The Second Invasion from Mars
Arkady Strugatsky
Boris Strugatsky
The Second Invasion from Mars
June 1 (3 am.)
O this accursed conformist world!
Lord, on top of everything else - Artemis! Looks like she's gotten mixed up with that Nicostratus after all. That's what you call a daughter.... Well, so be it.
About one o'clock this morning I was awakened by a terrific but distant rumbling and was startled by an ominous play of red lights over the walls of my bedroom. The rumbling went on roaring and reverberating like the sound of an earthquake, so that the whole house shook, the window-panes rattled and the vials danced on the nightstand. I rushed in a fright to the window. In the north the sky was aflame: it seemed as if the earth was gaping out there beyond the horizon and spewing fountains of multicolored fire up to the very stars. But on the bench right under my window, those two, seeing and hearing nothing, all lit up by the infernal commotion and rocking with the subterranean tremors, were embracing each other and kissing full on the mouth. I immediately recognized Artemis and assumed that Charon had returned, that she was so glad to see him she was kissing him like a bride instead of leading him straight to the bedroom. A second later, in the light of the red sky, I recognized the illustrious foreign-made jacket of Mr. Nicostratus, and my heart sank. Such moments as these ruin a man's constitution. And yet you couldn't say that this hit me like a bolt from the blue. There had been rumors, hints, all sorts of little jokes. And still I was knocked dead.
Clutching my heart, completely at a loss what to do, I made my way in my bare feet to the living room and began to phone the police. But just try to get through to the police when you need them. The line at the station was busy for a long time, and when someone did answer, who should be on duty but Pandareus. I asked him what phenomenon was that observable on the horizon. He didn't know what a phenomenon was. I asked him, "Can you tell me what's happening on the northern horizon?" He tried to figure out where that might be. I was at my wit's end to explain it to him, when finally he caught on.
"Ah-h-h," he says, "you mean the big fire?" And he reported that some sort of burning had indeed been observed, but what kind of burning it was and what was being burned had not been determined as yet. The house was quaking, everything was creaking, people were on the street pitifully screaming about war, and this old horse's ass starts telling me that they'd just brought Minotaur into the station: he was dead drunk, he'd defiled the corner of Mr. Laomedon's estate, and he couldn't stand up or even fight.
"Are you going to do anything about it or not?" I interrupted him.
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Mr. Apollo," says this ass, taking offense, "I have to make a report, and you're tying me up on the telephone. If you're all so upset about the fire..."
"What if it's a war?" I asked him.
"No, it's not a war," he declared. "I would've known."
"What if it's an eruption?" I asked. He didn't know what an eruption was. I couldn't stand it anymore and hung up. Sweaty all over from this conversation, I went back to the bedroom and put on my robe and slippers.
The rumbling seemed to have quieted down, but the flashing continued. Those two were no longer kissing or even sitting on the bench in each other's arms but were standing hand-in-hand where anyone could see them, since the fire lit up the horizon as bold as day. Only the light wasn't white, but reddish orange, with clouds the color of watery coffee drifting across it. The neighbors were running around in the street in whatever, Mrs. Eurydice was grabbing people by their pajamas and demanding to be saved, and only Myrtilus took a businesslike approach, rolled his truck out of the garage and along with his wife and sons set about loading his household possessions. It was a real panic, just as in the good old days - I hadn't seen one like it for a long time. But as for me, I understood that if an atomic war had broken out, you couldn't find a better place in the region than our town for hiding, waiting, sitting it out. And if it was an eruption, then it was occurring somewhere far away, so once again our town wasn't threatened. Besides, it was doubtful that it was an eruption. What kind of eruption could we have?
I went upstairs and tried to wake Hermione. It was the same old story: "Leave me alone, you sot. You shouldn't drink at night - I don't want to now...." And so on. Then I started telling her in a loud and convincing voice about the atomic war and the eruption, laying on the colors rather thick, since otherwise I would never get anywhere. This got through to her, she leaped out of bed, shoved me out of the way and dashed straight for the kitchen, grumbling: "I'm going to take a look, and then you'd better watch out...." Unlocking the cupboard, she examined the bottle of cognac. I kept cool. "Where'd you get yourself in this state?" she asked, sniffing at me suspiciously. "What den of iniquity did you go to tonight?"
But when she looked out the window and saw our neighbors half-dressed in the street, when she saw Myrtilus in his underdrawers propped up on his roof and peering through his field glasses to the north, she forgot about me. As it happened, the northern horizon had again sunk into silence and darkness, though you could still make out a cloud of smoke completely obscuring the stars. What can you say? My Hermione is no Mrs. Eurydice for you. A different age and a different upbringing. I'd barely managed to down a glass of cognac when she dragged out the suitcases and called to Artemis at the top of her voice. Go on and call her, call her, I thought bitterly, maybe she'll hear you.
At that moment Artemis appeared at the door to her room. Lord! Pale as death, shaking all over, but with her pajamas already on and curlers in her hair. She asks, "What is it? What are you all shouting about?"
You've got to admit it, she's got guts. If this phenomenon hadn't occurred, I'd never have found out anything, and Charon even less. Our eyes met, she smiled at me affectionately but with trembling lips, and I decided not to utter the words on the tip of my tongue. To calm myself down, I went to my room and began to pack my stamps. You tremble, I said to her mentally, you shake. You're lonely, scared and unprotected. But he didn't support you or protect you. He picked a flower of pleasure and ran off on his own business. No, my dear, when a man's without honor, he's without honor to the very end.
Meanwhile, as I expected, the panic was quickly subsiding. It became an ordinary night again, the earth no longer shook, the houses didn't creak. Someone had taken Mrs. Eurydice home. No one was shouting about war anymore, particularly since there wasn't anything more to shout about. Glancing out the window, I saw that the street was deserted, only one or two houses had their lights on and Myrtilus was still on his roof, standing out among the stars in his underpants. I called over to him and asked what he could see.
"Sure, sure," he said irritably. "Go to bed, snore. You snore, and they'll give it to you...."
I asked who "they" were.
"Sure, sure," responded Myrtilus. "You wise guys know it all. Along with your Pandareus. He's a fool, your Pandareus, and nothing else but."
Hearing about Pandareus, I decided to phone the police again. It took a long time to get through, but when at long last I did, Pandareus informed me that there was no special news, but as for the rest everything was in order, drunk Minotaur had been shot with a sedative, had his stomach cleaned out and dropped off to sleep. About the big fire, the burning had stopped a long time ago, especially since it turned out not to be burning at all, but a big holiday fireworks display. While I was trying to recall what holiday it was, Pandareus hung up. He really is stupid and revoltingly uneducated, and he always has been. It's strange to see people like that in our police force. Our policemen should be intellectuals, models for the youth, heroes to be emulated,
people you can safely entrust not only with weapons and authority, but also with educational work. But Charon considers such a police force a "company of eggheads." He says no state would want my kind of police force because it would start arresting and reeducating the very people the state finds most useful, beginning with the Prime Minister and the Chief of Police. I don't know, I don't know, could be. But for the senior officer not to know what a phenomenon is and to act like a clod while performing his duties - who needs it?
Tripping over the suitcases, I made my way back to the cupboard and poured myself a glass of cognac just as Hermione came back in the kitchen. She said this was a madhouse, you couldn't depend on anybody here, the men were not men and the women not women. I'm a complete alcoholic, Charon lives here like a tourist and Artemis is a lily-white unfit for real life. And so on. Maybe someone would explain to her why she was awakened in the middle of the night and forced to get out the suitcases? I answered Hermione as best I could and sought refuge in my bedroom. I ached all over, and now I know for sure that my eczema will be worse tomorrow. I already feel like scratching, but so far I've been able to hold back.
About three o'clock the earth shook again. I could hear the noise of many engines and the grinding of metal. It turned out to be a column of military trucks and armored carriers full of troops moving past the house. They drove slowly, with dimmed headlights, and Myrtilus had latched onto some kind of armored vehicle and was trotting alongside, holding onto the lug of the hatchway and shouting something. I don't know what they answered him, but when the column had passed and he stood alone in the street, I called over to him and asked for the news.
"Sure, sure," said Myrtilus. "We know what kind of maneuvers these are. A bunch of wise guys riding around on my money." And finally I understood it all. Big military exercises are taking place - perhaps even with the use of atomic weapons. Big deal.
Lord, now if only I can get some sleep!
June 2
I itch all over. And above all I can't bring myself to have a talk with Artemis. I can't stand those excessively personal conversations, that intimate tone. Besides, how do I know what shell answer?
The devil knows what to do with daughters like this. If only I had an inkling of what she needs! She's got a husband, not some kind of puny egghead, but a real hunk of a man; he's no slob, no cripple, and no lecher either. Though he could be: the comptroller's niece looks at him suggestively and Thyone makes eyes at him. Everyone knows about it, not to mention the schoolgirls, the summer-cottage girls, or Madam Persephone, the cattiest she-cat of them all - no cat can stand up to her. But actually I do know what Artemis would answer.
"Daddikins," she'd say, "it's boring, it's all so deadly boring around here."
And you can't argue with that! A young, beautiful woman, no children, a model disposition: she ought to be whisked away in a whirlwind of amusements, dances, flirtations, and the like. But Charon, unfortunately, is one of those, what shall we call them, philosophizes. A thinker. Totalitarianism, fascism, managerialism, communism. Dancing is a sexual stimulant, guests are blabbermouths, one's worse than the other. Don't breathe a word about a game of four kings. Yet, when it comes to drinking, he's nobody's fool! Get five of his know-it-all friends around a table and put five bottles of cognac in front of them, and they'll go on deciding the world's affairs till dawn. The lass yawns and yawns, she slams the door and goes to bed. You call that life? I understand, a man needs something manly, but, on the other hand, a woman needs something womanly! No, I love my son-in-law, he's my son-in-law, so I love him. But how long can you go on deciding the world's affairs? And what difference do those discussions make? It's obvious: you can talk about fascism till you're blue in the face and you won't make a dint in it. Before you can take a breath, it'll slap an iron helmet on you and - forward, long live the leader! But stop paying attention to your young wife, and she'll pay you back in spades. No philosophizing will help you then. I understand, a cultured man must discuss abstruse subjects now and then, but you must keep things in proportion, gentlemen.
A wonderful morning today. (Temperature: +19° C, cloud cover: 1, wind from the south at .5 meters per second. I ought to run down to the meteorological bureau and fix my wind gauge, since I dropped it again.) After breakfast I decided that a sleeping dog gets no pension, so I went to the mayor's office to look into it. As I walked along, pleased by the peace and quiet, I suddenly saw a crowd on the corner of Freedom and Juniper streets. It turned out that Minotaur had driven his cistern through a jeweler's front window, and the people had gathered around to watch him, all dirty, puffy and drunk again since early morning, try to explain it to the traffic cop. He made such an unwholesome contrast to the bright and shining morning that I immediately fell in the dumps. Obviously the police shouldn't have let him out so early, they must've known he'd drink himself into a stupor once he got going. But, on the other hand, how could they not let him out, since he's the only honey-dipper in town? Here you have only two options: either you take up the reeducation of Minotaur and drown in filth, or you make a compromise in the name of hygiene.
Because of Minotaur I was held up, and when I got to The Five Spot all the boys had already assembled. I paid my fine, and then one-legged Polyphemus treated me to an excellent cigar in an aluminum case, which his oldest son Polycarpus, a lieutenant in the merchant marines, had sent to him for me. This Polycarpus once studied under me for several years, until he ran away to sea as a cabin boy. He was a lively lad, a playful scamp. When the scamp flew the city, Polyphemus almost took me to court, as if, so to say, the teacher had corrupted the child with his lectures on the vast multiplicity of worlds. Polyphemus is still certain that the sky is firm and satellites run around on it like cyclists in a circus. My demonstrations of the value of astronomy are beyond him: they were beyond him then, and they are just as far beyond him now.
The boys were talking about how the city comptroller had again misused funds allocated for the construction of the stadium. That makes it the seventh time already. We talked of ways to put a stop to it. Silenus shrugged his shoulders and asserted that nothing would do but a trial.
"Enough half-measures," he said. "An open trial. Gather the whole town at the foundation of the stadium and tie the embezzler to a pillory at the scene of his crime. Thank God," he repeated, "that our law is sufficiently flexible that the means of suppression can equal the seriousness of the crime."
"I would even say," remarked grouchy Paralus, "that our law is too flexible. The comptroller has been taken to court twice already, and both times our flexible law bent clean around him. But maybe you think it happened that way because he wasn't tried at the foundation, but in the town hall.,,
Morpheus, thinking it over carefully, said that from this day forward he'd never give the comptroller another shave and haircut. Let 'im go hairy.
"You're all stupid backsides," said Polyphemus. "You'll never get anywhere. He can just spit on the whole lot of you. He has his own cronies."
"That's exactly it," grouchy Paralus caught on, and he reminded us that in addition to the city comptroller there lived and flourished the city architect who had designed the stadium to the best of his abilities and now had a natural interest in seeing that the stadium, God forbid, not be built.
Calais the stutterer began to sputter and stammer, and having thus gained everyone's attention he recalled that he himself, Calais, had almost come to blows with the architect at the Flower Festival. This statement gave the discussion a decidedly new turn.
One-legged Polyphemus, as a veteran and a man not squeamish about blood, proposed that we jump both of them at the entrance to Madam Persephone's house and take them down a notch. In critical moments like these Polyphemus completely loses a hold on his tongue - the barracks language flows right out of him.
"Take the smelly bastards down a notch," he thundered. "Shovel away all that crap, crush their bones, polish 'em off!"
It's simply amazing how such speeches affect the boys. They all
got furious and started waving their hands, and Calais sputtered and stammered more violently than ever, since he couldn't pronounce a word in his great agitation. But here grouchy Paralus, the only one of us to keep cool, noted that besides the comptroller and the architect, there still happened to be living in the city, in his summer residence, the best friend of these two - a certain Mr. Laomedon. At this everyone fell silent and began to puff on the cigars and cigarettes, which had gone out during the discussion, because you couldn't take Mr. Laomedon down a notch or polish him off so easily. And when in the settling silence Calais inadvertently burst out, finally, with his favorite curse - "S-s-sock 'em in the snoot!" - everyone looked at him with displeasure.
I remembered that I should have gone to the mayor's office a long time before, so I inserted the remainder of my cigar into the aluminum case and went up to the second floor, to the reception room of Mr. Mayor. I was struck by the unusual bustle of the office. All the employees were excited somehow. Even Mr. Secretary, instead of examining his fingernails as usual, was busy imprinting wax seals on large envelopes, although, to be sure, with an expression of distaste and obligation. Feeling very out of place, I approached this fashionably slicked-down beauty. Lord, I'd give anything on earth to have nothing to do with him, neither to see him nor to hear him. Even before this I hadn't liked Mr. Nicostratus, just as I didn't like any of our town dandies. To tell the truth, I didn't like him even when he studied under me, because he was lazy, crude and insolent. But after yesterday it makes me sick just to look at him. I had no idea what tone to take with him. But there was no getting out of it, and finally I decided to say "Mr. Nicostratus, have you heard anything concerning my case?"
He didn't even glance at me, didn't even, so to say, favor me with a glance. "Sorry, Mr. Apollo, but the answer hasn't come in yet from the ministry," he said, continuing to press the seals. I hung around a moment and then headed for the exit, feeling rotten, as I always do in official places. However, quite unexpectedly, he stopped me with a surprising piece of news. He said there had been no communication with Marathon since yesterday.
The Second Invasion from Mars Page 1