G. Wells’s The War of the Worlds THE DAY WAS NEARLY PERFECT for traveling: clear and cool and still. As I pulled onto the road, my heart was full of the mad hope that Spirit might on this promising day take to the air and fly me to my next stop. “Let’s go, Spirit,” I coaxed her. “Let’s rise up, leave the hard pavement below us, and soar into the clear, cool air. Come on, let’s go!” “Oh, please,” she said with a yawn. “What’s the matter?” “It’s so early.” “But it’s such a wonderful morning. Don’t you feel the urge to get up and go?” “Not at all. I’m still tired from yesterday. All that traveling! I’ve never done anything like that in my life.” “No,” I said, reluctantly admitting the truth of it, “I guess you haven’t.” “Couldn’t we just take it easy today and kind of glide along at a nice easy pace? On the ground?” “Okay,” I said, but I didn’t try to hide my disappointment. “If I have an easy day today, I might be able to get up into the air tomorrow.”
