Война миров
Dead London
Ajeweller’swindowhadbeenbrokenopeninoneplace,butapparentlythethiefhadbeendisturbed,andanumberofgoldchainsandawatchlayscatteredonthepavement. Ididnottroubletotouchthem. Fartheronwasatatteredwomaninaheaponadoorstep; thehandthathungoverherkneewasgashedandbleddownherrustybrowndress,andasmashedmagnumofchampagneformedapoolacrossthepavement. Sheseemedasleep,butshewasdead.
ThefartherIpenetratedintoLondon,theprofoundergrewthestillness. Butitwasnotsomuchthestillnessofdeath—itwasthestillnessofsuspense,ofexpectation. Atanytimethedestructionthathadalreadysingedthenorthwesternbordersofthemetropolis,andhadannihilatedEalingandKilburn,mightstrikeamongthesehousesandleavethemsmokingruins. Itwasacitycondemnedandderelict....
InSouthKensingtonthestreetswereclearofdeadandofblackpowder. ItwasnearSouthKensingtonthatIfirstheardthehowling. Itcreptalmostimperceptiblyuponmysenses. Itwasasobbingalternationoftwonotes,"Ulla,ulla,ulla,ulla,"keepingonperpetually. WhenIpassedstreetsthatrannorthwarditgrewinvolume,andhousesandbuildingsseemedtodeadenandcutitoffagain. ItcameinafulltidedownExhibitionRoad. Istopped,staringtowardsKensingtonGardens,wonderingatthisstrange,remotewailing. Itwasasifthatmightydesertofhouseshadfoundavoiceforitsfearandsolitude.
"Ulla,ulla,ulla,ulla,"wailedthatsuperhumannote—greatwavesofsoundsweepingdownthebroad,sunlitroadway,betweenthetallbuildingsoneachside. Iturnednorthwards,marvelling,towardstheirongatesofHydePark.
