“Take radios,” Lyman continued, going off at a tangent. “There’s no earthly reason why a sane human should listen to a radio. But the Martians make us do it. They like it. Take bathtubs. Nobody contends bathtubs are comfortable—for us. But they’re fine for Martians. All the impractical things we keep on using, even though we know they’re impractical—” “Typewriter ribbons,” the brown man said, struck by the thought. “But not even a Martian could enjoy changing a typewriter ribbon.” Lyman seemed to find that flippant. He said that he knew all about the Martians except for one thing—their psychology. “I don’t know _why_ they act as they do. It looks illogical sometimes, but I feel perfectly sure they’ve got sound motives for every move they make. Until I get that worked out I’m pretty much at a standstill. Until I get evidence—proof—and help. I’ve got to stay under cover till then. And I’ve been doing that. I do what they tell me, so they won’t suspect, and I pretend to forget what they tell me to forget.” “Then you’ve got nothing much to worry about.” Lyman paid no attention. He was off again on a list of his grievances. “When I hear the water running in the tub and a Martian splashing around, I pretend I don’t hear a thing. My bed’s too short and I tried last week to order a special length, but the Martian that sleeps there told me not to. He’s a runt, like most of them. That is, I think they’re runts. I have to deduce, because you never see them undressed. But it goes on like that constantly. By the way, how’s your Martian?” The man in the brown suit set down his glass rather suddenly. “My Martian?” “Now listen. I may be just a little bit drunk, but my logic remains unimpaired. I can still put two and two together. Either you know about the Martians, or you don’t. If you do, there’s no point in giving me that, ‘What, _my_ Martian?’ routine. I know you have a Martian. Your Martian knows you have a Martian. My Martian knows. The point is, do _you_ know? Think hard,” Lyman urged solicitously. * * * * * “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,