Beavers, do you think, sir?
The captain swallows, hard and blinks. “Unh—oh, beavers, yeah, beavers. Sure. Beavers! Maybe. Mountain lions and Indians, too, I hear. Never can tell. Be careful.”
Mountain lions and Indians in New York in this day and age? Aw, sir.
“Let it go. Keep alert, anyhow. Smoke?” I don’t smoke, sir. A strong mind in a healthy body, you know the old rule.
“The old rule. Oh, yes. The old rule. Only joking. I don’t want a smoke anyway. Like hell.”
What was that last, sir?
“Nothing, Halloway, carry on, carry on.”
I help the others work, now. Are we taking the yellow streetcar to the edge of town, Gus?
“We’re using propulsion belts, skimming low over the dead seas.”
How’s that again, Gus?
“I said, we’re takin’ the yellow streetcar to the end of the line, yeah.”
We’re ready. Everyone’s packed, spreading out. We’re going in groups of four. Down Main Street past the pie factory, over the bridge, through the tunnel, past the circus grounds and we’ll rendezvous, says the captain, at a place he points to on a queer, disjointed map.
Whoosh! We’re off! I forgot to pay my fare.
“That’s okay, I paid it”
Thanks, captain. We’re really traveling. The cypresses and the maples flash by. Kaawhoom! I wouldn’t admit this to anyone but you, sir, but momentarily, there,
I didn’t see this street-car. Suddenly we moved in empty space, nothing supporting us, and I didn’t see any car. But now I see it, sir.
The captain gazes at me as at a nine-day miracle.
“You do, eh?”
Yes, sir. I clutch upward. Here’s the strap. I’m holding it.
“You look pretty funny sliding through the air with your hand up like that, Halloway.”
How’s that, sir?
“Ha, ha, ha!”
Why are the others laughing at me, sir?
“Nothing, son, nothing. Just happy, that’s all.”
Ding Ding. Ding Ding. Canal Street and Washington. Ding Ding. Whoosh. This is real traveling. Funny, though, the captain and his men keep moving, changing seats, never stay seated. It’s a long street-car. I’m way in back now. They’re up front.
By the large brown house on the next corner stands a popcorn wagon, yellow and red and blue. I can taste the popcorn in my mind. It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten some… if I ask the captain’s permission to stop and buy a bag, he’ll refuse. I’ll just sneak off the car at the next stop. I can get back on the next car and catch up with the gang later.
HOW do you stop this car? My fingers fumble with my baseball outfit, doing something I don’t want to know about. The car is stopping! Why’s that. Popcorn is more important.
I’m off the car, walking. Here’s the popcorn machine with a man behind it, fussing with little silver metal knobs.
“—muurr—lokk—loc—cor—iz—”
Tony! Tony, bambino! What are you doing here?
“Click.”
It can’t be, but it is. Tony, who died ten long years ago, when I was a freckled kid! Alive and selling popcorn again. Oh, Tony, it’s good to see you. His black moustache’s so waxed, so shining, his dark hair like burnt oily shavings, his dark shining happy eyes, his smiling red cheeks! He shimmers in my eyes like in a cold rain. Tony! Let me shake your hand! Gimme a bag of popcorn, senor!
“Click-click-click—sput-click—reeeeee-eeeeeeee—”
The captain didn’t see you, Tony, you were hidden so well, only I saw you. Just a moment while I search for my nickel.
“Reeeeeee.”
Whew, I’m dizzy. It’s very hot. My heads spins like a leaf on a storm wind. Let me hold onto your wagon, Tony, quick, I’m shivering and I’ve got sharp needle head pains…
“Reeeeeeee.”
I’m running a temperature. I feel as if I have a torch hung flaming in my head.
Hotter. Pardon me for criticizing you, Tony, but I think it’s your popper turned up too high. Your face looks afraid, contorted, and your hands move so rapidly, why? Can’t you shut it off? I’m hot. Everything melts. My knees sag.
Warmer still. He’d better turn that thing off, I can’t take any more. I can’t find my nickel anyhow. Please, snap it off, Tony, I’m sick. My uniform glows orange. I’ll take fire!
Here, I’ll turn it off for you, Tony.
You hit me!
Stop hitting me, stop clicking those knobs! It’s hot, I tell you. Stop, or I’ll— Tony. Where are you? Gone.
Where did that purple flame shoot from? That loud blast, what was it? The flame seemed to stream from my hand, out of my scout flashlight. Purple flame—eating! I smell a sharp bitter odor.
Like hamburger fried overlong.
I feel better now. Cool as winter. But— Like a fly buzzing in my ears, a voice comes, faint, far off.
“Halloway, damn it, Halloway, where are you?”
Captain! It’s his voice, sizzling. I don’t see you, sir!
“Halloway, we’re on the dead sea bottom near an ancient Martian city and—oh, never mind, dammit, if you hear me, press your boyscout badge and yell!”
I press the badge intensely, sweating. Hey, captain!
“Halloway! Glory. You’re not dead. Where are you?”
I stopped for popcorn, sir. I can’t see you. How do I hear you?
“It’s an echo. Let it go. If you’re okay, grab the next streetcar.”
That’s very opportune. Because here comes a big red streetcar now, around the corner of the drug store.
“What!”
Yes, sir, and it’s chock full of people. I’ll climb aboard.
“Wait a minute! Hold on! Murder! What kind of people, dammit?”
It’s the West Side gang. Sure. The whole bunch of tough kids.
“West side gang, hell, those are Martians, get the hell outa there! Transfer to another car—take the subway! Take the elevated!”
Too late. The car’s stopped. I’ll have to get on. The conductor looks impatient.
“Impatient,” he says. “You’ll be massacred !”
Oh, oh. Everybody’s climbing from the streetcar, looking angry at me. Kelly and Grogan and Tompkins and the others. I guess there’ll be a fight.
The captain’s voice stabs my ears, but I don’t see him anywhere:
“Use your r-gun, your blaster, your blaster. Hell, use your slingshot, or throw spitballs, or whatever the devil you imagine you got holstered there, but use it! Come on, men, about face and back!”
I’m outnumbered. I bet they’ll gang me and give me the bumps, the bumps, the bumps. I bet they’ll truss me to a maple tree, maple tree, maple tree and tickle me. I bet they’ll ink-tattoo their initials on my forehead. Mother won’t like this.
The captain’s voice opens up louder, driving nearer:
“And Poppa ain’t happy! Get outa there, Halloway!”
They’re hitting me, sir! We’re battling! “Keep it up, Halloway!”
I knocked one down, sir, with an uppercut. I’m knocking another down now. Here goes a third! Someone’s grabbed my ankle. I’ll kick him! There! I’m stumbling, falling! Lights in my eyes, purple ones, big purple lightning bolts sizzling the air! Three of them vanished, just like that! I think they fell down a manhole.
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt them bad.
They stole my flashlight.
“Get it back, Halloway! We’re coming. Get your flash and use it!” That’s silly. “Silly,” he says. “Silly. Silly.”
I GOT my flashlight back, broken, no good. We’re wrestling. There are so many of them, I’m weak. They’re climbing all over me, hitting. It’s not fair, I’m falling down, kicking, screaming!
“Up speed, men, full power!”
They’re binding me up. I can’t move. They’re rushing me into the street-car now. Now I won’t be able to go on that hike. And I planned on it so hard, too.
“Here we are, Halloway! Blast ’em, men! Oh, my Lord, look at the horrible faces on those creatures! Guh!”
Watch out, captain! They’ll get you, too, and the others! Ahh! Somebody struck me on the back of my head. Darkness. Dark. Dark.
Rockabye baby on the tree-top… when the wind blows…
“Okay, Halloway, any time. Just any old time you want to come to.”
Dark. A voice talking. Dark as a whale’s insides. Ouch, my head. I’m flat on my back, I can feel rocks under me.
“Good morning, dear Mr. Halloway.” That you, captain, over in that dark corner ?
“It ain’t the president of the United States!”
Where is this cave?
“Suppose you tell us, you got us into this mess with your eternally blasted popcorn ! Why’d you get off the streetcar ?” Did the West Side gang truss us up like this, captain?
“West Side gang, goh! Those faces, those inhuman, weird, unsavory and horrible faces. All loose-fleshed and—gangrenous. Aliens, the whole rotting clutch of ’em.”
What a funny way to talk.
“Listen, you parboiled idiot, in about an hour we’re going to be fried, gutted, iced, killed, slaughtered, murdered, we will be, ipso facto, dead. Your ‘friends’ are whipping up a little blood-letting jamboree. Can’t I shove it through your thick skull, we’re on Mars, about to be sliced and hammered by a lousy bunch of Martians!”
“Captain, sir?”
“Yes, Berman?”
“The cave door is opening, sir. I think the Martians are ready to have at us again, sir. Some sort of test or other, no doubt.”
“Let go a me, you one-eyed monster! I’m coming, don’t push!”
We’re outside the cave. They’re cutting our bonds. See, captain, they aren’t hurting us, after all. Here’s the brick alley. There’s Mrs. Haight’s underwear waving on the clothes-line. See all the people from the beer hall—what’re they waiting for?
“To see us die.”
“Captain, what’s wrong with Halloway, he’s acting queer—”
“At least he’s better off than us. He can’t see these creatures’ faces and bodies. It’s enough to turn a man’s stomach. This must be their amphitheatre. That looks like an obstacle course. I gather from their sign lingo that if we make it through the obstacles, we’re free. Footnote: nobody’s ever gotten through alive yet. Seems they want you to go first, Berman. Good luck, boy.”
“So long, captain. So long, Gus. So long, Halloway.”
Berman’s running down-alley with an easy, long-muscled stride. I hear
