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How I Reached Home
Withwineandfood,theconfidenceofmyowntable,andthenecessityofreassuringmywife,Igrewbyinsensibledegreescourageousandsecure.
"Theyhavedoneafoolishthing,"saidI,fingeringmywineglass. "Theyaredangerousbecause,nodoubt,theyaremadwithterror. Perhapstheyexpectedtofindnolivingthings—certainlynointelligentlivingthings."
"Ashellinthepit"saidI,"iftheworstcomestotheworstwillkillthemall."
Theintenseexcitementoftheeventshadnodoubtleftmyperceptivepowersinastateoferethism. Irememberthatdinnertablewithextraordinaryvividnessevennow. Mydearwife’ssweetanxiousfacepeeringatmefromunderthepinklampshade,thewhiteclothwithitssilverandglasstablefurniture—forinthosedaysevenphilosophicalwritershadmanylittleluxuries—thecrimson-purplewineinmyglass,arephotographicallydistinct. AttheendofitIsat,temperingnutswithacigarette,regrettingOgilvy’srashness,anddenouncingtheshortsightedtimidityoftheMartians.
SosomerespectabledodointheMauritiusmighthavelordeditinhisnest,anddiscussedthearrivalofthatshipfulofpitilesssailorsinwantofanimalfood. "Wewillpeckthemtodeathtomorrow,mydear."
Ididnotknowit,butthatwasthelastciviliseddinnerIwastoeatforverymanystrangeandterribledays.
