2.10. The Epilogue
I cannot but regret, now that I am concluding my story, how
little
I am able to contribute to the discussion of the many debatable
questions which are still unsettled. In one respect I shall
certainly provoke criticism. My particular province is
speculative philosophy. My knowledge of comparative physiology
is
confined to a book or two, but it seems to me that Carver's
suggestions as to the reason of the rapid death of the Martians
is
so probable as to be regarded almost as a proven conclusion. I
have assumed that in the body of my narrative.
At any rate, in all the bodies of the Martians that were
examined after the war, no bacteria except those already known as
terrestrial species were found. That they did not bury any of
their dead, and the reckless slaughter they perpetrated, point
also to an entire ignorance of the putrefactive process. But
probable as this seems, it is by no means a proven conclusion.
Neither is the composition of the Black Smoke known, which
the
Martians used with such deadly effect, and the generator of the
Heat-Rays remains a puzzle. The terrible disasters at the Ealing
and South Kensington laboratories have disinclined analysts for
further investigations upon the latter. Spectrum analysis of the
black powder points unmistakably to the presence of an unknown
element with a brilliant group of three lines in the green, and
it
is possible that it combines with argon to form a compound which
acts at once with deadly effect upon some constituent in the
blood. But such unproven speculations will scarcely be of
interest to the general reader, to whom this story is addressed.
None of the brown scum that drifted down the
Thames after the
destruction of Shepperton was examined at the time, and now none
is forthcoming.
The results of an anatomical examination of the Martians,
so
far as the prowling dogs had left such an examination possible, I
have already given. But everyone is familiar with the
magnificent
and almost complete specimen in spirits at the Natural History
Museum, and the countless drawings that have been made from it;
and beyond that the interest of their physiology and structure is
purely scientific.
A question of graver and universal interest is the
possibility
of another attack from the Martians. I do not think that nearly
enough attention is being given to this aspect of the matter. At
present the planet Mars is in conjunction, but with every return
to opposition I, for one, anticipate a renewal of their
adventure.
In any case, we should be prepared. It seems to me that it
should
be possible to define the position of the gun from which the
shots
are discharged, to keep a sustained watch upon this part of the
planet, and to anticipate the arrival of the next attack.
In that case the cylinder might be destroyed with dynamite
or
artillery before it was sufficiently cool for the Martians to
emerge, or they might be butchered by means of guns so soon as
the
screw opened. It seems to me that they have lost a vast
advantage
in the failure of their first surprise. Possibly they see it in
the same light.
Lessing has advanced excellent reasons for supposing that
the
Martians have actually succeeded in effecting a landing on the
planet Venus. Seven months ago now, Venus and Mars were in
alignment with the sun; that is to say, Mars was in opposition
from the point of view of an observer on Venus. Subsequently a
peculiar luminous and sinuous marking appeared on the unillumined
half of the inner planet, and almost simultaneously a faint dark
mark of a similar sinuous character was detected upon a
photograph
of the Martian disk. One needs to see the drawings of these
appearances in order to appreciate fully their remarkable
resemblance in character.
At any rate, whether we expect another invasion or not,
our
views of the human future must be greatly modified
by these
events. We have learned now that we cannot regard this planet as
being fenced in and a secure abiding place for Man; we can never
anticipate the unseen good or evil that may come upon us suddenly
out of space. It may be that in the larger design of the
universe
this invasion from Mars is not without its ultimate benefit for
men; it has robbed us of that serene confidence in the future
which is the most fruitful source of decadence, the gifts to
human
science it has brought are enormous, and it has done much to
promote the conception of the commonweal of mankind. It may be
that across the immensity of space the Martians have watched the
fate of these pioneers of theirs and learned their lesson, and
that on the planet Venus they have found a securer settlement.
Be
that as it may, for many years yet there will certainly be no
relaxation of the eager scrutiny of the Martian disk, and those
fiery darts of the sky, the shooting stars, will bring with them
as they fall an unavoidable apprehension to all the sons of men.
The broadening of men's views that has resulted can
scarcely
be exaggerated. Before the cylinder fell there was a general
persuasion that through all the deep of space no life existed
beyond the petty surface, of our minute sphere. Now we see
further. If the Martians can reach Venus, there is no reason to
suppose that the thing is impossible for men, and when the slow
cooling of the sun makes this earth uninhabitable, as at last it
must do, it may be that the thread of life that has begun here
will have streamed out and caught our sister planet within its
toils.
Dim and wonderful is the vision I have conjured up in my
mind
of life spreading slowly from this little seed bed of the solar
system throughout the inanimate vastness of sidereal space. But
that is a remote dream. It may be, on the other hand, that the
destruction of the Martians is only a reprieve. To them, and not
to us, perhaps is the future ordained.
I must confess the stress and danger of the time have left
an
abiding sense of doubt and insecurity in my mind. I sit in my
study writing by lamplight, and suddenly I see again the healing
valley below set with writhing flames, and feel
the house behind
and about me empty and desolate. I go out into the Byfleet Road,
and vehicles pass me, a butcher boy in a cart, a cabful of
visitors, a workman on a bicycle, children going to school, and
suddenly they become vague and unreal, and I hurry again with the
artilleryman through the hot, brooding silence. Of a night I see
the black powder darkening the silent streets, and the contorted
bodies shrouded in that layer; they rise upon me tattered and
dog-bitten. They gibber and grow fiercer, paler, uglier, mad
distortions of humanity at last, and I wake, cold and wretched,
in
the darkness of the night.
I go to London and see the busy multitudes in Fleet Street
and
the Strand, and it comes across my mind that they are but the
ghosts of the past, haunting the streets that I have seen silent
and wretched, going to and fro, phantasms in a dead city, the
mockery of life in a galvanised body. And strange, too, it is to
stand on Primrose Hill, as I did but a day before writing this
last chapter, to see the great province of houses, dim and blue
through the haze of the smoke and mist, vanishing at last into
the
vague lower sky, to see the people walking to and fro among the
flower beds on the hill, to see the sightseers about the Martian
machine that stands there still, to hear the tumult of playing
children, and to recall the time when I saw it all bright and
clear-cut, hard and silent, under the dawn of that last great
day....
And strangest of all is it to hold my wife's hand again,
and
to think that I have counted her, and that she has counted me,
among the dead.
