The Map of the Sky (47 page)

Wells was immersed in these thoughts when they arrived in Weybridge, only to find that twenty or so cavalrymen were evacuating the town. On foot or on horseback, the soldiers were busy urging the locals
to pack up their most prized possessions and leave the area at once. They had to make their way through a confusion of carriages, carts, cabriolets, and other improvised means of transport, in the midst of which men in plus fours or boaters and their well-groomed wives voiced their displeasure at this absurd evacuation. Whilst everyone appeared willing to collaborate with the army, even bundling their belongings onto an omnibus commandeered for the occasion, Wells noticed that most of them seemed oblivious to the seriousness of their situation.

It took them a long time to get across the town. When they got beyond Sunbury, they ran into a lengthy procession of vehicles and pedestrians, which, like a biblical exodus, was slowly wending its way toward London. With haunted faces, its members carried trunks and suitcases, pushed carts or even prams piled high with their belongings. Only the children appeared to be enjoying the novel situation, laughing gaily atop the piles of rolled-up mattresses and small bits of furniture, like the unwitting lookouts for disaster. In spite of everything, no one doubted that the powerful British army would trounce the so-called invaders in a matter of days, putting an end to this unexpected war that was causing everyone so much trouble.
They’re only tin pots on stilts!
they heard one elderly gentleman cry out as he wheeled his cart brimming with useless sticks of furniture, unaware of the Hell that was being unleashed on Earth. And as the carriage with the emblazoned “G” weaved its way through the crowd, Wells took in each detail of what was happening around them. He cursed himself for not having a notebook handy. In his novel the Martians had constructed airships that they flew directly to London in order to attack, so it had not been necessary for him to describe terrible mass exoduses of this sort. Now that he had realized their dramatic potential, however, he told himself that if he ever had the chance to rewrite his novel, he would replace the ferocious flying machines shaped like stingrays (which he had only invented to make the vessel Robur flew in Verne’s novel seem like a toy) with tripods such as these, which with their spiderlike advance across the countryside fueled the spread of rumors among the inhabitants of those areas. This created
a far more intimate kind of horror, because instead of merely flying far above people’s heads they were trampling over their gardens.

Having managed to skirt around the terrified lines of fugitives, they reached Hampton Court, which was shrouded in a peculiarly noiseless calm. They drove around the perimeter of Bushy Park, with its deer cavorting beneath the chestnut trees as carefree as ever, then crossed the river and took the Richmond road. At last, in the distance, they were able to make out the hills around London. They sighed with relief at the sight, because this was where the inspector had told them the lines of defense had been established.

“Dozens of cannons will be waiting for the enemy,” Clayton had assured them. “The tripods will have trouble crossing our lines.”

“Do you still think they are Martians, Inspector?” Wells asked. “Murray doesn’t believe they might be Germans either, but I—”

“For the love of God, Wells, what do you have against Germans?” Clayton interrupted. “I assure you they aren’t to blame for all the world’s ills. Besides, I don’t think we should waste our time on fruitless speculation about who the enemy might be. In a few miles we’ll find out, as soon as our cannons defeat the first tripod.”

“I hope you’re right,” the author said glumly.

“Have confidence in our army, Mr. Wells,” was the young man’s arrogant reply.

“Remember that you haven’t seen a tripod, Clayton, and we have. We passed under its legs while you were sound asleep.”

“Ah, Mr. Wells, the most terrifying thing is sometimes not what we see, but rather what we are forced to imagine,” the inspector retorted.

Wells gave an exasperated grunt, momentarily wondering whether it might not have been a good idea to leave that ceaseless fount of wisdom in a ditch.

“I assure you, Inspector Clayton, it was no puppet show,” the author replied rather tetchily. “And, needless to say, the tripods bear no resemblance to tin pots on stilts, like that old fellow said.”

The inspector gave a patronizing smirk. “I confess I’m most interested
to see one of these monsters. How then would you describe them? I’m sure that with your talent you can produce a far more accurate simile.”

“Well . . . ,” the author murmured, vexed at having to respond to the inspector’s absurd challenge. “I’d say they look like—”

“Like a milking stool?” the prisoner suddenly inquired.

“Yes, you could say that,” Wells conceded, irritated by this interruption from the apelike man.

“With something dangling from the top like a . . . tentacle?” the oaf inquired again.

“Yes, from which it shoots its deadly ray,” Wells snapped.

“In that case, we have a problem,” Mike said, motioning with his chin toward the window.

Wells and the inspector turned as one and saw behind them a tripod approaching along the road. Although it was still far off, the three men realized in horror that with its huge strides it would soon overtake them.

“Good God!” said Clayton.

For a moment, the inspector appeared mesmerized by the terrifying vision before his eyes.

“I don’t think your pistol will be of much use now,” remarked the man with the ape face.

Ignoring his comment, Clayton slid open the hatch and yelled, “Have you seen what’s coming after us, Murray? Drive the horses on! Make them fly, damn it!”

A few moments later, they felt a violent jolt and gripped their seats for dear life. The millionaire was urging on the horses hard now, trying to whip into them the power of flight. The lovers’ jaunt was at an end. This was a desperate race to reach the safety of the hills before the tripod hunted them down. Boxed in between Clayton and the prisoner, Wells could not help letting out a cry of anguish as through the rear window he saw the machine gaining on them, kicking up fountains of sand and gravel each time its powerful legs sank into the ground.

“Faster, Murray, faster!” Clayton shouted.

With a fresh leap that made the earth shudder, the tripod came to within twenty yards of the carriage. Wells could see the tentacle sway in the air, and a feeling of dense, viscous panic clogged his veins: he knew what that familiar rocking movement meant. And this time there would be no escape. As the tentacle took aim, he resigned himself to perish in the coming moments, together with the prisoner and the smuggest inspector in Scotland Yard. Just then, they heard a deafening blast. But to their amazement, it was the tripod that received the hit. Its monstrous head shook violently, and one corner shattered into a dozen metal shards that scattered to the ground like a deadly shower of pollen. A splinter hit the tail end of the carriage, causing it to veer momentarily from its path, but Murray swiftly regained control. They heard a second blast coming from a different direction than the first, and the tripod shook once more, but this time the shot glanced off its left side. Wells saw the tentacle turn away from them, seeking out its aggressors—no doubt the cannons Clayton had told them about. These must have been positioned among the stands of trees toward which the carriage was rattling, now managing to outstrip its monstrous pursuer. The tentacle fired, and with a disquieting hiss the powerful heat ray spat out a shaft of fire to its left, blasting a dozen trees into the air. Wells had the impression that it was firing blindly, rousing his hopes that the duel might have a favorable outcome. Just then, the carriage must have crossed the line of defense, for all of a sudden they found themselves in the middle of a bewildering battle scene: dotted all around were various munition carts, dozens of heavy cannons, behind which gunners were hard at work, and a multitude of soldiers camouflaged behind trees and hillocks. The scene was one of total chaos, in which Wells hoped some order existed. With a violent jerk, Murray halted the carriage as they passed the last group of cannons. With surprising agility, he leapt from the driver’s seat and helped the girl down.

“Is everyone all right?” he bawled, in order for those inside to hear him above the deafening cannon fire.

Wells, Clayton, and the prisoner all nodded, though none of them
stepped out of the carriage, preferring to follow the progress of the battle through the rear window. From what felt like a relatively safe distance, they watched the tentacle launch another shot, much more accurate this time. The heat ray sent half a dozen heavy cannons flying into the air, along with their respective gunners, many of whom, reduced to charred lumps, thudded into the trees. A dense odor of seared flesh floated over the battleground. The tripod, it appeared, was not willing to lay down its arms. Then, all of a sudden, whoever was in command, or perhaps an inspired gunner, fired at the legs of the machine, striking one of them and shattering it instantly. The tripod’s colossal head appeared to bob before lurching forward slowly and crashing to the ground a few yards away from a battalion of terrified soldiers.

“My God, they’ve shot it down,” Wells murmured, exhilarated by the brutal heroism of the confrontation, but most of all by its outcome.

“If the Creator had considered it wise to put a three-legged creature on this Earth He would have done so, but obviously the design is flawed,” Clayton remarked with his habitual pomposity.

After the felling of the tripod, the roar of cannons halted abruptly, and a dense silence descended, which all were too abashed to break. Then, somewhere amid the smoking ruin of the tripod’s head, what looked like a hatch opened, and from it emerged the pilot.

Gilliam Murray’s first impression was of a giant cockroach made of thick pea soup. But as his eyes grew accustomed to what he was seeing, the thing took on the appearance of a giant maggot, whose segmented body moved with suppleness, almost undulating across the ground, suggesting it had no bones or any kind of frame inside holding it up. The thing was roughly the size of a rhinoceros, and its outer layer put Murray in mind of the skin on certain poisonous toadstools. Somewhere on that amorphous body he thought he glimpsed a cluster of orifices and slits, which he assumed must be its head. Dotted over its pliant body he also thought he saw clusters of fine tentacles that seemed to give off a bluish glow and an occasional spark, like an electrical charge. After moving a few yards, the lump came to a halt, keeling over on one side, and seconds
later the flesh stopped rippling, and it remained chillingly still. In its own way, the thing had perished before their eyes.

“As I told you, George,” the millionaire muttered, recalling with horror the nauseating green pap his governess used to shovel into his mouth as a child, “these are no Germans.”

“No, no they aren’t,” Wells agreed, staring with horror at the body sprawled beside the machine, its sinister appearance striking him as familiar.

“I realize it’s a fascinating sight,” said Clayton, “but if you look up you’ll see something even more startling.”

Wells and Murray raised their heads and witnessed, outlined against the smoke from the blasts, more than a dozen tripods approaching in great strides toward the shattered line of defense.

“My God!” cried Wells. “Murray, get us out of here!”

The millionaire obeyed immediately, seizing the reins and spurring on the horses. Seconds later, the carriage was hurtling toward Sheen, leaving the detachment of soldiers to their fate. On their way through Putney, they heard the roar of cannons start up again, revealing that the tripods had reached the hills. Moments later, the disquieting hiss of the Martian ray fired back. Night was beginning to fall as they crossed Putney Bridge and took the King’s Road toward Scotland Yard. Filled with dread at what they had just seen, they rode in grim silence through the darkened streets of a city that still harbored the naïve hope of defeating the invaders.

XXVII

A
LL
L
ONDON SEEMED TO BE HOLDING ITS
breath. In Fulham as in Chelsea the carriage with the ornate “G” had to force its way through clusters of people clogging the streets. Londoners stood on corners, chatting idly or smoking their pipes as they gazed expectantly at the gradually darkening sky. No one wanted to miss any part of the invasion they might glimpse from there. Even those who had followed police instructions and stayed indoors kept leaning out of their windows, waiting for the battle on the outskirts of the city to be over at last so they could resume their lives. From the carriage, the group caught sight of a few solemnly concerned faces, but human nature being unpredictable, they also saw people drinking, singing, or playing cards in taverns, unwilling to let the situation upset their routine. Needless to say, no one there had seen a tripod. The few who had, and had lived to tell the tale, had not yet reached the city. Nor had the news that the invaders were Martians, which meant this flood of people almost certainly had no idea what was attacking the all-powerful British Empire. People had been advised to stay inside the protected area of the city, and to judge by their calm attitude, no one appeared to believe they were in any real danger. Their cocksureness struck Wells as pitiable. But what could he do about it? Tell them about the terrifying destruction his group had witnessed? No, that would only cause panic to spread like wildfire through the restless crowd. They had no choice but to do as Clayton had ordered: head for Scotland Yard, where they would deliver
the prisoner and pool their information, fully aware they were only pretending to carry on as usual.

On their way they stopped off in a side street close to where Westminster Cathedral was being built. It was the house of the friends Jane had been visiting the day before, and Wells thanked Clayton for allowing him to look for his wife, slightly uncomfortable because Emma would have to wait to do the same with her relatives, as Southwark was quite far out of their way. He descended from the coach, entered the building, and raced up the stairs to the Garfields’ flat, praying Jane would still be there. But before he could even knock, he found a message addressed to him pinned to the door. Recognizing Jane’s handwriting, Wells tore the note off. In it his wife informed him she was fine, but that they were leaving the house to try to find out what was going on outside the city, as not much information was coming through, and she was worried about him. She also told him she hoped he reached London safely and found her note, and ended by saying that, come what may, she would be waiting for him on Primrose Hill the following morning at dawn. Wells stuffed the note in his pocket and aimed an angry kick at the door, cursing the fact that she had left the house to try to find out whether he was still alive. Where could they have gone? He had no idea where to start looking, and wandering the streets calling her name seemed to him as pointless as it was impractical. He returned to the carriage disgruntled and relayed what was in the message to the others.