The Second Invasion from Mars Page 6

  "So what's your opinion, huh? Were they really Martians?"

  Polyphemus puffed up even more and bawled: "Hey, who's that talking about Martians? Watch out!"

  But they paid no more attention to him. The tongues came completely unhinged: "The car might be Martian, but they themselves are not Martians, that's for sure. Their ways are the same as ours, human."

  "Right! What do Martians care about narcotics, I'd like to know."

  "Hey, you old-timers, a new broom sweeps clean. But what business of theirs is our stomach juice?"

  "No, gentlemen, those were no people. Too calm, you see, too quiet. I think they were Martians. They work like machines."

  "Right, machines! Robots! Why should the Martians dirty their hands? They have robots."

  Pandareus, unable to hold back, also joined in the guessing game. "No, old fellows," he declared, "they're not robots. That's just the system now. They take only deaf-and-dumb men into the gendarmerie. For reasons of state security."

  This hypothesis at first caused confusion, but then brought poisonous retorts, very witty for the most part. I recall only the remark of grouchy Paralus. He delivered himself of the opinion that it wouldn't be a bad thing if the police took only deaf-and-dumb men, only not for reasons of state security, but to protect innocent people from all the rubbish dumped on them by official spokesmen. Polyphemus, who earlier had unbuttoned his jacket, now puffed up, buttoned up again and hollered: "You've had your say - that's all!"

  And so we unfortunately had to disperse, although at just that moment the ambulance pulled up. The old horse's ass flew into such a fury that we could only observe from afar how they carried the injured chauffeur out of the entrance-way and afterwards, to our surprise, the bodies of two others. We still don't know who these two were.

  All of the boys headed for the tavern, and me too. Those same two young men were standing casually at the bar. As before, they were calm and quiet, they drank gin and looked distractedly over the heads. I ordered myself a complete meal and, eating my fill, watched how the most curious of our group gradually moved closer to the young men. It was fun to watch how ineptly Morpheus tried to start a conversation with them about the weather in Marathon, and Paralus, intending to take the bull by the horns, offered them a drink. The young men, as if seeing no one around them, briskly gulped down the drinks pushed toward them, but maintained an impartial silence. Jokes didn't amuse them, they didn't catch hints and seemed to miss direct questions altogether. I didn't know what to think. I was so taken with their exceptional restraint, their complete indifference to the amusing attempts to draw them into conversation, that I began to incline to the thought that they were indeed Martian robots, that the repulsive appearance of the Martians prevented them from openly showing their true faces. Then I suspected that they were the Martians themselves, about whom we still know nothing, when you get right down to it. The boys, giving themselves away completely, clustered about the young men and made remarks about them without any restraint; some even dared to try touching their coats. All were now convinced that these were robots before them.

  Iapetus even began to worry. Serving me brandy, he said nervously, "How can they be robots? They've each had two gins, two brandies, two packs of cigarettes, and who's going to pay?"

  I explained to him that the robot's program would have accounted for drinks and cigarettes and therefore would certainly account for some means of payment. Iapetus calmed down, but at this moment a fight started at the bar.

  As we learned later, grouchy Paralus had made a bet with that fool Dymus that Dymus could touch a burning cigarette to the robot's hand and nothing would happen. Here is what I saw with my own eyes. From the crowd of people enjoying themselves Dymus suddenly burst like a cork from a bottle. He flew backwards all the way across the room, pumping his feet in tiny circles and knocking down tables and people in his path until he dropped in a corner. Not a second passed before Paralus, in exactly the same manner, found himself in another corner. The boys flung themselves in all directions, and I, without understanding a thing, saw the young men sitting quietly at the bar as before, thoughtfully raising the glasses of alcohol to their lips with identical movements.

  Paralus and Dymus were picked up and dragged behind the curtains to be revived. I took my glass and also went behind the curtains. I wanted to find out what had happened. I arrived just as Dymus came around and sat there with the most idiotic expression on his face, feeling his chest. Paralus had not yet recovered consciousness, but was already gulping gin and washing it down with soda. The waitress was standing beside him with a towel ready to bandage up his chin when he came to. Here I learned the version of the incident just described and agreed with the rest that Paralus was a provocateur and Dymus was simply a fool no better than Pandareus.

  However, having expressed these reasoned considerations, the boys were by no means satisfied, but took it into their heads to do something about it. Polyphemus, who had kept in the shade up to this point, announced that this would be the first military action of our voluntary patrol. We'd jump the hoodlums when they came out of the tavern, he said, and he began to order who should stand where and when we would attack. I immediately disassociated myself from this venture. First of all, I am an opponent of violence, there's nothing of the noncommissioned officer in me. Second, I didn't see that the young men had been in the wrong. And finally, I planned not to fight with them, but rather to have a talk with them about my own affairs. I quietly came out from behind the curtains, returned to my table and by these very movements initiated another occurrence, one very bitter for me.

  But even now, when I look over the events of the day with completely different eyes, I must state that the logic of my actions was and remains faultless. The young men were not from our area, I reasoned. The fact that they had arrived in the Martian car indicated that they most likely came from the capital. Moreover, their participation in the arrest of Mr. Laomedon proved without a doubt that they belonged to the new regime: they would hardly have sent some minor agents against Mr. Laomedon. Therefore, it followed from the logic of things that these young men must certainly be well informed about the new conditions; they would be able to tell me things of interest. Being in the position of a little man who was ridiculed by Mr. Laomedon's chauffeur and refused information by Mr. Mayor's secretary, I couldn't pass up this opportunity to get some true facts. On the other hand, the young men did not raise any fears in me. The fact that they had handled Mr. Laomedon and his bodyguards rather brutally did not alarm me at all. It was their duty and Mr. Laomedon had deserved a good hiding for a long time. As regards the incident with Paralus and Dymus, well, my friends, Dymus is an idiot, it's impossible to deal with him, and Paralus is able to bring out anyone's worst side with his grouchy wisecracks. I won't even mention the fact that I myself would not allow anyone to call me a robot, let alone stick a cigarette on my hand.

  Consequently, when I had finished my brandy, I went over to the young men, completely confident of the success of my undertaking. I had thought out the plan of the impending conversation in all its details, having taken into consideration the nature of their occupation, their mood immediately after the incident and their evidently innate taciturnity and restraint. I had intended at first to ask their forgiveness for the thoughtless behavior of my compatriots. Further, I would introduce myself, express the hope that I was not bothering them with my conversation, complain about the quality of the brandy, which lapetus frequently dilutes with cheaper sorts, and offer to treat them from my personal bottle. And only after this and after we had discussed the weather in Marathon and in our town, did I intend very lightly and delicately to pass to the main question. Approaching them, I noticed that one of them was busy smoking his cigarette, while the other, turning away from the bar, observed my approach intently and with some interest, as it seemed to me. I decided therefore to address him directly.

  Coming up, I doffed my hat and said, "Good evening." And then this hoodlum made a
sort of lazy movement with his shoulder and it suddenly seemed as if a hand grenade had exploded inside of my head. I don't remember anything. I recall only that I was lying for a long time next to Paralus behind the curtains, glugging gin, washing it down with soda, and someone was applying a cold wet napkin to my wounded eye.

  And now I ask myself: What more can you expect? No one interceded for me, no one raised a voice of protest. Everything repeats itself. Hoodlums are again spreading terror, beating up citizens in the streets. And when Polyphemus drove me home in his miniature car, my daughter, as unconcerned as everyone else, was kissing Mr. Secretary in the garden. No, even if I had known how it would all turn out, I still had a duty, an obligation to try to engage them in conversation. I would have been more careful, I wouldn't have approached them, but from whom else can I find out anything? I don't want to worry over every copper, I can't force myself to teach anymore, I don't want to sell the house in which I have lived for so many years. This is what I fear, and I want peace and quiet.

  June 8

  Temperature: +17° C, cloud cover: 8, wind from the south at 3 meters per second. I'm sitting at home, not going out, not seeing anybody. The swelling has gone down and the injured spot almost doesn't hurt, but it still looks terrible. All day I examined my stamps and watched television. Everything is the same in town. Last night our golden youth besieged Madam Persephone's house, which was loaded with soldiers. They say it was a real free-for-all. The field of battle was held by the army. (They're no Martians, you can be sure of that.) Nothing special in the newspapers. Not a word about the embargo; you get the impression it's been called off entirely. There's a strange address by the war minister, set in brevier type, which says that our membership in the Military Commonwealth represents a burden for the country and is not so well founded as might appear at first sight. Thank God, they've finally figured it out after eleven years! But most of all they are writing about a farmer named Periphas who is remarkable in that he can give up to four litres of stomach juice a day without any harm to his organism. His hard life is reported with many intimate details. Interviews with him are recorded and scenes from his biography are acted out on television. A sturdy, rather crude man of forty-five years, without a grain of intellect. You look at him and never suspect that you are looking at such an amazing phenomenon. He kept insisting it was his habit of sucking a piece of sugar every morning. I'll have to try it.

  Yes! In our papers there is an article by Calais the veterinarian about the danger of narcotics. There Calais writes that the regular use of narcotics by large-horned cattle is exceptionally harmful to the production of stomach juice. A diagram is even attached. An interesting observation: everything is printed black on white in Calais's article, yet it's unbearably difficult to read. It seems as if he were writing and still stuttering. However, it turns out that Mr. Laomedon was exterminated because he prevented the citizens from freely drawing off their stomach juice. One gets the impression that stomach juice is the foundation stone of the new governmental policy. Such a thing has never occurred before. But then, when you think about it, why not?

  Hermione returned from a visit to friends and related that in the former estate of Mr. Laomedon a permanent donor station for the collection of stomach juice was being set up. If this is true, then I approve and support it. I always stand for permanence and stability.

  Ah, my stamps, my little stampies! You alone never upset me!

  June 9

  Temperature: +16° C, cloud cover: 5, a slight rain. The swelling has completely vanished; however, as Achilles predicted, the whole area around the eye has taken on a hideous greenish tinge. I can't show myself on the street: you wouldn't hear anything but stupid jokes. This morning I phoned the mayor's office, but Mr. Nicostratus was pleased to be in a humorous mood and did not communicate anything new to me regarding my pension. Of course, I became very upset, tried to calm myself with my stamps, but even the stamps did not console me. Then I sent Hermione to the drugstore for tranquilizers, but she returned with empty hands. It turned out that Achilles had received a special notice instructing him to distribute tranquilizers only by prescription of the city physician. I flew into a fury and phoned Achilles, started up an argument, but to tell the truth - what could I expect from him? All medicines containing narcotics are under the strict supervision of the police and specially appointed people from the mayor's office. What can you do: if you cut down a forest, the chips will fly. I got my cognac and took a drink, right in front of Hermione.

  It helped. I even feel better. And Hermione didn't let out a peep.

  This morning Myrtilus's family returned, even though he is still living in his tent. To be honest, I was glad. This was the first sign that the situation in the country was becoming stable. But then suddenly after lunch I saw Myrtilus putting them all on the bus again. What was the matter?

  "Sure, sure," Myrtilus answered me in his usual manner. "You're all such wise guys, and I'm a fool...."

  It seems he had gone to The Five Spot and learned that the Martians intended to call the comptroller and architect to account for their machinations and squandering of funds; supposedly they had already summoned them somewhere. I tried to explain to Myrtilus that this was a good thing, it was fair. But where would it lead!

  "Sure, sure," he answered. "It's fair.... Today the comptroller and architect, tomorrow the mayor, and the day after tomorrow I don't know who, maybe me. Nothing doing. Look at you - they hung a black eye on you, was that fair?"

  I can't talk with him, he can go .. .

  A Mr. Corybantus phoned. It turns out he is replacing Charon at the newspaper. A pitiful, trembling voice; the paper must be having difficulties with the authorities. He begged me to tell him if Charon would be returning soon. I spoke very sympathetically with him, of course, but I didn't say a word about Charon having already returned once. Intuitively I feel it isn't worth spreading around. God knows where Charon is now and what he's doing. That's all I need: unpleasantries over politics. I don't talk to anyone about him, and I've forbidden Artemis and Hermione as well. Hermione understood me at once, but Artemis had to make a scene.

  June 10

  Only now have I recovered somewhat, though I am as sick and distraught as before. The eczema has spread as never before. Fm covered all over with blisters and keep scratching, though I know I shouldn't. And terrifying phantoms pursue me without a letup; I try to get away from them, but can't. I understand: take up arms and kill, kill or be killed. It's vile and disgusting, but in the final analysis it's natural. Still, no one is forcing them. Partisans! I certainly know what it's all about. But how could I know that in my declining years I would live to see it all over again?

  It began yesterday morning.* Contrary to all expectations, I received a very friendly response from General Alcimus. He wrote that he remembers me well, regards me highly and wishes me all sorts of successes. This letter greatly excited me. I simply didn't know what to do with myself. I talked it over with Hermione, and she was forced to agree that I shouldn't let such a chance slip by. Only one thing worried us - the troubled times. At this point we saw Myrtilus breaking his temporary camp and beginning to carry his things back into the house. That was the last straw. Hermione made me a very elegant black patch for my wounded eye, I took my portfolio with documents, got in my automobile and set off for Marathon.

  * From what follows, it appears that Mr. Apollo is writing on the morning of the eleventh about the events of the tenth. (Editor's note.)

  The weather favored me. I drove peacefully along the deserted highway between fields which were turning blue and thought over the various courses of action available to me. However, as always, something unforeseen soon happened. About 40 kilometers from town the motor began to sneeze, the car started to shudder and then it stopped altogether. It happened at the top of a rise, and when I got out on the road the peaceful country landscape spread out before me, looking rather unusual, to be sure, what with the blueness of the ripening grains. I recall
that I was completely calm in spite of the delay and did not restrain myself from admiring the neat white farms scattered in the distance. The blue grains stood very high, attaining the height of a man in some places. Never before had such abundant crops grown up in our parts. The highway, straight as an arrow, could be seen to the very horizon.

  I lifted the hood and looked at the motor for a while, hoping to find the malfunction. But I am such a poor mechanic that in a short while I had to give up, straighten out my aching back and look around for help. However, the nearest farm was still rather far off, and on the road only one car could be seen approaching from the direction of Marathon at a rather great speed. At first I rejoiced, but soon, to my great chagrin, I became certain that it was one of the black Martian cars. Still, I did not completely lose hope, since I remembered that ordinary people might also be inside Martian cars. The prospect of hailing that grim black car did not appeal to me too much; I was still afraid there might be Martians inside, for whom I felt an instinctive aversion. But what else was there for me to do? I held my hand out across the highway and took a few steps toward the car, which was already approaching the foot of the rise. And then something horrible happened.

  The car was 50 meters from me when suddenly a yellow light flashed; the car jumped and reared up like a horse. A thunderous blast reverberated, and the highway was wrapped in a cloud of smoke. Then I saw the car apparently trying to fly; it just about cleared the cloud, listing badly on its side, when one after the other two more lights flashed right beside it. The double blow tossed it over, and it crashed with its full weight on the asphalt, so hard that I could feel the tremor of the earth in my legs, now weak from this unexpected development. A terrible accident, I thought in the first moment. The car caught fire, and some kind of black figures surrounded by flames came climbing out of it. At the same moment, shooting broke out. I couldn't tell who was shooting from where, but I clearly saw who was being shot at. The black figures dashed about in the smoke and flames and fell one after the other. Through the barrage of bullets I heard heartrending inhuman cries, and then they were all stretched out next to the overturned car, which continued to burn. And even then the shooting did not stop. Then the car exploded with a horrifying boom, an unearthly white light struck me in my good eye and a thick hot gust of air whipped me about the face. I squinched involuntarily, and when I opened my eye again I saw to my horror a twisted black creature running down the highway straight toward me. It was wrapped in flames, with a tail of black soot, and looked just like a huge ape. At that moment, to the left of me, a man in a military uniform, with a machine gun at the ready, jumped out of the blue wheat, stopped in the middle of the road with his back toward me, squatted down quickly and started blasting the flaming black figure almost point blank. I was so horrified that the initial shock left me and I found sufficient strength to turn around and run at full speed to my car. Like a madman I turned the ignition, unable to see anything in front of me, forgetting that the motor wouldn't work; and then my strength again deserted me, and I remained sitting in the car, senselessly staring ahead, a passive and dumbfounded witness of a horrible tragedy. Indifference overcame me. As if in a dream, I saw armed men come out one after the other onto the highway, surround the scene of the catastrophe, bend over the burning bodies, turn them over and shout brief exchanges, barely audible for the blood pounding in my temples. Four of them gathered at the foot of the rise, and the man in the military uniform - an officer, judging by his epaulets - stood in his former place, several steps from the last victim and reloaded his gun. Then I saw him approach the prostrate figure without haste, tilt the muzzle of the gun and give a short burst. The figure shuddered repulsively and I threw up on the steering wheel and my pants. But after this the worst thing of all happened.