Война миров

           AsIdrewnearerIperceivedhewasdressedinclothesasdustyandfilthyasmyown;helooked,indeed,asthoughhehadbeendraggedthroughaculvert. Nearer,Idistinguishedthegreenslimeofditchesmixingwiththepaledrabofdriedclayandshiny,coalypatches. Hisblackhairfelloverhiseyes,andhisfacewasdarkanddirtyandsunken,sothatatfirstIdidnotrecognisehim. Therewasaredcutacrossthelowerpartofhisface. 

           "Stop!"hecried,whenIwaswithintenyardsofhim,andIstopped. Hisvoicewashoarse. "Wheredoyoucomefrom?"hesaid. 

           Ithought,surveyinghim. 

           "IcomefromMortlake,"Isaid. "IwasburiednearthepittheMartiansmadeabouttheircylinder. Ihaveworkedmywayoutandescaped." 

           "Thereisnofoodabouthere,"hesaid. "Thisismycountry. Allthishilldowntotheriver,andbacktoClapham,anduptotheedgeofthecommon. Thereisonlyfoodforone. Whichwayareyougoing?" 

           Iansweredslowly. 

           "Idon’tknow,"Isaid. "Ihavebeenburiedintheruinsofahousethirteenorfourteendays. Idon’tknowwhathashappened." 

           Helookedatmedoubtfully,thenstarted,andlookedwithachangedexpression. 

           "I’venowishtostopabouthere,"saidI. "IthinkIshallgotoLeatherhead,formywifewasthere." 

           Heshotoutapointingfinger.