Война миров
Under Foot
Wesatintheadjacentkitcheninthedark—forwedarednotstrikealight—andatebreadandham,anddrankbeeroutofthesamebottle. Thecurate,whowasstilltimorousandrestless,wasnow,oddlyenough,forpushingon,andIwasurginghimtokeepuphisstrengthbyeatingwhenthethinghappenedthatwastoimprisonus.
"Itcan’tbemidnightyet,"Isaid,andthencameablindingglareofvividgreenlight. Everythinginthekitchenleapedout,clearlyvisibleingreenandblack,andvanishedagain. AndthenfollowedsuchaconcussionasIhaveneverheardbeforeorsince. Socloseontheheelsofthisastoseeminstantaneouscameathudbehindme,aclashofglass,acrashandrattleoffallingmasonryallaboutus,andtheplasteroftheceilingcamedownuponus,smashingintoamultitudeoffragmentsuponourheads. Iwasknockedheadlongacrosstheflooragainsttheovenhandleandstunned. Iwasinsensibleforalongtime,thecuratetoldme,andwhenIcametowewereindarknessagain,andhe,withafacewet,asIfoundafterwards,withbloodfromacutforehead,wasdabbingwateroverme.
ForsometimeIcouldnotrecollectwhathadhappened. Thenthingscametomeslowly. Abruiseonmytempleasserteditself.
"Areyoubetter?"askedthecurateinawhisper.
AtlastIansweredhim.Isatup.
"Don’tmove,"hesaid."Theflooriscoveredwithsmashedcrockeryfromthedresser. Youcan’tpossiblymovewithoutmakinganoise,andIfancytheyareoutside."
