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.