Війна світів
Dead London
Icameuponthewreckedhandling-machinehalfwaytoSt.John’sWoodstation. AtfirstIthoughtahousehadfallenacrosstheroad. ItwasonlyasIclamberedamongtheruinsthatIsaw,withastart,thismechanicalSamsonlying,withitstentaclesbentandsmashedandtwisted,amongtheruinsithadmade. Theforepartwasshattered. Itseemedasifithaddrivenblindlystraightatthehouse,andhadbeenoverwhelmedinitsoverthrow. Itseemedtomethenthatthismighthavehappenedbyahandling-machineescapingfromtheguidanceofitsMartian. Icouldnotclamberamongtheruinstoseeit,andthetwilightwasnowsofaradvancedthatthebloodwithwhichitsseatwassmeared,andthegnawedgristleoftheMartianthatthedogshadleft,wereinvisibletome.
WonderingstillmoreatallthatIhadseen,IpushedontowardsPrimroseHill. Faraway,throughagapinthetrees,IsawasecondMartian,asmotionlessasthefirst,standingintheparktowardstheZoologicalGardens,andsilent. Alittlebeyondtheruinsaboutthesmashedhandling-machineIcameupontheredweedagain,andfoundtheRegent’sCanal,aspongymassofdark-redvegetation.
AsIcrossedthebridge,thesoundof"Ulla,ulla,ulla,ulla,"ceased. Itwas,asitwere,cutoff. Thesilencecamelikeathunderclap.
Theduskyhousesaboutmestoodfaintandtallanddim; thetreestowardstheparkweregrowingblack. Allaboutmetheredweedclamberedamongtheruins,writhingtogetabovemeinthedimness. Night,themotheroffearandmystery,wascominguponme. Butwhilethatvoicesoundedthesolitude,thedesolation,hadbeenendurable; byvirtueofitLondonhadstillseemedalive,andthesenseoflifeaboutmehadupheldme. Thensuddenlyachange,thepassingofsomething—Iknewnotwhat—andthenastillnessthatcouldbefelt. Nothingbutthisgauntquiet.
