succession of flashes as I
  have ever seen. The thunderclaps, treading one on the heels
  of another and with a strange crackling accompaniment,
  sounded more like the working of a gigantic electric ma-
  chine than the usual detonating reverberations. The flick-
  ering light was blinding and confusing, and a thin hail smote
  gustily at my face as I drove down the slope.
  At first I regarded little but the road before me, and
  then abruptly my attention was arrested by something that
  was moving rapidly down the opposite slope of Maybury
  Hill. At first I took it for the wet roof of a house, but one
  flash following another showed it to be in swift rolling
  movement. It was an elusive vision—a moment of bewil-
  dering darkness, and then, in a flash like daylight, the red
  masses of the Orphanage near the crest of the hill, the green
  tops of the pine trees, and this problematical object came
  out clear and sharp and bright.
  And this Thing I saw! How can I describe it? A mon-
  strous tripod, higher than many houses, striding over the
  young pine trees, and smashing them aside in its career; a
  walking engine of glittering metal, striding now across the
  heather; articulate ropes of steel dangling from it, and the
  clattering tumult of its passage mingling with the riot of
  the thunder. A flash, and it came out vividly, heeling over
  one way with two feet in the air, to vanish and reappear
  almost instantly as it seemed, with the next flash, a hun-
  dred yards nearer. Can you imagine a milking stool tilted
  and bowled violently along the ground? That was the im-
  pression those instant flashes gave. But instead of a milk-
  ing stool imagine it a great body of machinery on a tripod
  stand.
  
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  Then suddenly the trees in the pine wood ahead of me
  were parted, as brittle reeds are parted by a man thrusting
  through them; they were snapped off and driven headlong,
  and a second huge tripod appeared, rushing, as it seemed,
  headlong towards me. And I was galloping hard to meet it!
  At the sight of the second monster my nerve went alto-
  gether. Not stopping to look again, I wrenched the horse’s
  head hard round to the right and in another moment the
  dog cart had heeled over upon the horse; the shafts smashed
  noisily, and I was flung sideways and fell heavily into a
  shallow pool of water.
  I crawled out almost immediately, and crouched, my
  feet still in the water, under a clump of furze. The horse lay
  motionless (his neck was broken, poor brute!) and by the
  lightning flashes I saw the black bulk of the overturned
  dog cart and the silhouette of the wheel still spinning slowly.
  In another moment the colossal mechanism went striding
  by me, and passed uphill towards Pyrford.
  Seen nearer, the Thing was incredibly strange, for it
  was no mere insensate machine driving on its way. Ma-
  chine it was, with a ringing metallic pace, and long, flex-
  ible, glittering tentacles (one of which gripped a young
  pine tree) swinging and rattling about its strange body. It
  picked its road as it went striding along, and the brazen
  hood that surmounted it moved to and fro with the inevi-
  table suggestion of a head looking about. Behind the main
  body was a huge mass of white metal like a gigantic
  fisherman’s basket, and puffs of green smoke squirted out
  from the joints of the limbs as the monster swept by me.
  And in an instant it was gone.
  So much I saw then, all vaguely for the flickering of
  the lightning, in blinding highlights and dense black shad-
  ows.
  As it passed it set up an exultant deafening howl that
  drowned the thunder—”Aloo! Aloo!”—and in another
  minute it was with its companion, half a mile away, stoop-
  ing over something in the field. I have no doubt this Thing
  in the field was the third of the ten cylinders they had fired
  at us from Mars.
  For some minutes I lay there in the rain and darkness
  watching, by the intermittent light, these monstrous beings
  of metal moving about in the distance over the hedge tops.
  A thin hail was now beginning, and as it came and went
  their figures grew misty and then flashed into clearness
  again. Now and then came a gap in the lightning, and the
  night swallowed them up.
  I was soaked with hail above and puddle water below.
  It was some time before my blank astonishment would let
  me struggle up the bank to a drier position, or think at all
  of my imminent peril.
  Not far from me was a little one-roomed squatter’s hut
  of wood, surrounded by a patch of potato garden. I
  struggled to my feet at last, and, crouching and making use
  of every chance of cover, I made a run for this. I ham-
  mered at the door, but I could not make the people hear (if
  there were any people inside), and after a time I desisted,
  and, availing myself of a ditch for the greater part of the
  way, succeeded in crawling, unobserved by these monstrous
  machines, into the pine woods towards Maybury.
  Under cover of this I pushed on, wet and shivering now,
  towards my own house. I walked among the trees trying to
  find the footpath. It was very dark indeed in the wood, for
  the lightning was now becoming infrequent, and the hail,
  which was pouring down in a torrent, fell in columns
  through the gaps in the heavy foliage.
  If I had fully realised the meaning of all the things I
  had seen I should have immediately worked my way round
  through Byfleet to Street Cobham, and so gone back to
  rejoin my wife at Leatherhead. But that night the strange-
  ness of things about me, and my physical wretchedness,
  prevented me, for I was bruised, weary, wet to the skin,
  deafened and blinded by the storm.
  I had a vague idea of going on to my own house, and
  that was as much motive as I had. I staggered through the
  trees, fell into a ditch and bruised my knees against a plank,
  and finally splashed out into the lane that ran down from
  the College Arms. I say splashed, for the storm water was
  sweeping the sand down the hill in a muddy torrent. There
  in the darkness a man blundered into me and sent me reel-
  ing back.
  He gave a cry of terror, sprang sideways, and rushed
  on before I could gather my wits sufficiently to speak to
  him. So heavy was the stress of the storm just at this place
  that I had the hardest task to win my way up the hill. I went
  close up to the fence on the left and worked my way along
  its palings.
  Near the top I stumbled upon something soft, and, by a
  flash of lightning, saw between my feet a heap of black
  
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  broadcloth and a pair of boots. Before I could distinguish
  clearly how the man lay, the flicker of light had passed. I
  stood over him waiting for the next flash. When it came, I
  saw that he was a sturdy man, cheaply but not shabbily
  dressed; his head was bent under his body, and he lay
  crumpled up close to the fence, as though he had been flung
  violently against it.
  Overcoming the repugnance natural to one who had
  never before touched a dead body, I stooped and turned
  him over to feel for his heart. He was quite dead. Appar-
  ently his neck had been broken. The lightning flashed for a
  third time, and his face leaped upon me. I sprang to my
  feet. It was the landlord of the Spotted Dog, whose con-
  veyance I had taken.
  I stepped over him gingerly and pushed on up the hill.
  I made my way by the police station and the College Arms
  towards my own house. Nothing was burning on the hill-
  side, though from the common there still came a red glare
  and a rolling tumult of ruddy smoke beating up against the
  drenching hail. So far as I could see by the flashes, the
  houses about me were mostly uninjured. By the College
  Arms a dark heap lay in the road.
  Down the road towards Maybury Bridge there were
  voices and the sound of feet, but I had not the courage to
  shout or to go to them. I let myself in with my latchkey,
  closed, locked and bolted the door, staggered to the foot of
  the staircase, and sat down. My imagination was full of
  those striding metallic monsters, and of the dead body
  smashed against the fence.
  I crouched at the foot of the staircase with my back to
  the wall, shivering violently.
  Chapter Eleven
  At the Window
  I
   have already said that my storms of emotion have a
  trick of exhausting themselves. After a time I dis-
  covered that I was cold and wet, and with little pools of
  water about me on the stair carpet. I got up almost me-
  chanically, went into the dining room and drank some whis-
  key, and then I was moved to change my clothes.
  After I had done that I went upstairs to my study, but
  why I did so I do not know. The window of my study looks
  over the trees and the railway towards Horsell Common.
  In the hurry of our departure this window had been left
  open. The passage was dark, and, by contrast with the pic-
  ture the window frame enclosed, the side of the room
  seemed impenetrably dark. I stopped short in the doorway.
  The thunderstorm had passed. The towers of the Ori-
  ental College and the pine trees about it had gone, and
  very far away, lit by a vivid red glare, the common about
  the sand pits was visible. Across the light huge black shapes,
  grotesque and strange, moved busily to and fro.
  It seemed indeed as if the whole country in that direc-
  tion was on fire—a broad hillside set with minute tongues
  of flame, swaying and writhing with the gusts of the dying
  storm, and throwing a red reflection upon the cloud scud
  above. Every now and then a haze of smoke from some
  nearer conflagration drove across the window and hid the
  Martian shapes. I could not see what they were doing, nor
  the clear form of them, nor recognise the black objects
  they were busied upon. Neither could I see the nearer fire,
  though the reflections of it danced on the wall and ceiling
  of the study. A sharp, resinous tang of burning was in the
  air.
  I closed the door noiselessly and crept towards the win-
  dow. As I did so, the view opened out until, on the one
  hand, it reached to the houses about Woking station, and
  on the other to the charred and blackened pine woods of
  Byfleet. There was a light down below the hill, on the rail-
  way, near the arch, and several of the houses along the
  Maybury road and the streets near the station were glow-
  ing ruins. The light upon the railway puzzled me at first;
  there were a black heap and a vivid glare, and to the right
  of that a row of yellow oblongs. Then I perceived this was
  a wrecked train, the fore part smashed and on fire, the hinder
  carriages still upon the rails.
  Between these three main centres of light—the houses,
  the train, and the burning county towards Chobham—
  stretched irregular patches of dark country, broken here
  and there by intervals of dimly glowing and smoking
  ground. It was the strangest spectacle, that black expanse
  set with fire. It reminded me, more than anything else, of
  the Potteries at night. At first I could distinguish no people
  at all, though I peered intently for them. Later I saw against
  
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  the light of Woking station a number of black figures hur-
  rying one after the other across the line.
  And this was the little world in which I had been living
  securely for years, this fiery chaos! What had happened in
  the last seven hours I still did not know; nor did I know,
  though I was beginning to guess, the relation between these
  mechanical colossi and the sluggish lumps I had seen dis-
  gorged from the cylinder. With a queer feeling of imper-
  sonal interest I turned my desk chair to the window, sat
  down, and stared at the blackened country, and particu-
  larly at the three gigantic black things that were going to
  and fro in the glare about the sand pits.
  They seemed amazingly busy. I began to ask myself
  what they could be. Were they intelligent mechanisms?
  Such a thing I felt was impossible. Or did a Martian sit
  within each, ruling, directing, using, much as a man’s brain
  sits and rules in his body? I began to compare the things to
  human machines, to ask myself for the first time in my life
  how an ironclad or a steam engine would seem to an intel-
  ligent lower animal.
  The storm had left the sky clear, and over the smoke of
  the burning land the little fading pinpoint of Mars was drop-
  ping into the west, when a soldier came into my garden. I
  heard a slight scraping at the fence, and rousing myself
  from the lethargy that had fallen upon me, I looked down
  and saw him dimly, clambering over the palings. At the
  sight of another human being my torpor passed, and I leaned
  out of the window eagerly.
  “Hist!” said I, in a whisper.
  He stopped astride of the fence in doubt. Then he came
  over and across the lawn to the corner of the house. He
  bent down and stepped softly.
  “Who’s there?” he said, also whispering, standing un-
  der the window and peering up.
  “Where are you going?” I asked.
  “God knows.”
  “Are you trying to hide?”
  “That’s it.”
  “Come into the house,” I said.
  I went down, unfastened the door, and let him in, and
  locked the door again. I could not see his face. He was
  hatless, and his coat was unbuttoned.
  “My God!” he said, as I drew him in.
  “What has happened?” I asked.
  “What hasn’t?” In the obscurity I could see he made a
  gesture of despair. “They wiped us out—simply wiped us
  out,” he repeated again and again.
  He followed me, almost mechanically, into the dining
  room.
  “Take some whiskey,” I said, pouring out a stiff dose.
  He drank it. Then abruptly he sat down before the table,
  put his head on his arms, and began to sob and weep like a
  little boy, in a perfect passion of emotion, while I, with a
  curious forgetfulness of my own recent despair, stood be-
  side him, wondering.
  It was a long time before he could steady his nerves to
  answer my questions, and then he answered perplexingly
  and brokenly. He was a driver in the artillery, and had only
  come into action about seven. At that time firing was go-
  ing on across the common, and it was said the first party of
  Martians were crawling slowly towards their second cyl-
  inder under cover of a metal shield.
  Later this shield staggered up on tripod legs and be-
  came the first of the fighting-machines I had seen. The gun
  he drove had been unlimbered near Horsell, in order to
  command the sand pits, and its arrival it was that had pre-
  cipitated the action. As the limber gunners went to the rear,
  his horse trod in a rabbit hole and came down, throwing
  him into a depression of the ground. At the same moment
  the gun exploded behind him, the ammunition blew up,
  there was fire all about him, and he found himself lying
  under a heap of charred dead men and dead horses.
  “I lay still,” he said, “scared out of my wits, with the
  fore quarter of a horse atop of me. We’d been wiped out.
  And the smell—good God! Like burnt meat! I was hurt
  across the back by the fall of the horse, and there I had to
  lie until I felt better. Just like parade it had been a minute
  before— then stumble, bang, swish!”
  “Wiped out!” he said.
  He had hid under the dead horse for a long time, peep-
  ing out furtively across the common. The Cardigan men
  had tried a rush, in skirmishing order, at the pit, simply to
  be swept out of existence. Then the monster had risen to
  its feet and had begun to walk leisurely to and fro across
  the common among the few fugitives, with its headlike hood
  turning about exactly like the head of a cowled human be-
  ing. A kind of arm carried a complicated metallic case,
  
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  about which green flashes scintillated, and out of the fun-
  nel of this there smoked the Heat-Ray.
  In a few minutes there was, so far as the soldier could
  see, not a living thing left upon the common, and every
  bush and tree upon it that was not already a blackened
  skeleton was burning. The hussars had been on the road
  beyond the curvature of the ground, and he saw nothing of
  them. He heard the Martians rattle for a time and then be-
  come still. The giant saved Woking station and its cluster
  of houses until the last; then in a moment the Heat-Ray
  was brought to bear, and the town became a heap of fiery
  ruins. Then the Thing shut off the Heat-Ray, and turning
  its back upon the artilleryman, began to waddle away to-
  wards the smouldering pine woods that sheltered the sec-
  ond cylinder. As it did so a second glittering Titan built
  itself up out of the pit.
  The second monster followed the first, and at that the
  artilleryman began to crawl very cautiously across the hot
  heather ash towards Horsell. He managed to get alive into
  the ditch by the side of the road, and so escaped to Woking.
  There his story became ejaculatory. The place was impass-
  able. It seems there were a few people alive there, frantic
  for the most part and many burned and scalded. He was
  turned aside by the fire, and hid among some almost scorch-
  ing heaps of broken wall as one of the Martian giants re-
  turned. He saw this one pursue a man, catch him up in one
  of its steely tentacles, and knock his head against the trunk
  of a pine tree. At last, after nightfall, the artilleryman made
  a rush for it and got over the railway embankment.
  Since then he had been skulking along towards
  Maybury, in the hope of getting out of danger Londonward.
  People were hiding in trenches and cellars, and many of
  the survivors had made off towards Woking village and
  Send. He had been consumed with thirst until he found
  one of the water mains near the railway arch smashed, and
  the water bubbling out like a spring upon the road.
  That was the story I got from him, bit by bit. He grew
  calmer telling me and trying to make me see the things he
  had seen. He had eaten no food since midday, he told me
  early in his narrative, and I found some mutton and bread
  in the pantry and brought it into the room. We lit no lamp
  for fear of attracting the Martians, and ever and again our
  hands would touch upon bread or meat. As he talked, things
  about us came darkly out of the darkness, and the trampled
  bushes and broken rose trees outside the window grew dis-
  tinct. It would seem that a number of men or animals had
  rushed across the lawn. I began to see his face, blackened
  and haggard, as no doubt mine was also.
  When we had finished eating we went softly upstairs
  to my study, and I looked again out of the open window. In
  one night the valley had become a valley of ashes. The
  fires had dwindled now. Where flames had been there were
  now streamers of smoke; but the countless ruins of shat-
  tered and gutted houses and blasted and blackened trees
  that the night had hidden stood out now gaunt and terrible
  in the pitiless light of dawn. Yet here and there some ob-
  ject had had the luck to escape—a white railway signal
  here, the end of a greenhouse there, white and fresh amid
  the wreckage. Never before in the history of warfare had
  destruction been so indiscriminate and so universal. And
  shining with the growing light of the east, three of the me-
  tallic giants stood about the pit, their cowls rotating as
  though they were surveying the desolation they had made.
  It seemed to me that the pit had been enlarged, and
  ever and again puffs of vivid green vapour streamed up
  and out of it towards the brightening dawn—streamed up,
  whirled, broke, and vanished.
  Beyond were the pillars of fire about Chobham. They
  became pillars of bloodshot smoke at the first touch of
  day.
  
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  Chapter Twelve
  What I Saw of the
  Destruction of Weybridge and
  Shepperton
  A
  s the dawn grew brighter we withdrew from the
  window from which we had watched the Martians,
  and went very quietly downstairs.
  The artilleryman agreed with me that the house was no
  place to stay in. He proposed, he said, to make his way
  Londonward, and thence rejoin his battery—No. 12, of the
  Horse Artillery. My plan was to return at once to
  Leatherhead; and so greatly had the strength of the Mar-
  tians impressed me that I had determined to take my wife
  to Newhaven, and go with her out of the country forthwith.
  For I already perceived clearly that the country about Lon-
  don must inevitably be the scene of a disastrous struggle
  before such creatures as these could be destroyed.
  Between us and Leatherhead, however, lay the third
  cylinder, with its guarding giants. Had I been alone, I think
  I should have taken my chance and struck across country.
  But the artilleryman dissuaded me: “It’s no kindness to the
  right sort of wife,” he said, “to make her a widow”; and in
  the end I agreed to go with him, under cover of the woods,
  northward as far as Street Cobham before I parted with
  him. Thence I would make a big detour by Epsom to reach
  Leatherhead.
  I should have started at once, but my companion had
  been in active service and he knew better than that. He
  made me ransack the house for a flask, which he filled
  with whiskey; and we lined every available pocket with
  packets of biscuits and slices of meat. Then we crept out
  of the house, and ran as quickly as we could down the ill-
  made road by which I had come overnight. The houses
  seemed deserted. In the road lay a group of three charred
  bodies close together, struck dead by the Heat-Ray; and
  here and there were things that people had dropped—a
  clock, a slipper, a silver spoon, and the like poor valu-
  ables. At the corner turning up towards the post office a
  little cart, filled with boxes and furniture, and horseless,
  heeled over on a broken wheel. A cash box had been hast-
  ily smashed open and thrown under the debris.
  Except the lodge at the Orphanage, which was still on
  fire, none of the houses had suffered very greatly here.
  The HeatRay had shaved the chimney tops and passed.
  Yet, save ourselves, there did not seem to be a living soul
  on Maybury Hill. The majority of the inhabitants had es-
  caped, I suppose, by way of the Old Woking road—the
  road I had taken when I drove to Leatherhead—or they
  had hidden.
  We went down the lane, by the body of the man in black,
  sodden now from the overnight hail, and broke into the
  woods at the foot of the hill. We pushed through these to-
  wards the railway without meeting a soul. The woods across
  the line were but the scarred and blackened ruins of woods;
  for the most part the trees had fallen, but a certain propor-
  tion still stood, dismal grey stems, with dark brown foli-
  age instead of green.
  On our side the fire had done no more than scorch the
  nearer trees; it had failed to secure its footing. In one place
  the woodmen had been at work on Saturday; trees, felled
  and freshly trimmed, lay in a clearing, with heaps of saw-
  dust by the sawing-machine and its engine. Hard by was a
  temporary hut, deserted. There was not a breath of wind
  this morning, and everything was strangely still. Even the
  birds were hushed, and as we hurried along I and the
  artilleryman talked in whispers and looked now and again
  over our shoulders. Once or twice we stopped to listen.
  After a time we drew near the road, and as we did so
  we heard the clatter of hoofs and saw through the tree stems
  three cavalry soldiers riding slowly towards Woking. We
  hailed them, and they halted while we hurried towards them.
  It was a lieutenant and a couple of privates of the 8th
  Hussars, with a stand like a theodolite, which the
  artilleryman told me was a heliograph.
  “You are the first men I’ve seen coming this way this
  morning,” said the lieutenant. “What’s brewing?”
  His voice and face were eager. The men behind him
  stared curiously. The artilleryman jumped down the bank
  into the road and saluted.
  “Gun destroyed last night, sir. Have been hiding. Try-
  ing to rejoin battery, sir. You’ll come in sight of the Mar-
  tians, I expect, about half a mile along this road.”
  “What the dickens are they like?” asked the lieutenant.
  “Giants in armour, sir. Hundred feet high. Three legs
  and a body like ‘luminium, with a mighty great head in a
  hood, sir.”
  “Get out!” said the lieutenant. “What confounded non-
  sense!”
  “You’ll see, sir. They carry a kind of box, sir, that shoots
  fire and strikes you dead.”
  “What d’ye mean—a gun?”
  “No, sir,” and the artilleryman began a vivid account
  of the Heat-Ray. Halfway through, the lieutenant interrupted
  him and looked up at me. I was still standing on the bank
  by the side of the road.
  “It’s perfectly true,” I said.
  “Well,” said the lieutenant, “I suppose it’s my business
  to see it too. Look here”—to the artilleryman—”we’re
  detailed here clearing people out of their houses. You’d
  better go along and report yourself to Brigadier-General
  Marvin, and tell him all you know. He’s at Weybridge.
  Know the way?”
  “I do,” I said; and he turned his horse southward again.
  “Half a mile, you say?” said he.
  “At most,” I answered, and pointed over the treetops
  southward. He thanked me and rode on, and we saw them
  
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  no more.
  Farther along we came upon a group of three women
  and two children in the road, busy clearing out a labourer’s
  cottage. They had got hold of a little hand truck, and were
  piling it up with unclean-looking bundles and shabby fur-
  niture. They were all too assiduously engaged to talk to us
  as we passed.
  By Byfleet station we emerged from the pine trees, and
  found the country calm and peaceful under the morning
  sunlight. We were far beyond the range of the Heat-Ray
  there, and had it not been for the silent desertion of some
  of the houses, the stirring movement of packing in others,
  and the knot of soldiers standing on the bridge over the
  railway and staring down the line towards Woking, the day
  would have seemed very like any other Sunday.
  Several farm waggons and carts were moving creakily
  along the road to Addlestone, and suddenly through the
  gate of a field we saw, across a stretch of flat meadow, six
  twelvepounders standing neatly at equal distances point-
  ing towards Woking. The gunners stood by the guns wait-
  ing, and the ammunition waggons were at a business-like
  distance. The men stood almost as if under inspection.
  “That’s good!” said I. “They will get one fair shot, at
  any rate.”
  The artilleryman hesitated at the gate.
  “I shall go on,” he said.
  Farther on towards Weybridge, just over the bridge,
  there were a number of men in white fatigue jackets throw-
  ing up a long rampart, and more guns behind.
  “It’s bows and arrows against the lightning, anyhow,”
  said the artilleryman. “They ‘aven’t seen that fire-beam
  yet.”
  The officers who were not actively engaged stood and
  stared over the treetops southwestward, and the men dig-
  ging would stop every now and again to stare in the same
  direction.
  Byfleet was in a tumult; people packing, and a score of
  hussars, some of them dismounted, some on horseback,
  were hunting them about. Three or four black government
  waggons, with crosses in white circles, and an old omni-
  bus, among other vehicles, were being loaded in the vil-
  lage street. There were scores of people, most of them suf-
  ficiently sabbatical to have assumed their best clothes. The
  soldiers were having the greatest difficulty in making them
  realise the gravity of their position. We saw one shrivelled
  old fellow with a huge box and a score or more of flower
  pots containing orchids, angrily expostulating with the
  corporal who would leave them behind. I stopped and
  gripped his arm.
  “Do you know what’s over there?” I said, pointing at
  the pine tops that hid the Martians.
  “Eh?” said he, turning. “I was explainin” these is
  vallyble.”
  “Death!” I shouted. “Death is coming! Death!” and leav-
  ing him to digest that if he could, I hurried on after the
  artilleryman. At the corner I looked back. The soldier had
  left him, and he was still standing by his box, with the pots
  of orchids on the lid of it, and staring vaguely over the
  trees.
  No one in Weybridge could tell us where the headquar-
  ters were established; the whole place was in such confu-
  sion as I had never seen in any town before. Carts, car-
  riages everywhere, the most astonishing miscellany of con-
  veyances and horseflesh. The respectable inhabitants of
  the place, men in golf and boating costumes, wives pret-
  tily dressed, were packing, river-side loafers energetically
  helping, children excited, and, for the most part, highly
  delighted at this astonishing variation of their Sunday ex-
  periences. In the midst of it all the worthy vicar was very
  pluckily holding an early celebration, and his bell was jan-
  gling out above the excitement.
  I and the artilleryman, seated on the step of the drink-
  ing fountain, made a very passable meal upon what we had
  brought with us. Patrols of soldiers—here no longer
  hussars, but grenadiers in white—were warning people to
  move now or to take refuge in their cellars as soon as the
  firing began. We saw as we crossed the railway bridge that
  a growing crowd of people had assembled in and about the
  railway station, and the swarming platform was piled with
  boxes and packages. The ordinary traffic had been stopped,
  I believe, in order to allow of the passage of troops and
  guns to Chertsey, and I have heard since that a savage
  struggle occurred for places in the special trains that were
  put on at a later hour.
  We remained at Weybridge until midday, and at that
  hour we found ourselves at the place near Shepperton Lock
  where the Wey and Thames join. Part of the time we spent
  helping two old women to pack a little cart. The Wey has a
  treble mouth, and at this point boats are to be hired, and
  there was a ferry across the river. On the Shepperton side
  was an inn with a lawn, and beyond that the tower of
  Shepperton Church —it has been replaced by a spire—
  rose above the trees.
  Here we found an excited and noisy crowd of fugi-
  tives. As yet the flight had not grown to a panic, but there
  were already far more people than all the boats going to
  and fro could enable to cross. People came panting along
  under heavy burdens; one husband and wife were even
  carrying a small outhouse door between them, with some
  of their household goods piled thereon. One man told us
  he meant to try to get away from Shepperton station.
  There was a lot of shouting, and one man was even
  jesting. The idea people seemed to have here was that the
  Martians were simply formidable human beings, who might
  attack and sack the town, to be certainly destroyed in the
  end. Every now and then people would glance nervously
  across the Wey, at the meadows towards Chertsey, but ev-
  erything over there was still.
  Across the Thames, except just where the boats landed,
  everything was quiet, in vivid contrast with the Surrey side.
  The people who landed there from the boats went tramp-
  ing off down the lane. The big ferryboat had just made a
  journey. Three or four soldiers stood on the lawn of the
  inn, staring and jesting at the fugitives, without offering to
  
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  help. The inn was closed, as it was now within prohibited
  hours.
  “What’s that?” cried a boatman, and “Shut up, you
  fool!” said a man near me to a yelping dog. Then the sound
  came again, this time from the direction of Chertsey, a
  muffled thud—the sound of a gun.
  The fighting was beginning. Almost immediately un-
  seen batteries across the river to our right, unseen because
  of the trees, took up the chorus, firing heavily one after the
  other. A woman screamed. Everyone stood arrested by the
  sudden stir of battle, near us and yet invisible to us. Noth-
  ing was to be seen save flat meadows, cows feeding un-
  concernedly for the most part, and silvery pollard willows
  motionless in the warm sunlight.
  “The sojers’ll stop ‘em,” said a woman beside me,
  doubtfully. A haziness rose over the treetops.
  Then suddenly we saw a rush of smoke far away up the
  river, a puff of smoke that jerked up into the air and hung;
  and forthwith the ground heaved under foot and a heavy
  explosion shook the air, smashing two or three windows in
  the houses near, and leaving us astonished.
  “Here they are!” shouted a man in a blue jersey. “Yon-
  der! D’yer see them? Yonder!”
  Quickly, one after the other, one, two, three, four of the
  armoured Martians appeared, far away over the little trees,
  across the flat meadows that stretched towards Chertsey,
  and striding hurriedly towards the river. Little cowled fig-
  ures they seemed at first, going with a rolling motion and
  as fast as flying birds.
  Then, advancing obliquely towards us, came a fifth.
  Their armoured bodies glittered in the sun as they swept
  swiftly forward upon the guns, growing rapidly larger as
  they drew nearer. One on the extreme left, the remotest
  that is, flourished a huge case high in the air, and the ghostly,
  terrible Heat-Ray I had already seen on Friday night smote
  towards Chertsey, and struck the town.
  At sight of these strange, swift, and terrible creatures
  the crowd near the water’s edge seemed to me to be for a
  moment horror-struck. There was no screaming or shout-
  ing, but a silence. Then a hoarse murmur and a movement
  of feet—a splashing from the water. A man, too frightened
  to drop the portmanteau he carried on his shoulder, swung
  round and sent me staggering with a blow from the corner
  of his burden. A woman thrust at me with her hand and
  rushed past me. I turned with the rush of the people, but I
  was not too terrified for thought. The terrible Heat-Ray
  was in my mind. To get under water! That was it!
  “Get under water!” I shouted, unheeded.
  I faced about again, and rushed towards the approach-
  ing Martian, rushed right down the gravelly beach and head-
  long into the water. Others did the same. A boatload of
  people putting back came leaping out as I rushed past. The
  stones under my feet were muddy and slippery, and the
  river was so low that I ran perhaps twenty feet scarcely
  waist-deep. Then, as the Martian towered overhead scarcely
  a couple of hundred yards away, I flung myself forward
  under the surface. The splashes of the people in the boats
  leaping into the river sounded like thunderclaps in my ears.
  People were landing hastily on both sides of the river.  But
  the Martian machine took no more notice for the moment
  of the people running this way and that than a man would
  of the confusion of ants in a nest against which his foot has
  kicked. When, half suffocated, I raised my head above
  water, the Martian’s hood pointed at the batteries that were
  still firing across the river, and as it advanced it swung
  loose what must have been the generator of the Heat-Ray.
  In another moment it was on the bank, and in a stride
  wading halfway across. The knees of its foremost legs bent
  at the farther bank, and in another moment it had raised
  itself to its full height again, close to the village of
  Shepperton. Forthwith the six guns which, unknown to
  anyone on the right bank, had been hidden behind the out-
  skirts of that village, fired simultaneously. The sudden near
  concussion, the last close upon the first, made my heart
  jump. The monster was already raising the case generating
  the Heat-Ray as the first shell burst six yards above the
  hood.
  I gave a cry of astonishment. I saw and thought noth-
  ing of the other four Martian monsters; my attention was
  riveted upon the nearer incident. Simultaneously two other
  shells burst in the air near the body as the hood twisted
  round in time to receive, but not in time to dodge, the fourth
  shell.
  The shell burst clean in the face of the Thing. The hood
  bulged, flashed, was whirled off in a dozen tattered frag-
  ments of red flesh and glittering metal.
  “Hit!” shouted I, with something between a scream and
  a cheer.
  I heard answering shouts from the people in the water
  about me. I could have leaped out of the water with that
  momentary exultation.
  The decapitated colossus reeled like a drunken giant;
  but it did not fall over. It recovered its balance by a miracle,
  and, no longer heeding its steps and with the camera that
  fired the Heat-Ray now rigidly upheld, it reeled swiftly
  upon Shepperton. The living intelligence, the Martian
  within the hood, was slain and splashed to the four winds
  of heaven, and the Thing was now but a mere intricate
  device of metal whirling to destruction. It drove along in a
  straight line, incapable of guidance. It struck the tower of
  Shepperton Church, smashing it down as the impact of a
  battering ram might have done, swerved aside, blundered
  on and collapsed with tremendous force into the river out
  of my sight.
  A violent explosion shook the air, and a spout of water,
  steam, mud, and shattered metal shot far up into the sky.
  As the camera of the Heat-Ray hit the water, the latter had
  immediately flashed into steam. In another moment a huge
  wave, like a muddy tidal bore but almost scaldingly hot,
  came sweeping round the bend upstream. I saw people
  struggling shorewards, and heard their screaming and
  shouting faintly above the seething and roar of the Martian’s
  collapse.
  
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  For a moment I heeded nothing of the heat, forgot the
  patent need of self-preservation. I splashed through the
  tumultuous water, pushing aside a man in black to do so,
  until I could see round the bend. Half a dozen deserted
  boats pitched aimlessly upon the confusion of the waves.
  The fallen Martian came into sight downstream, lying
  across the river, and for the most part submerged.
  Thick clouds of steam were pouring off the wreckage,
  and through the tumultuously whirling wisps I could see,
  intermittently and vaguely, the gigantic limbs churning the
  water and flinging a splash and spray of mud and froth into
  the air. The tentacles swayed and struck like living arms,
  and, save for the helpless purposelessness of these move-
  ments, it was as if some wounded thing were struggling for
  its life amid the waves. Enormous quantities of a ruddy-
  brown fluid were spurting up in noisy jets out of the ma-
  chine.
  My attention was diverted from this death flurry by a
  furious yelling, like that of the thing called a siren in our
  manufacturing towns. A man, knee-deep near the towing
  path, shouted inaudibly to me and pointed. Looking back,
  I saw the other Martians advancing with gigantic strides
  down the riverbank from the direction of Chertsey. The
  Shepperton guns spoke this time unavailingly.
  At that I ducked at once under water, and, holding my
  breath until movement was an agony, blundered painfully
  ahead under the surface as long as I could. The water was
  in a tumult about me, and rapidly growing hotter.
  When for a moment I raised my head to take breath
  and throw the hair and water from my eyes, the steam was
  rising in a whirling white fog that at first hid the Martians
  altogether. The noise was deafening. Then I saw them dimly,
  colossal figures of grey, magnified by the mist. They had
  passed by me, and two were stooping over the frothing,
  tumultuous ruins of their comrade.
  The third and fourth stood beside him in the water, one
  perhaps two hundred yards from me, the other towards
  Laleham. The generators of the Heat-Rays waved high,
  and the hissing beams smote down this way and that.
  The air was full of sound, a deafening and confusing
  conflict of noises—the clangorous din of the Martians, the
  crash of falling houses, the thud of trees, fences, sheds flash-
  ing into flame, and the crackling and roaring of fire. Dense
  black smoke was leaping up to mingle with the steam from
  the river, and as the Heat-Ray went to and fro over
  Weybridge its impact was marked by flashes of incandes-
  cent white, that gave place at once to a smoky dance of
  lurid flames. The nearer houses still stood intact, awaiting
  their fate, shadowy, faint and pallid in the steam, with the
  fire behind them going to and fro.
  For a moment perhaps I stood there, breast-high in the
  almost boiling water, dumbfounded at my position, hope-
  less of escape. Through the reek I could see the people
  who had been with me in the river scrambling out of the
  water through the reeds, like little frogs hurrying through
  grass from the advance of a man, or running to and fro in
  utter dismay on the towing path.
  Then suddenly the white flashes of the Heat-Ray came
  leaping towards me. The houses caved in as they dissolved
  at its touch, and darted out flames; the trees changed to
  fire with a roar. The Ray flickered up and down the towing
  path, licking off the people who ran this way and that, and
  came down to the water’s edge not fifty yards from where
  I stood. It swept across the river to Shepperton, and the
  water in its track rose in a boiling weal crested with steam.
  I turned shoreward.
  In another moment the huge wave, well-nigh at the
  boilingpoint had rushed upon me. I screamed aloud, and
  scalded, half blinded, agonised, I staggered through the
  leaping, hissing water towards the shore. Had my foot
  stumbled, it would have been the end. I fell helplessly, in
  full sight of the Martians, upon the broad, bare gravelly
  spit that runs down to mark the angle of the Wey and
  Thames. I expected nothing but death.
  I have a dim memory of the foot of a Martian coming
  down within a score of yards of my head, driving straight
  into the loose gravel, whirling it this way and that and lift-
  ing again; of a long suspense, and then of the four carrying
  the debris of their comrade between them, now clear and
  then presently faint through a veil of smoke, receding in-
  terminably, as it seemed to me, across a vast space of river
  and meadow. And then, very slowly, I realised that by a
  miracle I had escaped.
  
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  Chapter Thirteen
  How I Fell in With the
  Curate
  A
  fter getting this sudden lesson in the power of ter
  restrial weapons, the Martians retreated to their
  original position upon Horsell Common; and in their haste,
  and encumbered with the de’bris of their smashed com-
  panion, they no doubt overlooked many such a stray and
  negligible victim as myself. Had they left their comrade
  and pushed on forthwith, there was nothing at that time
  between them and London but batteries of twelve-pounder
  guns, and they would certainly have reached the capital in
  advance of the tidings of their approach; as sudden, dread-
  ful, and destructive their advent would have been as the
  earthquake that destroyed Lisbon a century ago.
  But they were in no hurry. Cylinder followed cylinder
  on its interplanetary flight; every twenty-four hours brought
  them reinforcement. And meanwhile the military and na-
  val authorities, now fully alive to the tremendous power of
  their antagonists, worked with furious energy. Every minute
  a fresh gun came into position until, before twilight, every
  copse, every row of suburban villas on the hilly slopes about
  Kingston and Richmond, masked an expectant black
  muzzle. And through the charred and desolated area—per-
  haps twenty square miles altogether—that encircled the
  Martian encampment on Horsell Common, through charred
  and ruined villages among the green trees, through the
  blackened and smoking arcades that had been but a day
  ago pine spinneys, crawled the devoted scouts with the
  heliographs that were presently to warn the gunners of the
  Martian approach. But the Martians now understood our
  command of artillery and the danger of human proximity,
  and not a man ventured within a mile of either cylinder,
  save at the price of his life.
  It would seem that these giants spent the earlier part of
  the afternoon in going to and fro, transferring everything
  from the second and third cylinders—the second in
  Addlestone Golf Links and the third at Pyrford—to their
  original pit on Horsell Common. Over that, above the black-
  ened heather and ruined buildings that stretched far and
  wide, stood one as sentinel, while the rest abandoned their
  vast fighting-machines and descended into the pit. They
  were hard at work there far into the night, and the towering
  pillar of dense green smoke that rose therefrom could be
  seen from the hills about Merrow, and even, it is said, from
  Banstead and Epsom Downs.
  And while the Martians behind me were thus prepar-
  ing for their next sally, and in front of me Humanity gath-
  ered for the battle, I made my way with infinite pains and
  labour from the fire and smoke of burning Weybridge to-
  wards London.
  I saw an abandoned boat, very small and remote, drift-
  ing down-stream; and throwing off the most of my sodden
  clothes, I went after it, gained it, and so escaped out of that
  destruction. There were no oars in the boat, but I contrived
  to paddle, as well as my parboiled hands would allow, down
  the river towards Halliford and Walton, going very tediously
  and continually looking behind me, as you may well un-
  derstand. I followed the river, because I considered that
  the water gave me my best chance of escape should these
  giants return.
  The hot water from the Martian’s overthrow drifted
  downstream with me, so that for the best part of a mile I
  could see little of either bank. Once, however, I made out
  a string of black figures hurrying across the meadows from
  the direction of Weybridge. Halliford, it seemed, was de-
  serted, and several of the houses facing the river were on
  fire. It was strange to see the place quite tranquil, quite
  desolate under the hot blue sky, with the smoke and little
  threads of flame going straight up into the heat of the af-
  ternoon. Never before had I seen houses burning without
  the accompaniment of an obstructive crowd. A little far-
  ther on the dry reeds up the bank were smoking and glow-
  ing, and a line of fire inland was marching steadily across
  a late field of hay.
  For a long time I drifted, so painful and weary was I
  after the violence I had been through, and so intense the
  heat upon the water. Then my fears got the better of me
  again, and I resumed my paddling. The sun scorched my
  bare back. At last, as the bridge at Walton was coming into
  sight round the bend, my fever and faintness overcame my
  fears, and I landed on the Middlesex bank and lay down,
  deadly sick, amid the long grass. I suppose the time was
  then about four or five o’clock. I got up presently, walked
  perhaps half a mile without meeting a soul, and then lay
  down again in the shadow of a hedge. I seem to remember
  talking, wanderingly, to myself during that last spurt. I was
  also very thirsty, and bitterly regretful I had drunk no more
  water. It is a curious thing that I felt angry with my wife; I
  cannot account for it, but my impotent desire to reach
  Leatherhead worried me excessively.
  I do not clearly remember the arrival of the curate, so
  that probably I dozed. I became aware of him as a seated
  figure in soot-smudged shirt sleeves, and with his upturned,
  cleanshaven face staring at a faint flickering that danced
  over the sky. The sky was what is called a mackerel sky—
  rows and rows of faint down-plumes of cloud, just tinted
  with the midsummer sunset.
  I sat up, and at the rustle of my motion he looked at me
  quickly.
  “Have you any water?” I asked abruptly.
  He shook his head.
  “You have been asking for water for the last hour,” he
  said.
  For a moment we were silent, taking stock of each other.
  I dare say he found me a strange enough figure, naked,
  save for my water-soaked trousers and socks, scalded, and
  my face and shoulders blackened by the smoke. His face
  
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  was a fair weakness, his chin retreated, and his hair lay in
  crisp, almost flaxen curls on his low forehead; his eyes
  were rather large, pale blue, and blankly staring. He spoke
  abruptly, looking vacantly away from me.
  “What does it mean?” he said. “What do these things
  mean?”
  I stared at him and made no answer.
  He extended a thin white hand and spoke in almost a
  complaining tone.
  “Why are these things permitted? What sins have we
  done? The morning service was over, I was walking through
  the roads to clear my brain for the afternoon, and then—
  fire, earthquake, death! As if it were Sodom and Gomorrah!
  All our work undone, all the work—— What are these
  Martians?”
  “What are we?” I answered, clearing my throat.
  He gripped his knees and turned to look at me again.
  For half a minute, perhaps, he stared silently.
  “I was walking through the roads to clear my brain,”
  he said. “And suddenly—fire, earthquake, death!”
  He relapsed into silence, with his chin now sunken al-
  most to his knees.
  Presently he began waving his hand.
  “All the work—all the Sunday schools—— What have
  we done—what has Weybridge done? Everything gone—
  everything destroyed. The church! We rebuilt it only three
  years ago. Gone! Swept out of existence! Why?”
  Another pause, and he broke out again like one de-
  mented.
  “The smoke of her burning goeth up for ever and ever!”
  he shouted.
  His eyes flamed, and he pointed a lean finger in the
  direction of Weybridge.
  By this time I was beginning to take his measure. The
  tremendous tragedy in which he had been involved—it was
  evident he was a fugitive from Weybridge—had driven him
  to the very verge of his reason.
  “Are we far from Sunbury?” I said, in a matter-of-fact
  tone.
  “What are we to do?” he asked. “Are these creatures
  everywhere? Has the earth been given over to them?”
  “Are we far from Sunbury?”
  “Only this morning I officiated at early celebration—”
  “Things have changed,” I said, quietly. “You must keep
  your head. There is still hope.”
  “Hope!”
  “Yes. Plentiful hope—for all this destruction!”
  I began to explain my view of our position. He listened
  at first, but as I went on the interest dawning in his eyes
  gave place to their former stare, and his regard wandered
  from me.
  “This must be the beginning of the end,” he said, inter-
  rupting me. “The end! The great and terrible day of the
  Lord! When men shall call upon the mountains and the
  rocks to fall upon them and hide them—hide them from
  the face of Him that sitteth upon the throne!”
  I began to understand the position. I ceased my laboured
  reasoning, struggled to my feet, and, standing over him,
  laid my hand on his shoulder.
  “Be a man!” said I. “You are scared out of your wits!
  What good is religion if it collapses under calamity? Think
  of what earthquakes and floods, wars and volcanoes, have
  done before to men! Did you think God had exempted
  Weybridge? He is not an insurance agent.”
  For a time he sat in blank silence.
  “But how can we escape?” he asked, suddenly. “They
  are invulnerable, they are pitiless.”
  “Neither the one nor, perhaps, the other,” I answered.
  “And the mightier they are the more sane and wary should
  we be. One of them was killed yonder not three hours ago.”
  “Killed!” he said, staring about him. “How can God’s
  ministers be killed?”
  “I saw it happen.” I proceeded to tell him. “We have
  chanced to come in for the thick of it,” said I, “and that is
  all.”
  “What is that flicker in the sky?” he asked abruptly.
  I told him it was the heliograph signalling—that it was
  the sign of human help and effort in the sky.
  “We are in the midst of it,” I said, “quiet as it is. That
  flicker in the sky tells of the gathering storm. Yonder, I
  take it are the Martians, and Londonward, where those hills
  rise about Richmond and Kingston and the trees give cover,
  earthworks are being thrown up and guns are being placed.
  Presently the Martians will be coming this way again.”
  And even as I spoke he sprang to his feet and stopped
  me by a gesture.
  “Listen!” he said.
  From beyond the low hills across the water came the
  dull resonance of distant guns and a remote weird crying.
  Then everything was still. A cockchafer came droning over
  the hedge and past us. High in the west the crescent moon
  hung faint and pale above the smoke of Weybridge and
  Shepperton and the hot, still splendour of the sunset.
  “We had better follow this path,” I said, “northward.”
  
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  Chapter Fourteen
  In London
  M
  y younger brother was in London when the Mar
  tians fell at Woking. He was a medical student
  working for an imminent examination, and he heard noth-
  ing of the arrival until Saturday morning. The morning
  papers on Saturday contained, in addition to lengthy spe-
  cial articles on the planet Mars, on life in the planets, and
  so forth, a brief and vaguely worded telegram, all the more
  striking for its brevity.
  The Martians, alarmed by the approach of a crowd,
  had killed a number of people with a quick-firing gun, so
  the story ran. The telegram concluded with the words: “For-
  midable as they seem to be, the Martians have not moved
  from the pit into which they have fallen, and, indeed, seem
  incapable of doing so. Probably this is due to the relative
  strength of the earth’s gravitational energy.” On that last
  text their leader-writer expanded very comfortingly.
  Of course all the students in the crammer’s biology
  class, to which my brother went that day, were intensely
  interested, but there were no signs of any unusual excite-
  ment in the streets. The afternoon papers puffed scraps of
  news under big headlines. They had nothing to tell beyond
  the movements of troops about the common, and the burn-
  ing of the pine woods between Woking and Weybridge,
  until eight. Then the ST. JAMES’S GAZETTE, in an ex-
  tra-special edition, announced the bare fact of the inter-
  ruption of telegraphic communication. This was thought
  to be due to the falling of burning pine trees across the
  line. Nothing more of the fighting was known that night,
  the night of my drive to Leatherhead and back.
  My brother felt no anxiety about us, as he knew from
  the description in the papers that the cylinder was a good
  two miles from my house. He made up his mind to run
  down that night to me, in order, as he says, to see the Things
  before they were killed. He despatched a telegram, which
  never reached me, about four o’clock, and spent the evening
  at a music hall.
  In London, also, on Saturday night there was a thun-
  derstorm, and my brother reached Waterloo in a cab. On
  the platform from which the midnight train usually starts
  he learned, after some waiting, that an accident prevented
  trains from reaching Woking that night. The nature of the
  accident he could not ascertain; indeed, the railway au-
  thorities did not clearly know at that time. There was very
  little excitement in the station, as the officials, failing to
  realise that anything further than a breakdown between
  Byfleet and Woking junction had occurred, were running
  the theatre trains which usually passed through Woking
  round by Virginia Water or Guildford. They were busy
  making the necessary arrangements to alter the route of
  the Southampton and Portsmouth Sunday League excur-
  sions. A nocturnal newspaper reporter, mistaking my
  brother for the traffic manager, to whom he bears a slight
  resemblance, waylaid and tried to interview him. Few
  people, excepting the railway officials, connected the break-
  down with the Martians.
  I have read, in another account of these events, that on
  Sunday morning “all London was electrified by the news
  from Woking.” As a matter of fact, there was nothing to
  justify that very extravagant phrase. Plenty of Londoners
  did not hear of the Martians until the panic of Monday
  morning. Those who did took some time to realise all that
  the hastily worded telegrams in the Sunday papers con-
  veyed. The majority of people in London do not read Sun-
  day papers.
  The habit of personal security, moreover, is so deeply
  fixed in the Londoner’s mind, and startling intelligence so
  much a matter of course in the papers, that they could read
  without any personal tremors: “About seven o’clock last
  night the Martians came out of the cylinder, and, moving
  about under an armour of metallic shields, have completely
  wrecked Woking station with the adjacent houses, and
  massacred an entire battalion of the Cardigan Regiment.
  No details are known. Maxims have been absolutely use-
  less against their armour; the field guns have been disabled
  by them. Flying hussars have been galloping into Chertsey.
  The Martians appear to be moving slowly towards Chertsey
  or Windsor. Great anxiety prevails in West Surrey, and
  earthworks are being thrown up to check the advance
  Londonward.” That was how the Sunday SUN put it, and a
  clever and remarkably prompt “handbook” article in the
  Referee compared the affair to a menagerie suddenly let
  loose in a village.
  No one in London knew positively of the nature of the
  armoured Martians, and there was still a fixed idea that
  these monsters must be sluggish: “crawling,” “creeping
  painfully” —such expressions occurred in almost all the
  earlier reports. None of the telegrams could have been
  written by an eyewitness of their advance. The Sunday
  papers printed separate editions as further news came to
  hand, some even in default of it. But there was practically
  nothing more to tell people until late in the afternoon, when
  the authorities gave the press agencies the news in their
  possession. It was stated that the people of Walton and
  Weybridge, and all the district were pouring along the roads
  Londonward, and that was all.
  My brother went to church at the Foundling Hospital
  in the morning, still in ignorance of what had happened on
  the previous night. There he heard allusions made to the
  invasion, and a special prayer for peace. Coming out, he
  bought a Referee. He became alarmed at the news in this,
  and went again to Waterloo station to find out if communi-
  cation were restored. The omnibuses, carriages, cyclists,
  and innumerable people walking in their best clothes
  seemed scarcely affected by the strange intelligence that
  the news venders were disseminating. People were inter-
  ested, or, if alarmed, alarmed only on account of the local
  residents. At the station he heard for the first time that the
  Windsor and Chertsey lines were now interrupted. The
  
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  porters told him that several remarkable telegrams had been
  received in the morning from Byfleet and Chertsey sta-
  tions, but that these had abruptly ceased. My brother could
  get very little precise detail out of them.
  “There’s fighting going on about Weybridge” was the
  extent of their information.
  The train service was now very much disorganised.
  Quite a number of people who had been expecting friends
  from places on the South-Western network were standing
  about the station. One grey-headed old gentleman came
  and abused the South-Western Company bitterly to my
  brother. “It wants showing up,” he said.
  One or two trains came in from Richmond, Putney, and
  Kingston, containing people who had gone out for a day’s
  boating and found the locks closed and a feeling of panic
  in the air. A man in a blue and white blazer addressed my
  brother, full of strange tidings.
  “There’s hosts of people driving into Kingston in traps
  and carts and things, with boxes of valuables and all that,”
  he said. “They come from Molesey and Weybridge and
  Walton, and they say there’s been guns heard at Chertsey,
  heavy firing, and that mounted soldiers have told them to
  get off at once because the Martians are coming. We heard
  guns firing at Hampton Court station, but we thought it
  was thunder. What the dickens does it all mean? The Mar-
  tians can’t get out of their pit, can they?”
  My brother could not tell him.
  Afterwards he found that the vague feeling of alarm
  had spread to the clients of the underground railway, and
  that the Sunday excursionists began to return from all over
  the South-Western “lung”—Barnes, Wimbledon, Rich-
  mond Park, Kew, and so forth—at unnaturally early hours;
  but not a soul had anything more than vague hearsay to tell
  of. Everyone connected with the terminus seemed ill-tem-
  pered.
  About five o’clock the gathering crowd in the station
  was immensely excited by the opening of the line of com-
  munication, which is almost invariably closed, between the
  SouthEastern and the South-Western stations, and the pas-
  sage of carriage trucks bearing huge guns and carriages
  crammed with soldiers. These were the guns that were
  brought up from Woolwich and Chatham to cover Kingston.
  There was an exchange of pleasantries: “You’ll get eaten!”
  “We’re the beast-tamers!” and so forth. A little while after
  that a squad of police came into the station and began to
  clear the public off the platforms, and my brother went out
  into the street again.
  The church bells were ringing for evensong, and a squad
  of Salvation Army lassies came singing down Waterloo
  Road. On the bridge a number of loafers were watching a
  curious brown scum that came drifting down the stream in
  patches. The sun was just setting, and the Clock Tower
  and the Houses of Parliament rose against one of the most
  peaceful skies it is possible to imagine, a sky of gold, barred
  with long transverse stripes of reddish-purple cloud. There
  was talk of a floating body. One of the men there, a reserv-
  ist he said he was, told my brother he had seen the helio-
  graph flickering in the west.
  In Wellington Street my brother met a couple of sturdy
  roughs who had just been rushed out of Fleet Street with
  stillwet newspapers and staring placards. “Dreadful catas-
  trophe!” they bawled one to the other down Wellington
  Street. “Fight ing at Weybridge! Full description! Repulse
  of the Martians! London in Danger!” He had to give
  threepence for a copy of that paper.
  Then it was, and then only, that he realised something
  of the full power and terror of these monsters. He learned
  that they were not merely a handful of small sluggish crea-
  tures, but that they were minds swaying vast mechanical
  bodies; and that they could move swiftly and smite with
  such power that even the mightiest guns could not stand
  against them.
  They were described as “vast spiderlike machines,
  nearly a hundred feet high, capable of the speed of an ex-
  press train, and able to shoot out a beam of intense heat.”
  Masked batteries, chiefly of field guns, had been planted
  in the country about Horsell Common, and especially be-
  tween the Woking district and London. Five of the ma-
  chines had been seen moving towards the Thames, and
  one, by a happy chance, had been destroyed. In the other
  cases the shells had missed, and the batteries had been at
  once annihilated by the HeatRays. Heavy losses of sol-
  diers were mentioned, but the tone of the despatch was
  optimistic.
  The Martians had been repulsed; they were not invul-
  nerable. They had retreated to their triangle of cylinders
  again, in the circle about Woking. Signallers with helio-
  graphs were pushing forward upon them from all sides.
  Guns were in rapid transit from Windsor, Portsmouth,
  Aldershot, Woolwich— even from the north; among oth-
  ers, long wire-guns of ninetyfive tons from Woolwich. Al-
  together one hundred and sixteen were in position or be-
  ing hastily placed, chiefly covering London. Never before
  in England had there been such a vast or rapid concentra-
  tion of military material.
  Any further cylinders that fell, it was hoped, could be
  destroyed at once by high explosives, which were being
  rapidly manufactured and distributed. No doubt, ran the
  report, the situation was of the strangest and gravest de-
  scription, but the public was exhorted to avoid and dis-
  courage panic. No doubt the Martians were strange and
  terrible in the extreme, but at the outside there could not
  be more than twenty of them against our millions.
  The authorities had reason to suppose, from the size of
  the cylinders, that at the outside there could not be more
  than five in each cylinder—fifteen altogether. And one at
  least was disposed of—perhaps more. The public would
  be fairly warned of the approach of danger, and elaborate
  measures were being taken for the protection of the people
  in the threatened southwestern suburbs. And so, with reit-
  erated assurances of the safety of London and the ability
  of the authorities to cope with the difficulty, this quasi-
  proclamation closed.
  
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  This was printed in enormous type on paper so fresh
  that it was still wet, and there had been no time to add a
  word of comment. It was curious, my brother said, to see
  how ruthlessly the usual contents of the paper had been
  hacked and taken out to give this place.
  All down Wellington Street people could be seen flut-
  tering out the pink sheets and reading, and the Strand was
  suddenly noisy with the voices of an army of hawkers fol-
  lowing these pioneers. Men came scrambling off buses to
  secure copies. Certainly this news excited people intensely,
  whatever their previous apathy. The shutters of a map shop
  in the Strand were being taken down, my brother said, and
  a man in his Sunday raiment, lemon-yellow gloves even,
  was visible inside the window hastily fastening maps of
  Surrey to the glass.
  Going on along the Strand to Trafalgar Square, the
  paper in his hand, my brother saw some of the fugitives
  from West Surrey. There was a man with his wife and two
  boys and some articles of furniture in a cart such as
  greengrocers use. He was driving from the direction of
  Westminster Bridge; and close behind him came a hay
  waggon with five or six respectable-looking people in it,
  and some boxes and bundles. The faces of these people
  were haggard, and their entire appearance contrasted con-
  spicuously with the Sabbath-best appearance of the people
  on the omnibuses. People in fashionable clothing peeped
  at them out of cabs. They stopped at the Square as if unde-
  cided which way to take, and finally turned eastward along
  the Strand. Some way behind these came a man in work-
  day clothes, riding one of those oldfashioned tricycles with
  a small front wheel. He was dirty and white in the face.
  My brother turned down towards Victoria, and met a
  number of such people. He had a vague idea that he might
  see something of me. He noticed an unusual number of
  police regulating the traffic. Some of the refugees were
  exchanging news with the people on the omnibuses. One
  was professing to have seen the Martians. “Boilers on stilts,
  I tell you, striding along like men.” Most of them were
  excited and animated by their strange experience.
  Beyond Victoria the public-houses were doing a lively
  trade with these arrivals. At all the street corners groups of
  people were reading papers, talking excitedly, or staring at
  these unusual Sunday visitors. They seemed to increase as
  night drew on, until at last the roads, my brother said, were
  like Epsom High Street on a Derby Day. My brother ad-
  dressed several of these fugitives and got unsatisfactory
  answers from most.
  None of them could tell him any news of Woking ex-
  cept one man, who assured him that Woking had been en-
  tirely destroyed on the previous night.
  “I come from Byfleet,” he said; “man on a bicycle came
  through the place in the early morning, and ran from door
  to door warning us to come away. Then came soldiers. We
  went out to look, and there were clouds of smoke to the
  south—nothing but smoke, and not a soul coming that way.
  Then we heard the guns at Chertsey, and folks coming from
  Weybridge. So I’ve locked up my house and come on.”
  At the time there was a strong feeling in the streets that
  the authorities were to blame for their incapacity to dis-
  pose of the invaders without all this inconvenience.
  About eight o’clock a noise of heavy firing was dis-
  tinctly audible all over the south of London. My brother
  could not hear it for the traffic in the main thoroughfares,
  but by striking through the quiet back streets to the river
  he was able to distinguish it quite plainly.
  He walked from Westminster to his apartments near
  Regent’s Park, about two. He was now very anxious on my
  account, and disturbed at the evident magnitude of the
  trouble. His mind was inclined to run, even as mine had
  run on Saturday, on military details. He thought of all those
  silent, expectant guns, of the suddenly nomadic country-
  side; he tried to imagine “boilers on stilts” a hundred feet
  high.
  There were one or two cartloads of refugees passing
  along Oxford Street, and several in the Marylebone Road,
  but so slowly was the news spreading that Regent Street
  and Portland Place were full of their usual Sunday-night
  promenaders, albeit they talked in groups, and along the
  edge of Regent’s Park there were as many silent couples
  “walking out” together under the scattered gas lamps as
  ever there had been. The night was warm and still, and a
  little oppressive; the sound of guns continued intermittently,
  and after midnight there seemed to be sheet lightning in
  the south.
  
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  He read and re-read the paper, fearing the worst had
  happened to me. He was restless, and after supper prowled
  out again aimlessly. He returned and tried in vain to divert
  his attention to his examination notes. He went to bed a
  little after midnight, and was awakened from lurid dreams
  in the small hours of Monday by the sound of door knock-
  ers, feet running in the street, distant drumming, and a
  clamour of bells. Red reflections danced on the ceiling.
  For a moment he lay astonished, wondering whether day
  had come or the world gone mad. Then he jumped out of
  bed and ran to the window.
  His room was an attic and as he thrust his head out, up
  and down the street there were a dozen echoes to the noise
  of his window sash, and heads in every kind of night disar-
  ray appeared. Enquiries were being shouted. “They are
  coming!” bawled a policeman, hammering at the door; “the
  Martians are coming!” and hurried to the next door.
  The sound of drumming and trumpeting came from the
  Albany Street Barracks, and every church within earshot
  was hard at work killing sleep with a vehement disorderly
  tocsin. There was a noise of doors opening, and window
  after window in the houses opposite flashed from dark-
  ness into yellow illumination.
  Up the street came galloping a closed carriage, burst-
  ing abruptly into noise at the corner, rising to a clattering
  climax under the window, and dying away slowly in the
  distance. Close on the rear of this came a couple of cabs,
  the forerunners of a long procession of flying vehicles,
  going for the most part to Chalk Farm station, where the
  North-Western special trains were loading up, instead of
  coming down the gradient into Euston.
  For a long time my brother stared out of the window in
  blank astonishment, watching the policemen hammering
  at door after door, and delivering their incomprehensible
  message. Then the door behind him opened, and the man
  who lodged across the landing came in, dressed only in
  shirt, trousers, and slippers, his braces loose about his waist,
  his hair disordered from his pillow.
  “What the devil is it?” he asked. “A fire? What a devil
  of a row!”
  They both craned their heads out of the window, strain-
  ing to hear what the policemen were shouting. People were
  coming out of the side streets, and standing in groups at
  the corners talking.
  “What the devil is it all about?” said my brother’s fel-
  low lodger.
  My brother answered him vaguely and began to dress,
  running with each garment to the window in order to miss
  nothing of the growing excitement. And presently men sell-
  ing unnaturally early newspapers came bawling into the
  street:
  “London in danger of suffocation! The Kingston and
  Richmond defences forced! Fearful massacres in the
  Thames Valley!”
  And all about him—in the rooms below, in the houses
  on each side and across the road, and behind in the Park
  Terraces and in the hundred other streets of that part of
  Marylebone, and the Westbourne Park district and St.
  Pancras, and westward and northward in Kilburn and St.
  John’s Wood and Hampstead, and eastward in Shoreditch
  and Highbury and Haggerston and Hoxton, and, indeed,
  through all the vastness of London from Ealing to East
  Ham—people were rubbing their eyes, and opening win-
  dows to stare out and ask aimless questions, dressing hast-
  ily as the first breath of the coming storm of Fear blew
  through the streets. It was the dawn of the great panic.
  London, which had gone to bed on Sunday night oblivious
  and inert, was awakened, in the small hours of Monday
  morning, to a vivid sense of danger.
  Unable from his window to learn what was happening,
  my brother went down and out into the street, just as the
  sky between the parapets of the houses grew pink with the
  early dawn. The flying people on foot and in vehicles grew
  more numerous every moment. “Black Smoke!” he heard
  people crying, and again “Black Smoke!” The contagion
  of such a unanimous fear was inevitable. As my brother
  hesitated on the door-step, he saw another news vender
  approaching, and got a paper forthwith. The man was run-
  ning away with the rest, and selling his papers for a shil-
  ling each as he ran—a grotesque mingling of profit and
  panic.
  And from this paper my brother read that catastrophic
  despatch of the Commander-in-Chief:
  “The Martians are able to discharge enormous clouds
  of a black and poisonous vapour by means of rockets. They
  have smothered our batteries, destroyed Richmond,
  Kingston, and Wimbledon, and are advancing slowly to-
  wards London, destroying everything on the way. It is im-
  possible to stop them. There is no safety from the Black
  Smoke but in instant flight.”
  That was all, but it was enough. The whole population
  of the great six-million city was stirring, slipping, running;
  presently it would be pouring EN MASSE northward.
  “Black Smoke!” the voices cried. “Fire!”
  The bells of the neighbouring church made a jangling
  tumult, a cart carelessly driven smashed, amid shrieks and
  curses, against the water trough up the street. Sickly yel-
  low lights went to and fro in the houses, and some of the
  passing cabs flaunted unextinguished lamps. And overhead
  the dawn was growing brighter, clear and steady and calm.
  He heard footsteps running to and fro in the rooms,
  and up and down stairs behind him. His landlady came to
  the door, loosely wrapped in dressing gown and shawl; her
  husband followed ejaculating.
  As my brother began to realise the import of all these
  things, he turned hastily to his own room, put all his avail-
  able money—some ten pounds altogether—into his pock-
  ets, and went out again into the streets.
  
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  Chapter Fifteen
  What Had Happened In
  Surrey
  I
  t was while the curate had sat and talked so wildly to
  me under the hedge in the flat meadows near Halliford,
  and while my brother was watching the fugitives stream
  over Westminster Bridge, that the Martians had resumed
  the offensive. So far as one can ascertain from the con-
  flicting accounts that have been put forth, the majority of
  them remained busied with preparations in the Horsell pit
  until nine that night, hurrying on some operation that dis-
  engaged huge volumes of green smoke.
  But three certainly came out about eight o’clock and,
  advancing slowly and cautiously, made their way through
  Byfleet and Pyrford towards Ripley and Weybridge, and
  so came in sight of the expectant batteries against the set-
  ting sun. These Martians did not advance in a body, but in
  a line, each perhaps a mile and a half from his nearest fel-
  low. They communicated with one another by means of
  sirenlike howls, running up and down the scale from one
  note to another.
  It was this howling and firing of the guns at Ripley and
  St. George’s Hill that we had heard at Upper Halliford.
  The Ripley gunners, unseasoned artillery volunteers who
  ought never to have been placed in such a position, fired
  one wild, premature, ineffectual volley, and bolted on horse
  and foot through the deserted village, while the Martian,
  without using his Heat-Ray, walked serenely over their
  guns, stepped gingerly among them, passed in front of them,
  and so came unexpectedly upon the guns in Painshill Park,
  which he destroyed.
  The St. George’s Hill men, however, were better led or
  of a better mettle. Hidden by a pine wood as they were,
  they seem to have been quite unsuspected by the Martian
  nearest to them. They laid their guns as deliberately as if
  they had been on parade, and fired at about a thousand
  yards’ range.
  The shells flashed all round him, and he was seen to
  advance a few paces, stagger, and go down. Everybody
  yelled together, and the guns were reloaded in frantic haste.
  The overthrown Martian set up a prolonged ululation, and
  immediately a second glittering giant, answering him, ap-
  peared over the trees to the south. It would seem that a leg
  of the tripod had been smashed by one of the shells. The
  whole of the second volley flew wide of the Martian on the
  ground, and, simultaneously, both his companions brought
  their HeatRays to bear on the battery. The ammunition blew
  up, the pine trees all about the guns flashed into fire, and
  only one or two of the men who were already running over
  the crest of the hill escaped.
  After this it would seem that the three took counsel
  together and halted, and the scouts who were watching them
  report that they remained absolutely stationary for the next
  half hour. The Martian who had been overthrown crawled
  tediously out of his hood, a small brown figure, oddly sug-
  gestive from that distance of a speck of blight, and appar-
  ently engaged in the repair of his support. About nine he
  had finished, for his cowl was then seen above the trees
  again.
  It was a few minutes past nine that night when these
  three sentinels were joined by four other Martians, each
  carrying a thick black tube. A similar tube was handed to
  each of the three, and the seven proceeded to distribute
  themselves at equal distances along a curved line between
  St. George’s Hill, Weybridge, and the village of Send,
  southwest of Ripley.
  A dozen rockets sprang out of the hills before them so
  soon as they began to move, and warned the waiting bat-
  teries about Ditton and Esher. At the same time four of
  their fighting machines, similarly armed with tubes, crossed
  the river, and two of them, black against the western sky,
  came into sight of myself and the curate as we hurried
  wearily and painfully along the road that runs northward
  out of Halliford. They moved, as it seemed to us, upon a
  cloud, for a milky mist covered the fields and rose to a
  third of their height.
  At this sight the curate cried faintly in his throat, and
  began running; but I knew it was no good running from a
  Martian, and I turned aside and crawled through dewy
  nettles and brambles into the broad ditch by the side of the
  road. He looked back, saw what I was doing, and turned to
  join me.
  The two halted, the nearer to us standing and facing
  Sunbury, the remoter being a grey indistinctness towards
  the evening star, away towards Staines.
  The occasional howling of the Martians had ceased;
  they took up their positions in the huge crescent about their
  cylinders in absolute silence. It was a crescent with twelve
  miles between its horns. Never since the devising of gun-
  powder was the beginning of a battle so still. To us and to
  an observer about Ripley it would have had precisely the
  same effect—the Martians seemed in solitary possession
  of the darkling night, lit only as it was by the slender moon,
  the stars, the afterglow of the daylight, and the ruddy glare
  from St. George’s Hill and the woods of Painshill.
  But facing that crescent everywhere—at Staines,
  Hounslow, Ditton, Esher, Ockham, behind hills and woods
  south of the river, and across the flat grass meadows to the
  north of it, wherever a cluster of trees or village houses
  gave sufficient cover—the guns were waiting. The signal
  rockets burst and rained their sparks through the night and
  vanished, and the spirit of all those watching batteries rose
  to a tense expectation. The Martians had but to advance
  into the line of fire, and instantly those motionless black
  forms of men, those guns glittering so darkly in the early
  night, would explode into a thunderous fury of battle.
  No doubt the thought that was uppermost in a thou-
  sand of those vigilant minds, even as it was uppermost in
  
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  mine, was the riddle—how much they understood of us.
  Did they grasp that we in our millions were organized, dis-
  ciplined, working together? Or did they interpret our spurts
  of fire, the sudden stinging of our shells, our steady invest-
  ment of their encampment, as we should the furious una-
  nimity of onslaught in a disturbed hive of bees? Did they
  dream they might exterminate us? (At that time no one
  knew what food they needed.) A hundred such questions
  struggled together in my mind as I watched that vast senti-
  nel shape. And in the back of my mind was the sense of all
  the huge unknown and hidden forces Londonward. Had
  they prepared pitfalls? Were the powder mills at Hounslow
  ready as a snare? Would the Londoners have the heart and
  courage to make a greater Moscow of their mighty prov-
  ince of houses?
  Then, after an interminable time, as it seemed to us,
  crouching and peering through the hedge, came a sound
  like the distant concussion of a gun. Another nearer, and
  then another. And then the Martian beside us raised his
  tube on high and discharged it, gunwise, with a heavy re-
  port that made the ground heave. The one towards Staines
  answered him. There was no flash, no smoke, simply that
  loaded detonation.
  I was so excited by these heavy minute-guns following
  one another that I so far forgot my personal safety and my
  scalded hands as to clamber up into the hedge and stare
  towards Sunbury. As I did so a second report followed,
  and a big projectile hurtled overhead towards Hounslow. I
  expected at least to see smoke or fire, or some such evi-
  dence of its work. But all I saw was the deep blue sky
  above, with one solitary star, and the white mist spreading
  wide and low beneath. And there had been no crash, no
  answering explosion. The silence was restored; the minute
  lengthened to three.
  “What has happened?” said the curate, standing up
  beside me.
  “Heaven knows!” said I.
  A bat flickered by and vanished. A distant tumult of
  shouting began and ceased. I looked again at the Martian,
  and saw he was now moving eastward along the riverbank,
  with a swift, rolling motion,
  Every moment I expected the fire of some hidden bat-
  tery to spring upon him; but the evening calm was unbro-
  ken. The figure of the Martian grew smaller as he receded,
  and presently the mist and the gathering night had swal-
  lowed him up. By a common impulse we clambered higher.
  Towards Sunbury was a dark appearance, as though a coni-
  cal hill had suddenly come into being there, hiding our
  view of the farther country; and then, remoter across the
  river, over Walton, we saw another such summit. These
  hill-like forms grew lower and broader even as we stared.
  Moved by a sudden thought, I looked northward, and
  there I perceived a third of these cloudy black kopjes had
  risen.
  Everything had suddenly become very still. Far away
  to the southeast, marking the quiet, we heard the Martians
  hooting to one another, and then the air quivered again
  with the distant thud of their guns. But the earthly artillery
  made no reply.
  Now at the time we could not understand these things,
  but later I was to learn the meaning of these ominous kopjes
  that gathered in the twilight. Each of the Martians, stand-
  ing in the great crescent I have described, had discharged,
  by means of the gunlike tube he carried, a huge canister
  over whatever hill, copse, cluster of houses, or other pos-
  sible cover for guns, chanced to be in front of him. Some
  fired only one of these, some two—as in the case of the
  one we had seen; the one at Ripley is said to have dis-
  charged no fewer than five at that time. These canisters
  smashed on striking the ground—they did not explode—
  and incontinently disengaged an enormous volume of
  heavy, inky vapour, coiling and pouring upward in a huge
  and ebony cumulus cloud, a gaseous hill that sank and
  spread itself slowly over the surrounding country. And the
  touch of that vapour, the inhaling of its pungent wisps, was
  death to all that breathes.
  It was heavy, this vapour, heavier than the densest
  smoke, so that, after the first tumultuous uprush and out-
  flow of its impact, it sank down through the air and poured
  over the ground in a manner rather liquid than gaseous,
  abandoning the hills, and streaming into the valleys and
  ditches and watercourses even as I have heard the carbonic-
  acid gas that pours from volcanic clefts is wont to do. And
  where it came upon water some chemical action occurred,
  and the surface would be instantly covered with a pow-
  dery scum that sank slowly and made way for more. The
  scum was absolutely insoluble, and it is a strange thing,
  seeing the instant effect of the gas, that one could drink
  without hurt the water from which it had been strained.
  The vapour did not diffuse as a true gas would do. It hung
  together in banks, flowing sluggishly down the slope of
  the land and driving reluctantly before the wind, and very
  slowly it combined with the mist and moisture of the air,
  and sank to the earth in the form of dust. Save that an un-
  known element giving a group of four lines in the blue of
  the spectrum is concerned, we are still entirely ignorant of
  the nature of this substance.
  Once the tumultuous upheaval of its dispersion was
  over, the black smoke clung so closely to the ground, even
  before its precipitation, that fifty feet up in the air, on the
  roofs and upper stories of high houses and on great trees,
  there was a chance of escaping its poison altogether, as
  was proved even that night at Street Cobham and Ditton.
  The man who escaped at the former place tells a won-
  derful story of the strangeness of its coiling flow, and how
  he looked down from the church spire and saw the houses
  of the village rising like ghosts out of its inky nothingness.
  For a day and a half he remained there, weary, starving and
  sun-scorched, the earth under the blue sky and against the
  prospect of the distant hills a velvet-black expanse, with
  red roofs, green trees, and, later, black-veiled shrubs and
  gates, barns, outhouses, and walls, rising here and there
  into the sunlight.
  
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  But that was at Street Cobham, where the black vapour
  was allowed to remain until it sank of its own accord into
  the ground. As a rule the Martians, when it had served its
  purpose, cleared the air of it again by wading into it and
  directing a jet of steam upon it.
  This they did with the vapour banks near us, as we saw
  in the starlight from the window of a deserted house at
  Upper Halliford, whither we had returned. From there we
  could see the searchlights on Richmond Hill and Kingston
  Hill going to and fro, and about eleven the windows rattled,
  and we heard the sound of the huge siege guns that had
  been put in position there. These continued intermittently
  for the space of a quarter of an hour, sending chance shots
  at the invisible Martians at Hampton and Ditton, and then
  the pale beams of the electric light vanished, and were re-
  placed by a bright red glow.
  Then the fourth cylinder fell—a brilliant green me-
  teor—as I learned afterwards, in Bushey Park. Before the
  guns on the Richmond and Kingston line of hills began,
  there was a fitful cannonade far away in the southwest,
  due, I believe, to guns being fired haphazard before the
  black vapour could overwhelm the gunners.
  So, setting about it as methodically as men might smoke
  out a wasps’ nest, the Martians spread this strange stifling
  vapour over the Londonward country. The horns of the
  crescent slowly moved apart, until at last they formed a
  line from Hanwell to Coombe and Malden. All night
  through their destructive tubes advanced. Never once, af-
  ter the Martian at St. George’s Hill was brought down, did
  they give the artillery the ghost of a chance against them.
  Wherever there was a possibility of guns being laid for
  them unseen, a fresh canister of the black vapour was dis-
  charged, and where the guns were openly displayed the
  Heat-Ray was brought to bear.
  By midnight the blazing trees along the slopes of Rich-
  mond Park and the glare of Kingston Hill threw their light
  upon a network of black smoke, blotting out the whole
  valley of the Thames and extending as far as the eye could
  reach. And through this two Martians slowly waded, and
  turned their hissing steam jets this way and that.
  They were sparing of the Heat-Ray that night, either
  because they had but a limited supply of material for its
  production or because they did not wish to destroy the coun-
  try but only to crush and overawe the opposition they had
  aroused. In the latter aim they certainly succeeded. Sun-
  day night was the end of the organised opposition to their
  movements. After that no body of men would stand against
  them, so hopeless was the enterprise. Even the crews of
  the torpedo-boats and destroyers that had brought their
  quickfirers up the Thames refused to stop, mutinied, and
  went down again. The only offensive operation men ven-
  tured upon after that night was the preparation of mines
  and pitfalls, and even in that their energies were frantic
  and spasmodic.
  One has to imagine, as well as one may, the fate of
  those batteries towards Esher, waiting so tensely in the
  twilight. Survivors there were none. One may picture the
  orderly expectation, the officers alert and watchful, the
  gunners ready, the ammunition piled to hand, the limber
  gunners with their horses and waggons, the groups of ci-
  vilian spectators standing as near as they were permitted,
  the evening stillness, the ambulances and hospital tents with
  the burned and wounded from Weybridge; then the dull
  resonance of the shots the Martians fired, and the clumsy
  projectile whirling over the trees and houses and smashing
  amid the neighbouring fields.
  One may picture, too, the sudden shifting of the atten-
  tion, the swiftly spreading coils and bellyings of that black-
  ness advancing headlong, towering heavenward, turning
  the twilight to a palpable darkness, a strange and horrible
  antagonist of vapour striding upon its victims, men and
  horses near it seen dimly, running, shrieking, falling head-
  long, shouts of dismay, the guns suddenly abandoned, men
  choking and writhing on the ground, and the swift broad-
  ening-out of the opaque cone of smoke. And then night
  and extinction— nothing but a silent mass of impenetrable
  vapour hiding its dead.
  Before dawn the black vapour was pouring through the
  streets of Richmond, and the disintegrating organism of
  government was, with a last expiring effort, rousing the
  population of London to the necessity of flight.
  
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  Chapter Sixteen
  The Exodus From London
  S
  o you understand the roaring wave of fear that swept
  through the greatest city in the world just as Mon-
  day was dawning—the stream of flight rising swiftly to a
  torrent, lashing in a foaming tumult round the railway sta-
  tions, banked up into a horrible struggle about the ship-
  ping in the Thames, and hurrying by every available chan-
  nel northward and eastward. By ten o’clock the police
  organisation, and by midday even the railway organisations,
  were losing coherency, losing shape and efficiency, gutter-
  ing, softening, running at last in that swift liquefaction of
  the social body.
  All the railway lines north of the Thames and the
  SouthEastern people at Cannon Street had been warned
  by midnight on Sunday, and trains were being filled. People
  were fighting savagely for standing-room in the carriages
  even at two o’clock. By three, people were being trampled
  and crushed even in Bishopsgate Street, a couple of hun-
  dred yards or more from Liverpool Street station; revolv-
  ers were fired, people stabbed, and the policemen who had
  been sent to direct the traffic, exhausted and infuriated,
  were breaking the heads of the people they were called out
  to protect.
  And as the day advanced and the engine drivers and
  stokers refused to return to London, the pressure of the
  flight drove the people in an ever-thickening multitude away
  from the stations and along the northward-running roads.
  By midday a Martian had been seen at Barnes, and a cloud
  of slowly sinking black vapour drove along the Thames
  and across the flats of Lambeth, cutting off all escape over
  the bridges in its sluggish advance. Another bank drove
  over Ealing, and surrounded a little island of survivors on
  Castle Hill, alive, but unable to escape.
  After a fruitless struggle to get aboard a North-West-
  ern train at Chalk Farm—the engines of the trains that had
  loaded in the goods yard there ploughed through shrieking
  people, and a dozen stalwart men fought to keep the crowd
  from crushing the driver against his furnace—my brother
  emerged upon the Chalk Farm road, dodged across through
  a hurrying swarm of vehicles, and had the luck to be fore-
  most in the sack of a cycle shop. The front tire of the ma-
  chine he got was punctured in dragging it through the win-
  dow, but he got up and off, notwithstanding, with no fur-
  ther injury than a cut wrist. The steep foot of Haverstock
  Hill was impassable owing to several overturned horses,
  and my brother struck into Belsize Road.
  So he got out of the fury of the panic, and, skirting the
  Edgware Road, reached Edgware about seven, fasting and
  wearied, but well ahead of the crowd. Along the road people
  were standing in the roadway, curious, wondering. He was
  passed by a number of cyclists, some horsemen, and two
  motor cars. A mile from Edgware the rim of the wheel
  broke, and the machine became unridable. He left it by the
  roadside and trudged through the village. There were shops
  half opened in the main street of the place, and people
  crowded on the pavement and in the doorways and win-
  dows, staring astonished at this extraordinary procession
  of fugitives that was beginning. He succeeded in getting
  some food at an inn.
  For a time he remained in Edgware not knowing what
  next to do. The flying people increased in number. Many
  of them, like my brother, seemed inclined to loiter in the
  place. There was no fresh news of the invaders from Mars.
  At that time the road was crowded, but as yet far from
  congested. Most of the fugitives at that hour were mounted
  on cycles, but there were soon motor cars, hansom cabs,
  and carriages hurrying along, and the dust hung in heavy
  clouds along the road to St. Albans.
  It was perhaps a vague idea of making his way to
  Chelmsford, where some friends of his lived, that at last
  induced my brother to strike into a quiet lane running east-
  ward. Presently he came upon a stile, and, crossing it, fol-
  lowed a footpath northeastward. He passed near several
  farmhouses and some little places whose names he did not
  learn. He saw few fugitives until, in a grass lane towards
  High Barnet, he happened upon two ladies who became
  his fellow travellers. He came upon them just in time to
  save them.
  He heard their screams, and, hurrying round the cor-
  ner, saw a couple of men struggling to drag them out of the
  little pony-chaise in which they had been driving, while a
  third with difficulty held the frightened pony’s head. One
  of the ladies, a short woman dressed in white, was simply
  
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  screaming; the other, a dark, slender figure, slashed at the
  man who gripped her arm with a whip she held in her dis-
  engaged hand.
  My brother immediately grasped the situation, shouted,
  and hurried towards the struggle. One of the men desisted
  and turned towards him, and my brother, realising from
  his antagonist’s face that a fight was unavoidable, and be-
  ing an expert boxer, went into him forthwith and sent him
  down against the wheel of the chaise.
  It was no time for pugilistic chivalry and my brother
  laid him quiet with a kick, and gripped the collar of the
  man who pulled at the slender lady’s arm. He heard the
  clatter of hoofs, the whip stung across his face, a third an-
  tagonist struck him between the eyes, and the man he held
  wrenched himself free and made off down the lane in the
  direction from which he had come.
  Partly stunned, he found himself facing the man who
  had held the horse’s head, and became aware of the chaise
  receding from him down the lane, swaying from side to
  side, and with the women in it looking back. The man be-
  fore him, a burly rough, tried to close, and he stopped him
  with a blow in the face. Then, realising that he was de-
  serted, he dodged round and made off down the lane after
  the chaise, with the sturdy man close behind him, and the
  fugitive, who had turned now, following remotely.
  Suddenly he stumbled and fell; his immediate pursuer
  went headlong, and he rose to his feet to find himself with
  a couple of antagonists again. He would have had little
  chance against them had not the slender lady very pluckily
  pulled up and returned to his help. It seems she had had a
  revolver all this time, but it had been under the seat when
  she and her companion were attacked. She fired at six yards’
  distance, narrowly missing my brother. The less courageous
  of the robbers made off, and his companion followed him,
  cursing his cowardice. They both stopped in sight down
  the lane, where the third man lay insensible.
  “Take this!” said the slender lady, and she gave my
  brother her revolver.
  “Go back to the chaise,” said my brother, wiping the
  blood from his split lip.
  She turned without a word—they were both panting—
  and they went back to where the lady in white struggled to
  hold back the frightened pony.
  The robbers had evidently had enough of it. When my
  brother looked again they were retreating.
  “I’ll sit here,” said my brother, “if I may”; and he got
  upon the empty front seat. The lady looked over her shoul-
  der.
  “Give me the reins,” she said, and laid the whip along
  the pony’s side. In another moment a bend in the road hid
  the three men from my brother’s eyes.
  So, quite unexpectedly, my brother found himself, pant-
  ing, with a cut mouth, a bruised jaw, and bloodstained
  knuckles, driving along an unknown lane with these two
  women.
  He learned they were the wife and the younger sister of
  a surgeon living at Stanmore, who had come in the small
  hours from a dangerous case at Pinner, and heard at some
  railway station on his way of the Martian advance. He had
  hurried home, roused the women—their servant had left
  them two days before—packed some provisions, put his
  revolver under the seat—luckily for my brother—and told
  them to drive on to Edgware, with the idea of getting a
  train there. He stopped behind to tell the neighbours. He
  would overtake them, he said, at about half past four in the
  morning, and now it was nearly nine and they had seen
  nothing of him. They could not stop in Edgware because
  of the growing traffic through the place, and so they had
  come into this side lane.
  That was the story they told my brother in fragments
  when presently they stopped again, nearer to New Barnet.
  He promised to stay with them, at least until they could
  determine what to do, or until the missing man arrived,
  and professed to be an expert shot with the revolver—a
  weapon strange to him—in order to give them confidence.
  They made a sort of encampment by the wayside, and
  the pony became happy in the hedge. He told them of his
  own escape out of London, and all that he knew of these
  Martians and their ways. The sun crept higher in the sky,
  and after a time their talk died out and gave place to an
  uneasy state of anticipation. Several wayfarers came along
  the lane, and of these my brother gathered such news as he
  could. Every broken answer he had deepened his impres-
  sion of the great disaster that had come on humanity, deep-
  ened his persuasion of the immediate necessity for pros-
  ecuting this flight. He urged the matter upon them.
  “We have money,” said the slender woman, and hesi-
  tated.
  Her eyes met my brother’s, and her hesitation ended.
  “So have I,” said my brother.
  She explained that they had as much as thirty pounds
  in gold, besides a five-pound note, and suggested that with
  that they might get upon a train at St. Albans or New Barnet.
  My brother thought that was hopeless, seeing the fury of
  the Londoners to crowd upon the trains, and broached his
  own idea of striking across Essex towards Harwich and
  thence escaping from the country altogether.
  Mrs. Elphinstone—that was the name of the woman in
  white—would listen to no reasoning, and kept calling upon
  “George”; but her sister-in-law was astonishingly quiet and
  deliberate, and at last agreed to my brother’s suggestion.
  So, designing to cross the Great North Road, they went on
  towards Barnet, my brother leading the pony to save it as
  much as possible.  As the sun crept up the sky the day
  became excessively hot, and under foot a thick, whitish
  sand grew burning and blinding, so that they travelled only
  very slowly. The hedges were grey with dust. And as they
  advanced towards Barnet a tumultuous murmuring grew
  stronger.
  They began to meet more people. For the most part
  these were staring before them, murmuring indistinct ques-
  tions, jaded, haggard, unclean. One man in evening dress
  passed them on foot, his eyes on the ground. They heard
  his voice, and, looking back at him, saw one hand clutched
  
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  in his hair and the other beating invisible things. His par-
  oxysm of rage over, he went on his way without once look-
  ing back.
  As my brother’s party went on towards the crossroads
  to the south of Barnet they saw a woman approaching the
  road across some fields on their left, carrying a child and
  with two other children; and then passed a man in dirty
  black, with a thick stick in one hand and a small portman-
  teau in the other. Then round the corner of the lane, from
  between the villas that guarded it at its confluence with the
  high road, came a little cart drawn by a sweating black
  pony and driven by a sallow youth in a bowler hat, grey
  with dust. There were three girls, East End factory girls,
  and a couple of little children crowded in the cart.
  “This’ll tike us rahnd Edgware?” asked the driver,
  wildeyed, white-faced; and when my brother told him it
  would if he turned to the left, he whipped up at once with-
  out the formality of thanks.
  My brother noticed a pale grey smoke or haze rising
  among the houses in front of them, and veiling the white
  facade of a terrace beyond the road that appeared between
  the backs of the villas. Mrs. Elphinstone suddenly cried
  out at a number of tongues of smoky red flame leaping up
  above the houses in front of them against the hot, blue sky.
  The tumultuous noise resolved itself now into the disor-
  derly mingling of many voices, the gride of many wheels,
  the creaking of waggons, and the staccato of hoofs. The
  lane came round sharply not fifty yards from the cross-
  roads.
  “Good heavens!” cried Mrs. Elphinstone. “What is this
  you are driving us into?”
  My brother stopped.
  For the main road was a boiling stream of people, a
  torrent of human beings rushing northward, one pressing
  on another. A great bank of dust, white and luminous in
  the blaze of the sun, made everything within twenty feet of
  the ground grey and indistinct and was perpetually renewed
  by the hurrying feet of a dense crowd of horses and of men
  and women on foot, and by the wheels of vehicles of every
  description.
  “Way!” my brother heard voices crying. “Make way!”
  It was like riding into the smoke of a fire to approach
  the meeting point of the lane and road; the crowd roared
  like a fire, and the dust was hot and pungent. And, indeed,
  a little way up the road a villa was burning and sending
  rolling masses of black smoke across the road to add to the
  confusion.
  Two men came past them. Then a dirty woman, carry-
  ing a heavy bundle and weeping. A lost retriever dog, with
  hanging tongue, circled dubiously round them, scared and
  wretched, and fled at my brother’s threat.
  So much as they could see of the road Londonward
  between the houses to the right was a tumultuous stream of
  dirty, hurrying people, pent in between the villas on either
  side; the black heads, the crowded forms, grew into dis-
  tinctness as they rushed towards the corner, hurried past,
  and merged their individuality again in a receding multi-
  tude that was swallowed up at last in a cloud of dust.
  “Go on! Go on!” cried the voices. “Way! Way!”
  One man’s hands pressed on the back of another. My
  brother stood at the pony’s head. Irresistibly attracted, he
  advanced slowly, pace by pace, down the lane.
  Edgware had been a scene of confusion, Chalk Farm a
  riotous tumult, but this was a whole population in move-
  ment. It is hard to imagine that host. It had no character of
  its own. The figures poured out past the corner, and re-
  ceded with their backs to the group in the lane. Along the
  margin came those who were on foot threatened by the
  wheels, stumbling in the ditches, blundering into one an-
  other.
  The carts and carriages crowded close upon one an-
  other, making little way for those swifter and more impa-
  tient vehicles that darted forward every now and then when
  an opportunity showed itself of doing so, sending the people
  scattering against the fences and gates of the villas.
  “Push on!” was the cry. “Push on! They are coming!”
  In one cart stood a blind man in the uniform of the
  Salvation Army, gesticulating with his crooked fingers and
  bawling, “Eternity! Eternity!” His voice was hoarse and
  very loud so that my brother could hear him long after he
  
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  was lost to sight in the dust. Some of the people who
  crowded in the carts whipped stupidly at their horses and
  quarrelled with other drivers; some sat motionless, staring
  at nothing with miserable eyes; some gnawed their hands
  with thirst, or lay prostrate in the bottoms of their convey-
  ances. The horses” bits were covered with foam, their eyes
  bloodshot.
  There were cabs, carriages, shop cars, waggons, be-
  yond counting; a mail cart, a road-cleaner’s cart marked
  “Vestry of St. Pancras,” a huge timber waggon crowded
  with roughs. A brewer’s dray rumbled by with its two near
  wheels splashed with fresh blood.
  “Clear the way!” cried the voices. “Clear the way!”
  “Eter-nity! Eter-nity!” came echoing down the road.
  There were sad, haggard women tramping by, well
  dressed, with children that cried and stumbled, their dainty
  clothes smothered in dust, their weary faces smeared with
  tears. With many of these came men, sometimes helpful,
  sometimes lowering and savage. Fighting side by side with
  them pushed some weary street outcast in faded black rags,
  wide-eyed, loud-voiced, and foul-mouthed. There were
  sturdy workmen thrusting their way along, wretched, un-
  kempt men, clothed like clerks or shopmen, struggling spas-
  modically; a wounded soldier my brother noticed, men
  dressed in the clothes of railway porters, one wretched crea-
  ture in a nightshirt with a coat thrown over it.
  But varied as its composition was, certain things all
  that host had in common. There were fear and pain on their
  faces, and fear behind them. A tumult up the road, a quar-
  rel for a place in a waggon, sent the whole host of them
  quickening their pace; even a man so scared and broken
  that his knees bent under him was galvanised for a mo-
  ment into renewed activity. The heat and dust had already
  been at work upon this multitude. Their skins were dry,
  their lips black and cracked. They were all thirsty, weary,
  and footsore. And amid the various cries one heard dis-
  putes, reproaches, groans of weariness and fatigue; the
  voices of most of them were hoarse and weak. Through it
  all ran a refrain:
  “Way! Way! The Martians are coming!”
  Few stopped and came aside from that flood. The lane
  opened slantingly into the main road with a narrow open-
  ing, and had a delusive appearance of coming from the
  direction of London. Yet a kind of eddy of people drove
  into its mouth; weaklings elbowed out of the stream, who
  for the most part rested but a moment before plunging into
  it again. A little way down the lane, with two friends bend-
  ing over him, lay a man with a bare leg, wrapped about
  with bloody rags. He was a lucky man to have friends.
  A little old man, with a grey military moustache and a
  filthy black frock coat, limped out and sat down beside the
  trap, removed his boot—his sock was blood-stained—
  shook out a pebble, and hobbled on again; and then a little
  girl of eight or nine, all alone, threw herself under the hedge
  close by my brother, weeping.
  “I can’t go on! I can’t go on!”
  My brother woke from his torpor of astonishment and
  lifted her up, speaking gently to her, and carried her to
  Miss Elphinstone. So soon as my brother touched her she
  became quite still, as if frightened.
  “Ellen!” shrieked a woman in the crowd, with tears in
  her voice—”Ellen!” And the child suddenly darted away
  from my brother, crying “Mother!”
  “They are coming,” said a man on horseback, riding
  past along the lane.
  “Out of the way, there!” bawled a coachman, towering
  high; and my brother saw a closed carriage turning into the
  lane.
  The people crushed back on one another to avoid the
  horse. My brother pushed the pony and chaise back into
  the hedge, and the man drove by and stopped at the turn of
  the way. It was a carriage, with a pole for a pair of horses,
  but only one was in the traces. My brother saw dimly
  through the dust that two men lifted out something on a
  white stretcher and put it gently on the grass beneath the
  privet hedge.
  One of the men came running to my brother.
  “Where is there any water?” he said. “He is dying fast,
  and very thirsty. It is Lord Garrick.”
  “Lord Garrick!” said my brother; “the Chief Justice?”
  
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  “The water?” he said.
  “There may be a tap,” said my brother, “in some of the
  houses. We have no water. I dare not leave my people.”
  The man pushed against the crowd towards the gate of
  the corner house.
  “Go on!” said the people, thrusting at him. “They are
  coming! Go on!”
  Then my brother’s attention was distracted by a
  bearded, eagle-faced man lugging a small handbag, which
  split even as my brother’s eyes rested on it and disgorged a
  mass of sovereigns that seemed to break up into separate
  coins as it struck the ground. They rolled hither and thither
  among the struggling feet of men and horses. The man
  stopped and looked stupidly at the heap, and the shaft of a
  cab struck his shoulder and sent him reeling. He gave a
  shriek and dodged back, and a cartwheel shaved him nar-
  rowly.
  “Way!” cried the men all about him. “Make way!”
  So soon as the cab had passed, he flung himself, with
  both hands open, upon the heap of coins, and began thrust-
  ing handfuls in his pocket. A horse rose close upon him,
  and in another moment, half rising, he had been borne down
  under the horse’s hoofs.
  “Stop!” screamed my brother, and pushing a woman
  out of his way, tried to clutch the bit of the horse.
  Before he could get to it, he heard a scream under the
  wheels, and saw through the dust the rim passing over the
  poor wretch’s back. The driver of the cart slashed his whip
  at my brother, who ran round behind the cart. The multitu-
  dinous shouting confused his ears. The man was writhing
  in the dust among his scattered money, unable to rise, for
  the wheel had broken his back, and his lower limbs lay
  limp and dead. My brother stood up and yelled at the next
  driver, and a man on a black horse came to his assistance.
  “Get him out of the road,” said he; and, clutching the
  man’s collar with his free hand, my brother lugged him
  sideways. But he still clutched after his money, and re-
  garded my brother fiercely, hammering at his arm with a
  handful of gold. “Go on! Go on!” shouted angry voices
  behind.
  “Way! Way!”
  There was a smash as the pole of a carriage crashed
  into the cart that the man on horseback stopped. My brother
  looked up, and the man with the gold twisted his head round
  and bit the wrist that held his collar. There was a concus-
  sion, and the black horse came staggering sideways, and
  the carthorse pushed beside it. A hoof missed my brother’s
  foot by a hair’s breadth. He released his grip on the fallen
  man and jumped back. He saw anger change to terror on
  the face of the poor wretch on the ground, and in a mo-
  ment he was hidden and my brother was borne backward
  and carried past the entrance of the lane, and had to fight
  hard in the torrent to recover it.
  He saw Miss Elphinstone covering her eyes, and a little
  child, with all a child’s want of sympathetic imagination,
  staring with dilated eyes at a dusty something that lay black
  and still, ground and crushed under the rolling wheels. “Let
  us go back!” he shouted, and began turning the pony round.
  “We cannot cross this—hell,” he said and they went back
  a hundred yards the way they had come, until the fighting
  crowd was hidden. As they passed the bend in the lane my
  brother saw the face of the dying man in the ditch under
  the privet, deadly white and drawn, and shining with per-
  spiration. The two women sat silent, crouching in their seat
  and shivering.
  Then beyond the bend my brother stopped again. Miss
  Elphinstone was white and pale, and her sister-in-law sat
  weeping, too wretched even to call upon “George.” My
  brother was horrified and perplexed. So soon as they had
  retreated he realised how urgent and unavoidable it was to
  attempt this crossing. He turned to Miss Elphinstone, sud-
  denly resolute.
  “We must go that way,” he said, and led the pony round
  again.
  For the second time that day this girl proved her qual-
  ity. To force their way into the torrent of people, my brother
  plunged into the traffic and held back a cab horse, while
  she drove the pony across its head. A waggon locked wheels
  for a moment and ripped a long splinter from the chaise. In
  another moment they were caught and swept forward by
  the stream. My brother, with the cabman’s whip marks red
  across his face and hands, scrambled into the chaise and
  took the reins from her.
  “Point the revolver at the man behind,” he said, giving
  it to her, “if he presses us too hard. No!—point it at his
  horse.”
  Then he began to look out for a chance of edging to the
  right across the road. But once in the stream he seemed to
  lose volition, to become a part of that dusty rout. They
  swept through Chipping Barnet with the torrent; they were
  nearly a mile beyond the centre of the town before they
  had fought across to the opposite side of the way. It was
  din and confusion indescribable; but in and beyond the
  town the road forks repeatedly, and this to some extent
  relieved the stress.
  They struck eastward through Hadley, and there on ei-
  ther side of the road, and at another place farther on they
  came upon a great multitude of people drinking at the
  stream, some fighting to come at the water. And farther on,
  from a lull near East Barnet, they saw two trains running
  slowly one after the other without signal or order—trains
  swarming with people, with men even among the coals
  behind the engines—going northward along the Great
  Northern Railway. My brother supposes they must have
  filled outside London, for at that time the furious terror of
  the people had rendered the central termini impossible.
  Near this place they halted for the rest of the after-
  noon, for the violence of the day had already utterly ex-
  hausted all three of them. They began to suffer the begin-
  nings of hunger; the night was cold, and none of them dared
  to sleep. And in the evening many people came hurrying
  along the road nearby their stopping place, fleeing from
  unknown dangers before them, and going in the direction
  from which my brother had come.
  
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  Chapter Seventeen
  The “Thunder Child”
  H
  ad the Martians aimed only at destruction, they
  might on Monday have annihilated the entire popu-
  lation of London, as it spread itself slowly through the home
  counties. Not only along the road through Barnet, but also
  through Edgware and Waltham Abbey, and along the roads
  eastward to Southend and Shoeburyness, and south of the
  Thames to Deal and Broadstairs, poured the same frantic
  rout. If one could have hung that June morning in a bal-
  loon in the blazing blue above London every northward
  and eastward road running out of the tangled maze of streets
  would have seemed stippled black with the streaming fu-
  gitives, each dot a human agony of terror and physical dis-
  tress. I have set forth at length in the last chapter my
  brother’s account of the road through Chipping Barnet, in
  order that my readers may realise how that swarming of
  black dots appeared to one of those concerned. Never be-
  fore in the history of the world had such a mass of human
  beings moved and suffered together. The legendary hosts
  of Goths and Huns, the hugest armies Asia has ever seen,
  would have been but a drop in that current. And this was
  no disciplined march; it was a stampede—a stampede gi-
  gantic and terrible—without order and without a goal, six
  million people unarmed and unprovisioned, driving head-
  long. It was the beginning of the rout of civilisation, of the
  massacre of mankind.
  Directly below him the balloonist would have seen the
  network of streets far and wide, houses, churches, squares,
  crescents, gardens—already derelict—spread out like a
  huge map, and in the southward BLOTTED. Over Ealing,
  Richmond, Wimbledon, it would have seemed as if some
  monstrous pen had flung ink upon the chart. Steadily, in-
  cessantly, each black splash grew and spread, shooting out
  ramifications this way and that, now banking itself against
  rising ground, now pouring swiftly over a crest into a new-
  found valley, exactly as a gout of ink would spread itself
  upon blotting paper.
  And beyond, over the blue hills that rise southward of
  the river, the glittering Martians went to and fro, calmly
  and methodically spreading their poison cloud over this
  patch of country and then over that, laying it again with
  their steam jets when it had served its purpose, and taking
  possession of the conquered country. They do not seem to
  have aimed at extermination so much as at complete
  demoralisation and the destruction of any opposition. They
  exploded any stores of powder they came upon, cut every
  telegraph, and wrecked the railways here and there. They
  were hamstringing mankind. They seemed in no hurry to
  extend the field of their operations, and did not come be-
  yond the central part of London all that day. It is possible
  that a very considerable number of people in London stuck
  to their houses through Monday morning. Certain it is that
  many died at home suffocated by the Black Smoke.
  Until about midday the Pool of London was an aston-
  ishing scene. Steamboats and shipping of all sorts lay there,
  tempted by the enormous sums of money offered by fugi-
  tives, and it is said that many who swam out to these ves-
  sels were thrust off with boathooks and drowned. About
  one o’clock in the afternoon the thinning remnant of a cloud
  of the black vapour appeared between the arches of
  Blackfriars Bridge. At that the Pool became a scene of
  mad confusion, fighting, and collision, and for some time
  a multitude of boats and barges jammed in the northern
  arch of the Tower Bridge, and the sailors and lightermen
  had to fight savagely against the people who swarmed upon
  
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  them from the riverfront. People were actually clambering
  down the piers of the bridge from above.
  When, an hour later, a Martian appeared beyond the
  Clock Tower and waded down the river, nothing but wreck-
  age floated above Limehouse.
  Of the falling of the fifth cylinder I have presently to
  tell. The sixth star fell at Wimbledon. My brother, keeping
  watch beside the women in the chaise in a meadow, saw
  the green flash of it far beyond the hills. On Tuesday the
  little party, still set upon getting across the sea, made its
  way through the swarming country towards Colchester. The
  news that the Martians were now in possession of the whole
  of London was confirmed. They had been seen at Highgate,
  and even, it was said, at Neasden. But they did not come
  into my brother’s view until the morrow.
  That day the scattered multitudes began to realise the
  urgent need of provisions. As they grew hungry the rights
  of property ceased to be regarded. Farmers were out to
  defend their cattle-sheds, granaries, and ripening root crops
  with arms in their hands. A number of people now, like my
  brother, had their faces eastward, and there were some
  desperate souls even going back towards London to get
  food. These were chiefly people from the northern sub-
  urbs, whose knowledge of the Black Smoke came by hear-
  say. He heard that about half the members of the govern-
  ment had gathered at Birmingham, and that enormous quan-
  tities of high explosives were being prepared to be used in
  automatic mines across the Midland counties.
  He was also told that the Midland Railway Company
  had replaced the desertions of the first day’s panic, had
  resumed traffic, and was running northward trains from St.
  Albans to relieve the congestion of the home counties.
  There was also a placard in Chipping Ongar announcing
  that large stores of flour were available in the northern
  towns and that within twenty-four hours bread would be
  distributed among the starving people in the
  neighbourhood. But this intelligence did not deter him from
  the plan of escape he had formed, and the three pressed
  eastward all day, and heard no more of the bread distribu-
  tion than this promise. Nor, as a matter of fact, did anyone
  else hear more of it. That night fell the seventh star, falling
  upon Primrose Hill. It fell while Miss Elphinstone was
  watching, for she took that duty alternately with my brother.
  She saw it.
  On Wednesday the three fugitives—they had passed
  the night in a field of unripe wheat—reached Chelmsford,
  and there a body of the inhabitants, calling itself the Com-
  mittee of Public Supply, seized the pony as provisions, and
  would give nothing in exchange for it but the promise of a
  share in it the next day. Here there were rumours of Mar-
  tians at Epping, and news of the destruction of Waltham
  Abbey Powder Mills in a vain attempt to blow up one of
  the invaders.
  People were watching for Martians here from the church
  towers. My brother, very luckily for him as it chanced, pre-
  ferred to push on at once to the coast rather than wait for
  food, although all three of them were very hungry. By mid-
  day they passed through Tillingham, which, strangely
  enough, seemed to be quite silent and deserted, save for a
  few furtive plunderers hunting for food. Near Tillingham
  they suddenly came in sight of the sea, and the most amaz-
  ing crowd of shipping of all sorts that it is possible to imag-
  ine.
  For after the sailors could no longer come up the
  Thames, they came on to the Essex coast, to Harwich and
  Walton and Clacton, and afterwards to Foulness and
  Shoebury, to bring off the people. They lay in a huge sickle-
  shaped curve that vanished into mist at last towards the
  Naze. Close inshore was a multitude of fishing smacks—
  English, Scotch, French, Dutch, and Swedish; steam
  launches from the Thames, yachts, electric boats; and be-
  yond were ships of large burden, a multitude of filthy
  colliers, trim merchantmen, cattle ships, passenger boats,
  petroleum tanks, ocean tramps, an old white transport even,
  neat white and grey liners from Southampton and Ham-
  burg; and along the blue coast across the Blackwater my
  brother could make out dimly a dense swarm of boats chaf-
  fering with the people on the beach, a swarm which also
  extended up the Blackwater almost to Maldon.
  About a couple of miles out lay an ironclad, very low
  in the water, almost, to my brother’s perception, like a
  waterlogged ship. This was the ram Thunder Child. It was
  the only warship in sight, but far away to the right over the
  smooth surface of the sea—for that day there was a dead
  calm—lay a serpent of black smoke to mark the next
  ironclads of the Channel Fleet, which hovered in an ex-
  tended line, steam up and ready for action, across the
  Thames estuary during the course of the Martian conquest,
  vigilant and yet powerless to prevent it.
  At the sight of the sea, Mrs. Elphinstone, in spite of the
  assurances of her sister-in-law, gave way to panic. She had
  never been out of England before, she would rather die
  than trust herself friendless in a foreign country, and so
  forth. She seemed, poor woman, to imagine that the French
  and the Martians might prove very similar. She had been
  growing increasingly hysterical, fearful, and depressed
  during the two days’ journeyings. Her great idea was to
  return to Stanmore. Things had been always well and safe
  at Stanmore. They would find George at Stanmore.
  It was with the greatest difficulty they could get her
  down to the beach, where presently my brother succeeded
  in attracting the attention of some men on a paddle steamer
  from the Thames. They sent a boat and drove a bargain for
  thirty-six pounds for the three. The steamer was going, these
  men said, to Ostend.
  It was about two o’clock when my brother, having paid
  their fares at the gangway, found himself safely aboard the
  steamboat with his charges. There was food aboard, albeit
  at exorbitant prices, and the three of them contrived to eat
  a meal on one of the seats forward.
  There were already a couple of score of passengers
  aboard, some of whom had expended their last money in
  securing a passage, but the captain lay off the Blackwater
  until five in the afternoon, picking up passengers until the
  
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  seated decks were even dangerously crowded. He would
  probably have remained longer had it not been for the sound
  of guns that began about that hour in the south. As if in
  answer, the ironclad seaward fired a small gun and hoisted
  a string of flags. A jet of smoke sprang out of her funnels.
  Some of the passengers were of opinion that this firing
  came from Shoeburyness, until it was noticed that it was
  growing louder. At the same time, far away in the south-
  east the masts and upperworks of three ironclads rose one
  after the other out of the sea, beneath clouds of black smoke.
  But my brother’s attention speedily reverted to the distant
  firing in the south. He fancied he saw a column of smoke
  rising out of the distant grey haze.
  The little steamer was already flapping her way east-
  ward of the big crescent of shipping, and the low Essex
  coast was growing blue and hazy, when a Martian appeared,
  small and faint in the remote distance, advancing along the
  muddy coast from the direction of Foulness. At that the
  captain on the bridge swore at the top of his voice with
  fear and anger at his own delay, and the paddles seemed
  infected with his terror. Every soul aboard stood at the
  bulwarks or on the seats of the steamer and stared at that
  distant shape, higher than the trees or church towers in-
  land, and advancing with a leisurely parody of a human
  stride.
  It was the first Martian my brother had seen, and he
  stood, more amazed than terrified, watching this Titan ad-
  vancing deliberately towards the shipping, wading farther
  and farther into the water as the coast fell away. Then, far
  away beyond the Crouch, came another, striding over some
  stunted trees, and then yet another, still farther off, wading
  deeply through a shiny mudflat that seemed to hang half-
  way up between sea and sky. They were all stalking sea-
  ward, as if to intercept the escape of the multitudinous ves-
  sels that were crowded between Foulness and the Naze. In
  spite of the throbbing exertions of the engines of the little
  paddleboat, and the pouring foam that her wheels flung
  behind her, she receded with terrifying slowness from this
  ominous advance.
  Glancing northwestward, my brother saw the large cres-
  cent of shipping already writhing with the approaching ter-
  ror; one ship passing behind another, another coming round
  from broadside to end on, steamships whistling and giving
  off volumes of steam, sails being let out, launches rushing
  hither and thither. He was so fascinated by this and by the
  creeping danger away to the left that he had no eyes for
  anything seaward. And then a swift movement of the steam-
  boat (she had suddenly come round to avoid being run
  down) flung him headlong from the seat upon which he
  was standing. There was a shouting all about him, a tram-
  pling of feet, and a cheer that seemed to be answered faintly.
  The steamboat lurched and rolled him over upon his hands.
  He sprang to his feet and saw to starboard, and not a
  hundred yards from their heeling, pitching boat, a vast iron
  bulk like the blade of a plough tearing through the water,
  tossing it on either side in huge waves of foam that leaped
  towards the steamer, flinging her paddles helplessly in the
  air, and then sucking her deck down almost to the water-
  line.
  A douche of spray blinded my brother for a moment.
  When his eyes were clear again he saw the monster had
  passed and was rushing landward. Big iron upperworks
  rose out of this headlong structure, and from that twin fun-
  nels projected and spat a smoking blast shot with fire. It
  was the torpedo ram, Thunder Child, steaming headlong,
  coming to the rescue of the threatened shipping.
  Keeping his footing on the heaving deck by clutching
  the bulwarks, my brother looked past this charging levia-
  than at the Martians again, and he saw the three of them
  now close together, and standing so far out to sea that their
  tripod supports were almost entirely submerged. Thus
  sunken, and seen in remote perspective, they appeared far
  less formidable than the huge iron bulk in whose wake the
  steamer was pitching so helplessly. It would seem they were
  regarding this new antagonist with astonishment. To their
  intelligence, it may be, the giant was even such another as
  themselves. The Thunder Child fired no gun, but simply
  drove full speed towards them. It was probably her not
  firing that enabled her to get so near the enemy as she did.
  They did not know what to make of her. One shell, and
  they would have sent her to the bottom forthwith with the
  Heat-Ray.
  She was steaming at such a pace that in a minute she
  seemed halfway between the steamboat and the Martians—
  
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  a diminishing black bulk against the receding horizontal
  expanse of the Essex coast.
  Suddenly the foremost Martian lowered his tube and
  discharged a canister of the black gas at the ironclad. It hit
  her larboard side and glanced off in an inky jet that rolled
  away to seaward, an unfolding torrent of Black Smoke,
  from which the ironclad drove clear. To the watchers from
  the steamer, low in the water and with the sun in their eyes,
  it seemed as though she were already among the Martians.
  They saw the gaunt figures separating and rising out of
  the water as they retreated shoreward, and one of them
  raised the camera-like generator of the Heat-Ray. He held
  it pointing obliquely downward, and a bank of steam sprang
  from the water at its touch. It must have driven through the
  iron of the ship’s side like a white-hot iron rod through
  paper.
  A flicker of flame went up through the rising steam,
  and then the Martian reeled and staggered. In another mo-
  ment he was cut down, and a great body of water and steam
  shot high in the air. The guns of the Thunder Child sounded
  through the reek, going off one after the other, and one
  shot splashed the water high close by the steamer, rico-
  cheted towards the other flying ships to the north, and
  smashed a smack to matchwood.
  But no one heeded that very much. At the sight of the
  Martian’s collapse the captain on the bridge yelled inar-
  ticulately, and all the crowding passengers on the steamer’s
  stern shouted together. And then they yelled again. For,
  surging out beyond the white tumult, drove something long
  and black, the flames streaming from its middle parts, its
  ventilators and funnels spouting fire.
  She was alive still; the steering gear, it seems, was in-
  tact and her engines working. She headed straight for a
  second Martian, and was within a hundred yards of him
  when the Heat-Ray came to bear. Then with a violent thud,
  a blinding flash, her decks, her funnels, leaped upward.
  The Martian staggered with the violence of her explosion,
  and in another moment the flaming wreckage, still driving
  forward with the impetus of its pace, had struck him and
  crumpled him up like a thing of cardboard. My brother
  shouted involuntarily. A boiling tumult of steam hid ev-
  erything again.
  “Two!,” yelled the captain.
  Everyone was shouting. The whole steamer from end
  to end rang with frantic cheering that was taken up first by
  one and then by all in the crowding multitude of ships and
  boats that was driving out to sea.
  The steam hung upon the water for many minutes, hid-
  ing the third Martian and the coast altogether. And all this
  time the boat was paddling steadily out to sea and away
  from the fight; and when at last the confusion cleared, the
  drifting bank of black vapour intervened, and nothing of
  the Thunder Child could be made out, nor could the third
  Martian be seen. But the ironclads to seaward were now
  quite close and standing in towards shore past the steam-
  boat.
  The little vessel continued to beat its way seaward, and
  the ironclads receded slowly towards the coast, which was
  hidden still by a marbled bank of vapour, part steam, part
  black gas, eddying and combining in the strangest way.
  The fleet of refugees was scattering to the northeast; sev-
  eral smacks were sailing between the ironclads and the
  steamboat. After a time, and before they reached the sink-
  ing cloud bank, the warships turned northward, and then
  abruptly went about and passed into the thickening haze of
  evening southward. The coast grew faint, and at last indis-
  tinguishable amid the low banks of clouds that were gath-
  ering about the sinking sun.
  Then suddenly out of the golden haze of the sunset came
  the vibration of guns, and a form of black shadows mov-
  ing. Everyone struggled to the rail of the steamer and peered
  into the blinding furnace of the west, but nothing was to be
  distinguished clearly. A mass of smoke rose slanting and
  barred the face of the sun. The steamboat throbbed on its
  way through an interminable suspense.
  The sun sank into grey clouds, the sky flushed and dark-
  ened, the evening star trembled into sight. It was deep twi-
  light when the captain cried out and pointed. My brother
  strained his eyes. Something rushed up into the sky out of
  the greyness—rushed slantingly upward and very swiftly
  into the luminous clearness above the clouds in the west-
  ern sky; something flat and broad, and very large, that swept
  round in a vast curve, grew smaller, sank slowly, and van-
  ished again into the grey mystery of the night. And as it
  flew it rained down darkness upon the land.
  
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  Book Two: The Earth Under The Martians
  Chapter One
  Under Foot
  I
  n the first book I have wandered so much from my
  own adventures to tell of the experiences of my brother
  that all through the last two chapters I and the curate have
  been lurking in the empty house at Halliford whither we
  fled to escape the Black Smoke. There I will resume. We
  stopped there all Sunday night and all the next day—the
  day of the panic—in a little island of daylight, cut off by
  the Black Smoke from the rest of the world. We could do
  nothing but wait in aching inactivity during those two weary
  days.
  My mind was occupied by anxiety for my wife. I fig-
  ured her at Leatherhead, terrified, in danger, mourning me
  already as a dead man. I paced the rooms and cried aloud
  when I thought of how I was cut off from her, of all that
  might happen to her in my absence. My cousin I knew was
  brave enough for any emergency, but he was not the sort of
  man to realise danger quickly, to rise promptly. What was
  needed now was not bravery, but circumspection. My only
  consolation was to believe that the Martians were moving
  Londonward and away from her. Such vague anxieties keep
  the mind sensitive and painful. I grew very weary and irri-
  table with the curate’s perpetual ejaculations; I tired of the
  sight of his selfish despair. After some ineffectual remon-
  strance I kept away from him, staying in a room—evidently
  a children’s schoolroom—containing globes, forms, and
  copybooks. When he followed me thither, I went to a box
  room at the top of the house and, in order to be alone with
  my aching miseries, locked myself in.
  We were hopelessly hemmed in by the Black Smoke
  all that day and the morning of the next. There were signs
  of people in the next house on Sunday evening—a face at
  a window and moving lights, and later the slamming of a
  door. But I do not know who these people were, nor what
  became of them. We saw nothing of them next day. The
  Black Smoke drifted slowly riverward all through Mon-
  day morning, creeping nearer and nearer to us, driving at
  last along the roadway outside the house that hid us.
  A Martian came across the fields about midday, laying
  the stuff with a jet of superheated steam that hissed against
  the walls, smashed all the windows it touched, and scalded
  the curate’s hand as he fled out of the front room. When at
  last we crept across the sodden rooms and looked out again,
  the country northward was as though a black snowstorm
  had passed over it. Looking towards the river, we were
  astonished to see an unaccountable redness mingling with
  the black of the scorched meadows.
  For a time we did not see how this change affected our
  position, save that we were relieved of our fear of the Black
  Smoke. But later I perceived that we were no longer
  hemmed in, that now we might get away. So soon as I
  realised that the way of escape was open, my dream of
  action returned. But the curate was lethargic, unreason-
  able.
  “We are safe here,” he repeated; “safe here.”
  I resolved to leave him—would that I had! Wiser now
  for the artilleryman’s teaching, I sought out food and drink.
  I had found oil and rags for my burns, and I also took a hat
  and a flannel shirt that I found in one of the bedrooms.
  When it was clear to him that I meant to go alone—had
  reconciled myself to going alone—he suddenly roused him-
  self to come. And all being quiet throughout the afternoon,
  we started about five o’clock, as I should judge, along the
  blackened road to Sunbury.
  In Sunbury, and at intervals along the road, were dead
  bodies lying in contorted attitudes, horses as well as men,
  overturned carts and luggage, all covered thickly with black
  dust. That pall of cindery powder made me think of what I
  had read of the destruction of Pompeii. We got to Hamp-
  
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  ton Court without misadventure, our minds full of strange
  and unfamiliar appearances, and at Hampton Court our eyes
  were relieved to find a patch of green that had escaped the
  suffocating drift. We went through Bushey Park, with its
  deer going to and fro under the chestnuts, and some men
  and women hurrying in the distance towards Hampton, and
  so we came to Twickenham. These were the first people
  we saw.
  Away across the road the woods beyond Ham and
  Petersham were still afire. Twickenham was uninjured by
  either Heat-Ray or Black Smoke, and there were more
  people about here, though none could give us news. For
  the most part they were like ourselves, taking advantage of
  a lull to shift their quarters. I have an impression that many
  of the houses here were still occupied by scared inhabit-
  ants, too frightened even for flight. Here too the evidence
  of a hasty rout was abundant along the road. I remember
  most vividly three smashed bicycles in a heap, pounded
  into the road by the wheels of subsequent carts. We crossed
  Richmond Bridge about half past eight. We hurried across
  the exposed bridge, of course, but I noticed floating down
  the stream a number of red masses, some many feet across.
  I did not know what these were—there was no time for
  scrutiny—and I put a more horrible interpretation on them
  than they deserved. Here again on the Surrey side were
  black dust that had once been smoke, and dead bodies—a
  heap near the approach to the station; but we had no glimpse
  of the Martians until we were some way towards Barnes.
  We saw in the blackened distance a group of three
  people running down a side street towards the river, but
  otherwise it seemed deserted. Up the hill Richmond town
  was burning briskly; outside the town of Richmond there
  was no trace of the Black Smoke.
  Then suddenly, as we approached Kew, came a num-
  ber of people running, and the upperworks of a Martian
  fightingmachine loomed in sight over the housetops, not a
  hundred yards away from us. We stood aghast at our dan-
  ger, and had the Martian looked down we must immedi-
  ately have perished. We were so terrified that we dared not
  go on, but turned aside and hid in a shed in a garden. There
  the curate crouched, weeping silently, and refusing to stir
  again.
  But my fixed idea of reaching Leatherhead would not
  let me rest, and in the twilight I ventured out again. I went
  through a shrubbery, and along a passage beside a big house
  standing in its own grounds, and so emerged upon the road
  towards Kew. The curate I left in the shed, but he came
  hurrying after me.
  That second start was the most foolhardy thing I ever
  did. For it was manifest the Martians were about us. No
  sooner had the curate overtaken me than we saw either the
  fightingmachine we had seen before or another, far away
  across the meadows in the direction of Kew Lodge. Four
  or five little black figures hurried before it across the green-
  grey of the field, and in a moment it was evident this Mar-
  tian pursued them. In three strides he was among them,
  and they ran radiating from his feet in all directions. He
  used no Heat-Ray to destroy them, but picked them up one
  by one. Apparently he tossed them into the great metallic
  carrier which projected behind him, much as a workman’s
  basket hangs over his shoulder.
  It was the first time I realised that the Martians might
  have any other purpose than destruction with defeated
  humanity. We stood for a moment petrified, then turned
  and fled through a gate behind us into a walled garden, fell
  into, rather than found, a fortunate ditch, and lay there,
  scarce daring to whisper to each other until the stars were
  out.
  I suppose it was nearly eleven o’clock before we gath-
  ered courage to start again, no longer venturing into the
  road, but sneaking along hedgerows and through planta-
  tions, and watching keenly through the darkness, he on the
  right and I on the left, for the Martians, who seemed to be
  all about us. In one place we blundered upon a scorched
  and blackened area, now cooling and ashen, and a number
  of scattered dead bodies of men, burned horribly about the
  heads and trunks but with their legs and boots mostly in-
  tact; and of dead horses, fifty feet, perhaps, behind a line
  of four ripped guns and smashed gun carriages.
  Sheen, it seemed, had escaped destruction, but the place
  was silent and deserted. Here we happened on no dead,
  though the night was too dark for us to see into the side
  roads of the place. In Sheen my companion suddenly com-
  plained of faintness and thirst, and we decided to try one
  of the houses.
  The first house we entered, after a little difficulty with
  the window, was a small semi-detached villa, and I found
  nothing eatable left in the place but some mouldy cheese.
  There was, however, water to drink; and I took a hatchet,
  which promised to be useful in our next housebreaking.
  We then crossed to a place where the road turns to-
  wards Mortlake. Here there stood a white house within a
  walled garden, and in the pantry of this domicile we found
  a store of food—two loaves of bread in a pan, an uncooked
  steak, and the half of a ham. I give this catalogue so pre-
  cisely because, as it happened, we were destined to subsist
  upon this store for the next fortnight. Bottled beer stood
  under a shelf, and there were two bags of haricot beans
  and some limp lettuces. This pantry opened into a kind of
  wash-up kitchen, and in this was firewood; there was also
  a cupboard, in which we found nearly a dozen of burgundy,
  tinned soups and salmon, and two tins of biscuits.
  We sat in the adjacent kitchen in the dark—for we dared
  not strike a light—and ate bread and ham, and drank beer
  out of the same bottle. The curate, who was still timorous
  and restless, was now, oddly enough, for pushing on, and I
  was urging him to keep up his strength by eating when the
  thing happened that was to imprison us.
  “It can’t be midnight yet,” I said, and then came a blind-
  ing glare of vivid green light. Everything in the kitchen
  leaped out, clearly visible in green and black, and van-
  ished again. And then followed such a concussion as I have
  never heard before or since. So close on the heels of this as
  to seem instantaneous came a thud behind me, a clash of
  
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  glass, a crash and rattle of falling masonry all about us,
  and the plaster of the ceiling came down upon us, smash-
  ing into a multitude of fragments upon our heads. I was
  knocked headlong across the floor against the oven handle
  and stunned. I was insensible for a long time, the curate
  told me, and when I came to we were in darkness again,
  and he, with a face wet, as I found afterwards, with blood
  from a cut forehead, was dabbing water over me.
  For some time I could not recollect what had happened.
  Then things came to me slowly. A bruise on my temple
  asserted itself.
  “Are you better?” asked the curate in a whisper.
  At last I answered him. I sat up.
  “Don’t move,” he said. “The floor is covered with
  smashed crockery from the dresser. You can’t possibly
  move without making a noise, and I fancy they are out-
  side.”
  We both sat quite silent, so that we could scarcely hear
  each other breathing. Everything seemed deadly still, but
  once something near us, some plaster or broken brickwork,
  slid down with a rumbling sound. Outside and very near
  was an intermittent, metallic rattle.
  “That!” said the curate, when presently it happened
  again.
  “Yes,” I said. “But what is it?”
  “A Martian!” said the curate.
  I listened again.
  “It was not like the Heat-Ray,” I said, and for a time I
  was inclined to think one of the great fighting-machines
  had stumbled against the house, as I had seen one stumble
  against the tower of Shepperton Church.
  Our situation was so strange and incomprehensible that
  for three or four hours, until the dawn came, we scarcely
  moved. And then the light filtered in, not through the win-
  dow, which remained black, but through a triangular aper-
  ture between a beam and a heap of broken bricks in the
  wall behind us. The interior of the kitchen we now saw
  greyly for the first time.
  The window had been burst in by a mass of garden
  mould, which flowed over the table upon which we had
  been sitting and lay about our feet. Outside, the soil was
  banked high against the house. At the top of the window
  frame we could see an uprooted drainpipe. The floor was
  littered with smashed hardware; the end of the kitchen to-
  wards the house was broken into, and since the daylight
  shone in there, it was evident the greater part of the house
  had collapsed. Contrasting vividly with this ruin was the
  neat dresser, stained in the fashion, pale green, and with a
  number of copper and tin vessels below it, the wallpaper
  imitating blue and white tiles, and a couple of coloured
  supplements fluttering from the walls above the kitchen
  range.
  As the dawn grew clearer, we saw through the gap in
  the wall the body of a Martian, standing sentinel, I sup-
  pose, over the still glowing cylinder. At the sight of that
  we crawled as circumspectly as possible out of the twi-
  light of the kitchen into the darkness of the scullery.
  Abruptly the right interpretation dawned upon my mind.
  “The fifth cylinder,” I whispered, “the fifth shot from
  Mars, has struck this house and buried us under the ruins!”
  For a time the curate was silent, and then he whispered:
  “God have mercy upon us!”
  I heard him presently whimpering to himself.
  Save for that sound we lay quite still in the scullery; I
  for my part scarce dared breathe, and sat with my eyes
  fixed on the faint light of the kitchen door. I could just see
  the curate’s face, a dim, oval shape, and his collar and cuffs.
  Outside there began a metallic hammering, then a violent
  hooting, and then again, after a quiet interval, a hissing
  like the hissing of an engine. These noises, for the most
  part problematical, continued intermittently, and seemed
  if anything to increase in number as time wore on. Pres-
  ently a measured thudding and a vibration that made ev-
  erything about us quiver and the vessels in the pantry ring
  and shift, began and continued. Once the light was eclipsed,
  and the ghostly kitchen doorway became absolutely dark.
  For many hours we must have crouched there, silent and
  shivering, until our tired attention failed. . . .
  At last I found myself awake and very hungry. I am
  inclined to believe we must have spent the greater portion
  of a day before that awakening. My hunger was at a stride
  so insistent that it moved me to action. I told the curate I
  was going to seek food, and felt my way towards the pan-
  try. He made me no answer, but so soon as I began eating
  the faint noise I made stirred him up and I heard him crawl-
  ing after me.
  
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  Chapter Two
  What We Saw From The
  Ruined House
  A
  fter eating we crept back to the scullery, and there
  I must have dozed again, for when presently I
  looked round I was alone. The thudding vibration contin-
  ued with wearisome persistence. I whispered for the cu-
  rate several times, and at last felt my way to the door of the
  kitchen. It was still daylight, and I perceived him across
  the room, lying against the triangular hole that looked out
  upon the Martians. His shoulders were hunched, so that
  his head was hidden from me.
  I could hear a number of noises almost like those in an
  engine shed; and the place rocked with that beating thud.
  Through the aperture in the wall I could see the top of a
  tree touched with gold and the warm blue of a tranquil
  evening sky. For a minute or so I remained watching the
  curate, and then I advanced, crouching and stepping with
  extreme care amid the broken crockery that littered the
  floor.
  I touched the curate’s leg, and he started so violently
  that a mass of plaster went sliding down outside and fell
  with a loud impact. I gripped his arm, fearing he might cry
  out, and for a long time we crouched motionless. Then I
  turned to see how much of our rampart remained. The de-
  tachment of the plaster had left a vertical slit open in the
  debris, and by raising myself cautiously across a beam I
  was able to see out of this gap into what had been over-
  night a quiet suburban roadway. Vast, indeed, was the
  change that we beheld.
  The fifth cylinder must have fallen right into the midst
  of the house we had first visited. The building had van-
  ished, completely smashed, pulverised, and dispersed by
  the blow. The cylinder lay now far beneath the original
  foundations— deep in a hole, already vastly larger than
  the pit I had looked into at Woking. The earth all round it
  had splashed under that tremendous impact—”splashed”
  is the only word —and lay in heaped piles that hid the
  masses of the adjacent houses. It had behaved exactly like
  mud under the violent blow of a hammer. Our house had
  collapsed backward; the front portion, even on the ground
  floor, had been destroyed completely; by a chance the
  kitchen and scullery had escaped, and stood buried now
  under soil and ruins, closed in by tons of earth on every
  side save towards the cylinder. Over that aspect we hung
  now on the very edge of the great circular pit the Martians
  were engaged in making. The heavy beating sound was
  evidently just behind us, and ever and again a bright green
  vapour drove up like a veil across our peephole.
  The cylinder was already opened in the centre of the
  pit, and on the farther edge of the pit, amid the smashed
  and gravel-heaped shrubbery, one of the great fighting-
  machines, deserted by its occupant, stood stiff and tall
  against the evening sky. At first I scarcely noticed the pit
  and the cylinder, although it has been convenient to de-
  scribe them first, on account of the extraordinary glittering
  mechanism I saw busy in the excavation, and on account
  of the strange creatures that were crawling slowly and pain-
  fully across the heaped mould near it.
  The mechanism it certainly was that held my attention
  first. It was one of those complicated fabrics that have since
  been called handling-machines, and the study of which has
  already given such an enormous impetus to terrestrial in-
  vention. As it dawned upon me first, it presented a sort of
  metallic spider with five jointed, agile legs, and with an
  extraordinary number of jointed levers, bars, and reaching
  and clutching tentacles about its body. Most of its arms
  were retracted, but with three long tentacles it was fishing
  out a number of rods, plates, and bars which lined the cov-
  ering and apparently strengthened the walls of the cylin-
  der. These, as it extracted them, were lifted out and depos-
  ited upon a level surface of earth behind it.
  Its motion was so swift, complex, and perfect that at
  first I did not see it as a machine, in spite of its metallic
  glitter. The fighting-machines were co-ordinated and ani-
  mated to an extraordinary pitch, but nothing to compare
  with this. People who have never seen these structures,
  and have only the ill-imagined efforts of artists or the im-
  perfect descriptions of such eye-witnesses as myself to go
  upon, scarcely realise that living quality.
  I recall particularly the illustration of one of the first
  pamphlets to give a consecutive account of the war. The
  artist had evidently made a hasty study of one of the fight-
  ing-machines, and there his knowledge ended. He presented
  
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  them as tilted, stiff tripods, without either flexibility or
  subtlety, and with an altogether misleading monotony of
  effect. The pamphlet containing these renderings had a
  considerable vogue, and I mention them here simply to
  warn the reader against the impression they may have cre-
  ated. They were no more like the Martians I saw in action
  than a Dutch doll is like a human being. To my mind, the
  pamphlet would have been much better without them.
  At first, I say, the handling-machine did not impress
  me as a machine, but as a crablike creature with a glitter-
  ing integument, the controlling Martian whose delicate ten-
  tacles actuated its movements seeming to be simply the
  equivalent of the crab’s cerebral portion. But then I per-
  ceived the resemblance of its grey-brown, shiny, leathery
  integument to that of the other sprawling bodies beyond,
  and the true nature of this dexterous workman dawned upon
  me. With that realisation my interest shifted to those other
  creatures, the real Martians. Already I had had a transient
  impression of these, and the first nausea no longer obscured
  my observation. Moreover, I was concealed and motion-
  less, and under no urgency of action.
  They were, I now saw, the most unearthly creatures it
  is possible to conceive. They were huge round bodies—
  or, rather, heads—about four feet in diameter, each body
  having in front of it a face. This face had no nostrils—
  indeed, the Martians do not seem to have had any sense of
  smell, but it had a pair of very large dark-coloured eyes,
  and just beneath this a kind of fleshy beak. In the back of
  this head or body—I scarcely know how to speak of it—
  was the single tight tympanic surface, since known to be
  anatomically an ear, though it must have been almost use-
  less in our dense air. In a group round the mouth were six-
  teen slender, almost whiplike tentacles, arranged in two
  bunches of eight each. These bunches have since been
  named rather aptly, by that distinguished anatomist, Pro-
  fessor Howes, the hands. Even as I saw these Martians for
  the first time they seemed to be endeavouring to raise them-
  selves on these hands, but of course, with the increased
  weight of terrestrial conditions, this was impossible. There
  is reason to suppose that on Mars they may have progressed
  upon them with some facility.
  The internal anatomy, I may remark here, as dissection
  has since shown, was almost equally simple. The greater
  part of the structure was the brain, sending enormous nerves
  to the eyes, ear, and tactile tentacles. Besides this were the
  bulky lungs, into which the mouth opened, and the heart
  and its vessels. The pulmonary distress caused by the denser
  atmosphere and greater gravitational attraction was only
  too evident in the convulsive movements of the outer skin.
  And this was the sum of the Martian organs. Strange as
  it may seem to a human being, all the complex apparatus
  of digestion, which makes up the bulk of our bodies, did
  not exist in the Martians. They were heads—merely heads.
  Entrails they had none. They did not eat, much less digest.
  Instead, they took the fresh, living blood of other crea-
  tures, and INJECTED it into their own veins. I have my-
  self seen this being done, as I shall mention in its place.
  But, squeamish as I may seem, I cannot bring myself to
  describe what I could not endure even to continue watch-
  ing. Let it suffice to say, blood obtained from a still living
  animal, in most cases from a human being, was run di-
  rectly by means of a little pipette into the recipient canal.
  The bare idea of this is no doubt horribly repulsive to
  us, but at the same time I think that we should remember
  how repulsive our carnivorous habits would seem to an
  intelligent rabbit.
  The physiological advantages of the practice of injec-
  tion are undeniable, if one thinks of the tremendous waste
  of human time and energy occasioned by eating and the
  digestive process. Our bodies are half made up of glands
  and tubes and organs, occupied in turning heterogeneous
  food into blood. The digestive processes and their reac-
  tion upon the nervous system sap our strength and colour
  our minds. Men go happy or miserable as they have healthy
  or unhealthy livers, or sound gastric glands. But the Mar-
  tians were lifted above all these organic fluctuations of
  mood and emotion.
  Their undeniable preference for men as their source of
  nourishment is partly explained by the nature of the re-
  mains of the victims they had brought with them as provi-
  sions from Mars. These creatures, to judge from the shriv-
  elled remains that have fallen into human hands, were bi-
  peds with flimsy, silicious skeletons (almost like those of
  the silicious sponges) and feeble musculature, standing
  about six feet high and having round, erect heads, and large
  eyes in flinty sockets. Two or three of these seem to have
  been brought in each cylinder, and all were killed before
  earth was reached. It was just as well for them, for the
  mere attempt to stand upright upon our planet would have
  
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  broken every bone in their bodies.
  And while I am engaged in this description, I may add
  in this place certain further details which, although they
  were not all evident to us at the time, will enable the reader
  who is unacquainted with them to form a clearer picture of
  these offensive creatures.
  In three other points their physiology differed strangely
  from ours. Their organisms did not sleep, any more than
  the heart of man sleeps. Since they had no extensive mus-
  cular mechanism to recuperate, that periodical extinction
  was unknown to them. They had little or no sense of fa-
  tigue, it would seem. On earth they could never have moved
  without effort, yet even to the last they kept in action. In
  twenty-four hours they did twenty-four hours of work, as
  even on earth is perhaps the case with the ants.
  In the next place, wonderful as it seems in a sexual
  world, the Martians were absolutely without sex, and there-
  fore without any of the tumultuous emotions that arise from
  that difference among men. A young Martian, there can
  now be no dispute, was really born upon earth during the
  war, and it was found attached to its parent, partially bud-
  ded off, just as young lilybulbs bud off, or like the young
  animals in the fresh-water polyp.
  In man, in all the higher terrestrial animals, such a
  method of increase has disappeared; but even on this earth
  it was certainly the primitive method. Among the lower
  animals, up even to those first cousins of the vertebrated
  animals, the Tunicates, the two processes occur side by
  side, but finally the sexual method superseded its competi-
  tor altogether. On Mars, however, just the reverse has ap-
  parently been the case.
  It is worthy of remark that a certain speculative writer
  of quasi-scientific repute, writing long before the Martian
  invasion, did forecast for man a final structure not unlike
  the actual Martian condition. His prophecy, I remember,
  appeared in November or December, 1893, in a long-de-
  funct publication, the Pall Mall Budget, and I recall a cari-
  cature of it in a pre-Martian periodical called Punch. He
  pointed out—writing in a foolish, facetious tone—that the
  perfection of mechanical appliances must ultimately su-
  persede limbs; the perfection of chemical devices, diges-
  tion; that such organs as hair, external nose, teeth, ears,
  and chin were no longer essential parts of the human be-
  ing, and that the tendency of natural selection would lie in
  the direction of their steady diminution through the com-
  ing ages. The brain alone remained a cardinal necessity.
  Only one other part of the body had a strong case for sur-
  vival, and that was the hand, “teacher and agent of the
  brain.” While the rest of the body dwindled, the hands
  would grow larger.
  There is many a true word written in jest, and here in
  the Martians we have beyond dispute the actual accom-
  plishment of such a suppression of the animal side of the
  organism by the intelligence. To me it is quite credible that
  the Martians may be descended from beings not unlike
  ourselves, by a gradual development of brain and hands
  (the latter giving rise to the two bunches of delicate ten-
  tacles at last) at the expense of the rest of the body. With-
  out the body the brain would, of course, become a mere
  selfish intelligence, without any of the emotional substra-
  tum of the human being.
  The last salient point in which the systems of these crea-
  tures differed from ours was in what one might have thought
  a very trivial particular. Micro-organisms, which cause so
  much disease and pain on earth, have either never appeared
  upon Mars or Martian sanitary science eliminated them
  ages ago. A hundred diseases, all the fevers and conta-
  gions of human life, consumption, cancers, tumours and
  
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  such morbidities, never enter the scheme of their life. And
  speaking of the differences between the life on Mars and
  terrestrial life, I may allude here to the curious suggestions
  of the red weed.
  Apparently the vegetable kingdom in Mars, instead of
  having green for a dominant colour, is of a vivid blood-red
  tint. At any rate, the seeds which the Martians (intention-
  ally or accidentally) brought with them gave rise in all cases
  to red-coloured growths. Only that known popularly as the
  red weed, however, gained any footing in competition with
  terrestrial forms. The red creeper was quite a transitory
  growth, and few people have seen it growing. For a time,
  however, the red weed grew with astonishing vigour and
  luxuriance. It spread up the sides of the pit by the third or
  fourth day of our imprisonment, and its cactus-like branches
  formed a carmine fringe to the edges of our triangular win-
  dow. And afterwards I found it broadcast throughout the
  country, and especially wherever there was a stream of
  water.
  The Martians had what appears to have been an audi-
  tory organ, a single round drum at the back of the head-
  body, and eyes with a visual range not very different from
  ours except that, according to Philips, blue and violet were
  as black to them. It is commonly supposed that they commu-
  nicated by sounds and tentacular gesticulations; this is as-
  serted, for instance, in the able but hastily compiled pam-
  phlet (written evidently by someone not an eye-witness of
  Martian actions) to which I have already alluded, and which,
  so far, has been the chief source of information concerning
  them. Now no surviving human being saw so much of the
  Martians in action as I did. I take no credit to myself for an
  accident, but the fact is so. And I assert that I watched
  them closely time after time, and that I have seen four,
  five, and (once) six of them sluggishly performing the most
  elaborately complicated operations together without either
  sound or gesture. Their peculiar hooting invariably pre-
  ceded feeding; it had no modulation, and was, I believe, in
  no sense a signal, but merely the expiration of air prepara-
  tory to the suctional operation. I have a certain claim to at
  least an elementary knowledge of psychology, and in this
  matter I am convinced—as firmly as I am convinced of
  anything—that the Martians interchanged thoughts with-
  out any physical intermediation. And I have been convinced
  of this in spite of strong preconceptions. Before the Mar-
  tian invasion, as an occasional reader here or there may
  remember, I had written with some little vehemence against
  the telepathic theory.
  The Martians wore no clothing. Their conceptions of
  ornament and decorum were necessarily different from
  ours; and not only were they evidently much less sensible
  of changes of temperature than we are, but changes of pres-
  sure do not seem to have affected their health at all seri-
  ously. Yet though they wore no clothing, it was in the other
  artificial additions to their bodily resources that their great
  superiority over man lay. We men, with our bicycles and
  road-skates, our Lilienthal soaring-machines, our guns and
  sticks and so forth, are just in the beginning of the evolu-
  tion that the Martians have worked out. They have become
  practically mere brains, wearing different bodies accord-
  ing to their needs just as men wear suits of clothes and take
  a bicycle in a hurry or an umbrella in the wet. And of their
  appliances, perhaps nothing is more wonderful to a man
  than the curious fact that what is the dominant feature of
  almost all human devices in mechanism is absent—the
  wheel is absent; among all the things they brought to earth
  there is no trace or suggestion of their use of wheels. One
  would have at least expected it in locomotion. And in this
  connection it is curious to remark that even on this earth
  Nature has never hit upon the wheel, or has preferred other
  expedients to its development. And not only did the Mar-
  tians either not know of (which is incredible), or abstain
  from, the wheel, but in their apparatus singularly little use
  is made of the fixed pivot or relatively fixed pivot, with
  circular motions thereabout confined to one plane. Almost
  all the joints of the machinery present a complicated sys-
  tem of sliding parts moving over small but beautifully
  curved friction bearings. And while upon this matter of
  detail, it is remarkable that the long leverages of their ma-
  chines are in most cases actuated by a sort of sham muscu-
  lature of the disks in an elastic sheath; these disks become
  polarised and drawn closely and powerfully together when
  traversed by a current of electricity. In this way the curious
  parallelism to animal motions, which was so striking and
  disturbing to the human beholder, was attained. Such quasi-
  muscles abounded in the crablike handling-machine which,
  on my first peeping out of the slit, I watched unpacking the
  cylinder. It seemed infinitely more alive than the actual
  Martians lying beyond it in the sunset light, panting, stir-
  ring ineffectual tentacles, and moving feebly after their vast
  journey across space.
  While I was still watching their sluggish motions in the
  sunlight, and noting each strange detail of their form, the
  curate reminded me of his presence by pulling violently at
  my arm. I turned to a scowling face, and silent, eloquent
  lips. He wanted the slit, which permitted only one of us to
  peep through; and so I had to forego watching them for a
  time while he enjoyed that privilege.
  When I looked again, the busy handling-machine had
  already put together several of the pieces of apparatus it
  had taken out of the cylinder into a shape having an unmis-
  takable likeness to its own; and down on the left a busy
  little digging mechanism had come into view, emitting jets
  of green vapour and working its way round the pit, exca-
  vating and embanking in a methodical and discriminating
  manner. This it was which had caused the regular beating
  noise, and the rhythmic shocks that had kept our ruinous
  refuge quivering. It piped and whistled as it worked. So
  far as I could see, the thing was without a directing Mar-
  tian at all.
  
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  Chapter Three
  The Days of Imprisonment
  T
  he arrival of a second fighting-machine drove us
  from our peephole into the scullery, for we feared
  that from his elevation the Martian might see down upon
  us behind our barrier. At a later date we began to feel less
  in danger of their eyes, for to an eye in the dazzle of the
  sunlight outside our refuge must have been blank black-
  ness, but at first the slightest suggestion of approach drove
  us into the scullery in heart-throbbing retreat. Yet terrible
  as was the danger we incurred, the attraction of peeping
  was for both of us irresistible. And I recall now with a sort
  of wonder that, in spite of the infinite danger in which we
  were between starvation and a still more terrible death, we
  could yet struggle bitterly for that horrible privilege of sight.
  We would race across the kitchen in a grotesque way be-
  tween eagerness and the dread of making a noise, and strike
  each other, and thrust add kick, within a few inches of ex-
  posure.
  The fact is that we had absolutely incompatible dispo-
  sitions and habits of thought and action, and our danger
  and isolation only accentuated the incompatibility. At
  Halliford I had already come to hate the curate’s trick of
  helpless exclamation, his stupid rigidity of mind. His end-
  less muttering monologue vitiated every effort I made to
  think out a line of action, and drove me at times, thus pent
  up and intensified, almost to the verge of craziness. He
  was as lacking in restraint as a silly woman. He would weep
  for hours together, and I verily believe that to the very end
  this spoiled child of life thought his weak tears in some
  way efficacious. And I would sit in the darkness unable to
  keep my mind off him by reason of his importunities. He
  ate more than I did, and it was in vain I pointed out that our
  only chance of life was to stop in the house until the Mar-
  tians had done with their pit, that in that long patience a
  time might presently come when we should need food. He
  ate and drank impulsively in heavy meals at long intervals.
  He slept little.
  As the days wore on, his utter carelessness of any con-
  sideration so intensified our distress and danger that I had,
  much as I loathed doing it, to resort to threats, and at last
  to blows. That brought him to reason for a time. But he
  was one of those weak creatures, void of pride, timorous,
  anaemic, hateful souls, full of shifty cunning, who face
  neither God nor man, who face not even themselves.
  It is disagreeable for me to recall and write these things,
  but I set them down that my story may lack nothing. Those
  who have escaped the dark and terrible aspects of life will
  find my brutality, my flash of rage in our final tragedy,
  easy enough to blame; for they know what is wrong as
  well as any, but not what is possible to tortured men. But
  those who have been under the shadow, who have gone
  down at last to elemental things, will have a wider charity.
  And while within we fought out our dark, dim contest
  of whispers, snatched food and drink, and gripping hands
  and blows, without, in the pitiless sunlight of that terrible
  June, was the strange wonder, the unfamiliar routine of the
  Martians in the pit. Let me return to those first new experi-
  ences of mine. After a long time I ventured back to the
  peephole, to find that the new-comers had been reinforced
  by the occupants of no fewer than three of the
  fightingmachines. These last had brought with them cer-
  tain fresh appliances that stood in an orderly manner about
  the cylinder. The second handling-machine was now com-
  pleted, and was busied in serving one of the novel contriv-
  ances the big machine had brought. This was a body re-
  sembling a milk can in its general form, above which os-
  cillated a pear-shaped receptacle, and from which a stream
  of white powder flowed into a circular basin below.
  The oscillatory motion was imparted to this by one ten-
  tacle of the handling-machine. With two spatulate hands
  the handling-machine was digging out and flinging masses
  of clay into the pear-shaped receptacle above, while with
  another arm it periodically opened a door and removed
  rusty and blackened clinkers from the middle part of the
  machine. Another steely tentacle directed the powder from
  the basin along a ribbed channel towards some receiver
  that was hidden from me by the mound of bluish dust. From
  this unseen receiver a little thread of green smoke rose
  vertically into the quiet air. As I looked, the handling-ma-
  chine, with a faint and musical clinking, extended, tele-
  
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  scopic fashion, a tentacle that had been a moment before a
  mere blunt projection, until its end was hidden behind the
  mound of clay. In another second it had lifted a bar of white
  aluminium into sight, untarnished as yet, and shining daz-
  zlingly, and deposited it in a growing stack of bars that
  stood at the side of the pit. Between sunset and starlight
  this dexterous machine must have made more than a hun-
  dred such bars out of the crude clay, and the mound of
  bluish dust rose steadily until it topped the side of the pit.
  The contrast between the swift and complex movements
  of these contrivances and the inert panting clumsiness of
  their masters was acute, and for days I had to tell myself
  repeatedly that these latter were indeed the living of the
  two things.
  The curate had possession of the slit when the first men
  were brought to the pit. I was sitting below, huddled up,
  listening with all my ears. He made a sudden movement
  backward, and I, fearful that we were observed, crouched
  in a spasm of terror. He came sliding down the rubbish and
  crept beside me in the darkness, inarticulate, gesticulating,
  and for a moment I shared his panic. His gesture suggested
  a resignation of the slit, and after a little while my curiosity
  gave me courage, and I rose up, stepped across him, and
  clambered up to it. At first I could see no reason for his
  frantic behaviour. The twilight had now come, the stars
  were little and faint, but the pit was illuminated by the flick-
  ering green fire that came from the aluminium-making. The
  whole picture was a flickering scheme of green gleams and
  shifting rusty black shadows, strangely trying to the eyes.
  Over and through it all went the bats, heeding it not at all.
  The sprawling Martians were no longer to be seen, the
  mound of blue-green powder had risen to cover them from
  sight, and a fighting-machine, with its legs contracted,
  crumpled, and abbreviated, stood across the corner of the
  pit. And then, amid the clangour of the machinery, came a
  drifting suspicion of human voices, that I entertained at
  first only to dismiss.
  I crouched, watching this fighting-machine closely,
  satisfying myself now for the first time that the hood did
  indeed contain a Martian. As the green flames lifted I could
  see the oily gleam of his integument and the brightness of
  his eyes. And suddenly I heard a yell, and saw a long ten-
  tacle reaching over the shoulder of the machine to the little
  cage that hunched upon its back. Then something—some-
  thing struggling violently—was lifted high against the sky,
  a black, vague enigma against the starlight; and as this black
  object came down again, I saw by the green brightness
  that it was a man. For an instant he was clearly visible. He
  was a stout, ruddy, middle-aged man, well dressed; three
  days before, he must have been walking the world, a man
  of considerable consequence. I could see his staring eyes
  and gleams of light on his studs and watch chain. He van-
  ished behind the mound, and for a moment there was si-
  lence. And then began a shrieking and a sustained and
  cheerful hooting from the Martians.
  I slid down the rubbish, struggled to my feet, clapped
  my hands over my ears, and bolted into the scullery. The
  curate, who had been crouching silently with his arms over
  his head, looked up as I passed, cried out quite loudly at
  my desertion of him, and came running after me.
  That night, as we lurked in the scullery, balanced be-
  tween our horror and the terrible fascination this peeping
  had, although I felt an urgent need of action I tried in vain
  to conceive some plan of escape; but afterwards, during
  the second day, I was able to consider our position with
  great clearness. The curate, I found, was quite incapable
  of discussion; this new and culminating atrocity had robbed
  him of all vestiges of reason or forethought. Practically he
  had already sunk to the level of an animal. But as the say-
  ing goes, I gripped myself with both hands. It grew upon
  my mind, once I could face the facts, that terrible as our
  position was, there was as yet no justification for absolute
  despair. Our chief chance lay in the possibility of the Mar-
  tians making the pit nothing more than a temporary en-
  campment. Or even if they kept it permanently, they might
  not consider it necessary to guard it, and a chance of es-
  cape might be afforded us. I also weighed very carefully
  the possibility of our digging a way out in a direction away
  from the pit, but the chances of our emerging within sight
  of some sentinel fighting-machine seemed at first too great.
  And I should have had to do all the digging myself. The
  curate would certainly have failed me.
  It was on the third day, if my memory serves me right,
  that I saw the lad killed. It was the only occasion on which
  I actually saw the Martians feed. After that experience I
  avoided the hole in the wall for the better part of a day. I
  went into the scullery, removed the door, and spent some
  hours digging with my hatchet as silently as possible; but
  when I had made a hole about a couple of feet deep the
  loose earth collapsed noisily, and I did not dare continue. I
  lost heart, and lay down on the scullery floor for a long
  time, having no spirit even to move. And after that I aban-
  doned altogether the idea of escaping by excavation.
  It says much for the impression the Martians had made
  upon me that at first I entertained little or no hope of our
  escape being brought about by their overthrow through any
  human effort. But on the fourth or fifth night I heard a
  sound like heavy guns.
  It was very late in the night, and the moon was shining
  brightly. The Martians had taken away the
  excavatingmachine, and, save for a fighting-machine that
  stood in the remoter bank of the pit and a handling-ma-
  chine that was buried out of my sight in a corner of the pit
  immediately beneath my peephole, the place was deserted
  by them. Except for the pale glow from the handling-ma-
  chine and the bars and patches of white moonlight the pit
  was in darkness, and, except for the clinking of the han-
  dling-machine, quite still. That night was a beautiful se-
  renity; save for one planet, the moon seemed to have the
  sky to herself. I heard a dog howling, and that familiar
  sound it was that made me listen. Then I heard quite dis-
  tinctly a booming exactly like the sound of great guns. Six
  distinct reports I counted, and after a long interval six again.
  And that was all.
  
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  Chapter Four
  The Death Of The Curate
  I
  t was on the sixth day of our imprisonment that I
  peeped for the last time, and presently found myself
  alone. Instead of keeping close to me and trying to oust me
  from the slit, the curate had gone back into the scullery. I
  was struck by a sudden thought. I went back quickly and
  quietly into the scullery. In the darkness I heard the curate
  drinking. I snatched in the darkness, and my fingers caught
  a bottle of burgundy.
  For a few minutes there was a tussle. The bottle struck
  the floor and broke, and I desisted and rose. We stood pant-
  ing and threatening each other. In the end I planted myself
  between him and the food, and told him of my determina-
  tion to begin a discipline. I divided the food in the pantry,
  into rations to last us ten days. I would not let him eat any
  more that day. In the afternoon he made a feeble effort to
  get at the food. I had been dozing, but in an instant I was
  awake. All day and all night we sat face to face, I weary
  but resolute, and he weeping and complaining of his im-
  mediate hunger. It was, I know, a night and a day, but to me
  it seemed—it seems now—an interminable length of time.
  And so our widened incompatibility ended at last in
  open conflict. For two vast days we struggled in under-
  tones and wrestling contests. There were times when I beat
  and kicked him madly, times when I cajoled and persuaded
  him, and once I tried to bribe him with the last bottle of
  burgundy, for there was a rain-water pump from which I
  could get water. But neither force nor kindness availed; he
  was indeed beyond reason. He would neither desist from
  his attacks on the food nor from his noisy babbling to him-
  self. The rudimentary precautions to keep our imprison-
  ment endurable he would not observe. Slowly I began to
  realise the complete overthrow of his intelligence, to per-
  ceive that my sole companion in this close and sickly dark-
  ness was a man insane.
  From certain vague memories I am inclined to think
  my own mind wandered at times. I had strange and hid-
  eous dreams whenever I slept. It sounds paradoxical, but I
  am inclined to think that the weakness and insanity of the
  curate warned me, braced me, and kept me a sane man.
  On the eighth day he began to talk aloud instead of
  whispering, and nothing I could do would moderate his
  speech.
  “It is just, O God!” he would say, over and over again.
  “It is just. On me and mine be the punishment laid. We
  have sinned, we have fallen short. There was poverty, sor-
  row; the poor were trodden in the dust, and I held my peace.
  I preached acceptable folly—my God, what folly! —when
  I should have stood up, though I died for it, and called
  upon them to repent-repent! . . . Oppressors of the poor
  and needy...! The wine press of God!”
  Then he would suddenly revert to the matter of the food
  I withheld from him, praying, begging, weeping, at last
  threatening. He began to raise his voice—I prayed him not
  to. He perceived a hold on me—he threatened he would
  shout and bring the Martians upon us. For a time that scared
  me; but any concession would have shortened our chance
  of escape beyond estimating. I defied him, although I felt
  no assurance that he might not do this thing. But that day,
  at any rate, he did not. He talked with his voice rising slowly,
  through the greater part of the eighth and ninth days—
  threats, entreaties, mingled with a torrent of half-sane and
  always frothy repentance for his vacant sham of God’s ser-
  vice, such as made me pity him. Then he slept awhile, and
  began again with renewed strength, so loudly that I must
  needs make him desist.
  “Be still!” I implored.
  He rose to his knees, for he had been sitting in the dark-
  ness near the copper.
  “I have been still too long,” he said, in a tone that must
  have reached the pit, “and now I must bear my witness.
  Woe unto this unfaithful city! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe! Woe!
  To the inhabitants of the earth by reason of the other voices
  of the trumpet——”
  “Shut up!” I said, rising to my feet, and in a terror lest
  the Martians should hear us. “For God’s sake——”
  “Nay,” shouted the curate, at the top of his voice, stand-
  ing likewise and extending his arms. “Speak! The word of
  the Lord is upon me!”
  In three strides he was at the door leading into the
  kitchen.
  
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  “I must bear my witness! I go! It has already been too
  long delayed.”
  I put out my hand and felt the meat chopper hanging to
  the wall. In a flash I was after him. I was fierce with fear.
  Before he was halfway across the kitchen I had overtaken
  him. With one last touch of humanity I turned the blade
  back and struck him with the butt. He went headlong for-
  ward and lay stretched on the ground. I stumbled over him
  and stood panting. He lay still.
  Suddenly I heard a noise without, the run and smash of
  slipping plaster, and the triangular aperture in the wall was
  darkened. I looked up and saw the lower surface of a han-
  dling-machine coming slowly across the hole. One of its
  gripping limbs curled amid the debris; another limb ap-
  peared, feeling its way over the fallen beams. I stood pet-
  rified, staring. Then I saw through a sort of glass plate near
  the edge of the body the face, as we may call it, and the
  large dark eyes of a Martian, peering, and then a long me-
  tallic snake of tentacle came feeling slowly through the
  hole.
  I turned by an effort, stumbled over the curate, and
  stopped at the scullery door. The tentacle was now some
  way, two yards or more, in the room, and twisting and turn-
  ing, with queer sudden movements, this way and that. For
  a while I stood fascinated by that slow, fitful advance. Then,
  with a faint, hoarse cry, I forced myself across the scullery.
  I trembled violently; I could scarcely stand upright. I opened
  the door of the coal cellar, and stood there in the darkness
  staring at the faintly lit doorway into the kitchen, and lis-
  tening. Had the Martian seen me? What was it doing now?
  Something was moving to and fro there, very quietly;
  every now and then it tapped against the wall, or started on
  its movements with a faint metallic ringing, like the move-
  ments of keys on a split-ring. Then a heavy body—I knew
  too well what—was dragged across the floor of the kitchen
  towards the opening. Irresistibly attracted, I crept to the
  door and peeped into the kitchen. In the triangle of bright
  outer sunlight I saw the Martian, in its Briareus of a han-
  dling-machine, scrutinizing the curate’s head. I thought at
  once that it would infer my presence from the mark of the
  blow I had given him.
  I crept back to the coal cellar, shut the door, and began
  to cover myself up as much as I could, and as noiselessly
  as possible in the darkness, among the firewood and coal
  therein. Every now and then I paused, rigid, to hear if the
  Martian had thrust its tentacles through the opening again.
  Then the faint metallic jingle returned. I traced it slowly
  feeling over the kitchen. Presently I heard it nearer—in
  the scullery, as I judged. I thought that its length might be
  insufficient to reach me. I prayed copiously. It passed, scrap-
  ing faintly across the cellar door. An age of almost intoler-
  able suspense intervened; then I heard it fumbling at the
  latch! It had found the door! The Martians understood
  doors!
  It worried at the catch for a minute, perhaps, and then
  the door opened.
  In the darkness I could just see the thing—like an
  elephant’s trunk more than anything else—waving towards
  me and touching and examining the wall, coals, wood and
  ceiling. It was like a black worm swaying its blind head to
  and fro.
  Once, even, it touched the heel of my boot. I was on
  the verge of screaming; I bit my hand. For a time the ten-
  tacle was silent. I could have fancied it had been with-
  drawn. Presently, with an abrupt click, it gripped some-
  thing—I thought it had me!—and seemed to go out of the
  cellar again. For a minute I was not sure. Apparently it had
  taken a lump of coal to examine.
  I seized the opportunity of slightly shifting my posi-
  tion, which had become cramped, and then listened. I whis-
  pered passionate prayers for safety.
  Then I heard the slow, deliberate sound creeping to-
  wards me again. Slowly, slowly it drew near, scratching
  against the walls and tapping the furniture.
  While I was still doubtful, it rapped smartly against the
  cellar door and closed it. I heard it go into the pantry, and
  the biscuit-tins rattled and a bottle smashed, and then came
  a heavy bump against the cellar door. Then silence that
  passed into an infinity of suspense.
  Had it gone?
  At last I decided that it had.
  It came into the scullery no more; but I lay all the tenth
  day in the close darkness, buried among coals and fire-
  wood, not daring even to crawl out for the drink for which
  I craved. It was the eleventh day before I ventured so far
  from my security.
  
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  Chapter Five
  The Stillness
  M
  y first act before I went into the pantry was to fas
  ten the door between the kitchen and the scullery.
  But the pantry was empty; every scrap of food had gone.
  Apparently, the Martian had taken it all on the previous
  day. At that discovery I despaired for the first time. I took
  no food, or no drink either, on the eleventh or the twelfth
  day.
  At first my mouth and throat were parched, and my
  strength ebbed sensibly. I sat about in the darkness of the
  scullery, in a state of despondent wretchedness. My mind
  ran on eating. I thought I had become deaf, for the noises
  of movement I had been accustomed to hear from the pit
  had ceased absolutely. I did not feel strong enough to crawl
  noiselessly to the peephole, or I would have gone there.
  On the twelfth day my throat was so painful that, tak-
  ing the chance of alarming the Martians, I attacked the
  creaking rain-water pump that stood by the sink, and got a
  couple of glassfuls of blackened and tainted rain water. I
  was greatly refreshed by this, and emboldened by the fact
  that no enquiring tentacle followed the noise of my pump-
  ing.
  During these days, in a rambling, inconclusive way, I
  thought much of the curate and of the manner of his death.
  On the thirteenth day I drank some more water, and
  dozed and thought disjointedly of eating and of vague im-
  possible plans of escape. Whenever I dozed I dreamt of
  horrible phantasms, of the death of the curate, or of sump-
  tuous dinners; but, asleep or awake, I felt a keen pain that
  urged me to drink again and again. The light that came
  into the scullery was no longer grey, but red. To my disor-
  dered imagination it seemed the colour of blood.
  On the fourteenth day I went into the kitchen, and I
  was surprised to find that the fronds of the red weed had
  grown right across the hole in the wall, turning the half-
  light of the place into a crimson-coloured obscurity.
  It was early on the fifteenth day that I heard a curious,
  familiar sequence of sounds in the kitchen, and, listening,
  identified it as the snuffing and scratching of a dog. Going
  into the kitchen, I saw a dog’s nose peering in through a
  break among the ruddy fronds. This greatly surprised me.
  At the scent of me he barked shortly.
  I thought if I could induce him to come into the place
  quietly I should be able, perhaps, to kill and eat him; and
  in any case, it would be advisable to kill him, lest his ac-
  tions attracted the attention of the Martians.
  I crept forward, saying “Good dog!” very softly; but
  he suddenly withdrew his head and disappeared.
  I listened—I was not deaf—but certainly the pit was
  still. I heard a sound like the flutter of a bird’s wings, and a
  hoarse croaking, but that was all.
  For a long while I lay close to the peephole, but not
  daring to move aside the red plants that obscured it. Once
  or twice I heard a faint pitter-patter like the feet of the dog
  going hither and thither on the sand far below me, and there
  were more birdlike sounds, but that was all. At length, en-
  couraged by the silence, I looked out.
  Except in the corner, where a multitude of crows hopped
  and fought over the skeletons of the dead the Martians had
  consumed, there was not a living thing in the pit.
  I stared about me, scarcely believing my eyes. All the
  machinery had gone. Save for the big mound of greyish-
  blue powder in one corner, certain bars of aluminium in
  another, the black birds, and the skeletons of the killed, the
  place was merely an empty circular pit in the sand.
  Slowly I thrust myself out through the red weed, and
  stood upon the mound of rubble. I could see in any direc-
  tion save behind me, to the north, and neither Martians nor
  sign of Martians were to be seen. The pit dropped sheerly
  from my feet, but a little way along the rubbish afforded a
  practicable slope to the summit of the ruins. My chance of
  escape had come. I began to tremble.
  I hesitated for some time, and then, in a gust of desper-
  ate resolution, and with a heart that throbbed violently, I
  scrambled to the top of the mound in which I had been
  buried so long.
  I looked about again. To the northward, too, no Mar-
  tian was visible.
  When I had last seen this part of Sheen in the daylight
  it had been a straggling street of comfortable white and
  red houses, interspersed with abundant shady trees. Now I
  stood on a mound of smashed brickwork, clay, and gravel,
  over which spread a multitude of red cactus-shaped plants,
  knee-high, without a solitary terrestrial growth to dispute
  their footing. The trees near me were dead and brown, but
  further a network of red thread scaled the still living stems.
  
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  The neighbouring houses had all been wrecked, but
  none had been burned; their walls stood, sometimes to the
  second story, with smashed windows and shattered doors.
  The red weed grew tumultuously in their roofless rooms.
  Below me was the great pit, with the crows struggling for
  its refuse. A number of other birds hopped about among
  the ruins. Far away I saw a gaunt cat slink crouchingly
  along a wall, but traces of men there were none.
  The day seemed, by contrast with my recent confine-
  ment, dazzlingly bright, the sky a glowing blue. A gentle
  breeze kept the red weed that covered every scrap of un-
  occupied ground gently swaying. And oh! the sweetness
  of the air!
  Chapter Six
  The Work of Fifteen Days
  F
  or some time I stood tottering on the mound regard
  less of my safety. Within that noisome den from
  which I had emerged I had thought with a narrow intensity
  only of our immediate security. I had not realised what had
  been happening to the world, had not anticipated this star-
  tling vision of unfamiliar things. I had expected to see Sheen
  in ruins— I found about me the landscape, weird and lu-
  rid, of another planet.
  For that moment I touched an emotion beyond the com-
  mon range of men, yet one that the poor brutes we domi-
  nate know only too well. I felt as a rabbit might feel return-
  ing to his burrow and suddenly confronted by the work of
  a dozen busy navvies digging the foundations of a house. I
  felt the first inkling of a thing that presently grew quite
  clear in my mind, that oppressed me for many days, a sense
  of dethronement, a persuasion that I was no longer a mas-
  ter, but an animal among the animals, under the Martian
  heel. With us it would be as with them, to lurk and watch,
  to run and hide; the fear and empire of man had passed
  away.
  But so soon as this strangeness had been realised it
  passed, and my dominant motive became the hunger of my
  long and dismal fast. In the direction away from the pit I
  saw, beyond a red-covered wall, a patch of garden ground
  unburied. This gave me a hint, and I went knee-deep, and
  sometimes neck-deep, in the red weed. The density of the
  weed gave me a reassuring sense of hiding. The wall was
  some six feet high, and when I attempted to clamber it I
  found I could not lift my feet to the crest. So I went along
  by the side of it, and came to a corner and a rockwork that
  enabled me to get to the top, and tumble into the garden I
  coveted. Here I found some young onions, a couple of gladi-
  olus bulbs, and a quantity of immature carrots, all of which
  I secured, and, scrambling over a ruined wall, went on my
  way through scarlet and crimson trees towards Kew— it
  was like walking through an avenue of gigantic blood
  drops—possessed with two ideas: to get more food, and to
  limp, as soon and as far as my strength permitted, out of
  this accursed unearthly region of the pit.
  Some way farther, in a grassy place, was a group of
  mushrooms which also I devoured, and then I came upon a
  brown sheet of flowing shallow water, where meadows used
  to be. These fragments of nourishment served only to whet
  my hunger. At first I was surprised at this flood in a hot,
  dry summer, but afterwards I discovered that it was caused
  by the tropical exuberance of the red weed. Directly this
  extraordinary growth encountered water it straightway
  became gigantic and of unparalleled fecundity. Its seeds
  were simply poured down into the water of the Wey and
  Thames, and its swiftly growing and Titanic water fronds
  speedily choked both those rivers.
  At Putney, as I afterwards saw, the bridge was almost
  lost in a tangle of this weed, and at Richmond, too, the
  Thames water poured in a broad and shallow stream across
  the meadows of Hampton and Twickenham. As the water
  spread the weed followed them, until the ruined villas of
  the Thames valley were for a time lost in this red swamp,
  whose margin I explored, and much of the desolation the
  Martians had caused was concealed.
  In the end the red weed succumbed almost as quickly
  as it had spread. A cankering disease, due, it is believed, to
  the action of certain bacteria, presently seized upon it. Now
  by the action of natural selection, all terrestrial plants have
  acquired a resisting power against bacterial diseases—they
  never succumb without a severe struggle, but the red weed
  rotted like a thing already dead. The fronds became
  bleached, and then shrivelled and brittle. They broke off at
  the least touch, and the waters that had stimulated their
  early growth carried their last vestiges out to sea.
  My first act on coming to this water was, of course, to
  slake my thirst. I drank a great deal of it and, moved by an
  impulse, gnawed some fronds of red weed; but they were
  watery, and had a sickly, metallic taste. I found the water
  was sufficiently shallow for me to wade securely, although
  the red weed impeded my feet a little; but the flood evi-
  dently got deeper towards the river, and I turned back to
  Mortlake. I managed to make out the road by means of
  occasional ruins of its villas and fences and lamps, and so
  presently I got out of this spate and made my way to the
  hill going up towards Roehampton and came out on Putney
  Common.
  Here the scenery changed from the strange and unfa-
  miliar to the wreckage of the familiar: patches of ground
  exhibited the devastation of a cyclone, and in a few score
  yards I would come upon perfectly undisturbed spaces,
  houses with their blinds trimly drawn and doors closed, as
  if they had been left for a day by the owners, or as if their
  inhabitants slept within. The red weed was less abundant;
  the tall trees along the lane were free from the red creeper.
  I hunted for food among the trees, finding nothing, and I
  also raided a couple of silent houses, but they had already
  been broken into and ransacked. I rested for the remainder
  of the daylight in a shrubbery, being, in my enfeebled con-
  dition, too fatigued to push on.
  
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  All this time I saw no human beings, and no signs of
  the Martians. I encountered a couple of hungry-looking
  dogs, but both hurried circuitously away from the advances
  I made them. Near Roehampton I had seen two human skel-
  etons— not bodies, but skeletons, picked clean—and in
  the wood by me I found the crushed and scattered bones of
  several cats and rabbits and the skull of a sheep. But though
  I gnawed parts of these in my mouth, there was nothing to
  be got from them.
  After sunset I struggled on along the road towards
  Putney, where I think the Heat-Ray must have been used
  for some reason. And in the garden beyond Roehampton I
  got a quantity of immature potatoes, sufficient to stay my
  hunger. From this garden one looked down upon Putney
  and the river. The aspect of the place in the dusk was sin-
  gularly desolate: blackened trees, blackened, desolate ru-
  ins, and down the hill the sheets of the flooded river, red-
  tinged with the weed. And over all—silence. It filled me
  with indescribable terror to think how swiftly that desolat-
  ing change had come.
  For a time I believed that mankind had been swept out
  of existence, and that I stood there alone, the last man left
  alive. Hard by the top of Putney Hill I came upon another
  skeleton, with the arms dislocated and removed several
  yards from the rest of the body. As I proceeded I became
  more and more convinced that the extermination of man-
  kind was, save for such stragglers as myself, already ac-
  complished in this part of the world. The Martians, I
  thought, had gone on and left the country desolated, seek-
  ing food elsewhere. Perhaps even now they were destroy-
  ing Berlin or Paris, or it might be they had gone north-
  ward.
  Chapter Seven
  The Man on Putney Hill
  I
   spent that night in the inn that stands at the top of
  Putney Hill, sleeping in a made bed for the first time
  since my flight to Leatherhead. I will not tell the needless
  trouble I had breaking into that house—afterwards I found
  the front door was on the latch—nor how I ransacked ev-
  ery room for food, until just on the verge of despair, in
  what seemed to me to be a servant’s bedroom, I found a
  ratgnawed crust and two tins of pineapple. The place had
  been already searched and emptied. In the bar I afterwards
  found some biscuits and sandwiches that had been over-
  looked. The latter I could not eat, they were too rotten, but
  the former not only stayed my hunger, but filled my pock-
  ets. I lit no lamps, fearing some Martian might come beat-
  ing that part of London for food in the night. Before I went
  to bed I had an interval of restlessness, and prowled from
  window to window, peering out for some sign of these
  monsters. I slept little. As I lay in bed I found myself think-
  ing consecutively—a thing I do not remember to have done
  since my last argument with the curate. During all the in-
  tervening time my mental condition had been a hurrying
  succession of vague emotional states or a sort of stupid
  receptivity. But in the night my brain, reinforced, I sup-
  pose, by the food I had eaten, grew clear again, and I
  thought.
  Three things struggled for possession of my mind: the
  killing of the curate, the whereabouts of the Martians, and
  the possible fate of my wife. The former gave me no sen-
  sation of horror or remorse to recall; I saw it simply as a
  thing done, a memory infinitely disagreeable but quite with-
  out the quality of remorse. I saw myself then as I see my-
  self now, driven step by step towards that hasty blow, the
  creature of a sequence of accidents leading inevitably to
  that. I felt no condemnation; yet the memory, static, un-
  progressive, haunted me. In the silence of the night, with
  that sense of the nearness of God that sometimes comes
  into the stillness and the darkness, I stood my trial, my
  only trial, for that moment of wrath and fear. I retraced
  every step of our conversation from the moment when I
  had found him crouching beside me, heedless of my thirst,
  and pointing to the fire and smoke that streamed up from
  the ruins of Weybridge. We had been incapable of co-op-
  eration—grim chance had taken no heed of that. Had I fore-
  seen, I should have left him at Halliford. But I did not fore-
  see; and crime is to foresee and do. And I set this down as
  I have set all this story down, as it was. There were no
  witnesses—all these things I might have concealed. But I
  set it down, and the reader must form his judgment as he
  will.
  And when, by an effort, I had set aside that picture of a
  prostrate body, I faced the problem of the Martians and the
  fate of my wife. For the former I had no data; I could imag-
  ine a hundred things, and so, unhappily, I could for the
  
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  latter. And suddenly that night became terrible. I found
  myself sitting up in bed, staring at the dark. I found myself
  praying that the Heat-Ray might have suddenly and pain-
  lessly struck her out of being. Since the night of my return
  from Leatherhead I had not prayed. I had uttered prayers,
  fetish prayers, had prayed as heathens mutter charms when
  I was in extremity; but now I prayed indeed, pleading stead-
  fastly and sanely, face to face with the darkness of God.
  Strange night! Strangest in this, that so soon as dawn had
  come, I, who had talked with God, crept out of the house
  like a rat leaving its hiding place—a creature scarcely larger,
  an inferior animal, a thing that for any passing whim of our
  masters might be hunted and killed. Perhaps they also
  prayed confidently to God. Surely, if we have learned noth-
  ing else, this war has taught us pity—pity for those witless
  souls that suffer our dominion.
  The morning was bright and fine, and the eastern sky
  glowed pink, and was fretted with little golden clouds. In
  the road that runs from the top of Putney Hill to Wimbledon
  was a number of poor vestiges of the panic torrent that
  must have poured Londonward on the Sunday night after
  the fighting began. There was a little two-wheeled cart in-
  scribed with the name of Thomas Lobb, Greengrocer, New
  Malden, with a smashed wheel and an abandoned tin trunk;
  there was a straw hat trampled into the now hardened mud,
  and at the top of West Hill a lot of blood-stained glass
  about the overturned water trough. My movements were
  languid, my plans of the vaguest. I had an idea of going to
  Leatherhead, though I knew that there I had the poorest
  chance of finding my wife. Certainly, unless death had
  overtaken them suddenly, my cousins and she would have
  fled thence; but it seemed to me I might find or learn there
  whither the Surrey people had fled. I knew I wanted to
  find my wife, that my heart ached for her and the world of
  men, but I had no clear idea how the finding might be done.
  I was also sharply aware now of my intense loneliness.
  From the corner I went, under cover of a thicket of trees
  and bushes, to the edge of Wimbledon Common, stretch-
  ing wide and far.
  That dark expanse was lit in patches by yellow gorse
  and broom; there was no red weed to be seen, and as I
  prowled, hesitating, on the verge of the open, the sun rose,
  flooding it all with light and vitality. I came upon a busy
  swarm of little frogs in a swampy place among the trees. I
  stopped to look at them, drawing a lesson from their stout
  resolve to live. And presently, turning suddenly, with an
  odd feeling of being watched, I beheld something crouch-
  ing amid a clump of bushes. I stood regarding this. I made
  a step towards it, and it rose up and became a man armed
  with a cutlass. I approached him slowly. He stood silent
  and motionless, regarding me.
  As I drew nearer I perceived he was dressed in clothes
  as dusty and filthy as my own; he looked, indeed, as though
  he had been dragged through a culvert. Nearer, I distin-
  guished the green slime of ditches mixing with the pale
  drab of dried clay and shiny, coaly patches. His black hair
  fell over his eyes, and his face was dark and dirty and
  sunken, so that at first I did not recognise him. There was
  a red cut across the lower part of his face.
  “Stop!” he cried, when I was within ten yards of him,
  and I stopped. His voice was hoarse. “Where do you come
  from?” he said.
  I thought, surveying him.
  “I come from Mortlake,” I said. “I was buried near the
  pit the Martians made about their cylinder. I have worked
  my way out and escaped.”
  “There is no food about here,” he said. “This is my
  country. All this hill down to the river, and back to Clapham,
  and up to the edge of the common. There is only food for
  one. Which way are you going?”
  I answered slowly.
  “I don’t know,” I said. “I have been buried in the ruins
  of a house thirteen or fourteen days. I don’t know what has
  happened.”
  He looked at me doubtfully, then started, and looked
  with a changed expression.
  “I’ve no wish to stop about here,” said I. “I think I shall
  go to Leatherhead, for my wife was there.”
  He shot out a pointing finger.
  “It is you,” said he; “the man from Woking. And you
  weren’t killed at Weybridge?”
  I recognised him at the same moment.
  “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
  
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  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 great-
  est 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—think-
  ing. 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 do-
  ing 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 be-
  gun 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 dyna-
  mite 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 mil-
  lion years or so; there won’t be any Royal Academy of
  Arts, and no nice little feeds at restaurants. If it’s amuse-
  ment you’re after, I reckon the game is up. If you’ve got
  any drawingroom 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!”
  
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  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 slen-
  der. 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 mis-
  erable 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 imag-
  ine 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 sub-
  mit 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 sentimen-
  tal 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.
  
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  “Well, it’s like this,” he said. “What have we to do? We
  have to invent a sort of life where men can live and breed,
  and be sufficiently secure to bring the children up. Yes—
  wait a bit, and I’ll make it clearer what I think ought to be
  done. The tame ones will go like all tame beasts; in a few
  generations they’ll be big, beautiful, rich-blooded, stupid—
  rubbish! The risk is that we who keep wild will go sav-
  age—degenerate into a sort of big, savage rat. . . . You see,
  how I mean to live is underground. I’ve been thinking about
  the drains. Of course those who don’t know drains think
  horrible things; but under this London are miles and miles—
  hundreds of miles—and a few days” rain and London empty
  will leave them sweet and clean. The main drains are big
  enough and airy enough for anyone. Then there’s cellars,
  vaults, stores, from which bolting passages may be made
  to the drains. And the railway tunnels and subways. Eh?
  You begin to see? And we form a band—able-bodied,
  clean-minded men. We’re not going to pick up any rub-
  bish that drifts in. Weaklings go out again.”
  “As you meant me to go?”
  “Well—l parleyed, didn’t I?”
  “We won’t quarrel about that. Go on.”
  “Those who stop obey orders. Able-bodied, clean-
  minded women we want also—mothers and teachers. No
  lackadaisical ladies—no blasted rolling eyes. We can’t have
  any weak or silly. Life is real again, and the useless and
  cumbersome and mischievous have to die. They ought to
  die. They ought to be willing to die. It’s a sort of disloy-
  alty, after all, to live and taint the race. And they can’t be
  happy. Moreover, dying’s none so dreadful; it’s the funking
  makes it bad. And in all those places we shall gather. Our
  district will be London. And we may even be able to keep
  a watch, and run about in the open when the Martians keep
  away. Play cricket, perhaps. That’s how we shall save the
  race. Eh? It’s a possible thing? But saving the race is noth-
  ing in itself. As I say, that’s only being rats. It’s saving our
  knowledge and adding to it is the thing. There men like
  you come in. There’s books, there’s models. We must make
  great safe places down deep, and get all the books we can;
  not novels and poetry swipes, but ideas, science books.
  That’s where men like you come in. We must go to the
  British Museum and pick all those books through. Espe-
  cially we must keep up our science— learn more. We must
  watch these Martians. Some of us must go as spies. When
  it’s all working, perhaps I will. Get caught, I mean. And
  the great thing is, we must leave the Martians alone. We
  mustn’t even steal. If we get in their way, we clear out. We
  must show them we mean no harm. Yes, I know. But they’re
  intelligent things, and they won’t hunt us down if they have
  all they want, and think we’re just harmless vermin.”
  The artilleryman paused and laid a brown hand upon
  my arm.
  “After all, it may not be so much we may have to learn
  before— Just imagine this: four or five of their fighting
  machines suddenly starting off—Heat-Rays right and left,
  and not a Martian in ‘em. Not a Martian in ‘em, but men—
  men who have learned the way how. It may be in my time,
  even— those men. Fancy having one of them lovely things,
  with its Heat-Ray wide and free! Fancy having it in con-
  trol! What would it matter if you smashed to smithereens
  at the end of the run, after a bust like that? I reckon the
  Martians’ll open their beautiful eyes! Can’t you see them,
  man? Can’t you see them hurrying, hurrying—puffing and
  blowing and hooting to their other mechanical affairs?
  Something out of gear in every case. And swish, bang, rattle,
  swish! Just as they are fumbling over it, SWISH comes the
  Heat-Ray, and, behold! man has come back to his own.”
  For a while the imaginative daring of the artilleryman,
  and the tone of assurance and courage he assumed, com-
  pletely dominated my mind. I believed unhesitatingly both
  in his forecast of human destiny and in the practicability of
  his astonishing scheme, and the reader who thinks me sus-
  ceptible and foolish must contrast his position, reading
  steadily with all his thoughts about his subject, and mine,
  crouching fearfully in the bushes and listening, distracted
  by apprehension. We talked in this manner through the early
  morning time, and later crept out of the bushes, and, after
  scanning the sky for Martians, hurried precipitately to the
  house on Putney Hill where he had made his lair. It was the
  coal cellar of the place, and when I saw the work he had
  spent a week upon—it was a burrow scarcely ten yards
  long, which he designed to reach to the main drain on
  Putney Hill—I had my first inkling of the gulf between his
  dreams and his powers. Such a hole I could have dug in a
  day. But I believed in him sufficiently to work with him all
  that morning until past midday at his digging. We had a
  garden barrow and shot the earth we removed against the
  kitchen range. We refreshed ourselves with a tin of
  mockturtle soup and wine from the neighbouring pantry. I
  found a curious relief from the aching strangeness of the
  world in this steady labour. As we worked, I turned his
  project over in my mind, and presently objections and
  doubts began to arise; but I worked there all the morning,
  so glad was I to find myself with a purpose again. After
  working an hour I began to speculate on the distance one
  had to go before the cloaca was reached, the chances we
  had of missing it altogether. My immediate trouble was
  why we should dig this long tunnel, when it was possible
  to get into the drain at once down one of the manholes, and
  work back to the house. It seemed to me, too, that the house
  was inconveniently chosen, and required a needless length
  of tunnel. And just as I was beginning to face these things,
  the artilleryman stopped digging, and looked at me.
  “We’re working well,” he said. He put down his spade.
  “Let us knock off a bit” he said. “I think it’s time we recon-
  noitred from the roof of the house.”
  I was for going on, and after a little hesitation he re-
  sumed his spade; and then suddenly I was struck by a
  thought. I stopped, and so did he at once.
  “Why were you walking about the common,” I said,
  “instead of being here?”
  “Taking the air,” he said. “I was coming back. It’s safer
  by night.”
  “But the work?”
  
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  “Oh, one can’t always work,” he said, and in a flash I
  saw the man plain. He hesitated, holding his spade. “We
  ought to reconnoitre now,” he said, “because if any come
  near they may hear the spades and drop upon us unawares.”
  I was no longer disposed to object. We went together
  to the roof and stood on a ladder peeping out of the roof
  door. No Martians were to be seen, and we ventured out
  on the tiles, and slipped down under shelter of the parapet.
  From this position a shrubbery hid the greater portion
  of Putney, but we could see the river below, a bubbly mass
  of red weed, and the low parts of Lambeth flooded and
  red. The red creeper swarmed up the trees about the old
  palace, and their branches stretched gaunt and dead, and
  set with shrivelled leaves, from amid its clusters. It was
  strange how entirely dependent both these things were upon
  flowing water for their propagation. About us neither had
  gained a footing; laburnums, pink mays, snowballs, and
  trees of arborvitae, rose out of laurels and hydrangeas, green
  and brilliant into the sunlight. Beyond Kensington dense
  smoke was rising, and that and a blue haze hid the north-
  ward hills.
  The artilleryman began to tell me of the sort of people
  who still remained in London.
  “One night last week,” he said, “some fools got the
  electric light in order, and there was all Regent Street and
  the Circus ablaze, crowded with painted and ragged drunk-
  ards, men and women, dancing and shouting till dawn. A
  man who was there told me. And as the day came they
  became aware of a fighting-machine standing near by the
  Langham and looking down at them. Heaven knows how
  long he had been there. It must have given some of them a
  nasty turn. He came down the road towards them, and
  picked up nearly a hundred too drunk or frightened to run
  away.”
  Grotesque gleam of a time no history will ever fully
  describe!
  From that, in answer to my questions, he came round
  to his grandiose plans again. He grew enthusiastic. He
  talked so eloquently of the possibility of capturing a
  fightingmachine that I more than half believed in him again.
  But now that I was beginning to understand something of
  his quality, I could divine the stress he laid on doing noth-
  ing precipitately. And I noted that now there was no ques-
  tion that he personally was to capture and fight the great
  machine.
  After a time we went down to the cellar. Neither of us
  seemed disposed to resume digging, and when he suggested
  a meal, I was nothing loath. He became suddenly very gen-
  erous, and when we had eaten he went away and returned
  with some excellent cigars. We lit these, and his optimism
  glowed. He was inclined to regard my coming as a great
  occasion.
  “There’s some champagne in the cellar,” he said.
  “We can dig better on this Thames-side burgundy,” said I.
  “No,” said he; “I am host today. Champagne! Great
  God! We’ve a heavy enough task before us! Let us take a
  rest and gather strength while we may. Look at these blis-
  tered hands!”
  And pursuant to this idea of a holiday, he insisted upon
  playing cards after we had eaten. He taught me euchre,
  and after dividing London between us, I taking the north-
  ern side and he the southern, we played for parish points.
  Grotesque and foolish as this will seem to the sober reader,
  it is absolutely true, and what is more remarkable, I found
  the card game and several others we played extremely in-
  teresting.
  Strange mind of man! that, with our species upon the
  edge of extermination or appalling degradation, with no
  clear prospect before us but the chance of a horrible death,
  we could sit following the chance of this painted paste-
  board, and playing the “joker” with vivid delight. After-
  wards he taught me poker, and I beat him at three tough
  chess games. When dark came we decided to take the risk,
  and lit a lamp.
  After an interminable string of games, we supped, and
  the artilleryman finished the champagne. We went on smok-
  ing the cigars. He was no longer the energetic regenerator
  of his species I had encountered in the morning. He was
  still optimistic, but it was a less kinetic, a more thoughtful
  optimism. I remember he wound up with my health, pro-
  posed in a speech of small variety and considerable inter-
  mittence. I took a cigar, and went upstairs to look at the
  lights of which he had spoken that blazed so greenly along
  the Highgate hills.
  At first I stared unintelligently across the London val-
  ley. The northern hills were shrouded in darkness; the fires
  near Kensington glowed redly, and now and then an or-
  ange-red tongue of flame flashed up and vanished in the
  deep blue night. All the rest of London was black. Then,
  nearer, I perceived a strange light, a pale, violet-purple
  fluorescent glow, quivering under the night breeze. For a
  space I could not understand it, and then I knew that it
  must be the red weed from which this faint irradiation pro-
  ceeded. With that realisation my dormant sense of won-
  der, my sense of the proportion of things, awoke again. I
  glanced from that to Mars, red and clear, glowing high in
  the west, and then gazed long and earnestly at the darkness
  of Hampstead and Highgate.
  I remained a very long time upon the roof, wondering
  at the grotesque changes of the day. I recalled my mental
  states from the midnight prayer to the foolish card-play-
  ing. I had a violent revulsion of feeling. I remember I flung
  away the cigar with a certain wasteful symbolism. My folly
  came to me with glaring exaggeration. I seemed a traitor
  to my wife and to my kind; I was filled with remorse. I
  resolved to leave this strange undisciplined dreamer of great
  things to his drink and gluttony, and to go on into London.
  There, it seemed to me, I had the best chance of learning
  what the Martians and my fellowmen were doing. I was
  still upon the roof when the late moon rose.
  
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  Chapter Eight
  Dead London
  A
  fter I had parted from the artilleryman, I went down
  the hill, and by the High Street across the bridge to
  Fulham. The red weed was tumultuous at that time, and
  nearly choked the bridge roadway; but its fronds were al-
  ready whitened in patches by the spreading disease that
  presently removed it so swiftly.
  At the corner of the lane that runs to Putney Bridge
  station I found a man lying. He was as black as a sweep
  with the black dust, alive, but helplessly and speechlessly
  drunk. I could get nothing from him but curses and furious
  lunges at my head. I think I should have stayed by him but
  for the brutal expression of his face.
  There was black dust along the roadway from the bridge
  onwards, and it grew thicker in Fulham. The streets were
  horribly quiet. I got food—sour, hard, and mouldy, but quite
  eatable—in a baker’s shop here. Some way towards
  Walham Green the streets became clear of powder, and I
  passed a white terrace of houses on fire; the noise of the
  burning was an absolute relief. Going on towards
  Brompton, the streets were quiet again.
  Here I came once more upon the black powder in the
  streets and upon dead bodies. I saw altogether about a dozen
  in the length of the Fulham Road. They had been dead
  many days, so that I hurried quickly past them. The black
  powder covered them over, and softened their outlines. One
  or two had been disturbed by dogs.
  Where there was no black powder, it was curiously like
  a Sunday in the City, with the closed shops, the houses
  locked up and the blinds drawn, the desertion, and the still-
  ness. In some places plunderers had been at work, but rarely
  at other than the provision and wine shops. A jeweller’s
  window had been broken open in one place, but appar-
  ently the thief had been disturbed, and a number of gold
  chains and a watch lay scattered on the pavement. I did not
  trouble to touch them. Farther on was a tattered woman in
  a heap on a doorstep; the hand that hung over her knee was
  gashed and bled down her rusty brown dress, and a smashed
  magnum of champagne formed a pool across the pavement.
  She seemed asleep, but she was dead.
  The farther I penetrated into London, the profounder
  grew the stillness. But it was not so much the stillness of
  death— it was the stillness of suspense, of expectation. At
  any time the destruction that had already singed the north-
  western borders of the metropolis, and had annihilated
  Ealing and Kilburn, might strike among these houses and
  leave them smoking ruins. It was a city condemned and
  derelict. . . .
  In South Kensington the streets were clear of dead and
  of black powder. It was near South Kensington that I first
  heard the howling. It crept almost imperceptibly upon my
  senses. It was a sobbing alternation of two notes, “Ulla,
  ulla, ulla, ulla,” keeping on perpetually. When I passed
  streets that ran northward it grew in volume, and houses
  and buildings seemed to deaden and cut it off again. It
  came in a full tide down Exhibition Road. I stopped, star-
  ing towards Kensington Gardens, wondering at this strange,
  remote wailing. It was as if that mighty desert of houses
  had found a voice for its fear and solitude.
  “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” wailed that superhuman note—
  great waves of sound sweeping down the broad, sunlit road-
  way, between the tall buildings on each side. I turned north-
  wards, marvelling, towards the iron gates of Hyde Park. I
  had half a mind to break into the Natural History Museum
  and find my way up to the summits of the towers, in order
  to see across the park. But I decided to keep to the ground,
  where quick hiding was possible, and so went on up the
  Exhibition Road. All the large mansions on each side of
  the road were empty and still, and my footsteps echoed
  against the sides of the houses. At the top, near the park
  gate, I came upon a strange sight—a bus overturned, and
  the skeleton of a horse picked clean. I puzzled over this
  for a time, and then went on to the bridge over the Serpen-
  tine. The voice grew stronger and stronger, though I could
  see nothing above the housetops on the north side of the
  park, save a haze of smoke to the northwest.
  “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” cried the voice, coming, as it
  seemed to me, from the district about Regent’s Park. The
  desolating cry worked upon my mind. The mood that had
  sustained me passed. The wailing took possession of me. I
  found I was intensely weary, footsore, and now again hun-
  gry and thirsty.
  It was already past noon. Why was I wandering alone
  in this city of the dead? Why was I alone when all London
  was lying in state, and in its black shroud? I felt intoler-
  ably lonely. My mind ran on old friends that I had forgot-
  ten for years. I thought of the poisons in the chemists” shops,
  of the liquors the wine merchants stored; I recalled the two
  sodden creatures of despair, who so far as I knew, shared
  the city with myself. . . .
  I came into Oxford Street by the Marble Arch, and here
  again were black powder and several bodies, and an evil,
  ominous smell from the gratings of the cellars of some of
  the houses. I grew very thirsty after the heat of my long
  walk. With infinite trouble I managed to break into a pub-
  lic-house and get food and drink. I was weary after eating,
  and went into the parlour behind the bar, and slept on a
  black horsehair sofa I found there.
  I awoke to find that dismal howling still in my ears,
  “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla.” It was now dusk, and after I had
  routed out some biscuits and a cheese in the bar—there
  was a meat safe, but it contained nothing but maggots—I
  wandered on through the silent residential squares to Baker
  Street —Portman Square is the only one I can name—and
  so came out at last upon Regent’s Park. And as I emerged
  from the top of Baker Street, I saw far away over the trees
  in the clearness of the sunset the hood of the Martian giant
  from which this howling proceeded. I was not terrified. I
  came upon him as if it were a matter of course. I watched
  
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  him for some time, but he did not move. He appeared to be
  standing and yelling, for no reason that I could discover.
  I tried to formulate a plan of action. That perpetual
  sound of “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” confused my mind. Per-
  haps I was too tired to be very fearful. Certainly I was
  more curious to know the reason of this monotonous cry-
  ing than afraid. I turned back away from the park and struck
  into Park Road, intending to skirt the park, went along under
  the shelter of the terraces, and got a view of this stationary,
  howling Martian from the direction of St. John’s Wood. A
  couple of hundred yards out of Baker Street I heard a yelp-
  ing chorus, and saw, first a dog with a piece of putrescent
  red meat in his jaws coming headlong towards me, and
  then a pack of starving mongrels in pursuit of him. He made
  a wide curve to avoid me, as though he feared I might prove
  a fresh competitor. As the yelping died away down the si-
  lent road, the wailing sound of “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla,” reas-
  serted itself.
  I came upon the wrecked handling-machine halfway to
  St. John’s Wood station. At first I thought a house had fallen
  across the road. It was only as I clambered among the ru-
  ins that I saw, with a start, this mechanical Samson lying,
  with its tentacles bent and smashed and twisted, among
  the ruins it had made. The forepart was shattered. It seemed
  as if it had driven blindly straight at the house, and had
  been overwhelmed in its overthrow. It seemed to me then
  that this might have happened by a handling-machine es-
  caping from the guidance of its Martian. I could not clam-
  ber among the ruins to see it, and the twilight was now so
  far advanced that the blood with which its seat was smeared,
  and the gnawed gristle of the Martian that the dogs had
  left, were invisible to me.
  Wondering still more at all that I had seen, I pushed on
  towards Primrose Hill. Far away, through a gap in the trees,
  I saw a second Martian, as motionless as the first, standing
  in the park towards the Zoological Gardens, and silent. A
  little beyond the ruins about the smashed handling-machine
  I came upon the red weed again, and found the Regent’s
  Canal, a spongy mass of dark-red vegetation.
  As I crossed the bridge, the sound of “Ulla, ulla, ulla,
  ulla,” ceased. It was, as it were, cut off. The silence came
  like a thunderclap.
  The dusky houses about me stood faint and tall and
  dim; the trees towards the park were growing black. All
  about me the red weed clambered among the ruins, writh-
  ing to get above me in the dimness. Night, the mother of
  fear and mystery, was coming upon me. But while that voice
  sounded the solitude, the desolation, had been endurable;
  by virtue of it London had still seemed alive, and the sense
  of life about me had upheld me. Then suddenly a change,
  the passing of something—I knew not what—and then a
  stillness that could be felt. Nothing but this gaunt quiet.
  London about me gazed at me spectrally. The windows
  in the white houses were like the eye sockets of skulls.
  About me my imagination found a thousand noiseless en-
  emies moving. Terror seized me, a horror of my temerity.
  In front of me the road became pitchy black as though it
  was tarred, and I saw a contorted shape lying across the
  pathway. I could not bring myself to go on. I turned down
  St. John’s Wood Road, and ran headlong from this unen-
  durable stillness towards Kilburn. I hid from the night and
  the silence, until long after midnight, in a cabmen’s shelter
  in Harrow Road. But before the dawn my courage returned,
  and while the stars were still in the sky I turned once more
  towards Regent’s Park. I missed my way among the streets,
  and presently saw down a long avenue, in the half-light of
  the early dawn, the curve of Primrose Hill. On the summit,
  towering up to the fading stars, was a third Martian, erect
  and motionless like the others.
  An insane resolve possessed me. I would die and end
  it. And I would save myself even the trouble of killing
  myself. I marched on recklessly towards this Titan, and
  then, as I drew nearer and the light grew, I saw that a mul-
  titude of black birds was circling and clustering about the
  hood. At that my heart gave a bound, and I began running
  along the road.
  I hurried through the red weed that choked St. Edmund’s
  Terrace (I waded breast-high across a torrent of water that
  was rushing down from the waterworks towards the Albert
  Road), and emerged upon the grass before the rising of the
  sun. Great mounds had been heaped about the crest of the
  hill, making a huge redoubt of it—it was the final and larg-
  est place the Martians had made—and from behind these
  heaps there rose a thin smoke against the sky. Against the
  sky line an eager dog ran and disappeared. The thought
  that had flashed into my mind grew real, grew credible. I
  felt no fear, only a wild, trembling exultation, as I ran up
  
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  the hill towards the motionless monster. Out of the hood
  hung lank shreds of brown, at which the hungry birds
  pecked and tore.
  In another moment I had scrambled up the earthen ram-
  part and stood upon its crest, and the interior of the re-
  doubt was below me. A mighty space it was, with gigantic
  machines here and there within it, huge mounds of mate-
  rial and strange shelter places. And scattered about it, some
  in their overturned war-machines, some in the now rigid
  handlingmachines, and a dozen of them stark and silent
  and laid in a row, were the Martians—DEAD!—slain by
  the putrefactive and disease bacteria against which their
  systems were unprepared; slain as the red weed was being
  slain; slain, after all man’s devices had failed, by the hum-
  blest things that God, in his wisdom, has put upon this earth.
  For so it had come about, as indeed I and many men
  might have foreseen had not terror and disaster blinded
  our minds. These germs of disease have taken toll of hu-
  manity since the beginning of things—taken toll of our
  prehuman ancestors since life began here. But by virtue of
  this natural selection of our kind we have developed re-
  sisting power; to no germs do we succumb without a
  struggle, and to many— those that cause putrefaction in
  dead matter, for instance —our living frames are altogether
  immune. But there are no bacteria in Mars, and directly
  these invaders arrived, directly they drank and fed, our
  microscopic allies began to work their overthrow. Already
  when I watched them they were irrevocably doomed, dy-
  ing and rotting even as they went to and fro. It was inevi-
  table. By the toll of a billion deaths man has bought his
  birthright of the earth, and it is his against all comers; it
  would still be his were the Martians ten times as mighty as
  they are. For neither do men live nor die in vain.
  Here and there they were scattered, nearly fifty alto-
  gether, in that great gulf they had made, overtaken by a
  death that must have seemed to them as incomprehensible
  as any death could be. To me also at that time this death
  was incomprehensible. All I knew was that these things
  that had been alive and so terrible to men were dead. For a
  moment I believed that the destruction of Sennacherib had
  been repeated, that God had repented, that the Angel of
  Death had slain them in the night.
  I stood staring into the pit, and my heart lightened glo-
  riously, even as the rising sun struck the world to fire about
  me with his rays. The pit was still in darkness; the mighty
  engines, so great and wonderful in their power and com-
  plexity, so unearthly in their tortuous forms, rose weird
  and vague and strange out of the shadows towards the light.
  A multitude of dogs, I could hear, fought over the bodies
  that lay darkly in the depth of the pit, far below me. Across
  the pit on its farther lip, flat and vast and strange, lay the
  great flying-machine with which they had been experiment-
  ing upon our denser atmosphere when decay and death
  arrested them. Death had come not a day too soon. At the
  sound of a cawing overhead I looked up at the huge fight-
  ing-machine that would fight no more for ever, at the tat-
  tered red shreds of flesh that dripped down upon the over-
  turned seats on the summit of Primrose Hill.
  I turned and looked down the slope of the hill to where,
  enhaloed now in birds, stood those other two Martians that
  I had seen overnight, just as death had overtaken them.
  The one had died, even as it had been crying to its com-
  panions; perhaps it was the last to die, and its voice had
  gone on perpetually until the force of its machinery was
  exhausted. They glittered now, harmless tripod towers of
  shining metal, in the brightness of the rising sun.
  All about the pit, and saved as by a miracle from ever-
  lasting destruction, stretched the great Mother of Cities.
  Those who have only seen London veiled in her sombre
  robes of smoke can scarcely imagine the naked clearness
  and beauty of the silent wilderness of houses.
  Eastward, over the blackened ruins of the Albert Ter-
  race and the splintered spire of the church, the sun blazed
  dazzling in a clear sky, and here and there some facet in
  the great wilderness of roofs caught the light and glared
  with a white intensity.
  Northward were Kilburn and Hampsted, blue and
  crowded with houses; westward the great city was dimmed;
  and southward, beyond the Martians, the green waves of
  Regent’s Park, the Langham Hotel, the dome of the Albert
  Hall, the Imperial Institute, and the giant mansions of the
  Brompton Road came out clear and little in the sunrise,
  the jagged ruins of Westminster rising hazily beyond. Far
  away and blue were the Surrey hills, and the towers of the
  Crystal Palace glittered like two silver rods. The dome of
  St. Paul’s was dark against the sunrise, and injured, I saw
  for the first time, by a huge gaping cavity on its western
  side.
  And as I looked at this wide expanse of houses and
  factories and churches, silent and abandoned; as I thought
  of the multitudinous hopes and efforts, the innumerable
  hosts of lives that had gone to build this human reef, and
  of the swift and ruthless destruction that had hung over it
  all; when I realised that the shadow had been rolled back,
  and that men might still live in the streets, and this dear
  vast dead city of mine be once more alive and powerful, I
  felt a wave of emotion that was near akin to tears.
  The torment was over. Even that day the healing would
  begin. The survivors of the people scattered over the coun-
  try—leaderless, lawless, foodless, like sheep without a
  shepherd—the thousands who had fled by sea, would be-
  gin to return; the pulse of life, growing stronger and stron-
  ger, would beat again in the empty streets and pour across
  the vacant squares. Whatever destruction was done, the
  hand of the destroyer was stayed. All the gaunt wrecks, the
  blackened skeletons of houses that stared so dismally at
  the sunlit grass of the hill, would presently be echoing with
  the hammers of the restorers and ringing with the tapping
  of their trowels. At the thought I extended my hands to-
  wards the sky and began thanking God. In a year, thought
  I—in a year. . .
  With overwhelming force came the thought of myself,
  of my wife, and the old life of hope and tender helpfulness
  that had ceased for ever.
  
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  Chapter Nine
  Wreckage
  A
  nd now comes the strangest thing in my story. Yet,
  perhaps, it is not altogether strange. I remember,
  clearly and coldly and vividly, all that I did that day until
  the time that I stood weeping and praising God upon the
  summit of Primrose Hill. And then I forget.
  Of the next three days I know nothing. I have learned
  since that, so far from my being the first discoverer of the
  Martian overthrow, several such wanderers as myself had
  already discovered this on the previous night. One man—
  the first—had gone to St. Martin’s-le-Grand, and, while I
  sheltered in the cabmen’s hut, had contrived to telegraph
  to Paris. Thence the joyful news had flashed all over the
  world; a thousand cities, chilled by ghastly apprehensions,
  suddenly flashed into frantic illuminations; they knew of it
  in Dublin, Edinburgh, Manchester, Birmingham, at the time
  when I stood upon the verge of the pit. Already men, weep-
  ing with joy, as I have heard, shouting and staying their
  work to shake hands and shout, were making up trains,
  even as near as Crewe, to descend upon London. The
  church bells that had ceased a fortnight since suddenly
  caught the news, until all England was bell-ringing. Men
  on cycles, lean-faced, unkempt, scorched along every coun-
  try lane shouting of unhoped deliverance, shouting to gaunt,
  staring figures of despair. And for the food! Across the
  Channel, across the Irish Sea, across the Atlantic, corn,
  bread, and meat were tearing to our relief. All the shipping
  in the world seemed going Londonward in those days. But
  of all this I have no memory. I drifted—a demented man. I
  found myself in a house of kindly people, who had found
  me on the third day wandering, weeping, and raving through
  the streets of St. John’s Wood. They have told me since
  that I was singing some insane doggerel about “The Last
  Man Left Alive! Hurrah! The Last Man Left Alive!”
  Troubled as they were with their own affairs, these people,
  whose name, much as I would like to express my gratitude
  to them, I may not even give here, nevertheless cumbered
  themselves with me, sheltered me, and protected me from
  myself. Apparently they had learned something of my story
  from me during the days of my lapse.
  Very gently, when my mind was assured again, did they
  break to me what they had learned of the fate of
  Leatherhead. Two days after I was imprisoned it had been
  destroyed, with every soul in it, by a Martian. He had swept
  it out of existence, as it seemed, without any provocation, as a
  boy might crush an ant hill, in the mere wantonness of power.
  I was a lonely man, and they were very kind to me. I
  was a lonely man and a sad one, and they bore with me. I
  remained with them four days after my recovery. All that
  time I felt a vague, a growing craving to look once more
  on whatever remained of the little life that seemed so happy
  and bright in my past. It was a mere hopeless desire to
  feast upon my misery. They dissuaded me. They did all
  they could to divert me from this morbidity. But at last I
  could resist the impulse no longer, and, promising faith-
  fully to return to them, and parting, as I will confess, from
  these four-day friends with tears, I went out again into the
  streets that had lately been so dark and strange and empty.
  Already they were busy with returning people; in places
  even there were shops open, and I saw a drinking fountain
  running water.
  I remember how mockingly bright the day seemed as I
  went back on my melancholy pilgrimage to the little house
  at Woking, how busy the streets and vivid the moving life
  about me. So many people were abroad everywhere, bus-
  ied in a thousand activities, that it seemed incredible that
  any great proportion of the population could have been
  slain. But then I noticed how yellow were the skins of the
  people I met, how shaggy the hair of the men, how large
  and bright their eyes, and that every other man still wore
  his dirty rags. Their faces seemed all with one of two ex-
  pressions—a leaping exultation and energy or a grim reso-
  lution. Save for the expression of the faces, London seemed
  a city of tramps. The vestries were indiscriminately dis-
  tributing bread sent us by the French government. The ribs
  of the few horses showed dismally. Haggard special con-
  stables with white badges stood at the corners of every
  street. I saw little of the mischief wrought by the Martians
  until I reached Wellington Street, and there I saw the red
  weed clambering over the buttresses of Waterloo Bridge.
  At the corner of the bridge, too, I saw one of the com-
  mon contrasts of that grotesque time—a sheet of paper
  flaunting against a thicket of the red weed, transfixed by a
  stick that kept it in place. It was the placard of the first
  newspaper to resume publication—the Daily Mail. I bought
  a copy for a blackened shilling I found in my pocket. Most
  of it was in blank, but the solitary compositor who did the
  thing had amused himself by making a grotesque scheme
  of advertisement stereo on the back page. The matter he
  printed was emotional; the news organisation had not as
  yet found its way back. I learned nothing fresh except that
  already in one week the examination of the Martian mecha-
  nisms had yielded astonishing results. Among other things,
  the article assured me what I did not believe at the time,
  that the “Secret of Flying,” was discovered. At Waterloo I
  found the free trains that were taking people to their homes.
  The first rush was already over. There were few people in
  the train, and I was in no mood for casual conversation. I
  got a compartment to myself, and sat with folded arms,
  looking greyly at the sunlit devastation that flowed past
  the windows. And just outside the terminus the train jolted
  over temporary rails, and on either side of the railway the
  houses were blackened ruins. To Clapham Junction the face
  of London was grimy with powder of the Black Smoke, in
  spite of two days of thunderstorms and rain, and at Clapham
  Junction the line had been wrecked again; there were hun-
  dreds of out-of-work clerks and shopmen working side by
  side with the customary navvies, and we were jolted over
  a hasty relaying.
  
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  All down the line from there the aspect of the country
  was gaunt and unfamiliar; Wimbledon particularly had
  suffered. Walton, by virtue of its unburned pine woods,
  seemed the least hurt of any place along the line. The
  Wandle, the Mole, every little stream, was a heaped mass
  of red weed, in appearance between butcher’s meat and
  pickled cabbage. The Surrey pine woods were too dry,
  however, for the festoons of the red climber. Beyond
  Wimbledon, within sight of the line, in certain nursery
  grounds, were the heaped masses of earth about the sixth
  cylinder. A number of people were standing about it, and
  some sappers were busy in the midst of it. Over it flaunted
  a Union Jack, flapping cheerfully in the morning breeze.
  The nursery grounds were everywhere crimson with the
  weed, a wide expanse of livid colour cut with purple shad-
  ows, and very painful to the eye. One’s gaze went with
  infinite relief from the scorched greys and sullen reds of
  the foreground to the blue-green softness of the eastward
  hills.
  The line on the London side of Woking station was
  still undergoing repair, so I descended at Byfleet station
  and took the road to Maybury, past the place where I and
  the artilleryman had talked to the hussars, and on by the
  spot where the Martian had appeared to me in the thunder-
  storm. Here, moved by curiosity, I turned aside to find,
  among a tangle of red fronds, the warped and broken dog
  cart with the whitened bones of the horse scattered and
  gnawed. For a time I stood regarding these vestiges...
  Then I returned through the pine wood, neck-high with
  red weed here and there, to find the landlord of the Spot-
  ted Dog had already found burial, and so came home past
  the College Arms. A man standing at an open cottage door
  greeted me by name as I passed.
  I looked at my house with a quick flash of hope that
  faded immediately. The door had been forced; it was unfast
  and was opening slowly as I approached.
  It slammed again. The curtains of my study fluttered
  out of the open window from which I and the artilleryman
  had watched the dawn. No one had closed it since. The
  smashed bushes were just as I had left them nearly four
  weeks ago. I stumbled into the hall, and the house felt
  empty. The stair carpet was ruffled and discoloured where
  I had crouched, soaked to the skin from the thunderstorm
  the night of the catastrophe. Our muddy footsteps I saw
  still went up the stairs.
  I followed them to my study, and found lying on my
  writing-table still, with the selenite paper weight upon it,
  the sheet of work I had left on the afternoon of the opening
  of the cylinder. For a space I stood reading over my aban-
  doned arguments. It was a paper on the probable develop-
  ment of Moral Ideas with the development of the civilising
  process; and the last sentence was the opening of a proph-
  ecy: “In about two hundred years,” I had written, “we may
  expect——” The sentence ended abruptly. I remembered
  my inability to fix my mind that morning, scarcely a month
  gone by, and how I had broken off to get my Daily
  Chronicle from the newsboy. I remembered how I went
  down to the garden gate as he came along, and how I had
  listened to his odd story of “Men from Mars.”
  I came down and went into the dining room. There were
  the mutton and the bread, both far gone now in decay, and
  a beer bottle overturned, just as I and the artilleryman had
  left them. My home was desolate. I perceived the folly of
  the faint hope I had cherished so long. And then a strange
  thing occurred. “It is no use,” said a voice. “The house is
  deserted. No one has been here these ten days. Do not stay
  here to torment yourself. No one escaped but you.”
  I was startled. Had I spoken my thought aloud? I turned,
  and the French window was open behind me. I made a step
  to it, and stood looking out.
  And there, amazed and afraid, even as I stood amazed
  and afraid, were my cousin and my wife—my wife white
  and tearless. She gave a faint cry.
  “I came,” she said. “I knew—knew——”
  She put her hand to her throat—swayed. I made a step
  forward, and caught her in my arms.
  
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  Chapter Ten
  The Epilogue
  I
   cannot but regret, now that I am concluding my story,
  how little I am able to contribute to the discussion of
  the many debatable questions which are still unsettled. In
  one respect I shall certainly provoke criticism. My par-
  ticular province is speculative philosophy. My knowledge
  of comparative physiology is confined to a book or two,
  but it seems to me that Carver’s suggestions as to the rea-
  son of the rapid death of the Martians is so probable as to
  be regarded almost as a proven conclusion. I have assumed
  that in the body of my narrative.
  At any rate, in all the bodies of the Martians that were
  examined after the war, no bacteria except those already
  known as terrestrial species were found. That they did not
  bury any of their dead, and the reckless slaughter they per-
  petrated, point also to an entire ignorance of the putrefac-
  tive process. But probable as this seems, it is by no means
  a proven conclusion.
  Neither is the composition of the Black Smoke known,
  which the Martians used with such deadly effect, and the
  generator of the Heat-Rays remains a puzzle. The terrible
  disasters at the Ealing and South Kensington laboratories
  have disinclined analysts for further investigations upon
  the latter. Spectrum analysis of the black powder points
  unmistakably to the presence of an unknown element with
  a brilliant group of three lines in the green, and it is pos-
  sible that it combines with argon to form a compound which
  acts at once with deadly effect upon some constituent in
  the blood. But such unproven speculations will scarcely
  be of interest to the general reader, to whom this story is
  addressed. None of the brown scum that drifted down the
  Thames after the destruction of Shepperton was examined
  at the time, and now none is forthcoming.
  The results of an anatomical examination of the Mar-
  tians, so far as the prowling dogs had left such an exami-
  nation possible, I have already given. But everyone is fa-
  miliar with the magnificent and almost complete specimen
  in spirits at the Natural History Museum, and the count-
  less drawings that have been made from it; and beyond
  that the interest of their physiology and structure is purely
  scientific.
  A question of graver and universal interest is the possi-
  bility of another attack from the Martians. I do not think
  that nearly enough attention is being given to this aspect of
  the matter. At present the planet Mars is in conjunction,
  but with every return to opposition I, for one, anticipate a
  renewal of their adventure. In any case, we should be pre-
  pared. It seems to me that it should be possible to define
  the position of the gun from which the shots are discharged,
  to keep a sustained watch upon this part of the planet, and
  to anticipate the arrival of the next attack.
  In that case the cylinder might be destroyed with dyna-
  mite or artillery before it was sufficiently cool for the Mar-
  tians to emerge, or they might be butchered by means of
  guns so soon as the screw opened. It seems to me that they
  have lost a vast advantage in the failure of their first sur-
  prise. Possibly they see it in the same light.
  Lessing has advanced excellent reasons for supposing
  that the Martians have actually succeeded in effecting a
  landing on the planet Venus. Seven months ago now, Ve-
  nus and Mars were in alignment with the sun; that is to say,
  Mars was in opposition from the point of view of an ob-
  server on Venus. Subsequently a peculiar luminous and
  sinuous marking appeared on the unillumined half of the
  inner planet, and almost simultaneously a faint dark mark
  of a similar sinuous character was detected upon a photo-
  graph of the Martian disk. One needs to see the drawings
  of these appearances in order to appreciate fully their re-
  markable resemblance in character.
  At any rate, whether we expect another invasion or not,
  our views of the human future must be greatly modified by
  these events. We have learned now that we cannot regard
  this planet as being fenced in and a secure abiding place
  for Man; we can never anticipate the unseen good or evil
  that may come upon us suddenly out of space. It may be
  that in the larger design of the universe this invasion from
  Mars is not without its ultimate benefit for men; it has
  robbed us of that serene confidence in the future which is
  the most fruitful source of decadence, the gifts to human
  science it has brought are enormous, and it has done much
  to promote the conception of the commonweal of man-
  kind. It may be that across the immensity of space the
  Martians have watched the fate of these pioneers of theirs
  and learned their lesson, and that on the planet Venus they
  have found a securer settlement. Be that as it may, for many
  years yet there will certainly be no relaxation of the eager
  scrutiny of the Martian disk, and those fiery darts of the
  sky, the shooting stars, will bring with them as they fall an
  unavoidable apprehension to all the sons of men.
  The broadening of men’s views that has resulted can
  scarcely be exaggerated. Before the cylinder fell there was
  a general persuasion that through all the deep of space no
  life existed beyond the petty surface of our minute sphere.
  Now we see further. If the Martians can reach Venus, there
  is no reason to suppose that the thing is impossible for
  men, and when the slow cooling of the sun makes this earth
  uninhabitable, as at last it must do, it may be that the thread
  of life that has begun here will have streamed out and caught
  our sister planet within its toils.
  Dim and wonderful is the vision I have conjured up in
  my mind of life spreading slowly from this little seed bed
  of the solar system throughout the inanimate vastness of
  sidereal space. But that is a remote dream. It may be, on
  the other hand, that the destruction of the Martians is only
  a reprieve. To them, and not to us, perhaps, is the future
  ordained.
  I must confess the stress and danger of the time have
  left an abiding sense of doubt and insecurity in my mind. I
  
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  sit in my study writing by lamplight, and suddenly I see
  again the healing valley below set with writhing flames,
  and feel the house behind and about me empty and deso-
  late. I go out into the Byfleet Road, and vehicles pass me,
  a butcher boy in a cart, a cabful of visitors, a workman on
  a bicycle, children going to school, and suddenly they be-
  come vague and unreal, and I hurry again with the
  artilleryman through the hot, brooding silence. Of a night I
  see the black powder darkening the silent streets, and the
  contorted bodies shrouded in that layer; they rise upon me
  tattered and dog-bitten. They gibber and grow fiercer, paler,
  uglier, mad distortions of humanity at last, and I wake, cold
  and wretched, in the darkness of the night.
  I go to London and see the busy multitudes in Fleet
  Street and the Strand, and it comes across my mind that
  they are but the ghosts of the past, haunting the streets that
  I have seen silent and wretched, going to and fro, phan-
  tasms in a dead city, the mockery of life in a galvanised
  body. And strange, too, it is to stand on Primrose Hill, as I
  did but a day before writing this last chapter, to see the
  great province of houses, dim and blue through the haze of
  the smoke and mist, vanishing at last into the vague lower
  sky, to see the people walking to and fro among the flower
  beds on the hill, to see the sight-seers about the Martian
  machine that stands there still, to hear the tumult of play-
  ing children, and to recall the time when I saw it all bright
  and clear-cut, hard and silent, under the dawn of that last
  great day...
  And strangest of all is it to hold my wife’s hand again,
  and to think that I have counted her, and that she has counted
  me, among the dead.
  
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  What quality does The War of the Worlds, a century-
  plus-old work of “speculative fiction,” possess that enables
  it to retain its relevance? One might reasonably expect that
  the passage of time would have long since eroded readers’
  interest in Mr. Wells’ novel, especially given the events of
  the intervening years.
  Since the novel’s publication in 1898, mankind has
  explored a sizable portion of the Red Planet, and turned
  up not so much as a single helmeted, sneaker-wearing na-
  tive. Moreover, in a complete reversal of the story’s piv-
  otal event, it is we humans who are preparing (however
  tentatively) to launch manned projectiles at Mars, with an
  eye towards adding the Red Planet to our domain.
  Yet despite the seeming ravages of time, The War of
  the Worlds has lost none of its power to be both entertain-
  ing and thought-provoking. The foremost reason for this is
  quite simple: the book is one heck of a good read. It relates
  an exciting, imaginative story, and does so in a surpris-
  ingly economical number of pages—a formula for success
  in any genre.
  In addition, the first-person narrative Wells employs,
  shorn of inauthentic flourish, reaches a “reality TV”-ob-
  sessed audience of the 21st Century in a way few of his
  contemporaries’ works can. As H. G.’s near-namesake
  Orson Welles proved four decades after the novel’s publi-
  cation, this choice of narrative grips the audience by speak-
  ing directly to it, putting it directly in the path of the Mar-
  tian death-machines, and it does so via printed words and
  the airwaves with equal effectiveness.
  The novel has also been blessed by modern reinterpre-
  tations that are (for a change) worthy of their source mate-
  rial. Indeed, what writer would not be envious of having
  his works adapted by the incomparable likes of the afore-
  mentioned Orson Welles, and renowned film-maker George
  Pal? Despite making significant changes to Wells’ semi-
  nal story, both auteurs were careful to retain The War of
  the Worlds’ essential elements, and created works that more
  than stand on their own merits. No greater testament to
  this fact exists than the likelihood that even if this
  sourcebook is your introduction to Wells’ novel, you’ve
  already seen and enjoyed Pal’s feature film version, or
  Welles’ infamous radio dramatization.
  Perhaps most essentially, The War of the Worlds touches
  upon anxieties which were only beginning to creep into
  the psyche of man in the late 19th Century, but that have
  since grown to be almost commonplace in the 21st. That
  is, the notion that mankind, despite having mastered both
  the beasts and the elements, might yet be ousted from his
  throne as supreme master of the Earth, and that once low-
  ered to the level of the animals, humans would behave no
  better than their fellow creatures.
  In the nuclear age, humanity seems far more likely to
  fall from its dominion over the world through its own mis-
  calculations than to have it usurped by outsiders, but the
  fear remains with us, unchanged. Ultimately, whether the
  causation is little green men, chemical or biological weap-
  ons (both eerily presaged by the Martians’ “Black Smoke”),
  or H-bombs, it makes no difference; terror is by its very
  nature too irrational to make any distinction.
  To be sure, there is a great deal more touched upon in
  The War of the Worlds: organized religion, the Providence
  of the Divine, colonialism, environmentalism, technology
  and its ramifications, and even what appears to be the tease
  of a sequel (at least to modern eyes, made accustomed to
  seeing Roman numerals by contemporary Hollywood).
  These rich literary elements are now yours to meld, as you
  plan your own battles in a fictional conflict that, though
  ceaselessly waged in the imaginations of countless readers
  for more than a hundred years, still shows no sign of end-
  ing.
  War of the Worlds Sourcebook
  By Christopher McGlothlin, M.Ed.
  Author’s Dedication: To Jesus Christ and my wife Tanith, who make everything good in my life possible; and to my
  grandmother Elsie McGlothlin, who was always there whenever the Martians invaded our television late at night-in
  pace Christi requiscant.
  Introduction
  
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  The War of the Worlds, in Wells’ original novel, re-
  counts the Martian invasion at the dawn of the 20th cen-
  tury in the south of England. At that time, Britain reigned
  as Earth’s preeminent military power, controlling (to vary-
  ing degrees) lands on all the inhabited continents. Never
  was the saying, “The sun never sets on the British Em-
  pire,” more true.
  During this period, Britain was also the world’s lead-
  ing economic power, and enjoyed a time of prosperity and
  plenty unseen in all of human history. It was an age of
  miracle and wonder, as a host of new inventions made life
  more productive and pleasant than could scarcely have been
  imagined previously, and with the promise of an even more
  utopian world to come, fashioned by the hand of man. Into
  this era of hubris, the Martians came, and with them, “the
  great disillusionment.”
  It should be noted that a great deal has been written
  about the real historical age and place in which The War of
  the Worlds is set, and a lone game sourcebook can but
  scratch the merest surface of it. Such limitations of space
  dictate the picture of early Edwardian England painted
  herein be done in the broadest strokes, and regrettably some
  of the setting’s nuances must be omitted.
  Despite some unavoidable historical generalizations,
  the text that follows provides your players with an intro-
  duction to the world that existed before the Martians came.
  If either the Game Master or the players wish to delve
  deeper into the Edwardian Age, they are strongly encour-
  aged to consult the plethora of good literary and online
  resources available on the topic.
  Establishing an Exact Date
  As one might expect from the creator of The Time
  Machine, precise dates are seemingly irrelevant to Wells
  in The War of the Worlds, and he provides only a scant few
  of them in the novel’s text. The book’s Narrator mentions
  the invasion takes place during an undifferentiated June,
  but Game Masters and players wishing to establish precise
  background details for their characters may want to specify
  the year. To that end, it is possible to establish one using
  other clues mentioned in the novel.
  The first forewarning of the invasion comes from as-
  tronomers observing Mars during its regular “oppositions,”
  with the first of four such occurrences noted in the novel
  occurring in mid-1894, and it is during the last of the four
  that the Martians launch their cylinders towards Earth.
  Since oppositions (wherein the Earth passes between the
  Sun and Mars, allowing us a good view of the Red Planet)
  take place at regular, 26-month intervals, we can deduce
  that the cylinders were launched sometime in 1901.
  With Mariner-4 still six decades away, Wells had no
  objective measure on which to base the Martians’ travel
  time to Earth. However, we know now that it takes an un-
  manned probe about eight months to reach Mars, and ex-
  trapolating a comparable travel time from that means the
  Martian cylinders probably do not touch down in England
  until 1902.
  While June 1902 then seems the most plausible date
  for the invasion, nothing in the novel precludes the year
  The Setting
  
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  from being moved slightly forwards or backwards if an-
  other better suits your campaign. Likewise, the background
  material and supplementary game information in this
  sourcebook can be used without change, even if your
  game’s time frame differs slightly from the conjectured year.
  Early Edwardian Britain
  British society of the early 20th Century was rather
  sharply divided along lines of class and gender. The upper
  classes consisted of the old-money wealthy, descended from
  the landed nobility of medieval times, who clung to their
  traditional positions of power and honor, while the new-
  money rich, made up of the industrialists and merchants
  who had driven the British economy to its position of pri-
  macy, pushed to displace them. Despite their clashes over
  power and prestige, old-money and nouveau riche were
  united in their love of opulence and leisure, and both en-
  joyed them in unprecedented amounts.
  In general, the lower classes (of both genders) worked
  hard, usually at some form of demanding physical labor
  such as factory work, always trying to better their lot. While
  they could not match the riches of Britain’s wealthiest resi-
  dents, the working class did enjoy an improved standard
  of living, helped along by a growing number of govern-
  ment measures aimed at improving the quality of their lives.
  Men were expected to work hard, play hard, and con-
  duct themselves as proper gentlemen at all times, and fore-
  most among a gentleman’s obligations was service to King
  and Country. Being a bread-winner was also paramount
  for a gentleman, but regardless of their station, most men
  had at least a little time for tobacco, a game of cards, and a
  nip of whiskey or pint of beer.
  Upper class women rarely practiced any profession,
  and had servants to do the housework and raise the chil-
  dren. They displayed the wealth of their husbands in their
  clothing, which became increasingly ornate and expensive.
  A variety of professions (ranging from governess to doc-
  tor) were open to middle class women, although their ac-
  ceptance in the workforce (along with the numerous work-
  ing class women that the Industrial Age spawned) was of-
  ten a topic of public debate. Masculine diversions like to-
  bacco and gambling were considered scandalously unla-
  dylike.
  Prejudicial beliefs that are now nearly eradicated were
  not only present during the Edwardian Era, but were widely
  accepted and openly acted upon. Non-white races were
  assumed to be naturally inferior, as were adherents to non-
  Protestant faiths. The latter notion perpetuated the particu-
  lar ill will between those of English descent and the Irish,
  who were then still firmly under British rule.
  Setting and Character
  Conception
  If the Game Master and players want to create charac-
  ters reflective of this era, maintaining at least some of its
  prevalent attitudes and behaviors is important. Designing
  a female character who holds a full Army General’s rank
  strains credulity past the breaking point, as does a full-
  time househusband. The presence of characters such as
  these damages the “period feel” necessary to dramatize
  the novel’s setting accurately.
  However, it is important to remember that once the
  Martian invasion commences, proper British society rap-
  idly crumbles, and the brutal fight for survival that com-
  mences afterwards makes playing a greater range of roles
  possible. Many non-traditional roles become both possible
  and plausible once the Martian onslaught begins, such as a
  stalwart woman who rallies and leads the broken remnants
  of a regiment nearly wiped out by the heat-rays, or a man
  who must care for a group of young orphan children.
  
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  The ACTION! SYSTEM is your key to joining the fight to
  stave off the fall of mankind. This chapter provides all the
  extra information you need to run games set on the front-
  lines of the war against the Martian invaders.
  Realistic, Cinematic, or
  Extreme?
  The first decision Game Masters must make is what
  ACTION! SYSTEM level to use in their campaigns. As written,
  The War of the Worlds lends itself better to some levels
  more than others, but if faithfully simulating Wells’ work
  is not the Game Master’s top priority, then more options
  become viable.
  Realistic Action! best recreates the events of the novel.
  Untold thousands die in The War of the Worlds, and in
  rather nasty ways. The book’s protagonists are wholly or-
  dinary folk. The Narrator survives almost solely due to
  dumb luck, as well as a few acts he is driven to by pure
  desperation. His Brother does manage to come out of a
  fight with three ruffians in one piece, but this owes at least
  as much to Miss Elphinstone’s revolver as to his pugilistic
  skills. Mass extermination of humans, observed by normal
  folks—that’s Realistic Action!
  Of course, it is entirely possible your players are sadly
  more familiar with, say, Independence Day than Mr. Wells’
  novel, and in that case, they may find Cinematic Action!
  more to their liking. To be sure, the Martians are going to
  be a lot less scary at this level, but a Game Master’s ulti-
  mate responsibility is to entertain the players. Therefore,
  if Cinematic Action! seems better suited to a particular
  gaming group’s preferred style of play, it is likely the best
  choice in that case despite the reduced authenticity.
  Extreme Action! goes even further to leveling the hu-
  man-Martian playing field. This is not to say that enjoy-
  able War of the Worlds games are impossible using Ex-
  treme Action! In fact, comics legend Roy Thomas recently
  penned a well-received graphic novel pitting the one and
  only Superman against Wells’ Martians. This is of course
  but one possibility, and many other types of larger-than-
  life stories may be told at this level of play. As long as the
  players understand from the start that the game strays far
  from the source material, the Game Master can take things
  to the Extreme and everyone involved can still have fun.
  Traits
  The historical and science fiction elements present in
  Wells’ story limit some ACTION! SYSTEM Traits, while others
  incorporate details specific to the setting. Unless other-
  wise noted below, Traits may be purchased as normal, un-
  less the Game Master deems otherwise, of course.
  Advantages
  Advanced: This Advantage is unavailable to human
  characters. All Martians, however, have Advanced at the
  Convenience level.
  Chapter Two: The War in Action! System
  
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  Membership: Most commonly, this Advantage is pur-
  chased for characters who are members of the British armed
  forces, or who are members of the constabulary. Both the
  British Army and Royal Navy are considered to be of Major
  Importance (there is a war on, after all), while police forces
  are of either Minor (for metropolitan constabularies, like
  London’s) or Trivial (for smaller jurisdictions) Importance.
  The various Membership ranks for these organizations
  are as follows.
  British Army Commissioned Ranks
  Rank
  Title
  Cost
  Field Marshal
  Not avail.
  10
  General
  30 Pts.
  9
  Lieutenant General
  27 Pts.
  8
  Major General
  24 Pts.
  7
  Brigadier
  21 Pts.
  6
  Colonel
  18 Pts.
  5
  Lieutenant Colonel
  15 Pts.
  4
  Major
  12 Pts.
  3
  Captain
  9 Pts.
  2
  Lieutenant
  6 Pts.
  1
  Second Lieutenant
  3 Pts.
  Royal Navy Commissioned Ranks
  Rank
  Title
  Cost
  Admiral of the Fleet
  Not avail.
  10
  Admiral
  30 Pts.
  9
  Vice Admiral
  27 Pts.
  8
  Rear Admiral
  24 Pts.
  7
  Commodore
  21 Pts.
  6
  Captain
  18 Pts.
  5
  Commander
  15 Pts.
  4
  Lieutenant Commander
  12 Pts.
  3
  Lieutenant
  9 Pts.
  2
  Sub Lieutenant
  6 Pts.
  1
  Midshipman
  3 Pts.
  British Army Enlisted Ranks
  Rank
  Title
  Cost
  5
  Sergeant Major /Colour Sgt
  10 Pts.
  4
  Sergeant
  8 Pts.
  3
  Corporal
  6 Pts.
  2
  Lance Corporal
  4 Pts.
  1
  Private
  2 Pts.
  Royal Navy Enlisted Ranks
  Rank
  Title
  Cost
  5
  Chief Petty Officer
  10 Pts.
  4
  Petty Officer
  8 Pts.
  3
  Leading Rate
  6 Pts.
  2
  Able Rate
  4 Pts.
  1
  Ordinary Rate
  2 Pts.
  Police (Constabulary) Ranks
  Rank
  Title
  Cost
  10
  Chief Inspector ranks
  10 Pts.
  9
  Superintendent
  9 Pts.
  8
  Detective Chief Inspector
  8 Pts.
  7
  Chief Inspector
  7 Pts.
  6
  Detective Inspector
  6 Pts.
  5
  Inspector
  5 Pts.
  4
  Detective Sergeant
  4 Pts.
  3
  Sergeant
  3 Pts.
  2
  Detective Constable
  2 Pts.
  1
  Police Constable
  1 Pts.
  
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  Wealthy: Fortunes in The War of the Worlds era are
  measured in British pounds (£). Using the Optional Wealth
  Table, the average annual income for a middle-class per-
  son was approximately £150. With that as a baseline, the
  levels of this Advantage are:
  Convenience (2): well to do, £750 average annual in-
  come.
  Edge (5):
  upper class, £1,500 average annual
  income.
  Gift (10):
  filthy rich, £150,000 average an-
  nual income.
  A Note on the Optional Wealth Rules: One of the bet-
  ter-suited ACTION! SYSTEM Extensions for this setting is the
  Optional Wealth rules. In a relatively class-conscious so-
  ciety like Edwardian England, money speaks with greater
  authority and clarity than normal, and continues to do so
  during the invasion for as long as some semblance of pub-
  lic order remains.
  The “Victorian England” column on the Optional
  Wealth Table (reproduced below) is accurate enough to
  use for this later setting. Should a Game Master wish to
  create a Table tailored for this era in the interests of greater
  historical precision, it still makes a good reference point
  for further research.
  Optional Wealth Table
  Lvl
  Cost
  Description
  Annual Income*
  Value
  1
  -10
  Destitute
  <1/10 average
  <£7.5
  2
  -5
  Poor
  1/5 average
  £30
  3
  -2
  Below average
  ½ average
  £ 75
  4
  0
  Middle class
  1x average
  £150
  5
  1
  Above average
  2x average
  £300
  6
  2
  Upper-middle
  5x average
  £750
  7
  4
  Well to do
  10x average
  £1,50
  8
  6
  Upper class
  20x average
  £3,000
  9
  8
  Rich
  100x average
  £15,000
  10
  10
  Filthy rich
  1,000x average
  £150,000
  Optional Wealth Rules
  The cost or value for Wealth depends on the level a
  character takes (see the table below). The default level
  is 4 for starting characters. Characters may purchase
  additional levels using the costs listed in the table be-
  low. Some suggested annual income levels (as well as
  alternate costs/values for those levels) are listed be-
  low. GMs are encouraged to determine the “average
  income” for their own campaign.
  Characters may substitute their Wealth level for an
  attribute or skill in appropriate situations, at the GM’s
  discretion. Such skill rolls could include those in so-
  cial situations where the character’s wealth is likely to
  influence the outcome or the opposing character’s atti-
  tude or decision.
  GMs may also use a simple skill roll to determine a
  character’s ability to purchase an item, treating the
  character’s Wealth as a sort of “credit rating” or “fi-
  nancial resource meter,” of sorts. To make the roll, use
  the character’s Wealth level in place of the normal At-
  tribute + Skill. The GM should set the difficulty of the
  roll based on the value or cost of the item being sought,
  using the following guideline.
  Value (up to)
  Difficulty (TN)
  Example
  £1
  Average (12)
  Stereo, suit
  £10
  Tricky (15)
  Computer, furniture,
  wardrobe
  £100
  Challenging (18)
  Car, trailer home
  £1,000
  Difficult (21)
  Single-family home,
  small yacht
  £10,000
  Demanding (24)
  Estate/manor, large
  yacht/steam ship
  £100,000
  Extreme (27)
  Small island,
  priceless artifact
  £1 million +
  Legendary (30)
  Ocean liner, crown
  jewels
  Example
  Jake Lockley is the majority share-
  holder of a national company and has a
  Wealth level of 9. Jake’s player tells the
  GM that Jake wants to buy a private
  steam ship. Using the guide above, the
  GM sets the difficulty of the roll at
  Demanding. Jake’s player rolls 3d6 (he
  rolls 15) and adds Jake’s Wealth of 9, for
  a total of 24. After a few telegraphs and
  meeting to sign a few forms, Jake is the
  proud owner of a new private steam ship,
  which will be delivered to the local port
  in a few days.
  
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  Disadvantages
  Addiction: Substance addictions suitable for the time-
  period of the novel include tobacco and alcohol (Inconve-
  nience), or, more seriously, opium (Hardship or Peril).
  Dependent: Most people in the early 20th Century
  married and had children (usually several), as per the soci-
  etal norm. Therefore, this Disadvantage (especially at the
  Hardship level) is quite commonplace.
  Distinctive Features: Due to changes in styles and
  advances in medical care, some manifestations of this Dis-
  advantage (tattoos, clothing inappropriate for one’s class
  and/or gender) were far less common in this era, while oth-
  ers (scars, physical deformities) were seen more often than
  in the present.
  Duty: Members of the armed forces or constabulary
  have this at the Hardship level prior to the onset of the
  war, and at the Peril level thereafter. Characters who have
  opted to desert their duties, or have become separated from
  their command structure (like the Artilleryman encountered
  by the Narrator) are relieved of their Duty, if not their will-
  ingness to defend the realm and its citizens.
  Illiterate: With universal education yet to take effect
  in full, this is a far more commonly found Disadvantage in
  the early 20th Century than in our own time, particularly
  amongst characters with lower-class backgrounds.
  Poverty: Using the baselines established in the Wealthy
  Advantage, above, the levels of this Disadvantage are:
  Inconvenience (-2): below average, less than £75 av-
  erage annual income.
  Hardship (-5): poor, less than £30 average annual in-
  come.
  Peril (-10): destitute, less than £7.5 average annual in-
  come.
  Primitive: This Disadvantage is inappropriate for the
  novel’s time and place, and should be disallowed unless
  the Game Master is running a campaign in an alternate
  setting.
  Social Disadvantage: The rigid class structure of early
  20th Century Britain makes this Disadvantage a common
  one between members of different social strata. At the
  Game Master’s option, members of the lower classes au-
  tomatically suffer the effects of this Disadvantage at the
  Inconvenience level when dealing with those of higher
  social classes. It is certainly possible for members of the
  higher classes to have this Disadvantage, but at high lev-
  els, it becomes a bit of a challenge to explain how they
  have managed to remain part of the upper crust of society.
  Skills
  Unless otherwise noted below, the Modern Military/
  Espionage Skill List in the ACTION! SYSTEM Core Rules works
  perfectly well for The War of the Worlds setting. This sec-
  tion also includes some clarifications for a few Skills listed
  therein.
  Arts & Crafts Skill Group
  Photography: In 1902, photography is a much more
  complicated endeavor. The equipment needed for still pho-
  tography is bulky and heavy, and the knowledge to use it
  properly is not widespread. These problems are magnified
  when it comes to the infant art of motion picture photogra-
  phy, which is still nearly three decades away from making
  the leap to “talkies.” In either form, pictures are rendered
  only in black and white.
  Athletic Skill Group
  Para: At the time of the Martian invasion, this Skill
  does not yet exist, but since powered flight (at least for
  Humans) is also nonexistent, this is not a great loss.
  Unarmed Combat: Martial arts (and the weapons as-
  sociated with them, like nunchaku) are completely unknown
  to almost all native Britons of this time. However, Brawl-
  ing, Wrestling (the amateur version, not the WWE kind),
  and Boxing are both widely known and practiced.
  Covert Skill Group
  Gambling: Characters from an upper-class background
  are unlikely to know much about any game of chance in-
  
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  volving dice, as the possession and use of such implements
  are considered scandalously lower-class.
  Education Skill Group
  Religion: While knowledge of virtually any faith may
  be acquired in this setting, characters native to Britain dur-
  ing this time are predominantly Christian in practice. The
  Church of England is the most prevalent sect in the areas
  directly affected by the Martian invasion, but people hail-
  ing from other parts of the British Isles (Irish Catholics,
  Scottish Presbyterians, and so on) are just as likely to be-
  long to other denominations.
  Research: Naturally, the Internet Specialty does not
  exist in the early 1900s.
  Heavy Weapons Skill Group
  Artillery: For humans, no Specialties of this Skill (or
  the weapons associated with them) other than Cannon ex-
  ist in the novel’s setting.
  Machine Guns: Similarly, neither the Anti-aircraft or
  Heavy Specialties of this Skill (or the weapons associated
  with them) exist in the novel’s setting.
  Missile Launchers, Portable Launchers: These Skills
  do not yet exist in the early 20th Century.
  Vehicle Weapons: For humans, only characters who
  are past or present naval gunners are allowed to purchase
  this Skill, and only the Cannon Specialty exists in this era.
  Investigation Skill Group
  Forensics: The science of crime scene investigation in
  this setting is, to be charitable, in its infancy. Scotland Yard
  hired its first crime-scene photographer in 1901, and the
  very first criminal conviction using fingerprint evidence
  did not occur until 1902. Therefore, while the Forensics
  Skill does exist, those who have it are very limited in num-
  bers, and the credibility placed in their findings is likely to
  be greeted with some skepticism.
  Surveillance: Outside of perhaps a string and two tin
  cans, there are no Bugging devices available to characters
  in this setting, and they are likewise barred from purchas-
  ing the related Skill Specialty.
  Military Science Skill Group
  Demolitions: Much to the chagrin of characters who
  must employ more-temperamental substances like dyna-
  mite and nitroglycerin, C4, and its eponymous Skill Spe-
  cialty, does not exist in this setting.
  Performance Skill Group
  Dancing: Ballroom (particularly waltzes) is the most
  popular form during this era, while Disco, Break, and sev-
  eral other Specialties listed are several decades away from
  existence.
  Small Arms Skill Group
  Black Powder Weapons: To avoid any possible con-
  fusion, it is worth mentioning that this Skill is only slightly
  less archaic in the early 20th Century than in the present.
  British soldiers all carry “modern,” clip-fed, repeating rifles
  (for all the good it does them against the Martians).
  Sub-machineguns: These weapons (and the Skill it-
  self) do not come into being until the Great War in 1914-
  18.
  Technical Skills
  Computers, Electronics, Operate Electronics: These
  Skills (and their associated devices) do not appear until
  several decades after the novel’s setting.
  Transportation Skills
  Piloting: The only versions of this Skill available in
  this setting to humans involve the knowledge of how to
  operate a Lilienthal glider, a hot-air balloon, or a dirigible.
  Each of these may be purchased as a Specialty.
  
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  Where there is war, there are invariably weapons with
  which to wage it. ACTION! SYSTEM statistics follow for the
  armaments used in The War of the Worlds, along with some
  background information on each weapon taken from his-
  torical records and the book itself.
  Pistols
  The .441 Webley & Scott revolver is the most com-
  mon handgun carried by British forces during the Martian
  invasion. The Mark III and IV Models are the most com-
  mon, but they are considered identical for game purposes.
  The Webley packs a fearsome recoil, but once the
  wielder learns to cope with its kick, it is a very reliable and
  reasonably accurate weapon. It is also a hefty one, and
  packs quite a wallop if used as a club. Reloading the Webley
  is made easier by an automatic cartridge ejecting device,
  which pushes out the spent cartridges as the frame is opened
  to refill the cylinder. Dmg: 5d6 P/L, Acc: -1, RMod: +1,
  STR Min: 4, Max: 50, RoF: 3s, Amm: 6, Wt: 2, Notes:
  DA. When used as a club, Webley revolvers have the fol-
  lowing stats: Dmg: 2d6 B/L, Size: S, Init: -1, Acc: 0, STR
  Min: 3, Wt 2.
  Rifles
  Edwardian-Era British soldiers carry standard-issue,
  bolt-action, .303 Lee-Enfield No. 1 Mark I rifles, or, in
  common usage, the MLE (Magazine Lee-Enfield). Many
  units still carry the MLE’s predecessor, the Lee-Metford,
  but the weapons are considered identical for game pur-
  poses.
  The MLE was the first in a line of what many histori-
  ans regard as the finest weapons of their kind ever pro-
  duced. One of its main advantages is its generous maga-
  zine, almost double the size of the weapons issued by other
  countries to their soldiers. The MLE’s main drawback is
  its deficient sights, which are not designed to be effective
  throughout the maximum range of the rifle (a defect the
  Boers exploited with lethal results during the 1899-1902
  war with Britain). Dmg: 5d6 P/L, Acc: +1, RMod: +3, STR
  Min: 4, Max: 400, RoF: 2s, Amm: 10, Wt: 4, Notes BA.
  The Lee-Enfield can mount an intimidating 12” sword
  bayonet, and the stats for that weapon (when mounted)
  are: Dmg: 2d6 P/L, Size: M, Init: -2, Acc: 0, STR Min: 3,
  Wt: 1. If used as a club, the MLE has the following stats:
  Dmg: 3d6 B/L, Size: M, Init: -1, Acc: 0, STR Min: 3, Wt: 4.
  Machine-guns
  Officially known as the “.303 Gun, Machine, Vickers/
  Maxim 1901,” the Maxim is a standard-issue British Army
  weapon in the early 1900s. It is the direct forebear of the
  guns that quickly came to dominate the battlefield in the
  Great War, and its effects are no less devastating on un-
  protected infantry. The weapon can be mounted on a tri-
  pod, but Maxims are usually attached to a wheeled car-
  Chapter Three: Weapons
  
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  riage (like an artillery piece). The Maxim’s ammunition
  feeds into the gun on 250-round cloth belts.
  The attached 4-liter canister of water used to cool the
  weapon does its job effectively for about 3 minutes’ worth
  of sustained fire. At that point, the liquid begins to turn to
  steam, which is then vented out of the weapon-often a fatal
  giveaway for a machine-gun crew in an otherwise concealed
  position. Dmg 5d6+2 Type P/L Acc +2 RMod +5 STR
  Min 3 Max 1000 RoF 20 Amm 250 Wt 27 Notes Tripod;
  AF.
  Artillery
  Common British artillery pieces of this era are the 12-
  and 15-pound field guns, and the 5” howitzer. All are horse-
  drawn, breech-loading, crew-served weapons, capable of
  devastating large amounts of real estate with sustained fire
  of high-explosive rounds. As the only weapons shown to
  be capable of taking down a Martian fighting machine,
  such artillery pieces become all-important to British at-
  tempts to repel the invasion.
  The stats for the 12-pounder are already in the ACTION!
  SYSTEM Core Rules, under “Field cannon, medium.” Rel-
  evant numbers for the other weapons are as follows: 15-
  pounder: Dmg: 16d6 P/L, Acc: +1, RMod: +3, STR Min:
  Crew, Max: 1000, RoF: 1/10, Amm: 1, Wt: 1000; 5” how-
  itzer: Dmg: 18d6 P/L, Acc: +2, RMod: +2, STR Min:
  Crew, Max: 5km, RoF: 1/10, Amm: 1, Wt: 1000.
  Naval Guns
  As evinced by the attack of the ironclad ram HMS Thun-
  der Child on the Martian fighting machines, the British
  Empire’s most formidable force is the Royal Navy. While
  the age of the dreadnought battleships has yet to dawn in
  the novel’s setting, His Majesty’s Ships still pack a con-
  siderable punch.
  Warships of this era carry an array of guns of different
  types and caliber, topping out with the 12” main armament
  of the newest battleships. These vessels (like the London
  class battleships) typically carry four such guns, paired in
  rotating turrets. The stats for these massive weapons are as
  follows: Dmg: 22d6 P/L, Acc: +3, RMod: +8, STR Min:
  Crew, Max: 40 km, RoF: 1/20, Amm: 1, Wt: 25 tons.
  Civilian Weapons
  During the events of the novel, panicked citizens arm
  themselves with whatever implements are at hand, typi-
  cally with common Melee Weapons like Clubs and Knives.
  After England’s many castles and museums are looted by
  desperate folk, more ancient and exotic armaments (such
  as the cutlass wielded by the Artilleryman when the Narra-
  tor encounters him on Putney Hill) may also be encoun-
  tered. It is conceivable that axes, swords, pole-arms, and
  the like, find their way into the hands of refugees as well.
  Firearms are a good deal scarcer, and are usually car-
  ried only by the well-to-do, who could actually afford to
  purchase them. Fowling pieces are fairly common, and are
  similar to the 12-gauge shotgun in the ACTION! SYSTEM Core
  Rules. Hunting rifles resemble the MLE above, but many
  are of a smaller caliber, consequently inflicting less Dam-
  age (between 2d6 and 4d6).
  The most readily available type of firearm is the re-
  volver, and it can even be found in the hands of the lower
  classes (particularly those who make their living in less-
  than-honorable pursuits). Few civilian handguns have the
  stopping power of the Webley, though, and inflict only
  between 1d6 and 4d6 points of Penetrating/Lethal dam-
  age. Whatever the weapon, most civilians are short on
  ammunition, being much better prepared for a bit of game-
  hunting than an all-out war.
  
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  Martian Weapons &
  Equipment
  For all the ingenuity of man, none of his weapons are a
  match for the devastating power of the Martian implements
  of war. Avoiding their lethal effects is a major concern for
  the players, followed closely by their interest in finding
  some way to counteract them. In any case, here is how the
  Martian armory rates in the ACTION! SYSTEM.
  The Landing Cylinders
  The Martians’ invasion and planned evacuation of their
  dying world was made feasible by their bullet-like landing
  cylinders. Ten such projectiles were observed being
  launched from Mars, and seven of them are known to have
  arrived on Earth (all during the first week of the invasion),
  giving the Martians a powerful force with which to con-
  quer England.
  These capsules are massive constructs capable of hold-
  ing five fighting machines, the necessary support machines,
  all personnel needed to operate them, their provisions, and
  a substantial amount of basic manufacturing components.
  They are also quite sturdy; capable of surviving and pro-
  tecting occupants from the shock and g-forces attendant
  with being launched from the massive interplanetary guns
  on Mars, the extreme cold of space, the heat of entry into
  the Earth’s atmosphere, and the impact of landing.
  After touchdown, the landing cylinders serve as safe
  havens while their occupants adjust to Earth’s environment
  and prepare the machines within for battle. This is impor-
  tant because, for an interval after the landing, the cylinder’s
  exterior surface remains too hot for the Martians to leave
  the insulated interior. Once cooled, the screw-top is opened
  and the fighting machines emerge and begin their assaults.
  After a perimeter is secured, the Martians construct bases
  near the now-empty cylinders, presumably in case they are
  needed as bunkers for the more fragile Martian support
  equipment, such as the handling machines.
  In game terms, the landing cylinders have an Armor
  Value of 30, and can take 100 Hits. A cylinder is large
  enough to provide cover for the cargo listed above, or an
  equivalent volume.
  The Fighting Machines
  The Martian onslaught upon the Earth is carried out by
  Fighting Machines, walking armored juggernauts. Though
  they lack tracked locomotion, both their military deploy-
  ment and the sheer terror they engender in those who be-
  hold them is remarkably similar to that of the first armored
  vehicles used in warfare (which is one of the reasons Wells’
  novel is so remarkable, considering tanks did not appear
  for another two decades after its publication). Like the tanks
  of the Great War, they are horrifying embodiments of sci-
  ence and industry given over to murderous ends, a night-
  mare for flesh-and-blood man given metallic form.
  Based on the descriptions given by the Narrator and
  the Artilleryman, and the fact that the Martians came pre-
  pared to manufacture aluminum once on Earth, Martian
  fighting machines are probably made of aluminum. The
  whole construct is massive, standing nearly 100 feet in
  height. The machines consist of a main section that re-
  sembles a “headlike hood,” said to “[turn] about exactly
  like the head of a cowled human being.”
  The main section allows the machine’s operator to re-
  ceive a steady supply of Earth’s invigorating, oxygen-rich
  atmosphere. Because of this, the main section carries de-
  vices capable of spraying concentrated jets of steam, used
  to neutralize the Black Smoke.
  Mounted atop the main section is an armature that car-
  ries the machine’s deadly main armament, the Heat Ray.
  Also attached to the main section are a number of flexible
  metal tentacles; presumably, like the Martians’ own ap-
  pendages, there are sixteen of them, mounted in two groups
  of eight on opposing sides.
  One night after the Martians’ arrival, the narrator ob-
  serves a beam of light issuing forth from the pit where the
  first cylinder landed, just prior to the Heat Ray firing.
  Though this evidence is inconclusive, it suggests the fight-
  ing machine relies on a conventional spotlight-type device
  to find targets in low-light conditions. If so, it may ema-
  nate from the Heat Ray’s mounting itself, or from another
  armature entirely.
  The machines move along on three elongated, leg-like
  structures. When in motion, the legs produce a distinctive
  “ringing” sound, and expel puffs of an apparently harm-
  
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  less green smoke. Despite the impression some viewers
  take away from the 1953 motion-picture version, the fight-
  ing machines in the original novel can move at a fairly
  rapid pace, “fast as flying birds.” When necessary, the legs
  can fold and shorten, allowing the operator to enter and
  leave the machine.
  Through unspecified means, the fighting machines are
  capable of projecting a number of distinct, loud sounds in
  order to signal to one another. At least two are mentioned
  in the novel, and based on the descriptions given, they are
  used both to call for reinforcements or request a rendez-
  vous (“Aloo! Aloo!”), and to signal distress (“Ulla, ulla,
  ulla, ulla”).
  On at least some of the fighting machines, back of and
  to the rear of the main section, is a metallic, basket-like
  structure used to contain captives. Humans caught by the
  tentacles are hoisted into the basket for transport to a base
  at a cylinder-landing site. The tentacles can also be used to
  carry and fire additional armaments, such as the portable
  launching tubes for the Black Smoke canisters.
  Tactically, the Martians deploy fighting machines in
  groups of varying sizes, with the exact number depending
  on the size of their objective and anticipated opposition
  (not invariably multiples of three, as depicted in the movie
  version). The number committed to any given operation
  was initially small (around five or less, prior to the first
  loss of a machine to human weapons), but was expanded
  thereafter, particularly when the attack was preceded by
  mass bombardment of an area with the Black Smoke.
  In game terms, a fighting machine has an Armor Value
  of 30 and can take 60 Hits. It has a Move of 70, and each
  tentacle has a STR of 12. The stats for the fighting ma-
  chines’ other weapons are found in their respective en-
  tries.
  The Flying Machine
  Perhaps the most wondrous of all the Martian convey-
  ances is their flying machine. While the Narrator does not
  recognize it for what it is, his brother gets the first glance
  at the flying machine in action: “Something rushed up into
  the sky...slantingly upward and very swiftly... something
  flat and broad and very large, that swept round in a vast
  curve, grew smaller, sank slowly, and vanished again...into
  the night. And as it flew it rained down darkness upon the
  land.”
  The Narrator himself also sees the craft, abandoned
  and ground-bound, describing it as “flat and vast and
  strange.” There are no recorded close-up observations of
  the craft, so it is a matter of pure supposition as to what
  propelled it, what its full capabilities were, and so on. The
  Narrator states that due to the much heavier atmosphere of
  Earth, the Martians were still experimenting, testing the
  limits of its performance away from Mars, at the time of
  the invasion’s conclusion.
  Based on the account of the Narrator’s Brother, the
  Martians employed the flying machine as a tactical bomber,
  presumably dropping canisters of Black Smoke on help-
  less and unsuspecting populations. In game terms, a flying
  machine has an Armor Value of 30, can take 60 Hits, and
  has a Move of 800. The stats for Black Smoke are found in
  its individual entry, with provision in the flying machine to
  carry at least 12 canisters.
  
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  The Heat Ray
  Despite multiple post-war examinations by British sci-
  entists (which, admittedly, ended disastrously), the precise
  workings of the Martian Heat Ray device remain purely
  speculative. It is hypothesized that the Ray is generated
  inside a non-conductive chamber, and is then projected
  through a parabolic mirror of some sort.
  The Ray itself issues forth from a metallic case resem-
  bling a camera mounted on an armature attached to the
  fighting machines. No other type of vehicle was observed
  carrying such a weapon, but this does not necessarily indi-
  cate that they never are carried by other vehicles, or that
  the Martians could not arm, say, a handling machine, if the
  need arose. When activated, the Ray itself is completely
  invisible to the naked eye. The armature emits green-col-
  ored flashes when in motion, but it does not give any indi-
  cation of when the weapon is energized.
  As a weapon, the Heat Ray’s lethality is demonstrated
  time and again during the Martian invasion. The Narrator
  describes its effects: “Whatever is combustible flashes into
  flame at its touch, lead runs like water, it softens iron, cracks
  and melts glass, and when it falls upon water, incontinently
  that explodes into steam.” The only things observed to
  shield targets adequately from the Ray are warship armor
  (like the hull of the HMS Thunder Child), and large quan-
  tities of water (such as after the Narrator’s desperate dive
  into the River Wey).
  Tactically, the Heat Ray was the Martians’ weapon of
  choice in the early stages of the war, and it was not until a
  fighting machine was lost in combat that the Black Smoke
  was deployed alongside it. The Martians’ use of the Heat
  Ray declined noticeably as the fighting machines ap-
  proached the city of London, and this suggests their doc-
  trines regarding the weapon prohibited or limited its use in
  some circumstances, such as in the vicinity of structures
  they wished to capture intact. However, the Narrator specu-
  lates the sparing of the Heat Ray may really be due to a
  shortage in whatever material(s) is used to fuel the weapon,
  and this hypothesis cannot be ruled out.
  In game terms, use of the Heat Ray projector is gov-
  erned by the Vehicle Weapons Skill, and the weapon has
  its own Specialty (both are available only to Martian char-
  acters, of course). It has the following game statistics: Dmg
  24d6 Type P/L Acc +2 RMod +4 STR Min Crew Max 135
  RoF 1 Amm Unlimited (?) Wt 350.
  The Black Smoke
  The most feared of all Martian weapons, the Black
  Smoke kills indiscriminately, en masse, and there is no
  defense against it known to mankind. Its deployment on
  the battlefield single-handedly shattered the morale of the
  British people, and very nearly wins the war for the Mar-
  tians.
  Black Smoke is stored inside rocket-like canister pro-
  jectiles, which are launched from thick, ebon tubes carried
  by the fighting machines’ tentacles. The launching tubes
  were not carried by Martian machines during the early
  stages of the invasion, and the reasons for refraining from
  using them right from the start likely relate to preserving
  as much of the available supply of humans as possible.
  The Martians probably considered Black Smoke a weapon
  of last resort, given that they deployed it only after high
  explosives proved capable of disabling a fighting machine.
  When fired, the rockets produce a violent recoil, ca-
  pable of shaking the ground itself in the launcher’s imme-
  diate vicinity, but they give off no chemical exhaust (no
  smoke, flash, and so on). Their exact means of propulsion
  is unknown. The canisters do not explode, but on impact
  they begin releasing the Smoke in a manner which sug-
  gests their contents are stored under pressure.
  The Smoke itself is somewhat heavier than air, and is
  much thicker than mundane combustion smoke. As a re-
  sult, the Smoke is naturally drawn to low-lying areas such
  as ditches and gullies. The Smoke can rise no more than
  
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  about fifty feet above ground level, and a number of people
  that climbed up to treetops, rooftops, and hills of suffi-
  cient height were able to escape its lethal effects.
  Its exact composition has never been determined, but
  postwar studies postulate that argon combines with an uni-
  dentified chemical in the Smoke to attack the bloodstream.
  Unlike normal gaseous matter, over time it degrades into
  an apparently harmless black dust. When in contact with
  water, the Smoke likewise turns to dust, but does not dis-
  solve in it. Therefore, the water remains potable once the
  dust is filtered out. In fact, when the Martians needed to
  clear an area of the Smoke, they dispersed it with jets of
  concentrated steam, issued from the fighting machines. This
  suggests the Martians themselves are vulnerable to the
  Smoke, but neither of these useful bits of information are
  widely known until long after the invasion ends.
  Tactically, the Black Smoke is used to clear out areas
  that might conceal human artillery units. All potential hid-
  ing places are hit with canisters, without exception (vis-
  ible guns are struck with the Heat Ray instead).
  In game terms, the Artillery Skill governs use of the
  Black Smoke, and the launcher has its own Specialty (both
  are available only to Martian characters, of course). The
  canisters and launcher have the following statistics: Dmg
  18d6 Type Sp/L Acc +1 RMod +3 STR Min Crew Max
  110 RoF 1 Amm 5+ Wt 1000 Notes EX. The Damage stays
  constant throughout the explosion’s area, and is inflicted
  every turn. The Smoke persists for a period of about 36
  hours (or less, if strong winds and/or water act to disperse
  it).
  Based on the Narrator’s description, the Black Smoke
  is almost instantly fatal once inhaled. However, given how
  slow the Smoke travels, it seems that people should have
  been able to simply hold their breath and outrun the cloud,
  but this does not happen. Therefore, if the Game Master
  so wishes, the Black Smoke inflicts Damage on contact,
  even if the target is holding his breath.
  The Handling Machine
  The Handling Machine is the Martians’ primary con-
  struction tool, and it is used to assemble various parts
  (brought aboard the landing cylinders) into the necessary
  support and manufacturing facilities. Not only do these
  single-occupant vehicles counteract the effects of Earth’s
  higher gravity on the Martians, they carry out construction
  tasks far more quickly and efficiently than any human ma-
  chine.
  The Narrator recounts them as being crab- or spider-
  like, with five propulsive legs and an array of tentacles,
  jointed levers, and bars on various parts of its body, all
  well-suited for performing a wide variety of tasks. Since
  the Narrator provides a detailed description of the han-
  dling machine’s operator, it is assumed to have some sort
  of large, clear canopy.
  Like all Martian technology, the handling-machine does
  not incorporate wheels into any of its mechanisms. Rather,
  its motion derives from a complex system of artificial
  musculature made up of stretchable sheaths, inside which
  disks alternately attract and repel each other using electri-
  cal currents.
  Handling machines carry no visible armaments. This,
  combined with their criticality to the Martian war effort,
  dictates that such devices are kept far from the front lines
  of battle and restricted to bases near the landing cylinders.
  In an emergency, a handling machine might be able to wield
  a Black Smoke launching tube, but its tentacles make for-
  midable weapons in their own right.
  In game terms, handling machines have an Armor Value
  of 30 and can take 45 Hits. They have a Move of 30, and
  each tentacle has a STR of 12.
  The Digging Machine
  The Narrator observes one of these devices in action,
  as it expels green smoke and excavates a crater formed by
  a cylinder’s landing impact. Martians employ such craters
  as entrenchments to shield their support machinery and fac-
  tories, making the digging machine a highly useful tool.
  Amazingly, this device seems to carry out its appointed
  tasks without direct Martian guidance.
  This suggests a high degree of advancement on the
  Martians’ part in the field of robotics (a term the humans
  have yet to coin). Since they obviously do not make use of
  this technology in other areas, it is assumed that the dig-
  ging machine, while capable of acting in the absence of
  continuous direction, can do no more than carry out a set
  of pre-programmed instructions. Such instructions are in
  all likelihood limited to various digging-related activities.
  In game terms, digging machines have an Armor Value
  of 30 and can take 20 Hits. They have a Move of 15, and
  can move earth with a STR of 12.
  
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  Human Weapons
  Makeshift Weapons
  Weapon
  Dmg
  Type
  Size
  Init
  Acc
  STR Min
  Wt
  Cost
  Notes
  Chain
  3d6
  B/L
  M/L
  -2
  -1
  3
  1
  —
  Found on bicycles, in
  shops, etc.
  Chair leg
  2d6
  B/L
  M
  0
  0
  2
  1
  —
  Common; wood
  Club
  3d6
  B/L
  M
  -1
  0
  3
  1
  —
  Tree limb, boat oar, etc.
  Cricket bat
  3d6
  B/L
  M
  -1
  0
  3
  2
  Found in schools, Cricket
  fields, etc.
  Dowel/pole, long
  3d6
  B/L
  L
  -1
  0
  3
  2
  Large curtain rod, hoe
  shaft, staff
  Fireplace poker
  3d6
  B/L
  M
  -1
  0
  3
  2
  Treat as P/L if point used/
  thrust attack
  Kick
  Special
  B/S
  M
  0
  0
  0
  0
  —
  Does dmg for STR+1 (see
  STR Table)
  Punch
  Special
  B/S
  S
  0
  0
  0
  0
  —
  Does dmg based on STR
  (see STR Table)
  Shovel, metal
  4d6
  B/L
  M
  -2
  0
  3
  2
  Found on farms, in coal
  cellars, etc.
  Pistol (as club weapon)
  2d6
  B/L
  S
  -1
  0
  3
  2
  —
  When used to pistol whip
  Rifle (as club weapon)
  3d6
  B/L
  M
  -1
  0
  3
  4
  When used to butt stroke,
  bash, etc.
   ‘Modern’ Melee Weapons
  Weapon
  Dmg
  Type
  Size
  Init
  Acc
  STR Min
  Wt
  Cost
  Notes
  Billy club, police
  1d6
  B/L
  M
  0
  0
  2
  .5
  —
  Police/constable weapon
  Bayonet
  2d6
  P/L
  M
  -2
  0
  3
  .5
  —
  Adds to rifle weight; avail
  to soldiers
  Bayonet, 12” (rifle)
  2d6
  P/L
  M
  -2
  0
  3
  1
  —
  Size is ‘S’ when not
  mounted on rifle
  Cane sword
  2d6
  P/L
  M
  0
  0
  3
  .5
  Uncommon
  Cutlass
  3d6
  P/L
  M
  0
  0
  3
  3
  Officer’s dress sword
  Fencing foil
  2d6
  P/L
  M
  0
  0
  3
  .5
  Found in schools and
  some estates
  Hatchet
  2d6
  P/L
  M
  0
  0
  3
  1
  Found on farms, some
  stores
  Knife, small
  1d6
  P/L
  S
  0
  0
  2
  .25
  Common
  Whip
  1d6
  B/L
  L
  -2
  -1
  3
  .5
  Rare; found in circuses, etc.
  Archaic Melee Weapons*
  Weapon
  Dmg
  Type
  Size
  Init
  Acc
  STR Min
  Wt
  Cost
  Notes
  Ax, battle
  4d6
  P/L
  M
  -2
  -1
  5
  10
  Rare; Saxon weapon
  Ax, hand
  2d6
  P/L
  M
  0
  0
  3
  1
  Uncommon
  Broadsword
  4d6
  P/L
  M
  -1
  0
  4
  6
  Uncommon
  Flail
  3d6
  P/L
  M
  -1
  -1
  3
  5
  Spiked ball and chain;
  common
  Halberd
  4d6
  P/L
  L
  -2
  -1
  4
  5
  Beefeater polearm;
  uncommon
  Long sword
  3d6
  P/L
  M
  0
  0
  3
  3
  Uncommon
  Mace
  3d6
  B/L
  M
  0
  0
  3
  4
  Spiked ball on shaft;
  uncommon
  Pike
  4d6
  P/L
  L
  -2
  -1
  3
  4
  Rare
  Rapier
  3d6
  P/L
  M
  0
  0
  3
  3
  Rare
  Two-handed sword
  5d6
  P/L
  M
  -1
  -1
  4
  7
  Claymore; rare
  *Found in museums, castles, etc.
  
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  Simple Missile Weapons
  Weapon
  Dmg
  Type
  Acc
  Rmod
  STR Min
  Max
  RoF
  Amm
  Wt Cost
  Notes
  Crossbow, small
  2d6
  P/L
  0
  +2
  3
  50
  1/3
  1
  2
  Uncomm., archaic
  Crossbow, heavy
  3d6
  P/L
  -1
  +1
  4
  50
  1/4
  1
  3.5
  Rare; archaic
  Longbow
  4d6
  P/L
  0
  +2
  4
  150
  1/2
  1
  3
  Rare
  Short bow
  3d6
  P/L
  0
  +2
  3
  100
  1/2
  1
  2
  Uncommon
  Sling
  2d6
  B/L
  -1
  +1
  3
  100
  1/3
  1
  .1
  Rare
  Slingshot
  1d6
  B/L
  0
  +2
  2
  25
  1
  1
  .1
  Common
  Modern Small Arms
  Weapon
  Dmg
  Type
  Acc
  Rmod STR Min Max
  RoF Amm
  Wt Cost
  Notes
  Pistols (by caliber)
  .25 ACP semi-auto
  1d6
  P/L
  -1
  +1
  2
  50
  4s
  6
  .5
  SA
  .22 short semi-auto
  1d6
  P/L
  -1
  +2
  2
  50
  4s
  6
  .5
  SA
  .32 ACP snub-nose
  2d6
  P/L
  -1
  +1
  3
  50
  3s
  6
  1
  RD
  .32 ACP revolver
  2d6
  P/L
  0
  +2
  3
  50
  3s
  6
  1
  RD
  .22 LR semi-auto
  2d6
  P/L
  -1
  +1
  2
  50
  4s
  12
  1
  SA
  9mm short
  2d6+2
  P/L
  0
  +2
  3
  50
  4s
  6
  1.5
  SA
  .45 ACP (1865)
  3d6
  P/L
  0
  +2
  3
  50
  2s
  6
  2
  Peacemaker, RS
  9mm Para
  4d6
  P/L
  0
  +2
  3
  50
  4s
  15
  2
  SA
  .357 Mag. snub-nose
  4d6
  P/L
  -1
  +1
  3
  50
  3s
  6
  1.5
  RD
  .357 Mag. 6” barrel
  4d6
  P/L
  0
  +2
  3
  50
  3s
  6
  2
  RD
  .441 Webley & Scott
  5d6
  P/L
  -1
  +1
  4
  50
  3s
  6
  2
  DA
  Rifles (by caliber)
  .22 carbine
  2d6
  P/L
  +1
  +3
  3
  200
  4s
  10
  1.5
  9mm short
  2d6+2
  P/L
  +1
  +3
  3
  200
  4s
  5
  1
  .303 Lee-Enfield Mk I
  5d6
  P/L
  +1
  +3
  4
  400
  2s
  10
  4
  BA
  12 gauge, buckshot
  5d6
  P/L
  +2
  +3
  5
  100
  1
  1
  3
  single barrel;
  ½ dmg after 50m
  16 gauge, buckshot
  4d6
  P/L
  +2
  +4
  5
  100
  1
  2
  3
  double barrel; ½
  dmg after 50m
  20 gauge, birdshot
  3d6
  P/L
  +2
  +4
  5
  100
  1
  2
  3
  double barrel; ½
  dmg after 50m
  Heavy Weapons & Misc
  Weapon
  Dmg
  Type
  Acc
  Rmod
  STR Min
  Max
  RoF
  Amm
  Wt Cost
  Notes
  Machine-guns (by caliber)
  .303 Vickers/Maxim
  5d6
  P/L
  +2
  +5
  3
  1000
  20
  250
  27
  on tripod; AF
  Cannons
  12-pounder
  15d6
  B/L
  +1
  +3
  Crew
  1000
  1/10
  1
  1000
  19th cent.
  15-pounder
  16d6
  P/L
  +1
  +3
  Crew
  1000
  1/10
  1
  1000
  5” howitzer
  18d6
  P/L
  +2
  +5
  Crew
  5km
  1/10
  1
  1000
  Ship’s gun, 12-in.
  22d6
  P/L
  +3
  +7
  Crew
  40 km
  1/20
  1
  25 tons
  ship cannon
  Martian Weapons
  Weapon
  Dmg
  Type
  Acc
  Rmod
  STR Min
  Max
  RoF
  Amm
  Wt Cost
  Notes
  Heat ray
  24d6
  Sp/L
  +2
  +4
  Crew
  135
  1
  1
  350
  —
  AP
  Black smoke canister
  18d6
  Sp/L
  +1
  +3
  Crew
  110
  1
  5+
  1000
  —
  EX, Special (see
  text); lasts 36 hrs
  Martian Vehicle Stats
  AV
  Hits Move
  Notes
  Cylinder
  30
  100
  —
  Fighting machine
  30
  60
  70
  Heat Ray 24d6, Tentacle STR 12
  Flying machine
  30
  60
  800
  12 Black Smoke canisters 18d6 EX.
  Handling machine
  30
  45
  30
  Tentacle STR 12
  Digging machine
  30
  20
  15
  STR 12 to move earth
  
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  While scientific investigation has uncovered at least a
  few facts about Martian physiology and technology, their
  ancient culture and history remain unknown. This section
  collects what is known about the invaders’ physiology, and
  provides the game information necessary to incorporate
  this data into your ACTION! SYSTEM campaigns.
  Martian Biology
  Though their intellects are vast, Martians are very un-
  complicated creatures physically. Whether by nature or
  design, they are little more than a brain and some neces-
  sary support organs.
  External Structures
  Martian bodies are covered by oily-brown skin, and
  consist of a largish head (about four feet in diameter) and
  some manipulatory appendages. One adaptation to living
  on Mars is their seeming immunity to extremes in the am-
  bient temperature, and as a result, Martians do not wear
  clothing of any kind.
  Martians have a pair of large, dark-colored eyes
  (adapted to the dimmer illumination found on Mars) lo-
  cated on the front of the head above the V-shaped, beak-
  like mouth. Their range of vision is roughly the same as
  for a human, except that blue and violet look black to a
  Martian. A single tympanic area on the back of the head
  allows them to perceive sound. Martians have no sense of
  smell, as they lack nostrils or olfactory organs of any kind.
  Internal Structures
  On either side of the mouth are opposing structures
  called “hands,” each of which has eight, very thin tentacles
  attached. Not only are these appendages used to grasp and
  control objects, the Martians can use them for locomo-
  tion—something the higher gravity of Earth prohibits, re-
  ducing them to a slow, agonizing crawl.
  Internally, the largest organs are their highly developed
  brains, and their lungs, expanded to cope with the thin
  Martian atmosphere. On Earth, the Martians are invigo-
  rated by the oxygen-rich atmosphere, and this compensates
  somewhat for the higher gravity, allowing them some in-
  dependent movement. They have a heart and circulatory
  system, but no digestive or reproductive organs whatso-
  ever. Martians multiply asexually, with their young form-
  ing as “lily-buds” which simply drop off their parent when
  sufficiently developed.
  Martians do not excrete in any way, and exist on only
  one food-source: the blood of other living creatures, which
  they transfuse into their own systems via a feeding pipette.
  On Mars, the blood is drawn from a native creature, but
  once on Earth, captured humans become the Martians’
  source of nourishment. No more than two or three of the
  native man-sized creatures are found aboard each landing
  cylinder, which indicates the Martians’ need for food is
  either small, infrequent, or both.
  The Martians’ brains have no need for sleep, and they
  work ceaselessly at some activity or another, without any
  need for rest. Furthermore, based on the Narrator’s obser-
  Chapter Three: The Martians
  
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  vations, the Martians are to some extent telepathic, at least
  amongst their own kind. The Narrator evades detection
  while making these observations, indicating that Martians
  cannot read or sense human minds.
  Lastly, and most critically, Mars has no microorgan-
  isms of any kind. As a result, Martians have no immune
  system or other natural defense against germs or infection.
  Other Martian Life Forms
  There is at least one other form of sentient life found
  on Mars—the nameless race that serves as livestock for
  the invading Martians, and whose bodies were found aboard
  the landing cylinders completely drained of blood. Based
  on their remains, the Martian “cattle”are tall (about six feet)
  bipeds, with puny muscles wrapped over a fragile, sponge-
  like, silicon-based skeleton. Their bones, suited to life in
  Mars’ lighter gravity, would have been shattered by the
  merest movement on Earth, had any been left alive at the
  time of the Martian landings.
  Deliberately or accidentally, a number of different types
  of seeds accompanied the invaders from Mars, but only
  one variety managed to take hold and grow on Earth—the
  red weed. Also known as the red creeper, this plant was,
  like all known Martian vegetation, blood-red in color. The
  red weed grew at a rapid rate in Earth’s soil, but inevitably
  died just as swiftly, utterly unable to resist the ravages of
  Terran microorganisms.
  Game Statistics
  The Martian stats that follow are intended for use in a
  Realistic level campaign. Game Masters may wish to ad-
  just these numbers for Cinematic or Extreme level ACTION!
  SYSTEM games. Note that these numbers represent a
  Martian’s capabilities while on Earth, and reflect the del-
  eterious effects of Earth’s environment upon them.
  Action! System
  STR 2, REF 2, HLT 2, PRE 1, INT 10, WIL 8
  DEF 12, INI 6, TGH 5, LIF 22, MOV 4
  Dmg: 1d6, Lift:25kg, Avg Intiative: 9, Stun: 11, Criti-
  cal: 8
  Advantages: Advanced (+3 w/Earth technical
  skills; Conv.), Ambidextrous (No penalty; Edge), Cool
  Headed (+6; Edge), Highly Focused (+6; Edge), Phys.
  Adv. (Telepathic w/members of own race; Edge), Well
  Rested (No rest at all; Gift)
  Disadvantages: Impaired Sense (No smell/taste;
  Peril), Phys. Disad. (Can’t Run  or Sprint; Hardship),
  Short (Max. MOV=6; Inconv.), Short-Lived (3 weeks;
  Peril), Unattractive (-9 to social skill rolls; Peril)
  Skills: Concentration +5, Artillery (Black Smoke
  Launcher +4) +1,
  Vehicle Weapons (Heat Ray
  +4) +1, Strategy +4, Tactics +4, Science Skill Group
  +4, Electrician +4, Engineering +4, Mechanic +4, Driv-
  ing (Walking vehicles +4) +1, Piloting (Flying Machines
  +4) +1
  d20 System
  Species Traits
  Blindsight (Ex): The creature does not need to make
  Spot or Listen checks to sense creatures within 20 ft.
  Damage Reduction 3/- (Su): The creature ignores 3
  points of damage from any bludgeoning attack.
  Fear Aura (Su): Anyone within 10 ft. of the creature
  must make a Will save (DC 12) or be paralyzed with fear for
  1d4 rounds. Whether or not the save is successful, that creature
  cannot be affected again by that martian's fear ability for one day.
  Low-light Vision (Ex): The creature sees twice as far as
  normal in poor lighting conditions. It can still distinguish
  colors, even in dim lighting.
  Power Resistance (Ex): The creature has a power resis-
  tance of 10 against psionic powers and attacks.
  Telepathy (Su): Martians with an Intelligence of 6 or
  higher can communicate telepathically with other Martians
  within 100 feet of them.
  Martian: CR 1; Medium-size aberration; HD 4d8-8; hp
  10; Mas 9; Init +2; Spd 10 ft.; Defense 10, touch 8, flat-
  footed 12 (-2 Dex, +2 natural); BAB +3; Grap +1; Atk +1
  melee (1d4-2, tentacle); Full Atk +1 melee (1d4-2, 16 ten-
  tacles), or +1 ranged (Martian weaponry); FS 5 ft. by 5 ft.;
  Reach 10 ft. (how long are the tentacles? Probably should be
  5 ft.); SQ blindsight, damage reduction 3/- (bludgeoning
  weapons only), fear aura, low-light vision, power resistance 10,
  telepathy; AL Martian forces; SV Fort +1, Ref -1, Will +10;
  AP 0; Rep +0; Str 6, Dex 7, Con 6, Int 22, Wis 19, Cha 11.
  Skills: Computer Use +10, Concentration +2, Craft (elec-
  tronic) +10, Craft (mechanical) +10, Drive (tripods) +4, In-
  timidate +4, Knowledge (physical sciences) +8, Knowledge
  (tactics) +8, Listen +6, Move Silently +5, Pilot +5, Repair
  +8, Spot +6.
  Languages: Martian
  Feats: Aircraft Operation (spacecraft), Great Fortitude,
  Iron Will, Improved Damage Threshold, Improved Initia-
  tive, Multiattack, Simple Weapons Proficiency
  Advancement: None
  
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  O
  ne of the best ways a GM can sell the novel’s set
  ting is to have the player characters meet up with
  some of the more notable personages portrayed within its
  pages. To that end, game statistics for the novel’s main
  characters follow, designed for use in a Realistic Action!
  campaign. As with the Martian statistics, if your campaign
  uses a different level, you may wish to adjust these figures.
  The Narrator
  Action! System
  STR 3, REF 3, HLT 3, PRE 4, INT 6, WIL 6
  DEF 13, INI 5, TGH 5, LIF 21, MOV 6
  Dmg: 1d6+2, Lift:50 kg, Stunned: 11, Critical: 12
  Run:12, Sprint: 18
  Advantages: Lucky (1 extra Action Point; Edge)
  Disadvantages: Dependent (Wife; Inconv.)
  Skills: AK (London area) +6*, Awareness +3, Climb-
  ing +2, Concentration +2, Conversation +4, Education
  Group +1, Instruction +2, Language (English) +6*,
  Maces/Clubs +2, Persuasion +3, Philosophy +5*, Sci-
  ences Skill Group +2, Social Sciences Skill Group +1,
  Society (Middle Class) +4, Stealth +3, Swimming +3,
  Teamster (Horses +2) +1, Throwing +2, Unarmed Com-
  bat (Brawling) +3, Writing (Philosophical +2) +4
  * Score includes bonus for Group level.
  d20 System
  The Narrator (Smart Hero 6): CR 6; Medium-size
  humanoid; HD 1d6; hp 21; Mas 10; Init +0; Spd 30 ft.;
  Defense 13, touch 13, flat-footed 13 (+3 class); BAB +4;
  Grap +4; Atk +4 melee (1d6 nonlethal, unarmed strike)
  or +4 melee (1d6, club); Full Atk +4 melee (1d6 nonle-
  thal, unarmed strike) or +4 melee (1d6, club); FS 5 ft. by
  5 ft.; Reach 5 ft.; AL Good; SV Fort +3, Ref +2, Will +5;
  AP 9; Rep +2; Str 10, Dex 11, Con 11, Int 17, Wis 13,
  Cha 13.
  Occupation: Academic/philosophical writer (class
  skills: Craft [writing], Knowledge [earth & life sciences],
  Knowledge [philosophy]).
  Skills: Concentration +6, Craft (writing) +14, Diplo-
  macy +7, Drive (carts and wagons) +4, Gather Informa-
  tion +7, Hide +4, Investigate +8, Knowledge (civics) +5,
  Knowledge (earth & life sciences) +9, Knowledge (phi-
  losophy) +20, Knowledge (technology) +7, Listen +7,
  Move Silently +2, Profession (philosophical writer) +7,
  Research +13, Ride +3, Search +11, Sense Motive +6,
  Spot +7, Survival +3, Swim +4, Treat injury +4.
  Feats: Creative (+2 to Craft [writing]), Educated (+2
  to Knowledge [earth & life sciences] and Knowledge [phi-
  losophy]), Iron Will, Meticulous, Simple Weapons Pro-
  ficiency, Studious, Trustworthy.
  Talents: Exploit Weakness, Plan, Savant (+lv to
  Knowledge [philosophy])
  Possessions: club.
  T
  he War of the Worlds is a first-hand, post-bellum
  account of the Martian invasion, as penned by an
  unnamed Narrator. He is a “philosophical writer” by trade,
  and it is his bad fortune to live on Maybury Road in Woking,
  within walking distance of the initial Martian landing site.
  Early in the conflict, events separate the Narrator from
  his beloved wife, and reuniting with her remains his unwa-
  vering focus throughout. As he makes his way back to her,
  he sees more of the Martians and their onslaught than any-
  one, and manages to survive on his wits and a goodly
  amount of luck.
  In what is probably not a coincidence, the Narrator
  shares both the home address and occupation of an actual,
  well-know personage. Who is this famous person? None
  other than H. G. Wells himself, who lived in Woking dur-
  ing the period he wrote The War of the Worlds.
  Chapter Four: The Novel’s Characters
  
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  The Narrator’s Brother
  Action! System
  STR 4, REF 4, HLT 4, PRE 4, INT 4, WIL 5
  DEF 14, INI 4, TGH 5, LIF 22, MOV 8
  Dmg: 2d6, Lift:100 kg, Stunned: 11, Critical: 16
  Run:16, Sprint: 24
  Advantages: Athletic (+3; Conv.), Cool Headed
  (+3; Conv.)
  Disadvantages: Psych. Disad. (Chivalrous; Hard-
  ship)
  Skills: AK (London area) +5, Athletics Skill Group
  +1 (+4 w/Athletic advantage), Awareness +4, Biology
  +3*, Climbing +6*, Concentration +4, Conversation
  +4, Education Skill Group +1, Instruction +2, Language
  (English) +4*, Maces/Clubs +2, Persuasion +3, Physi-
  cian +3, Professional (med student) +5, Sciences Skill
  Group +2, Society (Middle Class) +4, Stealth +3,
  Swimming +6*, Teamster (Horses +2) +1, Throwing
  +6*, Unarmed Combat (Boxing) +6* (+9 w/Athletic
  advantage), Unarmed Combat (Brawling) +6* (+9 w/
  Athletic advantage)
  * Skill score includes bonus for Skill Group levels
  and/or bonuses for Advantages.
  d20 System
  Narrator’s Brother (Ordinary Dedicated Hero
  1): CR 1/2; Medium-size humanoid; HD 1d6; hp 6;
  Mas 10; Init +0; Spd 30 ft.; Defense 11, touch 11, flat-
  footed 11 (+1 class); BAB +1; Grap +1; Atk +2 melee
  (1d6 nonlethal, unarmed strike) or +1 melee (1d6, club);
  Full Atk +2 melee (1d6 nonlethal, unarmed strike) or
  +1 melee (1d6, club); FS 5 ft. by 5 ft.; Reach 5 ft.; AL
  Good; SV Fort +1, Ref +0, Will +2; AP 0; Rep +1; Str
  10, Dex 11, Con 10, Int 11, Wis 13, Cha 11.
  Occupation: Doctor (class skills: Knowledge [earth
  & life sciences], Treat Injury).
  Skills: Bluff +2, Climb +2, Knowledge (earth &
  lie sciences) +2, Move Silently +2, Profession (doc-
  tor) +3, Ride (horses) +1, Spot +3, Swim +2, Treat
  Injury +4.
  Feats: Athletic, Brawl, Simple Weapons Profi-
  ciency.
  Possessions: club, medical bag.
  T
  he Narrator’s Brother is living in London and at
  tending medical school at the time of the Martian
  invasion. Prompted to flee the city by the chaos brought
  about by the Martian advance, he happens upon two ladies
  in distress, whom he chivalrously saves from a band of
  mountebanks.
  After this, the two women-sisters-in-law, Mrs. and Miss
  Elphinstone, become his traveling companions. The trio
  encounters other hazards, including panicked mobs and
  the Martians’ battle with the HMS Thunder Child, but even-
  tually board a ship to France and safety.
  
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  The Artilleryman
  Action! System
  STR 4, REF 4, HLT 4, PRE 4, INT 4, WIL 5
  DEF 14, INI 4, TGH 5, LIF 22, MOV 8
  Dmg: 2d6, Lift:100 kg, Stunned: 11, Critical: 16
  Run: 16, Sprint: 24
  Advantages: Membership (MR3 in British Army/
  Sergeant)
  Disadvantages: Duty (to British Army; Peril)
  Skills: Area Knowledge (London area) +4, Artil-
  lery (Cannon +4) +1, Awareness +3, Bayonets +3,
  Climbing +2, Concentration +2, Conversation +3, In-
  struction +3, Language (English) +3, Maces/Clubs +3,
  Pistols +4, Persuasion +4, Professional (Artilleryman/
  soldier) +5, Riding (Horses +2) +1, Rifles +4, Society
  (British Army) +5, Stealth +4, Strategy +2, Swords +1,
  Symbols (Heliograph) +4, Tactics +2, Teamster (Horses
  +4) +1, Throwing +2, Unarmed Combat (Brawling)
  +4
  d20 System
  The Artilleryman (Fast Hero 3/ Tough Hero 1):
  CR 4; Medium-size humanoid; HD 3d8 plus 1d10; hp
  23; Mas 11; Init +1; Spd 30 ft.; Defense 16, touch 16,
  flat-footed 16 (+1 Dex, +5 class, Uncanny Dodge);
  BAB +2, Grap +2; Atk +3 melee (1d6 nonlethal, un-
  armed strike) or +2 melee (1d6, club) or +2 melee (1d8/
  19-20, longsword); Full Atk +3 melee (1d6 nonlethal,
  unarmed strike) or +2 melee (1d6, club) or +2 melee
  (1d8/19-20, longsword), or +3 ranged (2d6, colt re-
  volver); FS 5 ft. by 5 ft.; Reach 5 ft.; AL British Army,
  Britain, Lawful; SV Fort +2, Ref +3, Will +2; AP 3;
  Rep +0; Str 10, Dex 13, Con 11, Int 10, Wis 13, Cha
  10.
  Occupation: Military (class skills: Demolitions,
  Knowledge [tactics]).
  Skills: Bluff +3, Climb +2, Demolitions +4, Drive
  (vehicle) +3, Knowledge (current events) +4, Knowl-
  edge (tactics) +2, Listen +3, Move Silently +4, Profes-
  sion (artilleryman) +5, Ride (horses) +2, Spot +2.
  Feats: Archaic Weapons Proficiency, Advanced
  Firearms, Brawl, Exotic Weapons Proficiency (can-
  nons), Personal Firearms Proficiency, Simple Weap-
  ons Proficiency.
  Possessions: Colt revolver, club, longsword.
  Talent (Fast Hero): Evasion, Uncanny Dodge.
  Talent (Tough Hero): Remain Conscious.
  T
  he Artilleryman was a driver in Battery No.12,
  Royal Horse Artillery, one of the units sent to con-
  tain the Martians at their initial landing site at Horsell Com-
  mon. A fortunate accident (being thrown by his horse) saves
  him from the Heat Ray blast that claims his fellows, and he
  eventually makes his way into Woking alone, ending up at
  the home of the narrator.
  For a time thereafter, the Artilleryman and the Narra-
  tor are traveling companions, as the former searches for
  the remnants of his Battery and the Narrator makes his
  way back to his wife at Leatherhead. The two are sepa-
  rated during the Martian attack on Shepperton, and the
  Narrator soon after becomes entrapped in the ruined home
  at Sheen.
  Once he escapes this imprisonment, the Narrator makes
  his way into the dead city of London, and encounters the
  Artilleryman there among the ruins. During their time apart,
  the Artilleryman becomes convinced of the Martians’ in-
  vincibility, and plans to organize an elaborate community
  in the London sewers to resist the alien invaders. The Nar-
  rator is briefly moved to aid the Artilleryman in his gran-
  diose schemes, but eventually reconsiders and surrepti-
  tiously leaves his company.
  
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  The Curate
  Action! System
  STR 3, REF 3, HLT 3, PRE 4, INT 4, WIL 3
  DEF 13, INI 4, TGH 4, LIF 15, MOV 6
  Dmg: 1d6+2, Lift: 50 kg, Stunned: 8, Critical: 12
  Run: 12, Sprint: 18
  Advantages: Membership (MR 4 in Church of En-
  gland/Curate)
  Disadvantages: Psychological Disad. (Psychologi-
  cally unstable; Peril)
  Skills: Area Knowledge (Weybridge) +6*, Aware-
  ness +3, Climbing +2, Concentration +2, Conversation
  +4, Education Skill Group +1, Instruction +4, Language
  (English) +4*, Maces/Clubs +2, Orate (Sermons +2)
  +2, Persuasion +4, Professional (Curate) +4, Religion
  (Church of England) +4*, Society (English Middle
  Class) +5, Stealth +3, Throwing +2, Unarmed Combat
  (Brawling) +2
  d20 System
  The Curate (Ordinary Dedicated Hero 6): CR
  5; Medium-size humanoid; HD 5d6-5; hp 15; Mas 9;
  Init –1; Spd 30 ft.; Defense 12, touch 12, flat-footed
  12 (-1 Dex, +3 class); BAB +4; Grap +3; Atk +4 me-
  lee (1d6-1 nonlethal, unarmed strike) or +3 melee (1d6-
  1, club); Full Atk +4 melee (1d6-1 nonlethal, unarmed
  strike) or +3 melee (1d6-1, club); FS 5 ft. by 5 ft.; Reach
  5 ft.; AL Lawful, Good, Church of England; SV Fort
  +2, Ref +1, Will +2; AP 0; Rep +2; Str 9, Dex 8, Con
  9, Int 11, Wis 9, Cha 11.
  Occupation: Religious (class skills: Knowledge
  [arcane lore], Knowledge [theology and philosophy],
  Listen).
  Skills: Bluff +4, Climb +1, Diplomacy +1, Knowl-
  edge (arcane lore) +5, Knowledge (civics), Knowledge
  (history) +5, Knowledge (theology and philosophy) +7,
  Listen +3, Move Silently +2, Perform (oration) +2,
  Profession (curate) +3, Spot +3.
  Feats: Alertness, Brawl, Educated (Knowledge [ar-
  cane lore], Knowledge [theology and philosophy]),
  Educated (Knowledge [civics], Knowledge [history]),
  Simple Weapons Proficiency.
  Possessions:  Club, Bible.
  L
  ittle is known of the Curate’s life before the Martian
  invasion. He had served the church in Weybridge for
  at least three years prior, since he noted having helped to
  rebuild it at that time.
  The Curate finds the Narrator barely conscious after
  the latter’s narrow escape from the Martian attack on
  Shepperton and Weybridge. Once the Narrator regains his
  senses, a brief verbal exchange between them reveals the
  first signs of the Curate’s impending mental breakdown,
  brought about by his inability to reconcile the Martian at-
  tack with his theology.
  Reluctantly, the Curate accompanies the Narrator on
  his journey to Leatherhead, but the two become trapped
  inside a house in Sheen after a Martian cylinder lands
  nearby. Their imprisonment lasts some nine days, during
  which the Curate’s mental state deteriorates steadily.
  Eventually, the Curate’s broken psyche comes to re-
  gard the Martians as divine wrath incarnate, and tries to
  flee the ruined house and receive his “judgment.” Rather
  than allow him to reveal their hiding place, the Narrator
  attempts to subdue him, but in the process, kills him. Later,
  a Martian tentacle removes the Curate’s lifeless body, and
  it is never seen again.
  
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  Ogilvy
  Action! System
  STR 3, REF 3, HLT 4, PRE 4, INT 6, WIL 5
  DEF 13, INI 5, TGH 4, LIF 22, MOV 7
  Dmg: 1d6+2, Lift: 50 kg, Stunned: 11, Critical: 12
  Run: 14, Sprint: 21
  Advantages: Famous (+3 to social skill rolls;
  Conv.)
  Disadvantages: Naive (+3 to attempts to fool;
  Inconv.)
  Skills: Area Knowledge (Surrey area) +4, As-
  tronomy +6*, Awareness (Sight +2) +3, Climbing +2,
  Concentration +3, Education Skill Group +1, Instruc-
  tion +4, Language (English) +4*, Maces/Clubs +2,
  Persuasion +4, Research (Scientific +4) +2*, Sciences
  Skill Group +2, Society (English Middle Class) +3,
  Stealth +2, Throwing +2, Unarmed Combat (Brawl-
  ing) +2, Writing (Academic +4) +1
  d20 System
  Ogilvy (Ordinary Smart Hero 5): CR 4; hp 20;
  Mas 11; Init –1; Spd 30 ft.; Defense 11, touch 11, flat-
  footed 11 (-1 Dex, +2 class); BAB +2; Grap +1; Atk
  +2 melee (1d6-1 nonlethal, unarmed) or +1 melee (1d6-
  1, club); Full Atk +2 melee (1d6-1 nonlethal, unarmed
  strike) or +1 melee (1d6-1, club); FS 5 ft. by 5 ft.; Reach
  5 ft.; AL Science/discovery; SV Fort +1, Ref +0, Will
  +4; AP 0; Rep +2; Str 9, Dex 8, Con 11, Int 15, Wis 13,
  Cha 10.
  Occupation: Academic (class skills: Knowledge
  [earth and life sciences], Knowledge [physical sci-
  ences], Research).
  Skills: Climb +2, Concentration +3, Decipher Script
  +9, Diplomacy +3, Gather Information +3, Knowledge
  (civics) +10, Knowledge (current events) +3, Knowl-
  edge (earth and life sciences) +11, Knowledge (his-
  tory) +10, Knowledge (physical sciences) +13, Listen
  +4, Move Silently +2, Profession (astronomer) +9,
  Research +11, Spot +4.
  Feats: Alertness, Brawl, Educated (Knowledge
  [earth and life sciences], Knowledge [physical sci-
  ences]), Simple Weapons Proficiency.
  Possessions:  Club, books.
  Ogilvy is an astronomer at an observatory in Ottershaw.
  He is the first to see the launch of the cylinders from Mars,
  though he discounts the possibility that they could be any-
  thing other than natural phenomena. While in his euphoria
  at the discovery, he has a chance meeting with the Narra-
  tor, to whom he offers a look at his findings—an offer he
  gratefully accepts.
  Ironically, it is Ogilvy who first sees the initial cylin-
  der landing at Horsell Common, and he is the first to run to
  the pit and discover it is not, in fact, a meteor. He is among
  the bystanders when the cylinder opens and the first Mar-
  tian emerges from it.
  Unfortunately, he is also among the Deputation that
  tries to communicate with the Martians. Like his fellows,
  Ogilvy’s life ends in the flash of a Martian Heat Ray.
  
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  Henderson
  Action! System
  STR 3, REF 3, HLT 4, PRE 5, INT 5, WIL 5
  DEF 13, INI 4, TGH 4, LIF 22, MOV 7
  Dmg: 1d6+2, Lift: 50 kg, Stunned: 11, Critical: 16
  Run: 14, Sprint: 21
  Advantages: Perk (Press credentials; Conv.)
  Disadvantages: Impaired Sense (-3 to hearing-
  based Awareness skill rolls; Inconv.)
  Skills: Area Knowledge (London area) +2, Aware-
  ness (Hearing -3*) +4, Climbing +2, Concentration +3,
  Conversation +5, Society (English Middle Class) +3,
  Instruction +2, Intuition +3, Language (English) +5,
  Maces/Clubs +2, Persuasion +4, Research (Publications
  +4, Records +4) +1, Stealth +2, Throwing +2, Unarmed
  Combat (Brawling) +2, Writing (Journalism +4) +2
  d20 System
  Henderson (Ordinary Charismatic Hero 5): CR
  4; hp 24; Mas 10; Init +3; Spd 30 ft.; Defense 11, touch
  11, flat-footed 11 (-1 Dex, +2 class); BAB +2; Grap
  +1; Atk +2 melee (1d6-1 nonlethal, unarmed strike) or
  +1 melee (1d6-1, club); Full Atk +2 melee (1d6-1 non-
  lethal, unarmed strike) or +1 melee (1d6-1, club); FS 5
  ft. by 5 ft.; Reach 5 ft.; AL none; SV Fort +3, Ref +2,
  Will +2; AP 0; Rep +3; Str 9, Dex 9, Con 10, Int 13,
  Wis 12, Cha 13.
  Occupation: Investigative (class skills: Gather In-
  formation, Investigate).
  Skills: Bluff +6, Climb +2, Craft (writing) +9, Di-
  plomacy +6, Gather Information +12, Investigate +5,
  Knowledge (civics) +5, Knowledge (current events) +5,
  Listen +2*, Move Silently +2, Research +5, Spot +4.
  * Henderson is hard of hearing, so he suffers a –2
  circumstance penalty to his Listen skill.
  Feats: Brawl, Improved Initiative, Simple Weap-
  ons Proficiency, Toughness, Trustworthy.
  Possessions:  Club, writing materials.
  H
  enderson is a journalist for the London Daily
  Chronicle who lives in Woking, but not much else
  is revealed about his background, including the cause of
  his partial deafness. Thanks to Ogilvy, Henderson becomes
  the first to report the story of the Martians’ arrival, and the
  promise of additional scoops keeps him at the Horsell
  Common landing site thereafter.
  This leads to Henderson’s appointment to the Deputa-
  tion charged with opening communication with the Mar-
  tians. Like the rest of the Deputation, Henderson dies from
  a blast of the Martian Heat Ray.
  
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  Stent
  Action! System
  STR 3, REF 3, HLT 3, PRE 4, INT 8, WIL 5
  DEF 13, INI 6, TGH 4, LIF 19, MOV 6
  Dmg: 1d6+2, Lift: 50 kg, Stunned: 10, Critical: 12
  Run: 12, Sprint: 18
  Advantages: Famous (National celebrity, +6 to
  social skill rolls; Edge)
  Disadvantages: Duty (Astronomer Royal; Inconv.),
  Perk (Astronomer Royal; Conv.)
  Skills: Area Knowledge (London area) +7*, As-
  tronomy +8*, Awareness (Sight +2) +3, Climbing +2,
  Concentration +4, Education Skill Group +2, Instruc-
  tion +4, Language (English) +5*, Maces/Clubs +2,
  Persuasion +4, Research (Scientific +6) +3*, Sciences
  Skill Group +3, Society (English Upper Class) +3,
  Stealth +2, Throwing +2, Unarmed Combat (Brawl-
  ing) +2, Writing (Academic +4) +3
  d20 System
  Stent (Ordinary Smart Hero 10): CR 9; hp 37;
  Mas 8; Init –1; Spd 30 ft.; Defense 12, touch 12, flat-
  footed 12 (-1 Dex, +3 class); BAB +5; Grap +4; Atk
  +5 melee (1d6-1 nonlethal, unarmed strike) or +4 me-
  lee (1d6-1, club); Full Atk +5 melee (1d6-1 nonlethal,
  unarmed strike) or +4 melee (1d6-1, club); FS 5 ft. by
  5 ft.; Reach 5 ft.; AL Royal Astronomy, Science; SV
  Fort +2, Ref +2, Will +6; AP 0; Rep +7; Str 9, Dex 9,
  Con 8, Int 19, Wis 13, Cha 10.
  Occupation: Academic (class skills: Knowledge
  [earth and life sciences], Knowledge [physical sci-
  ences], Research).
  Skills: Bluff +4, Climb +1, Concentration +3, Craft
  (writing) +7, Decipher Script +14, Diplomacy +5,
  Gather Information +5, Knowledge (arcane lore) +10,
  Knowledge (art) +8, Knowledge (behavioral sciences)
  +10, Knowledge (current events) +8, Knowledge (earth
  and life sciences) +15, Knowledge (history) +10,
  Knowledge (physical sciences) +18, Knowledge (the-
  ology and philosophy) +12, Investigate +10, Listen +4,
  Move Silently +1, Profession (astronomer) +11, Re-
  search +12, Sense Motive +7, Spot +2.
  Feats: Attentive, Brawl, Educated (Knowledge [ar-
  cane lore], Knowledge [theology and philosophy]),
  Educated (Knowledge [behavioral sciences], Knowl-
  edge [history]), Renown, Simple Weapons Proficiency.
  Possessions:  Club, books, writing materials.
  S
  tent is the Astronomer Royal, the foremost expert
  in his field in the whole of the Empire. Naturally,
  he is present at Horsell Common when news of the Mar-
  tian landing is made public, and is chosen to be part of the
  Deputation that attempts to communicate with them.
  This proves to be the last act of Stent’s distinguished
  career. Like the other members of the Deputation, he is
  killed by the Martian Heat Ray.
  
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  Chapter Five: Running The War of the Worlds
  Like any other setting, The War of the Worlds offers
  many unique and intriguing elements for incorporation into
  an ongoing role-playing game campaign, some of which
  may be initially daunting to the players or Game Masters.
  This section provides pointers for both novice and experi-
  enced role-players on how to get the most out of Wells’
  story, and still put a personal stamp on the proceedings.
  Living in the Past
  Some players and Game Masters are put off by the very
  idea of gaming in a historical setting. Some have qualms
  about “having to do homework” just to play a game, or
  some elements of the setting may touch upon subject mat-
  ter they would rather omit. Usually, the Game Master’s
  own judgment is the best guide as to what should (and
  what should not) be incorporated into his game sessions,
  but if any uncertainty exists, the guidelines that follow can
  help.
  First and foremost, the degree to which the period set-
  ting affects aspects of the game, such as character concep-
  tion, generation, and role-playing, should be mutually
  agreed upon before the start of a campaign. For instance,
  running a game which seems to the players like a prepara-
  tion for an English History final exam is not going to be to
  everyone’s liking, and it behooves the Game Master to find
  out if it is before play gets underway.
  Unless it is precisely what the players want, the Game
  Master should not feel obligated to fill the game to over-
  flowing with historical detail. Use only those elements of
  the early 20th Century that entertain the group and keep
  the story moving. That really is the best measure—if the
  players are having fun, the Game Master is almost cer-
  tainly incorporating the right level of historical detail.
  The details that matter most are technology-related, and
  they are of concern primarily for reasons of game balance.
  For example, Martian war machines, while still formidable,
  would be slightly less so in a game with biplanes, and much
  less so in a game with tanks and dedicated anti-armor weap-
  onry. The material presented in this sourcebook largely
  addresses these issues, so this only becomes a concern if
  the Game Master opts to make major changes to the novel’s
  setting, or abandons it entirely.
  If the gaming group is interested in including more his-
  torical flourishes than can be presented here, researching
  the novel’s setting is a great deal easier than might be imag-
  ined. The War of the Worlds is set during a well-documented
  period in history, the Edwardian Era. Hundreds of books
  and web sites on this period are available at the local li-
  brary, and cover almost any conceivable topic, from mov-
  ies and music to corsets and lingerie.
  The military aspects of the era are particularly easy to
  research. Weaponry, uniforms, tactics, and logistics of many
  nations of the period are identical to those employed by
  the British in the Boer (sometimes called the Anglo-Boer)
  War, a well-documented topic in its own right. Since that
  war concluded only a month before the conjectured date
  of the Martian landing at Horsell Common, it is quite pos-
  sible that player characters who are veterans of the British
  
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  Army or Royal Navy fought in that conflict, and can incor-
  porate that fact into their backgrounds.
  A Change of Scenery
  Game Masters can also change the setting of the story
  from Edwardian England to whatever time and place best
  suits their gaming groups. As noted in the introduction,
  Orson Welles and George Pal both did so successfully, and
  there is no reason why the Game Master cannot follow in
  their distinguished footsteps. In fact, there is a great deal
  to be said for literally bringing the terror home by destroy-
  ing Grover’s Mill, New Jersey, or wherever the group’s
  hometown is, instead of Edwardian London. After all, in
  the novel, Woking was burned to the ground precisely be-
  cause it was H. G. Wells’ residence at the time.
  If the storyline is to be moved elsewhere in time and/or
  place, some issues need to be addressed beforehand. First
  (in addition to allowing Wells to work out any frustrations
  he had regarding his neighbors), destroying London is a
  logical move for the Martians, as it was the seat of power
  for the world’s supreme empire at the time, much as Wash-
  ington, D.C. would be in a contemporary setting. There-
  fore, if you opt to have the Martians land elsewhere, like
  South Boston, Virginia (population 5,000), there is some
  explanation required as to why that site was chosen, though
  it can be as simple as the Martian’s aim being off a bit.
  Time After Time
  Second, as the chosen alternate setting grows more or
  less technologically advanced, the Martians’ relevant game
  statistics need to be adjusted accordingly. The Martians’
  technological edge is awesome in the Edwardian Era; in
  time-periods prior to the mid-19th Century, it becomes in-
  surmountable to the point of hopelessness for the players,
  and the game suffers as a result.
  Similarly, games set later than the mid-20th Century
  are likely to turn into Martian-hunts. The Heat Ray remains
  a formidable weapon, as do the fighting machines them-
  selves, but the hardware and numbers available to human-
  ity will finish off the invaders long before the bacteria get
  a chance to do so. The Black Smoke in particular is a lot
  less worrisome to soldiers who have full nuclear-biologi-
  cal-chemical countermeasures available to them.
  Obviously, upgrades to the Martian armory are called
  for in this case. This can be done simply by increasing the
  Armor Values and Damage ratings of the invaders’ weap-
  ons, as well as increasing both the size of the Martian in-
  vasion force and the scope of its attacks. However, putting
  some completely new weapons in the invaders’ hands can
  be even more effective, particularly if the players are al-
  ready familiar with the novel.
  Using the ACTION! SYSTEM rules, it is possible to design
  any number of fearful contraptions for the Martians’ use,
  and the novel’s themes can be helpful guides while doing
  so. The Martians’ weapons all speak to common fears of
  the era the novel was written in: primarily, the Industrial
  Age running amok. The novel eerily foreshadows horrific
  weapons like armored war machines (tanks) and chemical
  weapons (chlorine gas and its successors).
  A Game Master who follows suit and plays on the fears
  of his audience is staying true to the most memorable as-
  pects of the novel. For example, in a contemporary set-
  ting, the Martians may develop advanced terra-forming
  machines capable of gradually transforming the Earth’s
  biosphere into more Mars-like conditions, touching upon
  modern anxieties about environmental calamities.
  Giving the Players a Fighting
  Chance
  A quick glance at the comparative weapons statistics
  shows that most stand-up fights between Martians and hu-
  mans are going to be settled quickly, and not in mankind’s
  favor. This also means that a War of the Worlds game ses-
  sion can end just as rapidly, and with an equal amount of
  player frustration, unless there is some careful pre-plan-
  ning by the Game Master.
  How Not to Be Seen
  The key to making game sessions challenging, but not
  impossible, for the players is to provide them at least one
  way in every confrontation to exploit the Martians’ weak-
  nesses. One of the easiest is the Martians’ apparent lack of
  advanced imaging equipment. If the Game Master treats
  this possibility as fact in his campaign, the players have a
  fair chance of evading the Martians once night has fallen,
  whether their characters are planning an ambush or an es-
  cape.
  Based on the Narrator’s experiences in Book II of the
  novel, the Martians do comparatively little to protect their
  rear-area bases, places where their forces are the most vul-
  nerable. As an example, during his days of imprisonment
  inside the ruined house at Sheen, the Narrator never ob-
  serves more than one fighting machine guarding the base
  undergoing construction around the landing cylinder. The
  Narrator escapes detection right under the Martians’ noses
  for a considerable amount of time merely by observing
  some simple precautions, and a small group like the player
  characters following suit are more than able to do the same.
  If the Narrator’s escape to the dead city of London is
  in any way indicative, the relatively small Martian inva-
  sion force cannot spare any sort of machines to garrison
  captured areas after the humans have been driven from
  them. This provides many places suitable for the player
  characters to hide out, take shelter, rest and recuperate,
  and make plans. Of course, this assumes a certain amount
  of caution on their part; otherwise, they may suffer the fate
  
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  of the drunken London revelers, whose ill-advised celebra-
  tion brought them the Martians’ attention, and death.
  The player characters are even more secure if they
  emulate the Artilleryman and conceal themselves in the
  labyrinthine London sewer system. The smell takes some
  getting used to, but the relatively safe and easy access it
  provides to the entire city, and the wealth of useful items it
  contains, is more than enough compensation under the cir-
  cumstances. It can also serve as an excellent base of op-
  erations, when the player characters finally decide to take
  the fight to the Martians.
  Fighting Back
  Sooner or later, the player characters are going to want
  to strike back against the Martians, and while doing so
  should not be easy, neither should it be impossible. With
  some planning and a little luck, the characters can at least
  throw a spanner in the works of the Martian war machine.
  The first step involves letting the player characters
  obtain some sort of weapon capable of harming the fight-
  ing machines. Artillery could certainly accomplish that,
  but the Martians quickly became aware of this fact and
  thereafter targeted big guns above all else, usually destroy-
  ing them before their barrages made any difference. Thus,
  artillery is an impractical choice for the characters unless
  they somehow manage to get their hands on an entire bat-
  tery, and have the skills to use the guns properly.
  Unless the campaign is based around the crew of a
  warship, it is also unlikely the player characters could even
  so much as get near such a vessel. The Royal Navy muti-
  nies on the River Thames could conceivably leave a fight-
  ing ship derelict but recoverable, but as with field artillery,
  it is rather unlikely that a single group of randomly-as-
  sembled player characters has the skills necessary to make
  use of such a find.
  High explosives, then, are the most likely and useful
  weapon to the player characters, so much so that if none of
  them have purchased the Demolitions Skill during charac-
  ter creation, the Game Master may wish to drop some hints
  in that direction. Alternatively, the Game Master can cre-
  ate a recurring non-player character with the know-how to
  use explosives effectively.
  Dynamite and nitroglycerine are certainly not common
  items, but both can be found if the player characters know
  where to look: subterranean mines, military installations,
  warehouses, docks, and cargo vessels all may contain use-
  ful volatile materials. Most tantalizing for the player char-
  acters are the factories and depots hastily mobilized to pro-
  duce high-explosive land mines for use in the Midland
  counties, once the British Army realized the Martian fight-
  ing machines were vulnerable to them. These facilities can
  be encountered while still in operation, or found abandoned
  and waiting for the player characters to put their deadly
  stores to use.
  Surviving the Game
  One measure of success of any strike against the Mar-
  tians is, of course, how many player characters return from
  it alive. Granted, doing so is a tall order, but by exploiting
  the Martians’ weaknesses, it is by no means an unobtain-
  able goal.
  Fortunately for the player characters, plain, ordinary
  water is proof against both of the Martians’ primary weap-
  ons, the Heat Ray and the Black Smoke. The Narrator sur-
  vives the former by diving into the River Wey, and though
  he is scalded while submerged, slightly burned is a mark-
  
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  edly preferred state over being dead. If the Game Master
  feels there is a real possibility the player characters will
  come under fire from a Heat Ray during a game session,
  he may wish to note the presence of a pond or stream nearby
  to give them at least a chance to escape, scalded but alive.
  The Black Smoke is virtually neutralized in water, and
  submerged player characters are completely safe from its
  effects (unless they somehow manage to swallow some of
  the black dust). It can also be neutralized by steam, a ma-
  jor source of power in Edwardian England. Clever players
  can employ everything from locomotives to Maxim ma-
  chine-guns to produce steam clouds capable of saving them
  from the airborne ebon toxin.
  If there is no freestanding water anywhere about, height
  can be just as effective a defense against the Black Smoke.
  It may leave the player characters trapped at the top of a
  building or tree (a situation that can become an adventure
  in and of itself), and does not do much against the Heat
  Ray if the Martian chooses to press the attack. Still, stay-
  ing alive is a virtue not to be denied, especially once a
  Black Smoke canister lands nearby.
  As a last resort in the event the player characters find
  themselves surrounded by a superior Martian force, there
  is a plausible reason for them to be spared: their blood.
  The Game Master should never forget that the Martians
  much prefer to drink human blood than spill it, and given
  the opportunity, Martians will capture the player charac-
  ters rather than slay them.
  This eventuality does leave the characters imprisoned
  in one of the “human farms” the Martians maintain at their
  bases, but their eventual escape attempt is a great starting
  point for a subsequent adventure. Also, once they are free,
  the player characters have a golden opportunity to strike
  against one of the invaders’ most vulnerable areas. If noth-
  ing else, this provides them a chance to free some of their
  fellow captives.
  Giving the Martians a
  Fighting Chance
  This may seem an extremely odd topic to touch upon,
  given that the Martians are the ones with the death rays,
  powered flight, and so on. What this section deals with is
  the one thing the alien invaders could not overcome: the
  novel’s deus ex machina ending.
  From a literary standpoint, the conclusion of The War
  of the Worlds is splendid. It is hinted at without being tele-
  graphed, ironic in a Twilight Zone or O. Henry sort of way,
  and ends a book containing some rather unkind commen-
  tary about organized religion with a positive statement
  about the existence of a loving God. Nevertheless, it re-
  mains a most unsatisfying ending for a role-playing game.
  From a gaming standpoint, The War of the Worlds has
  the absolute worst possible conclusion: the antagonists are
  defeated, but none of the main characters’ actions had any-
  thing whatsoever to do with it. To make matters worse, the
  novel’s basic story is well known to most genre fans, and
  even if the game’s participants do not let this foreknowl-
  edge affect their role-playing, losing the element of sur-
  prise takes the fun out of the gaming experience for every-
  one involved.
  Short scenarios are usually unaffected by this, as would
  be a series of unrelated adventures. In these types of games,
  the player characters are kept focused on attaining a short-
  term goal and simple survival, and time usually does not
  allow the novel’s ending to enter into the picture. The
  trouble occurs when the Game Master decides to run a
  War of the Worlds campaign, wherein the Martians will be
  dead in three weeks.
  Or will they?
  To be sure, there are players who will be livid if the
  Game Master deviates in the slightest from the printed text
  of the novel, and a Game Master should be wary of disap-
  pointing them. On the off chance a group of players some-
  how managed to miss the book, the movie, the radio show,
  and the TV series, the GM should leave the story’s ending
  intact. Otherwise, the Game Master may just want to throw
  out Wells’ ending and create a new one of his own design.
  The shock value of seeing the players’ faces when the
  Martians don’t eventually just drop dead makes a revision
  worth considering all by itself. But a far better reason is
  that it allows the Game Master to devise a method of dis-
  patching the invaders that depends (to one extent or an-
  other) on the player characters’ actions.
  Alternate Endings
  If the Game Master opts for a revised conclusion but is
  uncomfortable re-writing Wells, he should forget all the
  levels the novel’s ending works on and consider for a mo-
  ment how implausible it seems. The War of the Worlds asks
  the reader to believe that a race advanced enough to have
  invented amazing devices like the Heat Ray is also care-
  less enough to fail to take the same precautions as any over-
  seas traveler.
  To be fair, Wells does attempt to address this in the
  novel. The Narrator speculates that the Martians may have
  eradicated microorganisms on their world, or that micro-
  organisms may have never developed on Mars. Either way,
  both of these explanations remain hypothetical—the novel
  never establishes the truth of the matter.
  Re-writing The War of the Worlds’ final act does present
  a crucial problem of its own. Namely, it leaves the British
  broken and unable to resist the invaders any longer, and
  outside of the grandiose schemes of the Artilleryman, no
  one has any idea how to prevent humanity from becoming
  nothing more than the Martians’ cattle.
  However, it is not that difficult to devise a means
  whereby the player characters make a difference and save
  all mankind. For the characters, the knowledge of exactly
  how to repulse the Martian invasion may be just a
  
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  MacGuffin that falls squarely into their laps (like the let-
  ters of transit in Casablanca), or it can be something that
  requires lots of digging for clues and good old fashioned
  derring-do on their part—whichever suits your particular
  gaming group best.
  A Sample Rewrite
  As an example, one possible alternate ending is sug-
  gested by Wells’ scientific justifications above. One may
  ask why the Martians did not attempt to sanitize the Earth
  as the Narrator speculates they had done to Mars. One
  possible answer is that the Martians do attempt to do so,
  but someone stops them in the nick of time. Perhaps that
  someone is your group of player characters.
  If the Game Master wants to use this idea, devise a
  situation which puts the player characters in a position to
  witness the Martian sanitizing agent (whether mechanical,
  chemical, vegetable, or something entirely different in na-
  ture). After that, all the players have to do is figure out the
  gravity of what they saw, and then how they are going to
  blow it up.
  Lengthening the above scenario is easy. Start the player
  characters far away from their destination, and then make
  the solution more complicated than just blowing things up.
  If the Game Master also divides the clues to the Martian
  sanitizing agent’s existence and whereabouts between many
  different people in many different places, this can form the
  basis for an entire campaign.
  Of course, Game Masters are free to implement their
  own changes to The War of the Worlds storyline as they
  see fit. Hopefully, this information will help, even if the
  Game Master chooses another path.
  Beware the Beast Called Man
  One of the ways the Martians can remain a source of
  anxiety for the players during a long-term campaign is for
  the Game Master to avoid overusing them. Doing so does
  leave a villain gap in the storylines, but it is one Mankind
  is more than ready to fill.
  The novel chillingly illustrates several examples of
  man’s inhumanity to his fellow man, particularly once mass
  hysteria sets in after the first uses of the Black Smoke. At
  that point, people begin turning on each other in earnest,
  as evinced by the ruffians attempting to rob Miss and Mrs.
  Elphinstone.
  In the novel’s course of events, means of transporta-
  tion capable of carrying desperate people out of the path
  of the Martian onslaught are the first points of contention,
  such as the trains and ships. The Royal Navy’s ships are
  next to fall into anarchy as their crews mutiny rather than
  obey suicidal orders to continue to stand against the Mar-
  tians. After that, many individuals fall prey to madness
  (like the Curate), and the areas of plenty descend into mind-
  less, Epicurean revelry, while the areas of want are over-
  taken by a desperate struggle for the basic elements of sur-
  vival.
  This situation is bleak, but like the Narrator’s Brother
  demonstrates, it does provide many opportunities for the
  player characters to act the hero. Doing good deeds (even
  in a role-playing game) can be most satisfying, and in this
  particular setting, it is all the more so. Players who spend
  most of their time trying to figure out how to defeat a seem-
  ingly unbeatable foe are especially going to relish the op-
  portunity to face a foe vulnerable to fists, guns, or simple
  intimidation.
  Adventures in this vein can be alternately dark or up-
  beat. For instance, the players can be called upon to find
  medicine or food for needy people, or retrieve such items
  after they have been stolen by bandits and miscreants.
  By contrast, other scenarios may involve protecting
  innocent folk from more sinister forms of predation, in-
  cluding gangs of marauders who have succumbed to the
  darkest and basest of their instincts. How far any campaign
  delves into this aspect should depend on the players’ tastes
  and sensibilities. A good Game Master should always re-
  member never to push things past the point of being fun
  for the players.
  Campaign and Adventure
  Scenario Set-Ups
  Whether a gaming group plans on a short tour of duty
  in The War of the Worlds, or aims to see the conflict through
  to its bitter end, bringing the player characters together
  may require some forethought by the Game Master. Give
  special consideration to how the set-up affects the tone
  and challenge level of the game session or campaign. This
  section provides some suggestions on how to address these
  very points. Feel free to use them, modify them, or ignore
  them as seems best.
  Innocent Bystanders
  The set-up closest to that of the original novel involves
  a group of characters thrown together by the circumstances
  of the war, and few if any of them know each other prior to
  the start of the game. In terms of possibilities, this is by far
  the most versatile setup, as it can accommodate virtually
  any sort of character, in any area affected (directly or indi-
  rectly) by the Martian attacks.
  This option is especially good if the players create char-
  acters without specific input from each other or the Game
  Master. It is entirely possible to wind up with a group con-
  sisting of a millionaire industrialist, a pickpocket, an ama-
  teur scientist, and a Royal Navy captain, and there may be
  no other way to get characters of such diverse backgrounds
  together without the Martians (working on the Game
  Master’s behalf) giving them a push.
  For example, if the scenario takes place at the begin-
  ning of the novel, news of the landings at Horsell Com-
  
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  mon may draw the player characters to the site for profes-
  sional reasons (like Stent, the Astronomer Royal) or sheer
  curiosity. The Game Master can arrange some casual meet-
  ings between the player characters before the shooting
  starts, or simply have the Heat Ray chase them all in the
  same direction afterwards.
  Run Away! Run Away!
  Having the player characters fleeing in the same direc-
  tion has other advantages beyond simply getting them to-
  gether in one place, as it also opens the game in a fast and
  furious manner, and events drive the role-playing as much
  as the players’ own initiative. This provides a diverse group
  of player characters an opportunity to see how their skills
  complement one another’s abilities, giving them a real
  impetus (namely, survival) for remaining together as a unit.
  The Game Master may also decree that the player char-
  acters get together as a result of simply being in the same
  place at the same time. Transportation hubs are ideal set-
  tings for this option: no matter how different the charac-
  ters’ backgrounds, they can all have plausible reasons for
  being on the same train or ship. Granted, they may be trav-
  eling in vastly different accommodations, but Steerage and
  First Class mean little when the Martians appear and leave
  the player characters stranded together at the invaders’
  mercy.
  If none of these possibilities appeal to the Game Mas-
  ter, it may be necessary to provide some input during char-
  acter creation to ensure the group has some other rationale
  for adventuring together. It may be as simple as deciding
  they all live in the same town and are already acquainted
  with one another (to whatever degree makes sense in the
  chosen set-up), or be more restrictive, if the players are
  comfortable with that and it better suits the Game Master’s
  planned storylines.
  The Police Campaign
  One of the more viable options for a War of the Worlds
  campaign centers on the player characters as members of
  the same constabulary, which lies in the invaders’ path.
  Depending on the size of their jurisdiction, the group may
  or may not be acquainted with each other prior to the start
  of play, but the overwhelming Martian onslaught and the
  ensuing chaos forces them to become fast allies regard-
  less.
  Adventures using this set-up begin with the player char-
  acters locked in an increasingly desperate fight to main-
  tain some semblance of order in the face of growing panic
  amongst the local populace. If the characters fail to pro-
  tect the means of transportation (like the rail stations and
  ports) from being overwhelmed, no one will escape the
  area. Likewise, if the stores of food are seized, all will
  starve, and if looting begins, total anarchy is the likely re-
  sult.
  Shows of force may suffice to control the populace at
  first, but as the Martians draw nearer, demonstrations may
  gradually give way to sheer brutality if order is to be main-
  tained. The player characters may find they have no stom-
  ach for it, especially since the panicky mobs are made up
  of their friends and neighbors. Eventually, circumstances
  may spiral beyond the characters’ control despite their best
  efforts, leaving them unable to carry out their assigned tasks,
  but with a lingering sense of responsibility to help others.
  Where the story proceeds from there is up to the Game
  Master, but the possibilities are many.
  The Military Campaign
  If the players crave action, a military-theme campaign
  may be the best option, as right from the onset, the charac-
  ters have the best weapons available, and the sanction to
  use them. The main thing for the Game Master to consider
  beforehand is exactly what happens once the player char-
  acters are ordered into action against the Martians.
  The player characters’ unit is, of course, going to be
  wiped out, but the characters themselves should (however
  miraculously) survive. This is where the non-player char-
  acter members of their unit are extremely useful to the Game
  Master. Their deaths demonstrate the fearsome power of
  the Martian weapons, and, if necessary, they can intervene
  and sacrifice themselves to make sure the player charac-
  ters live to fight another day. Perhaps most usefully, a pan-
  icky flight on the non-player characters’ part can pass the
  hint along to the players that running away is a good idea
  under the circumstances.
  At the onset of play, some of the characters may out-
  rank, and hence be able to order around, other players’
  
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  characters, and whether or not this situation persists after
  the characters’ initial rout by the Martians, it might be some-
  thing best discussed ahead of time. Some players might be
  okay with it, seeing the value of preserving the military
  structure. However, some players just do not like being
  ordered about, and this can lead to problems in the game if
  it is not discussed in advance.
  Depending on the group’s proclivities and the circum-
  stances in the game itself, the player characters may want
  to try to resume contact with military formations, perhaps
  the other survivors of their unit. This can be an adventure
  in itself, but depending on the time frame, there may be no
  organized government of any kind left for them to rejoin.
  Armed and Dangerous
  At this point (or perhaps earlier), the player characters
  may opt to take the fight to the Martians on their own terms.
  They likely retain enough firepower to make a real differ-
  ence in the war, and the Game Master should keep this in
  mind when creating new scenarios for them.
  Firepower becomes even more of an issue if the player
  characters are members of the Royal Navy. The most play-
  able scenario for maritime warriors involves the player
  characters being left more or less in charge of a warship
  after the mutinies by the River Thames flotilla. Perhaps
  the characters are the only ones left after fending off the
  disloyal crew’s attacks, or they are the highest-ranking of-
  ficers left in the aftermath of the violence.
  In any event, the characters’ possession of a weapon
  capable of going toe-to-toe with the Martians quickly be-
  comes the focus of the campaign. Either the player charac-
  ters have the means to use it immediately, or will be look-
  ing to secure them. The latter scenario is the more intrigu-
  ing, as it puts the onus of finding enough skilled people
  (and convincing them to join the fight) squarely on the
  player characters’ shoulders. They may attempt to persuade
  mutineers to rejoin the fight, or perhaps scour the shore-
  lines in search of men who served on His Majesty’s Ships
  in days past. Either way, the situation is a challenging one.
  On His Majesty’s Secret Service
  Some Game Masters and players are fond of games
  involving espionage, where the player characters work for
  a larger, sponsoring agency and carry out special missions
  of the highest importance. This structure provides the GM
  with a reason built into every game session for the player
  characters to be drawn into the storyline (it is their latest
  mission). This makes the characters a vital part of the
  game’s setting whose every action affects the entire world.
  The best such set-up in The War of the Worlds centers
  around the rumor overheard by the Narrator’s Brother as
  he and the Elphinstones attempt to secure ocean passage
  out of London. He overhears that a good portion of the
  British government has relocated to the city of Birming-
  ham, and is making plans to continue the resistance from
  there, including manufacturing land mines.
  If there is any truth to these rumors (the reader is never
  told, one way or another), this ad-hoc government is al-
  most certainly in dire straits, and in need of all the help it
  can get. Assuming the player characters are all heroic types,
  any offer of assistance is almost certain to be accepted,
  and once the characters show how capable they are, it is
  only a matter of time before they start drawing the tough-
  est assignments.
  Dealing with Government-Sanctioned
  Characters
  While having the weight of even a rump government
  behind the player characters may seem problematic when
  attempting to create challenging adventures for them, offi-
  cial sanction is not nearly as impressive as it sounds. First
  of all, the amount of resources put at the characters’ dis-
  posal is going to be extremely limited, given the chaos
  engendered by the Martian invasion. The players get barely
  enough equipment to finish whatever task is laid before
  them, and sometimes not even that.
  The amount of cooperation the player characters can
  expect from the general populace varies greatly as well.
  Doubtlessly, many Britons are anxious to rally behind any
  sort of official authority for the good of the country and to
  defeat the marauding invaders. Many others are simply
  grateful for whatever help the PCs provide, while others
  resent their very presence—perhaps violently so.
  For the Game Master, the bottom line is that having
  government backing can be as much of a boon or a hin-
  drance as the storyline needs it to be. Use it to complicate
  or spare their lives as the needs of a good story dictate.
  The Second War of the Worlds
  “It may be, on the other hand, that the destruction of
  the Martians is only a reprieve. To them, and not to us,
  perhaps, is the future ordained.”
  For all the action and upheaval depicted in The War of
  the Worlds, the actual events of the war take a little more
  than three weeks’ time. That is a perfect time frame for a
  brief campaign or a series of short adventures, but what if
  those go well, and the players still want more? Simple-do
  what Hollywood does, and produce a blockbuster sequel.
  H. G. Wells did in fact write two obscure short-story
  sequels, “When The Sleeper Wakes” (set two hundred years
  in the future) and “The Crystal Egg,” but neither involved
  a second invasion of the Earth. This section explores the
  potential of a renewed conflict between Earth and Mars.
  A Second Front
  In the novel’s epilog, the Narrator speculates on the
  future of both humanity and the Martians. Most interest-
  ingly, he writes of the findings of an astronomer named
  Lessing, which seems to indicate a Martian landing on the
  planet Venus. The Narrator is most troubled by the pros-
  pect, but it is, of course, entirely possible the Martians never
  again left the Red Planet, or that they planned on living out
  
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  their remaining days there in peace. But what fun is that
  for the Game Master (and players)?
  The Narrator has his own ideas about the steps human-
  ity should be taking to remain vigilant against a renewed
  attack, and he laments that at the time of his writing (six
  years after the Martian invasion) no such steps have been
  taken. He speculates the loss of the element of surprise
  may make any future attacks against the Earth prohibitive
  in the Martians’ eyes. It may in fact be the only thing keep-
  ing humanity safe.
  From the human point of view, any Martian settlements
  on Venus have the potentially dire consequence of staving
  off the extinction they faced on Mars, and if the Narrator’s
  speculation is correct, it also provides them a base from
  which a surprise strike can be launched. Whatever meager
  watchtowers mankind has dedicated to observing the Red
  Planet, they surely dwarf the nonexistent resources directed
  towards Venus. The short version: if the next invasion
  comes from Venus, mankind will never see it coming.
  Of course, the Martians will have to solve the not-in-
  considerable problem of their race surviving for about three
  weeks, maximum, on Earth. If and when they do overcome
  this fatal obstacle (some specific advice regarding this is
  given in “Alternate Endings,” above), conquering the Earth
  could easily be within their tentacled grasp.
  With landing cylinders launched from both Mars and
  Venus, Earth would have to fight a war on multiple fronts,
  defending widely separated areas in different hemispheres.
  If the Martians are also able to bring greater numbers to
  bear than in 1902, the bell may indeed toll for mankind.
  D-Day and H-Hour
  Timing is, of course, everything, and nonetheless so in
  interplanetary war. This maxim raises the question of when
  the Martians would strike after building up their forces
  and somehow immunizing themselves against Earth’s mi-
  croscopic life, and that is ultimately something GMs have
  to decide for themselves. If the GM is unsure of when to
  have the Martians strike, history can be an excellent guide.
  In our history, the decade after the Narrator pens his
  warnings about a second Martian invasion is one of mas-
  sive international arms build-ups and the Great War. Two
  decades after that is the Second World War and Cold War,
  which also finds humanity well stocked with implements
  of war. If one assumes history passes largely unchanged
  after the brief initial Martian strike, the 1920s, and even
  more promisingly, the 1930s, are the times during which a
  second invasion would be the most effective.
  In the early and mid-1930s, the worldwide economic
  depression left people everywhere pessimistic about the
  future, and their governments short on revenue with which
  to maintain their nations’ militaries. The human race, with
  its spirit nearly broken and its militaries small and weak,
  would look like easy pickings to the Martians, and with
  their well-developed skills of observation, this opportu-
  nity would not be missed by them.
  The Human Condition
  Despite appearances, humanity was not nearly as de-
  fenseless as it would seem to Martian eyes. Advances in
  technology like the airplane make the Earth’s armed forces
  much more formidable than in the previous conflict, and
  developments like the gas mask render Martian Black
  Smoke attacks less effective. In a Depression-era invasion,
  humanity’s main problem would be the quantities of such
  materiel available.
  In the early 1930s, there was not enough of anything to
  go around, and that goes for war implements as well. The
  aforementioned planes and gas masks existed, but no na-
  tion had enough of either to protect all of its citizens at
  once. Therefore, the potential for mass civilian panic re-
  mains just as great as it did back in 1902, once the Black
  Smoke rolls in and no one has a filter mask. As in the origi-
  nal novel, once civilian morale is broken, the country it-
  self is not long away from ceasing to exist in any meaning-
  ful form, with disastrous results for the entire race.
  If the prospect of a second War of the Worlds during
  the Great Depression appeals to you, Orson Welles’ infa-
  mous 1938 radio adaptation is a great reference. You may
  not wish to alter the story to the extent that the Mercury
  Theatre did, but it still provides great examples of how to
  dramatize the novel in terms of that era.
  One interesting wrinkle to setting the second invasion
  in the 1930s is its temporal proximity to the events of the
  original. Gaming groups whose characters survived the
  initial Martian onslaught are very possibly still alive at that
  time, allowing players to run older versions of the same
  characters and emphasizing a strong sense of continuity
  
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  between the two events. Alternatively, players could run
  the grown offspring of their previous characters, who may
  have been raised (like Doctor Harrison Blackwood in The
  War of the Worlds television series) to be fearful of and
  prepared for a second invasion.
  Depression-Era Technology
  A full accounting of weapons systems in use during
  the early 1930s requires space far in excess of that avail-
  able in this sourcebook. However, the most common types
  of armaments available at that time can be adequately simu-
  lated by the weapon statistics found in the ACTION! SYSTEM
  Core Rules.
  Revolvers are much like the ones listed there, but tend
  towards the smaller-caliber types (like the .357). Ameri-
  can soldiers carry the ubiquitous .45 ACP (1980) model,
  while European armies tend more towards 9mm Parabellum
  automatics. Rifles are almost universally equivalent to the
  .30 carbine, while later, more advanced types are as yet
  undeveloped.
  Machine-guns equivalent to the 7.62mm and .50-cali-
  ber exist, though lighter .30-caliber weapons are more com-
  mon (but why makes things easier for the Martians?). Ex-
  tant cannons are virtually identical to those already listed,
  as are most of the support weapons. Rocket launchers,
  LAWs, and RPGs do not exist yet, however much the play-
  ers might wish otherwise.
  The latter fact may seem most inconvenient to PCs fight-
  ing armored Martian war machines, but even first-genera-
  tion anti-tank guns are capable of inflicting serious dam-
  age on them. These are roughly equivalent to the field can-
  nons already listed in the ACTION! SYSTEM Core Rules.
  Like a Thief in the Night
  After deciding exactly when the Martians strike, the
  Game Master should address the issue of scale. Are the
  Martians going to undertake a limited landing in a deso-
  late area, from which they can build up their forces for an
  all-out military strike, or are they going to immediately
  begin a total onslaught against all of humanity?
  The answer really depends on the gaming group and
  their preferred style of play. If unraveling mysteries is more
  their preference, gradually getting to the facts about the
  Martians’ return is the proper course to follow. Perhaps
  the Martians land in the heart of unexplored Africa, and
  the player characters are hired to investigate a series of
  unexplained disappearances. The trail leads to a pile of
  corpses all completely drained of blood, and then to the
  hidden Martian base where the victims were used as food.
  A subtle approach also allows sneaky Game Masters
  to run the adventure without necessarily having to call at-
  tention to the fact that it is a War of the Worlds sequel. Just
  imagine the players’ surprise when they learn the truth,
  and the first fighting machine makes its way over the hori-
  zon. In any event, it will be up to the player characters to
  survive both the invaders and the elements, in order to send
  warning to the rest of the world before it is too late.
  World in Flames
  Action-oriented players are likely to be more enter-
  tained by a massive alien attack. The set-up here is fairly
  simple: drop a Martian landing cylinder (or two) near the
  player characters’ home base and let the fireworks com-
  mence All the player characters hold dear is directly in the
  path of the Martians’ rampage, and only they can stop it.
  The George Pal film version makes a good reference
  for a Game Master who chooses this campaign set-up. For
  example, while the movie’s setting is mostly restricted to
  one general area (the western United States), the vignettes
  that reveal the war’s progress around the globe serve to
  heighten the terror and emphasize to the players that no
  help is forthcoming.
  While other means of bringing the player characters
  together are certainly possible, police- and military-style
  campaigns are especially applicable. Police in later time-
  periods are considerably better armed (having to cope with
  the likes of John Dillinger will force that change), as are
  the military (but not prohibitively so), making this sort of
  campaign much more playable than in the Edwardian Era.
  After the Fall of Man
  The oldest method of creating alternate scenarios is to
  take the results of a well-known conflict and reverse them.
  Pages upon pages have been written about the potential
  aftermath of Napoleon triumphing at Waterloo, a Confed-
  erate victory in the War Between the States, or Nazi Ger-
  many emerging victorious from the Second World War.
  Naturally, one of the more intriguing scenarios is one in
  which the Martians win The War of the Worlds.
  It is safe to say that players fond of the post-apocalyp-
  tic genre are naturals for this particular setting, but there
  are other possibilities as well. For instance, if the players
  participate in a scenario similar to the one described in the
  section “A Sample Rewrite,” wherein it is up to them to
  destroy the source of the Martians’ newfound immunity,
  this setting can be used to simulate what happens if the
  PCs fail but survive the attempt. Note that this differs from
  destroying a sanitizing agent (as human beings cannot sur-
  vive on an Earth devoid of microorganisms).
  Mars Invictus
  Once the premise of the Martians somehow overcom-
  ing their fatal vulnerability to Earth bacteria is established,
  the events of the novel allow us to extrapolate the events
  that follow. First, the Martians make good on their con-
  quest of the British Isles, completely transforming the land
  into a manufacturing center for the items they could not
  bring with them from Mars, including additional fighting
  machines. In time, Britain becomes an impenetrable re-
  doubt from which to launch further attacks.
  Being a short stride across the English Channel, the
  European Continent is the next to fall to the Martians (de-
  
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  spite the valiant efforts of France, Germany, and the other
  major powers). The invaders suffer serious losses but ulti-
  mately, even the bane of would-be European conquerors—
  the Russian winter—fails to stop their advance.
  Meanwhile, additional cylinders are launched from
  Mars to other large island areas, which are used as bases
  for further conquests. Cuba, Australia, and Madagascar put
  up a spirited resistance, but even with the help of other
  nations, they are unable to stand before the Martian as-
  sault. Japan is also targeted, but few humans remain there
  after the Japanese people fight the Martians almost liter-
  ally to the last man.
  The great land masses of the Americas, Asia, and Af-
  rica slow the Martians down by virtue of their sheer physi-
  cal size, and the last of the great industrial complexes in
  the United States and Canada throw men and materiel at
  the invaders right up until the bitter end. Ultimately, the
  humans fail to develop a defense against the Black Smoke,
  and even those who do not succumb to fear and hopeless-
  ness are felled by the ebon poison.
  The Earth Under the Martians
  With the end of organized resistance, humanity is di-
  vided into two classes. The first of these are men and
  women who come to accept their defeat, and submit to the
  Martians’ designs. Others continue an increasingly more
  desperate fight against the alien occupation, with an un-
  certain chance for success. The Artilleryman’s vision is
  made prophesy.
  Human Cattle
  “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.”
  Terrified masses of humanity, their spirits broken by
  Civilizations’ rout before the Martians, cling to the one
  thing left them, their lives. After the war ends, the Mar-
  tians have the time to refine their methods, and transform
  the mass blood-draining of humans into an industry as vast
  and sophisticated as the modern dairy industry.
  Captured humans are penned up, cared for, and bred
  for the qualities that make them best suited to provide nour-
  ishment for the legions of Martians coming to Earth as
  they abandon their dying world. Those who remember the
  days when mankind was master of the world are slowly
  culled from the herd, and replaced by offspring who know
  no life other than the idle comfort of a gilded cage and
  who willingly offer their blood to the Martians.
  The Hounds
  “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.”
  Despite their overwhelming superiority, the sheer size
  of the Martian machines (and the Martians’ inability to
  function well outside the machines in Earth’s heavier grav-
  ity) leave them ill-suited for wiping out the last scattered
  elements of human resistance. Over time, the Martians train
  humans selected from the herds to seek out and destroy
  their own kind. With their characteristic brutal efficiency,
  these human “hounds” infiltrate suspected warrens of hu-
  man resistance. Once in the company of free humans, the
  hounds happily activate the Black Smoke canisters attached
  to them, understanding only that doing so pleases their
  masters.
  The Resistance
  Though they share a common goal, those humans who
  continue to fight the Martians are quite diverse in their
  methods. Some are little more than bipedal beasts, while
  others adopt a more sophisticated strategy.
  The Savages
  “The risk is that we who keep wild will go savage—
  degenerate into a sort of big, savage rat.”
  There will be a few whose primal instincts bar them
  from joining the human herds that nourish the Martians;
  over time, they are forced to take drastic measures simply
  to stay alive. Many opt for measures incompatible with the
  tenets of human civilization, and lose their humanity in the
  process.
  As the Martian occupation continues, conditions only
  worsen. Skills once considered fundamental (such as lit-
  eracy and basic mathematics) do not survive into the next
  generation, and firearms and tailored clothes give way to
  stone knives and bear skins. With the death of education,
  acts like cannibalism move from the unthinkable to the
  commonplace, and a degenerate breed of feral man is born.
  The savages are little more than nuisances to the Mar-
  tians, stealing various minor items from lightly guarded
  installations. They present a far greater menace to civi-
  lized humans, who feel the loss of purloined supplies to a
  far greater degree.
  The Active Resistance
  Small bands of humans continue to carry out guerilla
  attacks against the Martians, but a lack of coordination
  makes them more of an inconvenience to the invaders than
  an actual threat. Unlike the savages, their strikes invari-
  ably draw a massive response from the Martians, and on
  balance come to no great end.
  The humans who attempt to carry on the fight differ
  mainly on their preferred targets. Some try to target the
  Martians themselves, taking advantage of their relatively
  weak physical forms. Others who have access to surviving
  caches of explosives (or who can concoct them on their
  own) attack the Martians’ industry and war machines. The
  
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  remainder hold their own kind in the greatest contempt,
  and employ their resources against the human cattle.
  As time passes, the most pressing problem is the ex-
  hausted stores of war materiel. Little human manufactur-
  ing takes place after the Martian conquest of Earth, and
  the pre-invasion stockpiles are largely exhausted by the
  furious attempts to resist the alien onslaught. The most
  advanced weapons at the time of the invasion are hard-
  pressed to damage the Martian fighting machines, and a
  future where humans are armed only with spears, bows,
  and clubs represents an even dimmer prospect for the re-
  sistance.
  Despite this, the resistance endures because the vari-
  ous bands occupy areas inaccessible to the Martians and
  their bulky technology. For example, a hardy band of war-
  riors survives in the tunnels dug for the New York City
  subway system, beyond the Martians’ tentacled grasp but
  well-supplied with nourishing rats. Some bands occupy the
  Himalayas, the Rocky Mountains, the Alps, and other geo-
  graphic areas where the Martian walkers cannot easily ven-
  ture. Other groups survive in the Amazon jungle, even
  though its verdant green has been replaced by the red hue
  of Martian flora.
  The Covert Resistance
  “And in all those places we shall gather. Our district
  will be London. And we may even be able to keep a watch,
  and run about in the open when the Martians keep away.
  Play cricket, perhaps. That’s how we shall save the race.”
  Adhering to the singular vision of its founder, perhaps
  the most successful of all resistance groups is the one oc-
  cupying the drain system under London. The group owes
  its existence to the dictatorial hand of a former British Army
  artilleryman, one of the first to foresee what fate awaited
  mankind and make plans for humanity to reclaim its home
  world.
  As it has ever been, the Artilleryman is quite strict in
  who is allowed to join his group. Those who are infirm of
  mind or body, or fail to demonstrate sufficient devotion to
  his cause, are done away with harshly. Troublemakers of
  any kind are dealt with similarly. To the Artilleryman, he
  and his band of followers hold the future of mankind in
  their hands, and that is far too precious a thing to risk.
  The Artilleryman’s concern is such that his followers
  are prohibited from taking any sort of aggressive act against
  the Martians, not even stealing needed supplies. Quite
  rightly, the Artilleryman fears the invaders’ retaliation, and
  being spared it greatly contributes to his group’s successes
  and staying power.
  Knowledge Is Power
  “But saving the race is nothing in itself. As I say, that’s
  only being rats. It’s saving our knowledge and adding to it
  that’s the thing....We must make great safe places down
  deep, and get all the books we can; not novels and poetry
  swipes, but ideas, science books.”
  What sets the Artilleryman’s resistance group apart
  from the others is its commitment to the preservation and
  expansion of human knowledge, particularly in the sciences.
  As the other survivor groups plan petty raids against the
  Martians, the London resistance engages in efforts to find
  and preserve books and other materials useful for research.
  This in part because the Artilleryman fears mankind
  will descend into barbarism even before the Martians fin-
  ish the species off. Beyond the preservation of civiliza-
  tion, this serves another, more martial purpose.
  The Fifth Column
  “Just imagine this: Four or five of their fighting-ma-
  chines suddenly starting off-Heat- Rays right and left, and
  not a Martian in ‘em. Not a Martian in ‘em, but men-men
  who have learned the way how. It may be in my time, even-
  those men. Fancy having one of them lovely things, with
  its Heat-Ray wide and free! Fancy having it in control!”
  It is the Artilleryman’s goal that some means be devel-
  oped by which the Martian technology can be understood
  and then mastered by humans. Then, when the Martians
  least expect it, their own weapons can be turned against
  them.
  To this end, the Artilleryman slips several of his opera-
  tives into the Martians’ bases, under the guise of feral hu-
  mans. How much of the Martians’ technological secrets
  they manage to uncover is unknown, but the infiltrators
  are under orders not to attempt escape until they learn of
  something useful. Whether they are still spying, or the
  Martians kill them before they can flee, is unknown.
  Joining the Resistance
  Exactly when the Artilleryman plans to strike is known
  only to him, but if his group is the focus of your campaign,
  now would be a good time. While a few preliminary ad-
  ventures may be in order (to acclimate the player charac-
  ters to the setting, if nothing else), the players need some
  sort of reassurance sooner rather than later that their char-
  acters’ struggle is not hopeless.
  It may be premature to send them after a Martian fight-
  ing machine right off the bat, especially when a mission to
  reclaim a lost cache of military-grade weapons or a spy
  from a human farm will do equally as well. As long as the
  action is fast and furious, the odds long, and the situation
  desperate, the setting will be sold.
  Where the campaign goes from there is up to the GM,
  of course. Sooner or later, the player characters deserve to
  come across some method of dispatching the Martians, or
  at least something that gives mankind a fighting chance to
  do so. Several possibilities have already been discussed,
  and whichever the Game Master decides, it makes for the
  best possible conclusion to this type of campaign.
  
  109
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  War of the Worlds Battle Rules
  You can simulate pitched battles between the Martian
  invaders and the British armed forces using the simplified
  ACTION! SYSTEM rules from Monster Island: The Game of
  Giant Monster Combat from Firefly Games. You can even
  try pitting the Martians against kaiju monsters!
  The following rules and stats supplement those found
  in Monster Island: The Game of Giant Monster Combat
  and the Escape From Monster Island supplement, avail-
  able at better game and hobby stores.
  Set Up
  Each side gets 50 points to build their army with (i.e.,
  to buy units with). In a standard Monster Island game, the
  Martian player starts with 30 points, just like kaiju players.
  In a “British Army versus the Martians” game, the Brit-
  ish forces player chooses one side of the map or play area
  to “defend.” The Martian player starts at the opposite side
  of the map.
  Special Rules
  Black Smoke (New Power) - 5/1d6
  An attack roll is made against a specific hex (vs. a base
  Evade of 10). The substance immediately spreads one inch
  in each direction, resulting in a 3-inch diameter cloud. Once
  Human/Martian Forces Record Sheet
  Human/Martian Forces Record Sheet
  Human/Martian Forces Record Sheet
  Human/Martian Forces Record Sheet
  Human/Martian Forces Record Sheet
  Player Name:______________________________
  Race (Human/Martian):_________________
  Qty
  Unit
  Attack
  Evade
  Toughness
  Morale
  Move
  Powers
  Cost
  ____
  Cavalry
  3
  15
  1
  3
  6
  Close Assault, Crowd-Control, Firepower (1d6;
    2d6 in close assault), Personnel
  3
  ____
  Infantry
  4
  14
  1
  3
  3
  Close Assault, Crowd-Control, Firepower (1d6;
    2d6 in close assault), Personnel
  2
  ____
  Lorrie (Truck)
  —
  12
  1
  2
  6
  Transport
  1
  ____
  Navy Boat
  3
  11
  8
  4
  0
  Firepower (2d6), Swimming (4”), Transport
  5
  ____
  Towed Artillery
  3
  10
  2
  3
  0
  Bombardment (3d6), Personnel
  4
  ____
  Waggon, Horsedrawn
  —
  10
  1
  2
  4
  Transport
  1
  ____
  Constables (Police)
  —
  12
  1
  3
  3
  Crowd-Control, Firepower (1d6), Personnel
  0
  ____
  Crowd
  —
  10
  0
  2
  3
  Personnel
  0
  ____
  Fire Brigade
  —
  11
  2
  3
  6
  Extinguish
  0
  ____
  Cylinder
  7
  8
  10 (Life 30)
  —
  —
  0
  ____
  Digging Machine
  —
  12
  10 (Life 7)
  5
  2
  Transport, Tunneling (move underground)
  2
  ____
  Fighting Machine
  7
  10
  10 (Life 20)
  5
  7
  Blast: Heat Ray (8d6), Long Range, Black
    Smoke (6d6 EX), 8x Tentacles (STR 1)
  15
  ____
  Flying Machine
  6
  20
  10 (Life 20)
  5
  —
  Flight (20”), Black Smoke (6d6, Area)
  12
  ____
  Handling Machine
  6
  10
  10 (Life 15)
  5
  3
  Tentacles (each has STR 1)
  2
  Copyright © 2002 Gold Rush Games (www.goldrushgames.com). Permission granted to photocopy for personal use only.
  Monster Island and Escape From Monster Island are trademarks of Firefly Games. Used with perission.
  deployed, Black Smoke remains on the map for the rest of
  the battle, unless dissipated (see below).
  Personnel suffer damage every turn that they remain in
  the cloud. Non-living units (e.g., vehicles and buildings)
  take no damage from the smoke. Units above ground level
  (e.g., flying, on a hill, etc.) suffer damage on the first turn,
  but suffer no damage on subsequent turns as the Black
  Smoke drifts down to ground level.
  Because Black Smoke breaks down in contact with
  steam, Fire Brigade units can “extinguish” Black  Smoke,
  as per the Extinguish rule in Escape From Monster Island.
  British Unit Restrictions
  The British forces player may only select units from
  those listed below.
  Reinforcements
  British forces players may use the Reinforcements rule.
  Martian forces do not get reinforcements.
  Victory Conditions
  The British forces achieve victory if they destroy all of
  the Martian units or cause them to leave the map from any
  side other than the side the British forces are defending.
  The Martian forces achieve victory if they destroy all
  of the British forces units, cause the British forces units to
  rout/flee, or if two or more of the Martian units exit the
  map from the side being defended by the British forces.
  
  110
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  WWWWW
  aaaaa
  rrrrr
  ooooo
  fffff
  ttttt
  hhhhh
  eeeee
  WWWWW
  ooooo
  rrrrr
  lllll
  ddddd
  sssss
  Contributor Bios
  Christopher McGlothlin, M.Ed.
  Christopher McGlothlin, M.Ed. is a lifelong Virginian whose
  previous credits include works published by Pinnacle Entertain-
  ment Group, West End Games, Guildhall Press, and Gold Rush
  Games. He holds Bachelor of Science Degrees in Political Sci-
  ence and Journalism, as well as a Master’s in Education, from
  Radford University. For the past eight years, he has worked as a
  High School Social Studies Teacher, and he serves as a modera-
  tor for the New Gamers Order listerver.
  Mr. McGlothlin is a member of the Sons of Confederate
  Veterans, the Military Order of the Stars & Bars, and the Con-
  federate States Army. His hobbies include the Miami Dolphins,
  MST3K, the JSA, professional wrestling, and classic sci-fi. All
  good things in his life are made possible by God and his wonder-
  ful wife Tanith.
  James L. Cambias
  James L. Cambias is a roleplaying game designer and sci-
  ence fiction writer. His most recent projects are Star Hero from
  Hero Games and GURPS Mars from Steve Jackson Games. He
  lives in western Massachusetts and leaves strange meteorites alone.
  Mark Arsenault
  Mark Arsenault is the co-founder and current board member
  of the Game Publishers Association, co-designer of the ACTION!
  SYSTEM, and president of Gold Rush Games and Golden Pillar
  Publishing. He has authored and co-authored more than a dozen
  books, including the award-winning Sengoku roleplaying game,
  Shinobi: Shadows of Nihon, and The Legacy of Zorro. He is also
  a graphic/book designer and has worked on projects for other
  publishers, including Hero Games, Grey Ghost Press, Bizzaro
  Games, Living Room Games, and Citizen Games.
  Mark has 15 years of law enforcement experience and served
  six years in the U.S. Air Force, including two tours in the Per-
  sian Gulf during operations Desert Shield and Desert Storm. His
  hobbies and interests include Japanese history, martial arts, film-
  making, chanbara, shooting, and, of course, role-playing. Mark
  lives in Elk Grove, California, with his wonderful wife, Maragaret,
  their cat Titters and new canine companion, Tenjo.
  Christina Stiles
  Christina Stiles is a freelance writer and editor living in South
  Carolina. This contribution marks her second appearance in a
  Gold Rush Games product (and hopefully not her last): she for-
  merly co-authored The Village of Briarton with Patrick Sweeney.
  Christina’s other works include Unhallowed Halls (Atlas Games),
  Way of the Witch (Citizen Games), and contributions to Eden
  Studios’ Liber Bestarius and Waysides books and Bastion Press’
  Into the Green. In her spare time, she edits game books and the
  Gaming Herald, writes articles for Campaign magazine, runs
  Bizzaro Games, and serves as a board  member of the Game
  Publishers Association.
  Appendices
  Resources
  Critical Material on H. G. Wells
  There are many biographical and critical studies of Wells.
  Some of the most useful for a reader of The War of the Worlds
  are:
  Bergonzi, Bernard. The Early H. G. Wells. University of
  Toronto Press, 1961. A basic study of the “scientific romances;”
  useful but with a tendency to grand theorizing.
  Huntington, John. The Logic of Fantasy: H. G. Wells and
  Science Fiction. Columbia University Press, 1982.
  Koch, Howard. The Panic Broadcast. Avon, 1970. The com-
  plete script of the Orson Welles/Mercury Theatre dramatization,
  with newspaper reports on the panic.
  McConnell, Frank D. The Science Fiction of H. G. Wells.
  Oxford University Press, 1981.
  Scheick, William J., and Cox, J. Randolph. H. G. Wells: A
  Reference Guide.
  G.K. Hall, 1988. An extensive bibliography of secondary
  materials, with a brief complete list of Wells’ books.
  Smith, David C. H. G. Wells: Desperately Mortal. Yale Uni-
  versity Press, 1986. A great biography.
  Wagar, W. Warren. H. G. Wells and the World State. Yale
  University Press, 1961. One of the first American academic treat-
  ments of Wells. Wagar also wrote a few SF stories, and is noted
  for his studies of fictional future societies.
  Williamson, Jack. H. G. Wells: Critic of Progress. Mirage
  Press, 1973. This is essentially Williamson’s Ph.D. thesis. A
  valuable perspective from a fellow SF writer.
  Further Reading
  Anderson, Kevin J. War of the Worlds: Global Dispatches.
  Bantam Spectra, 1996. Science-fiction anthology of eye-witness
  accounts of the Martian invasion, told from the point of view of
  various famous people from around the world.
   Christopher, John. The Tripods Trilogy (The White Moun-
  tains, The City of Gold and Lead, and The Pool of Fire). An
  alternate storyline concerning what might have happened had
  the Martians won. Made into a TV mini-series.
  Smith, George H. The Second War of the Worlds. DAW SF
  Books, 1976. The Martians try again to invade Earth, but find
  themselves pulled into another dimension, with an Earth where
  magic works.
  Wellman, Manly W., and Wellman, Wade. Sherlock Holmes’s
  War of the Worlds, Warner Books, 1975. Sherlock Holmes and
  Professor Challenger pit their intellects against the Martians.
  Wayne, Jeff. Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version of the War of the
  Worlds, Columbia Records, 1978. Excellent musical adaptation
  of the story, narrated by Sir Richard Burton and featuring, among
  others, Justin Hayward (of The Moody Blues).
  Wells, H. G. “When the Sleeper Wakes” and “The Crystal
  Egg.” Short-story sequels to The War of the Worlds.
  
  111111111111111
  AAAAA
  ppppp
  ppppp
  eeeee
  nnnnn
  ddddd
  iiiii
  ccccc
  eeeee
  sssss
  Tom Kidd
  Tom Kidd is a widely known fantasy illustrator.  He has re-
  ceived four Hugo nominations and has won five Chesley Awards
  and the Anlab award.
  His work has been published in and on the covers of well
  over three hundred books and magazines, ranging from Good
  Housekeeping and Readers Digest to Savage Sword of Conan.
  Tom’s paintings have been displayed in the Delaware Art Mu-
  seum, the Society of Illustrators, and the Cleveland Museum of
  Science.
  As a conceptual designer he worked for Walt Disney Stu-
  dios, Universal Studios, Rhythm & Hues, Danbury Mint and
  Franklin Mint. This work ranges from robots, aliens, spaceships,
  barbarians and architectural drawings for a theme park.
  He has illustrated two books: The Three Musketeers and The
  War of the Worlds. He has begun work again on a large-scale
  illustrated book of his own design called Gnemo. Tom lives in
  New Milford, Connecticut with his wife Andrea Montague.
  Morgan Bonthoux
  An interest in illustrative storytelling ever since his first comic
  book at the age of four. When it was explained to him that the
  book was drawn by someone, he was hooked.
  Twenty years later that he would go to the Kubert School
  and study illustration seriously. "I had been doing small local
  jobs but nothing serious."
  He is planning to make the jump from part time to 'all the
  time' illustrator, but at the moment couldn't be happier working
  with Gold Rush Games. "Well researched, well written and defi-
  nitely captivating scenarios. Absolutely top notch."
  Open Game License ver. 1.0a
  The following text is the property of Wizards of the Coast, Inc. and is
  Copyright 2000 Wizards of the Coast, Inc (“Wizards”). All Rights Reserved.
  1. Definitions: (a)”Contributors” means the copyright and/or trademark
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  to the extent such content does not embody the Product Identity and is an
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  15 COPYRIGHT NOTICE
  Open Game License v 1.0a Copyright 2000, Wizards of the Coast, Inc.
  Modern System Reference Document Copyright 2002, Wizards of the Coast,
  Inc.; Authors Bill Slavicsek, Jeff Grubb, Rich Redman, Charles Ryan, based on
  material by Jonathan Tweet, Monte Cook, Skip Williams, Richard Baker, Peter
  Adkison, Bruce R. Cordell, John Tynes, Andy Collins, and JD Wiker.
  Action! Classics: The War of the Worlds copyright © 2003 by Gold Rush
  Games.
  Designation of Open Content
  All boxed text (except that text which is already inthe public do-
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  Product Identity
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  Hero System/Champions
  GRGH101
  1-890305-13-8
  16.00
  Denizens of San Angelo
  Hero System/Champions
  GRGH102
  1-890305-14-6
  14.00
  Visit the Gold Rush Games web site at
  www.goldrushgames.com
  Action! System Core Rules Book
  Universal RPG
  GRG4001
  1-890305-38-3
  14.95
  San Angelo: City of Heroes
  Hero System; Origins Award nominee!
  GRGH300
  1-890305-03-0
  24.95
  Sengoku: Revised Edition
  Best Historical Game 1999!
  Origins Awards & Grog d’Or nominee!
  GRG1001B1-890305-50-2
  29.95
  Critically acclaimed samurai RPG!
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Action! System/Action! System The War of the Worlds.pdf