Війна світів
At the Window
Iclosedthedoornoiselesslyandcrepttowardsthewindow. AsIdidso,theviewopenedoutuntil,ontheonehand,itreachedtothehousesaboutWokingstation,andontheothertothecharredandblackenedpinewoodsofByfleet. Therewasalightdownbelowthehill,ontherailway,nearthearch,andseveralofthehousesalongtheMayburyroadandthestreetsnearthestationwereglowingruins. Thelightupontherailwaypuzzledmeatfirst; therewereablackheapandavividglare,andtotherightofthatarowofyellowoblongs. ThenIperceivedthiswasawreckedtrain,theforepartsmashedandonfire,thehindercarriagesstillupontherails.
Betweenthesethreemaincentresoflight—thehouses,thetrain,andtheburningcountytowardsChobham—stretchedirregularpatchesofdarkcountry,brokenhereandtherebyintervalsofdimlyglowingandsmokingground. Itwasthestrangestspectacle,thatblackexpansesetwithfire.Itremindedme,morethananythingelse,ofthePotteriesatnight. AtfirstIcoulddistinguishnopeopleatall,thoughIpeeredintentlyforthem. LaterIsawagainstthelightofWokingstationanumberofblackfigureshurryingoneaftertheotheracrosstheline.
AndthiswasthelittleworldinwhichIhadbeenlivingsecurelyforyears,thisfierychaos! WhathadhappenedinthelastsevenhoursIstilldidnotknow; nordidIknow,thoughIwasbeginningtoguess,therelationbetweenthesemechanicalcolossiandthesluggishlumpsIhadseendisgorgedfromthecylinder. WithaqueerfeelingofimpersonalinterestIturnedmydeskchairtothewindow,satdown,andstaredattheblackenedcountry,andparticularlyatthethreegiganticblackthingsthatweregoingtoandfrointheglareaboutthesandpits.
