by Noel Keyes
Here is a bulletin from Basking Ridge, New Jersey: Coon hunters have stumbled on a second cylinder similar to the first embedded in the great swamp twenty miles south of
Morristown. U. S. Army fieldpieces are proceeding from Newark to blow up second invading unit before cylinder can be opened and the fighting machine rigged. They are taking up position in the foothills of Watchung Mountains. Another bulletin from Langham Field, Virginia: Scouting planes report enemy machines, now three in number, increasing speed northward kicking over houses and trees in their evident haste to form a conjunction with their allies south of Morristown. Machines also sighted by telephone operator east of Middlesex within ten miles of Plainfield. Here’s a bulletin from Winston Field, Long Island: Fleet of army bombers carrying heavy explosives flying north in pursuit of enemy. Scouting planes act as guides. They keep speeding enemy in sight. Just a moment, please. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve run special wires to the artillery line in adjacent villages to give you direct reports in the zone of the advancing enemy. First we take you to the battery of the 22nd Field Artillery, located in the Watchung Mountains.
OFFICER: Range thirty-two meters.
GUNNER: Thirty-two meters.
OFFICER: Projection, thirty-nine degrees.
GUNNER: Thirty-nine degrees.
OFFICER: Fire!
(Boom of heavy gun . . . Pause)
OBSERVER: One hundred and forty yards to the right, sir.
OFFICER: Shift range—thirty-one meters.
GUNNER: Thirty-one meters.
OFFICER: Projection—thirty-seven degrees.
GUNNER: Thirty-seven degrees.
OFFICER: Fire!
(Boom of heavy gun . . . Pause)
OBSERVER: A hit, sir! We got the tripod of one of them. They’ve stopped. The others are trying to repair it.
OFFICER: Quick, get the range! Shift fifty thirty meters.
GUNNER: Thirty meters.
OFFICER: Projection—twenty-seven degrees.
GUNNER: Twenty-seven degrees.
OFFICER: Fire!
(Boom of heavy gun . . . Pause)
OBSERVER: Can’t see the shell land, sir. They’re letting off a smoke.
OFFICER: What is it?
OBSERVER: A black smoke, sir. Moving this way. Lying close to the ground. It’s moving fast.
OFFICER: Put on gas masks. (Pause) Get ready to fire. Shift to twenty-four meters.
GUNNER: Twenty-four meters.
OFFICER: Projection, twenty-four degrees.
GUNNER: Twenty-four degrees.
OFFICER: Fire! (Boom)
OBSERVER: I still can’t see, sir. The smoke’s coming nearer.
OFFICER: Get the range. (Coughs)
OBSERVER: Twenty-three meters (Coughs)
OFFICER: Twenty-three meters. (Coughs)
OBSERVER: Projection twenty-two degrees. (Coughing)
OFFICER: Twenty-two degrees. (Fade in coughing)
(Fading in . . . sound of airplane motor)
COMMANDER: Army bombing plane, V-8-43 off Bayonne, New Jersey, Lieutenant Voght, commanding eight bombers. Reporting to Commander Fairfax, Langham Field—This is Voght, reporting to Commander Fairfax, Langham Field—Enemy tripod machines now in sight. Reinforced by three machines from the Morristown cylinder. Six altogether. One machine partially crippled. Believed hit by shell from army gun in Watchung Mountains. Guns now appear silent. A heavy black fog hanging close to the earth—of extreme density, nature unknown. No sign of heat-ray. Enemy now turns east, crossing Passaic River into Jersey marshes. Another straddles the Pulaski Skyway. Evident objective is New York City. They’re pushing down a high-tension power station. The machines are close together now, and we’re ready to attack. Planes circling, ready to strike. A thousand yards and we’ll be over the first—eight hundred yards . . . six hundred . . . four hundred. . . two hundred . . . There they go! The giant arm raised—Green flash! They’re spraying us with flame! Two thousand feet. Engines are giving out. No chance to release bombs. Only one thing left—drop on them, plane and all. We’re diving on the first one. Now the engine’s gone! Eight—
OPERATOR ONE: This is Bayonne, New Jersey, calling Langham Field—This is Bayonne, New Jersey, calling Langham Field—Come in, please—Come in, please—
OPERATOR TWO: This is Langham Field—go ahead—Operator One: Eight army bombers in engagement with enemy tripod machines over Jersey flats. Engines incapacitated by heat-ray. All crashed. One enemy machine destroyed. Enemy now discharging heavy black smoke in direction of—Operator Three: This is Newark, New Jersey—This is Newark, New Jersey—Warning! Poisonous black smoke pouring in from Jersey marshes. Reaches South Street. Gas masks useless. Urge population to move into open spaces—automobiles use routes 7, 23, 24—avoid congested areas. Smoke now spreading over Raymond Boulevard—
OPERATOR FOUR: 2X2L—calling CQ—2X2L—calling CQ—2X2L—calling 8X3R—
OPERATOR FIVE: This is 8X3R—coming back at 2X2L.
OPERATOR FOUR: How’s reception? How’s reception? K, please. Where are you, 8X3 R? What’s the matter? Where are you?
(Bells ringing over city gradually diminishing)
ANNOUNCER: I’m speaking from the roof of Broadcasting Building, New York City. The bells you hear are singing to warn the people to evacuate the city as the Martians approach. Estimated in last two hours three million people have moved out along the roads to the north, Hutchison River Parkway still kept open for motor traffic. Avoid bridges to Long Island—hopelessly jammed. All communication with Jersey shore closed ten minutes ago. No more defenses. Our army wiped out—artillery, air force, everything wiped out. This may be the last broadcast. We’ll stay here to the end. People are holding service below us—in the cathedral.
(Voices singing hymn)
Now I look down the harbor. All manner of boats, overloaded with fleeing population, pulling out from docks.
(Sound of boat whistles)
Streets are all jammed. Noise in crowds like New Year’s Eve in city. Wait a minute—Enemy now in sight above the Palisades. Five great machines. First one is crossing river. I can see it from here, wading the Hudson like a man wading through a brook—A bulletin’s handed me—Martian cylinders are falling all over the country. One outside Buffalo, one in Chicago, St. Louis—seem to be timed and spaced—Now the first machine reaches the shore. He stands watching, looking over the city. His steel, cowlish head is even with the skyscrapers. He waits for the others. They rise like a fine of new towers on the city’s west side—Now they’re lifting their metal hands. This is the end now. Smoke comes out—black smoke, drifting over the city. People in the streets see it now. They’re running toward the East River—thousands of them, dropping in like rats. Now the smoke’s spreading faster. It’s reached Times Square. People trying to run away from it, but it’s no use. They’re falling like flies. Now the smoke’s crossing Sixth Avenue—Fifth Avenue—a hundred yards away—it’s fifty feet—
Operator Four: 2X2L calling CQ—2X2L calling CQ—2X2L calling CQ—New York—Isn’t there anyone on the air? Isn’t there anyone—2X2L—
II
PIERSON: As I set down these notes on paper, I’m obsessed by the thought that I may be the last living man on earth. I have been hiding in this empty house near Grovers Mill—a small island of daylight cut off by the black smoke from the rest of the world. All that happened before the arrival of these monstrous creatures in the world now seems part of another life—a life that has no continuity with the present, furtive existence of the lonely derelict who pencils these words on the back of some astronomical notes bearing the signature of Richard Pierson. I look down at my blackened hands, my torn shoes, my tattered clothes, and I try to connect them with a professor who lives at Princeton, and who on the night of October 30 glimpsed through his telescope an orange splash of light on a distant planet. My wife, my colleagues, my students, my books, my observatory, my—my world—where are they? Did they ever exist? Am I Richard Pierson? What day is it? Do day
s exist without calendars? Does time pass when there are no human hands left to wind the clocks? In writting down my daily life I tell myself I shall preserve human history between the dark covers of this little book that was meant to record the movements of the stars. But to write I must live, and to live I must eat—I find moldy bread in the kitchen, and an orange not too spoiled to swallow. I keep watch at the window. From time to time I catch sight of a Martian above the black smoke.
The smoke still holds the house in its black coil—But at length there is a hissing sound and suddenly I see a Martian mounted on his machine, spraying the air with a jet of steam, as if to dissipate the smoke. I watch in a corner as his huge metal legs nearly brush against the house. Exhausted by terror, I fall asleep.
It’s morning. Sun streams in the window. The black cloud of gas has lifted, and the scorched meadows to the north look as though a black snowstorm had passed over them. I venture from the house. I make my way to a road. No traffic. Here and there a wrecked car, baggage overturned, a blackened skeleton. I push on north. For some reason I feel safer trailing these monsters than running away from them. And I keep a careful watch. I have seen the Martians feed. Should one of their machines appear over the top of trees, I am ready to fling myself flat on the earth. I come to a chestnut tree. October, chestnuts are ripe. I fill my pockets. I must keep alive. Two days I wander in a vague northerly direction through a desolate world. Finally I notice a living creature—a small red squirrel in a beech tree. I stare at him and wonder. He stares back at me. I believe at that moment the animal and I shared the same emotion—the joy of finding another living being—I push on north. I find dead cows in a brackish field. Beyond, the charred ruins of a dairy. The silo remains standing guard over the wasteland like a lighthouse deserted by the sea. Astride the silo perches a weathercock. The arrow points north.
Next day I came to a city vaguely familiar in its contours, yet its buildings strangely dwarfed and leveled off as if a giant had sliced off its highest towers with a capricious sweep of his hand. I reached the outskirts. I found Newark, undemolished, but humbled by some whim of the advancing Martians. Presently, with an odd feeling of being watched, I caught sight of something crouching in a doorway. I made a step toward it, and it rose up and became a man—a man, armed with a large knife.
STRANGER: Stop—Where did you come from?
PIERSON: I come from—many places. A long time ago from Princeton.
STRANGER: Princeton, huh? That’s near Grovers Mill!
PIERSON: Yes.
STRANGER: Grovers Mill—(Laughs as at a great joke) There’s no food here. This is my country—all this end of town down to the river. There’s only food for one—Which way are you going?
PIERSON: I don’t know. I guess I’m looking for—for people.
STRANGER: (nervously) What was that? Did you hear something just then?
PIERSON: Only a bird—a live bird!
STRANGER: You get to know that birds have shadows these days—Say, we’re in the open here. Let’s crawl into this doorway and talk.
PIERSON: Have you seen any Martians?
STRANGER: They’ve gone over to New York. At night the sky is alive with their lights. Just as if people were still living in it. By daylight you can’t see them. Five days ago a couple of them carried something big across the flats from the airport. I believe they’re learning how to fly.
PIERSON: Fly!
STRANGER: Yeah, fly.
PIERSON: Then it’s all over with humanity. Stranger, there’s still you and I. Two of us left.
STRANGER: They got themselves in solid; they wrecked the greatest country in the world. Those green stars, they’re probably falling somewhere every night. They’ve only lost one machine. There isn’t anything to do. We’re done. We’re licked.
PIERSON: Where were you? You’re in a uniform.
STRANGER: What’s left of it. I was in the militia—National Guard. That’s good! Wasn’t any war any more than there’s war between men and ants.
PIERSON: And we’re eatable ants. I found that out. What will they do to us?
STRANGER: I’ve thought it all out. Right now we’re caught as we’re wanted. The Martian only has to go a few miles to get a crowd on the run. But they won’t keep doing that. They’ll begin catching us systematic like—keeping the best and storing us in cages and things. They haven’t begun on us yet!
PIERSON: Not begun!
STRANGER: Not begun. All that’s happened so far is because we don’t have sense enough to keep quiet—bothering them with guns and such stuff and losing our heads and rushing off in crowds. Now instead of our rushing around blind we’ve got to fix ourselves up according to the way things are now. Cities, nations, civilization, progress—
PIERSON: But if that’s so, what is there to live for?
STRANGER: There won’t be any more concerts for a million years or so, and no nice little dinners at restaurants. If it’s amusement you’re after, I guess the game’s up.
PIERSON: And what is there left?
STRANGER: Life—that’s what! I want to live. And so do you! We’re not going to be exterminated. And I don’t mean to be caught, either, and tamed, and fattened, and bred like an ox.
PIERSON: What are you going to do?
STRANGER: I’m going on—right under their feet. I gotta plan. We men, as men, are finished. We don’t know enough. We gotta learn plenty before we’ve got a chance. And we’ve got to live and keep free while we learn. I’ve thought it all out, see.
PIERSON: Tell me the rest.
STRANGER: Well, 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. All these little office workers that used to live in these houses—they’d be no good. They haven’t any stuff to ’em. They just used to run off to work. I’ve seen hundreds of ’em, running wild to catch their commuters’ train in the morning for fear that they’d get canned if they didn’t; running back at night afraid they won’t be in time for dinner. Lives insured and a little invested in case of accidents. And on Sundays, worried about the hereafter. The Martians will be a godsend for those guys. Nice roomy cages, good food, careful breeding, no worries. After a week or so chasing about the fields on empty stomachs they’ll come and be glad to be caught.
PIERSON: You’ve thought it all out, haven’t you?
STRANGER: You bet I have! And that isn’t all. These Martians will make pets of some of them, train ’em to do tricks. Who knows? Get sentimental over the pet boy who grew up and had to be killed. And some, maybe, they’ll train to hunt us.
PIERSON: No, that’s impossible. No human being—
STRANGER: Yes they will. There’s men who’ll do it gladly. If one of them ever comes after me—
PIERSON: In the meantime, you and I and others like us—where are we to live when the Martians own the earth?
STRANGER: I’ve got it all figured out. We’ll live underground. I’ve been thinking about the sewers. Under New York are miles and miles of ’em. The main ones are big enough for anybody. Then there’s cellars, vaults, underground storerooms, railway tunnels, subways. You begin to see, eh? And we’ll get a bunch of strong men together. No weak ones, that rubbish, out.
PIERSON: And you meant me to go?
STRANGER: Well, I gave you a chance, didn’t I?
PIERSON: We won’t quarrel about that. Go on.
STRANGER: And we’ve got to make safe places for us to stay in, see, and get all the books we can—science books. That’s where men like you come in, see? We’ll raid the museums, we’ll even spy on the Martians. It may not be so much we have to learn before—just imagine this: Four of five of their own fighting machines suddenly start 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 even be in our time. Gee! Imagine having one of them lovely things with its heat-ray wide and free! We’d turn it on Martians, we’d turn it on men. We’d bring everybody down to their kne
es.
PIERSON: That’s your plan?
STRANGER: You and me and a few more of us, we’d own the world.
PIERSON: I see.
STRANGER: Say, what’s the matter? Where are you going?
PIERSON: Not to your world. Good-by, stranger . . .
PIERSON: After parting with the artilleryman, I came at last to the Holland Tunnel. I entered that silent tube anxious to know the fate of the great city on the other side of the Hudson. Cautiously I came out of the tunnel and made my way up Canal Street.
I reached Fourteenth Street, and there again were black powder and several bodies, and an evil ominous smell from the gratings of the cellars of some of the houses. I wandered up through the Thirties and Forties; I stood alone on Times Square. I caught sight of a lean dog running down Seventh Avenue with a piece of dark brown meat in his jaws, and a pack of starving mongrels at his heels. He made a wide circle around me, as though he feared I might prove a fresh competitor. I walked up Broadway in the direction of that strange powder—past silent shop windows, displaying their mute wares to empty sidewalks—past the Capitol Theater, silent, dark—past a shooting-gallery, where a row of empty guns faced an arrested line of wooden ducks. Near Columbus Circle I noticed models of 1939 motor cars in the show rooms facing empty streets. From over the top of the General Motors Building I watched a flock of black birds circling in the sky. I hurried on. Suddenly I caught sight of the hood of a Martian machine, standing somewhere in Central Park, gleaming in the late afternoon sun. An insane idea! I rushed recklessly across Columbus Circle and into the Park. I climbed a small hill above the pond at Sixtieth Street. From there I could see, standing in a silent row along the Mall, nineteen of those great metal Titans, their cowls empty, their steel arms hanging listlessly by their sides. I looked in vain for the monsters that inhabit those machines.