I knew that this last was a wild guess, but Mr Wells promptly corrected it.
“I think Sir William is not dead,” he said. “He went into futurity on that infernal Time Machine of his, and although he returned once he has not been seen since his second journey.”
“You know this for certain?” Amelia said.
“I was honoured to be the author of his memoirs,” said Mr Wells, “for he dictated them to me himself.”
ii
As we rowed along, Mr Wells told us what was known of Sir William’s fate. At the same time it was interesting to realize that some of our earlier surmises had not been inaccurate.
It seemed that after the Time Machine had deposited us so abruptly in the weed-bank, it had returned unscathed to Richmond. Mr Wells could not have known of our mishap, of course, but his account of Sir William’s subsequent experiments made no mention of the fact that the Machine had been missing for even a short period.
Sir William, according to Mr Wells, had been more adventurous than even we had been, taking the Time Machine into a far-distant future. Here Sir William had seen many strange sights (Mr Wells promised to let us have a copy of his account, for he said the story would take too long to recount at the moment), and although he had returned to tell his tale, he had later departed a second time for futurity. On that occasion he had never returned.
Imagining that Sir William had suffered a similar mishap with the Machine as us, I said: “The Time Machine came back empty, sir?”
“Neither the Machine nor Sir William have been seen again.”
“Then there is no way we can reach him?”
“Not without a second Time Machine,” said Mr Wells.
By now we were passing Walton-on-Thames, and there was much activity within the town. We saw several fire-engines rattling along the riverside road in the direction of Weybridge, the horses’ hooves throwing up white dust-clouds. An orderly, but hurried, evacuation was taking place, with many hundreds of people walking or riding along the road towards London. The river itself was congested, with several boats ferrying people across to the Sunbury side, and we were obliged to steer carefully between them. Along the northern bank we saw much evidence of military activity, with scores of soldiers marching towards the west. In the meadows to the east of Halliford we saw more artillery being readied.
This distraction brought to an end our conversation about Sir William, and by the time we had passed Walton we sat in silence. Mr Wells was seeming to tire at the oars, so I changed places with him.
Once more occupied with the regular physical task of rowing, I found my thoughts returning to the orderly procession they had enjoyed shortly before we met Mr Wells and the curate.
Until this moment I had not tried to understand why we were so determined to reach Sir William’s house. Mr Wells’s mention of the Time Machine, though, had focused my thoughts directly on the reason: in some instinctive way it had occurred to me that the Machine itself might be used against Martians. It was, after all, the instrument by which we had first reached Mars, and its weird movements through the attenuated dimensions of Space and Time were certainly unequalled by anything the Martians commanded.
However, if the Time Machine were no longer available, then any such idea had to be abandoned. We were pressing on to Richmond, though, for Sir William’s house, lying in its secluded position just behind the ridge of the Hill, would be a safer sanctuary than most from the Martians.
Facing Amelia as I was, I noticed that she too seemed lost in thought, and I wondered if she had been coming to the same conclusion.
At last, not wishing to ignore Mr Wells, I said: “Sir, do you know what preparations the Army is making?”
“Only what we have seen today. They were taken quite unawares. Even from the early moments of the invasion, no one in authority was prepared to take the situation seriously.”
“You speak as if you are critical.”
“I am” said Mr Wells. “The fact that the Martians were sending an invasion-fleet has been known for several weeks. As I told you, the firing of their projectiles was observed by many scientists. Any number of warnings was issued, both in scientific papers and in the popular press, yet even when the first cylinder landed the authorities were slow to move.”
Amelia said: “You mean that the warnings were not taken seriously?”
“They were dismissed as sensation-mongering, even after there had been several deaths. The first cylinder landed not a mile from my house. It came down at about midnight on the 19th. I myself visited it during the morning, along with a crowd of others, and although it was clear from the outset that something was inside, the press would not publish more than a few inches about it. This I can attest to myself, because in addition to my literary activities I occasionally contribute scientific pieces to the press, and the papers are noted for their caution with all scientific matters. Even yesterday, they were treating this incursion with levity. As for the Army…they did not turn out until nearly twenty-four hours after the arrival of the projectile, and by then the monsters were out and well established.”
“In the Army’s defence,” I said, still feeling that it had been incumbent upon myself to alert the authorities, “such an invasion is unprecedented.”
“Maybe so,” Mr Wells said. “But the second cylinder had landed before a single shot was fired by our side. How many more landings are needed before the threat is understood?”
“I think they are alert to the danger now,” I said, nodding towards yet another artillery emplacement on the banks of the river. One of the gunners was hailing us, but I rowed on without answering. It was now well into the afternoon, and there were about four more hours until sunset.
Amelia said: “You say that you visited the pit. Did you see the adversary?”
“That I did,” said Mr Wells, and I noticed then that his hands were trembling. “Those monsters are unspeakable!”
I suddenly realized that Amelia was about to talk of our adventures on Mars, so I frowned at her, warning her to silence. For the moment at least, I felt we should not reveal our rôle in the invasion.
Instead, I said to Mr Wells: “You are clearly shaken by your experiences.”
“I have been face to face with Death. Twice I have escaped with my life, but only by the greatest good fortune.” He shook his head. “These Martians will go on and conquer the world. They are indestructible.”
“They are mortal, sir,” I said. “They can be killed as easily as other vermin.”
“That has not been the experience so far. By what evidence do you say that?”
I thought of the screams of the dying monster inside the platform, and the ghastly eructation of gases. And then, remembering the warning I had signalled to Amelia only a few seconds before, I said: “There was one killed at Weybridge.”
“A chance artillery shell. We cannot depend on chance to rid the world of this menace.”
iii
Mr Wells took the oars again when we reached Hampton Court, as I was tiring. We were now only a short distance from Richmond, but here the river swings to the south, before turning a second time to flow northwards, and so we still had a considerable distance before us. For a while we debated whether to abandon the boat and complete our journey on foot, but we could see that the roads were crowded with the traffic of those escaping towards London. On the river we had our way almost to ourselves. The afternoon was warm and tranquil, the sky a radiant blue.
Here, by Hampton Court Palace, we saw a curious sight. We were now a sufficient distance from the effects of the Martians’ destruction for the immediate dangers to seem diminished, yet still near enough for evacuations to be taking place. As a consequence, there was a conflict of moods. The local people, from Thames Ditton, Molesey and Surbiton, were abandoning their houses, and under the guidance of the overworked police and fire-brigades, were leaving for London.
However, the Palace grounds are a favourite resort for excursionist Londoners, and on thi
s fine summer’s afternoon the riverside paths were well thronged with people enjoying the sunshine. They could not be unaware of the noise and bustle around them, but they seemed determined not to let such activities affect their picnics.
Thames Ditton Station, which is on the south bank opposite the Palace, was crowded, and people were queuing up along the pavement outside, waiting for a chance to board a train. Even so, each train that arrived from London brought with it a few more late-afternoon excursionists.
How many of those blazered young men, or those young ladies with silken parasols, were ever to see their homes again? Perhaps to them, in their unguarded innocence, we three in our rowing-boat presented a strange sight: Amelia and I, still wearing our much begrimed underwear, and Mr Wells, naked but for his trousers. I think the day was unusual enough for our appearance to pass unremarked upon.
iv
It was as we were rowing towards Kingston-upon-Thames that we first heard the artillery, and at once we were on our guard. Mr Wells rowed more vigorously, and Amelia and I turned in our seats, looking westwards for a first sight of the deadly tripods.
For the moment there was no sign of them, but the distant artillery muttered endlessly. Once I saw a heliograph flickering on the hills beyond Esher, and ahead of us we saw a signal-rocket burst bright red at the peak of its smoky trail, but in our immediate vicinity, at least, the guns remained silent.
At Kingston we changed hands once more, and I braced myself for the final effort towards Richmond. We were all restless, eager for this long journey to be over. As Mr Wells settled himself in the prow of the boat, he remarked on the unseemly noise of the evacuees crossing Kingston Bridge. There were no excursionists to be seen here; I think that at last the danger had been brought home to everyone.
A few minutes after we left Kingston, Amelia pointed ahead.
“Richmond Park, Edward! We’re nearly there.”
I glanced briefly over my shoulder, and saw the splendid rise of ground. It was not unexpected that there, on the crest of the hill and black against the sky, I saw the protruding muzzles of the artillery.
The Martians were expected, and this time they would meet their match.
Reassured, I rowed on, trying to ignore the tiredness in my arms and back.
A mile north of Kingston, the Thames, in its meandering way, swings to the north-west, and so the rise of Richmond Park moved further away to our right. Now, temporarily, we were moving towards the Martians once more, and as if this were significant, we heard a renewed volley from the distant artillery. This was echoed a few moments later by the guns laid in Bushy Park, and then too we heard the first shots from Richmond Park. All three of us craned our necks, but there was still no sign of the Martians. It was most unnerving to know that they were in our vicinity, yet invisible to us.
We passed Twickenham, and saw no signs of evacuation; perhaps the town had been emptied already, or else the people were lying low, hoping the Martians would not come their way.
Then, heading directly east again as the river turned towards Richmond, Amelia shouted that she had seen some smoke. We looked to the south-west, and saw, rising from the direction of Molesey, a column of black smoke. The artillery was speaking continuously. The Martians, moving quickly through the Surrey countryside, were difficult targets, and the towns they approached were laid helplessly before them.
Smoke rose from Kingston, and from Surbiton, and from Esher. Then, too, from Twickenham…and at last we could see one of the Martian marauders. It was stalking quickly through the streets of Twickenham, not one mile from where we presently were. We could see its heat-beam, swinging indiscriminately, and we could see the ineffectual air-burst of the artillery-shells, never exploding less than a hundred feet from the predatory engine.
A second Martian tripod appeared, this one striking northwards towards Hounslow. Then a third: away to the south of burning Kingston.
“Edward, dear…hurry! They are almost upon us!”
“I am doing my best!” I cried, wondering if we should now head for the bank.
Mr Wells clambered towards, me from the prow, and placed himself on the seat beside me. He took the right-hand oar from me, and in a moment we had established a fast rhythm.
Fortunately, the Martians seemed to be paying no attention to the river for the moment. The towns were their main objectives, and the lines of artillery. In the repeated explosions near at hand, I realized that the deeper sounds of the more distant batteries had long been silenced.
Then came what was perhaps the most disturbing noise of all. The Martian driving the tripod by Kingston uttered a note…and it drifted towards us, distorted by the breeze. The Martian in Twickenham took it up, and soon we heard others from various directions. Here on Earth the note was deeper in timbre, and seemed more prolonged…but there could be no mistaking the sinister braying siren of the Martians calling for food.
v
At last the tree-lined slope of Richmond Hill was before us, and as we rowed frantically around the bend past the green meadows we saw the white, wooden building of Messum’s boat-house. I remembered the day I had called on Sir William, and how I had strolled along the riverside walk past the boat-house…but then there had been promenading crowds. Now we were apparently alone, all but for the rampaging battle-machines and the answering artillery.
I pointed out the jetty to Mr Wells, and we rowed energetically towards it. At long last we heard the scraping of the wooden hull against the hard stone, and without further ceremony I held out my hand to help Amelia ashore. I waited until Mr Wells had stepped down, and then I too followed. Behind us, the little boat bobbed away, drifting with the current of the river.
Both Mr Wells and I were exhausted from our long ordeal, but even so were prepared for the last part of our effort: the climb up the side of the Hill towards Sir William’s house. Accordingly, we hastened away from the jetty, but Amelia held back. As soon as we realized she was not following, we turned and waited for her.
Amelia had not been at her most talkative for the last hour, but now said: “Mr Wells, you told us earlier that you went to the Martians’ pit in Woking. What day was that?”
“It was the Friday morning,” Mr Wells said.
Looking across the river towards Twickenham I saw that the brazen cowl of the nearest battle-machine was turned our way. Artillery shells burst around it.
I said with great anxiety: “Amelia…we can talk later! We must get under cover!”
“Edward, this is important!” Then to Mr Wells: “And that was the 19th, you say?”
“No, the Thursday was the 19th. It came down at about midnight.”
“And today we have seen excursionists…so this is Sunday…Mr Wells, this is 1903, is it not?”
He looked a little puzzled, but confirmed this.
Amelia turned to me, and seized my hand.
“Edward! Today is the 22nd! This is the day in 1903 to which we came! The Time Machine will be in the laboratory!”
With that she turned abruptly away from me, and ran quickly up through the trees.
At once I ran after her, shouting to her to come back!
vi
Amelia, rested and agile, scrambled without difficulty up the side of the Hill; I was more tired, and although I used every remaining scrap of energy I could do no more than maintain my distance behind her. Below us, by the river, I heard the sound of the Martian’s braying siren, answered at once by another. Somewhere behind us, Mr Wells followed. Ahead of me, from a point on the ridge, I heard the sound of a man’s voice shouting an order…and then there came the detonation of the artillery-pieces mounted on the Hill. Smoke poured down from them through the trees. More shots followed, from positions all along the ridge. The noise was deafening, and the acrid cordite fumes burned in my throat.
Ahead of me, showing through the trees, I could see the towers of Reynolds House.
“Amelia!” I shouted again over the noise. “My dearest, come back! It is not safe!”
/>
“The Time Machine! We can find the Time Machine!”
I could see her ahead of me, brushing without regard for herself through the tangle of bushes and undergrowth towards the house.
“No!” I screamed after her, in utter desperation. “Amelia!”
Through the multitude of intervening events, across the seeming years and the millions of miles…a stark memory of our first journey to 1903.
I remembered the artillery shots, the smoke, the alien sirens, the woman running across the lawn, the face at the window, and then the consuming fire…
Destiny!
I hurled myself after her, and saw her reach the edge of the overgrown lawn.
Amelia started to run across to the glass wall of the laboratory: a lithe, distant figure, already beyond any help, already doomed by the destiny I had not after all averted…
As I also reached the lawn, too breathless to shout again, I saw her come to the glass and stop by it, pressing her face against the panes.
I stumbled across the lawn…and then I was behind her, and near enough to see beyond her, into the dim interior of the laboratory.
There, set beside one of the many benches, was placed a crude mechanical device, and upon it sat two youthful figures.
One was a young man, a straw boater set at a jaunty angle on his head…and the other was a pretty girl holding herself to him.
The young man was staring at us, his eyes wide with surprise.
I reached out my hand to take Amelia, just as the young man within raised his own, as if to ward off the horror of what he too was seeing.
Behind us there was a scream from the Martian’s siren, and the brazen cowl of the battle-machine appeared over the trees. I threw myself against Amelia, and dashed her to the ground. In the same instant the heat-beam was turned upon us, and a line of fire raced across the lawn and struck the house.