“Buffoons!”
“But you heard of their losses. The regiments and divisions decimated –” Beauchamp stuttered. “The army dies for France! For humanity – of which France is surely the best example.”
I turned to face him, aware of an acute paradox – that the greatest martial mind of all time lay entombed in the domed citadel nearby. Yet even he would have been helpless before a power that was not of this world.
“I do not condemn the army’s courage,” I assured.
“Then how can you speak–”
“No, no! I condemn their lack of imagination!”
“To defeat the incredible takes–”
“Vision!”
Timidly, for he knew my views, he advanced, “I saw in the Match that the British have consulted with the fantasist, Mr. Wells.”
To this I could only cock an eyebrow. “He will give them no aid, only imaginings.”
“But you just said –”
“Vision is not the same as dreaming.”
At that moment the cutting smell of sulfuric acid wafted on a breeze from the reducing works near the river. (Even in the most beautiful of cities, rude work has its place.) Beauchamp mistook my expression of disgust for commentary upon the Englishman, Wells.
“He is quite successful. Many compare him to you.”
“An unhappy analogy. His stories do not repose on a scientific basis. I make use of physics. He invents.”
“In this crisis –”
“I go to the moon in a cannon ball. He goes in an airship, which he constructs of a metal that does away with the law of gravitation. Ca c’est tres joli! – but show me this metal. Let him produce it!”
Beauchamp blinked. “I quite agree – but, then, is not our present science woefully inadequate to the task at hand – defending ourselves against monstrous invaders?”
We resumed our walk. Leaving behind the crowds paying homage at Napoleon’s Tomb, we made good progress along rue de Varenne, with the Petite Palais now visible across the river, just ahead.
“We lag technologically behind these foul beings, that I grant. But only by perhaps a century or two.”
“Oh surely, more than that! To fly between the worlds –”
“Can be accomplished several ways, all within our comprehension, if not our grasp.”
“What of the reports by astronomers of great explosions, seen earlier this year on the surface of the distant ruddy planet? They now think these were signs of the Martian invasion fleet being launched. Surely we could not expend such forces!”
I waved away his objection. “Those are nothing more than I have already foreseen in From the Earth to the Moon, which I would remind you I published thirty-three years ago, at the conclusion of the American Civil War.”
“You think the observers witnessed the belching of a great Martian cannon?”
“Of course! I had to make adjustments, engineering alterations, while designing my moon vessel. The shell could not be of steel, like one of Eiffel’s bridges. So I conjectured that the means of making light projectiles of aluminum will come to pass. These are not basic limitations, you see” – I waved them away – “but mere details.”
The wind had shifted, and with relief I now drew in a heady breath redolent with the smells of cookery rising from the city of cuisine. Garlic, roasting vegetables, the dark aromas of warming meats – such a contrast with the terror which advanced on the city and on our minds. Along rue St. Grenelle, I glanced into one of the innumerable tiny cafes. Worried faces stared moodily at their reflections in the broad zinc bars, stained by spilled absinthe. Wine coursed down anxious throats. Murmurs floated on the fitful air.
“So the Martians come by cannon, the workhorse of battle,” Beauchamp murmured.
“There are other methods,” I allowed.
“Your dirigibles?”
“Come, come, Beauchamp! You know very well that no air permeates the realm between the worlds.”
“Then what methods do they employ to maneuver? They fall upon Asia, Africa, the Americans, the deserving British – all with such control, such intricate planning.”
“Rockets! Though perhaps there are flaws in my original cannon ideas – I am aware that passengers would be squashed to jelly by the firing of such a great gun – nothing similar condemns the use of cylinders of slowly exploding chemicals.”
“To steer between planets? Such control!”
“Once the concept is grasped, it is but a matter of ingenuity to bring it to pass. Within a century, Beauchamp, we shall see rockets of our own rise from this ponderous planet into the heavens. I promise you that!”
“Assuming we survive the fortnight,” Beauchamp remarked gloomily. “Not to mention a century.”
“To live, we must think. Our thoughts must encompass the entire range of possibility.”
I waved my furled umbrella at the sky, sweeping it around and down rue de Rennes, toward the southern eminence of Montparnasse. By chance my gaze followed the pointing tip – and so I was among the first to spy one of the Martian machines, like a monstrous insect, cresting that ill-fated hill.
There is something in the human species that abhors oddity, the unnatural. We are double in arms, legs, eyes, ears, even nipples (if I may venture such an indelicate comparison; but remember, I am a man of science at all times). Two-ness is fundamental to us, except when Nature dictates singularity – we have but one mouth, and one organ of regeneration. Such biological matters are fundamental. Thus, the instantaneous feelings of horror at first sight of the three-ness of the invaders – which was apparent even in the external design of their machinery. I need not explain the revulsion to any denizen of our world. These were alien beings, in the worst sense of the word.
“They have broken through!” I cried. “The front must have collapsed.”
Around us crowds now took note of the same dread vision, looming over the sooty Montparnasse railway station. Men began to run, women to wail. Yet, some courageous ones of both sexes ran the other way, to help bolster the city’s slim, final bulwark, a line from which rose volleys of crackling rifle fire.
By unspoken assent, Beauchamp and I refrained from joining the general fury. Two old men, wealthier in dignity than physical stamina, we had more to offer with our experience and seasoned minds than with the frail strength of our arms.
“Note the rays,” I said dispassionately, as for the first time we witnessed the fearful lashing of that horrid heat, smiting the helpless trains, igniting rail cars and exploding locomotives at a mere touch. I admit I was struggling to hold both reason and resolve, fastening upon details as a drowning man might cling to flotsam.
“Could they be like Hertzian waves?” Beauchamp asked in wavering tones.
We had been excited by the marvelous German discovery, and its early application to experiments in wireless signaling. Still, even I had to blink at Beauchamp’s idea – for the first time envisioning the concentration of such waves into searing beams.
“Possibly,” I allowed. “Legends say that Archimedes concentrated light to beat back Roman ships, at Syracuse... But the waves Hertz found were meters long, and of less energy than a fly’s wingbeat. These –”
I jumped, despite my efforts at self-control, as another, much larger machine appeared to the west of the first, towering majestically, also spouting bright red torrents of destruction. It set fires on the far southern horizon, the beam playing over city blocks, much as a cat licks a mouse.
“We shall never defeat such power,” Beauchamp said morosely.
“Certainly we do not have much time,” I allowed. “But you put my mind into harness, my friend.”
Around us people now openly bolted. Carriages rushed past without regard to panicked figures who dashed across the avenues. Horses clopped madly by, whipped by their masters. I stopped to unroll the paper from a Colombian cigar. Such times demand clear thinking. It was up to the higher minds and classes to display character and resolve.
“No, we
must seize upon some technology closer to hand,” I said. “Not the Hertzian waves, but perhaps something allied...”
Beauchamp glanced back at the destructive tripods with lines of worry creasing his brow. “If rifle and cannon prove useless against these marching machines –”
“Then we must apply another science, not mere mechanics.”
“Biology? There are the followers of Pasteur, of course.” Beauchamp was plainly struggling to stretch his mind. “If we could somehow get these Martians – has anyone yet seen one? – to drink contaminated milk...”
I had to chuckle. “Too literal, my friend. Would you serve it to them on a silver plate?”
Beauchamp drew himself up. “I was only attempting –”
“No matter. The point is now moot. Can you not see where the second machine stands, atop the very site of Pasteur’s now ruined Institute?”
Although biology is a lesser cousin in the family of science, I nevertheless imagined with chagrin those fine collections of bottled specimens, now kicked and scattered under splayed tripod feet, tossing the remnants to the swirling winds. No help there, alas.
“Nor are the ideas of the Englishman, Darwin, of much use, for they take thousands of years to have force. No, I have in mind physics, but rather more recent work.”
I had been speaking from the airy spot wherein my head makes words before thought has yet taken form, as often happens when a concept lumbers upward from the mind’s depths, coming, coming...
Around us lay the most beautiful city in the world, already flickering with gas lamps lining the prominent avenues. Might that serve as inspiration? Poison gas? But no, the Martians had already proved invulnerable to even the foul clouds the Army had tried to deploy.
But then what? I have always believed that the solution to tomorrow’s problems usually lay in plain sight, in materials and concepts already at hand – just as the essential ideas for submarines, airships, and even interplanetary craft, have been apparent for decades. The trick lies in formulating the right combinations.
As that thought coursed through my mind, a noise erupted so cacophonously as to over-ride even the commotion further south. A rattling roar (accompanied by the plaint of already-frightened horses) approached from the opposite direction! Even as I turned round toward the river, I recognized the clatter of an explosive-combustion engine, of the type invented not long ago by Herr Benz, now propelling a wagon bearing several men and a pile of glittering apparatus! At once I observed one unforeseen advantage of horseless transportation – to allow human beings to ride toward danger that no horse on Earth would ever approach.
The hissing contraption ground to a halt not far from Beauchamp and me. Then a shout burst forth in that most penetrating of human accents – one habituated to open spaces and vast expanses.
“Come on, you Gol-durned piece of junk! Fire on up, or I’ll turn ya into scrap b’fore the Martians do!”
The speaker was dressed as a workman, with bandoliers of tools arrayed across his broad, sturdy frame. A shock of reddish hair escaped under the rim of a large, curve-brimmed hat, of the type affected by the troupe of Buffalo Bill, when that showman’s carnival was the sensation of Europe, some years back.
“Come now Ernst,” answered the man beside him, in a voice both more cultured and sardonic. “There’s no purpose in berating a machine. Perhaps we are already near enough to acquire the data we seek.”
An uneasy alliance of distant cousins, I realized. Although I have always admired users of the English language, for their boundless ingenuity, it can be hard to see the countrymen of Edgar Allen Poe as related to those of Walter Scott.
“What do you say, Fraunhoffer?” asked the Englishman of a third gentleman with the portly bearing of one who dearly loves his schnitzel, now peering through an array of lenses toward the battling tripods. “Can you get a good reading from here?”
“Bah!” The bald-pated German cursed. “From ze exploding buildings and fiery desolation, I get plenty of lines, those typical of combustion. But ze rays zemselves are absurd. Utterly absurd!”
I surmised that here were scientists at work, even as I had prescribed in my discourse to Beauchamp, doing the labor of sixty battalions. In such efforts by luminous minds lay our entire hope.
“Absurd how?” A fourth head emerged, that of a dark young man, wearing objects over his ears that resembled muffs for protection against cold weather – only these were made of wood, linked by black cord to a machine covered with dials. I at once recognized miniature speaker-phones, for presenting faint sounds directly to the ears. The young man’s accent was Italian, and curiously calm. “What is absurd about the spectrum of-a the rays, Professor?”
“There iss no spectrum!” the German expounded. “My device shows just the one hue of red light we see with our naked eyes, when the rays lash destructive force. There are no absorption lines, just a single hue of brilliant red!”
The Italian pursed his lips in thought. “One frequency, perhaps...?”
“If you insist on comparing light to your vulgar Hertzian waves –”
So entranced was I by the discussion that I was almost knocked down by Beauchamp’s frantic effort to gain my attention. I knew just one thing could bring him to behave so – the Martians must nearly be upon us! With this supposition in mind, I turned, expecting to see a disk-like foot of a leviathan preparing to crush us.
Instead, Beauchamp, white as a ghost, stammered and pointed with a palsied hand. “Verne, regardez!”
To my amazement, the invaders had abruptly changed course, swerving from the direct route to the Seine. Instead they turned left and were stomping swiftly toward the part of town that Beauchamp and I had only just left, crushing buildings to dust as they hurried ahead. At the time, we shared a single thought. The commanders of the battle tripods must have spied the military camp on the Champs de Mars. Or else they planned to wipe out the nearby military academy. It even crossed my mind that their objective might be the tomb of humanity’s greatest general – to destroy that shrine, and with it our spirit to resist.
But no. Only much later did we realize the truth.
Here in Paris, our vanquishers suddenly had another kind of conquest in mind.
ᚖ
Flames spread as evening fell. Although the Martian rampage seemed to have slackened somewhat, the city’s attitude of sang froid was melting rapidly into frothy panic. The broad boulevards that Baron Haussmann gave the city, during the Second Empire, proved their worth as aisles of escape while buildings burned.
But not for all. By nightfall, Beauchamp and I found ourselves across the river at the new army headquarters, in the tree-lined Tuilleries, just west of the Louvre – as if the military had decided to make its last stand in front of the great museum, delaying the invaders in order to give the curators more time to rescue treasures.
A great crowd surrounded a cage wherein, some said, several captured Martians cowered. Beauchamp rushed off to see, but I had learned to heed my subconscious – (to use the terminology of the Austrian alienist, Freud) – and wandered about the camp instead. Letting the spectacle play in my mind.
While a colonel with a sooty face drew arrows on a map, I found my gaze wandering to the trampled gardens, backlit by fire, and wondered what the painter, Camille Pissarro, would make of such a hellish scene. Just a month ago I had visited his apartment at 204 rue de Rivoli, to see a series of impressions he had undertaken to portray the peaceful Tuilleries. Now, what a parody fate had decreed for these same gardens!
The colonel had explained that invader tripods came in two sizes, with the larger ones appearing to control the smaller. There were many of the latter kind, still rampaging the city suburbs, but all three of the great ones reported to be in Northern France had converged on the same site before nightfall, trampling back and forth across the Champs de Mars, presenting a series of strange behaviors that as yet had no lucid explanation. I did not need a military expert to tell me what I had seen with my own e
yes... three titanic metal leviathans, twisting and capering as if in a languid dance, round and round the same object of their fierce attention.
I wandered away from the briefing, and peered for a while at the foreign scientists. The Italian and the German were arguing vehemently, invoking the name of the physicist Boltzmann, with his heretical theories of “atomic matter,” trying to explain why the heat ray of the aliens should emerge as just a single, narrow color. But the discussion was over my head, so I moved on.
The American and the Englishman seemed more pragmatic, consulting with French munitions experts about a type of fulminating bomb that might be attached to a Martian machine’s kneecap – if only some way could be found to carry it there... and to get the machine to stand still while it was attached. I doubted any explosive device devised overnight would suffice, since artillery had been next to useless, but I envied the adventure of the volunteer bomber, whoever it might be.
Adventure. I had spent decades writing about it, nearly always in the form of extraordinary voyages, with my heroes bound intrepidly across foaming seas, or under the waves, or over icecaps, or to the shimmering moon. Millions read my works to escape the tedium of daily life, and perhaps to catch a glimpse of the near future. Only now the future had arrived, containing enough excitement for anyone. We did not have to seek adventure far away. It had come to us. Right to our homes.
The crowd had ebbed somewhat, in the area surrounding the prisoners’ enclosure, so I went over to join Beauchamp. He had been standing there for hours, staring at the captives, our only prizes in this horrid war, lying caged within stout iron bars, a dismal set of figures, limp yet atrociously fascinating.
“Have they any new ideas?” Beauchamp asked in a distracted voice, while keeping his eyes focused toward the four beings from Mars. “What new plans from the military geniuses?”
The last was spoken with thick sarcasm. His attitude had changed since noon, most clearly.
“They think the key is to be found in the Master Tripods, those that are right now stomping flat the region near Eiffel’s Spire. Never have all three of the Master Machines been seen so close together. Experts suggest that the Martians may use movement to communicate. The dance they are now performing may represent a conference on strategy. Perhaps they are planning their next move, now that they have taken Paris.”