Война миров
The Death of the Curate
Ilookedupandsawthelowersurfaceofahandling-machinecomingslowlyacrossthehole. Oneofitsgrippinglimbscurledamidthedebris; anotherlimbappeared,feelingitswayoverthefallenbeams. Istoodpetrified,staring. ThenIsawthroughasortofglassplateneartheedgeofthebodytheface,aswemaycallit,andthelargedarkeyesofaMartian,peering, andthenalongmetallicsnakeoftentaclecamefeelingslowlythroughthehole.
Iturnedbyaneffort,stumbledoverthecurate,andstoppedatthescullerydoor. Thetentaclewasnowsomeway,twoyardsormore,intheroom,andtwistingandturning,withqueersuddenmovements,thiswayandthat. ForawhileIstoodfascinatedbythatslow,fitfuladvance. Then,withafaint,hoarsecry,Iforcedmyselfacrossthescullery. Itrembledviolently;Icouldscarcelystandupright. Iopenedthedoorofthecoalcellar,andstoodthereinthedarknessstaringatthefaintlylitdoorwayintothekitchen,andlistening. HadtheMartianseenme? Whatwasitdoingnow?
Somethingwasmovingtoandfrothere,veryquietly;everynowandthenittappedagainstthewall,orstartedonitsmovementswithafaintmetallicringing,likethemovementsofkeysonasplit-ring. Thenaheavybody—Iknewtoowellwhat—wasdraggedacrossthefloorofthekitchentowardstheopening. Irresistiblyattracted,Icrepttothedoorandpeepedintothekitchen. InthetriangleofbrightoutersunlightIsawtheMartian,initsBriareusofahandling-machine,scrutinizingthecurate’shead. IthoughtatoncethatitwouldinfermypresencefromthemarkoftheblowIhadgivenhim.
