The Map of the Sky (56 page)

It was then I heard the first blast, far away in the direction of Chelsea. The girls gave a start and hurriedly began dressing. There was a second blast. These explosions were too close to be coming from the outskirts, which could only mean that the tripods had broken through the line of defense and were entering London. A third blast, even closer now, made the building shake and confirmed my suspicions. I poked my head out of the window amid a gaggle of hysterical girls. There were people running, panic-stricken, through the streets, but I could see nothing above the rooftops, save for a few peculiar reddish flashes coloring the evening sky. I pulled on my clothes and left the brothel, together with a small number of fellow customers, just as what sounded like all the church bells in London began to ring out. In the street, I heard some men shouting that these were Martians and one had been shot down in Richmond. I smiled at the news. But, apparently, following this heroic action, our mighty army had been wiped out. From the garbled rumors circulating among the crowd, I learned that the Martians had broken through the line of defense at Kingston and Richmond. And, if the increasing number of blasts resounding in the distance was anything to go by, they would soon do the same elsewhere, if they hadn’t already. But this couldn’t be happening! I said to myself, dumbfounded, even as I narrowly escaped being run over by a cartload of refugees.

As I puzzled over why things weren’t turning out as they should, I found myself being jostled this way and that by the nervous crowd.
Finally I found my way into a square, where, more shaken and anxious than I cared to admit, I sat down on a bench. I needed time to think. It was impossible to know exactly what was going on, although clearly the terrible explosions were occurring more frequently and coming ever closer. It was always the same: first there was a loud hissing noise, then the roar of the blast, and finally the air would shake as a building crashed to the ground. The worst thing was that this gruesome symphony was apparently being played all over London, from Ealing to East Ham.

In a bid to calm my nerves, I plucked a cigarette from my cigarette case and smoked it with the icy composure of a suicide, while those rushing by gazed at me in astonishment. I returned their gaze defiantly, even though the panic I was stifling had started to give the tobacco a bitter, metallic taste. I exhaled the smoke slowly and tried to assess the situation: why hadn’t whatever had been destined to prevent the invasion already snuffed it out? The inspired command of a minister, a powerful secret weapon, an unexpected natural phenomenon, a detachment of soldiers specially trained to deal with this type of situation, or perhaps a lone individual who by some random action would restore the order of things. I did not know how, but I was convinced something had to halt the invasion. I surveyed the crowd fleeing before me: innkeepers in their aprons, maids in uniform, children dragged by their mothers, vagrants and bankers running side by side, now and then a solitary rider. Their confusion and terror were so overwhelming it seemed clear that none of these wretched souls could save London, much less the planet. Even our own army appeared incapable of doing that, according to the snatches of conversation I was able to overhear, and which were immediately corroborated by the growing proximity of the blasts. Yet I knew someone
had
to do something, and quickly. What if that was my role? I wondered suddenly. What if I was the one who had to intervene and put events back on the right track? But the thought seemed as pompous as it was absurd. What could I possibly do to set things straight?

Suddenly, there was a fearful explosion a few streets away, followed by a deafening crash. The noise made me leap up from the bench with a start, my whole body trembling. From the street opposite, accompanied by that peculiar hissing noise, there emerged what I can only describe as a bolt of lightning tamed by a god, which, instead of zigzagging through the air, sliced through it in a straight line, parallel to the ground, like the beam from a lighthouse. The strange ray shot across the square, igniting the treetops in its path before thudding into one of the buildings on the far side, blowing it to smithereens, and ruthlessly scattering a handful of coaches and their passengers.

Those of us in the square became aware of an increasingly loud clanging of metal behind us. The ground began to quake, and, terrified, everyone turned toward the street from which the ray had emanated, certain that what was approaching us could only be one of the tripods the fugitives had told us about. Sure enough, through the thick cloud of dust from the falling rubble, we glimpsed the gigantic spidery outline of a tripod. Seconds later, it emerged from the dust cloud and planted its three powerful feet firmly in front of us. Many people scattered in terror, but others, myself included, remained motionless in the center of the square, transfixed by this apparition. This was the first tripod I had seen, and to this very day the memory of it makes me shudder. It looked more powerful than any machine Man had ever built or could ever build. It must have been about a hundred feet tall, possibly taller, and swaying on top of slender, jointed legs like the ribs of an umbrella was something resembling the baskets attached to hot-air balloons, only bigger and sealed like an impregnable carapace. From the front dangled a kind of tentacle, probably made from the same shiny material as the machine, only more pliable. This twitched slowly in the air, like a fly’s proboscis. Attached to it was a strange artifact that looked like a weapon. Just then, as if to confirm my suspicions, it spat out a second ray, which smashed to the ground close to its feet. However,
as the machine raised its tentacle, the ray began to slice diagonally through the square as if it were a wedding cake, reducing everything and everyone in its path to cinders. The terrible shaft of heat ended its trajectory by cleaving the corner building in two. The house exploded in a shower of debris.

Even though I was fifty feet away, I could feel the heat from the ray prick my skin painfully, and it goaded me to react. I realized my life was in danger, that I could die at any moment. However impossible it might seem to me, the invasion was taking place. And regardless of whether or not it was successful, I was a mere bit player who could die in any number of ways: roasted by a heat ray, crushed by falling debris, mown down by a runaway carriage. I became more aware than ever of how dreadfully vulnerable I was. I could be killed this instant; I could already have been killed. All of a sudden, just as the machine was preparing to resume firing at the buildings, I thought of Victoria, and my cousin and his wife, who could also be killed when the tripods reached Queen’s Gate. Like me, they were frail and mortal. I had to do something, get away from there, I had to reach them at once!

The demolished building formed a smoldering barricade preventing entry to the main streets that led to Queen’s Gate, and so, partly out of choice and partly swept along by the frenzied crowd, I began running down a side street, away from the tripod that had burst into the square and from another one that had just joined it. I then found myself carried along a maze of alleyways, unsure of where I was going, perceiving the explosions in the square and trying not to fall over for fear of being trampled, like many others. As I ran, I saw the sky above my head tinged with reddish flashes, I smelled smoke from the fires, and I heard an almighty crash mixed with screams from the crowd, the roar of cannons, and the relentless hiss of the tripods that seemed to be coming from all sides. Only when I emerged onto the Chelsea Embankment did I realize I had been running away from South Kensington, the direction I wanted
to go. Instead, I had ended up at the river, panting and wheezing, crushed amid dozens of others, whose faces, like mine, were covered in white dust from the fallen debris. Suddenly overcome by dizziness, I was forced to lean over, my hands on my knees, and remained like that for a few moments, examining the toes of my shoes while I tried to stop myself from being sick. The last thing I wanted was for the crowd to see me as a cowardly young man. When I was finally able to raise my eyes, I noticed a cluster of launches at the foot of the jetty, their passengers hesitating over whether they should cross the river or climb back onto dry land. Then, straightening myself up, I discovered the reason for their indecision.

The glittering river Thames stretched before me, adorned with bridges, the nearest of which was the magnificent Albert Bridge resting on its four cast iron piers. This structure, which I had always considered a perfect example of Man’s ingenuity, now looked pitifully fragile faced with the sinister tripods that were advancing on the far side of the river. The ghastly horde stood out against the blazing buildings they had left behind in Battersea and were clearly approaching the Thames with the aim of crossing it on their gangling stilts to wreak havoc on the other side. But before any of them could reach the water, a destroyer appeared at the scene. Gliding up the river like a fearless Leviathan, it positioned itself between the tripods and the swarming crowd on the quayside, of which I was a part. Craning my neck above the mass of bobbing heads, I could see that similar scenes were occurring the length of the Thames. The river was dotted with warships attempting to keep at bay the hordes of tripods that had penetrated London from the south and had razed Lambeth and the outlying neighborhoods. Judging from the blasts coming from that direction, some of the destroyers had already opened fire on them.

With a vague feeling of security, like people watching from their theater boxes as the stage is destroyed by fire and wondering uneasily whether the flames will reach them, we all waited, pressed
together on the quayside, to see the duel about to take place before our eyes, for at that moment the destroyer in front of us began firing furiously at the Martians, hitting a few buildings on the opposite bank, which crumpled like paper, but none of the tripods, which succeeded in dodging the shots with a slow rolling motion. They did not return fire but simply continued their terrifying and relentless advance toward the river. Then a cannon hit one of them, shattering its shell. The tripod reeled like a drunken giant before toppling over onto a building. Filled with excitement, we celebrated the strike with loud hurrahs, but our euphoria was short-lived, for we instantly perceived the brutal response of the other tripods. At least three of them closest to the riverbank fired their powerful heat rays straight at the destroyer, which rocked violently in the water. For a few moments, a thick cloud of smoke and steam obscured the combat from us, but we all heard the ferocity of the ensuing blasts and even saw a shower of metal shards and part of a funnel emerge from the vapor. Then the firing came to an abrupt halt.

A few moments later the smoke lifted to reveal the smoking wreck of the destroyer floating on the water like a dead bird. A pair of tripods fired at Albert Bridge, slicing through it with their swords of fire and spilling the handful of people fleeing toward Chelsea into the water, together with a shower of flaming debris. The rubble from the bridge formed a kind of barricade, isolating us from the bloody battle being waged up and down the river. We watched as the tripods waded into the roiling waters of the Thames, tottering like ghostly old men. It was clear to us that however precarious their foothold on the riverbed, they would soon be upon us, and no warship would be able to stop them. The most impatient among them began aiming at our side of the river. The first shot ripped into the quay not forty feet from me, reducing the onlookers who had been standing there to cinders and forcing the rest of us to make a mad dash toward the nearby side streets. Once more, I found myself being dragged along by the crowd. A few yards in front of me,
I saw a little girl fall, only to be trampled by the unseeing mass of people, and then, powerless to stop myself running, I felt her little bones crack beneath my feet. This incident persuaded me to make a supreme effort to separate myself from the human tide of which I unwillingly formed a part. Eager to regain my autonomy, I flattened myself against a wall, letting the crazed mob surge past me, until the street was almost empty except for a few battered corpses. Then I resolved to find my bearings, and once I had done this, I set off at a trot toward South Kensington, doing my best not to give in to dread. Stopping every now and then to listen for the direction of the blasts, I managed to steer clear of the tripods, as well as of the fleeing crowds, and, sticking to the deserted alleyways whenever I could, I made my way cautiously across the city until I reached the Cromwell Road. I don’t know how long it took me to get there, but it felt like an eternity. At last I arrived, exhausted and trembling, and was relieved to find that all was calm in Queen’s Gate, and its splendid stuccoed mansions remained untouched.

I hurried toward my uncle’s house and burst through the door, breathless from running. Surprised to find the first floor deserted, I ran up the marble staircase to the second floor, discovering no one there either. Before going back downstairs, I could not help pausing to look at the terrifying panorama afforded by the picture windows. Columns of black smoke were billowing up to the sky from various neighborhoods, while far away, on the other side of the Thames, a rippling curtain of flame was visible. The tripods were spreading across the city like an unstoppable plague. In no time at all they would be here, and these lofty mansions would be razed.

I returned to the ground floor, shouting at the top of my lungs to announce my presence. But my voice was scarcely audible above the strident blasts and the clanging bells. Pausing, I glimpsed a chance reflection thrown back at me from one of the mirrors in my uncle’s drawing room and was startled at the sight of this grimy, frantic Charles with a haunted look in his eyes. I had lost my hat, my hair
was disheveled, my jacket caked with dust and torn at the shoulder. I turned away from the mirror and paced the ground floor, wondering where my cousin and his guests could be. Had they left the house, driven by fear or curiosity?

Suddenly, I realized I hadn’t looked in what was undoubtedly the safest place in the house in the case of a catastrophe: the servants’ quarters in the basement. Alarmed by the explosions, everyone had no doubt decided to take shelter below. In all my visits to the house, my uncle had never invited me below, but I knew the way through a small, unobtrusive door next to the kitchen. I descended the stairs like an interloper, wondering whether I was mistaken, but instantly heard a voice emanating from one of the rooms. Letting the sound guide me through those bare passageways, soon I could make out what it was saying. The voice belonged to an older man, who spoke calmly and politely, as though he was accustomed to addressing people in a tone of scrupulous respect. I assumed this must be Harold, my uncle’s faithful coachman.