No, there's nothing you can do about it. Still, relations between me and Hermione ought to be put in order. I know I won't get anywhere, but peace of mind requires sacrifices.
June 3
Sometimes I am seized with utter horror when I think that the matter of my pension is not progressing. Everything tightens up inside me, and I can't apply myself to anything.
But if you think it out logically, the matter should come to the most beneficial conclusion. First of all, I worked as a teacher for thirty years, not counting the break for the war. To be more precise, thirty years and two months. Second, I did not change my place of work even once, I never interrupted my term of service with transfers and other distracting circumstances, and only once, seven years ago, did I take a short leave of absence at my own expense. And participation in military activities cannot be considered a break in service, that's clear. By my best calculation, more than four thousand students passed through my classes, almost all of the present townspeople. Third, in recent years I have been constantly before the public and three times have substituted for the gymnasium director during his leave. Fourth, my work has been flawless; I have sixteen statements of gratitude from the ministry, a personal letter from the late minister on my fiftieth birthday, and likewise a bronze medal "For diligent work in the fallow field of public education." A whole compartment of my desk is specially set aside for letters of thanks from parents. Fifth, my speciality: today everything has turned topsy-turvy in this Cosmos; thus astronomy has become a timely subject. In my opinion, this is also a point in my favor. So, if you only glance at the matter, it would seem there could hardly be any doubt. In the minister's place I would certainly put me in the first-class category, without a moment's hesitation. Lord, then I could finally rest easy. After all, when you get right down to it, I don't need a lot in life. Three to four cigarettes, a glass of cognac, a pittance for cards, that's all. Along with stamps, of course. First class - that means 150 a month. One hundred I'll give to Hermione for household expenses; twenty goes into savings for a rainy day, and what's left is mine. That's enough for stamps and the rest. Really, haven't I earned it?
It's too bad that no one needs an old man. Squeeze him out like a lemon and then - kick off. Letters of gratitude? Who cares about them now? Medals? Who doesn't have them? And someone is bound to latch onto the fact that I was a prisoner. Were you a prisoner? I was. Three years? Three years. That's all! Your service was interrupted for three years, take your third-class pension and don't drag out our correspondence.
If only I had connections! Actually there is one student of mine, General Alcimus by name, who now sits in the Lower Congress. What if I write him? He ought to remember me, he and I had many of those little conflicts which students love to recall when they have grown up. By God, I will write him.
I'll start right off: "Hi, boy. I'm an old man now-----" No, I'll wait a bit and then write.
All day today I sat at home. Yesterday Hermione visited an aunt and brought back a big package of old stamps. I derived great pleasure from rummaging through them.
There's nothing like it. It's like an endless honeymoon. Several fine specimens turned up, true, all of them glued to something. I'll have to restore them. Myrtilus has pitched a tent in his yard and is living there with his whole family. He was boasting that he could get up and go within ten minutes. He went on that there was still no communication with Marathon. He's probably lying. Drunken Minotaur drove his filthy cistern into Mr. Laomedon's red car and got into a fight with the chauffeur. Both of them were taken to the station. Minotaur was thrown in jail to sober up, and the chauffeur, so they say, was sent to the hospital. So there is justice in the world after all. Artemis is sitting as quiet as a mouse: Charon should be returning any time now. I haven't told Hermione anything about it. Maybe it will all blow over. But boy, I'd like to get first class!
June 4
Just finished reading the evening papers, but just as before I don't understand anything. No doubt about it, some sort of changes have taken place. But what kind exactly? People around here like to tell whoppers, that's all.
This morning, after my coffee, I set off for The Five Spot. It was a good morning, warm. (Temperature: +18° C, cloud cover: 0, wind from the south at 1 meter per second by my wind gauge.) Coming through the gate, I saw Myrtilus fussing over his tent, which lay crumbled up on the ground. I asked him what he was doing.
"Sure, sure," he answered in extreme irritation. "You wise guys know it all. Just sit still and wait until they cut us all up." I don't believe Myrtilus any farther than I can throw him, but he always gives me the creeps when he talks like this.
"And what else is new?" I ask.
"Martians," he replied curtly and continued to smooth out the tent with his knee. I didn't understand him at first and maybe that's why I got such a funny feeling from that word, as if something terrible and unstoppable were on the way.
My legs went weak and I slumped back on the bumper of the truck. Myrtilus said nothing, only huffed and puffed.
"What'd you say?" I asked.
He packed up the tent, tossed it in the back of the truck and lit up a smoke. "The Martians have attacked," he said in a whisper. "It's the end of us all. They burned Marathon down to the ground, I hear. Ten million killed in one night, can you believe it? Today they paid a visit to our mayor's office. The power's theirs now, and that's that. They've already prohibited any planting, and now, I hear, they're going to slit open everybody's stomach. They need stomachs for some reason, can you believe it? I'm not going to wait for that, I need my stomach myself. As soon as I heard about it, I decided right away: these new rulings are not for me, they can all take a flying leap, 'cause I'm heading to my brother's farm. I've already sent the old lady and the kids on the bus. We'll sit it out, keep our eyes open, and see how things are going from there."
"Hold on," I said, keenly remembering how he always lies, but feeling myself getting weaker. "Hold on, Myrtilus, what are you talking about? Who attacked? Who burned? My son-in-law's in Marathon right now."
"Your son-in-law's had it," Myrtilus said sympathetically and flicked away his butt. "Consider your daughter a widow, The secretary has a clear road ahead. Well, I'm off. So long, Apollo. We were always on good terms. I've got no hard feelings toward you, so don't think badly of me."
"Lord!" I burst out in desperation, completely weakened. "Who was it that attacked?"
"Martians, Martians!" he said, again switching to a whisper. "From there!" He raised his finger to the sky. "They jumped in on us from a comet."
"You mean men from Mars?" I asked with a glimmer of hope.
"Sure, sure," he said, climbing into the cabin. "You're a teacher, you know better. But it's all the same to me who pokes out my guts."
"Lord, Myrtilus," I said, finally catching on that this was all a bunch of lies. "You can't go on like this. You're an elderly man, you have grandchildren. How can there be any men from Mars, when Mars is a lifeless planet? There's no life there, that's a scientific fact."
"Sure, sure," Myrtilus went on lying, but it was obvious that he was beginning to have doubts. "And what other facts are there about it?"
"Well, it's not 'sure, sure'; it's the way it actually is," I said. "Ask any scientist. But who needs a scientist, this is something every schoolboy knows!"
Myrtilus grunted and climbed out of the cabin. "It can all take a flying leap!" he said, laying his fingers on the back of his head. "Who am I to listen to? Am I to listen to you? Or to Pandareus? I don't understand a thing." He spat and went into his house.
I also decided to go back in, in order to phone the police. Pandareus, as it happened, was very busy, because Minotaur had broken out of his cell and Pandareus had to form a search party. It was true that someone, some kind of leaders, had driven to the mayor's office about an hour and a half before, and they might have been Martians, there were rumors that they were Martians, but as far as cutting open stomachs was concerned, no word had been given, and anyway he had no time for Martians, because Minotaur alone, in his opinion, was worse than all the Martians put together.