The War of the Worlds, Page 25

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE MAN ON PUTNEY HILL

  I spent that night in the inn that stands at the top of PutneyHill, sleeping in a made bed for the first time since my flight toLeatherhead. I will not tell the needless trouble I had breaking intothat house--afterwards I found the front door was on the latch--norhow I ransacked every room for food, until just on the verge ofdespair, in what seemed to me to be a servant's bedroom, I found arat-gnawed crust and two tins of pineapple. The place had beenalready searched and emptied. In the bar I afterwards found somebiscuits and sandwiches that had been overlooked. The latter I couldnot eat, they were too rotten, but the former not only stayed myhunger, but filled my pockets. I lit no lamps, fearing some Martianmight come beating that part of London for food in the night. BeforeI went to bed I had an interval of restlessness, and prowled fromwindow to window, peering out for some sign of these monsters. Islept little. As I lay in bed I found myself thinking consecutively--athing I do not remember to have done since my last argument with thecurate. During all the intervening time my mental condition had beena hurrying succession of vague emotional states or a sort of stupidreceptivity. But in the night my brain, reinforced, I suppose, by thefood I had eaten, grew clear again, and I thought.

  Three things struggled for possession of my mind: the killing ofthe curate, the whereabouts of the Martians, and the possible fate ofmy wife. The former gave me no sensation of horror or remorse torecall; I saw it simply as a thing done, a memory infinitelydisagreeable but quite without the quality of remorse. I saw myselfthen as I see myself now, driven step by step towards that hasty blow,the creature of a sequence of accidents leading inevitably to that. Ifelt no condemnation; yet the memory, static, unprogressive, hauntedme. In the silence of the night, with that sense of the nearness ofGod that sometimes comes into the stillness and the darkness, I stoodmy trial, my only trial, for that moment of wrath and fear. Iretraced every step of our conversation from the moment when I hadfound him crouching beside me, heedless of my thirst, and pointing tothe fire and smoke that streamed up from the ruins of Weybridge. Wehad been incapable of co-operation--grim chance had taken no heed ofthat. Had I foreseen, I should have left him at Halliford. But I didnot foresee; and crime is to foresee and do. And I set this down as Ihave set all this story down, as it was. There were no witnesses--allthese things I might have concealed. But I set it down, and thereader must form his judgment as he will.

  And when, by an effort, I had set aside that picture of a prostratebody, I faced the problem of the Martians and the fate of my wife. Forthe former I had no data; I could imagine a hundred things, and so,unhappily, I could for the latter. And suddenly that night becameterrible. I found myself sitting up in bed, staring at the dark. Ifound myself praying that the Heat-Ray might have suddenly andpainlessly struck her out of being. Since the night of my return fromLeatherhead I had not prayed. I had uttered prayers, fetish prayers,had prayed as heathens mutter charms when I was in extremity; but nowI prayed indeed, pleading steadfastly and sanely, face to face withthe darkness of God. Strange night! Strangest in this, that so soonas dawn had come, I, who had talked with God, crept out of the houselike a rat leaving its hiding place--a creature scarcely larger, aninferior animal, a thing that for any passing whim of our mastersmight be hunted and killed. Perhaps they also prayed confidently toGod. Surely, if we have learned nothing else, this war has taught uspity--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 fromthe top of Putney Hill to Wimbledon was a number of poor vestiges ofthe panic torrent that must have poured Londonward on the Sunday nightafter the fighting began. There was a little two-wheeled cartinscribed with the name of Thomas Lobb, Greengrocer, New Malden, witha smashed wheel and an abandoned tin trunk; there was a straw hattrampled into the now hardened mud, and at the top of West Hill a lotof blood-stained glass about the overturned water trough. Mymovements were languid, my plans of the vaguest. I had an idea ofgoing to Leatherhead, though I knew that there I had the poorestchance of finding my wife. Certainly, unless death had overtaken themsuddenly, my cousins and she would have fled thence; but it seemed tome I might find or learn there whither the Surrey people had fled. Iknew I wanted to find my wife, that my heart ached for her and theworld of men, but I had no clear idea how the finding might be done. Iwas also sharply aware now of my intense loneliness. From the cornerI went, under cover of a thicket of trees and bushes, to the edge ofWimbledon Common, stretching 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 theverge of the open, the sun rose, flooding it all with light andvitality. I came upon a busy swarm of little frogs in a swampy placeamong the trees. I stopped to look at them, drawing a lesson fromtheir stout resolve to live. And presently, turning suddenly, with anodd feeling of being watched, I beheld something crouching amid aclump 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 approachedhim slowly. He stood silent and motionless, regarding me.

  As I drew nearer I perceived he was dressed in clothes as dusty andfilthy as my own; he looked, indeed, as though he had been draggedthrough a culvert. Nearer, I distinguished the green slime of ditchesmixing with the pale drab of dried clay and shiny, coaly patches. Hisblack hair fell over his eyes, and his face was dark and dirty andsunken, so that at first I did not recognise him. There was a red cutacross the lower part of his face.

  "Stop!" he cried, when I was within ten yards of him, and Istopped. 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 theMartians made about their cylinder. I have worked my way out andescaped."

  "There is no food about here," he said. "This is my country. Allthis hill down to the river, and back to Clapham, and up to the edgeof 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 ahouse thirteen or fourteen days. I don't know what has happened."

  He looked at me doubtfully, then started, and looked with a changedexpression.

  "I've no wish to stop about here," said I. "I think I shall go toLeatherhead, for my wife was there."

  He shot out a pointing finger.

  "It is you," said he; "the man from Woking. And you weren't killedat 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 outa hand, and I took it. "I crawled up a drain," he said. "But theydidn't kill everyone. And after they went away I got off towardsWalton across the fields. But---- It's not sixteen days altogether--andyour hair is grey." He looked over his shoulder suddenly. "Onlya rook," he said. "One gets to know that birds have shadows thesedays. 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 abigger camp there. Of a night, all over there, Hampstead way, the skyis alive with their lights. It's like a great city, and in the glareyou can just see them moving. By daylight you can't. But nearer--Ihaven't seen them--" (he counted on his fingers) "five days. Then Isaw a couple across Hammersmith way carrying something big. And thenight before last"--he stopped and spoke impressively--"it was just amatter of lights, but it was something up in the air. I believethey'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 theywill simply go round the world."

  He nodded.

  "They will. But---- It will relieve things over here a bit. Andbesides----" He looked at me. "Aren't you satisfied it _is_ up withhumanity? I am. We're down; we're beat."

  I stared. Strange as it may seem, I had not arrived at this fact--afact perfectly obvious so soon as he spoke. I had still held avague hope; rather, I had kept a lifelong habit of mind. He repeatedhis words, "We're beat." They carried absolute conviction.

  "It's all over," he said. "They've lost _one_--just _one_. And they'vemade their footing good and crippled the greatest power in the world.They've walked over us. The death of that one at Weybridge was anaccident. And these are only pioneers. They kept on coming. Thesegreen stars--I've seen none these five or six days, but I've no doubtthey're falling somewhere every night. Nothing's to be done. We'reunder! We're beat!"

  I made him no answer. I sat staring before me, trying in vain todevise 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 firstcylinder 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 italter the end? It's just men and ants. There's the ants builds theircities, live their lives, have wars, revolutions, until the men wantthem out of the way, and then they go out of the way. That's what weare 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 beenthinking. After Weybridge I went south--thinking. I saw what was up.Most of the people were hard at it squealing and exciting themselves.But I'm not so fond of squealing. I've been in sight of death once ortwice; 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 comesthrough. I saw everyone tracking away south. Says I, 'Food won'tlast this way,' and I turned right back. I went for the Martians likea sparrow goes for man. All round"--he waved a hand to thehorizon--"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. Heseemed 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 wastelling 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. Allthat will go. If we were the size of ants we might pull through. Butwe'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 presentwe're caught as we're wanted. A Martian has only to go a few miles toget a crowd on the run. And I saw one, one day, out by Wandsworth,picking houses to pieces and routing among the wreckage. But theywon't keep on doing that. So soon as they've settled all our guns andships, and smashed our railways, and done all the things they aredoing over there, they will begin catching us systematic, picking thebest and storing us in cages and things. That's what they will startdoing in a bit. Lord! They haven't begun on us yet. Don't you seethat?"

  "Not begun!" I exclaimed.

  "Not begun. All that's happened so far is through our not havingthe sense to keep quiet--worrying them with guns and such foolery. Andlosing our heads, and rushing off in crowds to where there wasn't anymore 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 bringwith them, getting things ready for the rest of their people. Verylikely that's why the cylinders have stopped for a bit, for fear ofhitting those who are here. And instead of our rushing about blind,on the howl, or getting dynamite on the chance of busting them up,we've got to fix ourselves up according to the new state of affairs.That's how I figure it out. It isn't quite according to what a manwants for his species, but it's about what the facts point to. Andthat's the principle I acted upon. Cities, nations, civilisation,progress--it's all over. That game's up. We're beat."

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

  The artilleryman looked at me for a moment.

  "There won't be any more blessed concerts for a million years orso; there won't be any Royal Academy of Arts, and no nice little feedsat restaurants. If it's amusement you're after, I reckon the game isup. If you've got any drawing-room manners or a dislike to eatingpeas 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 thebreed. 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'tgoing to be exterminated. And I don't mean to be caught either, andtamed and fattened and bred like a thundering ox. Ugh! Fancy thosebrown creepers!"

  "You don't mean to say----"

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

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

  "Great God!" cried I. "But you are a man indeed!" And suddenly Igripped 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'mgetting ready. Mind you, it isn't all of us that are made for wildbeasts; and that's what it's got to be. That's why I watched you. Ihad my doubts. You're slender. I didn't know that it was you, yousee, or just how you'd been buried. All these--the sort of peoplethat lived in these houses, and all those damn little clerks that usedto live down that way--they'd be no good. They haven't any spirit inthem--no proud dreams and no proud lusts; and a man who hasn't one orthe other--Lord! What is he but funk and precautions? They just usedto skedaddle off to work--I've seen hundreds of 'em, bit of breakfastin hand, running wild and shining to catch their little season-tickettrain, for fear they'd get dismissed if they didn't; working atbusinesses they were afraid to take the trouble to understand;skedaddling back for fear they wouldn't be in time for dinner; keepingindoors after dinner for fear of the back streets, and sleeping withthe wives they married, not because they wanted them, but because theyhad a bit of money that would make for safety in their one littlemiserable skedaddle through the world. Lives insured and a bitinvested for fear of accidents. And on Sundays--fear of thehereafter. As if hell was built for rabbits! Well, the Martians willjust be a godsend to these. Nice roomy cages, fattening food, carefulbreeding, no worry. After a week or so chasing about the fields andlands on empty stomachs, they'll come and be caught cheerful. They'llbe quite glad after a bit. They'll wonder what people did beforethere were Martians to take care of them. And the bar loafers, andmashers, and singers--I can imagine them. I can imagine them," hesaid, with a sort of sombre gratification. "There'll be any amount ofsentiment and religion loose among them. There's hundreds of things Isaw with my eyes that I've only begun to see clearly these last fewdays. There's lots will take things as they are--fat and stupid; andlots will be worried by a sort of feeling that it's all wrong, andthat they ought to be doing something. Now whenever things are sothat a lot of people feel they ought to be doing something, the weak,and tho
se who go weak with a lot of complicated thinking, always makefor a sort of do-nothing religion, very pious and superior, andsubmit to persecution and the will of the Lord. Very likely you'veseen the same thing. It's energy in a gale of funk, and turned cleaninside 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 isit?--eroticism."

  He paused.

  "Very likely these Martians will make pets of some of them; trainthem to do tricks--who knows?--get sentimental over the pet boy whogrew up and had to be killed. And some, maybe, they will train tohunt us."

  "No," I cried, "that's impossible! No human being----"

  "What's the good of going on with such lies?" said theartilleryman. "There's men who'd do it cheerful. What nonsense topretend 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 bringagainst this man's reasoning. In the days before the invasion no onewould have questioned my intellectual superiority to his--I, aprofessed and recognised writer on philosophical themes, and he, acommon soldier; and yet he had already formulated a situation that Ihad scarcely realised.

  "What are you doing?" I said presently. "What plans have youmade?"

  He hesitated.

  "Well, it's like this," he said. "What have we to do? We have toinvent a sort of life where men can live and breed, and besufficiently secure to bring the children up. Yes--wait a bit, andI'll make it clearer what I think ought to be done. The tame oneswill go like all tame beasts; in a few generations they'll be big,beautiful, rich-blooded, stupid--rubbish! The risk is that we who keepwild will go savage--degenerate into a sort of big, savage rat. . . .You see, how I mean to live is underground. I've been thinking aboutthe drains. Of course those who don't know drains think horriblethings; but under this London are miles and miles--hundreds ofmiles--and a few days rain and London empty will leave them sweet andclean. The main drains are big enough and airy enough for anyone.Then there's cellars, vaults, stores, from which bolting passages maybe made to the drains. And the railway tunnels and subways. Eh? Youbegin to see? And we form a band--able-bodied, clean-minded men.We're not going to pick up any rubbish that drifts in. Weaklingsgo out again."

  "As you meant me to go?"

  "Well--I parleyed, didn't I?"

  "We won't quarrel about that. Go on."

  "Those who stop obey orders. Able-bodied, clean-minded women wewant also--mothers and teachers. No lackadaisical ladies--no blastedrolling eyes. We can't have any weak or silly. Life is real again,and the useless and cumbersome and mischievous have to die. Theyought to die. They ought to be willing to die. It's a sort ofdisloyalty, after all, to live and taint the race. And they can't behappy. Moreover, dying's none so dreadful; it's the funking makes itbad. And in all those places we shall gather. Our district will beLondon. And we may even be able to keep a watch, and run about in theopen when the Martians keep away. Play cricket, perhaps. That's howwe shall save the race. Eh? It's a possible thing? But saving therace is nothing in itself. As I say, that's only being rats. It'ssaving our knowledge and adding to it is the thing. There men likeyou come in. There's books, there's models. We must make great safeplaces down deep, and get all the books we can; not novels and poetryswipes, 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.Especially we must keep up our science--learn more. We must watchthese 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 mustleave the Martians alone. We mustn't even steal. If we get in theirway, 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 theyhave 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--Justimagine this: four or five of their fighting machines suddenlystarting off--Heat-Rays right and left, and not a Martian in 'em. Nota Martian in 'em, but men--men who have learned the way how. It maybe in my time, even--those men. Fancy having one of them lovelythings, with its Heat-Ray wide and free! Fancy having it in control!What would it matter if you smashed to smithereens at the end of therun, after a bust like that? I reckon the Martians'll open theirbeautiful eyes! Can't you see them, man? Can't you see themhurrying, hurrying--puffing and blowing and hooting to their othermechanical affairs? Something out of gear in every case. And swish,bang, rattle, swish! Just as they are fumbling over it, _swish_ comesthe Heat-Ray, and, behold! man has come back to his own."

  For a while the imaginative daring of the artilleryman, and thetone of assurance and courage he assumed, completely dominated mymind. I believed unhesitatingly both in his forecast of human destinyand in the practicability of his astonishing scheme, and the readerwho thinks me susceptible 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 byapprehension. We talked in this manner through the early morningtime, and later crept out of the bushes, and, after scanning the skyfor Martians, hurried precipitately to the house on Putney Hill wherehe had made his lair. It was the coal cellar of the place, and when Isaw the work he had spent a week upon--it was a burrow scarcely tenyards long, which he designed to reach to the main drain on PutneyHill--I had my first inkling of the gulf between his dreams and hispowers. Such a hole I could have dug in a day. But I believed in himsufficiently to work with him all that morning until past midday athis digging. We had a garden barrow and shot the earth we removedagainst the kitchen range. We refreshed ourselves with a tin ofmock-turtle soup and wine from the neighbouring pantry. I found acurious relief from the aching strangeness of the world in this steadylabour. As we worked, I turned his project over in my mind, andpresently objections and doubts began to arise; but I worked there allthe morning, so glad was I to find myself with a purpose again. Afterworking an hour I began to speculate on the distance one had to gobefore the cloaca was reached, the chances we had of missing italtogether. My immediate trouble was why we should dig this longtunnel, when it was possible to get into the drain at once down one ofthe manholes, and work back to the house. It seemed to me, too, thatthe house was inconveniently chosen, and required a needless length oftunnel. And just as I was beginning to face these things, theartilleryman stopped digging, and looked at me.

  "We're working well," he said. He put down his spade. "Let usknock off a bit" he said. "I think it's time we reconnoitred from theroof of the house."

  I was for going on, and after a little hesitation he resumed hisspade; and then suddenly I was struck by a thought. I stopped, and sodid he at once.

  "Why were you walking about the common," I said, "instead of beinghere?"

  "Taking the air," he said. "I was coming back. It's safer bynight."

  "But the work?"

  "Oh, one can't always work," he said, and in a flash I saw the manplain. He hesitated, holding his spade. "We ought to reconnoitrenow," he said, "because if any come near they may hear the spades anddrop upon us unawares."

  I was no longer disposed to object. We went together to the roofand stood on a ladder peeping out of the roof door. No Martians wereto be seen, and we ventured out on the tiles, and slipped down undershelter 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 thelow parts of Lambeth flooded and red. The red creeper swarmed up thetrees about the old palace, and their branches stretched gaunt anddead, and set with shrivelled leaves, from amid its clusters. It wasstrange how entirely dependent both these things were upon flowingwater for their propagation. About us neither had gained a foo
ting;laburnums, pink mays, snowballs, and trees of arbor-vitae, rose out oflaurels and hydrangeas, green and brilliant into the sunlight. BeyondKensington dense smoke was rising, and that and a blue haze hid thenorthward hills.

  The artilleryman began to tell me of the sort of people who stillremained in London.

  "One night last week," he said, "some fools got the electric lightin order, and there was all Regent Street and the Circus ablaze,crowded with painted and ragged drunkards, men and women, dancing andshouting till dawn. A man who was there told me. And as the day camethey became aware of a fighting-machine standing near by the Langhamand 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 roadtowards them, and picked up nearly a hundred too drunk or frightenedto run away."

  Grotesque gleam of a time no history will ever fully describe!

  From that, in answer to my questions, he came round to hisgrandiose plans again. He grew enthusiastic. He talked so eloquentlyof the possibility of capturing a fighting-machine that I more thanhalf believed in him again. But now that I was beginning tounderstand something of his quality, I could divine the stress he laidon doing nothing precipitately. And I noted that now there was noquestion that he personally was to capture and fight the greatmachine.

  After a time we went down to the cellar. Neither of us seemeddisposed to resume digging, and when he suggested a meal, I wasnothing loath. He became suddenly very generous, and when we hadeaten he went away and returned with some excellent cigars. We litthese, and his optimism glowed. He was inclined to regard my comingas 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 aheavy enough task before us! Let us take a rest and gather strengthwhile we may. Look at these blistered hands!"

  And pursuant to this idea of a holiday, he insisted upon playingcards after we had eaten. He taught me euchre, and after dividingLondon between us, I taking the northern side and he the southern, weplayed for parish points. Grotesque and foolish as this will seem tothe sober reader, it is absolutely true, and what is more remarkable,I found the card game and several others we played extremelyinteresting.

  Strange mind of man! that, with our species upon the edge ofextermination or appalling degradation, with no clear prospect beforeus but the chance of a horrible death, we could sit following thechance of this painted pasteboard, and playing the "joker" with vividdelight. Afterwards he taught me poker, and I beat him at three toughchess games. When dark came we decided to take the risk, and lit alamp.

  After an interminable string of games, we supped, and theartilleryman finished the champagne. We went on smoking the cigars.He was no longer the energetic regenerator of his species I hadencountered in the morning. He was still optimistic, but it was aless kinetic, a more thoughtful optimism. I remember he wound up withmy health, proposed in a speech of small variety and considerableintermittence. I took a cigar, and went upstairs to look at thelights of which he had spoken that blazed so greenly along theHighgate hills.

  At first I stared unintelligently across the London valley. Thenorthern hills were shrouded in darkness; the fires near Kensingtonglowed redly, and now and then an orange-red tongue of flame flashedup and vanished in the deep blue night. All the rest of Londonwas black. Then, nearer, I perceived a strange light, a pale,violet-purple fluorescent glow, quivering under the night breeze. Fora space I could not understand it, and then I knew that it must bethe red weed from which this faint irradiation proceeded. With thatrealisation my dormant sense of wonder, my sense of the proportion ofthings, awoke again. I glanced from that to Mars, red and clear,glowing high in the west, and then gazed long and earnestly at thedarkness of Hampstead and Highgate.

  I remained a very long time upon the roof, wondering at thegrotesque changes of the day. I recalled my mental states from themidnight prayer to the foolish card-playing. I had a violentrevulsion of feeling. I remember I flung away the cigar with acertain wasteful symbolism. My folly came to me with glaringexaggeration. I seemed a traitor to my wife and to my kind; I wasfilled with remorse. I resolved to leave this strange undisciplineddreamer of great things to his drink and gluttony, and to go on intoLondon. There, it seemed to me, I had the best chance of learningwhat the Martians and my fellowmen were doing. I was still upon theroof when the late moon rose.