Война миров
The Stillness
Istaredaboutme,scarcelybelievingmyeyes. Allthemachineryhadgone. Saveforthebigmoundofgreyish-bluepowderinonecorner,certainbarsofaluminiuminanother,theblackbirds,andtheskeletonsofthekilled,theplacewasmerelyanemptycircularpitinthesand.
SlowlyIthrustmyselfoutthroughtheredweed,andstooduponthemoundofrubble. Icouldseeinanydirectionsavebehindme,tothenorth,andneitherMartiansnorsignofMartiansweretobeseen. Thepitdroppedsheerlyfrommyfeet,butalittlewayalongtherubbishaffordedapracticableslopetothesummitoftheruins. Mychanceofescapehadcome. Ibegantotremble.
Ihesitatedforsometime,andthen,inagustofdesperateresolution,andwithaheartthatthrobbedviolently,IscrambledtothetopofthemoundinwhichIhadbeenburiedsolong.
Ilookedaboutagain. Tothenorthward,too,noMartianwasvisible.
WhenIhadlastseenthispartofSheeninthedaylightithadbeenastragglingstreetofcomfortablewhiteandredhouses,interspersedwithabundantshadytrees. NowIstoodonamoundofsmashedbrickwork,clay,andgravel,overwhichspreadamultitudeofredcactus-shapedplants,knee-high,withoutasolitaryterrestrialgrowthtodisputetheirfooting. Thetreesnearmeweredeadandbrown,butfurtheranetworkofredthreadscaledthestilllivingstems.
Theneighbouringhouseshadallbeenwrecked,butnonehadbeenburned; theirwallsstood,sometimestothesecondstory,withsmashedwindowsandshattereddoors.
