Lyman surveyed the narrow, smoky room. As he looked the last customer beside themselves at the bar began groping in his pocket, tossed some change on the mahogany, and went out slowly. They sat in silence. The bartender eyed them with stolid disinterest. Presently a couple in the front booth got up and departed, quarreling in undertones. “Is there anyone left?” the brown man asked in a voice that did not carry down the bar to the man in the apron. “Only—” Lyman did not finish, but he nodded gently toward the back of the room. “He isn’t looking. Let’s get this over with. What do you want to show me?” The brown man took off his wrist-watch and pried up the metal case. Two small, glossy photograph prints slid out. The brown man separated them with a finger. “I just want to make sure of something,” he said. “First—why did you pick me out? Quite a while ago, you said you’d been trailing me all day, making sure. I haven’t forgotten that. And you knew I was a reporter. Suppose you tell me the truth, now?” * * * * * Squirming on his stool, Lyman scowled. “It was the way you looked at things,” he murmured. “On the subway this morning—I’d never seen you before in my life, but I kept noticing the way you looked at things—the wrong things, things that weren’t there, the way a cat does—and then you’d always look away—I got the idea you could see the Martians too.” “Go on,” the brown man said quietly. “I followed you. All day. I kept hoping you’d turn out to be—somebody I could talk to. Because if I could _know_ that I wasn’t the only one who could see them, then I’d know there was still some hope left. It’s been worse than solitary confinement. I’ve been able to see them for three years now. Three years. And I’ve managed to keep my power a secret even from them. And, somehow, I’ve managed to keep from killing myself, too.” “Three years?” the brown man said. He shivered. “There was always a little hope. I knew nobody would believe—not without proof. And how can you get proof? It was only that I—I kept telling myself that maybe you could see them too, and if you could, maybe there were others—lots of others—enough so we might get together and work out some way of proving to the world—” The brown man’s fingers were moving. In silence he pushed a photograph across the mahogany. Lyman picked it up unsteadily. “Moonlight?” he asked after a moment. It was a landscape under a deep, dark sky with white clouds in it. Trees stood white and lacy against the darkness. The grass was white as if with moonlight, and the shadows blurry. “No, not moonlight,” the brown man said. “Infra-red. I’m strictly an amateur, but lately I’ve been experimenting with infra-red film. And I got some very odd results.” Lyman stared at the film.