[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Startling Stories, March 1948.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
That man beside you may be a Martian.
They own our world, but only a few wise
and far-seeing men like Lyman know it!
The man in the brown suit was looking at himself in the mirror behindthe bar. The reflection seemed to interest him even more deeply than thedrink between his hands. He was paying only perfunctory attention toLyman’s attempts at conversation. This had been going on for perhapsfifteen minutes before he finally lifted his glass and took a deepswallow.
“Don’t look now,” Lyman said.
The brown man slid his eyes sidewise toward Lyman; tilted his glasshigher, and took another swig. Ice-cubes slipped down toward his mouth.He put the glass back on the red-brown wood and signaled for a refill.Finally he took a deep breath and looked at Lyman.
“Don’t look at what?” he asked.
“There was one sitting right beside you,” Lyman said, blinking ratherglazed eyes. “He just went out. You mean you couldn’t see him?”
The brown man finished paying for his fresh drink before he answered.“See who?” he asked, with a fine mixture of boredom, distaste andreluctant interest. “Who went out?”
“What have I been telling you for the last ten minutes? Weren’t youlistening?”
“Certainly I was listening. That is—certainly. You were talkingabout—bathtubs. Radios. Orson—”
“Not Orson. H. G. Herbert George. With Orson it was just a gag. H. G.knew—or suspected. I wonder if it was simply intuition with him? Hecouldn’t have had any proof—but he did stop writing science-fictionrather suddenly, didn’t he? I’ll bet he knew once, though.”
“Knew what?”
“About the Martians. All this won’t do us a bit of good if you don’tlisten. It may not anyway. The trick is to jump the gun—with proof.Convincing evidence. Nobody’s ever been allowed to produce the evidencebefore. You are a reporter, aren’t you?”
Holding his glass, the man in the brown suit nodded reluctantly.
“Then you ought to be taking it all down on a piece of folded paper. Iwant everybody to know. The whole world. It’s important. Terriblyimportant. It explains everything. My life won’t be safe unless I canpass along the information and make people believe it.”
“Why won’t your life be safe?”
“Because of the Martians, you fool. They own the world.”
The brown man sighed. “Then they own my newspaper, too,” he objected,“so I can’t print anything they don’t like.”
“I never thought of that,” Lyman said, considering the bottom of hisglass, where two ice-cubes had fused into a cold, immutable union.“They’re not omnipotent, though. I’m sure they’re vulnerable, or whyhave they always kept under cover? They’re afraid of being found out. Ifthe world had convincing evidence—look, people always believe what theyread in the newspapers. Couldn’t you—”
“Ha,” said the brown man with deep significance.
Lyman drummed sadly on the bar and murmured, “There must be some way.Perhaps if I had another drink....”
The brown suited man tasted his collins, which seemed to stimulate him.“Just what is all this about Martians?” he asked Lyman. “Suppose youstart at the beginning and tell me again. Or can’t you remember?”
“Of course I can remember. I’ve got practically total recall. It’ssomething new. Very new. I never could do it before. I can even remembermy last conversation with the Martians.” Lyman favored the brown manwith a glance of triumph.
“When was that?”
“This morning.”