The world of the war

I found a little crowd of perhaps twenty people surrounding the huge hole in

which the cylinder lay. I have already described the appearance of that colossal

bulk, embedded in the ground. The turf and gravel about it seemed charred as if

by a sudden explosion. No doubt its impact had caused a flash of fire. Henderson

and Ogilvy were not there. I think they perceived that nothing was to be done for

the present, and had gone away to breakfast at Henderson’s house.

There were four or five boys sitting on the edge of the Pit, with their feet

dangling, and amusing themselves—until I stopped them—by throwing stones at

the giant mass. After I had spoken to them about it, they began playing at

“touch” in and out of the group of bystanders.

Among these were a couple of cyclists, a jobbing gardener I employed

sometimes, a girl carrying a baby, Gregg the butcher and his little boy, and two

or three loafers and golf caddies who were accustomed to hang about the railway

station. There was very little talking. Few of the common people in England had

anything but the vaguest astronomical ideas in those days. Most of them were

staring quietly at the big table like end of the cylinder, which was still as Ogilvy

and Henderson had left it. I fancy the popular expectation of a heap of charred

corpses was disappointed at this inanimate bulk. Some went away while I was

there, and other people came. I clambered into the pit and fancied I heard a faint

movement under my feet. The top had certainly ceased to rotate.

It was only when I got thus close to it that the strangeness of this object was at

all evident to me. At the first glance it was really no more exciting than an

overturned carriage or a tree blown across the road. Not so much so, indeed. It

looked like a rusty gas float. It required a certain amount of scientific education

to perceive that the grey scale of the Thing was no common oxide, that the

yellowish-white metal that gleamed in the crack between the lid and the cylinder

had an unfamiliar hue. “Extra-terrestrial” had no meaning for most of the

onlookers.

At that time it was quite clear in my own mind that the Thing had come from

the planet Mars, but I judged it improbable that it contained any living creature. I thought the unscrewing might be automatic. In spite of Ogilvy, I still believed

that there were men in Mars. My mind ran fancifully on the possibilities of its

containing manuscript, on the difficulties in translation that might arise, whether

we should find coins and models in it, and so forth. Yet it was a little too large

for assurance on this idea. I felt an impatience to see it opened. About eleven, as

nothing seemed happening, I walked back, full of such thought, to my home in

Maybury. But I found it difficult to get to work upon my abstract investigations.

In the afternoon the appearance of the common had altered very much. The

early editions of the evening papers had startled London with enormous

headlines:

“A MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM MARS.”

“REMARKABLE STORY FROM WOKING,”

and so forth. In addition, Ogilvy’s wire to the Astronomical Exchange had

roused every observatory in the three kingdoms.

There were half a dozen flys or more from the Woking station standing in the

road by the sand-pits, a basket-chaise from Chobham, and a rather lordly

carriage. Besides that, there was quite a heap of bicycles. In addition, a large

number of people must have walked, in spite of the heat of the day, from Woking

and Chertsey, so that there was altogether quite a considerable crowd—one or

two gaily dressed ladies among the others.

It was glaringly hot, not a cloud in the sky nor a breath of wind, and the only

shadow was that of the few scattered pine trees. The burning heather had been

extinguished, but the level ground towards Ottershaw was blackened as far as

one could see, and still giving off vertical streamers of smoke. An enterprising

sweet-stuff dealer in the Chobham Road had sent up his son with a barrow-load

of green apples and ginger beer.

Going to the edge of the pit, I found it occupied by a group of about half a

dozen men—Henderson, Ogilvy, and a tall, fair-haired man that I afterwards

learned was Stent, the Astronomer Royal, with several workmen wielding spades

and pickaxes. Stent was giving directions in a clear, high-pitched voice. He was

standing on the cylinder, which was now evidently much cooler; his face was

crimson and streaming with perspiration, and something seemed to have irritated

him.

A large portion of the cylinder had been uncovered, though its lower end was

still embedded. As soon as Ogilvy saw me among the staring crowd on the edge of the pit he called to me to come down, and asked me if I would mind going

over to see Lord Hilton, the lord of the manor.

The growing crowd, he said, was becoming a serious impediment to their

excavations, especially the boys. They wanted a light railing put up, and help to

keep the people back. He told me that a faint stirring was occasionally still

audible within the case, but that the workmen had failed to unscrew the top, as it

afforded no grip to them. The case appeared to be enormously thick, and it was

possible that the faint sounds we heard represented a noisy tumult in the interior.

I was very glad to do as he asked, and so become one of the privileged

spectators within the contemplated enclosure. I failed to find Lord Hilton at his

house, but I was told he was expected from London by the six o’clock train from

Waterloo; and as it was then about a quarter past five, I went home, had some

tea, and walked up to the station to waylay him.