Explain That to a Martian 2 Read online

sitting on the floor, eating sandwiches and watching our robots go, up down, up down. Sally brought the kids back in and they sat down. Joe said something. Sally started laughing.

  'Up down, up down.'

  The kids started giggling, 'Up down, up down.'

  'You writer still?' Joe asked.

  'I read it. Very funny.'

  'Damn! You read my book?'

  'Internet. Gave you four stars. Very funny.'

  'That was you?'

  'You world famous on Mars.'

  They've been studying us for years. Me in particular. That's not paranoia. Joe told me on his previous visit. Apparently, they think I'm hilarious. People here, just think I'm peculiar. I have peculiar visions of a classroom full of Martians, a teacher out front, saying. 'Now. Who can recite the English alphabet?'

  A bloke would get home after a hard day at robot park, tired from constantly moving the rocks about to make it look like a continuously changing landscape, turn on the television, put his lumps up on a lump-stool, and laugh hysterically at me doing stuff. Nice to feel appreciated, I guess.

  'You have sex?' Sally asked.

  Martians have a habit of smacking you with questions like that. It's just curiosity. You sort of get used to it. I looked at the little ones, me not entirely comfortable with talking about things like that in front of kids. I needn't have worried. Their eyes were closed and hanging limply at the sides of their heads. As ugly as they were, they still looked kinda cute.

  'Yes,' I whispered, not wanting to wake them up. 'Quite a lot, actually. Making up for lost time.'

  I hoped they drew the line at watching me copulate. Thankfully, they changed the topic of conversation. Joe said something to Sally. Sally who would have shrugged if she could, replied something, and Joe looked at me and asked, 'Fish finger sandwiches?'

  'Oh, right. I think I have some. Come in to the kitchen.'

  Carefully getting up so as not to wake the kids, Sally and Joe gently covered the egg with a couple of cushions to keep it warm and then they followed me.

  'Clean,' said Joe. 'Not crap.'

  'You noticed. Pamela got busy training me. She says I'm almost civilised now.'

  'Good job.'

  I opened the clean freezer compartment confident there was nothing embarrassing in there. The art of the successful fish-finger sandwich is a complex thing. If it were an Olympic event, I would be a gold medallist. Statues of me would be erected in my honour, probably holding one of my special culinary masterpieces. As brilliant as I undoubtedly am at this specialist dish, I never usually have an appreciative audience watching me perform. Eight eyes were so close, I almost brushed against them.

  'Okay, Sally. Pay attention. This is important stuff. The perfect fish finger sandwich requires precisely the right amount of things. The exact number of fingers per ratio of sandwich is critical. You need just enough to cover all the bread, without poking out the side. In this case, four is perfect. I hope you're remembering this.'

  'Four,' Sally said.

  'Right. Now. The bread. Never have anything fancy. None of that rubbish with seeds and stuff in it. Just good, crusty white bread only.'

  'White bread,' said Joe.

  'White bread,' repeated Sally.

  'Now. Never clean out the frying pan of whatever was in there before. That gives each fish finger sandwich occasion its own unique special flavour.'

  I knew the pan had had a stir-fry in it last time it was used. I added a little extra oil and lit the gas. When it was hot enough, I placed twelve fingers in the pan.

  'Butter. Not some other spread. Copious amounts. Now, watch carefully. Spread the butter evenly right to the edges. Sally. Fancy a go?'

  The Martian picked up the butter knife in the tentacle and made a pretty decent job of buttering the six slices. Meanwhile, I turned the fingers over. When cooked, I laid them out on the bread.

  'Right. Never make this exotic dish without this. It is called brown sauce.'

  'Brown sauce.'

  'But it has to be this one. Do not substitute. Not too much or too little. See? Perfect.'

  We now each had a sandwich to eat. We sat at the table. The Martians were watching me. I picked up the sandwich, the aroma making my stomach rumble. I took a bite, savouring the mouthful.

  'Boy, that's good.'

  A word of warning, here. Think very carefully the next time you get a dinner invitation from a Martian. Don't get me wrong. Lovely people, if a little over inquisitive, but the way they eat is something else. Having seen this before, I was prepared, I thought, and their blue feeding tubes came out, the little suckers on the end delicately probed and tested the meal. Then, the end of the tube opened to the size I could have thrown Monster into, (Hmm...?) and the sandwiches were gone in one bite. I wiped the brown sauce off my chin.

  'Crap,' said Joe.

  Not his opinion on my cooking ability. My food has this effect on him. No sooner it goes in, it has a need to come right back out again. Never having seen a Martian vomit, I wasn't going to take the chance of that happening at my kitchen table, especially as I was in the direct line of fire.

  'Go for it,' I said, quickly opening the back door for him. 'How about you?' I asked Sally. 'You know, the family that craps together, stays to....'

  'I okay.'

  Knowing Joe would be a good twenty minutes, with or without a newspaper to read, I invited Sally back to the lounge. Her kids were wrapped up in each others tentacles, still flat out. Monster was curled up asleep with them. I was kinda disappointed the kids hadn't eaten the vile animal while we were in the kitchen. Sally lifted the cushions and gently touched the egg, presumably to check its temperature. She seemed happy with it and covered it back up, sitting between it and her kids. One eye of one kid opened sleepily, looked at Sally, then at me, closed and flopped down again.

  I decided to wait for Joe to return before getting us another drink. I looked at Sally, and I was sure both of us were trying to think of something to say. I know I called her Sally, but she isn't female. Neither is Joe male. They are the same. They pair up, secrete their fluids that combines to make an egg, and whatever comes out they nurture together. But I had to call it something, so Sally it was. It fitted in with my idea of a stereotypical happy family, of one male, one female and two point five children.

  'So. You and Joe. How long have you been together?'

  'Three hundred and ninety two Earth years.'

  That was such a huge figure, I just had to ask. 'How old are you, Sally?'

  'Four hundred and sixty eight Earth years,' she said.

  'Wow. Heck. Still just a spring chicken,' I said, thought about the egg and regretted it immediately. 'I meant you don't look a day over four hundred.'

  A strangely girly giggling sound came out of the translator. Joe came back, looked at his kids sprawled out all over the settee and sat in the spare armchair.

  'Fancy another drink, Joe?'

  I almost expected him to say, 'No thanks, I'm driving,' but instead he said, 'Pleeeeeasssse.'

  'Sally?'

  'Jussssst a sssmalll one.'

  The translator sometimes lisped.

  'Coming right up.'

  I got another three drinks and handed them out, getting back in my chair. Both Joe and I watched Sally as her blue feeding tube circled the rim of the glass. In it went, up went the booze. Eyes shot up as if somebody had Botoxed them. Joe looked at me and chuckled. As usual, he knocked his drink back in one hit. They've got no respect for good bourbon, Martians. I drink a lot of it, but at least I savour the moment.

  'You don't want to meet Pamela?' I asked.

  'Maybe another time,' said Sally.

  'You're probably right. Out of interest, how many kids do you have?'

  'Two and a bit,' said Joe, with a wave of his tentacle.

  'Seriously? You've been married for centuries and you just got started?'

  'We got more than you,' he replied.

  'Yeah, well. No rush, eh?'

  There came a
strange ticking sound from somewhere. I couldn't quite place it, but Sally and Joe could. It came from the egg. Tick ticker ticker tick. Tick ticker ticker tick. Tick ticker ticker tick. The Martians started panicking. They were speaking so fast the translators couldn't keep up, Monster woke up, didn't look happy about it, which woke up the kids. Monster fled out of the room, in the direction of the bedroom.

  'What the hell is going on, here?' I asked, scared to hear the reply.

  'Baby coming. Baby coming early,' said Sally.

  It was pandemonium. The kids woke up and started ...hell, I don't know. Crying? Play Leonard Cohen backwards, (or frontwards for that matter,) and it sounded something like that. (sorry, Len. Please don't sue me. I think you are great.) My Martian friends were running about on their spindly legs, babies were crying and their bloody egg was hatching, right there on my settee. Explain that to an insurance company!!!

  'What the hell do we do?' I demanded, getting caught up in the hysteria.

  'Boiling water. Boiling water,' yelled Joe.

  'What! We are going to boil the egg?'

  'Go. Water,' said Sally.

  'Right. Gotya. Boiling water.'

  I ran to the kitchen and filled the kettle. What the hell was going on? A Martian egg was hatching in my lounge. I wasn't over the moon about it, to be honest. These jokers live longer than Methuselah, and they pick the exact moment their damn egg is about to hatch to pay me a visit? I call that damn inconsiderate, if you don't mind me saying so. The kettle boiled. I grabbed a clean bowl and towels and raced back to the lounge. Either I was a little bit too late, or they got me out of the way during their special