The Second Invasion from Mars Read online

  "Our information about Mars is so scanty," I say calmly, "that to propose that Martians are like ordinary guys in suburban taverns at least doesn't contradict any scientific truth."

  "You said it," puts in an unknown farmer standing by. "You said that very convincingly, Mr. What's-Your-Name. The one-eyed guy has his arms tattooed up to his elbows, full of naked women. The way he rolled up his sleeves and the way he came over to me with that hose - no, I thought, we don't need any of this."

  "So what does science have to say about tattooing on the Martians?" Morpheus asked spitefully. He wanted to stick me with that one. A cheap trick, it smells of the barber in him. You can't beat me with stunts like that.

  "Professor Zephyrus," said I, looking him straight in the eye, "the chief astronomer of the Marathonian observatory, has never denied in any one of his numerous articles such a practice among the Martians."

  "That's right," confirmed the farmer. "Professors wear glasses, they see more."

  And Morpheus had to swallow all that. He piped down and made his way out of the crowd, saying, "Time for a beer." I stayed to see what would happen next.

  For a while nothing happened. Everyone just stood around, staring and talking quietly to one another. Farmers and merchants - they're an indecisive folk. Then a movement occurred in the first rows. Some villager suddenly whipped off his straw hat, stomped on it with all his might and cried out loudly: "Heh! Five bills - that's money too, isn't it?" Uttering these words, he walked decisively up the wooden steps and thrust himself in the door of the van, so that all we could see was the back of his body, all dusty and covered with burrs. What he was saying and what he was asking could not be heard because of the distance. I saw only that at first his stance was stiff, then he sort of went soft, began to shift his weight, stuck his hands in his pockets and backed out, shaking his head. Then, without looking at anyone, he gingerly stepped down to the ground, picked up his hat and, thoroughly knocking the dust off of it, rejoined the crowd.

  In the door of the van there appeared a man who was indeed very tall and indeed blind in one eye. If it hadn't been for his white uniform, he would certainly have passed for an inhabitant of some thieves' den, what with the black string of his eye patch across his face, his unshaven stubble and his hairy tattooed arms. Looking us over darkly, he rolled down his sleeves, pulled out a cigarette and, after lighting up, said in a rough voice: " Well, come on! It's worth five bills. Five bills for every little glass. That's real money! On the spot. How much drudging do you have to do for five smackers? But here all you have to do is swallow a hose, and it's over in no time. Well?"

  I looked at him and couldn't help but wonder at the shortsightedness of the administration. How could they expect a townsman, or even a farmer, to entrust his organism to such a loud-mouthed thug? I made my way out of the crowd and went over to The Five Spot.

  All of the boys were already there, every one of them with his fowling piece, and some of them with white bands around their sleeves. Polyphemus had pulled on his old army cap, and, drenched with sweat, he delivered a speech. According to him, the evil deeds of the Martians had already become unbearable and all patriots were moaning and sweating blood under their yoke and the time had finally come to give them a decisive rebuff. And the ones responsible for it all, Polyphemus asserted, were the deserters and traitors such as those fat-assed, gobbling generals, the druggist Achilles, the coward Myrtilus and that backslider Apollo.

  My eyes clouded over when I heard these last words. I completely lost the gift of speech and recovered myself only when I noticed that no one but myself was listening to Polyphemus. All of them, it turned out, were listening not to the one-legged stooge, but to Silenus, who had just returned from the mayor's office and was relating that from now on all the taxes would be levied exclusively in stomach juice and that an order had come from Marathon converting stomach juice into the usual units of money. Supposedly stomach juice would now be transferable, and all banks and savings trusts were ready to change it into cash.

  "How can that be?" said Dymus. "I don't understand. What are we going to do, carry some sort of container instead of wallets? And what if I bring them water instead of juice?"

  "Listen, Silenus," said Morpheus, "I owe you a tenner. Will you take juice?" He got very excited, since he always lacks money for drinks and has always drunk at another's expense. "Good times are here, buddies!" he exclaimed. "For example, if I feel like a drink, I just go to the bank, discharge my excesses for them and get cash in exchange. Then - off to the tavern!"

  Here Polyphemus began to shout again. "They've bought you out!" he shouted. "You've sold yourself to the Martians for stomach juice! Here you've sold yourselves out, and they drive around like they were on their own Mars!"

  And at that moment there came across the square, slowly and noiselessly, a very strange black car, which seemed to have no wheels, no windows and no doors. Children were running behind it yelling and whistling; some of them tried to catch hold of it from the back, but it was completely smooth, like a piano, and there was nothing for them to hold onto. A very unusual car.

  "Could it really belong to the Martians?" I asked.

  "Who else?" said Polyphemus irritably. "Is it yours?"

  "No one's saying it's mine," I objected. "There are all sorts of cars in the world. Do they all have to belong to the Martians?"

  "I'm not saying they all belong to the Martians, you old hunk of dung!" Polyphemus roared. "I'm saying the Martians are riding around town as if they were at home, the bastards! And all of you here have sold yourselves out."

  I only shrugged my shoulders, not wanting to get involved, but Silenus answered him very thoughtfully: "Excuse me, Polyphemus, but your shouting is beginning to wear on me. And not only me. In my opinion, we have all fulfilled our duty. We enlisted in the volunteer squad and we cleaned our weapons - what more do you want, if you don't mind me asking?"

  "Patrols! Patrols are needed!" said Polyphemus, choking with emotion. "To cut off the roads! To keep the Martians out of the city!"

  "But how are you going to keep them out?"

  "Blast you, Silenus! How can you keep them out? Very simple! Halt, who goes? Halt or I'll fire! You asked for it, bang!"

  I couldn't stand this. He's not a man, he's a gung-ho.

  "Well, maybe we could form patrols," said Dymus. "It's not too hard for us, is it?"

  "It's not our job," I said decisively. "Silenus here will tell you that it's against the law. That's the army's job. Let the army worry about patrols and whatever shooting has to be done."

  I can't stand these military games, especially when Polyphemus is in command. Some kind of sadism. I remember once when we had civil-defense training in the city in the event of a nuclear attack, and he went around throwing smoke bombs to create a realistic effect, so no one would go without his gas mask. How many people were asphyxiated - well, it's simply a nightmare. He's a noncommissioned officer, you can't trust him with anything. Or the time he barged into the gym class at school, chewed out the instructor in the most vulgar language and took it upon himself to show the kiddies how to march in step. If they put him on patrol, he'd fire his shotgun at everyone until they stopped bringing goods into the city. He'd lash out at the Martians, and they, most likely, would burn the whole city down in retaliation. But our old-timers are like children, honest to God. Patrol they want, patrol they'll get. I spat for all to see and went off to the mayor's office.

  Mr. Nicostratus was polishing his nails. He answered my hesitant questions more or less as follows. The government's financial policies will change somewhat under the new conditions. A large role in monetary matters will now be played by the so-called stomach juice. It may be expected that in the near future the aforementioned juice will begin to have the same currency as money. So far there have been no special instructions about pensions, but there are substantial grounds for assuming that once taxes are levied in the so-called stomach juice, pensions will be paid out in the same so-called
stomach juice. My heart sank, but I collected myself and asked Mr. Nicostratus directly if it wasn't possible to understand his words to mean that the so-called stomach juice was not actually stomach juice, but some sort of symbol of the new financial policy. Mr. Nicostratus shrugged his shoulders indefinitely and, continuing to examine his fingernails, stated, "Stomach juice, Mr. Apollo, is stomach juice."

  "What good is stomach juice to me?" I asked in complete desperation.

  He shrugged his shoulders a second time and remarked, "You know perfectly well that every person needs stomach juice."

  It was absolutely clear to me that Mr. Nicostratus was either lying or holding something back. I was so desperate that I requested an audience with Mr. Mayor. But I was refused. Then I left the mayor's office and signed up for the patrol.

  If a man who has worked flawlessly for thirty years in the fallow field of public education is offered a vial of stomach juice, this man has the right to demonstrate any degree of indignation he so desires. Whether Martians or non-Martians are responsible is beside the point. I cannot abide any anarchic activity, but I am willing to fight for my rights with a rifle in my hands. And even though everyone will know that my protest has a purely symbolic value, let them think about this, let them know that they are not dealing with some dumb animal. Of course, if the donor stations should become our system and the banks and savings trusts should accept stomach juice in exchange for cash, I would take a different stand on the matter. However, so far only Silenus has spoken about banks and savings trusts, so it's only an unconfirmed rumor. As regards the donor stations, Morpheus, after signing up for the patrol, decided to anoint the deal right away and gave himself into the hands of the one-eyed thug. He returned with teary red eyes, showed us a crisp new fiver and reported that the vans were presently leaving. That means there can be no talk about any new system: they came and they left. If you managed to donate your excesses - good for you. If you didn't - blame yourself. In my view, this is outrageous.

  Polyphemus appointed me along with Calais the stutterer to patrol Harmony Square and the adjoining streets from 12 to 2 a.m. After giving us our certification made out in Silenus's hand, he slapped me on the back with great emotion and said, "The old guard! What would these crappy civvies do without us, Phoebus? I knew when we got down to brass tacks you'd be with us." We embraced and both shed tears. Actually, Polyphemus is not such a bad guy, he simply likes people to follow his orders without question. A completely understandable desire. I requested his permission for free time and headed for Achilles' place. A patrol's a patrol, but you ought to play it safe.

  What sort of a thing is stomach juice? I asked Achilles. Who can benefit from it? What can it be used for? Achilles said it was necessary for the proper digestion of food and most likely nothing else. Fd known that before I'd asked him.

  "Soon I will be able to offer you a large batch of the so-called stomach juice," I said. "Will you take it?"

  He answered that he would think about it, and right here offered to trade his unserrated air-mail stamp of '28 for my incomplete "zoo park" series. You have to admit, the unserrated beauty is unique, but the one Achilles showed me has two strips glued together and some kind of greasy spot. I don't know, I just don't know.

  Coming out of the drugstore, I saw the Martian car again. It might have been the same one, but perhaps another. Breaking all the traffic laws, it floated down the middle of the street, but with the speed of a pedestrian, so I was able to get a good look at it. I was walking to the tavern and it was going the same way. My first impression proved to be correct: the car most resembled a streamlined piano covered with dust. From time to time something underneath it flashed and the car shuddered a bit, but this was apparently not a malfunction because it continued to move steadily forward without stopping for a moment. I couldn't make out any windows or doors even from a close distance, but the absence of wheels struck me most of all. True, my build did not permit me to bend down low enough to look at the bottom. Perhaps there were wheels there after all - it couldn't be that there wasn't even a single wheel.

  Suddenly the car stopped. And wouldn't you know it, it stopped right in front of Mr. Laomedon's estate. I recall that I thought bitterly: it seems there are people in the world to whom it makes no difference whether it's a new president, an old president, Martians or anybody else. Every power always pays them respect and attention, I thought, which they don't deserve; in fact they deserve the opposite. But something completely unexpected happened. Assuming with good reason that someone was going to get out of the car and that I would finally see a real live Martian, I stood to the side and watched along with the other townspeople, whose line of thinking apparently coincided with mine. To our amazement and disappointment, there emerged from the car not Martians, but some kind of proper young men in tight coats and identical berets. Three of them went to the grand front entrance, while two of them stayed with the car, sticking their hands deep in their pockets and leaning casually on the car with various parts of their bodies. The front door opened, the three entered and immediately strange but not very loud noises were heard, as if someone were trying to move the furniture around by himself and others were beating a carpet with regular blows. The two standing by the car paid no attention to these sounds. They kept their same positions, one looking carelessly down the street, the other yawning and glancing at the top floor of the estate. They also didn't change their positions when a minute later the front door opened slowly and my insulter, Mr. Laomedon's chauffeur, came out cautiously, like a blind man. His face was pale, his mouth hanging open, his eyes bulging and glassy, and both his hands were pressed to his stomach. Coming out onto the sidewalk, he walked a few paces, dropped with a groan, sat for a while bending over farther and farther, and then toppled over on his side, curled up, kicked his legs and froze stock still. I must confess that at first I understood nothing. Everything proceeded so leisurely, in such a calm businesslike manner, against the background of the usual city noise, that the feeling arose and stuck with me that this was the way it should be. I did not experience any anxiety and did not seek any explanations. I felt such trust in those young men - so proper, so restrained.... Now one of them distractedly glanced at the chauffeur lying there, lit up a cigarette and again began to examine the top floor. It even seemed to me that he was smiling. Then a stamping of feet was heard, and one after another there came out of the entrance the young man in the tight coat, wiping his lips with a handkerchief; Mr. Laomedon in a splendid eastern robe, without a hat and in handcuffs; another young man in a tight coat, taking his gloves off on the way; and finally a third young man in a tight coat, loaded with weapons. With his right hand he held three or four machine guns to his chest, and in the left he carried several pistols, dangling the trigger loops on his fingers, and besides these a tommy gun hung from each shoulder. I glanced at Mr. Laomedon only once, but this was enough for me: I can still see something red, wet and sticky. The whole cavalcade crossed the street leisurely and disappeared into the inner recesses of the car. The two young men remaining outside lazily pushed off from the polished side, walked over to the prostrate chauffeur, carefully took him by the hands and feet and, swaying him slightly, tossed him into the house. One of them then drew a piece of paper out of his pocket and neatly stuck it next to the doorbell, after which the car, without turning around, moved with its former speed in the opposite direction, and the two young men with the most unassuming faces walked through the parting crowd and disappeared around the corner.

  When I came out of the stupor into which the unexpectedness and unusualness of this occurrence had thrown me and again recovered the ability to think, I felt something like a psychic shock, as if a turning point in history had been reached right before my eyes. I am sure that the other witnesses experienced and felt something similar. We all crowded in front of the entrance, but no one resolved to go inside. I put on my glasses and over the heads of the crowd read the proclamation stuck below the doorbell.

  It
read:

  Narcotics are a poison and the disgrace of the nation! The time has come to make an end of narcotics. And we shall make an end of them, and you will help us. We shall punish unmercifully those who spread narcotics.

  If it had been anyone else, there would have been enough to talk about for two hours or more, but this time everyone only exchanged interjections, not having the strength to fight against their initial timidity: "Aiee-aiee-aiee.... Better do it!... Ehe-he-he.... Egads! Oh, no!"

  Someone had called the police and a doctor. The doctor went into the house and attended to the chauffeur. Then Pandareus arrived in the police buggy. He stomped around on the porch, read the proclamation several times, scratched the back of his head and even peeked in the door, but was afraid to go inside, even though the doctor was calling him irritably in the most disrespectful language. He stood in the doorway, spreading his legs, sticking his palms under his strap and puffing up like a turkey.

  With the appearance of the police the crowd grew somewhat bolder and began to speak out more definitely:

  "So that's the way they do it, huh?"

  "Yeah, that's the way, it seems...."

  "Interesting, interesting, isn't it, gentlemen?"

  "I never would have believed it."

  I sensed with alarm that the tongues were becoming untied and decided to leave, although I was eaten up with curiosity, but here Silenus turned to Pandareus with a direct question: "So, Pan, did the law triumph after all? Is this what you finally decided?"

  Pandareus pursed his lips significantly and, hesitating a bit, stated, "I assume this was not our decision."

  "What do you mean, not yours? Whose, then?"

  "I suppose, the gendarmerie in the capital," declared Polyphemus in a thunderous whisper, glancing around on all sides.

  "What kind of gendarmerie is that?" people in the crowd objected. "Suddenly the gendarmerie is riding around in a Martian car! No, that's no gendarmerie."