Chapter IV. A Diary Of The Dying

           Howstrangethewordslookscribbledatthetopoftheemptypageofmybook!HowstrangerstillthatitisI,EdwardMalone,whohavewrittenthem—IwhostartedonlysometwelvehoursagofrommyroomsinStreathamwithoutonethoughtofthemarvelswhichthedaywastobringforth!Ilookbackatthechainofincidents,myinterviewwithMcArdle,Challenger’sfirstnoteofalarmintheTimes,theabsurdjourneyinthetrain,thepleasantluncheon,thecatastrophe,andnowithascometothis—thatwelingeraloneuponanemptyplanet,andsosureisourfatethatIcanregardtheselines,writtenfrommechanicalprofessionalhabitandnevertobeseenbyhumaneyes,asthewordsofonewhoisalreadydead,socloselydoeshestandtotheshadowedborderlandoverwhichalloutsidethisonelittlecircleoffriendshavealreadygone.IfeelhowwiseandtruewerethewordsofChallengerwhenhesaidthattherealtragedywouldbeifwewereleftbehindwhenallthatisnobleandgoodandbeautifulhadpassed.Butofthattherecansurelybenodanger.Alreadyoursecondtubeofoxygenisdrawingtoanend.Wecancountthepoordregsofourlivesalmosttoaminute.

           Wehavejustbeentreatedtoalecture,agoodquarterofanhourlong,fromChallenger,whowassoexcitedthatheroaredandbellowedasifhewereaddressinghisoldrowsofscientificscepticsintheQueen’sHall.