“But look here, Cavor,” I said.  “After all!  What’s it all for?”

He smiled.  “The thing now is to go.”

“The moon,” I reflected.  “But what do you expect?  I thought the moon was a dead world.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“We’re going to see.”

“Are we?” I said, and stared before me.

“You are tired,” he remarked.  “You’d better take a walk this afternoon.”

“No,” I said obstinately; “I’m going to finish this brickwork.”

And I did, and insured myself a night of insomnia.  I don’t think I have ever had such a night.  I had some bad times before my business collapse, but the very worst of those was sweet slumber compared to this infinity of aching wakefulness.  I was suddenly in the most enormous funk at the thing we were going to do.

I do not remember before that night thinking at all of the risks we were running.  Now they came like that array of spectres that once beleaguered Prague, and camped around me.  The strangeness of what we were about to do, the unearthliness of it, overwhelmed me.  I was like a man awakened out of pleasant dreams to the most horrible surroundings.  I lay, eyes wide open, and the sphere seemed to get more flimsy and feeble, and Cavor more unreal and fantastic, and the whole enterprise madder and madder every moment.

I got out of bed and wandered about.  I sat at the window and stared at the immensity of space.  Between the stars was the void, the unfathomable darkness!  I tried to recall the fragmentary knowledge of astronomy I had gained in my irregular reading, but it was all too vague to furnish any idea of the things we might expect.  At last I got back to bed and snatched some moments of sleep—­moments of nightmare rather—­in which I fell and fell and fell for evermore into the abyss of the sky.

I astonished Cavor at breakfast.  I told him shortly, “I’m not coming with you in the sphere.”

I met all his protests with a sullen persistence.  “The thing’s too mad,” I said, “and I won’t come.  The thing’s too mad.”

I would not go with him to the laboratory.  I fretted bout my bungalow for a time, and then took hat and stick and set out alone, I knew not whither.  It chanced to be a glorious morning:  a warm wind and deep blue sky, the first green of spring abroad, and multitudes of birds singing.  I lunched on beef and beer in a little public-house near Elham, and startled the landlord by remarking apropos of the weather, “A man who leaves the world when days of this sort are about is a fool!”

“That’s what I says when I heerd on it!” said the landlord, and I found that for one poor soul at least this world had proved excessive, and there had been a throat-cutting.  I went on with a new twist to my thoughts.

In the afternoon I had a pleasant sleep in a sunny place, and went on my way refreshed.  I came to a comfortable-looking inn near Canterbury.  It was bright with creepers, and the landlady was a clean old woman and took my eye.  I found I had just enough money to pay for my lodging with her.  I decided to stop the night there.  She was a talkative body, and among many other particulars learnt she had never been to London.  “Canterbury’s as far as ever I been,” she said.  “I’m not one of your gad-about sort.”