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1The broadening of men's views that has resulted can scarcely be exaggerated. Before the cylinder fell there was a
2general persuasion that through all the deep of space no life existed beyond the petty surface of our minute sphere. Now
3we see further. If the Martians can reach Venus, there is no reason to suppose that the thing is impossible for men, and
4when the slow cooling of the sun makes this earth uninhabitable, as at last it must do, it may be that the thread of
5life that has begun here will have streamed out and caught our sister planet within its toils. Dim and wonderful is the
6vision I have conjured up in my mind of life spreading slowly from this little seed bed of the solar system throughout
7the inanimate vastness of sidereal space. But that is a remote dream. It may be, on the other hand, that the destruction
8of the Martians is only a reprieve. To them, and not to us, perhaps, is the future ordained. I must confess the stress
9and danger of the time have left an abiding sense of doubt and insecurity in my mind. I sit in my study writing by
10lamplight, and suddenly I see again the healing valley below set with writhing flames, and feel the house behind and
11about me empty and desolate. I go out into the Byfleet Road, and vehicles pass me, a butcher boy in a cart, a cabful of
12visitors, a workman on a bicycle, children going to school, and suddenly they become vague and unreal, and I hurry again
13with the artilleryman through the hot, brooding silence. Of a night I see the black powder darkening the silent streets,
14and the contorted bodies shrouded in that layer; they rise upon me tattered and dog-bitten. They gibber and grow
15fiercer, paler, uglier, mad distortions of humanity at last, and I wake, cold and wretched, in the darkness of the
16night. I go to London and see the busy multitudes in Fleet Street and the Strand, and it comes across my mind that they
17are but the ghosts of the past, haunting the streets that I have seen silent and wretched, going to and fro, phantasms
18in a dead city, the mockery of life in a galvanised body. And strange, too, it is to stand on Primrose Hill, as I did
19but a day before writing this last chapter, to see the great province of houses, dim and blue through the haze of the
20smoke and mist, vanishing at last into the vague lower sky, to see the people walking to and fro among the flower beds
21on the hill, to see the sight-seers about the Martian machine that stands there still, to hear the tumult of playing
22children, and to recall the time when I saw it all bright and clear-cut, hard and silent, under the dawn of that last
23great day. . . . And strangest of all is it to hold my wife's hand again, and to think that I have counted her, and that
24she has counted me, among the dead.
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