The Angry Planet by John Keir Cross Page A

time since any of us had slept properly, in all the excitement of
the landing. Perhaps the fresh strong air had something to do with it too, and
the fact that we had just had a large meal—a meal that gave our digestive
organs rather more work than they had had for a long time. At any rate, it was
all I could do to keep my eyes open. I looked round at the others. Apparently
they were being affected in the same way; Paul and Jacky were already actually
asleep, and Mike was not far from it. Mac’s pipe had fallen on his chest and he
was making no effort to retrieve it. He smiled at me lazily.
    “Feeling sleepy, Steve, eh?”
    I nodded.
    “No harm in having forty winks,
I suppose.”
    “None at all.” And he yawned. “I’m
certainly going to—I feel incredibly drowsy—the excitement, I guess.”
    I sighed and yawned myself, and
then closed my eyes and settled myself to doze.
    I slept deeply—we all did, as I
afterwards learned. I remember—and it comes back to me with a curious
distinctness, even after all this time—that I had a vivid and vaguely
terrifying dream, about the huge dark green plants we had just been examining.
It was as if I were walking down an immense avenue, bordered by two endless
rows of them; and as I walked, on and on, there was a whispering and rustling
among them, and then, slowly—almost imperceptibly—they began to stoop down
towards me. Lower and lower they came, and now the rustling changed to a high-pitched
far-off screaming, very faint and eerie. I started to run, but the avenue was
endless. And now the plants were very low and very near — their huge fleshy fingers were
reaching out to grasp at me. I had a knife in my hand, and I hacked and stabbed
at the great leathery writhing fronds—and with every stroke the screaming grew
more and more intense.
    I became aware of someone
shaking me violently by the shoulder. I opened my eyes drowsily, and Mike’s
face swam into my consciousness. Mike’s face—but it was strained and anxious.
    “Uncle Steve,” he was saying
urgently, “Uncle Steve, wake up! Look—for the love of Pete, just look!”
    I sat up abruptly, on the
instant wide awake, so insistent had been Mike’s command. The others were awake
too, and staring, just as I was.
    And well might we stare! On the
ridge above us, standing silently gazing in at us, were creatures!—creatures
vastly, vastly different from anything that any of us had ever known, but
living creatures—individuals—Martians!
    And as I stared at the tallest
of them—the one plainly their leader—I heard him address us. And the language
was English—English!
    For a moment I thought I must
still be in my dream. But the sun was shining, my companions were all about me.
They, as plainly as I, heard the cool, detached, far-off tones:
    “Who are you? Who are you? What
are you doing here?”
     
     
     

CHAPTER
VI. THE MEN OF MARS by Stephen Macfarlane

     
    THE NARRATIVE CONTINUED, BY STEPHEN MacFARLANE: THE MEN OF MARS
    WE ROSE to our feet. Jacky
moved over towards me, and I put my hand on her shoulder to allay her
nervousness. We were all nervous. Why should we not be?—there was something
unutterably awesome in the very quietness and immobility of the two-score odd
creatures above and all around us. How long had they been standing there,
gazing down at us while we slept? The vast plain had been empty—now, from
nowhere seemingly, these beings had appeared, creeping unerringly to the one
hollow among all the hollows in that expanse that held a secret.
    What did they look like?—what
was our first impression of them? It is difficult to say. Since that first day,
I have known them so intimately, have studied them at such close quarters, that
I can hardly remember how they first seemed to present themselves.
    There was nothing, in the whole
range of our experience of living beings on earth, to which they could quite be
compared, although in general shape they were not unlike human beings. They
were