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           Thefellowthoughthewasalunaticatlargeandmadeanunsuccessfulattempttoshuthimintothetaproom. Thatsoberedhimalittle; andwhenhesawHenderson,theLondonjournalist,inhisgarden,hecalledoverthepalingsandmadehimselfunderstood. 

           ‘Henderson,’hecalled,‘yousawthatshootingstarlastnight?’ 

           ‘Well?’saidHenderson. 

           ‘It’soutonHorsellCommonnow.’ 

           ‘GoodLord! ’saidHenderson. ‘Fallenmeteorite! That’sgood.’ 

           ‘Butit’ssomethingmorethanameteorite. It’sacylinder—anartificialcylinder,man! Andthere’ssomethinginside.’ 

           Hendersonstoodupwithhisspadeinhishand. 

           ‘What’sthat? ’hesaid. Hewasdeafinoneear. 

           Ogilvytoldhimallthathehadseen. Hendersonwasaminuteorsotakingitin. Thenhedroppedhisspade,snatcheduphisjacket,andcameoutintotheroad. Thetwomenhurriedbackatoncetothecommon,andfoundthecylinderstilllyinginthesameposition. Butnowthesoundsinsidehadceased,andathincircleofbrightmetalshowedbetweenthetopandthebodyofthecylinder. Airwaseitherenteringorescapingattherimwithathin,sizzlingsound. 

           Theylistened,rappedonthescalyburntmetalwithastick,and,meetingwithnoresponse,theybothconcludedthemanormeninsidemustbeinsensibleordead.