Freddy and the Men from Mars Read online

  “Just the same,” Freddy said one day to Leo, “I don’t like it. Every time I’ve had anything to do with Garble it has meant trouble.”

  “Trouble for Garble, you mean,” said the lion. “Old Garble knows when he’s well off; he won’t start anything. Not as long as the dough keeps rolling in.”

  “I know,” Freddy said. “But I don’t trust him. I can’t help feeling that there’s something wrong about this Martian business. I wish they hadn’t gone into partnership.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” said Leo irritably. “The chief has never made much money with his circus. Now he’s got a chance to make a lot this summer, and you want to bust it up, just because you don’t like Garble. Let the poor old chap alone, can’t you?”

  “Well, don’t cry over it,” said Freddy. “Mr. Boom has always made a good living. And you know he cares a lot less about making money than he does about having his animals be happy and have a good time. Oh, all right, I won’t say anything to him. But as long as Garble is around here, look out for trouble, that’s all.”

  But no trouble came, for a while anyway. Mrs. Peppercorn tried three times to get some information from the Martians about what their planet was like, but each time the conversation got somehow onto poetry, and the interview ended with the old lady reciting and the Martians asleep. So Uncle Ben decided to go home and get on with the work on the space ship.

  “Coming?” he asked Freddy.

  But Freddy said he and Jinx would stay with the circus. “I think I know how we can get an interview with the Martians,” he said. “You go ahead. We’ll be along in about a week, and maybe we’ll have some information for you.”

  “Atmosphere,” said Uncle Ben.

  “Yes, I’ll try to find out about the air on Mars,” Freddy said. “But it must be O.K. for us: these people breathe our air all right.”

  So Freddy and Jinx and Mrs. Peppercorn stayed with the circus as it rolled on north. But they had no luck getting information from the Martians, who had evidently been warned not to talk to them. Mr. Garble no longer bothered to chase them away, for the Martians just turned their backs when either the pig or the cat came up to the wagon, and refused to say a word.

  Mr. Boomschmidt was in a hurry to get to Centerboro, so the circus stayed on the road until dark, then made a quick camp, and started on in the morning as early as he could get his animals up. Most of them got right up when they were called, for they had many friends in Centerboro and were anxious to get there. It was usually Andrew who held things up. The hippo was a hard sleeper, and he was so big and had such a thick skin that it wasn’t easy to wake him. You could slap him and poke him with sticks, and even shoot off guns and bang on his head with a shovel, but he’d just go right on snoring. Mr. Boomschmidt found that the easiest way to rouse him was to jump up and down on his stomach. After a few minutes he’d come to and want his breakfast. The jumping up and down made him feel hungry: “Gives me kind of a gnawing sensation,” he said.

  The easiest way to rouse him was to jump up and down on his stomach.

  It was just about dark one evening when Freddy, in a trench coat and a felt hat which he had borrowed from Bill Wonks, came up to the Martian cage. Mr. Garble had gone to the dining tent to get his supper, and the Martians, who had had theirs, were in their little red nightshirts and just about to go to bed. Freddy noticed that they still had their red gloves on, and even their cloth shoes.

  He said: “Good evening, gentlemen. I represent the United States Immigration Bureau. I am informed that you entered this country without a permit, and that you have no passports. You realize that this is a serious offense, and that you can be deported and sent back to your own country. However, the Government has no wish to cause you unnecessary trouble. Perhaps the matter can be arranged. Would you mind answering a few questions?”

  The Martians went into a huddle for a minute, and then the one who spelled his name Simghk came over towards the front of the cage. It was the first time Freddy had had a close look at any of them, but he had waited until dusk to visit them because he didn’t want them to see through his disguise, so he really couldn’t see much.

  The Martian said: “Our manager, Mr. Garble, would be the person to see. But of course we are quite willing to answer your questions. We have nothing to hide.”

  In his experience as a detective, Freddy had found that those who were always protesting that they had nothing to hide were usually concealing some pretty awful stuff. But all he wanted to know now was what conditions would be like on Mars. So he said: “I’ll ask my questions of Mr. Garble, then. But as long as I am here, maybe you wouldn’t mind telling me one or two things—I mean, these are my own questions, nothing to do with immigration. I’m just curious to know what it is like to live on your beautiful planet.”

  Simghk said it was a good deal like living on earth: they lived in the same kind of houses—only smaller, of course—and ate the same kind of food, and breathed the same air.

  Freddy asked one or two more questions, and then he began to feel that there was something queer about the Martian’s answers. Life on Mars wasn’t exactly the same as life on earth—it couldn’t be. The books he had read had told him that the air on Mars was much thinner than on earth, that a man who weighed 150 pounds here would weigh only about 60 pounds there, that the Martian year was nearly seven hundred days long. Those were only a few of the differences. Yet everything Simghk said might have been said about life on earth. So now Freddy said: “Your climate must be a lot hotter than ours, since Mars is so much nearer the sun than the earth is.”

  “Yes,” said the Martian, “but not as much hotter as you might think. Delightfully cool evenings, even on the hottest days.”

  Freddy was satisfied now; he knew everything he needed to know. But, more out of curiosity than anything else, he asked one final question. “Of course you don’t call your planet ‘Mars,’ in your Martian language. Would you tell me what you do call it?”

  “Gladly, my dear fellow, gladly,” said Simghk. “Our name for it is—perhaps I’d better spell it: S-m-b-l-y-f.”

  “Ah, indeed,” said Freddy. “And I suppose the y is silent? You wouldn’t be kidding me, would you?”

  “No more than you’re kidding me,” was the reply. “You know, we have a word in Martian for you. It’s spelled P-l-i-k-g and the l and k are silent. It’s pronounced oink-oink. Expressive, isn’t it? I doubt, though, if your Mrs. Peppercorn would be able to find a rhyme for it.”

  So the Martian knew who he was, Freddy thought. Well, what of it? “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Though why should she want to?

  “There isn’t any poink

  In finding rhymes for oink.”

  The Martian shuddered. “Skip it,” he said hastily. “Skip it. More than ten thousand verses of that kind of stuff we’ve listened to! Mister, we’re flesh and blood, just like you. We can’t take much more of it.”

  Freddy grinned at him. “I’ll go tell her you want to hear that universe poem over again.” And he nodded and walked hastily away, followed by the pleading voice of the Martian, begging him not to summon Mrs. Peppercorn.

  But of course he didn’t summon her. As soon as supper was over, he got Mrs. Peppercorn and Jinx one side. “Those fellows aren’t Martians,” he said. “Everything he told me proves that they haven’t the faintest idea what things are like on Mars. For instance, I said that Mars must be hotter, since it is nearer the sun than we are; and he said yes, it was. But Mars is farther from the sun, and therefore a lot colder. He said the air was like ours. But it isn’t; we couldn’t breathe in it. Oh, there were a dozen things. I said there were four moons, and he agreed. But there are only two. I tell you, these Martians are fakes.”

  “I ain’t a bit surprised,” said Mrs. Peppercorn. “Mostly, anything Herbie Garble touches is something different from what he says it is. But if they ain’t Martians what are they?”

  Freddy shook his head, and Jinx said: “You know, there’s something k
ind of familiar about ’em, at that. But I can’t put a claw on it.” He grinned. “Wish I could get a claw on one of them for a few minutes. I’d soon find out.”

  “Well, we can’t tell Mr. Boom,” Freddy said. “If he knew they were fakes he wouldn’t keep ’em in the show a minute. And my goodness, everybody in the country—yes, and all over the world—has heard about them, and hopes to see them. You know what would happen if the Martians left the circus. Half the people would laugh their heads off at Mr. Boom for being fooled, and the other half would be mad at him for getting them all excited about Mars. And none of them would ever go to his show again. Golly, I think the only thing we can do now is pretend we think they’re the real thing, and play along for a break. Maybe when we get back home, somebody will think of something.” They left it at that.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The day the circus gave its first show in Centerboro, every road leading into town was jammed for miles with sightseers. They came in cars and wagons, on foot, on horseback, and on bicycles; several hundred flew in by plane. The big attraction of course was the Martian cage. It had a side-show tent to itself, at the door of which Mr. Garble stood and took the money. He had a barrel beside him, and when it was full of fifty-cent pieces and bills, he nailed the head on and rolled it over into a corner and brought out another empty barrel. By the end of the evening performance he had six full barrels, ready to be taken over to the bank.

  Some people filed through two or three times, and each time paid fifty cents apiece. The hardest job was to keep the line of people moving. Mr. Garble had hired three men who stood behind it and said: “Move along, please, step lively, others are waiting.” And if anybody stopped to stare for even five seconds, one of the men would push him along.

  The main show did pretty well, too. For after people had satisfied their curiosity about the Martians there wasn’t anything else for them to do but look in at the big tent. Mr. Boomschmidt was pretty happy, because he got all the money that the big tent took in, as well as ten cents out of every fifty from the Martian tent.

  But Mr. Garble wasn’t happy. If Mr. Garble had been making a million dollars a minute, he still would have been unhappy because he wasn’t making a million and a half. He was that kind of man. So he tried all sorts of schemes. He tried to move the people through the tent faster. One day he shoved the line through at a trot, but the people couldn’t see anything and they made such a fuss that he had to let them go through again free. He wanted to raise the admission to a dollar, but he had advertised it at fifty cents, and he couldn’t get away with that either. So then he said Mr. Boomschmidt was getting too much money out of the Martians, and wanted him to take only five, instead of ten cents out of every half-dollar.

  Maybe if he had been nice about it, Mr. Boomschmidt would have agreed. But he stormed and roared and said that he was being cheated, and a lot of things like that. So Mr. Boomschmidt said: “Why, my gracious, Mr. Garble, I didn’t know you felt like that about me. What a terrible person I am, to be sure! My, my, Leo,” he said, turning to the lion, “ain’t I awful!”

  “You sure are, chief,” said Leo, who had an idea where an argument was going.

  “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Boomschmidt, “it makes me kind of sick to think about myself, I’m so mean. Don’t suppose there’s a bit of hope for me either, is there, Leo?”

  “No there ain’t, chief. Not a smidgen.”

  “Dear, dear—you hear him, Mr. Garble? Guess you’ll never get anywhere with an old skinflint like me. My goodness, you called me that yourself, and I wouldn’t want to make a liar out of you. Folks have got to live up to the opinion that other folks have of ’em. Can’t go changing your character at my time of life. So I guess I better take fifteen cents out of every half-dollar, instead of ten. Eh, Leo?” He pushed his silk hat to the back of his head and smiled happily. “Well, well, I’m glad that’s settled. Now Mr. Garble, if we—”

  Mr. Garble interrupted with a roar. “Hey! You can’t do that! I want you to take five instead of ten, which it’s only fair you should do so. Nobody said anything about fifteen!”

  “Why, I did—didn’t I, Leo? Good gracious, I’m only trying to live up to your opinion of me. That’s what my mother always wanted me to do. ‘Orestes,’ she’d say, ‘I want you always to live up to my opinion of you.’ But, dear me, if you’re going to be offended, we’ll just say no more about it. Let’s just leave it at ten cents, eh?”

  “Ten!” Mr. Garble shouted. “I said five.”

  “So you did, so you did,” Mr. Boomschmidt replied. “And I said fifteen. So we split the difference, and agree on ten. That’s the best way to come to an agreement. Each side gives way a little. Then everybody’s satisfied.”

  “But ten cents is just what you were getting before!” howled Mr. Garble, almost beside himself with rage and confusion.

  “Well, upon my word! So it is!” Mr. Boomschmidt was astonished. “Well, Leo, what do you know about that! Everybody satisfied and we don’t have to change anything. Now isn’t that nice!”

  Mr. Garble jumped up and down, he was so mad. He didn’t say anything more. As he turned and stamped away, he grabbed the hair over his ears with both hands and tugged. A lot of it came out.

  “He’ll be bald as a squash before you get through with him, chief,” said the lion.

  “Goodness, Leo, do you think so? Oh, I do hope not; he’s not very pretty now, I don’t believe we’d like him around—though maybe we could exhibit him. Poor Mr. Garble, he’s bald as a marble. Dear, dear, I do hope I’ve not got this poetry thing from Mrs. Peppercorn. Do you suppose it’s catching?”

  “Look, chief,” said Leo, “let’s be serious for a minute. Do you know what a lot of your animals are saying?—yes, and lots of the Centerboro folks, too—they’re saying that while Garble and his Martians were just a side show when he started out with you, now we’re the side show, and he’s the main show. What they’re afraid is that he’ll take the circus right away from you.”

  “Pooh!” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “Now you’re being silly.”

  “Yeah?” said Leo. “Suppose he takes his Martians and sets up a show on the other side of town. How much business will our show do?”

  “Why, I guess about as much as it always did. Some folks in these towns come year after year, Martians or no Martians. I’d miss those dimes I get from Garble’s admissions, but my gracious, we’ve always got along before. I guess we’d keep on.”

  The lion said: “Maybe. But I was down getting my mane waved and set yesterday—”

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” Mr. Boomschmidt interrupted. “Have you been going to beauty shops again? Really, Leo—Well now, your mane does look nice; but do they have to pour all that perfumery over you?”

  “Oh, lay off, chief,” said Leo, looking embarrassed. “That isn’t perfumery; it’s some stuff they put on to make the hair curl better.”

  “Good gracious!” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “They don’t have to soak you in it! It made my hair curl just smelling it, and if—”

  “Look,” the lion interrupted firmly, “if you’re just going to be funny, I’ll go get some of the others so they can enjoy the comedy too. But if you want to hear what I’ve got to say—”

  So Mr. Boomschmidt apologized and said sure he did, and what was it?

  “Well,” said Leo, “you know what places those beauty shops are for gossip—”

  “My, my, don’t I just!” Mr. Boomschmidt exclaimed. “I just dropped in yesterday to have my eyelashes curled, and—” He came to a stop at sight of the reproachful look on the lion’s face. “Oh, dear,” he said, “I’ve hurt your feelings again. Go on, Leo; go on.”

  “Well, if you’re quite through,” said the lion severely. “What I’m trying to tell you is the kind of thing people were saying. This operator that sets my mane, she said to me: ‘When’s your new boss going to take over the circus?’ I said: ‘New boss? What are you talking about?’ and she said she’d heard Mrs. Underdunk—that
’s old Garble’s sister, you know—she’d heard her telling some other woman that her brother was buying you out. And a couple of other women were talking about how they’d heard how Garble was going to get him some animals and start a circus in competition with you. Then he’d have a circus with Martians, and you’d have one without Martians, and who do you think would make the most money?”

  “Pooh,” said Mr. Boomschmidt. “What do I care how much money Garble makes? All the good you can get out of money is the fun you have spending it, and Garble never spends any of his, so who has the most fun?”

  “Yeah?” said Leo. “Well, I’ll tell you how he’s spending some of his; he’s hired a talent scout—you know, like the movie companies have, to go round and find animals who can dance or sing or do special tricks. He’s got a hen already that can whistle Dixie. Keeps her up at his sister’s house. When he gets enough animals, he’ll start his own circus.

  Mr. Boomschmidt said “Pooh!” again. After all, it had taken him a good many years to get his circus together; it would be a good many more before Mr. Garble was able to give him any competition. And a hen that could whistle “Dixie” wasn’t going to make much of a circus, even with Martians on the side. “Besides,” he said, “Garble has got to stay with me for a year. I’ve got an agreement in writing. I bet his hen will get sick of whistling “Dixie” to him before that year is up. Just the same,” he said, “maybe we ought to do something. Two circuses in the same town. My, that would be bad.”

  “That’s what I’m telling you, chief. It’ll be awful bad.”