“No, I haven’t got a Martian,” the reporter said, taking a quick drink. The edge of the glass clicked against his teeth.
“Nervous, I see,” Lyman remarked. “Of course you have got a Martian. I suspect you know it.”
“What would I be doing with a Martian?” the brown man asked with dogged dogmatism.
“What would you be doing without one? I imagine it’s illegal. If they caught you running around without one they’d probably put you in a pound or something until claimed. Oh, you’ve got one, all right. So have I. So has he, and he, and he—and the bartender.” Lyman enumerated the other barflies with a wavering forefinger.
“Of course they have,” the brown man said. “But they’ll all go back to Mars tomorrow and then you can see a good doctor. You’d better have another dri—”
He was turning toward the bartender when Lyman, apparently by accident, leaned close to him and whispered urgently,
“Don’t look now!”
The brown man glanced at Lyman’s white face reflected in the mirror before them.
“It’s all right,” he said. “There aren’t any Mar—”
Lyman gave him a fierce, quick kick under the edge of the bar.
“Shut up! One just came in!”
And then he caught the brown man’s gaze and with elaborate unconcern said, “—so naturally, there was nothing for me to do but climb out on the roof after it. Took me ten minutes to get it down the ladder, and just as we reached the bottom it gave one bound, climbed up my face, sprang from the top of my head, and there it was again on the roof, screaming for me to get it down.”
“What?” the brown man demanded with pardonable curiosity.
“My cat, of course. What did you think? No, never mind, don’t answer that.” Lyman’s face was turned to the brown man’s, but from the corners of his eyes he was watching an invisible progress down the length of the bar toward a booth at the very back.
“Now why did he come in?” he murmured. “I don’t like this. Is he anyone you know?”
“Is who—?”
“That Martian. Yours, by any chance? No, I suppose not. Yours was probably the one who went out a while ago. I wonder if he went to make a report, and sent this one in? It’s possible. It could be. You can talk now, but keep your voice low, and stop squirming. Want him to notice we can see him?”
“I can’t see him. Don’t drag me into this. You and your Martians can fight it out together. You’re making me nervous. I’ve got to go, anyway.” But he didn’t move to get off the stool. Across Lyman’s shoulder he was stealing glances toward the back of the bar, and now and then he looked at Lyman’s face.
“Stop watching me,” Lyman said. “Stop watching him. Anybody’d think you were a cat.”
“Why a cat? Why should anybody—do I look like a cat?”
“We were talking about cats, weren’t we? Cats can see them, quite clearly. Even undressed, I believe. They don’t like them.”
“Who doesn’t like who?”
“Whom. Neither likes the other. Cats can see Martians—sh‑h!—but they pretend not to, and that makes the Martians mad. I have a theory that cats ruled the world before Martians came. Never mind. Forget about cats. This may be more serious than you think. I happen to know my Martian’s taking tonight off, and I’m pretty sure that was your Martian who went out some time ago. And have you noticed that nobody else in here has his Martian with him? Do you suppose—” His voice sank. “Do you suppose they could be waiting for us outside?”
“Oh, Lord,” the brown man said. “In the alley with the cats, I suppose.”
“Why don’t you stop this yammer about cats and be serious for a moment?” Lyman demanded, and then paused, paled, and reeled slightly on his stool. He hastily took a drink to cover his confusion.
“What’s the matter now?” the brown man asked.
“Nothing.” Gulp. “Nothing. It was just that—he looked at me. With—you know.”
“Let me get this straight. I take it the Martian is dressed in—is dressed like a human?”
“Naturally.”
“But he’s invisible to all eyes but yours?”
“Yes. He doesn’t want to be visible, just now. Besides—” Lyman paused cunningly. He gave the brown man a furtive glance and then looked quickly down at his drink. “Besides, you know, I rather think you can see him—a little, anyway.”
The brown man was perfectly silent for about thirty seconds. He sat quite motionless, not even the ice in the drink he held clinking. One might have thought he did not even breathe. Certainly he did not blink.
“What makes you think that?” he asked in a normal voice, after the thirty seconds had run out.
“I—did I say anything? I wasn’t listening.” Lyman put down his drink abruptly. “I think I’ll go now.”
“No, you won’t,” the brown man said, closing his fingers around Lyman’s wrist. “Not yet you won’t. Come back here. Sit down. Now. What was the idea? Where were you going?”
Lyman nodded dumbly toward the back of the bar, indicating either a jukebox or a door marked Men.
“I don’t feel so good. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink. I guess I’ll—”
“You’re all right. I don’t trust you back there with that—that invisible man of yours. You’ll stay right here until he leaves.”
“He’s going now,” Lyman said brightly. His eyes moved with great briskness along the line of an invisible but rapid progress toward the front door. “See, he’s gone. Now let me loose, will you?”
The brown man glanced toward the back booth.
“No,” he said, “He isn’t gone. Sit right where you are.”
It was Lyman’s turn to remain quite still, in a stricken sort of way, for a perceptible while. The ice in his drink, however, clinked audibly. Presently he spoke. His voice was soft, and rather soberer than before.
“You’re right. He’s
