The Second Invasion from Mars

June 4

Just finished reading the evening papers, but just as before I don't understand anything. No doubt about it, some sort of changes have taken place. But what kind exactly? People around here like to tell whoppers, that's all.

This morning, after my coffee, I set off for The Five Spot. It was a good morning, warm. (Temperature: +18° C, cloud cover: 0, wind from the south at 1 meter per second by my wind gauge.) Coming through the gate, I saw Myrtilus fussing over his tent, which lay crumbled up on the ground. I asked him what he was doing.

"Sure, sure," he answered in extreme irritation. "You wise guys know it all. Just sit still and wait until they cut us all up." I don't believe Myrtilus any farther than I can throw him, but he always gives me the creeps when he talks like this.

"And what else is new?" I ask.

"Martians," he replied curtly and continued to smooth out the tent with his knee. I didn't understand him at first and maybe that's why I got such a funny feeling from that word, as if something terrible and unstoppable were on the way.

My legs went weak and I slumped back on the bumper of the truck. Myrtilus said nothing, only huffed and puffed.

"What'd you say?" I asked.

He packed up the tent, tossed it in the back of the truck and lit up a smoke. "The Martians have attacked," he said in a whisper. "It's the end of us all. They burned Marathon down to the ground, I hear. Ten million killed in one night, can you believe it? Today they paid a visit to our mayor's office. The power's theirs now, and that's that. They've already prohibited any planting, and now, I hear, they're going to slit open everybody's stomach. They need stomachs for some reason, can you believe it? I'm not going to wait for that, I need my stomach myself. As soon as I heard about it, I decided right away: these new rulings are not for me, they can all take a flying leap, 'cause I'm heading to my brother's farm. I've already sent the old lady and the kids on the bus. We'll sit it out, keep our eyes open, and see how things are going from there."

"Hold on," I said, keenly remembering how he always lies, but feeling myself getting weaker. "Hold on, Myrtilus, what are you talking about? Who attacked? Who burned? My son-in-law's in Marathon right now."

"Your son-in-law's had it," Myrtilus said sympathetically and flicked away his butt. "Consider your daughter a widow, The secretary has a clear road ahead. Well, I'm off. So long, Apollo. We were always on good terms. I've got no hard feelings toward you, so don't think badly of me."

"Lord!" I burst out in desperation, completely weakened. "Who was it that attacked?"

"Martians, Martians!" he said, again switching to a whisper. "From there!" He raised his finger to the sky. "They jumped in on us from a comet."

"You mean men from Mars?" I asked with a glimmer of hope.

"Sure, sure," he said, climbing into the cabin. "You're a teacher, you know better. But it's all the same to me who pokes out my guts."

"Lord, Myrtilus," I said, finally catching on that this was all a bunch of lies. "You can't go on like this. You're an elderly man, you have grandchildren. How can there be any men from Mars, when Mars is a lifeless planet? There's no life there, that's a scientific fact."

"Sure, sure," Myrtilus went on lying, but it was obvious that he was beginning to have doubts. "And what other facts are there about it?"

"Well, it's not 'sure, sure'; it's the way it actually is," I said. "Ask any scientist. But who needs a scientist, this is something every schoolboy knows!"

Myrtilus grunted and climbed out of the cabin. "It can all take a flying leap!" he said, laying his fingers on the back of his head. "Who am I to listen to? Am I to listen to you? Or to Pandareus? I don't understand a thing." He spat and went into his house.

I also decided to go back in, in order to phone the police. Pandareus, as it happened, was very busy, because Minotaur had broken out of his cell and Pandareus had to form a search party. It was true that someone, some kind of leaders, had driven to the mayor's office about an hour and a half before, and they might have been Martians, there were rumors that they were Martians, but as far as cutting open stomachs was concerned, no word had been given, and anyway he had no time for Martians, because Minotaur alone, in his opinion, was worse than all the Martians put together.

I hurried to The Five Spot.

Almost all the boys were crowding at the entrance to the mayor's office and arguing furiously about some kind of tracks in the dirt. The tracks had been made by the Martian who had come, they knew this for a fact. Morpheus asserted that he, as an old hairdresser and masseur, had never seen such marvels before. "Spiders," he was saying, "huge hairy spiders. That is, the males are hairy, but the females are naked. They walk on their back feet and grab you with their front. Did you see the prints? Horrifying! Like holes in the ground. That's where he walked by."

"He didn't just walk by," said Silenus thoughtfully. "The force of gravity is greater on Earth, as Apollo here will confirm, so that they can't simply walk with their legs. They need special stilts with springs, and that's what made the holes in the ground."

"Right, stilts," seconded Iapetus indistinctly with his bandaged-up jaw. "Only they're not stilts. They have a certain kind of car, I saw it in the movies. It doesn't run on wheels, but on levers, on stilts."

"Our comptroller has gone off the deep end again," said grouchy Paralus. "The last time it was a hail storm of unusual force, and the time before that he announced locusts, but now he's whipped up Martians - in keeping with the times, the conquest of space."

"I can't look at these tracks without getting excited," repeated Morpheus. "Horrifying. What d'ya say, buddies, let's go have a drink."

Calais stammered, sputtered and shook. Finally he pronounced: "G-g-good weather we're having, old boys! How d-d-did you sleep?" Due to his speech defect he always lags behind events. And yet he's a veterinarian; he could have said something worthwhile about the tracks.

"Myrtilus has already packed off," said Dymus, giggling stupidly. " 'Goodbye, Dymus,' he says, 'we were always on good terms. Look after my gas pump,' he says, 'and if you have to, burn it,' he says, 'so we leave nothing to the enemy.' "

Here I cautiously inquired what had been heard about Marathon.

"They say Marathon was burned down," Dymus answered readily. "They say people phoned from there with the terms for peace."

This absolutely convinced me that all of this was a bunch of senseless rumors, and I was getting ready to refute them when the wailing of a police siren cut through the air and we all turned around.

Minotaur came running across the square, staggering and zigzagging like a bunny, splattered with mud and swollen, and hot on his heels came Pandareus in his police buggy, standing up and holding onto the windshield, shouting something and waving a pair of handcuffs.

"The jig's up, he'll catch him now," said Morpheus.

"That's what you think," objected Dymus. "See what he's doing?"

Minotaur ran up to a telephone pole, threw his arms and legs around it and began to scramble up. However, Pandareus had already jumped out of the vehicle and fastened onto his pants. With the help of a subordinate, he tore the honey-dipper away from the pole, packed him into the buggy, and put on the handcuffs. After this the subordinate drove away, and Pandareus, wiping his face with a handkerchief and buttoning himself up on the way, headed toward us.

"Got 'im," reported Morpheus, addressing Dymus. "You argue over everything."

Pandareus drew near and asked what was new with us. He was told of the Martian tracks. He immediately squatted down and became engrossed in an investigation of the matter. I even felt an involuntary twinge of respect for him, because right away you could see his true professional knack: he looked at the tracks sort of from the side and didn't touch anything with his fingers. I began to expect that everything would soon be cleared up. Pandareus moved alongside the tracks like a duck wagging its extruding backside

and kept repeating: "Aha.... That's clear.... Aha.... Clear...." We waited impatiently, preserving silence, and only Calais strained to say something and sputtered. Finally Pandareus straightened up with a groan and, looking over the square as if to spy someone, pronounced in short bursts: "Two of them. Took the money in a bag. One has a cane with a spike. The other smokes Astras."

"I also smoke Astras," said grouchy Paralus, and Pandareus glared at him.

"Two of whom?" asked Dymus. "Martians?"

"Right from the start I thought they were not our sort," said Pandareus slowly, not taking his eyes off of Paralus. "Right from the start I thought these fellows were from Milesia. I know them."

Here Calais burst out: "N-n-no, he won't catch him in that buggy."

"But what about the Martians?" said Dymus. "I don't understand. ..."

Pandareus, ignoring direct questions as before, looked Paralus up and down. "Hand me your cigarette, old man," he said.

"What d'ya need it for?" asked Paralus.

"I'd like to take a look at your bite," explained Pandareus, "and also, where were you today between six and seven in the morning?"

We looked at Paralus, and he said that in his opinion Pandareus was the biggest fool in the world, not counting the cretin who allowed him into the police force. We had to agree with him and started slapping Pandareus on the back, saying, "Yeah, Pandareus, you missed by a mile. You didn't know, Pan, old boy, that these were Martian tracks. But, of course, how could you know, old buddy, about Martians? They're not your usual honey-dippers, Pan!"

Pandareus began to puff up a bit, but here one-legged Polyphemus came out of the mayor's office and cut right into our enjoyment.

"It's a dirty business, boys!" he said in a troubled voice. "The Martians are attacking, they took Milesia! Our forces are retreating, burning the crops, blowing up the bridges behind them!"

My legs felt weak again and I didn't have the strength to push my way through to a bench and sit down.

"They've put down a landing party in the south: two divisions," croaked Polyphemus. "They'll be here soon!"

"They've already been here," said Silenus. "On special stilts. There are their tracks over there...."

Polyphemus merely took a glance and said in disgust that those were his tracks, and everyone realized at once that, in fact, they were. Not even his, but his crutch's. For me it was a big relief. But Pandareus, as soon as it got around to him, buttoned his jacket up to the last button, cast his eyes over our heads and bawled: "You've had your say - that's all! Dis-s-sperse! In the name of the law."

I went into the mayor's office. The place was packed with some kind of flat bags set along the walls in the corridors, the stair landings and even the reception room. The bags gave off an unfamiliar smell and the windows were wide open everywhere, but other than that everything was normal. Mr. Nicostratus was sitting at his desk and polishing his nails. Grinning in a vague way and speaking with a very dubious intonation, he gave me to understand that the duties of his position did not give him the right to enlarge on Martians, however he could definitely state that all this hardly had any connection with the question of my pension. Only one thing was certain: it would no longer be profitable to plant wheat in these parts, but it would be profitable to plant a certain new kind of nutritive grain which had, as he put it, universal properties. The seeds were stored in those bags, and from today on they would begin to distribute them to all the neighboring farms.

"Where did the bags come from?" I asked.

"Supplied," he answered weightily.

I overcame my diffidence and inquired who supplied them.

"Official persons," he said. He raised himself from behind his desk, excused himself and took himself with his loose amble into the mayor's office.

I went into the general offices and chatted awhile with the typists and the watchman. Strange as it may seem, they confirmed almost all the rumors about the Martians, but did not leave me with the impression that they were truly informed. Oh, I've had it with these rumors! No one believes in them, but everyone repeats them. It goes so far that even the simplest facts are distorted. Like the blown-up bridges of Polyphemus. What actually happened? Polyphemus had been the first to arrive at The Five Spot. They saw him from the window and asked him into the general offices to repair a typewriter. While he was laboring, regaling the girls with stories of how his leg had been ripped off, Mr. Mayor came in, stood a moment, listened with a thoughtful expression and then uttered an enigmatic phrase: "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it's evident that the bridges are burned out.^,, And then he returned to his office, where he immediately ordered sardine sandwiches and a bottle of Phargossa beer. Polyphemus went on to tell the girls that in a retreat you usually blow up the bridges behind you in order to thwart the enemy. The rest is obvious. What stupidity! I considered it my duty to inform the employees of the mayor's office that Mr. Mayor's mysterious phrase signified only that a decision had been taken which could not be changed. Naturally, all their faces immediately expressed relief, mixed with a touch of disappointment.

No one was at The Five Spot, as Pandareus had driven them all away. Almost completely calmed down, I went over to Achilles to tell him about my new acquisitions and to test the water in regard to the architecture series: perhaps he would take a canceled one, since he couldn't get a clean one in any event. After all, he even takes them glued together. However, Achilles was also feeling the pressure of the spreading rumors. In answer to my proposal, he said absent-mindedly that he'd think about it, and at that moment, without even noticing it, he gave me a brilliant idea.

"The Martians," he said, "are a new regime. And as you know, Phoebus, a new regime means new stamps."

I was amazed that this simple thought had not entered my own head. That's right, if the rumors are only partly true, the first reasoned act of these mythical Martians would be to issue their own new stamps, or at least to print over our old ones. I said goodbye to Achilles hastily and headed straight for the post office.

Well, of course, there had been no correspondence with new stamps and nothing new at all at the post office. When will we ever learn to stop believing in rumors? For it is well known that Mars has an extremely thin atmosphere, its climate is excessively severe and almost lacks water, the basis of all life. The myths about the canals were thrown overboard a long time ago, since the canals turned out to be nothing more than an optical illusion. In brief, all this recalls the panic of the year before last, when one-legged Polyphemus ran around town with a fowling piece shouting that a gigantic man-eating triton has escaped from the zoo. That time Myrtilus cleverly managed to get his whole household out of the city, and he didn't decide to come back for two weeks.

The twilight reason of my uneducated compatriots, spoiled by a monotonous life, gives birth to truly fantastic spectres at the slightest disturbance. Our world is like a chicken coop sunk in nocturnal slumber, where you need only accidentally brush against the feather of some colorful old bird snoozing on his perch for the whole place to be thrown into indescribable confusion, with fluttering, clucking and slinging of muck in every direction. Life is already disturbing enough, in my opinion, without all that. We should all keep a check on our nerves. I've read that rumors are much more dangerous to health than even smoking. The author proved it with facts and figures. It was also written there that the force of a panic-rumor is directly proportional to the ignorance of the mass, and this is true, although it must be admitted that even the very best educated among us submit with surprising ease to the general mood and are ready to run with the stupefied crowd wherever their noses lead them.

I had intended to explain this to the boys, but on the way to the tavern I noticed that a crowd had again formed at The Five Spot. I stopped off and discovered that the rumors had already exerted their pernicious influence. No one was willing to listen to my considerations on the matter. Everyone was aroused beyond all bounds, and the veterans shook firearms fresh from the grease pack and still not properly cleaned. I learned that the soldiers of the Eighty-eighth infantry had been discharged and expelled from their barracks. These soldiers told an incomprehensible story.

The night before last the regiment had been summoned by alarm and put on full military alert; they spent some time, until morning in fact, sitting in armored carriers and trucks on the parade grounds. In the morning the alert was called off, and yesterday passed in the normal fashion. But last night the same thing happened again, with this difference: this morning a colonel came from headquarters by helicopter, ordered the regiment to line up for punishment and without getting out of his helicopter delivered a long and completely incomprehensible speech, after which he flew away and almost the entire regiment was relieved of duty. It must be said that the soldiers, having slaked their thirst royally at Iapetus's place, spoke most inarticulately and now and then struck up the famous bawdy song:

Nioba-Niobe-ya, always willing to obey-ya ...

However, it was clear that the colonel from headquarters had not said a word about Martians. He had spoken, in fact, about only two things: the soldier's patriotic duty and his stomach juice. Somehow he had managed to combine these two concepts in a manner which couldn't be grasped. The soldiers themselves couldn't make head or tail of these subtleties, but they did understand that after this morning anyone the sergeant caught with Narco chewing gum or Opi cigarettes would be tossed in the brig for ten days and rot there. Immediately after the colonel's departure, the regimental commander, not countermanding the punishment, ordered the junior officers and sergeants to conduct a meticulous search through the barracks to remove all cigarettes and chewing gum containing stimulants. The soldiers knew no more than this, and indeed they didn't want to know more. Grabbing each other by the shoulders, they stormed with such threatening looks,

Nioba-Niobe-ya, how I want ya, baby ...

that we hastily withdrew and left them.

Here Polyphemus with his crutch and fowling piece lumbered up on a bench and began to shout that the generals had betrayed us, spies were all around us and true patriots should rally round the flag, because patriotism and so on. Polyphemus can't live without patriotism. He can live without legs, but without patriotism he can't make it. When he had shouted himself hoarse and shut up in order to have a smoke, I tried in any event to elucidate some things for the boys. I began by saying that there was no life on Mars and could not possibly be - it was all imaginary. But again they would not let me speak. First Morpheus stuck the morning paper from the capital under my nose. It had a big article, "Is There Life on Mars?" In this article all previous scientific data were subjected to ironical doubt. But when I was not set back and attempted to debate the matter, Polyphemus elbowed his way up to me, grabbed me by the collar and hoarsely threatened: "Blunting our vigilance, you plague? Martian spy, bald-headed turd! To the wall with you!^,,

I can't bear it when people address me that way. My heart began to pound, and I yelled for the police. What a hooligan! I won't forgive Polyphemus for the rest of my life. Who does he think he is! I tore away, called him a one-legged swine and went to the tavern.

It was nice to find that not only I considered Polyphemus's patriotic yelps repellent. Two or three of our boys were already in the tavern. They were sitting around Cronidus the archivist, pouring him rounds of beer and inquiring about the morning visit of the Martians.

"What's so big about Martians?" said Cronidus, rolling the whites of his eyes with difficulty. "They're Martians like any other Martians. One's called Calchas, the other Eleius, both of them southerners, with such noses on them...."

"Well, what about their car?" they asked him.

"It's a car like any other car, it's black and flies. . .. Nope, not a helicopter. It flies, that's all. What do you think I am, a pilot? How am I supposed to know how it flies?"

I had lunch, waited for them to leave him alone, took two shots of gin and sat down next to him.

"Heard anything new about pensions?" I asked.

However, Cronidus had already lost control of his faculties. His eyes watered, he simply downed one shot after another like an automatic machine and mumbled: "Martians are Martians, one's Calchas, the other's Eleius.... Black, they fly... Nope, not blimps.... Eleius, I say.... Not me, a pilot...." Then he fell asleep.

When Polyphemus roared into the tavern with his gang, I made a show of leaving for home. Myrtilus hadn't gone. He'd pitched his tent again and was sitting and cooking supper on a gas stove. Artemis wasn't home, she'd gone off somewhere without saying where, and Hermione was cleaning the rugs. To calm myself, I worked on restoring my stamps. It's nice anyway to think what mastery I have achieved. I don't know if anyone would be able to distinguish the glue I applied from the original stuff. In any event, Achilles can't.

Now about today's newspapers. Remarkable papers nowadays. Almost all the columns are filled with the reflections of various medical men about the most reasonable diets. Medical preparations containing opium, morphine and caffeine are spoken of with an extreme and somehow unnatural indignation. What is this, am I supposed to suffer if my liver begins to ache? Not one paper has a philately section, there's not a word about soccer, but all the papers reprint a gigantic and completely vapid article about the significance of gastric juice. Without them, I guess, I wouldn't understand the significance of gastric juice. Not one telegram from abroad, not a word about the consequences of the embargo; instead, they draw out a dumb discussion about wheat. Supposedly there are not enough vitamins in wheat; wheat supposedly is too easily infected by harmful agents. A certain Marsyas, an M.A. in agriculture, has come to the conclusion that the millennium-old history of cultivating wheat and other useful grains (oats, corn, maize) has been a universal mistake of mankind, one which, however, it is not too late to correct. I don't know anything about wheat, the specialists are more qualified, but the article is written in an insufferably critical, I would even say prejudiced, tone. It's obvious at a glance that this Marsyas is a typical southerner, a nihilist and fault-finder.

It's twelve o'clock already, and Artemis still isn't home. She hasn't come back, she can't be seen in the garden, and meanwhile the streets are filled with drunken soldiers. She might at least have phoned where she was. I keep waiting for Hermione to come in and ask what has happened to Artemis. I have no idea what I'll answer. I don't like such conversations, I can't stand them. You might ask who my daughter takes after. Her late mother was a very modest woman; only one time was she attracted to the city architect, but it was just an attraction - two or three notes, one letter. I myself was never a gay dog, as Polyphemus would put it. I still remember my visit to Madam Persephone's house with horror. No, such a pastime is not meant for a civilized man. Whatever you may say, love, even the physical kind, is a mystery, and to practice love in the company of people you even know well and who wish you well is not so amusing as certain books make it out to be. God forbid, I'm not thinking, of course, that my Artemis is reveling in bacchanalian dances amid bottles of booze at this moment, but she might at least have called. You can only be amazed at the stupidity of my son-in-law. In his place I would have returned a long time ago.

I was just about to close my diary and go to sleep when the following thought popped into my head. Charon obviously didn't stay over in Marathon by chance. It's terrible to think of, but it seems I have guessed what the matter is. Did they really decide on such a step? I remember now all that rabble under my roof, those strange friends of his with their vulgar habits and uncouth manners. Some kind of mechanics with rough voices, drinking whiskey without seltzer and smoking revolting cheap cigarettes. Short-haired loudmouths with sickly complexions, parading about in jeans and colored shirts, never wiping their feet in the hallway; and all those conversations about world government, about some kind of technocracy, about those unthinkable "isms"; and their organic hostility to everything that brings peace and security to a quiet man. I remember it all now, and I understand what has happened. Yes, my son-in-law and his confederates are radicals, and so they acted. All those conversations about Martians - they're merely distorted echoes of the true facts. Conspirators have always loved bold and mysterious-sounding names, so it's not impossible that they now call themselves "The Martians," or something like "Society for the Preservation of the Planet Mars," or let's say "The Martian Renaissance." The fact that the M.A. of agriculture bears the name of Marsyas strikes me as most significant: he's most likely the ringleader of the coup. What I still can't understand is why the putschists dislike wheat and have such a ridiculous interest in stomach juice. Probably this is a diversionary tactic to confound public opinion.

Of course, I'm no good at interpreting putsches and revolutions, I find it difficult to explain everything that is going on, but I know one thing. When they drove us like sheep to freeze in the trenches, when the blackshirts pawed our women on our own beds, where were you then, Messrs. Radicals? You also put on the colors and shouted: "Long live the leader!" If you like revolutions so much, why do you always make them at the wrong time? Who needs you and your overthrows now? Me? Or Mvrtilus? Or mavbe Achilles? Why don't you leave us alone? All of you, gentlemen, are noncommissioned officers, and no better than that fool patriot Polyphemus.

This eczema, blast it, is driving me crazy. I'm scratching like a monkey at a fair, no drops will help it, no salves. All the druggists are liars. I don't need any medicines. I need peace and quiet, that's what!

If Charon has enough brains not to remain in the back lines, I've got the first class made.