“No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man’s…”

In the novel, Wells describes them as: “A huge tripod of glittering metal, higher than the tallest houses, striding with a queer rolling motion over the pine trees.” They move like stalking birds. They emit a haunting cry: “Ulla! Ulla!” They carry heat rays that turn people into ash and a basket that collects victims for feeding.

Wells makes this explicit in Chapter One, Book One: “And before we judge them too harshly, we must remember what ruthless and utter destruction our own species has wrought… The Tasmanians, in spite of their human likeness, were entirely swept out of existence in a war of extermination waged by European immigrants. Are we such apostles of mercy as to complain if the Martians warred in the same spirit?” That is a brutal, self-aware punch to the gut. The horror of the novel isn't just that aliens are killing us—it's that we’ve done the same thing to others. The Martians are a mirror. Let’s return to Orson Welles in 1938. The legend says that a million Americans fled their homes. But recent historians have debunked the most extreme claims. The panic was real, but it was concentrated. Most people who heard the broadcast knew it was fiction. However, for the minority who tuned in late—and for a public already terrified by the growing war in Europe—the broadcast was a traumatic event.

The story is narrated by an unnamed philosopher living in Woking, England (just outside London). He watches as mysterious cylinders crash onto Horsell Common. At first, the locals are curious—they treat the Martians like circus performers. But when the creatures emerge, “slowly, painfully, and slug-like,” and turn their heat rays on the crowd, curiosity turns to horror.