The Mars of Our Imagination

by

Lauren Roberts

No one would have believed, in the last years of the nineteenth century, that human affairs were being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their affairs they were scrutinized and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinize the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. War of the Worlds

Ladies and gentlemen, this is the most terrifying thing I have ever witnessed . . . Wait a minute! Someone’s crawling. Someone or . . . something. I can see peering out of that black hole two luminous disks . . . are they eyes? It might be a face. It might be . . . good heavens, something’s wriggling out of the shadow like a gray snake. War of the Worlds


Herbert George (H.G.) Wells (1866-1946) was a British writer and passionate fighter for justice who turned his talent for writing into works that challenged the complacency and injustice he saw. His most popular work, The War of the Worlds, would no doubt be a fixture in the science fiction genre today even without Orson Welles’ help.

The youngest of four children born to a working class family—his father was a gardener turned shopkeeper turned professional cricketer (until he broke his leg) and his mother served as housekeeper at a nearby estate—Wells won a scholarship to the Royal College Of Science where he began working for a degree in zoology. His interest in education faltered, however, and he left the school in 1887 without a degree, though he taught in private schools for four years, and during that time obtained his B.A. In 1891, he settled in London and married his cousin, Isabel, and continue to teach in a correspondence college.

By 1893, he had made the transition to full-time writer, though his first book, Textbook of Biology, had little in common with his future ones. The next year, however, he emerged with a new wife and the publication of his first science fiction novel, The Time Machine: An Invention. Interestingly, the story had originated out of a three-part speculative series he had written in 1888 for an amateur publication and which, in a revised version entitled “The Rediscovery of the Unique,” was published in 1891 in the Fortnightly Review. The idea of the fourth dimension was not a new one for writers, but Wells was the first to popularize it by proposing a mechanical method of time travel and sending his traveler into the far future.

He used his work to promote his views against social injustice and to comment on what he saw as the dangers of unchecked scientific process. His next work, The Island of Dr. Moreau, published in 1896, tells of a scientist who surgically alters the jungle beasts of his isolated island, turning them into mockeries of the human form. Moreau’s goal is to humanize the animals, but Wells uses the story to point out that nature (and the nature of the beast) will inevitably triumph.

A year later, The Invisible Man, Wells’ examination of what might happen when a human is granted a power that sets him above others, was published. This one, too, raised questions about what could happen if scientific explorations continued without bounds.

About this time, several factors came together to give Wells the idea for his next book. One was the work of Percival Lowell (1855-1916). An astronomer by training, Lowell founded an observatory in 1894 in Arizona and spent 23 years studying Mars through the Clark Telescope. Though his work lead to, among other things, the eventual discovery of Pluto (though not by him), he is best known for his unfortunate and incorrect belief that Mars possessed canals built by intelligent beings. In his first book on the subject entitled simply Mars (1895) he noted: 

The first hint the world had of their existence was when [Italian astronomer Giovanni] Schiaparelli saw some of the lines in 1877 . . . The world, however, was anything but prepared for the revelation, and, when he announced what he had seen, promptly proceeded to disbelieve him . . . In 1879 the canali, as he called them (channels, or canals, the word may be translated, and it is in the latter sense that he now regards them), showed straighter and narrower than they had in 1877: this not in consequence of any change in them, but from his own improved faculty of detection; for what the eye has once seen it can always see better a second time.

Schiaparelli supposes them to be canals, but of geologic construction. He suggests, however, no explanation of how this is possible; so that the suggestion is not, properly speaking, a theory. That eminent astronomer further says of the idea that they are the work of intelligent beings: (“I should carefully refrain from combating this supposition, which involves no impossibility.”) In truth, no natural theory has yet been advanced which will explain these lines . . . The evidence of handicraft, if such it be, points to a highly intelligent mind behind it . . . Certainly what we see hints at the existence of beings who are in advance of, not behind us, in the journey of life . . . That Mars seems to be inhabited is not the last, but the first word on the subject. More important than the mere fact of the existence of living beings there, is the question of what they may be like.

Lowell’s theory captivated the public’s imagination, not least because of political events that pointed toward a coming war. The implications for England were disturbing—hostile intentions of a foreign country, technological advancements in war machines—and Wells was acutely aware of them. He referred to Schiaparelli’s beliefs as well as his own when he wrote: “The Martians seem to have calculated their descent with amazing subtlety . . .  and to have carried out their preparations with a well-nigh unanimity. Had our instruments permitted it, we might have seen the gathering trouble far back in the nineteenth century. Men like Schiaparelli watched the red planet . . . but failed to interpret the fluctuating appearances of the markings they mapped so well. All that time the Martians must have been getting ready.” It is unquestionable that Wells viewed European events in that same way.

In the novel, which was first published in 1898, Martians forced to flee their dying home planet and attempt, by force, to take over another world for their use. “With infinite complacency,” Wells writes, “men went to and fro over this globe in their assurance of their empire over matter . . . No one gave a thought to the older worlds of space as sources of human danger, or thought of them only to dismiss the idea of life upon them as impossible or improbable.” They land in this unprepared England where they unleash a terrifying battle, laying waste to the land and bringing death to its inhabitants.

The War of the Worlds begins with a series of violent explosions seen to erupt from the surface of Mars over a period of ten nights. Although unusual, it raises little concern and is attributed to volcanoes erupting on the Martian surface or meteorites hitting it. However, when the first of the Martian “cylinders” lands, having been launched from the red planet, it creates an impact crater that becomes something of an attraction. So when it opens, hundreds are there to observe the appearance of a tentacled creature. A designated party approaches to make peaceful contact, but are instantly vaporized by the light of the creatures’ heat-ray.

For four weeks, the invaders roam the countryside, engaging in battles. Yet despite the technologically advanced weaponry of the Martians, the British army scores several successes with their own artillery—until they are met by poison gas shells that pave the way for the aliens unopposed march into London. And it is there, in that desolate, nearly lifeless city that the alien encampment is finally defeated not by weapons, not by military strategy, but by the simplest of nature’s works of wonder.

It’s a compelling read even after more than 100 years. So it’s no wonder that since its original date of publication, it has never been out of print. It’s also a story that lends itself to unique cover art, and various publishers over the years have taken advantage of that. Chez Zeus has a page devoted to cover art for this book that shows the wide range of interpretations book cover designers have found in its pages, a fascinating and unusual perspective.

              

Forty years after its publication, a talented young writer, director and producer decided to use The War of the Worlds for his own purposes. The Mercury Theatre was the brainchild of John Houseman and 21-year-old Orson Welles. Welles was no newcomer to radio. Since 1935, he had made numerous appearances on The March of Time, in a dramatization of Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables and on The Shadow. In the summer of 1938, he was offered the opportunity to showcase his Mercury Players on his own series to be broadcast from New York. The show went live on July 11 as “The Mercury Theatre on the Air.” Several things made it unique: stories specifically chosen because of their suitability to the radio medium; the innovative use of sound effects and music; the gripping performances of the vibrant and experienced Welles. Dracula was the opening presentation followed by, among others,  Treasure Island, A Tale of Two Cities, The 39 Steps,  Abraham Lincoln and The Count of Monte Cristo. Ratings were not high, but CBS believed in it and added it to the regular CBS lineup beginning that September.

Part of the difficulty was that the show aired on another station at the same time as the popular “Chase and Sanborn Hour” which starred ventriloquist Edgar Bergen and his dummy Charlie McCarthy. Wanting to increase his audience,  Welles decided to use an adaptation of Wells’ story as a Halloween presentation. So on Sunday, October 30, 1938, at 8:00 p.m., the broadcast adaptation of The War of the Worlds  began when an announcer came on the air and said, “The Columbia Broadcasting System and its affiliated stations present Orson Welles and the Mercury Theatre on the Air in The War of the Worlds by H. G. Wells.”

History was about to be made.

Remember that in 1938, Hitler was in power and European nations were on the verge of war. Radio audiences were accustomed to receiving their entertainment and their news in certain ways, and the format Welles chose to use for his show was the same as the way radio had covered the “Munich crisis” less than a month prior with bulletins breaking into regular programming.

The program began with Welles himself setting the scene of the play, using a slightly altered version of the book’s opening line, followed by a weather report allegedly from the Government Weather Bureau. (In reality, all parts of the play came from the CBS studios in New York City and were performed by the Mercury Players.) It then went to the Meridian Room of the Hotel Park Plaza for “the music of Ramon Raquello and his orchestra.”

It wasn’t long before a special bulletin interrupted the music, announcing that a professor at Mount Jennings Observatory in Chicago had reported seeing explosions on Mars. The music resumed, but was again interrupted by a news update in the form of an interview with an astronomer (played by Welles) at Princeton Observatory. The newsman doing the interview informs the program’s listeners that “Professor Pierson may be interrupted by telephone or other communications. During this period he is in constant touch with the astronomical centers of the world . . . Professor, may I begin my questions?”

What made this program become what it did was threefold: (1) heightened global tensions that had many people aware of the dangers of war and invasion; (2) the fact that many listeners tuned in late and missed the initial announcement that the program was a staged dramatization; (3) the format which replicated the delivery of important news by breaking into regular programming with ominous news reports.

A fourth, no less important factor was the professionalism of the broadcast. Welles was a master at mixing fact and fiction, and his Mercury Players were excellent. Welles chose The War of the Worlds as he did other stories—because of its suitability to the radio medium. Furthermore, his inventive use of sound effects and music added to the realism. It’s not surprising, then, listening to the program even today, to feel some of the terror of the original listeners when they heard these words:

Ladies and gentlemen, this is the most terrifying thing I have ever witnessed. . . . Wait a minute! Someone's crawling. Someone or . . . something. I can see peering out of that black hole two luminous disks . . . are they eyes? It might be a face. It might be . . . good heavens, something's wriggling out of the shadow like a gray snake. Now it's another one, and another.  They look like tentacles to me. There, I can see the thing's body. It's  large, large as a bear and it glistens like wet leather. But that face, it . .  . Ladies and gentlemen, it's indescribable. I can hardly force myself to keep looking at it. The eyes are black and gleam like a serpent. The mouth  is V-shaped with saliva dripping from its rimless lips that seem to quiver  and pulsate. The monster or whatever it is can hardly move. It seems weighed  down by . . . possibly gravity or something. The thing's raising up. The  crowd falls back now. They've seen plenty. This is the most extraordinary experience. I can't find words . . .

 
John Gosling, in an essay on his web site, War of the Worlds Invasion: The Historical Perspective, notes: As I sit to write this article, the television shows an advancing column of tanks speeding through the Iraqi desert toward Baghdad. It is March 2003 and we are just days into the second Gulf War, but like no other conflict, this has become a war of information as much as it is of bullets and bombs . . . In this hi-tech world of twenty-four hour rolling news coverage, we take for granted the speed and immediacy of this information, while at the same time maintaining a well-honed sense of skepticism. We have learnt to distrust the purveyors of news, influenced as they are by spin, propaganda and their own private agendas. We have seen it all, heard it all and the revolution has been televised so many times that we no longer think of it as a new or frightening experience. This is the world we now live in, but it was not always so.

Indeed not. Newspapers the next day were filled with headlines about the panic the program caused. Some claimed a million people panicked, and many were injured. Others allegedly committed suicide by poison to avoid being captured. Recent reports discount some of the numbers and incidents (and that may be true, but newspapers viewed radio as a threat and no doubt had some motivation to play up the “unreliability” of it), but the fact is that panic did break out. However, the cast and crew of the program remained blissfully ignorant or skeptical until the broadcast was well under way. It is uncertain how Welles really felt when he learned of the public reaction. Over the years, he presented conflicting versions of the events, and even tried to claim credit for planning it, but newsreel footage of the time clearly shows that he was rattled by ensuing events. However, it did sufficient damage that he felt compelled to end the broadcast with these words:

This is Orson Welles, ladies and  gentlemen, out of character to assure you that The War of The Worlds has  no further significance than as the holiday offering it was intended to  be. The Mercury Theatre’s own radio version of dressing up in a sheet and  jumping out of a bush and saying Boo! Starting now, we couldn't soap all  your windows and steal all your garden gates by tomorrow night . . . so  we did the best next thing. We annihilated the world before your very ears,  and utterly destroyed the C. B. S. You will be relieved, I hope, to learn  that we didn't mean it, and that both institutions are still open for business. So goodbye everybody, and remember the terrible lesson you learned tonight.  That grinning, glowing, globular invader of your living room is an inhabitant  of the pumpkin patch, and if your doorbell rings and nobody's there, that  was no Martian . . . it’s Halloween.

And as I wish you a good, safe Halloween, I also encourage you to use this night (or at least this week) to set aside your current book and to both read this story and listen to the original radio adaptation of it. It’s the perfect scary night experience. You should be able to pick up a copy at your local independent bookstore (a particularly nice one, pictured at the top of the column, is the hardcover edition published in 2005 from the New York Review of Books; $16.95) or your library. You may also find a CD version of the broadcast at this time of year.


Almost since her childhood days of Mother Goose, Lauren has been giving her opinion on books to anyone who will listen. That “talent” eventually took her out of magazine writing and into book reviewing in 2000 for an online review site where she cut her teeth (as well as a few authors). Stints as book editor for her local newspaper and contributing editor to Booklist and Bookmarks magazines have reinforced her belief that she has interesting things to say about books. Lauren shares her home with several significant others including three cats, 800  bookmarks and more than 1,000 books that, whether previously read or not, constitute her to-be-read stack. She can be reached at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it