Війна світів
At the Window
WelitnolampforfearofattractingtheMartians,andeverandagainourhandswouldtouchuponbreadormeat. Ashetalked,thingsaboutuscamedarklyoutofthedarkness,andthetrampledbushesandbrokenrosetreesoutsidethewindowgrewdistinct. Itwouldseemthatanumberofmenoranimalshadrushedacrossthelawn. Ibegantoseehisface,blackenedandhaggard,asnodoubtminewasalso.
Whenwehadfinishedeatingwewentsoftlyupstairstomystudy,andIlookedagainoutoftheopenwindow. Inonenightthevalleyhadbecomeavalleyofashes. Thefireshaddwindlednow. Whereflameshadbeentherewerenowstreamersofsmoke; butthecountlessruinsofshatteredandguttedhousesandblastedandblackenedtreesthatthenighthadhiddenstoodoutnowgauntandterribleinthepitilesslightofdawn. Yethereandtheresomeobjecthadhadthelucktoescape—awhiterailwaysignalhere,theendofagreenhousethere,whiteandfreshamidthewreckage. Neverbeforeinthehistoryofwarfarehaddestructionbeensoindiscriminateandsouniversal. Andshiningwiththegrowinglightoftheeast,threeofthemetallicgiantsstoodaboutthepit,theircowlsrotatingasthoughtheyweresurveyingthedesolationtheyhadmade.
Itseemedtomethatthepithadbeenenlarged,andeverandagainpuffsofvividgreenvapourstreamedupandoutofittowardsthebrighteningdawn—streamedup,whirled,broke,andvanished.
BeyondwerethepillarsoffireaboutChobham. Theybecamepillarsofbloodshotsmokeatthefirsttouchofday.
