He went dejectedly to his hotel. He stayed there for several days, dialing numbers he selected randomly from the telephone book, and getting the brushoff from business offices, housewives and maids. They were all very busy or the boss wasn't in or they expected important calls. That was when he was warmly invited by letter to see the editor of the magazine that had bought his article. Elated for actually the first time since his discharge from the hospital, Clocker took a cab to a handsome building, showed his invitation to a pretty and courteous receptionist, and was escorted into an elaborate office where a smiling man came around a wide bleached-mahogany desk and shook hands with him. "Mr. Locke," said the editor, "I'm happy to tell you that we've had a wonderful response to your story." "Article," Clocker corrected. The editor smiled. "Do you produce so much that you can't remember what you sold us? It was about--" "I know," Clocker cut in. "But it wasn't a story. It was an article. It really--" "Now, now. The first thing a writer must learn is not to take his ideas too seriously. Very dangerous, especially in a piece of fiction like yours." "But the whole thing is true!" "Certainly--while you were writing it." The editor shoved a pile of mail across the desk toward him. "Here are some of the comments that have come in. I think you'll enjoy seeing the reaction." Clocker went through them, hoping anxiously for no more than a single note that would show his message had come through to somebody. He finished and looked up blankly. "You see?" the editor asked proudly. "You're a find." "The new Mark Twain or Jonathan Swift. A comic." "A satirist," the editor amended. He leaned across the desk on his crossed forearms. "A mail response like this indicates a talent worth developing. We would like to discuss a series of stories--" "Articles." "Whatever you choose to call them. We're prepared to--" "You ever been off your rocker?" Clocker asked abruptly. * * * * * The editor sat back, smiling with polite puzzlement. "Why, no." "You ought to try it some time." Clocker lifted himself out of the chair and went to the door. "That's what I want, what I was trying to sell in my article. We all ought to go to hospitals and get ourself let in and have these aliens take over and show us where we're going." "You think that would be an improvement?" "What wouldn't?" asked Clocker, opening the door. "But about the series--" "I've got your name and address. I'll let you know if anything turns up. Don't call me; I'll call you." Clocker closed the door behind him, went out of the handsome building and called a taxi. All through the long ride, he stared at the thinning out of the city, the huddled suburban communities, the stretches of grass and well-behaved woods that were permitted to survive.