Bradbury, Ray - SSC 13 (13 page)

 
          
“We
know, we understand …”

 
          
The
inner flame lock opened. The golden coffin shot forth into flame.

 
          
“For the love of God, Montresor! For the
love of God!”

 
          
O
h, it was to be so jolly! What a game!
Such excitement they hadn’t known in years. The children catapulted this way
and that across the green lawns, shouting at each other, holding hands, flying
in circles, climbing trees, laughing. Overhead the rockets flew, and beetle
cars whispered by on the streets, but the children played on. Such fun, such
tremulous joy, such tumbling and hearty screaming.

 
          
Mink
ran into the house, all dirt and sweat. For her seven years she was loud and
strong and definite. Her mother, Mrs. Morris, hardly saw her as she yanked out
drawers and rattled pans and tools into a large sack.

 
          
“Heavens,
Mink, what’s going on?”

 
          
“The
most exciting game ever!” gasped Mink, pink-faced.

 
          
“Stop
and get your breath,” said the mother.

 
          
“No,
I’m all right,” gasped Mink. “Okay I take these things, Mom?”

 
          
“But
don’t dent them,” said Mrs. Morris.

 
          
“Thank
you, thank you!” cried Mink, and boom! she was gone, like a rocket.

 
          
Mrs.
Morris surveyed the fleeing tot. “What’s the name of the game?”

 
          
“Invasion!”
said Mink. The door slammed.

 
          
In
every yard on the street children brought out knives and forks and pokers and
old stovepipes and can openers.

 
          
It
was an interesting fact that this fury and bustle occurred only among the
younger children. The older ones, those ten years and more, disdained the
affair and marched scornfully off on hikes or played a more dignified version
of hide-and-seek on their own.

 
          
Meanwhile,
parents came and went in chromium beetles. Repairmen came to repair the vacuum
elevators in houses, to fix fluttering television sets, or hammer upon stubborn
food-delivery tubes. The adult civilization passed and repassed the busy
youngsters, jealous of the fierce energy of the wild tots, tolerantly amused at
their flourishings, longing to join in themselves.

 
          
“This
and this and
this
,” said Mink,
instructing the others with their assorted spoons and wrenches. “Do that, and
bring
that
over here. No!
Here
, ninny! Right. Now get back while I
fix this.” Tongue in teeth, face wrinkled in thought. “Like that. See?”

 
          
“Yayyyy!”
shouted the kids.

 
          
Twelve-year-old
Joseph Connors ran up.

 
          
“Go
away,” said Mink straight at him.

 
          
“I
wanna play,” said Joseph.

 
          
“Can’t!”
said Mink.

 
          
“Why
not?”

 
          
“You’d
just make fun of us.”

 
          
“Honest,
I wouldn’t.”

 
          
“No.
We know
you
. Go away or we’ll kick
you.”

 
          
Another
twelve-year-old boy whirred by on little motor skates. “Hey, Joe! Come on! Let
them sissies play!”

 
          
Joseph
showed reluctance and a certain wistfulness. “I
want
to play,” he said.

 
          
“You’re
old,” said Mink firmly.

 
          
“Not
that
old,” said Joe sensibly.

 
          
“You’d
only laugh and spoil the Invasion.”

 
          
The
boy on the motor skates made a rude lip noise. “Come on, Joe! Them and their
fairies! Nuts!”

 
          
Joseph
walked off slowly. He kept looking back, all down the block.

 
          
Mink
was already busy again. She made a kind of apparatus with her gathered
equipment. She had appointed another little girl with a pad and pencil to take
down notes in painful slow scribbles. Their voices rose and fell in the warm
sunlight.

 
          
All
around them the city hummed. The streets were lined with good green and
peaceful trees. Only the wind made a conflict across the city, across the
country, across the continent. In a thousand other cities there were trees and
children and avenues, businessmen in their quiet offices taping their voices,
or watching televisors. Rockets hovered like darning needles in the blue sky.
There was the universal, quiet conceit and easiness of men accustomed to peace,
quite certain there would never be trouble again. Arm in arm, men all over
earth were a united front. The perfect weapons were held in equal trust by all
nations. A situation of incredibly beautiful balance had been brought about.
There were no traitors among men, no unhappy ones, no disgruntled ones;
therefore the world was based upon a stable ground. Sunlight illumined half the
world and the trees drowsed in a tide of warm air.

 
          
Mink’s
mother, from her upstairs window, gazed down.

 
          
The
children. She looked upon them and shook her head. Well, they’d eat well, sleep
well, and be in school on Monday. Bless their vigorous little bodies. She
listened.

 
          
Mink
talked earnestly to someone near the rose bush—though there was no one there.

 
          
These
odd children. And the little girl, what was her name? Anna? Anna took notes on
a pad. First, Mink asked the rosebush a question, then called the answer to
Anna.

 
          
“Triangle,”
said Mink.

 
          
“What’s
a tri,” said Anna with difficulty, “angle?”

 
          
“Never
mind,” said Mink.

 
          
“How
you spell it?” asked Anna.

 
          
“T-r-i—”
spelled Mink slowly, then snapped, “Oh, spell it yourself!” She went on to
other words. “Beam,” she said.

 
          
“I
haven’t got tri,” said Anna, “angle down yet!”

 
          
“Well,
hurry, hurry!” cried Mink.

 
          
Mink’s
mother leaned out the upstairs window. “A-n-g-l-e,” she spelled down at Anna.

 
          
“Oh,
thanks, Mrs. Morris,” said Anna.

 
          
“Certainly,”
said Mink’s mother and withdrew, laughing, to dust the hall with an
electro-duster magnet.

 
          
The
voices wavered on the shimmery air. “Beam,” said Anna. Fading.

 
          
“Four-nine-seven-A-and-B-and-X,”
said Mink, far away, seriously. “And a fork and a string and
a—hex-hex-agony—hexagonal!”

 
          
At
lunch Mink gulped milk at one toss and was at the door. Her mother slapped the
table.

 
          
“You
sit right back down,” commanded Mrs. Morris. “Hot soup in a minute.” She poked
a red button on the kitchen butler, and ten seconds later something landed with
a bump in the rubber receiver. Mrs. Morris opened it, took out a can with a
pair of aluminum holders, unsealed it with a flick, and poured hot soup into a
bowl.

 
          
During
all this Mink fidgeted. “Hurry, Mom! This is a matter of life and death! Aw—”

 
          
“I
was the same way at your age. Always life and death. I know.”

 
          
Mink
banged away at the soup.

 
          
“Slow
down,” said Mom.

 
          
“Can’t,”
said Mink. “Drill’s waiting for me.”

 
          
“Who’s
Drill? What a peculiar name,” said Mom.

 
          
“You
don’t know him,” said Mink.

 
          
“A
new boy in the neighborhood?” asked Mom.

 
          
“He’s
new all right,” said Mink. She started on her second bowl.

 
          
“Which
one is Drill?” asked Mom.

 
          
“He’s
around,” said Mink evasively. “You’ll make fun. Everybody pokes fun. Gee,
darn.”

 
          
“Is
Drill shy?”

 
          
“Yes.
No. In a way. Gosh, Mom, I got to run if we want to have the Invasion!”

 
          
“Who’s
invading what?”

 
          
“Martians
invading Earth. Well, not exactly Martians. They’re—I don’t know. From up.” She
pointed her spoon.

 
          
“And
inside
,” said Mom, touching Mink’s
feverish brow.

 
          
Mink
rebelled. “You’re laughing! You’ll kill Drill and everybody.”

 
          
“I
didn’t mean to,” said Mom. “Drill’s a Martian?”

 
          
“No.
He’s—well—maybe from Jupiter or Saturn or Venus. Anyway, he’s had a hard time.”

 
          
“I
imagine.” Mrs. Morris hid her mouth behind her hand.

 
          
“They
couldn’t figure a way to attack Earth.”

 
          
“We’re
impregnable,” said Mom in mock seriousness.

 
          
“That’s
the word Drill used! Impreg—That was the word, Mom.”

 
          
“My,
my, Drill’s a brilliant little boy. Two-bit words.”

 
          
“They
couldn’t figure a way to attack, Mom. Drill says—he says in order to make a
good fight you got to have a new way of surprising people. That way you win.
And he says also you got to have help from your enemy.”

 
          
“A
fifth column,” said Mom.

 
          
“Yeah.
That’s what Drill said. And they couldn’t figure a way to surprise Earth or get
help.”

 
          
“No
wonder. We’re pretty darn strong.” Mom laughed, cleaning up. Mink sat there,
staring at the table, seeing what she was talking about.

 
          
“Until,
one day,” whispered Mink melodramatically, “they thought of children!”

 
          
“
Well!
” said Mrs. Morris brightly.

 
          
“And
they thought of how grown-ups are so busy they never look under rosebushes or
on lawns!”

 
          
“Only
for snails and fungus.”

 
          
“And
then there’s something about dim-dims.”

 
          
“Dim-dims?”

 
          
“Dimens-shuns.”

 
          
“Dimensions?”

 
          
“Four
of ’em! And there’s something about kids under nine and imagination. It’s real
funny to hear Drill talk.”

 
          
Mrs.
Morris was tired. “Well, it must be funny. You’re keeping Drill waiting now.
It’s getting late in the day and, if you want to have your Invasion before your
supper bath, you’d better jump.”