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.
June 5
I slept poorly last night. First Artemis woke me up when she came in at 1 a.m. I firmly decided to make a clean breast of it with her, but nothing came of it: she kissed me and locked herself in her bedroom. I had to take a soporific to calm down. Began to snooze, dreamed some sort of nonsense. At 4 a.m. I was again awakened, this time by Charon. Everyone is sleeping, but he goes on talking loudly throughout the house, as if no one else were here. I threw on my robe and went out into the living room. Lord, he was a terrible sight. I understood at once that the overthrow had not succeeded.
He sat at the table greedily eating everything that drowsy Artemis was serving him, and on the table, right on the tablecloth, were lying the greasy dismantled parts of some kind of firearm. He was unshaven, his eyes were red and inflamed, his hair was disheveled and stuck out in matted clumps. He munched his food like a honey-dipper. He had no jacket on, so it must be assumed he came home in precisely that appearance. Nothing of the chief editor of a small but respectable newspaper remained in him. His shirt was torn and smeared with dirt; his hands were filthy with broken fingernails, and horrible swollen scratches could be seen on his chest.
He didn't bother to greet me, simply glanced at me with crazy eyes and grumbled as he choked on the food: "You asked for it, you bastards!" I let this savage remark pass by my ea
rs, because I saw the man was not in his right mind, but my heart sank and my legs felt so weak that I had to sit down on the couch. Artemis, too, was awfully scared, though she tried every which way to hide it. But Charon paid no attention to her and just barked for all the neighborhood to hear: "Bread!" Or: "Brandy, damn it!" Or: "Where's the mustard, Arta? I've asked for it twenty times already."
We had no conversation in the usual sense of the word. Trying in vain to overcome my palpitations, I asked him how he had ridden here. In answer he roared completely unintelligibly that he had ridden on somebody's back, but not the person he should have ridden. I tried to change the subject, to direct the conversation along more peaceful channels, and inquired about the weather in Marathon. He looked at me as if I had mortally insulted him and simply roared in his plate: "Brainless idiots ..." It was quite impossible to talk with him. Every other word was a curse, both while he was eating and afterwards, when he pushed the plates away with his elbow and began to assemble his weapon with renewed vigor. It's a good thing Hermione sleeps so soundly, so she wasn't present for this scene: she can't stand vulgarity. Everyone was a bastard to him; I just couldn't understand what had happened.
Here's the way it went: "All those bastards have become such worthless bastards that now any miserable bastard can do what he likes with the bastards, and not a single bastard will raise a finger to stop the bastards from handing us any old crap."
Poor Artemis stood behind his back wringing her fingers, and the tears ran down her cheeks. From time to time she glanced at me imploringly, but what could I do? I needed help myself; the nervous tension had practically blindfolded me. Without leaving off cursing for a moment, he assembled his weapon (it turned out to be a modern machine gun), inserted the cartridge and rose heavily to his feet, knocking two plates on the floor. Artemis, my poor daughter, her pale face drained of the last drop of blood, leaned over to him, and then, it seemed, he softened up a bit.
"There, there, kid," he said, dropping the cursing and hugging her awkwardly around the shoulders. "I could have taken you with me, but it wouldn't have been much fun for you. I know you like the back of my hand."
Even I felt the painful necessity for Artemis to find the right words at this moment. And, as if catching my telepathic thought, the girl gushed with tears and asked him, in my opinion, the main question: "What will happen to us now?"
I understood at once that, from Charon's point of view, these were not really the right words. He tucked his machine gun under his arm, slapped Artemis on the fanny, and said with a mean grin: "Don't worry, kiddie, nothing new will happen to you." After this he headed straight out. But I couldn't permit him to leave like that, without giving us any explanations.
"Just a minute, Charon," I said, overcoming my weakness. "What will happen now? What will they do to us?"
This question of mine drove him into an indescribable fury. He stopped on the threshold, turned half around and, knocking his knee painfully, hissed through his teeth these strange words: "If only one bastard would ask what he should do. But no, every bastard asks only what they will do to him. Rest easy, yours shall be the heavenly kingdom on Earth."
After this he went out, loudly slamming the door, and a minute later his car was heard roaring down the street.
The next hour was pure hell. Artemis had an attack of something like hysterics, though it more resembled uncontrollable rage. She broke all the dishes left on the table, yanked off the tablecloth and hurled it at the television set, banged on the door with her fists and shouted something in a choked voice that sounded like this: "So to you I'm a fool? ... I'm a fool to you, huh? ... And what are you? ... What are you? ... I spit on the whole deal.... You do what you want, and I'll do what I want! ... Got it? ... Got it? ... Got it?... You'll come running, you'll come begging on your knees!..."
Probably I should have given her some water, slapped her cheeks and the rest, but I myself was laid out on the couch, and there was no one to bring me a validus pill. It ended with Artemis dashing off to her room without paying any attention to me and with me, after resting a bit, crawling off to bed and falling into some sort of half-faint.
Morning came, overcast and rainy. (Temperature: +17° C, cloud cover: 10, no wind.) Fortunately I had slept through Artemis's explanation to Hermione of the mess in the living room. I only know that there had been a scene and both were now puffed up with anger. While she served the coffee, Hermione looked at me with the obvious intention of drawing me into the conversation, but she kept quiet. Most likely I looked pretty bad, and she's a kind woman, which is why I value her. After coffee, I was gathering strength to go to The Five Spot when a messenger boy arrived with a supposed piece of news signed by Polyphemus. It turns out I am a rank-and-file member of the city's "Voluntary Anti-Martian Patrol" and am already instructed to "appear at 10 a.m. on Harmony Square with firearms or sidearms and a three-day food supply." What does he think I am, a babe in the woods? Of course, I didn't go anywhere, purely on principle. From Myrtilus, who is still living in his tent, I found out that the farmers have been coming to the mayor's office since dawn; they are receiving sacks of the new grain-seeds and taking them back to their fields. Supposedly the wheat harvest, consigned to destruction, is being bought up before cutting by the government at a good price, and advances on the harvest of new grain are being offered. In all of this the farmers suspect the usual agrarian rigamarole, but since no money has been demanded of them, nor written contracts, they don't know what to think. Myrtilus assures me (!) that there are no Martians, because life is impossible on Mars. There is simply a new agrarian policy. Nevertheless, he is ready at any moment to leave the city, and, just in case, he also took a bag of seeds. In the papers, the same as yesterday, there is nothing but wheat and gastric juice. If it keeps on like this, Fm going to cancel my subscription. On the radio - also wheat and gastric juice. I don't even turn it on anymore, I just watch television, where everything is as it was before the putsch. Mr. Nicostratus drove up in his car, Artemis skipped out to him and they drove away. I don't want to think about it. Maybe, in the final analysis, it's fate.
Since all this babbling about wheat and gastric juice hasn't stopped, the putsch has apparently succeeded after all. Charon, due to his usual unsociability, didn't get what he'd counted on, argued with everyone there and found himself in the opposition. I'm afraid that because of him things will be unpleasant for us. When madmen like Charon take up a machine gun, they fire it. My God, will the time ever come when things are not unpleasant for me?
June 6
Temperature: +16° C, cloud cover: 10, wind from the southwest at 6 meters per second. Fixed my wind gauge.
The eczema is driving me crazy. I'll have to bandage up my hands. Besides that, my frozen ears are aching - probably from the change in the weather.
Martians are Martians. I'm sick of arguing about it.
June 7
My eye still hurts. It's all swollen up and I can't see anything out of it. Good thing it's the left eye. Achilles' eyewash only helps a little bit. Achilles says the shiner will be noticeable for no more than a week. Right now it's reddish blue, later it will turn green, then get yellow and disappear completely. Still, what a cruel and uncouth thing to do! To strike an elderly man who was only trying to ask an innocent question. If this is the way the Martians will start, I hate to think how they will end. And there's no one to complain to, I can only wait until the matter is cleared up. My eye hurts so much that it's terrible to remember how pleased I was with the peaceful morning today. (Temperature: +20° C, cloud cover: 0, wind from the south at 1 meter per second.)
When I went up to the attic after breakfast to make some meteorological observations, I noticed with some surprise that the fields beyond the city had acquired a definite bluish tinge. Farther off, the fields blended in so completely with the color of the sky that the line of the horizon was completely effaced, even though visibility was excellent and there was no smoke whatsoever. These new Martian seeds have sprouted
up remarkably fast. It's to be expected that in a day or so they will wipe out the wheat altogether,
Arriving at the square, I found that almost all the boys, as well as a huge number of other townspeople, who should have been at work, not to mention farmers and schoolchildren who should have been playing games, were crowding around three large vans painted over with colorful posters and advertisements. I thought at first that this was a traveling circus, especially since the advertisements proclaimed incomparable tight-wire walkers and the other usual heroes of the arena, but Morpheus, who had been standing there a long time, explained to me that this was no circus, but a mobile donor station. Inside were installed special suction pumps with hoses, and next to every pump there sat a big husky guy in a doctor's uniform who offered to draw off the excesses of everybody who entered and to give a remarkable price: five bills per glass.
"What kind of excesses?" I asked. It turned out to be excesses of stomach juice. The whole world is founded on stomach juice. "Are they really Martians?" I asked.
"What do you mean, Martians?" asked Morpheus. "They're big husky hairy guys. That fellow has one eye."
"So what if he does?" I naturally objected. "A member of any race, be he on Earth or on Mars, has one eye, if the other one is injured."
I didn't realize then that these words of mine would prove prophetic. I was simply irritated by Morpheus's presumptuous attitude.
"I've never heard of one-eyed Martians in my life," he declared.
The people around us were listening to our conversation, and so he, in an attack of vanity, deemed it necessary to maintain his dubious reputation as a debater. But he still doesn't know what he's talking about.
"These are no Martians," he states. "Just ordinary guys from the suburbs. You can find a dozen like them in every tavern.''
The Second Invasion from Mars Page 4