War of the Worlds

"Not begun.  All that's happened so far is through our not having
the sense to keep quiet--worrying them with guns and such foolery.  And
losing our heads, and rushing off in crowds to where there wasn't any
more safety than where we were.  They don't want to bother us yet.
They're making their things--making all the things they couldn't bring
with them, getting things ready for the rest of their people.  Very
likely that's why the cylinders have stopped for a bit, for fear of
hitting those who are here.  And instead of our rushing about blind,
on the howl, or getting dynamite on the chance of busting them up,
we've got to fix ourselves up according to the new state of affairs.
That's how I figure it out.  It isn't quite according to what a man
wants for his species, but it's about what the facts point to.  And
that's the principle I acted upon.  Cities, nations, civilisation,
progress--it's all over.  That game's up.  We're beat."

"But if that is so, what is there to live for?"

The artilleryman looked at me for a moment.

"There won't be any more blessed concerts for a million years or
so; there won't be any Royal Academy of Arts, and no nice little feeds
at restaurants.  If it's amusement you're after, I reckon the game is
up.  If you've got any drawing-room manners or a dislike to eating
peas with a knife or dropping aitches, you'd better chuck 'em away.
They ain't no further use."

"You mean----"

"I mean that men like me are going on living--for the sake of the
breed.  I tell you, I'm grim set on living.  And if I'm not mistaken,
you'll show what insides _you've_ got, too, before long.  We aren't
going to be exterminated.  And I don't mean to be caught either, and
tamed and fattened and bred like a thundering ox.  Ugh! Fancy those
brown creepers!"

"You don't mean to say----"

"I do.  I'm going on, under their feet.  I've got it planned; I've
thought it out.  We men are beat.  We don't know enough.  We've got to
learn before we've got a chance.  And we've got to live and keep
independent while we learn.  See! That's what has to be done."

I stared, astonished, and stirred profoundly by the man's
resolution.

"Great God!" cried I.  "But you are a man indeed!"  And suddenly I
gripped his hand.

"Eh!" he said, with his eyes shining.  "I've thought it out, eh?"

"Go on," I said.

"Well, those who mean to escape their catching must get ready.  I'm
getting ready.  Mind you, it isn't all of us that are made for wild
beasts; and that's what it's got to be.  That's why I watched you.  I
had my doubts.  You're slender.  I didn't know that it was you, you
see, or just how you'd been buried.  All these--the sort of people
that lived in these houses, and all those damn little clerks that used
to live down that way--they'd be no good.  They haven't any spirit in
them--no proud dreams and no proud lusts; and a man who hasn't one or
the other--Lord!  What is he but funk and precautions?  They just used
to skedaddle off to work--I've seen hundreds of 'em, bit of breakfast
in hand, running wild and shining to catch their little season-ticket
train, for fear they'd get dismissed if they didn't; working at
businesses they were afraid to take the trouble to understand;
skedaddling back for fear they wouldn't be in time for dinner; keeping
indoors after dinner for fear of the back streets, and sleeping with
the wives they married, not because they wanted them, but because they
had a bit of money that would make for safety in their one little
miserable skedaddle through the world.  Lives insured and a bit
invested for fear of accidents.  And on Sundays--fear of the
hereafter.  As if hell was built for rabbits!  Well, the Martians will
just be a godsend to these.  Nice roomy cages, fattening food, careful
breeding, no worry.  After a week or so chasing about the fields and
lands on empty stomachs, they'll come and be caught cheerful.  They'll
be quite glad after a bit.  They'll wonder what people did before
there were Martians to take care of them.  And the bar loafers, and
mashers, and singers--I can imagine them.  I can imagine them," he
said, with a sort of sombre gratification.  "There'll be any amount of
sentiment and religion loose among them.  There's hundreds of things I
saw with my eyes that I've only begun to see clearly these last few
days.  There's lots will take things as they are--fat and stupid; and
lots will be worried by a sort of feeling that it's all wrong, and
that they ought to be doing something.  Now whenever things are so
that a lot of people feel they ought to be doing something, the weak,
and those who go weak with a lot of complicated thinking, always make
for a sort of do-nothing religion, very pious and superior, and
submit to persecution and the will of the Lord.  Very likely you've
seen the same thing.  It's energy in a gale of funk, and turned clean
inside out.  These cages will be full of psalms and hymns and piety.
And those of a less simple sort will work in a bit of--what is
it?--eroticism."

He paused.

"Very likely these Martians will make pets of some of them; train
them to do tricks--who knows?--get sentimental over the pet boy who
grew up and had to be killed.  And some, maybe, they will train to
hunt us."