Война миров

Under Foot

           Wesatintheadjacentkitcheninthedarkforwedarednotstrikealightandatebreadandham,anddrankbeeroutofthesamebottle. Thecurate,whowasstilltimorousandrestless,wasnow,oddlyenough,forpushingon,andIwasurginghimtokeepuphisstrengthbyeatingwhenthethinghappenedthatwastoimprisonus. 

           "Itcan’tbemidnightyet,"Isaid,andthencameablindingglareofvividgreenlight. Everythinginthekitchenleapedout,clearlyvisibleingreenandblack,andvanishedagain. AndthenfollowedsuchaconcussionasIhaveneverheardbeforeorsince. Socloseontheheelsofthisastoseeminstantaneouscameathudbehindme,aclashofglass,acrashandrattleoffallingmasonryallaboutus,andtheplasteroftheceilingcamedownuponus,smashingintoamultitudeoffragmentsuponourheads. Iwasknockedheadlongacrosstheflooragainsttheovenhandleandstunned. Iwasinsensibleforalongtime,thecuratetoldme,andwhenIcametowewereindarknessagain,andhe,withafacewet,asIfoundafterwards,withbloodfromacutforehead,wasdabbingwateroverme. 

           ForsometimeIcouldnotrecollectwhathadhappened. Thenthingscametomeslowly. Abruiseonmytempleasserteditself. 

           "Areyoubetter?"askedthecurateinawhisper. 

           AtlastIansweredhim.Isatup. 

           "Don’tmove,"hesaid."Theflooriscoveredwithsmashedcrockeryfromthedresser. Youcan’tpossiblymovewithoutmakinganoise,andIfancytheyareoutside." 

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