Война миров
At the Window
Iwentdown,unfastenedthedoor,andlethimin,andlockedthedooragain. Icouldnotseehisface. Hewashatless,andhiscoatwasunbuttoned.
"MyGod!"hesaid,asIdrewhimin.
"Whathashappened?"Iasked.
"Whathasn’t?"IntheobscurityIcouldseehemadeagestureofdespair. "Theywipedusout—simplywipedusout,"herepeatedagainandagain.
Hefollowedme,almostmechanically,intothediningroom.
"Takesomewhiskey,"Isaid,pouringoutastiffdose.
Hedrankit. Thenabruptlyhesatdownbeforethetable,puthisheadonhisarms,andbegantosobandweeplikealittleboy,inaperfectpassionofemotion,whileI,withacuriousforgetfulnessofmyownrecentdespair,stoodbesidehim,wondering.
Itwasalongtimebeforehecouldsteadyhisnervestoanswermyquestions,andthenheansweredperplexinglyandbrokenly. Hewasadriverintheartillery,andhadonlycomeintoactionaboutseven. Atthattimefiringwasgoingonacrossthecommon,anditwassaidthefirstpartyofMartianswerecrawlingslowlytowardstheirsecondcylinderundercoverofametalshield.
Laterthisshieldstaggeredupontripodlegsandbecamethefirstofthefighting-machinesIhadseen. ThegunhedrovehadbeenunlimberednearHorsell,inordertocommandthesandpits,anditsarrivalitwasthathadprecipitatedtheaction.
