“It is all over with humanity,” I said. “If they can do that they will
simply go round the world.”
He nodded.
“They will. But—— It will relieve things over here a bit. And
besides——” He looked at me. “Aren’t you satisfied it _is_ up with
humanity? I am. We’re down; we’re beat.”
I stared. Strange as it may seem, I had not arrived at this fact—a fact
perfectly obvious so soon as he spoke. I had still held a vague hope;
rather, I had kept a lifelong habit of mind. He repeated his words,
“We’re beat.” They carried absolute conviction.
“It’s all over,” he said. “They’ve lost _one_—just _one_. And they’ve
made their footing good and crippled the greatest power in the world.
They’ve walked over us. The death of that one at Weybridge was an
accident. And these are only pioneers. They kept on coming. These green
stars—I’ve seen none these five or six days, but I’ve no doubt they’re
falling somewhere every night. Nothing’s to be done. We’re under! We’re
beat!”
I made him no answer. I sat staring before me, trying in vain to devise
some countervailing thought.
“This isn’t a war,” said the artilleryman. “It never was a war, any
more than there’s war between man and ants.”
Suddenly I recalled the night in the observatory.
“After the tenth shot they fired no more—at least, until the first
cylinder came.”
“How do you know?” said the artilleryman. I explained. He thought.
“Something wrong with the gun,” he said. “But what if there is? They’ll
get it right again. And even if there’s a delay, how can it alter the
end? It’s just men and ants. There’s the ants builds their cities, live
their lives, have wars, revolutions, until the men want them out of the
way, and then they go out of the way. That’s what we are now—just ants.
Only——”
“Yes,” I said.
“We’re eatable ants.”
We sat looking at each other.
“And what will they do with us?” I said.
“That’s what I’ve been thinking,” he said; “that’s what I’ve been
thinking. After Weybridge I went south—thinking. I saw what was up.
Most of the people were hard at it squealing and exciting themselves.
But I’m not so fond of squealing. I’ve been in sight of death once or
twice; I’m not an ornamental soldier, and at the best and worst,
death—it’s just death. And it’s the man that keeps on thinking comes
through. I saw everyone tracking away south. Says I, ‘Food won’t last
this way,’ and I turned right back. I went for the Martians like a
sparrow goes for man. All round”—he waved a hand to the
horizon—“they’re starving in heaps, bolting, treading on each other. .
. .”
He saw my face, and halted awkwardly.
“No doubt lots who had money have gone away to France,” he said. He
seemed to hesitate whether to apologise, met my eyes, and went on:
“There’s food all about here. Canned things in shops; wines, spirits,
mineral waters; and the water mains and drains are empty. Well, I was
telling you what I was thinking. ‘Here’s intelligent things,’ I said,
‘and it seems they want us for food. First, they’ll smash us up—ships,
machines, guns, cities, all the order and organisation. All that will
go. If we were the size of ants we might pull through. But we’re not.
It’s all too bulky to stop. That’s the first certainty.’ Eh?”