Chapter 7 CHAPTER VII The news of the Martians begins to spread throughout the world

How did the idea of ​​man being controlled by cosmic rays come from the earliest proponents Laidlaw, the red-faced burly man in the planetarium club (for whom it was only a fleeting grotesque fantasy), Mr. Davis (the first person to take the matter seriously), Dr. Herdman Stetin, and Professor Ernest Keppel, etc., and how it entered the public consciousness is almost impossible. It's a matter of tracing the source.But a few weeks after Mary's baby was born, Fresh Weekly published an article by the famous science writer Harold Regammy.In Professor Keppel's indecent words, the article "scattered all the beans".

It is probable that Rikami obtained the material through a second or third party from Dr. Herdman Stettin, who was obviously the least cautious of these people with his erratic behavior.He may have described it to a fellow doctor or two, as an example of how being too clever could be considered insane.There is nothing to prove that Laidlaw thought of it again after he first expressed it until he saw the paper.But it is also possible that after a certain gossip, he repeated his whimsy again. Harold Regamy was a very special character whose mind was rarely passive.He is a born pagan who believes in nothing but in turn doubts his own suspicions.He was well trained in history and literature, and kept science at arm's length.He wrote about science to the displeasure of those who did it, but he gained respect for the literary quality of his journalism.He found miracles where they seemed meaningless, incredible, specious triumphs in their simplest language.He formed the strangest bonds with them.

He is very accepting of all kinds of unorthodox extreme words and deeds.He hated dogma and was full of faith.He always conflated science and religion, spirituality and behavior, medicine and Christianity, and this conciliatory approach won him many readers who couldn't wait to stay spiritual in the sprawling, jarring, tense modern society. Peace of mind. He made them all a little nervous, and that was part of what he did.There was a certain stimulant in his calm ease.When he asks his readers to accept spiritual wealth, they are never quite sure whether that means the Archbishop of Canterbury, with his handsome mauve and pink pajamas, clean and scented, with his lace cuffs, his bishop's ring, and his or signifies a repulsive, though equally good at instructing his parishioners, a shabby, disheveled ascetic in rags, who sleeps on a bed of nails; when he speaks of scientific facts, whatever Whether it was a new discovery in the laboratory, or a vitamin with incredible power, or a breathing method from the United States and proven by ancient Tibetan magic, it was all in his head.Laidlaw's eccentric ideas seemed to him at times when Hadro Regamy used his own mind to conjure up ways of making interstellar connections through the neglected astrology, and he thought perhaps he could draw exciting results from them. Like the Jewish prophets heard the voice of God.

For some time he had felt that his methods of popularizing science were no longer winning more public interest.People in science are weird, downright vulgar, and the more you introduce him to the public, the less he likes you.Maybe the public realizes they don't appreciate Hadro's work, or maybe there's just too much of a subtle, incomprehensible miracle to get the kind of mass public reaction Hadlow got to begin with.In any case, he felt that his reputation was not as strong as it used to be.A new and exciting topic was just the antidote he'd been looking for. Given the precariousness of his reputation, he approached the job with skill and caution.He first used two or three articles entitled "Alien Voices" to tell readers that an "unknown alien force that is more and more recognized by mankind" is "unquestionably" trying to communicate with the earth.He turned to almost every well-known authority on radiation in the outer layers of the Earth, and in a skillful fashion he took out of context the words of undefended famous professors, referring to one or two incidents of some unknown person in some remote corner of the Earth. Obscure Observations escalated to high science level and created several anonymous scientists. (One day, Nature will publish the list of scientists for public reference in case of controversy.)

"Scientists tell us", this is Hadlow's favorite sentence.Numerous efforts have been made to discover the codes for these alien rays, he wrote.Also said that "scientists" are increasingly convinced that the existence of such shapes and sizes is trying to draw our attention to them. "The present century," writes Hadlow, "has far surpassed the last century in invention. It is the century of discovery. The century is the century of discovering the mysteries of the earth; Mysterious century. Eternity of the soul, or continuation of existence after death, has been established in an experimental sense. Now we have enough evidence to prove that man is not alone on his planet; Earthman is only a part of the many inhabitants of the universe."

The important figures in the scientific community read Hadlow's article on the latest discoveries of science, and they were all furious. "What shall we do about it?" they asked the ladies at breakfast, and the ladies replied, "What can you do, my dear?"Mystical mathematicians are like a small group of concertina players in a large brass band, withdrawing from the public stage with their stretching worlds.An unprecedented letter told Hadro of his first victory.His second move was to go on to "The Strange Link Between Cosmic Rays and Human Mutation," and then, straight to "Martian Genes" and "Martian Types," about what we've seen from the head of Joseph Davis. The whole story we have heard, but more detailed, rich and credible, far exceeding our little grasp of the facts.

The growing number of people who believed in this startling revelation gave Professor Keppel the opportunity to use his cynical talents.He pointed out to Dr. Herdman Stein, who reluctantly agreed, that public wisdom had long disregarded any particular statement, except for football, cricket results, race winners, stock exchange quotes (that still need to be cautious). "You can be as mysterious as you want to the public these days," Keppal said, "and they don't give a damn. It's not that they don't believe it, it's not that they believe it; it's their belief that organs are overused more than any other affirmation or Negative response."

"Think about it," he elaborated, "and we don't talk about the content—the average human mind these days; imagine those thoughts one after the other that it holds. People tell beautiful stories of creation, the Garden of Eden, and the fall of man. The Whether the story is a fable or a fact is of no concern to anyone. If Sir Leonard Woodler and Mr. H. V. Morton claim that they jointly discovered Eden, and set up a fund to rebuild Eden, and provide convenience for tourists at reasonable prices, The public would believe it, and would flock to visit the paradise of their ancestors. At the same time, the same public would have accepted the idea that man evolved from ape-like ancestors through so-called evolution. Probably, in a In the morning, people came to the place where Eve lived six or seven thousand years ago, where they saw the gadgets newly invented by God around Eve, maybe a wedding gift, and the apple that the snake gave her. Then, they went to visit A cave with the remains of Neanderthals from 50,000 years ago. They have absolutely no sense of dissonance, of relatability. They neither reject nor accept, contrast themselves with anything. They believe in everything and in nothing. believe."

"Actually," says Professor Keppel, "it makes no sense. There is no question that can give rise to spontaneous behavior. If one morning he opens the newspaper and sees that Christianity has been abolished, he will think that the bishop will What kind of pension to get--a lot, I think.--and then he'd turn to another page to see if the day's crossword puzzle was easy. If it read in the paper that the voice he heard that night was dead Resurrection, the next afternoon is the end of the world, he may say that without these resurrected people, the buses and subways are already overcrowded, and such a thing should happen in a sparsely populated place abroad."

In America, the news that Martians were coming to Earth was not taken lightly.Li Jiamei's article was published in many newspapers at the same time, but there was no favorable reaction.It is a common misconception, Keppel insists, that Americans are more receptive to new ideas than Britons.Indeed, Americans are not opposed to new ideas.Opinions will always be different, opinions are something that can be dealt with, but opinions, a general point of view, can affect you and conquer you.A free soul will not yield to it.Faced with a fact, Americans say, "Ah, yes," or "No." Brits say, "I beg to differ," or people of standing say, "Stupid -- baseless." These statements against a point of view are like the swastika used against the devil in the Middle Ages, and the pressure disappears in an instant.

But the Americans do not have the ability to ignore everything that the British do.Immediately dismissing a point after saying "no," "yes," or negating it, their enjoyment in comic exaggeration is as boundless as their inadequacy of reality.Therefore, Harold Rigamy's articles were published in all major newspapers at the same time, overwhelming and quickly entered the keen thoughts and words of millions of people. "Are you a Martian?" This is a sentence that Li Xiangmei often heard in the car within a week of publishing the article. "Don't bring out my Martian temper" has become a phrase used to attack people in social situations.A cartoonist begins a series of Martian cartoons in The New Yorker that are instantly popular and imitated.A similar imitation was carried out in cabaret theater, but the result was somewhat self-defeating.All kinds of tricks emerge in endlessly. "Martian Dry Wine" became the loudest brand in the cocktail.Hundreds of obsessed blacks scour the southern sun for real Martian footprints.Thousands of hard-working advertising designers forget about eating and sleeping, trying to find ways to meet various needs. Harold Ricamet took another route and wrote other things. The only country that really tried to deal with the coming of the Martians was England, and only one person tried to do so: Sandclap, the publishing mogul.The effort was made against the opposition of those he trusted most, and the effort failed. Sund Klap is one of the most successful men in journalism and business; he is very wealthy and has a decisive influence on the magazine industry.He is extremely witty, and he knows that the situation where he is alone and invincible must be dangerous.He and his slightly naive competitor and partner, Ben Dago, have at heart the same sense of unplanned development and indefinable desire to dominate; The world would no longer be theirs to rule and explain; their dignity and innate confidence as human beings would be gone.They were both disturbed by this feeling.They felt that sooner or later something mighty and solid, a sphinx, a Nemesis would appear from some corner and ask them if they knew what they were and where they belonged at last. The astute Bendiego dismissed that possibility as a harmless joke, but Sandklap took it seriously.He liked the feeling that he was such a big shot; the longer he lived the more he wanted to believe that he was important, that he really existed.The longer he lived, the more he liked himself, the less he could bear that lingering but inescapable feeling of judgment.It was also unbearable for him to bear the unprotested acquiescence of his world, its silence, its indifference, but the mounting danger; but what was most intolerable to him now was the thought that this enduring might come to an end. The insomnia at night also affected his state during the day.That awful court of inquiry who just asked him what and why, without any definite charges, waited in endlessly unprogressive sessions—waiting for something.Do not worry.The most frightening thing is not to rush.But what could they save him?Day after day he lived that luxurious life, being the great Lord Sandcropp—what else could he be?What else could he do?From day to evening, from evening to night, and finally to bed.And then there's that never-ending question.What kind of web are they weaving? The faces around him are masks of politeness.You ask them: "Are you talking about me?" "I said nothing, sir." He told no one about the growing, haunting thoughts, but his uneasiness was more or less visible to most of his assistants and employees.Is there something that hasn't been discovered?They tried to guess, but there wasn't a clear one, which terrified everyone.Apparently he was afraid of people who were scientifically educated, especially people who were supposed to be very well versed in political, socioeconomic matters.What do they really think about his influence in the press, his social activities, and his financial affairs?Were they quietly putting him on the noose and pulling the rope taut?He had deep doubts about the administration.Those civil servants, he thought, already knew too much more than they should know, and still wanted to know more. The word "inspector" made him angry. "Another Inspector!" was one of the shrillest cries of his various publications.These inspectors, he insisted, were vile little men, with the sharp noses of foxes, penniless on handouts, fond of small favors; The entire company forms a network.Fight them all the time, frustrate them, condemn them, satirize them.What unions and working people want to know, have always wanted to know, I think, is interference and this LSE.What are they putting together here, what are they planning?Calculate what?What do they want to build a school of economics?It's like marking a card. Socialism was another name for a malicious investigation in the mind of Lord Sandclap.He had no idea what an innocuous, irrelevant, dogmatic bunch the socialists were, and how narrowly they addressed social issues.He really thought they had a strong and clear plan for a human society that could be reformed, a competitive society, ready to put it into practice and drive him and people like him out.Now, they could do it anytime, anywhere.He fought the thought desperately in the dark, but he couldn't get rid of it.He is probably the only man alive in England who believes in socialism to that extent. In a relentless effort to crystallize his fear, he calls all professors, government servants, prosecutors, socialists, sociologists, liberals—hecklers and critics of all kinds—and makes him Hateful "intellectuals" are lumped together with "leftists" and "rightists".He imagined them forming a world-wide, unbelievably complex web visible from afar, and within him.The week gathers.And he had never really seen it clearly enough to confront it head-on.Nor could he ever drag them into broad daylight.He knew they had been there to conspire, plot, take directions, deliver messages, nod, wink, gesture, wreak havoc.They are everywhere.You have no idea who they are with.Today they are Jesuits, tomorrow Masons, and even judges and lawyers can be scheming and difficult to deal with.It's not safe to be with anyone. All his partners, secretaries and editors are familiar with his strange thoughts, when he will look out of the window inexplicably, and then turn around you and examine your face carefully. Sometimes he will talk with you for a long time, talking about Russia, Germany and China, and suddenly ask you a lot of carefully thought-out problems, trying to squeeze your soul out. Harold's reporting was like lighting a haystack to such psychological phobias. When Master Sandclap heard about it, he had no doubts, but when he read about it in his own paper, he became a little suspicious.Its presence was the embodiment and confirmation of his worst fears.He felt he knew it all from the start.He invited Harold Regammy to dinner and took him to his suburban headquarters in Winderoo Castle, where he called in all his confidants, men, waiters, helpers, maids, medical advisers, fortune-tellers, astrologists Surgeons, stenographers, masseurs, sycophants, and relatives. "It's finally happening," he said, "listen to what Rigammy told us. We've got the target wrong before. George Bernard Shaw, the new businessmen, the atheists, all these people are just agents. It's Mars that threatens us .Listen to him, Mars! What shall we do? What shall we do?" "Everything we value in life, crosses and crowns, nation and loyalty, morality, Christmas, family life are but their frontiers. Here we look at each other, doing nothing, while they grind their knives, born , grow, premeditate, plot - one after the other - these monsters. I ask you: Is there nothing to be done about it?" "Oh, boss," said Cotton-Jones, who was the best flatterer, "do anything. But make it work. Don't worry about that." "The whole world is in danger. Invisible danger." "The stakes are high. Boss, we have to have a meeting right away, right now, right here. We have to keep quiet until the strategic plan and general things are arranged. Boss, you said a few years ago: 'The crisis is getting worse, The haste is more dangerous.'” "I said so?" asked Master Sandclap. "Yes, you said so." It was already daytime when the Winderu castle party was over and Sandklepp went to bed in the utmost safety.His spirit grew calmer and calmer.But in all his loyal offices, institutions, serious tired people were plotting with each other—no one betraying the other—on how to deal with what the boss woke up and called them to do. Cotton-Jones, racking his brains in his room at headquarters, suddenly recognizes Sandklepp's mysterious sensitive system.Two young elevator attendants stopped on the second floor to exchange information, not noticing that he had stepped into the elevator.Among them, the one who looked younger and smarter said with an expressionless face: "Jim, have you heard? The boss has finally gone crazy." "real?" "real." "Sooner or later it will happen. What made him mad?" "Martian……" How did these two brats know all this? ... During these ten hardest days of their lives, the entourage around Master Sandklepp did their best to slow down the effects of his madness on everyone.He seemed to be preoccupied with the idea of ​​Martians pervading the world like demons.He ruled out the indecipherability of Martians, arguing that you could tell them by what they said, by the way they acted.You can recognize them because you instinctively dislike them.Don't use the Holocaust, that's outdated.What is needed is a purge of all these people to save our living species (Sunderklepp). Rikami brings into the discussion some irrelevant fact, such as the congenitally stupid children, which Sandklap seizes on as evidence that they were the first victims the Martians made on Earth.These people should be arrested and isolated, and a long-term pure race meeting should be held, and all world-renowned obstetricians should participate in this meeting, and additional funds should be given to them, so that they have unlimited power. For reference, the turbid currents of anti-Semitism of old certainly contribute a wealth of experience to today's new wave of anti-Martians...   Cotton Jones mustered up his courage against his master. "We can't do that," he said, holding his boss's plan in hand. "We can't do this? So how the hell are we supposed to do it?" "The public mind is not ready for something like this." Master Sandclap paced the room angrily, but Cotton-Jones overwhelmed him with the deadliest and most attention-grabbing categorical assertion made, beyond the powers of an editorial assistant. "It's not going to do anything," Cotton-Jones said. "yes?" "like water off a duck's back." "We can't do this alone," he insisted.Sandklepp knew he was right. "We have to be empowered. We have to cite. We can't build it ourselves, just make it up. It's a press gimmick, people will say. Yes, sir, they will say that. Newspapers lead, but it shouldn't be obvious We have to appear to be responding to 'public opinion, rightly demanded.' That's your word, boss. Someone, not ourselves but someone else, has to take responsibility for that." He shook the plan in his hand.Then he made his more complex claim. "Actually—to do such a huge thing—we'll have to get the other newspaper groups on board." "I also have this idea." Sandklap said after thinking for a while. He walked from one end of the room to the other. "Perhaps, I'm being too impatient. I'm thinking too lightly." He sat down at the desk, and began to write down some names, deleted a few, and put a mark in front of a few names.One or two doctors are about to advertise; they should give him something.After all, he had already helped them.No, damn it, they won't do it.And one or two up-and-coming young bishops who were in the phase of flattering him, anxious to prove how friendly they were to the great, and how willing they were to serve them.They could well be called upon to condemn this sinister threat to humanity.So he sent them urgent letters and babbled on the phone, only to find that they were tactfully prevaricating as if they knew it all.He went to the trouble of looking everywhere for this famous person, that famous person.Gradually, as the success rate of the search became lower and lower, his initial enthusiasm and sense of urgency gradually lost, and fatigue ensued.The delay in action made his heart weaker and weaker.Four days, five days, six days passed without any surprises.These two days seemed to pass a thousand years in the life of Master Sandclap.The luster of his big reporting has dimmed.Those prepared articles and announcements are less and less like waiting for the battle, and more like the wailing and mourning of a kind of ichthyosaur and reptile that are about to become extinct at night. One night, he suddenly felt that he didn't care whether he did something or not.The thing evaporated like gas.If no one bothers to pay attention to it, perhaps this stupid enterprise is over.The Martians may be devouring the world right now.Either way - it will live up to his name.What is it like to be the most conscientious and energetic human being in a dull and stupid world? He called Cotton Jones to him. "You're too serious about the Martian," he said.Cotton Jones knew at once that his trick was useless. "You make it sound a bit too harsh. Your readers don't take it in the serious way you express it. They like lightheartedness. What the public doesn't know can't really exist. If the paper stops, you lose your job. Let's make it easier and more enjoyable." "After we've said it!" said Cotton-Jones. "Write it lightly. A semi-symbolic-humorous thing, that's all." "I understand," said Cotton-Jones, trying not to look unhappy, "I think I can manage to do that. Yes, that's an excellent political nickname, boss, call it what you will. Would you like Better ones come out. Give the 'intellectuals' and 'think tanks' a ten-year holiday. Let the reds fade. Martians! People will hate them from the word 'go'." Mr. Joseph Davies stood at the corner of Trafalca Square, watching the traffic going west.Huge, star-studded billboards adorning brand new content hang from many of the cars.He could see the three capital Ms, but it took some effort to see the rest of the letters in between.Those three words mean "Musical Martian Gnome". "That's how they see it," Mr Davis said. His eyes were drawn to the bright light across the night sky.In the sky there is a row of words composed of fiery red letters, "Music Martian Confucianism". ... "It's all the same," Davis murmured after a moment of thought. "They're here."