Війна світів
Wreckage
Here,movedbycuriosity,Iturnedasidetofind,amongatangleofredfronds,thewarpedandbrokendogcartwiththewhitenedbonesofthehorsescatteredandgnawed. ForatimeIstoodregardingthesevestiges....
ThenIreturnedthroughthepinewood,neck-highwithredweedhereandthere,tofindthelandlordoftheSpottedDoghadalreadyfoundburial,andsocamehomepasttheCollegeArms. AmanstandingatanopencottagedoorgreetedmebynameasIpassed.
Ilookedatmyhousewithaquickflashofhopethatfadedimmediately. Thedoorhadbeenforced;itwasunfastandwasopeningslowlyasIapproached.
Itslammedagain.ThecurtainsofmystudyflutteredoutoftheopenwindowfromwhichIandtheartillerymanhadwatchedthedawn. Noonehadcloseditsince. ThesmashedbusheswerejustasIhadleftthemnearlyfourweeksago. Istumbledintothehall,andthehousefeltempty. ThestaircarpetwasruffledanddiscolouredwhereIhadcrouched,soakedtotheskinfromthethunderstormthenightofthecatastrophe. OurmuddyfootstepsIsawstillwentupthestairs.
Ifollowedthemtomystudy,andfoundlyingonmywriting-tablestill,withtheselenitepaperweightuponit,thesheetofworkIhadleftontheafternoonoftheopeningofthecylinder. ForaspaceIstoodreadingovermyabandonedarguments.ItwasapaperontheprobabledevelopmentofMoralIdeaswiththedevelopmentofthecivilisingprocess;andthelastsentencewastheopeningofaprophecy: "Inabouttwohundredyears,"Ihadwritten,"wemayexpect——"
