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! 'Bye."
Mink exited, zipping her yo-yo.
On the audio-visor, Helen laughed. "Tim brought one of those yo-yo's 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 rose-bush. "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. Half way. If we could only get him all the way through,
it'll 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 and 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 in their business. 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!"
Henry blew up, too, but for another reason. "Are you crazy? Why'd you
throw that key away! Damn it, honey!"
"Yes, yes, I'm crazy, if it helps, but stay here with me!"
"I don't know how in hell I _can_ get out!"
"Quiet. They'll hear us. Oh, God, they'll find us soon enough--"
Below them, Mink's voice. The husband stopped. There was a great
universal humming and sizzling, a screaming and giggling. Downstairs,
the audio-televisor buzzed and buzzed insistently, alarmingly,
violently. _Is that Helen calling?_ thought Mrs. Morris. _And is she
calling about what I_ think _she's calling about_?
Footsteps came into the house. Heavy footsteps.
"Who's coming in my house?" demanded Henry, angrily. "Who's tramping
around down there?"
Heavy feet. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty of them. Fifty persons
crowding into the house. The humming. The giggling of the children.
"This way!" cried Mink, below.
"Who's downstairs?" roared Henry. "Who's there!"
"Hush, oh, nonononono!" said his wife, weakly, holding him. "Please, be
quiet. They might go away."
"Mom?" called Mink, "Dad?" A pause. "Where are you?"
Heavy footsteps, heavy, heavy, _very_ HEAVY footsteps came up the
stairs. Mink leading them.
"Mom?" A hesitation. "Dad?" A waiting, a silence.
Humming. Footsteps toward the attic. Mink's first.
They trembled together in silence in the attic, Mr. and Mrs. Morris.
For some reason the electric humming, the queer cold light suddenly
visible under the door crack, the strange odor and the alien sound of
eagerness in Mink's voice, finally got through to Henry Morris, too. He
stood, shivering, in the dark silence, his wife beside him.
"Mom! Dad!"
Footsteps. A little humming sound. The attic lock melted. The door
opened. Mink peered inside, tall blue shadows behind her.
"Peek-a-boo," said Mink.