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dead, preserved in murky formaldehyde. The bulbous, brown-skinned thing was composed mostly of a gigantic brain sac. Huge milky-white eyes looked like overcooked eggs. Snake-like tentacle appendages dangled from a soft and hideous body.
    “It looks like that deformed Merrick chap,” cried Philby, the medical researcher. But Wells, who had seen pictures of the “elephant man,” knew that this supposed Martian was much more disgusting in appearance.
    Wells scribbled notes furiously, attempting to record or even sketch what he witnessed. He swallowed hard as he scratched with his lead pencil, sure he had blundered onto the doorstep of history in the making.
    He looked at the blustering bearded man. His immediate reaction was one of distaste. Moreau seemed to be a person of some genius, but little tact. Wells preferred Huxley’s approach to the mysteries of science, yet Moreau’s convictions stood taller and more impregnable than all of Wells’s book learning. The abrasive man did not seem to care that he was liked among his colleagues, so long as he was proved right. Moreau stood buffeted by the wash of the audience’s distaste, but showed no sign of backing down. His shocking announcement had at least shaken them, forced them to listen.
    Smug now that he had their full attention, Moreau raised his voice. “This Martian died in the crash of a first cylinder in the Sahara, apparently a scout ship from the red planet. I have dissected and analyzed it thoroughly and recorded the full details here in my personal journal.”
    He removed a bound volume from his suit and held it up in a large hand. “This specimen is only the first—the first of an entire invasion force from Mars!”

CHAPTER SEVEN
THE MARTIAN CYLINDER OPENS
    FROM THE JOURNAL OF DR. MOREAU
    Grand discoveries require careful documentation. I am a participant in events that will change the course of human history, and therefore I have determined to set down all that I have observed and pondered. History must remember what occurred in the Sahara, on the Atlantic steamer, and at Percival Lowell’s observatory in Arizona Territory.
    If the impending Martian invasion is not thwarted, then this journal may be all that remains of our civilization. I will tell what happened, and how the human race failed in its time of greatest crisis. I am fully aware of my obligation to the truth.
    * * *
    After the silvery cylinder had torn a smoky line through the sky and crashed near our still-burning canals, Lowell and I rushed forward, awestruck and eager. We were impetuous men, and neither of us wasted time with undue caution. Hesitation results only in lost opportunities: that is a motto by which I choose to live my life. Now was not the time for us to be cowards.
    A plume of dust curled into the air from the distant impact crater. “I hope the Martian ship did not explode when it struck the ground!” Lowell shouted.
    “Impossible!” I replied over the rumble of the fire from the raw impact wound. “They would be too advanced to make such a foolish mistake.”
    Both Lowell and I were accustomed to leading, not following, and so we climbed the lip of the fresh crater in tandem. Together, we gazed down at the steaming ruin.
    Deep below, I could make out a silver cylinder with snub ends like a bullet. It was mirror-bright, dazzling our eyes, though the hull was stained from entering the atmosphere like a giant meteor. But this was no meteor: the cylinder was clearly formed by the hands of an intelligent race.
    I confess that I had a more scientific curiosity than a diplomatic one. If the alien civilization had sent a spacecraft across interplanetary distances, then Martian technology was obviously far superior to anything our greatest industrial nations had developed. I was eager to learn what these creatures could teach me.
    The heat from the pit rose in a tremendous wave, preventing us from approaching closer. We could only stand to observe for a few seconds. Lowell