The Second Invasion from Mars Read online

  Someone proposed that the Martians obtained gold or rare metals from stomach juice, and this obviously illiterate proposal prompted Morpheus to a very true thought. "However you look at it, old buddies," he said, "whether they get gold or energy out of it, you must realize that our stomach juice is a very important thing for the Martians. Have they pulled a fast one on us, huh?"

  At first no one understood, but finally we caught on that no one really knew the true price of stomach juice or what kind of price the Martians had set. It was quite possible that the Martians, being practical people, as we must suppose, were making a disproportionately large profit out of this enterprise, taking advantage of our ignorance.

  "They're cutting us down to dirt cheap," one-legged Polyphemus flared up in a white heat, "and then those rotten bastards will drive it up to the true price on some comet!"

  I ventured to correct him, that it's not on any comet, but on a planet, to which he responded with his usual vulgarity that I should have my eye treated and then get into arguments. But that's not the point.

  Morpheus's idea got us all excited, and a very pithy and valuable discussion might have developed, but at this point Myrtilus barged into the tavern with his farmer brother, both stewed to the gills. It turned out that Myrtilus's brother had been experimenting with the distillation of malt from the blue wheat and today, at long last, his experiments had been crowned with success. Two hefty jugs of the first lot of blue brew were set up on the table. Everyone took an immediate interest and began to sample it, and I must say that ''blue-beer" made a big impression on us. As luck would have it, Myrtilus invited Iapetus to the table to give it a try. Iapetus drank two short glasses, stood a moment screwing up his left eye, as if cogitating, and then suddenly said, "Pack off, I never want to see you here again." This was said in such a tone of voice that Myrtilus, without saying a word, grabbed the empty jugs and his groggy brother and cleared out. Iapetus surveyed us with a heavy eye and with the words, 'That's a new one - coming into my establishment with their own swill," he returned to the bar. To smooth things over, we all ordered a round, but the previous free and easy atmosphere had vanished. After sitting for another half hour, I headed home.

  In the living room Mr. Nicostratus, occupying Charon's armchair, was sitting across from Artemis and drinking tea with preserves. I didn't interfere in their affair. First of all, Charon, it seems, has been cut off entirely, and no one can say if he will ever return at all. Second, Hermione was somewhere in the immediate vicinity, and I stank so much of alcohol that I could smell it myself. Therefore I preferred to slip quietly to my room, without attracting anyone's attention. I changed clothes and looked at the paper. It's simply amazing! Sixteen pages of type, and nothing of substance. Like chewing a wad of cotton. The press conference of the president was published. I read it twice and didn't understand anything - nothing but stomach juice.

  I'm going to go see how Hermione feels.

  June 12

  Temperature: +12°C, cloud cover: 0, no wind. Terrible belching from that bluebeer. My migraine has flared up. Sat home all day. A new gastronomical novelty has appeared: blue bread. Hermione praised it, Artemis liked it too, but I just ate it without any appetite. It's bread like any other bread, only blue.

  June 13

  Finally, it seems, summer weather has arrived. Temperature: +22° C, cloudy ...

  What things are going on! I don't even know how to begin. In regard to my pension nothing is known, but in the final analysis it's not a matter of my pension anymore. Just now, when I began today's entry, I suddenly heard a car approaching. I thought it was only Myrtilus bringing the quart of bluebeer he promised from the farm, and I looked out to see. As it happened, I looked out at just the right time. At first I saw an unfamiliar car under the streetlight, very deluxe, and then I noticed that coming across the garden with a decisive step, straight toward the bench where Artemis and Mr. Nicostratus had settled down since evening, was Charon. Before I could blink my eye, Mr. Nicostratus had flown higgledy-piggledy over the fence. With superhuman strength Charon hurled his walking stick and hat after him, but Mr. Nicostratus did not stop to pick them up and only ran faster. Then Charon turned to Artemis. It was hard for me to see what happened between them, but I have the impression that at first Artemis tried to fall in a faint; however, when Charon pasted her one up against the side of the head, she changed her mind and decided instead to show her celebrated temperament. She let out a long, ear-splitting scream and slashed at Charon's physiognomy with her fingernails. I repeat, I did not see all of this. But when I looked into the living room a few minutes later, Charon was pacing from corner to corner like a caged tiger, holding his hands behind his back, and a fresh scratch was turning crimson on his nose. Artemis was setting the table matter-of-factly, but I noticed that her face looked a little bit asymmetrical. I can't stand family scenes, I get all weak inside and feel like going away somewhere where I will see and hear nothing. However, Charon noticed me before I could slip out and contrary to all expectations greeted me so cordially and warmly that I considered it impossible to go into the living room and strike up a conversation with him.

  Above all, I was pleasantly surprised by the fact that Charon looked quite unlike what I had expected. This was no longer that shaggy and raggedy bum who had clanked his gun around and railed at me a week ago. In fact, I had expected him to be even more ragged and dirty. But before me sat the previous Charon of peaceful times, smoothly shaven, neatly combed, elegantly and tastefully dressed. Only the crimson scratch on his nose somewhat spoiled the overall impression, and also his complexion, which was unusually swarthy, testified to the fact that in recent days this office worker had spent a lot of time under the open sky.

  Hermione came in wearing hairpins, excused herself for her appearance and also sat down at the table. And there we sat, the four of us, just as in the old days, one peaceful family. Until the women cleared the table and left, the conversation revolved around general subjects: the weather, health, how Charon looked. But once we were left alone, Charon lit up a cigar and said, looking at me strangely, "Well, what do you think, father, is our cause lost?"

  In answer I simply shrugged my shoulders, although I very much felt like saying that if anyone's cause was lost, it certainly wasn't ours. But then, in my view, Charon didn't expect an answer. Around the women he had kept calm, and only now did I notice that he was in a state of extreme agitation, almost to the point of sickness, that state in which a man is able to switch abruptly from nervous laughter to nervous weeping, when everything is bubbling inside him and he feels an overwhelming need to release this bubbling in words and therefore talks, talks, talks. And Charon talked.

  There is no more future for people, he said. Man has ceased to be the pinnacle of nature. For now and evermore and throughout all eternity man would be an ordinary phenomenon of nature like a tree or horse, nothing more. Culture and progress together had lost all meaning. Mankind no longer required self-development, it would be developed from outside, and so schools would no longer be needed, institutes and laboratories would no longer be needed, social thought would no longer be needed - in a word, everything that distinguished man from beast and was called civilization would no longer be needed. As a factory of stomach juice, Albert Einstein was no better than Pandareus, most likely worse, since Pandareus was marked by rare gluttony. Not in the boom of a cosmic catastrophe, not in the flames of nuclear war and not even in the clutches of overpopulation would the history of mankind come to an end, but, don't you see, in calm, sated tranquility.

  "Just think," he said with his voice breaking, holding his head in his hands, "civilization wasn't destroyed by ballistic missiles, but by nothing more than a handful of coppers for a glass of stomach juice.. .."

  He spoke, of course, much longer and much more effectively, but I understand abstract reasoning poorly and remembered only what I remembered. To be frank, he succeeded in depressing me. However, I rather quickly understood that all this was simply th
e hysterical verborrhea of a cultured man who had experienced the collapse of his personal ideals. And so I felt it necessary to raise an objection. Not, of course, because I hoped to convince him of the opposite, but because his judgments deeply wounded me, they struck me as grandiose and immodest, and besides I wanted to get away from that oppressive feeling produced by his lamentations.

  "You've had too easy a life, my son," I said pointedly. "You're getting picky. You don't know anything about life. Right away one can see that you've never been bashed in the teeth, youVe never frozen in the trenches and you've never hauled logs in prison. YouVe always had enough to eat and money to pay for it. YouVe gotten used to looking at the world through the eyes of a god in heaven, that superman of yours. What a pity - civilization has been sold for a handful of coppers! Just say thanks that you're given these coppers for it! For you, of course, they're not worth much. But for a widow who has to bring up three children, to feed them, educate them, raise them? And for Polyphemus, a cripple who receives a meager pension? And a farmer? What would you offer a farmer? Some dubious little social ideas? Booklets, brochures? Your esthetic philosophy? Well, a farmer would spit on the whole deal! He needs clothes, machines, he needs the certainty of tomorrow! He needs the constant possibility of raising a crop and receiving a good price for it! Could you give him that? You and your civilization! No one has been able to give him that for ten thousand years, but the Martians did it! Where's the wonder that the farmers now hound you like wild beasts? No one needs you and your discussions, your snobbery, your abstract prophecies which so easily change into machine-gun fire. The farmer doesn't need you, the city dweller doesn't need you, the Martians don't need you. I am even certain that most reasonable educated people don't need you. You imagine yourself the flower of civilization, but in fact you are the mold growing over its juices. You've elevated yourself in your own mind and now you imagine that your downfall is the downfall of all civilization."

  It seemed to me that I had literally slain him with my speech. He sat with his face in his hands, shaking all over. It was so pitiful that my heart flooded with blood.

  "Charon," I said as gently as possible, "my child! Try for a moment to descend from the cloudy spheres to the sinful earth. Try to understand that what man needs most in the world is tranquility and the certainty of tomorrow. After all, nothing so terrible has happened. Here you say that man has been converted into a stomach-juice factory. Those are ringing words, Charon, but in fact the reverse has occurred. Man, coming upon new conditions of existence, has found an excellent way to utilize his physiological resources to simplify his position in the world. You call this slavery, but every reasonable man considers it an ordinary business deal which should be mutually profitable. What kind of slavery can it be if the reasonable man is already figuring out whether or not he is being cheated, and if he really is being cheated, I can assure you, he will have justice. You speak of the end of culture and civilization, but this is completely untrue! It's impossible even to say what you have in mind. The newspapers come out every day, new books are being published, new television shows are being created, industry is working. ... Charon! What more do you need! You've been left everything that you had: freedom of speech, self-determination, the constitution. Not only that, you've been protected from Mr. Laomedon! And, finally, you have been given a constant and reliable source of income, which doesn't depend on any competition."

  I ended on this, because I discovered that Charon was by no means slain and was not sobbing, as it had seemed to me, but was giggling in the most indecent way. I considered myself highly offended, but here Charon said:

  "Forgive me, for God's sake, I didn't want to offend you. I simply remembered an amusing story."

  It happened that two days ago Charon and his group of five insurgents had seized a Martian car. How amazed they were when out of the car clambered a completely sober Minotaur with a portable device for sucking out stomach juice. "What d'ya say, fellows, feel like a drink?" he asked. "C'mon, I'll set you up right away. Who's first?" The insurgents were dumbfounded. When they recovered their senses, they half-heartedly slapped Minotaur around for being a traitor and then let him go with his car. They had thought of seizing the car to learn to drive it, and then to penetrate a Martian post with it and stage a battle there, but this episode had such an effect on them that they began to spit on everything. That very evening two of them went home, and the next day the rest of them were taken by the armers.

  I didn't quite get the connection between this story and the topic of our conversation, but I was struck by the thought that Charon had consequently been held captive by the Marians.

  "Yes," he answered by question, "that's why I was laughing. The Martians told me the same thing as you, point for point. True, a bit more coherently. And they especially emphasized that I was the elite of society, they felt deep respect for me and failed to understand why I and others like me were carrying out terroristic activities instead of forming a reasonable opposition. They proposed that we fight them by legal means, guaranteeing us complete freedom of the press and the right of assembly. Great fellows, the Martians - right?"

  What could I answer him? Especially when it became clear that they had treated him most civilly, bathed him, clothed him, treated his wounds, given him an automobile confiscated from the owner of some opium den and let him go with their blessing.

  'Words fail me," I said, throwing up my hands.

  "Me too," replied Charon, darkening again. "Words still fail me too, but we must find them. We're worth a pittance if we don't find them."

  After this he completely unexpectedly wished me a good night and went to his room, while I remained sitting there like a fool, seized by an unpleasant foreboding. Oh, we are going to have more trouble with Charon! Oh, we are for sure! And what a disgusting way to leave, without having finished the argument. It's already 1 a.m., and my eye is wide open.

  Incidentally, today I gave stomach juice for the first time. No big deal, only it's unpleasant to swallow; but they say that soon you get used to it. If you give 200 grams every day, that makes 150 bills a month. Wow!

  June 14

  Temperature: +22° C, cloud cover: 0, no wind. The new stamps have finally come out. My God, how exquisite! I purchased the whole issue in quarter-sheet and then couldn't resist and bought the full sheets. Enough economizing. Now I can permit myself a few things. Went with Hermione to give stomach juice; from now on I'll go alone. There's a rumor that a notice arrived from the ministry of education confirming the previous status of pensions, however I failed to get any details. Mr. Nicostratus didn't come to work - he sent his younger brother to say he had caught the flu. People are saying, though, that he doesn't have the flu at all, but accidentally fell down somewhere and received internal injuries. Oh, you Charon! Artemis creeps as quiet as a mouse all through the house.

  Yes, I completely forgot. I looked into the living room and saw Charon sitting there along with some pleasant gentleman with big glasses. I recognized him and literally turned to stone. It was the same insurgent whom the farmers had captured before my very eyes. He also recognized me and also turned to stone. We looked at each other for some time, then I recovered and bowed my way out. I don't know what he told Charon about me. But soon he left. I really mean it: this doesn't please me. If they plan to make a legal battle and organize all sorts of meetings, brochures and newspapers, as they were officially advised, then go right ahead. But if only once I see automatics and other such hardware in my home, then I beg your pardon, dear son-in-law. Here our paths must part. That's the most I can do.

  To calm myself down, I just now re-read yesterday's entry of my conversation with Charon. In my opinion, my logic was flawless. He didn't even manage to make an objection. It's a shame, though, that I wrote it down more coherently and convincingly than I said it. I have absolutely no talent for speaking, that's my weak point.

  The morning papers carried an interesting report on the general demobilization and demilitari
zation of the country. Thank God, they've finally thought of it! It must be that the Martians have taken the matter of defense entirely into their own hands, and now this defense won't cost us a penny, if you don't count stomach juice, of course. Nothing was said directly about this in the president's speech, but you could read it between the lines. The previous military expenditures, he said, will be used for raising the standard of living and developing shipbuilding. Certain difficulties now stand in the way of reducing the arms industry; however this will be a purely temporary phenomenon. And he also emphasized several times that no one will suffer from the reorganization. I take this to mean that the military industrialists and generals will get a lump sum. Rich people, these Martians! The demobilization has already begun. Paralus is spreading the rumor that the police will also be abolished. Pandareus wanted to haul him in, but we wouldn't let him. Rumors, of course, are only rumors, but if I were in Pandareus's shoes I would be more careful.

  Actually, I don't feel like writing anything down today. I'm going to take the speech I made to Charon yesterday and make a clean copy. It's a good speech.

  June 15

  The morning has turned out exceptionally clear and pure. (Temperature: +21° C, cloud cover: 0, no wind.) How pleasant it is to get up early in the morning, when the sun has already dispersed the morning haze, but the air is still fresh and cool and preserves the nocturnal aromas. The minutest drops of dew tremble in myriad rainbows and flicker iridescently like precious stones on every blade of grass, every leaf, every web stretched at night by the industrious spider from his little home to the quivering twig. No, I don't do too well with artistic prose. On the one hand, everything seems to be in its proper place, it's beautiful, but all the same somehow... I don't know, something's not right. Well, so be it.