The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(111)
Wells became aware, above the clatter of the coach, of Murray and the girl chattering excitedly up on the driver’s seat. He could not hear their exact words, but they sounded so happy he had to admit that, amazingly enough in this anomalous situation, the millionaire was managing to make the girl see him as an attractive man, far more so, no doubt, than had he wooed her in the usual fashion. Wells no longer doubted the millionaire’s feelings: how could he, when he had seen how ready Murray was to protect her. Under the pretext of being too tired to give it any thought, the author avoided asking himself whether he would have done as much for Jane, or whether his love was a mere show, a tender yet feeble emotion, which she had nevertheless considered significant enough for her to marry him, accepting, perhaps from their first conversation, that the romantic love of novels would never inflame such a pragmatic soul.
Wells was immersed in these thoughts when they arrived in Weybridge, only to find that twenty or so cavalrymen were evacuating the town. On foot or on horseback, the soldiers were busy urging the locals to pack up their most prized possessions and leave the area at once. They had to make their way through a confusion of carriages, carts, cabriolets, and other improvised means of transport, in the midst of which men in plus fours or boaters and their well-groomed wives voiced their displeasure at this absurd evacuation. Whilst everyone appeared willing to collaborate with the army, even bundling their belongings onto an omnibus commandeered for the occasion, Wells noticed that most of them seemed oblivious to the seriousness of their situation.
It took them a long time to get across the town. When they got beyond Sunbury, they ran into a lengthy procession of vehicles and pedestrians, which, like a biblical exodus, was slowly wending its way toward London. With haunted faces, its members carried trunks and suitcases, pushed carts or even prams piled high with their belongings. Only the children appeared to be enjoying the novel situation, laughing gaily atop the piles of rolled-up mattresses and small bits of furniture, like the unwitting lookouts for disaster. In spite of everything, no one doubted that the powerful British army would trounce the so-called invaders in a matter of days, putting an end to this unexpected war that was causing everyone so much trouble. They’re only tin pots on stilts! they heard one elderly gentleman cry out as he wheeled his cart brimming with useless sticks of furniture, unaware of the Hell that was being unleashed on Earth. And as the carriage with the emblazoned “G” weaved its way through the crowd, Wells took in each detail of what was happening around them. He cursed himself for not having a notebook handy. In his novel the Martians had constructed airships that they flew directly to London in order to attack, so it had not been necessary for him to describe terrible mass exoduses of this sort. Now that he had realized their dramatic potential, however, he told himself that if he ever had the chance to rewrite his novel, he would replace the ferocious flying machines shaped like stingrays (which he had only invented to make the vessel Robur flew in Verne’s novel seem like a toy) with tripods such as these, which with their spiderlike advance across the countryside fueled the spread of rumors among the inhabitants of those areas. This created a far more intimate kind of horror, because instead of merely flying far above people’s heads they were trampling over their gardens.
Having managed to skirt around the terrified lines of fugitives, they reached Hampton Court, which was shrouded in a peculiarly noiseless calm. They drove around the perimeter of Bushy Park, with its deer cavorting beneath the chestnut trees as carefree as ever, then crossed the river and took the Richmond road. At last, in the distance, they were able to make out the hills around London. They sighed with relief at the sight, because this was where the inspector had told them the lines of defense had been established.
“Dozens of cannons will be waiting for the enemy,” Clayton had assured them. “The tripods will have trouble crossing our lines.”
“Do you still think they are Martians, Inspector?” Wells asked. “Murray doesn’t believe they might be Germans either, but I—”
“For the love of God, Wells, what do you have against Germans?” Clayton interrupted. “I assure you they aren’t to blame for all the world’s ills. Besides, I don’t think we should waste our time on fruitless speculation about who the enemy might be. In a few miles we’ll find out, as soon as our cannons defeat the first tripod.”
“I hope you’re right,” the author said glumly.
“Have confidence in our army, Mr. Wells,” was the young man’s arrogant reply.
“Remember that you haven’t seen a tripod, Clayton, and we have. We passed under its legs while you were sound asleep.”
“Ah, Mr. Wells, the most terrifying thing is sometimes not what we see, but rather what we are forced to imagine,” the inspector retorted.
Wells gave an exasperated grunt, momentarily wondering whether it might not have been a good idea to leave that ceaseless fount of wisdom in a ditch.
“I assure you, Inspector Clayton, it was no puppet show,” the author replied rather tetchily. “And, needless to say, the tripods bear no resemblance to tin pots on stilts, like that old fellow said.”
The inspector gave a patronizing smirk. “I confess I’m most interested to see one of these monsters. How then would you describe them? I’m sure that with your talent you can produce a far more accurate simile.”
“Well . . . ,” the author murmured, vexed at having to respond to the inspector’s absurd challenge. “I’d say they look like—”