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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?
Something was moving to and fro there, very quietly;
every now and then it tapped against the wall, or started
on its movements with a faint metallic ringing, like the
movements of keys on a split-ring. Then a heavy body--I
knew too well what--was dragged across the floor of the
kitchen towards the opening. Irresistibly attracted, I crept
to the door and peeped into the kitchen. In the triangle of
bright outer sunlight I saw the Martian, in its Briareus of a
handling-machine, scrutinizing the curate's head. I thought
at once that it would infer my presence from the mark of
the blow I had given him.
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