The Space Machine

i

When we had landed the Space Machine, and I had loaded several of the hand-grenades on to it, Mr Wells was worried about the time we had left to us.

“The sun will be setting in two hours,” he said. “I should not care to drive the Machine in darkness.”

“But, sir, we can come to no harm in the attenuation.”

“I know, but we must at some time return to the house and leave the attenuated dimension. When we do that, we must be absolutely certain there are no Martians around. How terrible it would be if we returned to the house in the night, and discovered that the Martians were waiting for us!”

“We have been here for more than two weeks,” I said, “and no Martian has so much as glanced our way.”

Mr Wells had to agree with this, but he said: “I think we must not lose sight of the seriousness of our task, Turnbull. Because we have been confined so long in Richmond, we have no knowledge of the extent of the Martians’ success. Certainly they have subdued all the land we can see from here; in all probability they are now the lords of the entire country. For all we know, their domain might be worldwide. If we are, as we suspect, in command of the one weapon they cannot resist, we cannot afford to lose that advantage by taking unnecessary risks. We have a tremendous responsibility thrust upon us.”

“Mr Wells is right, Edward,” said Amelia. “Our revenge on the Martians is late, but it is all we have.”

“Very well,” I said. “’But we must try at least one sortie today. We do not yet know if our scheme will work.”

So at last we mounted the Space Machine, and sat with suppressed excitement as Mr Wells guided us away from the house, above the obscene red tangle of weeds, and out towards the heart, of the Thames Valley.

As soon as we were under way, I saw some of’ the wisdom of the others’ words. Our search for Martian targets was to be unguided, for we had no idea where the evil brutes currently were. We could search all day for just one, and in the boundless scale of the Martians’ intrusion we might never find our goal.

We flew for about half an hour, circling over the river, looking this way and that for some sign of the invaders, but without success.

At last Amelia suggested a plan which presented logic and simplicity. We knew, she said, where the projectiles had fallen, and further, we knew that the Martians used the pits as their headquarters. Surely, if we were seeking the monsters, the pits would be the most sensible places to look first.

Mr Wells agreed with this, and we turned directly for the nearest of the pits. This was the one in Bushy Park, where the fourth projectile had fallen. Suddenly, as I realized we were at last on the right track, I felt my heart pounding with excitement.

The valley was a dreadful sight: the red weed was growing rampantly over almost every physical protuberance, houses included. The landscape seemed from this height to be like a huge undulating field of red grass bent double by heavy rain. In places, the weeds had actually altered the course of the river, and wherever there was low-lying ground stagnant lakes had formed.

The pit had been made in the north-eastern corner of Bushy Park, and was difficult to distinguish by virtue of the fact that it, no less than anywhere else, was heavily overgrown with weed. At last we noticed the cavernous mouth of the projectile itself, and Mr Wells brought the Space Machine down to hover a few feet from the entrance. All was dark within, and there was no sign of either the Martians or their machines.

We were about to move away, when Amelia suddenly pointed into the heart of the projectile.

“Edward, look … it is one of the people!”

Her move had, startled me, but I looked in the direction she was indicating. Sure enough, lying a few feet inside the hold was a human figure. I thought for a moment that this must be one of the hapless victims snatched by the Martians … but then I saw that the body was that of a very tall man, and that he was wearing a black uniform. His skin was a mottled red, and his face, which was turned towards us, was ugly and distorted.

We stared in silence at this dead Martian human. It was perhaps even more of a shock to see one of our erstwhile allies in this place than it would have been to see one of the monsters.

We explained to Mr Wells that the man was probably one of the humans coerced into driving the projectile, and he looked at the dead Martian with great interest.

“The strain of our gravity must have been too much for his heart,” said Mr Wells.

“That has not upset the monsters’ plans,” Amelia said.

“Those beasts are without hearts,” said Mr Wells, but I supposed that he was speaking figuratively.

We recalled that another cylinder had fallen near Wimbledon, and so we turned the Space Machine away from the pathetic figure of the dead Martian human, and set off eastwards at once. From Bushy Park to Wimbledon is a distance of some five miles, and so even at our maximum speed the flight took nearly an hour. During this time we were appalled to see that even parts of Richmond Park were showing signs of the red weed.

Mr Wells had been casting several glances over his shoulder to see how long there was until sunset, and was clearly still unhappy with this expedition so soon before nightfall. I resolved that if the Martian pit at Wimbledon was also empty, then it would be I who proposed an immediate return to Reynolds House. The satisfaction of taking positive action at last had excited my nerve, though, and I would be sorry not to make at least one kill before returning.

Then at last we had our chance. Amelia suddenly cried out, and pointed towards the south. There, striding slowly from the direction of Malden, came a battle-machine.

We were at that moment travelling at a height approximately equal to that of the platform, and it was an instinct we all shared that the beast inside must have seen us, so deliberately did it march in our direction.

Mr Wells uttered a few reassuring words, and raised the Space Machine to a new height and bearing, one which would take us circling around the tripodal engine.

I reached forward with shaking hands, and took hold of one of the hand-grenades.

Amelia said: “Have you ever handled one of those before, Edward?”

“No,” I said. “But I know what to do.”

“Please be careful.”

We were less than half a mile from the Titan, and still we headed in towards it from an oblique angle.

“Where do you want me to place the Machine?” said Mr Wells, concentrating fiercely on his controls.

“Somewhat above the platform,” I said. “Approach from the side, because I do not wish to pass directly in front.”

“The monster cannot see us,” said Amelia.

“No,” I said, remembering that ferocious visage. “But we might see it.”

I found myself trembling anew as we approached. The thought of what was squatting so loathsomely inside that metal edifice was enough to reawaken all the fears and angers I had suffered on Mars, but I forced myself to be calm.

“Can you maintain the Machine at a steady speed above the platform?” I asked Mr Wells.

“I’ll do what I can, Turnbull.”

His cautious words gave no indication of the ease with which he brought our flying bed-frame to a point almost exactly above the platform. I leaned over the side of our Space Machine, while Amelia held my free hand, and I stared down at the roof of the platform.

There were numerous apertures here—some of which were large enough for me to make out the glistening body of the monster—and the grenade lodged in any one of them would probably do what was necessary. In the end I chose a large port just beside where the heat-cannon would emerge, reasoning that somewhere near there must be the incredible furnace which produced the heat. If that were fractured, then what damage the grenade did not inflict would be completed by the subsequent explosive release of energy.

“I see my target,” I shouted to Mr Wells. “I will call out as soon as I have released the grenade, and at that moment we must move away as far as possible.”

Mr Wells confirmed that he understood, and so I sat up straight for a moment, and eased the restraining pin from the detonating arm. While Amelia supported me once more, I leaned over and held the grenade above the platform.

“Ready, Mr Wells …?” I called. “Now!”

At the selfsame instant that I let go the grenade, Mr Wells took the Space Machine in a fast climbing arc away from the battle-machine. I stared back, anxious to see the effect of my attack.

A few seconds later, there was an explosion below and slightly behind the Martian tripod.

I stared in amazement. The grenade had fallen through the metal bulk of the platform and exploded harmlessly!

I said: “I didn’t expect that to happen…”

“My dear,” said Amelia. “I think the grenade was still attenuated.”

Below us, the Martian strode on, oblivious of the deadly attack it had just survived.

ii

I was seething with disappointment as we returned safely to the house. By then the sun had set, and a long, glowing evening lay across the transformed valley. As the other two went to their rooms to dress for dinner, I paced to and fro in the laboratory, determined that our vengeance should not be snatched away from us.

I ate with the others, but kept my silence throughout the meal. Amelia and Mr Wells, sensing my distemper, talked a little of the success of our building the Space Machine, but the abortive attack was carefully avoided.

Later, Amelia said she was going to the kitchen to bake some bread, and so Mr Wells and I repaired to the smoking-room. With the curtains carefully drawn, and sitting by the light of one candle only, we talked of general matters until Mr Wells considered it safe to discuss other tactics.

“The difficulty is twofold,” he said. “Clearly, we must not be attenuated when we place the explosive, otherwise the grenade has no effect, and yet we must be attenuated during the explosion, otherwise we shall be affected by the blast.”

“But if we turn off the Space Machine, the Martian will observe us,” I said.

“That is why I say it will be difficult. We have both seen how fast those brutes react to any threat.”

“We could land the Space Machine on the roof of the tripod itself.”

Mr Wells shook his head slowly. “I admire your inventiveness, Turnbull, but it would not be practicable. I had great difficulty even keeping abreast of the engine. To essay a landing on a moving object would be extremely hazardous.”

We both recognized the urgency of finding a solution. For an hour or more we argued our ideas back and forth, but we arrived at nothing satisfactory. In the end, we went to the drawing-room where Amelia was waiting for us, and presented the problem to her.

She thought for a while, then said: “I see no difficulty. We have plenty of grenades, and can therefore afford a few misses. All we should do is hover above our target, although at a some what greater height than today. Mr Wells then switches off the attenuation field, and while we fall through the air Edward can lob a grenade at the Martian. By the time the bomb explodes, we should be safely back inside the attenuated dimension, and it will not matter how close we are to the explosion.”

I stared at Mr Wells, then at Amelia, considering the implications of such a hair-raising scheme.

“It sounds awfully dangerous,” I said in the end.

“We can strap ourselves to the Space Machine,” Amelia said. “We need not fall out.”

“But even so…”

“Do you have an alternative plan?” she said.

iii

The following morning we made our preparations, and were ready to set out at an early hour.

I must confess to considerable trepidation at the whole enterprise, and I think Mr Wells shared some of my misgivings. Only Amelia seemed confident of the plan, to the extent that she offered to take on the task of aiming the hand-grenades herself. Naturally, I would hear nothing of this, but she remained the only one of the three of us who exuded optimism and confidence that morning. Indeed, she had been up since first light and made us all sandwiches, so that we need not feel constrained to return to the house for lunch. Additionally, she had fixed some straps—which she had made from leather trouser-belts—across the bedstead’s cushions to hold us in place.

Just as we were about to leave, Amelia walked abruptly from the laboratory, and Mr Wells and I stared after her. She returned in a few moments, this time carrying a large suitcase.

I looked at it with interest, not recognizing it at first for what it was.

Amelia set it down on the floor, and opened the lid. Inside, wrapped carefully in tissue-paper, were the three pairs of goggles I had brought with me the day I came to see Sir William!

She passed one pair to me, smiling a little. Mr Wells took his at once.

“Capital notion, Miss Fitzgibbon,” he said. “Our eyes will need protection if we are to fall through the air.”

Amelia put hers on before we left, and I helped her with the clasp, making sure that it did not get caught in her hair. She settled the goggles on her brow.

“Now we are better equipped for our outing,” she said, and went towards the Space Machine.

I followed, holding my goggles in my hand, and trying not to dwell on my memories.

iv

We were in for a day of remarkably good hunting. Within a few minutes of sailing out over the Thames, Amelia let forth a cry, and pointed to the west. There, walking slowly through the streets of Twickenham, was a Martian battle-machine. It had its metal arms dangling, and it was moving from house to house, evidently seeking human survivors. By the emptiness of the mesh net that hung behind the platform we judged that its pickings had been poor. It seemed incredible to us that there should still be any survivors at all in these ravaged towns, although our own survival was a clue to the fact that several people must still be clinging to life in the cellars and basements of the houses.

We circled warily around the evil machine, once again experiencing that unease we had felt the day before.

“Take the Space Machine higher, if you will,” Amelia said to Mr Wells. “We must judge our approach carefully.”

I took a hand-grenade, and held it in readiness.: The battle-machine had paused momentarily, reaching through the upper window of a house with one of its long, articulate arms.

Mr Wells brought the Space Machine to a halt, some fifty feet above the platform.

Amelia pulled her goggles down over her eyes, and advised us to do the same. Mr Wells and I fixed our goggles in place, and checked the position of the Martian. It was quite motionless, but for the reaching of its metal arms.

“I’m ready, sir,” I said, and slid the pin from the striking lever.

“Very well,” said Mr Wells. “I am turning off the attenuation; now!”

As he spoke we all experienced an unpleasant lurching sensation, our stomachs seemed to turn a somersault, and the air rushed past us. At the behest of gravity we plunged towards the Martian machine. In the same instant I hurled the grenade desperately down at the Martian.

“Bombs away!” I shouted.

Then there was a second lurch, and our fall was arrested. Mr Wells manipulated his levers, and we soared away to one side in the dead silence of that weird dimension.

Looking back at the Martian we waited for the explosion… and seconds later it came. My aim had been accurate, and a ball of smoke and fire blossomed silently on the roof of the battle-machine.

The monster-creature inside the platform, taken by surprise, reacted with astonishing alacrity. The tower leaped back from the house, and in the same moment we saw the barrel of the heat-cannon snapping into position. The cowl of the platform swung round as the monster sought its attacker. As the smoke of the grenade drifted away we saw that the explosion had blown a jagged hole in the roof, and the engine inside must have been damaged. The battle-machine’s movements were not as smooth or as fast as some we had seen, and a dense green smoke was pouring from within.

The heat-beam flared into action, swinging erratically in all directions. The battle-machine took three steps forward, hesitated, then staggered back again. The heat-beam flashed across several of the near-by houses, causing the roofs to burst into flame.

Then, in a ball of brilliant-green fire, the whole hideous platform exploded. Our bomb had ruptured the furnace inside.

To us, sitting inside the silence and safety of attenuation, the destruction of the Martian was a soundless, mysterious event. We saw the fragments of the destructive engine flying in all directions, saw one of the huge legs cartwheeling away, saw the bulk of the shattered platform fall in a hundred pieces across the rooftops of Twickenham.

Curiously enough, I was not elated by this sight, and this sentiment was shared by the other two. Amelia stared quietly across at the twisted metal that once had been an engine of war, and Mr Wells merely said: “I see another.”

Towards the south, striding in the direction of Molesey, was a second battle-machine.

Mr Wells swing his levers, and soon we were speeding towards our next target.

v

By midday we had accounted for a total of four Martians: three of these were in their tripods, and one was in the control cabin of one of the legged vehicles. Each attack was conducted without danger to ourselves, and each time the chosen monster had been taken by surprise Our activities were not going unnoticed, however, for the legged vehicle had been speeding towards the destroyed tripod in Twickenham when we spotted it. We realized from this that the Martians must have had some kind of intricate signalling system between themselves—Mr Wells hypothesized that it was a telepathic communication, although Amelia and I, having seen the sophisticated science on Mars, suspected that it would be a technical device—for our vengeful activities seemed to have provoked a good deal of movement on the Martians’ behalf. As we flew to and fro across the valley, we saw several tripods approaching from the direction of London, and we knew that we would not run short of targets that day.

With the killing of the fourth Martian, though, Amelia suggested we rest and eat the sandwiches we had brought As she said this we were still hovering about the battle-machine we had just attacked.

The killing of this monster had been an odd affair. We had found the battle-machine standing alone on the edge of Richmond Park, facing towards the south-west. Its three legs had been drawn together, and its metal arms were furled, and at first we suspected that the machine was unoccupied. Moving in for the kill, though, we had passed in front of the multi-faceted ports and for a moment we had glimpsed those saucer-eyes staring balefully out across Kingston.

We had taken our time with this attack, and with my increasing experience I was able to lob the grenade into the platform with great accuracy. When the bomb went off it had exploded inside the cabin occupied by the monster, blasting open several metal plates and presumably destroying the monster outright, but the furnace itself had not been ruptured. The tower still stood, leaning slightly to one side and with green smoke pouring from within, but substantially intact.

Mr Wells took the Space Machine a decent distance away from the battle-machine, and settled it near the ground. By consensus we agreed to stay inside the attenuation, for the green smoke was making us nervous that the furnace might yet explode of its own accord.

So, overshadowed by the damaged Titan, we quickly ate what must have been one of the strangest picnic lunches ever taken in the rolling countryside of the Park.

We were about to set off again when Mr Wells drew our attention to the fact that another battle-machine had appeared. This was hurrying towards us, evidently coming to investigate the work we had done on its colleague.

We were safe enough, but agreed to take the Space Machine into the air, and so be ready for a quick foray.

Our confidence was increasing; with four kills behind us we were establishing a deadly routine. Now, as we rose above the Park, and saw the approaching battle-machine, we could not help but see that its heat-cannon was raised and its articulate arms were poised to strike. Clearly its monstrous driver knew that someone or something had attacked successfully, and was determined to defend itself.

We stayed at a safe distance, and watched as the newcomer went to the tower and closely inspected the damage.

I said: “Mr Wells, shall we bomb it now?”

Mr Wells stayed silent, his brow furrowed over the top of his goggles.

“The creature is very alert,” he said. “We cannot risk a chance shot from the heat-cannon.”

“Then let us seek another target,” I said.

Nevertheless, we stayed on watch for several minutes, hoping the Martian would relax its guard long enough to allow us to attack. However, even as the creature inside carried out a cautious examination of the damage, the heat-cannon turned menacingly above the roof and the tentacular metal arms flexed nervously.

With some reluctance we turned away at last, and headed back towards the west. As we flew, Amelia and I cast several backward glances, still wary of what the second Martian would do. Thus it was that we saw, when we were less than half a mile away, that our grenade had, after all, weakened the casing of the furnace. We saw an immense, billowing explosion of green … and the second battle-machine staggered backwards and crashed in a tangle of metal to the floor of the Park.

That was how, by a stroke of good fortune, we slaughtered our fifth Martian monster.

vi

Considerably cheered by this accidental success we continued our quest, although it was now with a bravura tempered by caution. As Mr Wells pointed out, it was not the Martian machines we had to destroy, but the monster-creatures them selves. A battle-machine was agile and well-armed, and although its destruction certainly killed its driver, the legged ground vehicles were easier targets because the driver was not enclosed above.

So it was that we agreed to concentrate on the smaller vehicles.

That afternoon was one of almost unqualified success. Only once did we fail to kill a Martian with our first strike and that was when I, in my haste, neglected to pull the pin from the grenade. However, on our second pass the monster was effectively and spectacularly destroyed.

When we returned to Reynolds House in the evening, we had accounted for a total of eleven of the Martian brutes. This, if our estimate that each projectile carried five monsters was correct, accounted for more than one-fifth of their total army!

It was with considerable optimism that we retired to bed that night.

The following day we loaded our Space Machine with more grenades, and set off again.

To our consternation we discovered that the Martians had learned by our ventures of the day before. Now no legged ground vehicle moved unless it was accompanied by a battle-machine, but so assured of our impregnability were we that we resolved that this presented us with two targets instead of one!

Accordingly, we prepared our attack with great precision, swooped down from above, and were rewarded with the sight of the battle-machine being blown to smithereens! From there, it was but a simple task to chase and destroy the legged ground vehicle.

Later that day we disposed of two more in the same way, but that was our total score for the day. (One legged vehicle was allowed to pass unharmed, for it was carrying a score or more of human captives.) Four was not as healthy a tally as eleven, but even so we considered we had done well, and so once more retired in a state of elation.

The next day was one with no success at all, for we saw no Martians about. We ranged, in our search, even as far as the fire-blackened heath at Woking, but here simply found the pit and its projectile empty both of Martians and their devices.

At the sight of the ruined town on the hill, Amelia and I noticed that Mr Wells grew wistful, and we recalled how he had been so abruptly separated from his wife.

“Sir, would you like us to fly to Leatherhead?” I said.

He shook his head forcefully.’ “I wish I could allow myself the indulgence, but our business is with the Martians. My wife will be well; it is obvious that the invaders moved to the north-east from here. There will be time enough for reunion.”

I admired the resolution in his voice, but later that evening Amelia told me that she had noticed a tear running down Mr Wells’s cheek. Perhaps, she said, Mr Wells suspected that his wife had already been killed, and that he was not yet ready to face up to this.

For this reason, as well as for our lack of success, we were in no great spirits that night, and so we retired early.

The next day we were luckier: two Martians succumbed to our grenades. This was the odd fact though: both the battle-machines stood, like the one we had found near Kingston, alone and still, the three legs drawn together. There was no attempt at self-defence; one stood with its heat-cannon pointing stiffly towards the sky, the other had not even raised its. Of course, as we were attacking battle-machines we swooped with great care, but we all agreed that our kills were suspiciously easy.

Then came another day with no more Martians seen at all, and on that evening Mr Wells pronounced a verdict.

“We must,” he said, “turn our attention at last to London. We have so far been snipers against the straggling flanks of a mighty army. Now we must confront the concentrated strength of that army, and fight it to the death.”

Brave words indeed, but ones which did not reflect the suspicion which, I afterwards discovered, had been growing in us all for the last three days.