“Sir,” I said, “if you are speaking of allies, we have seen none. No armies have come to our assistance, unless they too were instantly overcome.”
Mr Wells gestured impatiently. “I am not speaking of armies, Turnbull, although they will come in good time, as will the grain-ships and the goods-trains. No, our true allies are all about us, invisible, just as we in our Machine were invisible!”
I glanced upwards reflexively, almost expecting a second Space Machine to appear from the sky.
“Look at the weeds, Turnbull!” Mr Wells pointed to the stems that grew a few feet from where we stood. “See how the leaves are blighted? See how the stems are splitting even as they grow? While mankind has been concerned with the terrible intelligence of the monsters, these plants have been waging their own battles. Our soil will not feed them with the minerals they require, and our bees will not pollinate their flowers. These weeds are dying, Turnbull. In the same way, the Martian monsters will die even if they have not done so already. The Martian effort is at an end, because intelligence is no match for nature. As the humans on Mars tampered with nature to make the monsters, and thereby provoked Nemesis, so the monsters sought to tamper with life on Earth, and they too have destroyed themselves.”
“Then where are the monsters now?” said Amelia.
“We shall find them soon enough,” Mr Wells said, “but that will come in time. Our problem is no longer how to confront this menace, but how to enjoy the spoils of victory. We have the products of the Martian intelligence all about us, and these will be eagerly taken by our scientists. I suspect that the peaceful days of the past will never entirely return, for these battle-machines and walking vehicles are likely to bring fundamental changes to the way of life of everyone in the world. We stand in the early years of a new century, and it is one which will see many changes. At the heart of those changes will be a new battle: one between Science and Conscience. This is the battle the Martians lost, and it is one we must now fight!”
iv
Mr Wells lapsed into silence, his breathing heavy, and Amelia and I stood nervously before him.
At length he moved from his position, and lowered his fists. He cleared his throat again.
“I think this is no time for speech-making,” he said, apparently disconcerted at the way his eloquence had silenced us. “To see this through, we must find the Martians. Later, I will contact my publisher and see if he would be interested in an edition of my thoughts on this topic.”
I looked around at the silent city. “You cannot believe, sir, that after this the life of London will return to normal?”
“Not to normal, Turnbull. This war is not an ending, but a beginning! The people who fled will return; our institutions will re-establish themselves. Even the fabric of the city is, for the most part, intact, and can be quickly rebuilt. The work of rebuilding will not end with structural repairs, for the Martian intrusion has itself served to heighten our own intelligence. As I have said, that presents its own dangers, but we will deal with those as the need arises.”
Amelia had been staring across the rooftops throughout our exchange, and now she pointed towards the north-west.
“Look, Edward, Mr Wells! I think there are some birds there!”
We looked in the direction she was indicating, and saw a flight of large birds, black against the brilliant sky, whirling and diving. They seemed to be a long way away.
“Let us investigate this,” said Mr Wells, adjusting the goggles over his eyes once more.
We went back to the Space Machine, and just as we were about to step aboard we heard an intrusive sound. It was one so familiar to us that we all reacted in the same moment: it was the braying call of a Martian, its siren voice echoing from the faces of the buildings that fronted the river. But this was no war-cry, nor call of the hunt. Instead it was coloured by pain and fear, an alien lament across a broken city.
The call was two notes, one following the other, endlessly repeated: “Ulla, ulla, ulla, ulla…”
v
We saw the first battle-machine in Regent’s Park, standing alone. I reached immediately for a hand-grenade, but Mr Wells restrained me.
“No need for that, Turnbull,” he said.
He brought the Space Machine in close to the platform, and we saw the cluster of crows that surrounded it. The birds had found a way into the platform, and now they pecked and snatched at the flesh of the Martian within.
Its eyes gazed blankly at us through one of the ports at the front. The gaze was as baleful as ever, but where once it had been cold and malicious, now it was the fixed glare of death.
There was a second battle-machine at the foot of Primrose Hill, and here the birds had finished their work. Splashings of dried blood and discarded flesh lay on the grass a hundred feet beneath the platform. So we came to the great pit that the Martians had built at the top of Primrose Hill. This, the largest of all, had become the centre of their operations against London. The earthworks covered the entire crest of the Hill, and ran down the far side. At the heart of them lay the projectile that had first landed here, but the fact that the pit had been subsequently enlarged and fortified was everywhere evident.
Here was the Martians’ arsenal. Here had been brought their battle-machines, and the spider-like handling-machines. And here, scattered all about, were the bodies of the dead Martians. Some were sprawled in the mouth of the projectile, some simply lay on the ground. Others, in a last valiant effort to confront the invisible foe, were inside the many battle-machines that stood all about.
Mr Wells landed the Space Machine a short distance away from the pit, and turned off the attenuation. He had landed upwind of the pit, so we were spared the worst effects of the terrible stench that emanated from the creatures.
With the attenuation off we could once more hear the cry of the dying Martian. It came from one of the battle-machines standing beside the pit. The cry was faltering now, and very weak. We saw that the crows were in attendance, and even as we stepped out of the Space Machine the last call of pain was stilled.
“Mr Wells,” I said. “It is just as you were saying. The Martians seemed to have been afflicted with some disease, from drinking the red blood of Englishmen!”
I realized that Mr Wells was paying no attention either to me or Amelia, and that he was staring out across London, seeing the immense stillness of the city with tear-filled eyes. We stood beside him, overwhelmed by the sight of the abandoned city, and still nervous of the alien towers that stood around us.
Mr Wells mopped his eyes with his kerchief, then wandered away from us towards the Martian whose call we had heard.
Amelia and I stood by our Space Machine, and watched him as he carefully skirted the rim of the pit, then stood beneath the battle-machine, staring up at the glittering engine above. I saw him fumble in a pocket, and produce the leather-bound note book he had been using in the laboratory. He, wrote something inside this, then returned it to his pocket.
He was by the battle-machine for several minutes, but at last he returned to us. He seemed to have recovered from his moment of emotion, and walked briskly and directly towards us.
“There is something I have never, said to you before,” he said, addressing us both. “I believe you saved my life, the day you found me by the river with the curate. I have never thanked you enough.”