XXII

When they reached Woking Station, Wells and his companions were astonished to discover everything carrying on as normal in the station. People came and went, apparently unflustered, while the trains were shunted around like beasts of burden. Fascinated, they watched how a train arrived from the north, emptied its passengers onto the platform, and then picked up others and continued on its way, as though nothing untoward was happening nearby. Only a faint red glow lit up the horizon, and a thin veil of smoke shrouded the sky. It was the horror of war, which from a distance gave the impression of an exquisitely decorative display. If news of the slaughter they had survived had reached Woking, no one there seemed unduly alarmed by it. No doubt they believed in the might of the British army, which was advancing toward the cylinders with great military strides, ready to defeat the Martians, or whatever they were, in a matter of hours, the same way they had always done when an enemy dared threaten the Empire.

“So far, the panic doesn’t seem to have spread here,” Clayton observed, glancing about. “Just as well: that means we need only concern ourselves with our plan.”

Pointing his pistol discreetly at Wells and Murray, Clayton ushered them to the stationmaster’s office, where he introduced himself, gave the stationmaster a prompt and in no way alarming account of the situation, and persuaded the man to let him lock the suspects up in one of the station’s storerooms.

“Try to behave like gentlemen,” Clayton appealed to Wells and Murray before shutting them in and leaving with Miss Harlow to telegraph his superiors.

The two men were obliged to remain on their feet in the center of the tiny room crammed with boxes, provisions, and tools, but which contained nothing they could sit on while they waited. In the moments that followed, they were content to simply eye each other in mistrust.

“I’m not responsible for the invasion, George,” Murray said at last, in an almost pleading tone. Wells was not sure whether this was an attempt to strike up a conversation or he’d spoken because it tormented him not to be able to prove his innocence.

Whatever the reason, the author continued to glare at Murray, exasperated that circumstances obliged him to communicate with the man. Although Wells had dreamed that Fate would provide him with an opportunity to unleash his anger on Murray, time had dampened his anger, burying it beneath a layer of contempt, with the result that it had lost some of its urgency. It was too late to rake it all up now, especially considering the alarming situation they found themselves in, which demanded they put aside personal grievances. And so Wells set himself to focus on the present, to discover who was behind it all.

“Are you suggesting we believe that this is a genuine Martian invasion?” he inquired coldly.

Murray gave a worried groan.

“I’ve no idea what we should believe, George,” exclaimed the millionaire, who in his agitated state tried to pace round in circles, something the confined space would not allow. “This can’t be happening!”

“Well, Gilliam, it is happening. The invasion I described in my novel is taking place exactly as you intended. Let me remind you there is a letter signed by you, in which you plead with me to help you carry it out,” Wells retorted, not pulling any punches.

“But in that letter did I say anything about killing hundreds of people?” the millionaire groaned. “Of course not, George! All I wanted was to build a cylinder from which that accursed overdeveloped octopus of yours would emerge and make headlines to win the heart of the most beautiful woman in the world! You must believe me, George! I would never do anything to hurt Emma! Never!” And with that, Murray brought his fist crashing down on one of the boxes, causing the wood to splinter in various places and making Wells wonder whether provoking Murray was the best approach at that moment. Fortunately, venting his frustration appeared to calm the millionaire, who placed both hands on the shattered box, sank his head to his chest, and whispered, “I love her, George, I love her more than my own life.”

Wells shifted awkwardly on his feet, to the extent a room as narrow as a coffin would allow. Here he was, locked in this room with Murray, listening to him speak about love in such childish terms, while outside someone, or something, was killing innocent people, using his novel as a blueprint. And then, contemplating with faint embarrassment the bleating millionaire’s ridiculous ode to love, Wells realized he could not go on denying the obvious: much as his hatred of the man compelled Wells to hold him responsible, Murray had nothing to do with the invasion. The fact that the tentacle had fired so nonchalantly on the onlookers, and particularly on the girl he intended to marry, almost incontrovertibly proved his innocence. And to Wells’s astonishment, a wave of pity swept over him, something he would have never believed he could feel toward the man he had diligently devoted himself to loathing for the past two years. Pity! And for Gilliam Murray! For the giant fellow next to him, struggling not to burst into tears, who must not only defend himself against a false accusation but who would at some point have to admit to the woman he adored that he had failed, that he was unworthy of her love. And as if that were not dreadful enough, Emma almost certainly held him entirely to blame for the fact that she was fleeing for her life, far from home, along with a smart-aleck investigator and an author of fantasy novels, who it so happened had written The War of the Worlds. Yes, it was only logical he should feel pity for Murray. But also for the girl, he thought. And even for himself. But more than anything because he was unable to feel more than a conventional concern for Jane’s well-being.

Jane, his Jane. Was she in danger? He had no idea, and for the time being he preferred to imagine her safe and sound in London with the Garfields, who, if news of events in Horsell had reached the city, were undoubtedly cheering her up at that very moment, assuring her that he was all right. He gave a sigh. He must not torment himself with these thoughts. His life was in peril, and if anything he must focus his efforts on discovering what the devil was going on and on finding a way to stay alive as long as possible, at least until it became clear whether the entire human race was going to perish and surviving would be the worst thing that could happen to him.

“Very well, Gilliam,” he said, carefully adopting a gentle tone. “Let’s accept that the invasion has nothing to do with you. Who is behind it, then? Germany?”

The millionaire gazed at him in astonishment.

“Germany? Possibly . . . ,” he said at last, trying to collect his thoughts and give his voice a firm sound. “Although I think it unlikely that any country has a sophisticated enough technology to produce the lethal ray that almost killed us.”

“Really? I don’t see why such a thing couldn’t have been carried out in secret,” Wells proposed.

“Perhaps you’re right,” replied the millionaire, who appeared to have regained some of his composure. “What is certain, George, is that those behind the attack are copying your novel.”

Yes, that much was certain, the author acknowledged to himself. The location of the cylinders, their appearance, the heat ray . . . Everything was happening almost exactly as he had described. Accordingly, the next phase would be the construction of flying machines shaped like stingrays that soared across the counties on their way to London, ready to raze it to the ground. Perhaps at that very moment, in the deserted meadows of Horsell Common, strewn with charred corpses and smoldering trees, the relentless hammering sound of their construction was echoing in the silence. But, in the meantime, there was no way of knowing who was behind all this. And given that as yet no Martian had popped its gelatinous head out of the cylinder, the only thing they could be sure of was that these machines were deadly, and that anyone could be operating them, or no one, he thought, wondering whether they might be activated from a distance, via some kind of signal. Anything was possible. Wells then realized with surprise that he felt no fear, although he suspected his sudden display of pluck was because he still did not know exactly what it was they ought to be afraid of. The test would be if he managed to stay calm when the attackers made their next move and things began to make sense; only then would he discover whether at heart he was a hero or a coward.

Just then, the two men heard a loud clamor outside. They looked up toward the tiny storeroom window, straining to determine the cause of the row, but were unable to make out what the voices were saying. They could only conclude that some unrest had now broken out in the station, hitherto immersed in an unnerving calm. People seemed to be running hither and thither, and, although their cries did not yet sound panic-stricken, something strange was definitely going on. Wells and Murray exchanged solemn glances. During the next few minutes, the din appeared to intensify: they heard doors slamming, objects crashing to the floor, bundles being dragged along the ground, and occasionally someone barking an unintelligible order or uttering a frantic oath. The two men were starting to get nervous when the door to their temporary cell swung open and in walked Inspector Clayton and Miss Harlow with looks of unease on their faces, which did not bode well.

“I’m glad to see you are both still in one piece, gentlemen,” the inspector said with a sardonic grin as he closed the door hurriedly behind him. “Well then, I bring both good and bad news.”

The two men looked at him expectantly.

“The good news is that whoever is doing this isn’t as keen on your novel as we had thought, Mr. Wells,” Clayton announced, scrutinizing Wells with exaggerated curiosity. “It seems the Martians haven’t built flying machines shaped like stingrays with which to attack us from the skies. I recall that in your novel they were propelled by magnetic currents that affected the Earth’s surface . . .”

“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 slipped 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.

When he reached them, he offered the girl his hand, still brandishing the gun.

“Miss Harlow, allow me to help you,” he said gallantly.

The girl appeared to hesitate, then finally stood up, leaning her weight on his hand. She stood behind Murray, shaking the mud from her dress as she glanced about in a dazed fashion. Still pointing the gun at the porters, Murray gestured to Wells and Miss Harlow to climb aboard.

“Hey, Gilliam . . . ,” Wells whispered behind his back.

“What is it, George?”

“I think you’ve forgotten Inspector Clayton.”

Without lowering his weapon, Murray glanced over his shoulder and saw the inspector’s body lying on the ground where he had left it. He blurted out an oath between gritted teeth and turned his attention back to the group of thugs, who leered at him, and then once more to his companions, his gaze resting tentatively on the girl, who was still standing beside him, a bewildered expression on her face.

“Very well,” he said, making a decision. Then, handing Emma the gun, he said softly, “Miss Harlow, would you be so kind as to hold these gentlemen at bay while Mr. Wells and I lift the inspector into the carriage? Forgive me for asking, but do you believe you can manage that?”

Emma gazed with puzzlement at the weapon Murray was holding out, and then peered at him. Murray gave her a smile as warm as it was encouraging. This instantly roused the girl’s anger once more.

“Manage? Why of course, Mr. Murray,” she snapped, grabbing the weapon with her slender hands. “I don’t think it will be too difficult. You should try wearing a corset sometime.”

As the weapon changed hands, the porter who had attacked the girl let out a howl of laughter and took a step forward. As the girl aimed the revolver at him he stopped in his tracks.

“I’m warning you, my friend, one more step and I’ll do more than knock you to the ground,” she declared fiercely.

“Oh, I’m quaking in my shoes,” the porter mocked, turning to his band of men. “The little lady wants us to believe she can—”

However, he was unable to finish his sentence because Emma, with a sudden movement, lowered the gun and shot him in the foot. The bullet pierced the toe of his boot, a jet of blood spurting out. The porter fell to his knees cradling his foot, his face contorted with pain.

“You damned bitch!” he cried.

“Right,” the girl said, addressing the others. “Next time I’ll aim for the head.”

Fascinated, Murray gazed at the girl, astonished at her pluck. Wells was obliged to tap him on the shoulder to remind him about Clayton. Between the two men, they heaved the inspector into the carriage. Then the millionaire approached the girl and asked her for the gun, with an admiring smile.

“Nice job, Miss Harlow,” he congratulated her. “I hope you can forgive me for putting you in such a perilous situation.”

“You’re very kind, Mr. Murray,” she replied sarcastically as she handed him the pistol. “However, I should point out that you were the one taking the risk by entrusting the weapon to me. I’m sure you believed those ruffians might wrest it from me.”

“Oh, not for a moment.” The millionaire grinned. “Remember, I’ve taken tea with you.”

“Ahem . . .” Wells gave a little cough from inside the carriage. “Forgive me for interrupting, but remember that the Martians are heading this way.”

“Quite so, quite so,” Murray said, helping the girl into the coach. Then he turned to the mob, gave a little bow, and said, “Thank you, gentlemen, you’ve all been most kind. Unfortunately, this carriage is too grand to accommodate your lowly posteriors.”

With these words, Murray climbed in a leisurely manner onto the driver’s seat and, once installed, gave a crack of the whip.

“The insufferable bighead,” Wells muttered.

“I agree. He’s the most conceited man in the world. But thanks to him we recovered the coach,” the girl acknowledged grudgingly.

She was right about that, Wells reflected, as the carriage moved away and through the window he watched the band of aggressors grow smaller in the distance. If Murray had not kept his calm, he himself would almost certainly have taken a beating, and they would be the ones left behind at the station watching those brutes make off with Murray’s coach.

They took the Chertsey road to London almost at a gallop, causing Clayton, whom they had propped up in front of them, to slump sideways on the seat. The violent jolting of the carriage made his arms jump about, and his head flopped from side to side, like a man in the throes of drunkenness. Wells and Emma tried not to look at him, ashamed to witness an intimate moment in the inspector’s life that few would ever see.

As he gazed out of the window, Wells realized night had fallen. A large part of the landscape outside the window was now plunged into darkness. On the horizon he could make out a cherry-red glare and a plume of smoke rising lazily up into the starry sky. From the distant woods of Addlestone came the disturbing boom of cannons, muted and sporadic, which made him think that the army was doing battle with the tripods somewhere.

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Emma.

The girl’s gaze was fixed on something happening outside the window. Alarmed by the look of horror on her face, Wells leaned over her shoulder and peered into the night. At first he saw nothing, only a pine forest immersed in blackness, but then he glimpsed, slipping through the dense shadows, the vision that was terrifying her. A huge bulk was moving swiftly down the slope parallel with the carriage. When he managed to make it out against the darkness, Wells could see that it was a gigantic machine held up by three slender, jointed legs, advancing in great strides like some monstrous insect. Giving off a deafening metallic grinding sound, and swaying ominously, the shiny metal machine moved clumsily yet resolutely through the pine forest, casually crushing the trees underfoot as it went. Wells could see that the uppermost part of the device closely resembled the Martian cylinder he had described, but that the rest of its structure was very different—more like a vast round box covered with a complex mesh of plates, which reminded him of a hermit crab’s shell. He also glimpsed a cluster of jointed tentacles, slender and supple, which moved as though they had a life of their own. Taller than several houses, the moonlight glinting on its metal surface, the thing was marching implacably toward London, opening a pathway through the stand of trees.

The machine suddenly tilted its hood slightly toward the carriage, and Wells had the uneasy feeling that it was watching them. His suspicions were confirmed when a second later the device deviated slightly from its path and began approaching the road. From the sudden jerk of the carriage, Wells deduced that Murray had seen it, too, and was trying to gain some distance by urging the horses on even more forcefully. Wells swallowed hard and, like Emma, gripped the seat to keep himself from being thrown into the air by the coach’s violent shaking. Through the rear window he could see how one of the legs of the tripod emerged from the ditch and planted itself on the road. Then, dragging a clump of splintered pine trees, the other two also appeared. As soon as it was steady on its three legs, the thing set off in pursuit of the carriage. Its huge strides echoed in the night like booming thunderclaps, as the mechanical monster gained on them. His heart beating furiously in his chest, Wells watched as at the top of the machine the strange apparatus that launched the heat ray began its familiar cobralike movement as it took aim.

“That thing’s going to shoot at us,” he shouted, grabbing Emma and forcing her to the floor of the carriage. “Get down!”

There was a loud explosion a few yards to their right. The blast shook the carriage so violently that for a few instants its wheels left the ground, and when it landed again the shock threatened to shatter it to pieces. Surprised to find he was still alive, Wells struggled up as best he could and tried to glance out of the rear window again. Steadying himself against the wild sway of the carriage, he wondered whether Murray was still up on the driver’s seat or had fallen off at some moment during the chase so that they were now speeding on in a driverless carriage. Through the window, Wells saw the small crater the blast had left in the roadside. Behind him, the tripod was still bearing down on them with ominous leaps and bounds, rapidly reducing the twenty yards or so that separated it from the carriage. His heart leapt into his mouth as he saw the tentacle that spat out the ray snaking through the air in preparation for a new strike. It was obvious that sooner or later it would hit them. At that moment, the coach shuddered to a halt, throwing him forward onto the crumpled body of Inspector Clayton. Wells rose and helped the girl up from the floor before returning to his seat. He felt the carriage start moving again. Through the window he could see they were turning. Startled, he poked his head out of the left-hand window and found that Murray had swung round to face the tripod, which continued its ungainly advance toward them.

“What the devil are you doing?” he shouted.

The reply was a whiplash, urging the horses on. The coach rattled forward to meet the tripod.

“You’ve gone mad, Murray!” he cried.

“I’m sure that thing can’t turn as quickly as we can,” he heard the millionaire cry above the wheels’ infernal screeching.

As the coach began hurtling toward the tripod, Wells realized in astonished disbelief that Murray was hoping to pass beneath the colossus as if it were a bridge.

“Good God . . . the man is insane,” he muttered, seeing how the tripod had halted to take aim at them.

He fell back into the coach and held the girl as tightly as he could.

“He’s going to pass under its legs,” he explained in a voice choked by fear.

“W-what?” she stammered.

“He’s crazy . . .”

Emma clung to him desperately, trembling. Wells could feel her fragility, her warmth, her perfume, her womanly shape pressing itself into the hollows of his body. He could not help but lament the fact that the only chance a man like him would have to hold a woman like her was when they were fleeing a Martian invasion together, even though this was a fleeting notion that had no place at a moment like this, when both of them were being thrown at high speed against this metal monster, which in a few seconds would reduce them to ashes with its heat ray. But while waiting for death, in those few seconds when their lives extended beyond any reason, Wells had time to realize that the quandary in which they found themselves could not only make one a hero or a coward but also drive one insane.