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| The War of the Worlds: The Eve of the War: Chapter One |
The fact
that it is scarcely one-seventh of the volume of the earth must have
accelerated its cooling to the temperature at which life could begin. It has
air and water and all that is necessary for the support of animated existence.
Yet so vain is man, and so blinded by his vanity, that no writer, up to the
very end of the nineteenth century, expressed any idea that intelligent life
might have developed there far, or indeed at all, beyond its earthly level. Nor
was it generally understood that since Mars is older than our earth, with
scarcely a quarter of the superficial area and remoter from the sun, it
necessarily follows that it is not only more distant from time’s beginning but nearer
its end.
The secular cooling that must someday overtake our planet has already gone far indeed with our neighbor. Its physical condition is still largely a mystery, but we know now that even in its equatorial region the midday temperature barely approaches that of our coldest winter.
Its air is much more attenuated than ours,
its oceans have shrunk until they cover but a third of its surface, and as its
slow seasons change huge snowcaps gather and melt about either pole and
periodically inundate its temperate zones. That last stage of exhaustion, which
to us is still incredibly remote, has become a present-day problem for the
inhabitants of Mars.
The immediate pressure of necessity has
brightened their intellects, enlarged their powers, and hardened their hearts.
And looking across space with instruments, and intelligence such as we have
scarcely dreamed of, they see, at its nearest distance only 35,000,000 miles
sunward of them, a morning star of hope, our own warmer planet, green with
vegetation and grey with water, with a cloudy atmosphere eloquent of fertility,
with glimpses through its drifting cloud wisps of broad stretches of populous
country and narrow, navy crowded seas. And we men, the creatures who inhabit
this earth, must be to them at least as alien and lowly as the monkeys and
lemurs to us. The intellectual side of man already admits that life is an
incessant struggle for existence, and it would seem that this too is the belief
of the minds upon Mars. Their world is far gone in its cooling and this world
is still crowded with life, but crowded only with what they regard as inferior
animals.
To carry warfare sunward is, indeed, their only escape from the destruction that, generation after generation, creeps upon them. And before we judge of them too harshly we must remember what ruthless and utter destruction our own species has wrought, not only upon animals, such as the vanished bison and the dodo but upon its inferior races. The Tasmanians, in spite of their human likeness, were entirely swept out of existence in a war of extermination waged by European immigrants, in the space of fifty years. Are we such apostles of mercy as to complain if the Martians warred in the same spirit? The Martians seem to have calculated their descent with amazing subtlety—their mathematical learning is evidently far in excess of ours—and to have carried out their preparations with well-nigh perfect unanimity. Had our instruments permitted it, we might have seen the gathering trouble far back in the nineteenth century. Men like Schiaparelli watched the red planet—it is odd, by the bye, that for countless centuries Mars has been the star of war—but failed to interpret the fluctuating appearances of the markings they mapped so well.
All that time the Martians must have been
getting ready. During the opposition of 1894 a great light was seen on the
illuminated part of the disk, first at the Lick Observatory, then by Perrot in
of Nice, and then by other observers. English readers heard of it first in the
issue of NATURE dated August 2. I am inclined to think that this blaze may have
been the casting of the huge gun, in the vast pit sunk into their planet, from
which their shots were fired at us.
I
might not have heard of the eruption at all had I not met Ogilvy, the
well-known astronomer, at Otter Shaw. He was immensely excited at the news, and
in the excess of his feelings invited me up to take a turn with him that night
in a scrutiny of the red planet. In spite of all that has happened since, I
still remember that vigil very distinctly: the black and silent observatory,
the shadowed lantern throwing a feeble glow upon the floor in the corner, the
steady ticking of the clockwork of the telescope, the little slit in the
roof—an oblong profundity with the stardust streaked across it. Ogilvy moved
about, invisible but audible. Looking through the telescope, one saw a circle
of deep blue and the little round planet swimming in the field. It seemed such
a little thing, so bright and small and still, faintly marked with transverse
stripes, and slightly flattened from the perfect round. But so little it was,
so silvery warm—a pin’s-head of light! It was as if it quivered, but really
this was the telescope vibrating with the activity of the clockwork that kept
the planet in view.
As I watched, the planet seemed to grow
larger and smaller and to advance and recede, but that was simply because my eye
was tired. Forty million miles it was from us—more than forty million miles of void. Few people realize the immensity of vacancy in which the dust of
the material universe swims.
That night another invisible missile started on its way to the Earth from Mars, just a second or so under twenty-four hours after the first one. I remember how I sat on the table there in the blackness, with patches of green and crimson swimming before my eyes. I wished I had a light to smoke by, little suspecting the meaning of the minute gleam I had seen and all that it would presently bring me. Ogilvy watched till one and then gave it up, and we lit the lantern and walked over to his house. Down below in the darkness were Otter Shaw and Chertsey and all their hundreds of people, sleeping in peace. He was full of speculation that night about the condition of Mars and scoffed at the vulgar idea of its having inhabitants who were signaling us. His idea was that meteorites might be falling in a heavy shower upon the planet, or that a huge volcanic explosion was in progress. He pointed out to me how unlikely it was that organic evolution had taken the same direction in the two adjacent planets.
‘The chances against anything manlike on Mars
are a million to one,’ he said. Hundreds of observers saw the flame that night
and the night after about midnight, and again the night after; and so for ten
nights, a flame each night. Why the shots ceased after the tenth no one on
earth has attempted to explain.
It may be the gases of the firing caused the Martians inconvenience. Dense clouds of smoke or dust, visible through a powerful telescope on Earth as little grey, fluctuating patches, spread through the clearness of the planet’s atmosphere and obscured its more familiar features. Even the daily papers woke up to the disturbances at last, and popular notes appeared here, there, and everywhere concerning the volcanoes upon Mars. The seriocomic periodical Punch, I remember, made a happy use of it in the political cartoon. And, all unsuspected, those missiles the Martians had fired at us drew earthward, rushing now at a pace of many miles a second through the empty gulf of space, hour by hour and day by day, nearer and nearer. It seems to me now almost incredibly wonderful that, with that swift fate hanging over us, men could go about their petty concerns as they did. I remember how jubilant Markham was at securing a new photograph of the planet for the illustrated paper he edited in those days.
People in these latter times scarcely realize
the abundance and enterprise of our nineteenth-century papers. For my own part,
I was much occupied with learning to ride the bicycle, and busy with a series of
papers discussing the probable developments of moral ideas as civilization
progressed. One night (the first missile then could scarcely have been
10,000,000 miles away) I went for a walk with my wife. It was starlight and I
explained the Signs of the Zodiac to her and pointed out Mars, a bright dot of
light creeping zenith ward, towards which so many telescopes were pointed. It
was a warm night. Coming home, a party of excursionists from Chertsey or Isle
Worth passed us singing and playing music. There were lights in the upper
windows of the houses as the people went to bed. From the railway station in
the distance came the sound of shunting trains, ringing, and rumbling, softened
almost into melody by the distance. My wife pointed out to me the brightness of
the red, green, and yellow signal lights hanging in a framework against the
sky. It seemed so safe and tranquil.
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