The World Set Free - H. G. Wells (i love reading books txt) 📗

have entered also a zone of uproar, a zone of perpetual thunderings, lit by a strange purplish-red light, and quivering and swaying with the incessant explosion of the radioactive substance. Whole blocks of buildings were alight and burning fiercely, the trembling, ragged flames looking pale and ghastly and attenuated in comparison with the full-bodied crimson glare beyond. The shells of other edifices already burnt rose, pierced by rows of window sockets against the red-lit mist.

Every step farther would have been as dangerous as a descent within the crater of an active volcano. These spinning, boiling bomb centres would shift or break unexpectedly into new regions, great fragments of earth or drain or masonry suddenly caught by a jet of disruptive force might come flying by the explorer’s head, or the ground yawn a fiery grave beneath his feet. Few who adventured into these areas of destruction and survived attempted any repetition of their experiences. There are stories of puffs of luminous, radioactive vapour drifting sometimes scores of miles from the bomb centre and killing and scorching all they overtook. And the first conflagrations from the Paris centre spread westward halfway to the sea.

Moreover, the air in this infernal inner circle of red-lit ruins had a peculiar dryness and a blistering quality, so that it set up a soreness of the skin and lungs that was very difficult to heal.

Such was the last state of Paris, and such on a larger scale was the condition of affairs in Chicago, and the same fate had overtaken Berlin, Moscow, Tokyo, the eastern half of London, Toulon, Kiel, and two hundred and eighteen other centres of population or armament. Each was a flaming centre of radiant destruction that only time could quench, that indeed in many instances time has still to quench. To this day, though indeed with a constantly diminishing uproar and vigour, these explosions continue. In the map of nearly every country of the world three or four or more red circles, a score of miles in diameter, mark the position of the dying atomic bombs and the death areas that men have been forced to abandon around them. Within these areas perished museums, cathedrals, palaces, libraries, galleries of masterpieces, and a vast accumulation of human achievement, whose charred remains lie buried, a legacy of curious material that only future generations may hope to examine.⁠ ⁠…

§ III

The state of mind of the dispossessed urban population which swarmed and perished so abundantly over the countryside during the dark days of the autumnal months that followed the Last War, was one of blank despair. Barnet gives sketch after sketch of groups of these people, camped among the vineyards of Champagne, as he saw them during his period of service with the army of pacification.

There was, for example, that “man-milliner” who came out from a field beside the road that rises up eastward out of Epernay, and asked how things were going in Paris. He was, says Barnet, a round-faced man dressed very neatly in black⁠—so neatly that it was amazing to discover he was living close at hand in a tent made of carpets⁠—and he had “an urbane but insistent manner,” a carefully trimmed moustache and beard, expressive eyebrows, and hair very neatly brushed.

“No one goes into Paris,” said Barnet.

“But, Monsieur, that is very unenterprising,” the man by the wayside submitted.

“The danger is too great. The radiations eat into people’s skins.”

The eyebrows protested. “But is nothing to be done?”

“Nothing can be done.”

“But, Monsieur, it is extraordinarily inconvenient, this living in exile and waiting. My wife and my little boy suffer extremely. There is a lack of amenity. And the season advances. I say nothing of the expense and difficulty in obtaining provisions.⁠ ⁠… When does Monsieur think that something will be done to render Paris⁠—possible?”

Barnet considered his interlocutor.

“I’m told,” said Barnet, “that Paris is not likely to be possible again for several generations.”

“Oh! but this is preposterous! Consider, Monsieur! What are people like ourselves to do in the meanwhile? I am a costumier. All my connections and interests, above all my style, demand Paris.⁠ ⁠…”

Barnet considered the sky, from which a light rain was beginning to fall, the wide fields about them from which the harvest had been taken, the trimmed poplars by the wayside.

“Naturally,” he agreed, “you want to go to Paris. But Paris is over.”

“Over!”

“Finished.”

“But then, Monsieur⁠—what is to become⁠—of me?”

Barnet turned his face westward, whither the white road led.

“Where else, for example, may I hope to find⁠—opportunity?”

Barnet made no reply.

“Perhaps on the Riviera. Or at some such place as Homburg. Or some place perhaps.”

“All that,” said Barnet, accepting for the first time facts that had lain evident in his mind for weeks; “all that must be over too.”

There was a pause. Then the voice beside him broke out. “But, Monsieur, it is impossible! It leaves⁠—nothing.”

“No. Not very much.”

“One cannot suddenly begin to grow potatoes!”

“It would be good if Monsieur could bring himself⁠—”

“To the life of a peasant! And my wife⁠—You do not know the distinguished delicacy of my wife, a refined helplessness, a peculiar dependent charm. Like some slender tropical creeper⁠—with great white flowers.⁠ ⁠… But all this is foolish talk. It is impossible that Paris, which has survived so many misfortunes, should not presently revive.”

“I do not think it will ever revive. Paris is finished. London, too, I am told⁠—Berlin. All the great capitals were stricken.⁠ ⁠…”

“But⁠—! Monsieur must permit me to differ.”

“It is so.”

“It is impossible. Civilisations do not end in this manner. Mankind will insist.”

“On Paris?”

“On Paris.”

“Monsieur, you might as well hope to go down the Maelstrom and resume business there.”

“I am content, Monsieur, with my own faith.”

“The winter comes on. Would not Monsieur be wiser to seek a house?”

“Further from Paris? No, Monsieur. But it is not possible, Monsieur, what you say, and you are under a tremendous mistake.⁠ ⁠… Indeed you are in error.⁠ ⁠… I asked merely for information.⁠ ⁠…”

“When last I saw him,” said Barnet, “he was standing under the signpost at the crest of the hill, gazing