The Second Invasion from Mars

by Arkady Strugatsky

  "What are you saying!" said I. "Haven't the maneuvers ended yet?"

  "What maneuvers?" he asked in surprise.

  Here I lost my composure. I still don't know if I should have done it, but I stared straight at him and said, "What do you mean - 'what maneuvers?' The same ones you happened to see last night."

  "So they were maneuvers, were they?" he declared with enviable indifference, again bending over his envelopes. "They were fireworks. Read the morning papers."

  I should have, I really should have said a couple of words to him, especially since at that moment we were alone in the room. But can I be like that?

  When I returned to The Five Spot, an argument was underway about the nature of last night's phenomenon. Our number had grown: Myrtilus and Pandareus had joined us. Pandareus had the jacket of his uniform unbuttoned; he was unshaven and tired after his night duty. Myrtilus didn't look any better, because he had spent the entire night patrolling the grounds around his house, expecting the worst. Everyone had the morning paper in hand, and they were discussing the column of "our observer," which bore the following heading: holiday in the offing.

  "Our observer" reported that Marathon was preparing to commemorate its 153rd anniversary. From his usually well-informed sources he had learned that last night there had been a fireworks practice which residents of the surrounding towns and villages within a radius of up to two hundred kilometers had been able to enjoy.

  That's all that was needed! Charon goes away on assignment, and our newspaper falls into catastrophic stupidity. They should at least have tried to figure out what a fireworks display would look like from two hundred kilometers away. And they should at least have asked themselves when fireworks displays began to be accompanied by subterranean tremors. I immediately explained this to the boys, but they answered that they knew perfectly well the time of day and advised me to read The Milesian Herald. In the Herald it was printed black on white that last night "the Milesians could admire the impressive spectacle of military exercises employing the latest devices of war technology."

  "What did I tell you!" I burst out, but Myrtilus interrupted me. He related that early this morning an unknown driver from the Long-Distance Transport Company had driven up to his pump, had gotten 150 liters of gas, two cans of motor oil, and a crate of marmalade and had told him, in secret, that last night, for reasons unknown, the underground rocket-fuel factories had exploded. Supposedly the 23 guards and the entire night shift had perished, and 179 more men had vanished without a trace. This news threw us all into a panic, but then grouchy Paralus put forward the question "What then, I'd like to know, did he need the marmalade for?"

  This question stumped Myrtilus. "Sure, sure," he said, "you heard it. That's all you're getting out of me."

  We also had nothing to say. Really, what has marmalade got to do with it? Calais sputtered, sprayed, but didn't say anything. And then that old horse's ass, Pandareus, took the floor.

  "Listen, old boys," says he, "those weren't any rocket factories. They were marmalade factories, obviously. Now, behave yourselves."

  We sat down.

  "Underground marmalade factories?" says Paralus. "Well, old-timer, you're in superb form today."

  We began to slap Pandareus on the back, adding, "Yes, Pan, one can see right away that you slept poorly today, old-timer. Minotaur has run you ragged, Pan, it's a hard life. Time you took your pension, Pan, good old boy!"

  "A policeman, and he plants the seeds of panic himself," said Myrtilus, highly offended. He was the only one who had taken Pandareus's words seriously.

  "That's why he's Pan - to plant seeds everywhere," quipped Dymus. And Polyphemus also made a successful quip, although a completely indecent one. We went on amusing ourselves in this fashion, while Pandareus stood stock-still, then puffed himself up before our very eyes and tossed his head from side to side like a bull taunted by matadors.

  Finally he buttoned his jacket up to the very last button, set his eyes above our heads and bawled: "You've had your say - enough! Dis-s-sperse! In the name of the law." Myrtilus went back to his gas pump, and the rest of us headed for the tavern.

  In the tavern we all immediately ordered beer. This is a satisfaction I was denied until I went on my pension! In such a small town as ours, everyone knows the teacher. The parents of your pupils imagine for some reason that you are a wonder-worker and are able by your personal example to keep the children from following in their parents' footsteps. From morning to night the tavern literally swarms with these parents, but if you permit yourself an innocent mug of beer, then the next day without fail you will have a humiliating conversation with the principal. And yet I love the tavern! I love to sit in the company of good men, having leisurely and serious conversations on subjects of your choice, half catching the drone of voices and the clinking of glasses behind your back. I love to tell and to hear a salty little story, to play four kings - for a small amount, but with honor, and when I win I like to order a mug for everyone. Well, enough.

  Iapetus served us our beer, and we began talking about the war. One-legged Polyphemus declared that if this were a war, they would already be mobilizing the troops, but grouchy Paralus objected that if it were a war, we wouldn't know anything about it. I don't like conversations about war and would gladly have turned the conversation to pensions, but who am I to do this?

  Polyphemus laid his crutch across the table and asked what, in fact, did Paralus know about wars. "Do you know, for example, what a bazooka is?" he asked threateningly.

  "Do you know what it means to sit in a trench when the tanks are coming at you and you haven't yet noticed that you've dumped in your drawers?"

  Paralus objected that he didn't know anything about tanks and dumping in your drawers and he didn't want to know anything about them, but as for nuclear war we all knew the same thing about it. "You lie down with your feet in the blast and crawl to the nearest graveyard," he said.

  "You were born a civvy and you'll die a civvy," said one-legged Polyphemus. "Nuclear war - that's a war of nerves, understand? They do us, we do them, and the first one to dump in his drawers loses." Paralus only shrugged his shoulders, and Polyphemus lost his temper completely. "Bazookas!" he yelled. "Tarzons! Ready, aim - dump in your drawers! Right, Apollo?"

  Having shouted to his heart's content, he launched into recollections about how he and our troops had repelled a tank attack in the snow. I can't stand these recollections. Nothing but dump in your drawers. I don't know, maybe it all happened, I don't recall. But still I don't like to return to it. Polyphemus was gung-ho then, and he's gung-ho now. I simply don't know what you must take out of a man to make him stop being a noncommissioned officer. Maybe the problem is that he never happened to get caught in a pocket, as I did. Or is it a matter of character?

  We had sat a long time, so I decided to go ahead and have lunch. Usually the fare at Iapetus's place is pretty good, but this time the chef's soup with dumplings gave off a heavy odor of cheap olive oil, and I told him about it. It turned out that Iapetus's teeth had been aching for three days, so unbearably that he couldn't prepare anything properly.

  "Don't you remember, Phoebus, how I once knocked your tooth in?" he asked mournfully.

  How could I not remember! It was in the seventh grade. We were both courting Iphigenia and we fought every day. My God, how distant are the times when I could have a good scrap! Iphigenia, it happens, is now married to some engineer in the south; she already has grandchildren and angina pectoris.

  While on my way to Achilles' place, I passed Mr. Laomedon's house with that terrible red car of his with bulletproof windows standing outside. At the wheel that insolent punk who always makes fun of me was smoking himself silly. And this time he lit into me so viciously that I was obliged to cross the street in a dignified manner and pay not the slightest attention to him. Achilles was presiding over the cash register and looking through his Cosmos, Ever since he obtained that blue triangle with the little silver postage mark, he has m
ade it a rule to take out his album just as I enter, as if by coincidence. I can see right through him, but I don't let on. Although, to tell the truth, every time he does it my heart contracts. My only consolation is that part of his triangle is glued on. I mentioned it to him.

  "Yes," said I, "there's no denying it, Achilles, it's a nice item. Too bad, though, that it's glued together."

  He squinted all over and mumbled that the grapes, it seemed, were sour.

  "What can you do?" I answered him calmly. "Glued together is glued together, you can't get around it. I personally wouldn't have taken the stamp at that price. But some people, of course," said I, "are so broad-minded that they'll take stamps that are canceled and glued together. That's not for me, no kidding. I'd take them only for trading. You can always find some simpleton who doesn't care if they're glued together or not."

  That'll teach you to stick your silver postmark under my nose!

  But otherwise we had a good time together. He tried to persuade me that yesterday's fireworks were a rare type of northern lights which accidentally coincided with a special type of earthquake, and I informed him of the maneuvers and the explosion at the marmalade factory. It's impossible to argue with Achilles. Because you can see that the man doesn't believe in his own words, but still persists in arguing. He sits there like some Mongolian stone image, looks out the window and repeats the same thing over and over again, that Fm not the only one in town who can interpret the phenomena of nature. You'd think that in their pharmaceutical school they would actually train people in the serious sciences. But no, it's impossible to bring an argument with any one of the boys to a reasonable conclusion. Take Polyphemus, for example. He never argues to the heart of the matter. Truth doesn't interest him, for him only one thing is important: disgracing his opponent. Say that we're arguing about the shape of our planet. Employing the precise arguments known to every educated person, I prove to him that the Earth is, to put it crudely, a ball. He savagely and unsuccessfully attacks every argument in turn, and when we come to the shape of the Earth's shadow during a lunar eclipse, he comes out with something like this: "A shadow, a shadow! You bring in a shadow in the broad daylight. First show the beard under your nose and grow the hair on your bald spot before you start arguing about the world." Or take Paralus. I once argued with him about ways to cure alcoholism. I hadn't had time to bat my eyes before we had turned to the foreign policy of our president, and from there - to the problem of panspermia. And the most surprising thing is that I had and still have nothing to do with either panspermia or foreign policy, it's simply that Hermione's cousin's son suffered from alcoholism and tormented everyone around him. Now he's a medic in the army, but at that time my life was an absolute nightmare. Yes, alcoholism is the scourge of the people.

  Our argument ended with Achilles taking out his trusty bottle and our drinking a shot of gin. Achilles' business isn't going very well. I have the impression that he wouldn't even have enough for gin if it weren't for Madam Persephone. Someone came from her place again today.

  "I can recommend an antihistamine," said Achilles in a discreet whisper.

  "No," answers the messenger girl, "something more reliable was requested, please."

  Something more reliable, you see, for her. The little cook from Iapetus's place ran in too, for tooth drops, but no one else came, and we talked our fill. I traded a pink "Monument" for his "Red Cross" series. Actually, I don't need "Red Cross," but the day before yesterday Charon told me that he'd received a personal announcement at the editorial offices, which read:

  Will take "Red Cross." Offer any inverted postmark from the standard set.

  I must confess that, strange as it seems, Charon is the only person in our house who doesn't giggle at me. In general, if you think about it, he's not such a bad fellow. Artemis is acting not only immorally, but also ignobly. And with the likes of Nicostratus!

  Returning home at nine in the evening, I saw them again sitting in my garden, in the shadows. True, they weren't kissing this time, but still they ought to have a sense of decency. I went in the garden, took Artemis by the hand and said to that dandy, "Goodbye, Mr. Nicostratus, pleasant dreams." Artemis yanked her hand away from me^ and walked away without a word. And that rake, very ineptly trying to smooth over the awkward situation, struck up a conversation with me about the municipal recommendations which need to be attached to the request for a pension. And so I stand there and listen to him. I ought to drive him from the garden with a stick, but I listen to him. That damned delicacy of mine. And lack of confidence. I really have an inferiority complex.

  And then he gave me a nasty smirk and said, "And how is charming Mrs. Hermione getting along? You didn't miss your mark there, Mr. Apollo. I wouldn't have refused such a housekeeper myself."

  My heart sank and I lost the power of speech. But without waiting for an answer (what did he need my answer for?}, he went off, laughing all the way down the street. I remained alone in the dark garden.

  No, there's nothing you can do about it. Still, relations between me and Hermione ought to be put in order. I know I won't get anywhere, but peace of mind requires sacrifices.

  June 3

  Sometimes I am seized with utter horror when I think that the matter of my pension is not progressing. Everything tightens up inside me, and I can't apply myself to anything.

  But if you think it out logically, the matter should come to the most beneficial conclusion. First of all, I worked as a teacher for thirty years, not counting the break for the war. To be more precise, thirty years and two months. Second, I did not change my place of work even once, I never interrupted my term of service with transfers and other distracting circumstances, and only once, seven years ago, did I take a short leave of absence at my own expense. And participation in military activities cannot be considered a break in service, that's clear. By my best calculation, more than four thousand students passed through my classes, almost all of the present townspeople. Third, in recent years I have been constantly before the public and three times have substituted for the gymnasium director during his leave. Fourth, my work has been flawless; I have sixteen statements of gratitude from the ministry, a personal letter from the late minister on my fiftieth birthday, and likewise a bronze medal "For diligent work in the fallow field of public education." A whole compartment of my desk is specially set aside for letters of thanks from parents. Fifth, my speciality: today everything has turned topsy-turvy in this Cosmos; thus astronomy has become a timely subject. In my opinion, this is also a point in my favor. So, if you only glance at the matter, it would seem there could hardly be any doubt. In the minister's place I would certainly put me in the first-class category, without a moment's hesitation. Lord, then I could finally rest easy. After all, when you get right down to it, I don't need a lot in life. Three to four cigarettes, a glass of cognac, a pittance for cards, that's all. Along with stamps, of course. First class - that means 150 a month. One hundred I'll give to Hermione for household expenses; twenty goes into savings for a rainy day, and what's left is mine. That's enough for stamps and the rest. Really, haven't I earned it?

  It's too bad that no one needs an old man. Squeeze him out like a lemon and then - kick off. Letters of gratitude? Who cares about them now? Medals? Who doesn't have them? And someone is bound to latch onto the fact that I was a prisoner. Were you a prisoner? I was. Three years? Three years. That's all! Your service was interrupted for three years, take your third-class pension and don't drag out our correspondence.

  If only I had connections! Actually there is one student of mine, General Alcimus by name, who now sits in the Lower Congress. What if I write him? He ought to remember me, he and I had many of those little conflicts which students love to recall when they have grown up. By God, I will write him.

  I'll start right off: "Hi, boy. I'm an old man now-----" No, I'll wait a bit and then write.

  All day today I sat at home. Yesterday Hermione visited an aunt and brought back a big package of old stamps. I
derived great pleasure from rummaging through them.

  There's nothing like it. It's like an endless honeymoon. Several fine specimens turned up, true, all of them glued to something. I'll have to restore them. Myrtilus has pitched a tent in his yard and is living there with his whole family. He was boasting that he could get up and go within ten minutes. He went on that there was still no communication with Marathon. He's probably lying. Drunken Minotaur drove his filthy cistern into Mr. Laomedon's red car and got into a fight with the chauffeur. Both of them were taken to the station. Minotaur was thrown in jail to sober up, and the chauffeur, so they say, was sent to the hospital. So there is justice in the world after all. Artemis is sitting as quiet as a mouse: Charon should be returning any time now. I haven't told Hermione anything about it. Maybe it will all blow over. But boy, I'd like to get first class!

  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.