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           Therewerefewpeopleinthetrain,andIwasinnomoodforcasualconversation. Igotacompartmenttomyself,andsatwithfoldedarms,lookinggreylyatthesunlitdevastationthatflowedpastthewindows. Andjustoutsidetheterminusthetrainjoltedovertemporaryrails,andoneithersideoftherailwaythehouseswereblackenedruins. ToClaphamJunctionthefaceofLondonwasgrimywithpowderoftheBlackSmoke,inspiteoftwodaysofthunderstormsandrain,andatClaphamJunctionthelinehadbeenwreckedagain; therewerehundredsofout-of-workclerksandshopmenworkingsidebysidewiththecustomarynavvies,andwewerejoltedoverahastyrelaying. 

           Alldownthelinefromtheretheaspectofthecountrywasgauntandunfamiliar;Wimbledonparticularlyhadsuffered. Walton,byvirtueofitsunburnedpinewoods,seemedtheleasthurtofanyplacealongtheline. TheWandle,theMole,everylittlestream,wasaheapedmassofredweed,inappearancebetweenbutcher’smeatandpickledcabbage. TheSurreypinewoodsweretoodry,however,forthefestoonsoftheredclimber. BeyondWimbledon,withinsightoftheline,incertainnurserygrounds,weretheheapedmassesofearthaboutthesixthcylinder. Anumberofpeoplewerestandingaboutit,andsomesapperswerebusyinthemidstofit. OveritflauntedaUnionJack,flappingcheerfullyinthemorningbreeze. Thenurserygroundswereeverywherecrimsonwiththeweed,awideexpanseoflividcolourcutwithpurpleshadows,andverypainfultotheeye. One’sgazewentwithinfiniterelieffromthescorchedgreysandsullenredsoftheforegroundtotheblue-greensoftnessoftheeastwardhills. 

           ThelineontheLondonsideofWokingstationwasstillundergoingrepair,soIdescendedatByfleetstationandtooktheroadtoMaybury,pasttheplacewhereIandtheartillerymanhadtalkedtothehussars,andonbythespotwheretheMartianhadappearedtomeinthethunderstorm.