The Martian War

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE


A WAR OF WORLDS


FROM THE JOURNAL OF DR. MOREAU

Looking at the tripod structure of the Martian weapon, Lowell was appalled. “Not only has that creature ruined my motorcar, it’s stolen my telescope’s clock drive! And part of the cradle for the Clark refractor!”

Thunder cracked again, and I had to shield my eyes against the rain. Seeing us approach, the Martian scrambled to its controls with amazing nimbleness in its ungainly body. Lowell glared indignantly up at the towering machine. “Come down from there!”

The Martian turned the camera-like lens device on its segmented arm, and I looked up into the dangerous eye of the ray weapon. Before Lowell could bellow again, I knocked him out of the way, and we both went sprawling in the mud just as a burst of sparks and heat sprayed out, vaporizing the rain and baking the mud into brick.

The Martian fired its heat ray again, but the stress and vibration had knocked the uncompleted armature loose, spoiling its aim. Instead, the heat ray set alight two of the tall pines, which crackled and snapped like torches in the storm. Despite all the care we had lavished upon it, the creature meant to incinerate us, like a child burning ants with a magnifying lens.

I grabbed Lowell’s arm, and we began to run. As the thunder continued to boom and the cloudburst reached its climax around us, the Martian raised its heat ray high, hoping for a better aim. I was certain we were doomed.

But the metal tripod itself was already taller than the observatory structure, which made the three-legged machine the highest thing atop Mars Hill. When the Martian raised the heat ray, its articulated arm acted as an irresistible lightning rod. Like the spear of Zeus, a blinding blue-white bolt lanced down to strike the Martian’s contraption, sending sparks and cinders flying.

The resulting thunderclap knocked me flat, and I blinked dazzling colors from my light-blinded eyes. I could not find Lowell and assumed he had scrambled off into the night.

On the blackened tripod structure, the Martian stirred like a stunned insect, amazingly still alive. It dangled by two tentacles, then dropped partway before catching itself. Its body was smoking, burned—defenseless. I knew we had to act. Unable to see Lowell in the darkness and the rain, I decided to take care of matters myself.

By the time I reached the ruined tripod, the Martian had already dropped to the wet ground and scuttled away through puddles, seeking shelter. Then I saw it move, battering down the door of the empty observatory dome before it scrambled inside. I didn’t know where it expected to run here. Perhaps it was dying, or just going to ground so that it could heal.

I followed the thing cautiously, not wishing to be killed in the same manner as Douglass. I stepped through the door quietly. The interior walls were made of carefully lapped pine boards, and I could smell the sap and resin. The rain had already made everything dank and damp. The floor of poured cement bore only the ruins of the cradle for the giant Clark refractor; in constructing its tripod, our Martian had taken many of the telescope’s support components. I could discern little in the dimness, but my dazzled eyes were adjusting after the lightning flash that had ruined the battle tripod.

I heard something heavy moving within the shadows, dragging itself along with wet scraping sounds. Then with a skitter and a clatter, the Martian found a metal ladder that led up to the tracks on which iron wheels and heavy cranks could turn the great dome. During a night of observing, astronomers would be able to swivel the dome’s opening to view any desired section of sky.

Apparently the work crew had abandoned their jobs without bothering to close the dome, for the dome itself was open. A slit of cloudy sky shone down. Though the storm had come up unexpectedly, Lowell would be furious if his observatory was damaged.

I saw the bloated creature finish clambering up the ladder before it scuttled along the tracks of the dome. It moved with a drunken sluggishness, having been injured by the lightning strike. The crawling thing made its way to the opening through which only lightning and rain could be seen. Perhaps it wanted to see the stars or Mars one last time … .

I put my hands on my hips. Now that the creature had no place else to run, I demanded, “Why? Why are you doing this? Have we not helped you? Did I not save your life?”

Holding on with its tentacles, the Martian glared down at me with wide, round eyes like signal lamps on a train. It simply heaved, as if trying to withstand the pain.

I shouted again, “I know you can talk. Explain yourself.”

You have helped our Martian cause.

In a horrific succession of images transmitted by its superior brain, it confirmed my worst fear: the impending invasion. The Martians’ intent was total domination of Earth. Now I understood more fully what Lowell and I had seen in the crystal egg.

Our cylinders will launch soon. Mars will conquer the human race, as we did the Moon. Weak and juicy humans will be our workers, our food.

I could not argue, for I knew that what the creature described was true. No army on Earth could stand against the Martian invasion force. No military, no battleship, no weapon would be great enough to withstand this onslaught.

Your civilization, your science, is too primitive to stop us.

Suddenly, Lowell appeared in the doorway. “No—but I can stop you.”

A glint of flickering lightning through the dome showed me that he carried a shotgun—the same one he had confiscated from the unruly worker the night before. He raised the weapon and, in the instant the next flash of lightning showed him his target, he fired. Inside the enclosed dome, the gun’s boom was louder than any thunder.

The shotgun blast smashed into the Martian, driving it against the wall and splattering dark fluids along the lapped wooden boards. Calmly, without hesitation, Lowell loaded a second shell into the barrel and fired again, pulverizing the enormous brain that had concocted such terrible plans, snuffing out the intellect that meant only to crush humanity.

The dying Martian held on for just an instant more before finally releasing its grip with rubbery tentacles. It slowly slid, then dropped to the cement floor of the observatory, where it twitched and shuddered. The creature bled from numerous ruptures and gashes torn by the shotgun blasts. Already injured and weakened by the terrible lightning strike, it squirmed briefly and then died, curled up like a giant spider.

“I did that not in the name of science, Moreau.” Lowell turned to me. “But in the name of humanity.”

The proof is abundant, and I will not waste time and effort convincing a skeptical public of the truth of my story. However, with the coming opposition of planets the Martian invasion is imminent, and the greatest question now in my mind is how to proceed.

In what possible manner can human beings prepare for this attack from the red planet? When the cylinders come raining down, how will we defend ourselves? It is not a matter for one man to decide, but for all the leaders and greatest scientific minds of Earth.

I believe that human resolve and ingenuity is sufficient to meet even this challenge, but all countries and governments must be united immediately, no longer concerned about a war between lands and ideologies, but a war of the worlds. Even if the human race is not ultimately victorious against this interplanetary threat, I am confident that we can at least put up a valiant fight.

I have decided to return to London, where I am still a wanted man. Perhaps, given the terrible news that I bring, they will forget such foolishness and realize that I, too, can contribute to this fight. Lowell will offer all the funding at his disposal.

I will share all of this information with my rival and former colleague, T.H. Huxley. He is a brilliant man. Perhaps he will know what to do.