BOOK TWO: THE EARTH UNDER THE MARTIANS
CHAPTER 4: THE DEATH OF THE CURATE
(continued)
"Nay," shouted the curate, at the top of his voice, standing likewise and extending his arms. "Speak! The word of the
Lord is upon me!"
In three strides he was at the door leading into the kitchen.
"I must bear my witness! I go! It has already been too long
delayed."
I put out my hand and felt the meat chopper hanging to
the wall. In a flash I was after him. I was fierce with fear.
Before he was halfway across the kitchen I had overtaken
him. With one last touch of humanity I turned the blade
back and struck him with the butt. He went headlong forward and lay stretched on the ground. I stumbled over him
and stood panting. He lay still.
Suddenly I heard a noise without, the run and smash of
slipping plaster, and the triangular aperture in the wall was
darkened. I looked up and saw the lower surface of a
handling-machine coming slowly across the hole. One of its
gripping limbs curled amid the debris; another limb appeared, feeling its way over the fallen beams. I stood
petrified, staring. Then I saw through a sort of glass plate
near the edge of the body the face, as we may call it, and
the large dark eyes of a Martian, peering, and then a long
metallic snake of tentacle came feeling slowly through the
hole.
I turned by an effort, stumbled over the curate, and
stopped at the scullery door. The tentacle was now some
way, two yards or more, in the room, and twisting and turning, with queer sudden movements, this way and that. For
a while I stood fascinated by that slow, fitful advance. Then,
with a faint, hoarse cry, I forced myself across the scullery.
I trembled violently; I could scarcely stand upright. I opened
the door of the coal cellar, and stood there in the darkness
staring at the faintly lit doorway into the kitchen, and listening. Had the Martian seen me? What was it doing now?
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