"Invasion!" said Mink. The door slammed.
In every yard on the street children brought out knives and forks and
pokers and old stove pipes 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. Repair men
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_, ninnie! 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. "Aye,
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, business men 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 rose-bush 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 ... hexagon_al_!"
* * * * *
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 with her spoon.
"And _inside_," said Mom, touching Mink's feverish brow.