VII.

by H. G. Wells

**How I Got Home**

I can hardly remember anything about my escape except the panic of crashing into trees and stumbling through the heather. The invisible horrors of the Martians surrounded me; that relentless heat ray seemed to swing overhead, ready to strike me down. I found myself on the road between the crossroads and Horsell, running toward the crossroads.

Eventually, I couldn’t go on any longer. I was drained from the intensity of my fear and flight, and I staggered to the side of the road, collapsing near the bridge that crossed the canal by the gasworks. I fell and lay there, still.

I must have been there for a while.

When I finally sat up, I felt oddly confused. For a moment, I couldn’t quite grasp how I had ended up there. The terror that had consumed me had fallen away, as if I had shed a heavy coat. My hat was gone, and my collar had come undone. Just moments before, I had faced three undeniable truths: the vastness of the night, the weight of my own weakness and despair, and the looming presence of death. Now, it was as if a switch had flipped, and my perspective shifted dramatically. I was suddenly myself again—a regular, everyday person. The quiet common, the urgency of my flight, the flames in the distance felt like remnants of a dream. I questioned whether those events had truly happened. It was hard to believe.

I got to my feet and walked unsteadily up the steep incline of the bridge. My mind was a blank canvas, filled with wonder. My muscles and nerves felt utterly drained. I probably staggered like a drunk. As I reached the top, I saw a workman carrying a basket, with a little boy running beside him. They passed by me, the man wishing me good night. I thought about saying something in return but didn’t. Instead, I mumbled a vague response and continued across the bridge.

As I crossed the Maybury arch, a train rushed by, a billowing cloud of white smoke and a long line of lit windows, clattering and clanging as it sped south—then it was gone. A small group of people stood chatting at the gate of one of the charming houses in the row known as Oriental Terrace. Everything felt so real and familiar. But what had happened behind me? It was frantic, surreal! I told myself such things couldn’t possibly be real.

Maybe I’m someone who experiences unusual moods. I’m not sure how common my feelings are. Sometimes, I feel an odd sense of detachment from myself and the world around me; it’s as if I’m observing everything from a distance, removed from time and space, from the chaos and tragedy of it all. That night, that feeling was particularly strong. It was like another side of my dream.

But the unsettling contrast between this calmness and the imminent danger just a couple of miles away was jarring. I could hear the sounds of activity from the gasworks, and the electric lights were glowing brightly. I paused by the group of people.

“What’s happening at the common?” I asked.

There were two men and a woman at the gate.

“Eh?” one of the men replied, turning to look at me.

“What’s happening at the common?” I repeated.

“Aren’t you just back from there?” the man asked.

“People seem to be acting quite silly about it,” the woman chimed in. “What’s going on?”

“Haven’t you heard about the men from Mars?” I said. “The creatures from Mars?”

“Quite enough,” the woman replied, dismissively. “Thanks,” and the three of them laughed.

I felt foolish and irritated. I tried to explain what I had witnessed, but the words wouldn’t come out right, and they laughed again at my stammering.

“You’ll hear more soon enough,” I said, and continued on my way home.

I startled my wife when I reached the doorway; I must have looked haggard. I walked into the dining room, sat down, and drank some wine. As soon as I could gather my thoughts, I began to recount what I had seen. The cold dinner had already been served and sat untouched on the table while I shared my story.

“There’s one thing,” I said, trying to ease the fears I had stirred. “They’re the slowest creatures I’ve ever seen. They might keep their pit and harm anyone who gets too close, but they can’t escape it… But the horror of them!”

“Don’t, dear!” my wife said, her brow furrowed as she placed her hand on mine.

“Poor Ogilvy!” I exclaimed. “To think he might be lying dead out there!”

At least my wife didn’t find my experience unbelievable. When I saw how pale her face had become, I stopped abruptly.

“They might come here,” she repeated, her voice trembling.

I urged her to drink some wine and tried to reassure her.

“They can hardly move,” I said.

I tried to reassure both her and myself by recalling everything Ogilvy had said about how impossible it would be for the Martians to settle on Earth. I focused particularly on the issue of gravity. On Earth, gravity is three times stronger than it is on Mars. This meant that a Martian would weigh three times more here, even though their muscle strength would remain the same. Their own bodies would feel like lead to them. That was the general consensus. Both *The Times* and the *Daily Telegraph* echoed this the next morning, just as I did, but we all overlooked two significant factors.

First, we now understand that Earth's atmosphere contains much more oxygen—or much less argon, depending on how you want to phrase it—than Mars does. This extra oxygen would undoubtedly help the Martians cope with the added weight of their bodies. Secondly, we ignored the fact that the Martians’ mechanical intelligence could easily compensate for the need for physical strength when necessary.

At that moment, I didn’t consider these points, so my reasoning seemed to weigh heavily against the invaders. With wine and food on the table, bolstered by my own growing confidence and the need to reassure my wife, I gradually felt more courageous and secure.

“They’ve made a foolish mistake,” I said, toying with my wineglass. “They’re dangerous, but only because they’re likely panicking. Perhaps they thought they’d find no living creatures here—certainly no intelligent ones.”

“If it comes to the worst,” I added, “a shell in the pit will take them all out.”

The intense excitement of the events had left my senses heightened. I can still recall that dinner table with incredible clarity. My dear wife’s worried yet sweet face peered at me from beneath the pink lampshade, the white tablecloth adorned with silver and glass—back then, even philosophical writers enjoyed a few little luxuries—and the deep crimson wine in my glass was strikingly vivid. As I sat there, cracking nuts and smoking a cigarette, I found myself regretting Ogilvy’s rashness and criticizing the Martians’ shortsightedness.

It was as if some respectable dodo in Mauritius might have sat in its nest, discussing the arrival of a ship full of merciless sailors in search of food. “We’ll peck them to death tomorrow, my dear.”

Little did I know, that was the last civilized dinner I would enjoy for many strange and terrifying days to come.