“Yes, yes, please go on,” Wells said.
“Well, it was an ingenious idea in any case, truly ingenious,” the inspector mumbled as if to himself before resuming in a matter-of-fact voice: “But apparently as yet unrealized, for the would-be Martians are traveling on foot.”
“On foot?” said the author, perplexed.
“That’s right. According to my information, the accursed things have sprouted legs. Yes, spindly birdlike legs about twenty yards long. And as they move along crushing pine trees, barns, anything in their path, they keep on firing lethal rays at the terror-struck crowds.” The inspector punctuated his speech with exasperating pauses that left them all on tenterhooks. Wells realized that while he was informing them, Clayton was also attempting to assimilate his own words. “Perhaps the similarities between the beginning of your novel and the initial invasion are a coincidence, I don’t know.” He paused abruptly once more, his lips twitching as though keeping time with his thoughts, then went on: “The fact is, things have begun happening differently than in your novel, Mr. Wells, and that casts some doubt on your involvement.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, Inspector Clayton,” Wells replied curtly.
“And the same goes for you, Mr. Murray,” the inspector began, addressing the millionaire. “As I said, we have a proper invasion on our hands. There are tripods everywhere, and however wealthy you may be, I imagine such a thing is beyond even your means, not that winning Miss Harlow wouldn’t be worth every penny,” he said, beaming at Emma. “In any event, what I think doesn’t count, and so for the moment I’m sorry to say you are still under arrest. My superiors are the ones giving the orders and they like to explore every avenue. All I can—”
“What about the bad news?” snapped Murray, who could not have cared less about Clayton’s apologetic soliloquy.
The inspector looked at him inquiringly.
“The bad news? Ah, yes! The bad news is that the tripod from Horsell is coming toward us, wreaking havoc along the way,” he said.
Wells and Murray exchanged anxious looks.
“And what are we to do?” inquired the millionaire.
The inspector raised his head suddenly, as though surfacing from underwater, and said, “Right. We’ll go to London, to Scotland Yard headquarters. And not simply because I have to interrogate you there, but because, things being as they are, in a few hours’ time London will undoubtedly be the safest place in England. My superiors have informed me that the army is cordoning off the city in readiness to fend off the invader. We have to reach London before they block all access. Staying outside the perimeter would be the most perilous thing we could do at present: several battalions are marching on the cylinders, and if we stay here we’ll soon find ourselves caught in the crossfire.”
“That sounds sensible,” Wells said, suddenly remembering Jane.
“Sensible?” protested Murray. “You call heading toward the place the Martians intend to obliterate sensible, George?”
“Yes, Gilliam,” replied the author. “If we head in the other direction, we’ll probably—”
“I wasn’t inviting you to debate the plan, gentlemen,” Clayton interjected. “I was simply telling you what we’re going to do, whether you like it or not.”
“Well, I don’t like it,” Murray complained. “And neither I nor Miss Harlow is prepared to—”
A thunderous bolt rang out in the distance, causing the tiny storeroom to shudder.
“What the devil was that?” Murray exclaimed nervously.
“It was the heat ray,” Wells said grimly, “and it sounded very close.”
“My God!” cried the girl, shifting uneasily.
“Calm down, all of you,” Clayton demanded. “As I already told Miss Harlow, you are in the best possible hands. I am Inspector Cornelius Lewis Clayton of Special Branch at Scotland Yard, and I’m trained to deal with this kind of situation.”
“With a—Martian invasion?” the girl stammered.
“Strange though it may sound, yes,” Clayton replied, without looking her in the eye. “An invasion of our planet by Martians or other extraterrestrials was always a possibility, and consequently my division is prepared for it.”
The inspector’s speech was punctuated by a fresh explosion, a deafening bang whose echo went on for several seconds before dying out. They looked at one another in alarm. It was even closer this time.
“Are you sure, Inspector?” the millionaire asked, a sardonic smile on his face.
“Certainly, Mr. Murray,” Clayton replied solemnly.
“Aren’t we perhaps jumping to conclusions when we refer to them as Martians?” Wells chimed in. “They could be machines designed by Germans, for example.”
Ignoring Wells’s remark, Clayton drifted off into another of those brooding daydreams to which he seemed so partial, this time studying the ceiling of the tiny storeroom.
A few seconds later, the inspector emerged from his meditations. “Here’s what we’ll do. We’ll take the carriage and drive to London as swiftly and safely as possible. We’ll do our best to travel inconspicuously and avoid any cylinders along the way—in the unlikely event we encounter any. We may need to camouflage the carriage, but we can see about that as we go along. An invasion takes longer than a few hours . . . yes, indeed,” he said suddenly, as if to himself, and nodded vigorously. “It takes time to wipe out a planet. I wonder if the same thing is happening everywhere? Is this the destruction of our civilization? I expect we’ll find out soon enough . . . In the meantime, they are here, in our country. The Martians have clearly understood the strategic importance of the British Isles. But we’re ready for them, of course!” He turned to the others, giving a reassuring smile. “We mustn’t give way to panic. The whole thing will be over before we even realize it. At this very moment our defense plan is being put into place in London. This area is outside my division’s jurisdiction, but while you are with me you have absolutely nothing to fear. I shall get you to London safe and sound. You have my word.”
And with that, the inspector rolled his eyes and collapsed in a heap on the floor. Startled, his three companions stared at one another, and then finally gazed with interest at Inspector Clayton’s body curled up in a ball on the floor, wondering whether this was part of his plan.
“What the devil?” Murray exclaimed when he realized the inspector was out cold.
Murray made as if to give him a kick, but Wells preempted him, kneeling beside the inspector.
“He’s alive,” he told them, attempting to take Clayton’s pulse.
“Then what’s the matter with him?” the millionaire asked, bewildered. “Has he fallen asleep?”
“Clearly he has suffered some kind of fainting fit,” Wells replied, remembering vaguely what Serviss had told him. “Perhaps he suffers from low blood pressure, or diabetes, although I’ll wager—”
“In the best possible hands!” Murray cut across, raising his eyes to Heaven in despair. “For God’s sake, one of them is made of metal!”
Wells stood up and looked with an air of disappointment at the inspector lying on the floor at their feet.
“What are we going to do now?” the girl asked Wells in a faint voice.
“I think we should stick to the plan of going to London,” Wells proposed, eager to get there as soon as possible to look for Jane.
“I’m not taking Miss Harlow to London, George,” the millionaire protested.
“If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Gilmore, or Murray, or whatever your name is, I shall decide for myself where I want to go,” the girl intervened coldly. “And I do want to go to London.”
“What! But why, Emma?” Murray became frantic. “We may as well walk straight toward the gates of Hell!”
“Because things can only be done in the proper manner,” Emma retorted. Apparently she had recovered the conceited self-assurance she displayed at home, and Murray found this unacceptable, given their current predicament, which seemed to have completely slippe
d the girl’s mind. He was about to object, but Emma silenced him with an angry stare. “And for your information, Mr. Murray, seeing as you haven’t deigned to ask, I happen to be staying in London—at my aunt Dorothy’s house in Southwark, to be exact. And I left there this morning without telling a soul, because my intention was to witness your pathetic spectacle, to settle the tiresome and humiliating episode of your defeat, and arrive back in time for lunch without anyone having noticed my absence. However, that wasn’t to be . . . ,” she murmured, glancing about the storeroom with the bewildered look of someone having just woken from a deep sleep. But she instantly took hold of herself, continuing in a resolute voice. “If news of the invasion has reached London, my poor aunt, who must have realized by this time that I’m not in my room, will be in a dreadful flap, and so I must go put her mind at rest. And besides, my things are there, all my trunks containing my dresses, not to mention the two maids I brought with me from New York, whose well-being is my responsibility. Are you suggesting I flee with you to goodness knows where, with nothing more than the clothes on my back, and forget about everything else?”
“Listen to me, Emma,” Murray said with undisguised exasperation, as though trying to drum sense into the head of a spoiled little girl, “we are being invaded by an army of alien machines intent upon killing us, and I’m afraid no one will care very much what you are wearing when they aim their heat rays at you. Don’t you think that in a situation like this your baggage should be the least of your worries?”
“I am not only worried about my baggage! Did you hear a word I said, Mr. Murray?” Emma exclaimed, clenching her teeth angrily. “You are the most insufferable man I have ever met! I’ve just told you I have relatives here in London, and I wish to join them as soon as possible. Besides, my parents’ reply to my telegram will be sent to my aunt’s house, and they will want to know we are together and out of harm’s way. I have responsibilities, don’t you see? No, of course you don’t. What can someone who stages his own death know of responsibilities, someone who by his actions deprives the world of what is undoubtedly the greatest discovery in the History of Mankind, the possibility of traveling to the future, out of pure selfishness, no doubt because he has enriched himself enough and wishes to enjoy his wealth in peace? And a man such as he, who thinks only of himself, dares to criticize me for worrying about my clothes? Do you really think I would place myself in your hands, Mr. Murray? Why, you are to blame for my being stuck in the middle of this chaos in the first place!”
“I am to blame?” the millionaire protested. “Let me remind you that you challenged me to re-create the Martian invasion in Mr. Wells’s novel as a condition for marrying me, despite not loving me. Yet I love you, Emma. And I promise you that if I’d known something like this was going to happen, I would never have allowed you to travel to London. I only took up your challenge because it was a chance to make you happy, while your sole intention was to humiliate me! Which of us is more selfish?”
“I forbid you from calling me by my Christian name again, Mr. Murray!” the girl cried. Then she took several deep breaths to try to calm herself before adding in a serene but stinging voice: “And I’d like to make one thing perfectly clear before leaving for London, which is where I intend to go, given that both Mr. Wells and Inspector Clayton consider it the most sensible thing to do: not only are you the last person on Earth I would ever marry, you are also the last person with whom I would want to survive the destruction of this planet.”
The young woman’s words seemed to knock the wind out of Murray. His face grew dark, and for a moment he looked as if he might explode, but then he lowered his head, too abject to hold the angry gaze of the girl, whose eyes appeared capable of blasting him with a heat ray more powerful than any Martian machine.
“I understand, Miss Harlow,” he murmured. “Then I suppose there is nothing more to say.”
In spite of himself, Wells could not help giving the millionaire a pitying smile.
“Come on, Gilliam. Be sensible,” he heard himself say cheerily. “Where else would we go, for the love of God?”
Still staring at his feet, Murray gave a sigh of resignation.
“Very well,” he murmured. “We’ll go to London.”
Just then, a fresh explosion, closer than the previous ones, made the walls shudder, and a shower of plaster fell on them from the ceiling.
“Whatever our destination, the quicker we leave the station the better, don’t you agree?” said the author, once the echo from the blast had died away.
“Yes, let’s get out of here as quickly as possible,” Murray concurred.
He made as if to leave, but the girl’s voice stopped him in his tracks.
“What do we do with him?” he heard her say, pointing at the inspector’s inert body.
“For Heaven’s sake!” Murray exclaimed, at the end of his tether. “What do you expect us to do with him, Miss Harlow?”
“We can’t leave him here,” Wells interposed. “If that machine destroys the station, he’ll be buried alive. We must take him with us.”
“What?” the millionaire protested. “Have you lost your senses, George? He was planning to arrest us the moment we reached London.”
“Do you want us to abandon him to his fate?” the author cried.
“Oh, no, Mr. Wells. Naturally Mr. Murray wouldn’t dream of leaving him here. He isn’t that selfish. Are you, Mr. Murray?”
The millionaire did not know how to respond and simply looked at her dumbfounded.
“I didn’t think so,” Wells jested, and, hoisting the inspector up by his armpits, he said to Murray: “Come on, Gilliam, don’t sulk, take his feet and help me get him out of here.”
• • •
IN THE STATION, THE peace that had reigned when they arrived had turned to violent chaos. As they had gleaned from the noises and shouts reaching them in their cell, people were rushing back and forth, or clustered together in bewildered groups into which a gradual panic was creeping. “The Martians are coming!” many of them cried, dragging their luggage from place to place, as if suddenly no refuge felt secure enough in the face of such a threat. The Martians are coming! They watched as a desperate tide of people tried to clamber aboard the only train standing in the station, clogging its doorways so that many could only get on by smashing the windows. Some tried to force their way through, brutally thrusting aside anyone blocking their way, even women and children, some of whom fell onto the tracks. Looked at from the calm of the platform, that chaos offered a spectacle at once shocking and fascinating, a display of barbarism that illustrated perfectly how fear can destroy people’s reason, reducing them to simple animals driven only by a selfish will to survive.
“Let’s get to my carriage,” said Murray urgently.
They pushed their way through the crowd as best they could, the two men carrying the inspector’s limp body and Emma clearing the way with her parasol when necessary, until they managed to leave the station. But once they reached the area reserved for waiting vehicles, they came across the same mayhem as inside. Murray’s carriage, like all the others, was surrounded by a surging crowd that was struggling to commandeer it. They had just managed to knock the driver from his perch and were enthusiastically beating the poor wretch as he dragged himself across the ground. Wells took the opportunity of leaving Clayton in Murray’s care a few yards from the carriage and helping the girl to climb aboard through the door farthest from the skirmish. But scarcely had Emma placed a foot on the running board when a man grabbed her arm and flung her callously to the ground. Without thinking, Wells seized hold of her aggressor’s jacket, before realizing with unease that the man was much bigger than he.
“That’s no way to treat a—”
A fist striking his face prevented him from finishing his sentence. Wells staggered and fell backward, landing close to the right-hand wheel. Half dazed by the blow, his mouth filled with blood, Wells watched from the ground as two burly men planted themselves in front of
the carriage door, while the girl, scarcely a yard away, struggled to pull herself up. Wells noticed that the two brutes, both the one who had knocked him down with a right hook and his companion, were wearing the uniform of station porters. Until only an hour ago, he reflected, the two men had been obsequiously carrying the luggage of customers like him, in the hope of receiving a tip that would pay for their supper. But the Martians had created a new order in which blunt force prevailed. If the invasion flourished, it would be men like these who would flaunt their power and possibly even decide the fate of others. With no clear idea how to help the girl or make off with the carriage, Wells spat out a gob of blood and leaned on the wheel to hoist himself up, much to the amusement of the fellow who had knocked him down.
“Haven’t you had enough?” he yelled, turning toward Wells and raising his fist in a threatening gesture. “Do you want some more?”
Naturally, Wells did not. However, he clenched both fists, squaring up ridiculously, prepared to return the blows as best he could. He could not back down now. Scarcely had he time to raise his fists when a shot rang out, startling the crowd encircling the carriage. All turned in the direction of the noise. Wells saw Murray, pointing Clayton’s pistol into the air. The inspector was curled up next to the splayed-out legs of the millionaire, who, with an imperturbable smile, fired a second shot, which prompted the mob to step back from the carriage. Wells wondered what would become of the bullet, where it would land once the speed that propelled it skyward died out and it fell back to earth. After firing the shot, Murray slowly lowered his arm, like a snow-covered branch bowing under its load, and took aim at the crowd.
“That carriage belongs to me, gentlemen, and if any of you get near it, it’ll be the last thing you do,” he shouted, edging nimbly toward the band of men led by the two porters.
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