"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," laughed Mom, 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
rose-bushes 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."
"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 audio-visor 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.