X.

von H. G. Wells

EPILOGUE

As I wrap up my story, I can’t help but feel a sense of regret for how little I can contribute to the ongoing debates surrounding the many unresolved questions that linger. I know I’ll likely face criticism for this, but my focus has been on speculative philosophy. My understanding of comparative physiology is limited to a few books, yet Carver’s theories about the rapid demise of the Martians seem so plausible that I consider them nearly proven. I’ve taken this assumption into account throughout my narrative.

After the war, when the Martians were examined, no bacteria were found except for those already known to exist on Earth. Their complete disregard for burying their dead and the indiscriminate slaughter they committed suggest a total ignorance of the process of decay. While this seems likely, it remains unproven.

The composition of the Black Smoke, which the Martians wielded with such lethal precision, is still a mystery, as is the mechanism behind the Heat-Rays. The tragic incidents at the Ealing and South Kensington laboratories have made researchers hesitant to delve deeper into the latter. Spectrum analysis of the black powder indicates the presence of an unknown element, marked by a striking trio of green lines, which might combine with argon to create a compound that has a deadly effect on some component of blood. However, these unverified theories are unlikely to interest the average reader, the audience for this story. None of the brown residue that flowed down the Thames after the destruction of Shepperton was examined at the time, and now, nothing remains.

I’ve already shared what I could about the anatomical examination of the Martians, as far as the scavenging dogs allowed. Everyone is familiar with the impressive and nearly complete specimen preserved in alcohol at the Natural History Museum, along with the numerous drawings made from it. Beyond that, the intrigue surrounding their physiology and structure is purely scientific.

A more pressing question is whether we might face another attack from the Martians. I believe this aspect deserves far more attention than it’s currently receiving. Right now, Mars is in conjunction, but with each return to opposition, I expect we could see a repeat of their invasion. We need to be prepared. I think we should be able to pinpoint the location of the gun from which they fire and maintain a constant watch on that part of the planet to anticipate their next move.

If we can do that, we might be able to destroy the cylinder with dynamite or artillery before it cools enough for the Martians to emerge, or we could take them out as soon as the hatch opens. They’ve lost a significant advantage by failing in their initial surprise attack. Perhaps they realize this too.

Lessing has put forth compelling arguments suggesting that the Martians may have successfully landed on Venus. Seven months ago, Venus and Mars were aligned with the sun, meaning Mars was in opposition from the perspective of someone on Venus. Shortly after, a peculiar, luminous, and sinuous marking appeared on the dark side of Venus, and almost simultaneously, a similar faint dark mark was detected in photographs of the Martian surface. To truly appreciate the striking resemblance of these phenomena, one must see the drawings.

Regardless of whether we anticipate another invasion, our understanding of humanity’s future must shift dramatically due to these events. We’ve learned that we cannot view our planet as a secure refuge for mankind; we can never predict the unseen good or evil that may suddenly emerge from space. Perhaps, in the grand design of the universe, this Martian invasion serves a greater purpose for humanity. It has stripped us of the complacent confidence in the future that often leads to decline, while the advancements it has spurred in human science are immense. It has also fostered a greater sense of collective responsibility among mankind. It’s possible that the Martians have been observing the fate of their own pioneers from afar and have learned from their mistakes, finding a more secure home on Venus. Regardless, for many years to come, we will undoubtedly continue to scrutinize the Martian disk, and the shooting stars that streak across the sky will carry with them an unavoidable sense of dread for all of humanity.

The shift in how people view the universe is hard to overstate. Before the cylinder crashed, most believed that beyond our tiny planet, there was no life in the vastness of space. Now, our perspective has changed. If the Martians can reach Venus, then surely humans can do the same. Eventually, when the sun cools and makes Earth uninhabitable—as it inevitably will—perhaps the thread of life that began here will extend and ensnare our neighboring planet.

I have a hazy yet beautiful vision of life gradually spreading from this small cradle of the solar system into the endless expanse of the cosmos. But that feels like a distant dream. On the other hand, the destruction of the Martians might only be a temporary pause. Maybe the future belongs to them, not us.

I must admit that the stress and danger of those times have left me with a lingering sense of doubt and insecurity. As I sit in my study, writing by lamplight, I can’t help but picture the valley below, engulfed in flames, and feel the emptiness of the house around me. When I step out onto Byfleet Road, I see the usual bustle— a butcher boy in a cart, a cab full of visitors, a worker on a bicycle, children heading to school. But suddenly, they all seem distant and unreal, and I find myself once again trudging through the oppressive silence with the artilleryman.

At night, I see the dark powder coating the quiet streets, the twisted bodies hidden beneath it. They rise in my mind, tattered and bitten, their faces twisted into grotesque versions of humanity. I wake up, cold and miserable, in the darkness.

I go to London and see the throngs of people in Fleet Street and the Strand, and it hits me that they are merely echoes of the past, haunting the streets I remember as silent and sorrowful. They move about like phantoms in a city that feels dead, a mockery of life in a mechanical shell.

It’s strange to stand on Primrose Hill, as I did just a day before writing this chapter, looking out over the sprawling city, hazy and blue through the smoke and mist, fading into the lower sky. I watch people strolling among the flower beds, see sightseers gathered around the Martian machine that still stands there, and hear the laughter of children playing. I remember the time when everything was bright and clear, sharp and silent, at the dawn of that last great day.

And the strangest moment of all is when I hold my wife’s hand again, realizing that we both thought we had lost each other, counting one another among the dead.