Bradbury, Ray - SSC 13 (14 page)

 
          
“Do
I have to take a bath?” growled Mink.

 
          
“You
do. Why is it children hate water? No matter what age you live in children hate
water behind the ears!”

 
          
“Drill
says I won’t have to take baths,” said Mink.

 
          
“Oh,
he does, does he?”

 
          
“He
told all the kids that. No more baths. And we can stay up till ten o’clock and
go to two televisor shows on Saturday ’stead of one!”

 
          
“Well,
Mr. Drill better mind his p’s and q’s. I’ll call up his mother and—”

 
          
Mink
went to the door. “We’re having trouble with guys like Pete Britz and Dale
Jerrick. They’re growing up. They make fun. They’re worse than parents. They
just won’t believe in Drill. They’re so snooty, ’cause they’re growing up.
You’d think they’d know better. They were little only a coupla years ago. I
hate them worst. We’ll kill them
first
.”

 
          
“Your
father and I last?”

 
          
“Drill
says you’re dangerous. Know why? ’Cause you don’t believe in Martians! They’re
going to let
us
run the world. Well,
not just us, but the kids over in the next block, too. I might be queen.” She
opened the door.

 
          
“Mom?”

 
          
“Yes?”

 
          
“What’s
lodge-ick?”

 
          
“Logic?
Why, dear, logic is knowing what things are true and not true.”

 
          
“He
mentioned
that,” said Mink. “And
what’s im-pres-sion-able?” It took her a minute to say it.

 
          
“Why,
it means—” Her mother looked at the floor, laughing gently. “It means—to be a child,
dear.”

 
          
“Thanks
for lunch!” Mink ran out, then stuck her head back in. “Mom, I’ll be sure you
won’t be hurt much, really!”

 
          
“Well,
thanks,” said Mom.

 
          
Slam
went the door.

 
          
At
four o’clock the audiovisor buzzed. Mrs. Morris flipped the tab. “Hello,
Helen!” she said in welcome.

 
          
“Hello,
Mary. How are things in New York?”

 
          
“Fine.
How are things in Scranton? You look tired.”

 
          
“So
do you. The children. Underfoot,” said Helen.

 
          
Mrs.
Morris sighed. “My Mink too. The super-Invasion.”

 
          
Helen
laughed. “Are your kids playing that game too?”

 
          
“Lord,
yes. Tomorrow it’ll be geometrical jacks and motorized hopscotch. Were we this
bad when we were kids in ’48?”

 
          
“Worse.
Japs and Nazis. Don’t know how my parents put up with me. Tomboy.”

 
          
“Parents
learn to shut their ears.”

 
          
A
silence.

 
          
“What’s
wrong, Mary?” asked Helen.

 
          
Mrs.
Morris’s eyes were half closed; her tongue slid slowly, thoughtfully, over her
lower lip. “Eh?” She jerked. “Oh, nothing. Just thought about
that
. Shutting ears and such. Never mind.
Where were we?”

 
          
“My
boy Tim’s got a crush on some guy named—
Drill
,
I think it was.”

 
          
“Must
be a new password. Mink likes him too.”

 
          
“Didn’t
know it had got as far as New York. Word of mouth, I imagine. Looks like a
scrap drive. I talked to Josephine and she said her kids—that’s in Boston—are
wild on this new game. It’s sweeping the country.”

 
          
At
that moment Mink trotted into the kitchen to gulp a glass of water. Mrs. Morris
turned. “How’re things going?”

 
          
“Almost
finished,” said Mink.

 
          
“Swell,”
said Mrs. Morris. “What’s
that?
”

 
          
“A
yo-yo,” said Mink. “Watch.”

 
          
She
flung the yo-yo down its string. Reaching the end it—It vanished.

 
          
“See?”
said Mink. “Ope!” Dibbling her finger, she made the yo-yo reappear and zip up
the string.

 
          
“Do
that again,” said her mother.

 
          
“Can’t.
Zero hour’s five o’clock! ’By.” Mink exited, zipping her yo-yo.

 
          
On
the audiovisor, Helen laughed. “Tim brought one of those yo-yos in this
morning, but when I got curious he said he wouldn’t show it to me, and when I
tried to work it, finally, it wouldn’t work.”

 
          
“You’re
not
impressionable
,” said Mrs.
Morris.

 
          
“What?”

 
          
“Never
mind. Something I thought of. Can I help you, Helen?”

 
          
“I
wanted to get that black-and-white cake recipe—”

 
          
The
hour drowsed by. The day waned. The sun lowered in the peaceful blue sky.
Shadows lengthened on the green lawns. The laughter and excitement continued.
One little girl ran away, crying. Mrs. Morris came out the front door.

 
          
“Mink,
was that Peggy Ann crying?”

 
          
Mink
was bent over in the yard, near the rosebush. “Yeah. She’s a scarebaby. We
won’t let her play, now. She’s getting too old to play. I guess she grew up all
of a sudden.”

 
          
“Is
that why she cried? Nonsense. Give me a civil answer, young lady, or inside you
come!”

 
          
Mink
whirled in consternation, mixed with irritation. “I can’t quit now. It’s almost
time. I’ll be good. I’m sorry.”

 
          
“Did
you hit Peggy Ann?”

 
          
“No,
honest. You ask her. It was something—well, she’s just a scaredy pants.”

 
          
The
ring of children drew in around Mink where she scowled at her work with spoons
and a kind of square-shaped arrangement of hammers and pipes. “There and
there,” murmured Mink.

 
          
“What’s
wrong?” said Mrs. Morris.

 
          
“Drill’s
stuck. Halfway. If we could only get him all the way through, it’d be easier.
Then all the others could come through after him.”

 
          
“Can
I help?”

 
          
“No’m,
thanks. I’ll fix it.”

 
          
“All
right. I’ll call you for your bath in half an hour. I’m tired of watching you.”

 
          
She
went in and sat in the electric relaxing chair, sipping a little beer from a
half-empty glass. The chair massaged her back. Children, children. Children
love and hate, side by side. Sometimes children loved you, hated you—all in
half a second. Strange children, did they ever forget or forgive the whippings
and the harsh, strict words of command? She wondered. How can you ever forget
or forgive those over and above you, those tall and silly dictators?

 
          
Time
passed. A curious, waiting silence came upon the street, deepening.

 
          
Five
o’clock. A clock sang softly somewhere in the house in a quiet, musical voice:
“Five o’clock—five o’clock. Time’s a-wasting. Five o’clock,” and purred away
into silence.

 
          
Zero
hour.

 
          
Mrs.
Morris chuckled in her throat. Zero hour.

 
          
A
beetle car hummed into the driveway. Mr. Morris. Mrs. Morris smiled. Mr. Morris
got out of the beetle, locked it and called hello to Mink at her work. Mink
ignored him. He laughed and stood for a moment watching the children. Then he
walked up the front steps.

 
          
“Hello,
darling.”

 
          
“Hello,
Henry.”

 
          
She
strained forward on the edge of the chair, listening. The children were silent.
Too silent.

 
          
He
emptied his pipe, refilled it. “Swell day. Makes you glad to be alive.”

 
          
Buzz
.

 
          
“What’s
that?” asked Henry.

 
          
“I
don’t know.” She got up suddenly, her eyes widening. She was going to say
something. She stopped it. Ridiculous. Her nerves jumped. “Those children
haven’t anything dangerous out there, have they?” she said.

 
          
“Nothing
but pipes and hammers. Why?”

 
          
“Nothing
electrical?”

 
          
“Heck,
no,” said Henry. “I looked.”

 
          
She
walked to the kitchen. The buzzing continued. “Just the same, you’d better go
tell them to quit. It’s after five. Tell them—” Her eyes widened and narrowed.
“Tell them to put off their Invasion until tomorrow.” She laughed, nervously.

 
          
The
buzzing grew louder.

 
          
“What
are they up to? I’d better go look, all right.”

 
          
The
explosion!

 
          
The
house shook with dull sound. There were other explosions in other yards on
other streets.

 
          
Involuntarily,
Mrs. Morris screamed. “Up this way!” she cried senselessly, knowing no sense,
no reason. Perhaps she saw something from the corners of her eyes; perhaps she
smelled a new odor or heard a new noise. There was no time to argue with Henry
to convince him. Let him think her insane. Yes, insane! Shrieking, she ran upstairs.
He ran after her to see what she was up to. “In the attic!” she screamed.
“That’s where it is!” It was only a poor excuse to get him in the attic in
time. Oh, God—in time!

 
          
Another
explosion outside. The children screamed with delight, as if at a great
fireworks display.

 
          
“It’s
not in the attic!” cried Henry. “It’s outside!”

 
          
“No,
no!” Wheezing, gasping, she fumbled at the attic door. “I’ll show you. Hurry!
I’ll show you!”

 
          
They
tumbled into the attic. She slammed the door, locked it, took the key, threw it
into a far, cluttered corner.

 
          
She
was babbling wild stuff now. It came out of her. All the subconscious suspicion
and fear that had gathered secretly all afternoon and fermented like a wine in
her. All the little revelations and knowledges and sense that had bothered her
all day and which she had logically and carefully and sensibly rejected and
censored. Now it exploded in her and shook her to bits.

 
          
“There,
there,” she said, sobbing against the door. “We’re safe until tonight. Maybe we
can sneak out. Maybe we can escape!”