Seeing no weapons about, the Martians relaxed, but kept their guns out.
From one-thirty until two-fifteen the mayor made the same speech over for the benefit of the Martians.
At two-thirty Miss America of 1940 volunteered to kiss all the Martians if they lined up.
At two-thirty and ten seconds the band played “How Do You Do, Everybody,” to cover up the confusion caused by Miss America’s suggestion.
At two thirty-five Mr. Biggest Grapefruit presented the Martians with a two-ton truck full of grapefruit.
At two thirty-seven the mayor gave them all free passes to the Elite and Majestic theaters, combining this gesture with another speech which lasted until after three.
The band played, and the fifty thousand people sang, “For They Are Jolly Good Fellows.”
It was over at four o’clock.
Ettil sat down in the shadow of the rocket, two of his fellows with him. “So this is Earth!”
“I say kill the filthy rats,” said one Martian. “I don’t trust them. They’re sneaky. What’s their motive for treating us this way?” He held up a box of something that rustled. “What’s this stuff they gave me? A sample, they said.” He read the label. BLIX,
The crowd had drifted about, was mingling with the Martians like a carnival throng. Everywhere was the buzzing murmur of people fingering the rockets, asking questions.
Ettil was cold. He was beginning to tremble even more now. “Don’t you feel it?” he whispered. “The tenseness, the evilness of all this. Something’s going to happen to us. They have some plan. Something subtle and horrible. They’re going to do something to us—I know.”
“I say kill every one of them!”
“How can you kill people who call you ‘pal’ and ‘buddy’?” asked another Martian.
Ettil shook his head. “They’re sincere. And yet I feel as if we were in a big acid vat melting away, away. I’m frightened.” He put his mind out to touch among the crowd. “Yes, they’re really friendly, hail-fellows-well-met (one of their terms). One huge mass of common men, loving dogs and cats and Martians equally. And yet—and yet ——”
The band played “Roll Out the Barrel.” Free beer was being distributed through the courtesy of Hagenback Beer, Fresno, California.
The sickness came.
The men poured out fountains of slush from their mouths. The sound of sickness filled the land.
Gagging, Ettil sat beneath a sycamore tree. “A plot, a plot—a horrible plot,” he groaned, holding his stomach.
“What did you eat?” The assignor stood over him.
“Something that they called popcorn,” groaned Ettil.
“And?”
“And some sort of long meat on a bun, and some yellow liquid in an iced vat, and some sort of fish and something called pastrami,” sighed Ettil, eyelids flickering.
The moans of the Martian invaders sounded all about.
“Kill the plotting snakes!” somebody cried weakly.
“Hold on,” said the assignor. “It’s merely hospitality. They overdid it. Up on your feet now, men. Into the town. We’ve got to place small garrisons of men about to make sure all is well. Other ships are landing in other cities. We’ve our job to do here.”
The men gained their feet and stood blinking stupidly about.
“Forward, march!”
One, two, three,
The white stores of the little town lay dreaming in shimmering heat. Heat emanated from everything—poles, concrete, metal, awnings, roofs, tar paper—everything.
The sound of Martian feet sounded on the asphalt.
“Careful, men!” whispered the assignor. They walked past a beauty shop.
From inside, a furtive giggle. “Look!”
A coppery head bobbed and vanished like a doll in the window. A blue eye glinted and winked at a keyhole.
“It’s a plot,” whispered Ettil. “A plot, I tell you!”
The odors of perfume were fanned out on the summer air by the whirling vents of the grottoes where the women hid like undersea creatures, under electric cones, their hair curled into wild whorls and peaks, their eyes shrewd and glassy, animal and sly, their mouths painted a neon red. Fans were whirring, the perfumed wind issuing upon the stillness, moving among green trees, creeping among the amazed Martians.
“For God’s sake!” screamed Ettil, his nerves suddenly breaking loose. “Let’s get in our rockets—go home! They’ll get us! Those horrid things in there. See them? Those evil undersea things, those women in their cool little caverns of artificial rock!”
“Shut up!”
Look at them in there, he thought, drifting their dresses like cool green gills over their pillar legs. He shouted.
“Someone shut his mouth!”
“They’ll rush out on us, hurling chocolate boxes and copies of
“Why not?” asked the other Martians.
“They’ll fry you, bleach you, change you! Crack you, flake you away until you’re nothing but a husband, a working man, the one with the money who pays so they can come sit in there devouring their evil chocolates! Do you think you could control them?”
“Yes, by the gods!”
From a distance a voice drifted, a high and shrill voice, a woman’s voice saying, “Ain’t that middle one there cute?”
“Martians ain’t so bad after all. Gee, they’re just men,” said another, fading.
“Hey, there.
Yelling, Ettil ran….
He sat in a park and trembled steadily. He remembered what he had seen. Looking up at the dark night sky, he felt so far from home, so deserted. Even now, as he sat among the still trees, in the distance he could see Martian warriors walking the streets with the Earth women, vanishing into the phantom darknesses of the little emotion palaces to hear the ghastly sounds of white things moving on gray screens, with little frizz-haired women beside them, wads of gelatinous gum working in their jaws, other wads under the seats, hardening with the fossil imprints of the women’s tiny cat teeth forever imbedded therein. The cave of winds—the cinema.
“Hello.”
He jerked his head in terror.
A woman sat on the bench beside him, chewing gum lazily. “Don’t run off; I don’t bite,” she said.
“Oh,” he said.
“Like to go to the pictures?” she said.
“No.”
“Aw, come on,” she said. “Everybody else is.”
“No,” he said. “Is that all you do in this world?”
“All? Ain’t that enough?” Her blue eyes widened suspiciously. “What you want me to do—sit home, read a book? Ha, ha! That’s rich.”
Ettil stared at her a moment before asking a question.
“Do you do anything else?” he asked.
“Ride in cars. You got a car? You oughta get you a big new convertible Podler Six. Gee, they’re fancy! Any man with a Podler Six can go out with any gal, you bet!” she said, blinking at him. “I bet you got all kinds of money—you come from Mars and all. I bet if you really wanted you could get a Podler Six and travel everywhere.”
“To the show maybe?”
