maandag 7 oktober 2013

JeffWayne's Musicsal War Of The Worlds Intro Reconstruction by DjJackKandi

Jeff Wayne's Musicsal War Of The Worlds Intro Reconstruction by DjJackKandi

JeffWayne'sMusicsal War Of The Worlds Intro Reconstruction

for once in my life i just wanted to this from my side to record this complete version of War of the worlds
from Vinyl and mp3 to give it my start and finnish
it wil not been able to download as the record label had sugested
so max that can download is 15 times so get your specila edition now before them come ( the man from Mars

01. Epilogue (NASA)
The Journalist: No one would have believed,
in the last years of the nineteenth century that human affairs were being watched from the timeless
worlds of space. No one could have dreamed that we were being scrutinized,
as someone with a microscope studies creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water.
Few men even considered the possibility of life on other planets and yet,
across the gulf of space, minds immeasurably superior to ours regarded this Earth with envious eyes,
and slowly and surely, they drew their plans against us.

Pasadena Control: It's looking good. It's going good.
We're getting great pictures here at NASA Control Pasadena.
The landing craft touched down on Mars 28 Kilometers from the aim point.
We're looking at a remarkable landscape,
littered with different kinds of rocks. Red, purple. How 'bout that, Bermuda?

Bermuda Control: Fantastic! Look at the dune-field.

Pasadena Control: Hey, wait. I'm getting a no-go signal.
Now I'm losing one of the craft. Hey, Bermuda, you getting it?

Bermuda Control: No, I lost contact. There's a lot of dust blowing up there.

Pasadena Control: Now I've lost the second craft. We got problems.

Bermuda Control: All contact lost, Pasadena. Maybe the antenna's...

Pasadena Control: What's that flare? See it? A green flare, coming from Mars,
kind of a green mist behind it.

It's getting closer. You see it, Bermuda?

Come in, Bermuda!

Houston, come in!

What's going on?

Tracking station 43, Canberra, come in Canberra!

Tracking station 63, can you hear me, Madrid?

Can anybody hear me?

Come in!

Come in!
02. The Eve of the War
The Journalist: At midnight on the twelfth of August,
a huge mass of luminous gas erupted from Mars and sped towards Earth.
Across two hundred million miles of void,
invisibly hurtling towards us were the first of the missiles that were to bring so much calamity to Earth.
As I watched, there was another jet of gas.
It was another missile starting on its way.

And that’s how it was for the next ten nights. A flare, spurting out from Mars. Bright green,
drawing a green mist behind it; a beautiful, but somehow disturbing sight. Ogilvy the astronomer,
assured me we were in no danger.
He was convinced that there could be no living thing on that remote forbidding planet.

The chances of anything coming from mars are a million to one, he said
The chances of anything coming from mars are a million to one, but still they come!

Then came the night the first missile approached Earth. It was thought to be an ordinary falling star,
but next day there was huge crater in the middle of the Common, and Ogilvy came to examine what lay there:
a cylinder, thirty yards across, glowing hot. And with faint sounds of movement coming from within.
Suddenly the top began moving, rotating, unscrewing, and Ogilvy feared there was a man inside,
trying to escape. He rushed to the cylinder,
but the intense heat stopped him before he could burn himself on the metal.

The chances of anything coming from mars are a million to one, he said
The chances of anything coming from mars are a million to one, but still they come!
Yes, the chances of anything coming from mars are a million to one, he said
The chances of anything coming from mars are a million to one, but still they come!

It seems totally incredible to me now that everyone spent that evening as though it were just like any other.
From the railway station came the sound of shunting trains, ringing and rumbling,
softened almost into melody by the distance.

It all seemed to safe and tranquil.
03. Horsell Common and the Heat Ray
The Journalist: Next morning, a crowd gathered on the Common,
hypnotized by the unscrewing of the cylinder.
Two feet of shining screw projected when,
suddenly, the lid fell off! Two luminous disc-like eyes appeared above the rim.
A huge, rounded bulk, larger than a bear, rose up slowly, glistening like wet leather.
Its lipless mouth quivered and slavered,
and snakelike tentacles writhed as the clumsy body heaved and pulsated.

A few young men crept closer to the pit.
A tall funnel rose, then an invisible ray of heat leapt from man to man and there was a bright glare,
as each was instantly turned to fire.
Every tree and bush became a mass of flames at the touch of this savage,
unearthly Heat Ray.

People clawed their way off the Common,
and I ran too. I felt I was being toyed with,
that when I was on the very verge of safety,
this mysterious death would leap after me, and strike me down.
At last I reached Maybury Hill and in the dim coolness of my home.
I wrote an account for my newspaper before I sank into a restless, haunted sleep.

I awoke to alien sounds of hammering from the pit,
and hurried to the railway station to buy the paper.
Around me, the daily routine of life - working, eating, sleeping -
was continuing serenely as it had for countless years.
On Horsell Common, the Martians continued hammering and stirring,
sleepless, indefatigable, at work upon the machines they were making.
Now and again a light, like the beam of a warship's searchlight,
swept the Common - and the Heat Ray was ready to follow.

In the afternoon, a company of soldiers came through and
deployed along the edge of the Common, to form a cordon.

That evening, there was a violent crash and I realized with horror
that my home was now within range of the Martian's Heat Ray.

At dawn, a falling star with a trail of green mist landed with a flash like summer lightning.
This was the second cylinder.
04. The Artilleryman and the Fighting Machine
The Journalist: The hammering from the pit and the pounding of guns grew louder.
My fear rose at the sound of someone creeping into the house.
Then I saw it was a young artilleryman, weary, streaked with blood and dirt.

The Artilleryman: Anyone here?

The Journalist: Come in. Here, drink this.

The Artilleryman: Thank you.

The Journalist: What’s happened?

The Artilleryman: They wiped us out. Hundreds dead, maybe thousands.

The Journalist: The Heat Ray?

The Artilleryman: The Martians! They were inside the hoods of machines
they’d made massive metal things on legs!
Giant machines that walked, they attacked us!
They wiped us out!

The Journalist: Machines?

The Artilleryman: Fighting machines!
Picking up men and bashing ‘em against trees.
Just hunks of metal, but they knew exactly what they were doing.

The Journalist: Hmmm. There was another cylinder came last night.

The Artilleryman: Yes. It looked bound for London.

The Journalist: London! Carrie! I hadn’t dreamed there could be danger to Carrie and her father,
so many miles away. I must go to London at once.

The Artilleryman: And me. Got to report to headquarters if there’s anything left of it.

The Journalist: At Byfleet we came upon an inn, but it was deserted.

The Artilleryman: Is everybody dead?

The Journalist: Not everybody. Look... Six cannons with gunners standing by.

The Artilleryman: It’s bows and arrows against the lightning.

The Journalist: Hmmm.

The Artilleryman: They haven’t seen the Heat Ray yet.

The Journalist: We hurried along the road to Weybridge. Suddenly,
there was a heavy explosion. The ground heaved, windows shattered and gusts of smoke erupted into the air.

The Artilleryman: Look! There they are! What did I tell you?

The Journalist: Quickly, one after the other, four of the fighting machines appeared. Monstrous tripods,
higher than the tallest steeple, striding over pine trees and smashing them.
Walking engines of glistening metal. Each carried a huge funnel and I realised
with horror that I’d seen this awful thing before.

A fifth machine appeared on the far bank. It raised itself to full height,
flourished the funnel high in the air, and the ghostly terrible Heat Ray struck the town.
As it struck,all five fighting machines exulted, emitting deafening howls that roared like thunder.

Martians: Ulla! Ulla!

The Journalist: The six guns we had seen now fired simultaneously,
decapitating a fighting machine. The Martian inside the hood was slain,
splashed to the four winds, and the body, nothing now but an intricate device of metal,
went whirling to destruction. As the other monsters advanced, people ran away blindly,
the artillery man among them, but I jumped into the water and hid until forced up to breathe.
Now the guns spoke again, but this time the Heat Ray sent them to oblivion.


The Journalist: With a white flash, the Heat Ray swept across the river.
Scalded, half-blinded and agonized, I staggered through leaping, hissing water towards the shore,
I fell helplessly, in full view of the Martians, expecting nothing but death.
The foot of a Martian came down close to my head, then lifted again,
as the four Martians carried away the debris of their fallen comrade,
and I realized that by a miracle I had escaped.

Martians: Ulla! Ulla!
05. Forever Atumn
The Journalist: For three days I fought my way along roads packed with refugees,
the homeless, burdened with boxes and bundles containing their valuables.
All that was of value to me was in London,
but by the time I reached their little red brick house,
Carrie and her father were gone
(performed by Justin Hayward)
The summer sun is fading as the year grows old,
And darker days are drawing near,
The winter winds will be much colder,
Now you’re not here

I watch the birds fly south across the Autumn sky,
And one by one they disappear,
I with that I was flying with them,
Now you’re not here

Like the sun through the trees you came to love me,
Like a leaf on a breeze you blew away

Through Autumn’s golden gown we used to kick our way,
You always loved this time of year,
Those fallen leaves lie undisturbed now,
‘Cause you’re not here
‘Cause you’re not here
‘Cause you’re not here

The Journalist: Fire suddenly leapt from house to house, the population panicked and ran,
and I was swept along with them, aimless and lost without Carrie. Finally I headed Eastward for the ocean,
and my only hope of survival a boat out of England.

Like the sun through the trees you came to love me,
Like a leaf on a breeze you blew away

A gentle rain falls softly on my weary eyes,
As if to hide a lonely tear,
My life will be forever Autumn,
‘Cause you’re not here
‘Cause you’re not here
‘Cause you’re not here

The Journalist: As I hastened through Covent Garden, Blackfriars and Billingsgate,
more and more people joined the painful exodus. Sad, weary woman,
their children stumbling and streaked with tears, their men bitter and angry,
the rich rubbing shoulder with beggars and outcasts.
Dogs snarled and whined, the horses bits were covered with foam.
And here and there were wounded soldiers, as helpless as the rest.

The Journalist: We saw tripods wading up the Thames,
cutting through bridges as though they were paper Waterloo Bridge,
Westminster Bridge. One appeared above Big Ben.

Martians: Ulla!

The Journalist: Never before in the history of the world had such a mass of human beings moved and suffered
together. This was no disciplined march,
it was a stampede without order and without a goal,
six million people unarmed and unprovisioned, driving headlong.
It was the beginning of the rout of civilisation, of the massacre of mankind.

A vast crown buffeted me toward the already packed steamer.
I looked up enviously at those safely onboard,
straight into the eyes of my beloved Carrie!
At sight of me she began to fight her way along the packed deck to the gangplank.
At that very moment it was raised, and I caught a last glimpse of her
despairing face as the crowd swept me away from her.

Like the sun through the trees you came to love me,
Like a leaf on a breeze you blew away

Through Autumn’s golden gown we used to kick our way,
You always loved this time of year,
Those fallen leaves lie undisturbed now,
‘Cause you’re not here
‘Cause you’re not here
‘Cause you’re not here

Martians: Ulla!
06. Thunder Child
The Journalist: The steamer began to move slowly away,
but on the landward horizon appeared the silhouette of a fighting machine.
Another came, and another,
striding over hills and plunging far out to sea and blocking the exit of the steamer.
Between them lay the silent, grey ironclad Thunder Child. Slowly it moved towards shore; then,
with a deafening roar and whoosh of spray,
it swung about and drove at full speed towards the waiting Martians.

There were ships of shapes and sizes,
Scattered out along the bay.
And I thought I heard her calling,
As the steamer pulled away.
The invaders must have seen them,
As across the coast they filed.
Standin' firm between them,
There lay Thunder Child.

Moving swiftly through the waters,
Cannons blazing as she came.
Brought a mighty metal warlord,
Crashing down in sheets of flame.

Sensing victory was nearing,
Thinking fortune must have smiled.
People started cheering,
"Come on Thunderchild, come on thunderchild!"

The Journalist: The martians released their black smoke, but the ship sped on,
cutting down one of the tripod figures.
Instanty, the others raised their Heat Rays,
and melted the thunderchild's valiant heart.

Lashing ropes and smashing timbers,
Flashing Heat Rays pierce the deck.
Dashing hopes for our deliverence,
As we watched the sinking wreck.

With the smoke of battle clearing,
Over graves in waves defiled.
Slowly dissapearing,
Farewell Thunder Child!
Slowly dissapearing,
Farewell Thunder Child!
Farewell Thunder Child!
Farewell Thunder...
Child, Child, Child, Child, Child!

The Journalist: When the smoke cleared, the little steamer had reached the misty horizon,
and Carrie was safe. But the Thunder Child had vanished forever,
taking with her man's last hope of victory. The leaden sky was lit by green flashes,
cylinder following cylinder, and no one and nothing was left now to fight them.
The Earth belonged to the Martians.

Martians: Ulla!
07. The Red Weed (Part 1)
The Journalist: Next day, the dawn was a brilliant,
fiery red and I wandered through the weird and lurid landscape of another planet;
for the vegetation which gives Mars its red appearance had taken root on Earth.
As Man had succumbed to the Martians, so our land now succumbed to the Red Weed.

The Journalist: Wherever there was a stream,
the Red Weed clung and grew with frightening voraciousness,
its claw-like fronds choking the movement of the water.
And then it began to creep like a slimy red animal across the land,
covering field and ditch and tree and hedgerow with living scarlet feelers, crawling, crawling.
08. The Spirit of Man
The Journalist: I suddenly noticed the body of a Parson,
lying on the ground in a ruined churchyard.
I felt unable to leave him to the mercy of the Red Weed and decided to bury him decently.

Beth: Nathaniel! Nathaniel!

The Journalist: The Parson's eyes flickered open. He was alive!

Beth: Nathaniel, I saw the church burst into flame, are you all right?

Parson Nathaniel: Don't touch me!

Beth: But it's me, Beth - your wife.

Parson Nathaniel: No! You're one of them - a devil!

Beth: He's delirious.

Parson Nathaniel: Lies! I saw the devil's sign.

Beth: What are you saying?

Parson Nathaniel: The green flash in the sky.
His demons were here all along in our hearts and souls -
just waiting for a sign from him. And now they're destroying our world.

Beth: But they're not devils, they're Martians.

The Journalist: We must leave here.

Beth: Look - a house still standing. Come Nathaniel, quickly.

The Journalist: We took shelter in a cottage and Black Smoke spread, hemming us in.
Then a Fighting Machine came across the fields, spraying jets of steam that turned the smoke into thick,
black dust.

Martians: Ulla!

Beth: Dear God, help us!

Parson Nathaniel: The voice of the devil is heard in our land!
(performed by Phil Lynott & Julie Covington)
Parson Nathaniel: Listen, do you hear them drawing near,
in their search for the sinners?
Feeding on the power of our fear and the evil within us?
Incarnation of Satan's creation of all that we dread.
When the demons arrive those alive will be better off dead!

Beth: There must be something worth living for.
There must be something worth trying for.
Even some things worth dying for.
And if one man can stand tall,
There must be hope for us all.
Somewhere, somewhere in the spirit of man.

Parson Nathaniel: Once, there was a time when I believed without hesitation.
That the power of love and truth could conquer all in the name of salvation.
Tell me what kind of weapon is love when it comes to the fight?
And just how much protection is truth against all Satan's might?

Beth : There must be something worth living for.
There must be something worth trying for.
Even some things worth dying for.
And if one man could stand tall,
There must be some hope for us all.
Somewhere, somewhere in the spirit of man.

Beth: People loved you, and trusted you, came to you for help.

Parson Nathaniel: Didn't I warn them this would happen?
Be on your guard, I said, for the Evil One never rests.
I said exorcise the devil! But no, they wouldn't listen.
The demons inside them grew and grew, until Satan gave his signal and destroyed the world we knew!

Beth: No Nathaniel,
Oh no Nathaniel,
No Nathaniel, no,
there must be more to life,
There has to be a way that we can restore to life,
the love we used to know.
Nathaniel, no,
There must be more to life,
There has to be a way that we can restore to life,
The light that we have lost.

Parson Nathaniel: Now darkness has descended on our land,
And all your prayers cannot save us.
Like fools we've let the devil take command
of the souls that God gave us.
To the altar of evil like lambs to the slaughter were led.
When the demons arrive the survivors will envy the dead!

Beth: There must be something worth living for.

Parson Nathaniel: No, there is nothing.

Beth: There must be something worth trying for.

Parson Nathaniel: I don't believe it's so.

Beth: Even something worth dying for.
If just one man could stand tall,
There would be some hope for us all.
Somewhere, somewhere in the spirit of man.

Parson Nathaniel: Forget about goodness and mercy, they're gone.

Parson Nathaniel: Didn't I warn them?
Pray, I said.
Destroy the Devil, I said.
They wouldn't listen.
I could have saved the world.
But now it's too late - too late!

Beth: No Nathaniel,
Oh no Nathaniel,
No Nathaniel, no.
There must be more to life.
There has to be a way, that we can restore to life,
The love we used to know.
Nathaniel, no.
There must be more to life.
There has to be a way that we can restore to life,
The light that we have lost.

A Martian cylinder lands on the house.

Parson Nathaniel: Dear God! A cylinder's landed on the house, and we are underneath it, in the pit.

The Journalist: The Martians spent the night making a new machine. It was a squat,
metallic spider with huge, articulated claws, but it, too, had a hood in which a Martian sat.
I watched it pursuing some people across a field.
It caught them nimbly and tossed them into a great metal basket upon its back.

Parson Nathaniel: Beth! She's dead! Burried under the rubble.
Why? Satan, why did you take one of your own?

Parson Nathaniel: There is a curse on mankind.
We may as well be resigned.
To let the devil, the devil take the spirit of man.

The Journalist: As time passed in our dark and dusty prison,
the Parson wrestled endlessly with his doubts. His outcries invited death to us both,
and yet I pitied him.
09. The Red Weed (Part 2)

The Journalist: Then, on the ninth day,
we saw the Martians eating. Inside the hood of their new machine
they were draining the fresh living blood of men and women and injecting it into their own veins.

Parson Nathaniel: Aaaaah! It's a sign! I've been given a sign. They must be cast out,
and I have been chosen to do it. I must confront them now.

The Journalist: No, Parson. No!

Parson Nathaniel : Those machines are just demons in another form.
I shall destroy them with my prayers,
I shall burn them with my holy cross. I shall...

The Journalist strikes the Parson and he falls to the floor.

The Journalist : The curious eye of a Martian appeared at the window slit,
and a menacing claw explored the room. I dragged the parson down to the coal cellar.
I heard the Martian fumbling at the latch. In the darkness I could see the claw touching things,
walls, coal, wood. And then, it touched my boot. I almost shouted. For a time it was still, and then,
with a click, it gripped something: the parson! With slow, deliberate movements,
his unconscious body was dragged away, and there was nothing I could do to prevent it!

The Journalist: I crept to the blocked window slit and peered through the creeper.
The Martians, and all their machinery,
had gone. Trembling,
I dug my way out and clambered to the top of the mound -
not a Martian in sight. The day seemed dazzling bright after my imprisonment and the sky a glowing blue.
Red weed covered every scrap of ground but a gentle breeze kept it swaying, and oh, the sweetness of the air.
10. The Artilleryman Returns
The Journalist: Again, I was on my way to London -
through towns and villages that were blackened ruins,
totally silent, desolated, deserted. Man's empire had passed away,
taken swiftly and without error by these creatures who were composed entirely of brain.

Unhampered by the complex systems which make up man,
they made and used different bodies according to their needs.
They never tired, never slept, and never suffered,
having long since eliminated from their planet the bacteria which cause all fevers and other morbidities.
11. Brave New World

The Artilleryman: Halt! Who goes there?

The Journalist: Er, a friend...

The Artilleryman: Be on your way. This is my territory.

The Journalist: Your territory? What do you mean?

The Artilleryman: Wait a minute... it's you! The man from Maybury Hill!

The Journalist: Good heavens, the Artilleryman. I thought you'd surely burned.

The Artilleryman: I thought you'd surely drowned.

The Journalist: Have you seen any Martians?

The Artilleryman: Everywhere. We're done for all right.

The Journalist: We can't just give up.

The Artilleryman: 'Course we can't. It's now that we've got to start fighting.
Not against them, cause we can't win. Now, we've got to fight for survival.
I reckon we can make it. I've got a plan.

The Artilleryman: We're gonna build a whole new world for ourselves.
Look,they clap eyes on us and we're dead, right? So we gotta make a new life where they'll never find us.
You know where? Underground. You should see it down there, hundreds of miles of drains,
sweet and clean now after the rain, dark, quiet, safe. We can build houses and everything,
start again from scratch.
And what's so bad about living underground eh? It's not been so great living up here,
if you want my opinion.

(performed by David Essex)
Take a look around you at the world we've come to know
Does it seem to be much more than a crazy circus show
But maybe from the madness something beautiful will grow
In a brave new world. With just a handful of men
We'll start, we'll start all over again, all over again
all over again, all over again.

We'll build shops and hospitals and barracks right under their noses,
right under their feet! Everything we need - banks, prisons and schools.
We'll send scouting parties to collect books and stuff, and men like you'll teach the kids.
Not poems and rubbish, science, so we can get everything working.

We'll build villages and towns, and... and... we'll play each other at cricket.

Listen, maybe one day we'll capture a Fighting Machine,
eh? Learn how to make 'em ourselves and then wallop! Our turn to do some wiping out.

Whoosh, with our Heat Ray!

Whoosh, and them running and dying! Beaten at their own game. Man on top again!

Now our domination of the Earth is fading fast.
And out of the confusion the chance has come at last.
To build a better future from the ashes of the past.
In a brave new world with just a handful of men,
We'll start all over again.

Look, Man is born in freedom but he soon becomes a slave.
In cages of convention from the cradle to the grave.
The weak fall by the wayside but the strong will be saved.
In a brave new world with just a handful of men,
We'll start all over again.

I'm not trying to tell you what to be, oh no, oh no, not me.
But if mankind is to survive, the people left alive,
They're gonna have to build this world anew.
And it's going to have to start with me and you - yes!

I'm not trying to tell you what to be, oh no, oh no, not me.
But if mankind is to survive, the people left alive,
They're gonna have to build this world anew.
And it's going to have to start with me and you.

Just think of all the poverty, the hatred and the lies.
And imagine the destruction of all that you despise.
Slowly from the ashes the phoenix will arise,
In a brave new world, with just a handful of men,
We'll start all over again.

Take a look around you at the world you've loved so well.
And bid the ageing empire of man a last farewell.
It may not sound like Heaven but at least it isn't hell.
It's a brave new world, with just a handful of men,
We'll start, we'll start all over again, all over again,
all over again, all over again,
I've got a plan!

The Artilleryman: Can't you just see it - civilization starting all over again, a second chance?

We'll even build a railway, and tunnel to the coast, go there for our holidays. Nothing can stop men like
us. I've made a start already. Come on down here and have a look.

The Journalist: In the cellar was a tunnel scarcely ten yards long,
that had taken him a week to dig. I could have dug that much in a day,
and I suddenly had my first inkling of the gulf between his dreams and his power.

The Artilleryman: It's doing the working and the thinking that wears a fellow out.
I'm ready for a bit of a rest. How about a drink eh? Nothing but champagne, now I'm the boss.

The Journalist: We drank and then he insisted upon playing cards.
With our species on the edge of extermination, with no prospect but a horrible death,
we actually played games.

The Journalist: Later, he talked more of his plan, but I saw flames flashing in the deep blue night.
Red Weed glowing, tripod figures moving distantly, and I put down my champagne glass.
I felt a traitor to my kind and I knew I must leave this strange dreamer.

The Artilleryman: Take a look around you at the world we've come to know.
Does it seem to be much more than a crazy circus show.
Maybe from the madness something beautiful will grow...
12. Dead London
The Journalist: There were a dozen dead bodies in the Euston Road, their outlines softened by the Black Dust.
All was still, houses locked and empty,
shops closed, but looters had helped themselves to wine and food, and outside a jewellers,
some gold chains and a watch were scattered on the pavement.

Martians: Ulla!

The Journalist: I stopped, staring towards the sound.
It seemed as if that mighty desert of houses had found a voice for its fear and solitude.

Martians: Ulla!

The Journalist: The desolating cry worked upon my mind. The wailing took possession of me.
I was intensely weary, footsore, hungry and thirsty. Why was I wandering alone in this city of the dead?
Why was I alive, when London was lying in state in its black shroud?
I felt intolerably lonely, drifting from street to empty street, drawn inexorably towards that cry.

Martians: Ulla!

The Journalist: I saw, over the trees on Primrose Hill,
the Fighting Machine from which the howling came. I crossed Regents Canal.
There stood a second machine, upright, but as still as the first.

Martians: Ulla!

The Journalist: Abruptly, the sound ceased. Suddenly, the desolation, the solitude,
became unendurable. While that voice sounded, London had still seemed alive. Now suddenly,
there was a change, the passing of something - and all that remained was this gaunt quiet.

I looked up and saw a third machine It was erect and motionless,
like the others.
An insane resolve possessed me,
I would give my life to the Martians, here and now.

The Journalist: I marched recklessly towards the titan and saw that a multitude of black birds
was circling and clustering about the hood. I began running along the road. I felt no fear, only a wild,
trembling exultation, as I ran up the hill towards, the motionless monster.
Out of the hood hung red shreds,at which the hungry birds now pecked and tore.

The Journalist: I scrambled up to the crest of Primrose Hill,
and the Martian's camp was below me.
A mighty space it was, and scattered about it,
in their overturned machines, were the Martians - dead... slain,
after all man's devices had failed,
by the humblest things upon the Earth, bacteria.
Minute, invisible, bacteria.

The Journalist: Directly the invaders arrived and drank and fed,
our microscopic allies attacked them.
From that moment,
they were doomed.
13. Epilogue (End)
The Journalist: The torment was ended.
The people scattered over the country, desperate,
leaderless, starved... the thousands who had fled by sea including the one most dear to me,
all would return. The pulse of life, growing stronger and stronger, would beat again.

The Journalist: As life returns to normal, the question of another attack from Mars causes universal concern.
Is our planet safe, or is this time of peace merely a reprieve? It may be that, across the immensity of space,
they have learned their lessons and even now await their opportunity. Perhaps the future belongs not to us,
but to the Martians?


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