Out Of The Silent Planet

Note: Certain slighting references to earlier stories of this type which will be found
in the following pages have been put there for purely dramatic purposes.
The author would be sorry if any reader supposed he was too stupid to have enjoyed
Mr H. G. Wells's fantasies or too ungrateful to acknowledge his debt to them.

THE LAST drops of the thundershower had hardly ceased falling when the Pedestrian stuffed his map
into his pocket, settled his pack more comfortably on his tired shoulders, and stepped out from
the shelter of a large chestnut tree into the middle of the road. A violent yellow sunset was
pouring through a rift in the clouds to westward, but straight ahead over the hills the sky was
the colour of dark slate. Every tree and blade of grass was dripping, and the road shone like a
river. The Pedestrian wasted no time on the landscape but set out at once with the determined
stride of a good walker who has lately realized that he will have to walk farther than he intended.
That, indeed, was his situation. If he had chosen to look back, which he did not, he could have
seen the spire of Much Nadderby, and, seeing it, might have uttered a malediction on the
inhospitable little hotels which, though obviously empty, had refused him a bed. The place had
changed hands since he last went for a walking tour in these parts. The kindly old landlord on
whom he had reckoned had been replaced by someone whom the bar-maid referred to as 'the lady,'
and the lady was apparently a British innkeeper of that orthodox school who regard guests as a
nuisance. His only chance now was Sterk, on the far side of the hills, and a good six miles away.
The map marked an inn at Sterk. The Pedestrian was too experienced to build any very sanguine
hopes on this, but there seemed nothing else within range.

He walked fairly fast, and doggedly, without looking much about him, like a man trying shorten
the way with some interesting train of thought. He was tall, but a little round-shouldered, about
thirty five to forty years of age, and dressed with that particular kind of shabbiness which
marks a member of the intelligentsia on a holiday. He might easily have been mistaken for a
doctor or a schoolmaster at first sight, though he had not the man-of-the-world air of the one or
the indefinable breeziness of the other. In fact, he was a philologist, and fellow of a Cambridge
college. His name was Ransom.

He had hoped when he left Nadderby that he might find a night's lodging at some friendly farm before
he had walked as far as Sterk. But the land this side of the hills seemed almost uninhabited.
It was a desolate, featureless sort of country mainly devoted to cabbage and turnip, with poor
hedges and few trees. It attracted no visitors like the richer country south of Nadderby and it
was protected by the hills from the industrial areas beyotid Sterk. As the evening drew in...
and the noise of the birds came to an end it grew more silent than an English landscape usually is.
The noise of his own feet on the metalled road became irritating.

He had walked thus for a matter of two miles when he became aware of a light ahead. He was close
under the hills by now and it was nearly dark, so that he still cherished hopes of a substantial
farmhouse until he was quite close to the real origin of the light; which proved to be a very
small cottage of ugly nineteenth-century brick. A woman darted out of the open doorway as he
approached it and almost collided with him.

'I beg your pardon, sir: she said. 'I thought it, was my Harry.'

Ransom asked her if there was any place nearer than Sterk where he might possibly get a bed.

'No, sir,' said the woman. 'Not nearer than Sterk. I dare say as they might fix you up at Nadderby.'

She spoke in a humbly fretful voice as if her mind were intent on something else. Ransom explained
that he had already tried Nadderby.

'Then I don't know, I'm sure, sir,' she replied.' 'There isn't hardly any house before Sterk, not
what you want. There's only The Rise, where my Harry works, and I thought you was coming from that
way, sir, and that's why I come out when I heard you, thinking it might be him. He ought to be
home this long time."

'The 'Rise,' said Ransom. 'What's that? A farm? Would they put me up?'

'Oh no, sir. You see there's no one there not except the Professor and the gentleman from London,
not since Miss Alice died. They wouldn't do' anything like that, sir. They don't even keep
any servants, except my Harry for doing the furnace like, and he's not in the house.'

'What's this professor's name?' asked Ransom with a faint hope.

'I don't know, I'm sure, sir,' said the woman. The other gentleman's Mr Devine, he is, and
'Harry says the other gentleman is a professor. He don't know much about it, you see, being
a little simple, and that's why I don't like him coming home so late, and they said they'd
always send him home at six o'clock. It isn't as if he didn't do a good day's work, either.'

The monotonous voice and the limited range of the woman's vocacabulary did not express much
emotion, but Ransom was standing sufficiently near to perceive that she was trembling and
nearly crying. It occurred. to him that he ought to call on the mysterious professor and
ask for the boy to be sent home: and it occurred to him just a fraction of a second later
that once he were inside the house - among men of his own profession - he might very reasonably
accept the offer of a night's hospitality'. Whatever the process of thought may have been,
he found that the mental picture of himself calling at The Rise had assumed all the solidity
of a thing determined upon. He told the woman what he intended to do.

'Thank you very much, sir, I'm sure,' she said. 'And if you would be so kind as to see him out
of the gate and on the road before you leave, if you see what I mean, sir. 'He's that'
frightened of the Professor and he wouldn't come away once your back was turned, sir, not
if they hadn't sent him home themselves like.'

Ransom reassured the woman as well as he could and bade her goodbye, after ascertaining that
he would find The Rise on his left in about five minutes. Stiffness had grown upon him while
he was standing still, and he preceeded slowly and painfully on his way.

There was no sign of any lights on the left of the road - nothing but the flat fields and a
mass of darkness which he took to be a copse. It seemed more than five minutes before he reached
it and found that he had been mistaken. It was divided from the road by a good hedge and in the
hedge was a white gate: and the trees which rose above him as he examined the gate were not the first
line of a copse but only a belt, and the sky showed through them, He felt sure now that this must
be the gate of The Rise and that these trees surrounded a house and garden. He tried the gate and
found it locked. He stood for a moment undecided, discouraged by the silence and the growing
darkness. His first inclination, tired as he felt, was to continue his journey to Sterk: but, he
had committed himself to a troublesome duty on behalf of the old woman. He knew that it would be
possible, if one really wanted, to force a way through the hedge. He did not want to. A nice fool
he would look, blundering in upon some retired eccentric - the sort of a man who kept his gates
locked in the country - with this silly story of a hysterical mother in tears because her idiot
boy had been kept half an hour late at his work! Yet it was perfectly clear that he would have
to get in, and since one cannot crawl through a hedge with a pack on, he slipped his pack off and
flung it over the gate. The 'moment' he had done so, it seemed to him that he had not till now
fully made up his mind - now that he must break into the garden if only in order to recover the
pack. He became very angry with the woman, and with himself, but he got down on his hands and
knees and began to worm his way into the hedge.

The operation proved more difficult than he had expected and it was several minutes before he stood
up in the wet darkness on the inner side of the hedge smarting frdm his contact with thorns and
nettles. He groped his way to the gate, picked up his pack, and then for the first time turned
to take stock of his surroundings. It was lighter on the drive than it had been under the trees
and he had no difficulty in making out a large stone house divided from him by a width of untidy
and neglected lawn. The drive branched into two a little way ahead of him - the right-hand path
leading in a gentle sweep to the front door, while the left ran straight ahead, doubtless to the
back premises of the house. He noticed that this path was churned up into deep ruts - now full
of water as if it were used to carrying a traffic of heavy lorries. The other, on which he now
began to approach the house, was overgrown with moss. The house itself showed no light: some of
the windows were shuttered, some gaped blank without shutter or curtain, but all were lifeless and
inhospitable. The only sign of occupation was a column of smoke that rose from behind the house
with a density which suggested the chimney of a factory, or at least of a laundry, rather than
that of a kitchen. The Rise was clearly the last place in the world where a stranger was likely
to be asked to stay the night, and Ransom, who had already wasted some time in exploring it,
would certainly have turned away if he had not been bound by his unfortunate promise to the old woman.

He mounted the three steps which led into the deep porch, rang the bell, and waited. After a time
he rang the bell again and sat down on a wooden bench which ran along one side of the porch. He sat
so long that though the night was warm and starlit the sweat began to dry on his face and a faint
chilliriess crept over his shoulders. He was very tired by now, and it was perhaps this which
prevented him from rising and ringing the third time: this, and the soothing stillness of the
garden, the beauty of the summer sky, and the occasional hooting of an owl somewhere in the
neighbourhood which seemed only to emphasize the underlying tranquillity of his surroundings.
Something like drowsiness had already descended upon him when he found himself startled into
vigilance. A peculiar noise was going on - a scuffling, irregular noise, vaguely reminiscent
of a football scrum. He stood up. The noise was unmistakable by now. People in boots were fighting
or wrestling or playing some game. They were shouting too. He could not make out the words but he
heard the monosyllabic barking ejaculations of men who are angry and out of breath. The last
thing Ransom wanted was an adventure, but a conviction that he ought to investigate the matter was
already growing upon him when a much louder cry rang out in which he could distinguish the words,
'Let me go. Let me go,' and then, a second later, 'I'm not going in there. Let me go home.'

Throwing off his pack, Ransom sprang down the steps of the porch, and ran round to the back of
the house as quickly as his stiff and footsore condition allowed him. The ruts and pools of the
muddy path led him to what seemed - to be a yard, but a yard surrounded with an an usual number
of outhouses. He had a momentary vision of a tall chimney, a low door filled with red firelight,
and a huge round shape that rose black against the stars, which he took for the dome of a small
observatory: then all this was blotted out of his mind by the figures of three men who were
struggling together so close to him that he almost cannoned into them. From the very first Ransom
felt no doubt that the central figure, whom the two others seemed to be detaining in spite of his
struggles, was the old womnan's Harry. He would like to have thundered out, 'What are you doing to
that boy?' but the words that actually came - in rather an unimpressive voice - were, 'Here! I say!

The three combatants fell suddenly apart, the boy blubbering. 'May I ask,' said the thicker and
taller of the two men, 'who the devil you may be and what you are doing here?' His voice had all
the qualities which Ransom's had so regrettably lacked.

'I'm on a walking tour',said Ransom, 'and I promised a poor woman -"

'Poor woman be damned,' said the other. 'How did you get in?'

'Through the hedge,' said Ransom, who felt a little ill-temper coming to his assistance. 'I don't
know what you're doing to that boy, but --'

'We ought to have a dog in this place,' said the thick man to his companion, ignoring Ransom.

'You mean we should have a dog if you hadn't insisted on using Tartar for an experiment,' said
the man who had not yet spoken. He was nearly as tall as the other, but slender, and apparently
the younger of the two, and his voice sounded vaguely familiar to Ransom.

The latter made a fresh beginning. 'Look here,' he said, 'I don't know what you are doing to that
boy, but it's long after hours and it is high time you sent him home. I haven't the least wish to
interfere in your private affairs, but -'

'Who are you?' bawled the thick man.

'My name is Ransom, if that is what you mean. And -'