The War of the Worlds

von H. G. Wells

ON HORSELL COMMON

I stumbled upon a small crowd of about twenty people gathered around a massive hole where the cylinder lay. I had already described the colossal object embedded in the ground. The grass and gravel surrounding it looked scorched, as if a sudden explosion had occurred. Clearly, its impact had caused a flash of fire. Henderson and Ogilvy were absent; they must have realized there was nothing to be done for the moment and had gone off to breakfast at Henderson’s house.

A few boys were perched on the edge of the pit, dangling their feet and entertaining themselves—until I intervened—by tossing stones at the giant mass. After I spoke to them, they shifted to playing tag among the onlookers.

Among the crowd were a couple of cyclists, a gardener I occasionally hired, a girl carrying a baby, Gregg the butcher with his little boy, and a few loafers and golf caddies who usually hung around the railway station. The atmosphere was quiet; most of the locals had only the faintest understanding of astronomy back then. They stared silently at the large, table-like end of the cylinder, which remained undisturbed since Ogilvy and Henderson had last seen it. I sensed that the crowd was somewhat let down by the lack of charred bodies; some people left while I was there, and others arrived. I climbed into the pit and thought I heard a faint movement beneath my feet. The top of the cylinder had definitely stopped spinning.

It was only when I got close that the strangeness of the object truly struck me. At first glance, it was no more thrilling than an overturned cart or a tree fallen across the road—perhaps even less so. It resembled a rusty gas float. It took a certain level of scientific knowledge to recognize that the grayish surface wasn’t just ordinary rust, and that the yellowish-white metal gleaming in the crack between the lid and the cylinder had an unusual sheen. The term “extra-terrestrial” meant nothing to most of the onlookers.

At that moment, I was convinced that the object had come from Mars, but I doubted it contained any living creature. I speculated that the unscrewing might be automatic. Despite Ogilvy’s opinions, I still believed there were people on Mars. My imagination wandered to the possibilities of finding manuscripts inside, the challenges of translating them, and whether we might discover coins or models. Yet the size of the cylinder made me hesitant to fully embrace that idea. I felt an impatience to see it opened. Around eleven, as nothing seemed to be happening, I walked back home to Maybury, my mind buzzing with thoughts, but I found it hard to focus on my research.

By the afternoon, the scene on the common had changed dramatically. The early editions of the evening papers had shocked London with bold headlines:

“A MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM MARS.”

“REMARKABLE STORY FROM WOKING,”

and more. Additionally, Ogilvy’s message to the Astronomical Exchange had stirred every observatory across the three kingdoms.

There were several carriages from the Woking station parked along the road by the sand pits, a basket-chaise from Chobham, and a rather grand carriage. A large number of bicycles were also scattered about. Many people had walked from Woking and Chertsey, despite the heat, resulting in a sizable crowd—some of them dressed quite elegantly.

The sun blazed down without a cloud in the sky or a whisper of wind, leaving only the shadows of a few scattered pine trees. The burning heather had been extinguished, but the ground toward Ottershaw was blackened as far as the eye could see, still releasing thin columns of smoke. An enterprising vendor on Chobham Road had sent his son with a cart full of green apples and ginger beer.

As I approached the edge of the pit, I found it occupied by a group of about six men—Henderson, Ogilvy, and a tall, fair-haired man I later learned was Stent, the Astronomer Royal. Several workers were there, armed with shovels and pickaxes. Stent was giving instructions in a clear, high-pitched voice, standing on the cylinder, which was now noticeably cooler. His face was flushed and slick with sweat, and he seemed to be irritated.

A large section of the cylinder had been uncovered, though its lower end remained buried. As soon as Ogilvy spotted me among the crowd, he called me over and asked if I would mind going to see Lord Hilton, the lord of the manor.

The crowd was growing, and it was becoming a real problem for their excavation work, especially with all the boys running around. They wanted to put up a light railing and needed help keeping people back. He mentioned that they could still hear faint sounds coming from inside the case, but the workers were struggling to unscrew the top since it had no grip. The case seemed incredibly thick, and it was possible that the quiet noises we heard masked a chaotic scene inside.

I was more than happy to help, eager to become one of the lucky few allowed inside the planned enclosure. I couldn’t find Lord Hilton at his house, but I learned he was expected on the six o’clock train from Waterloo. Since it was just past five, I went home, had some tea, and then walked to the station to wait for him.