"And that makeshift capacitance bar you rigged just happened to sensitize the set to the Thing's own wave form." We listened, but right then Mike was more interested in Polly. About that he displayed good sense. * * * * * Bill's _Banshee III_ and my _Thor_ are between-trips at the same time, so it was only natural that we got together last night. And when we met Miu Tlenow, the Venusian cat-man, it was also natural that we head immediately for the Ursa Major Tavern. "Mewargh!" Tlenow purred, extending and retracting his clawlike fingernails with pleasure as the second drink took hold. "Really it is good to get away from that madhouse." "What madhouse?" Bill asked. "Mars." We sat up straighter. Somehow in the five years that had passed without authentic news from the Red Planet we had taken it for granted that things there had settled down once more to a slow, lethargic normality. We hadn't realized the full impact of Mike, as amplified by the Hustic. "Those Martians!" Tlenow mewled, his whiskers twitching in agitated disgust. "They are crazy. All crazy. They mate, but they use no sense in how they mate. Like Earthmen. Such complications! They have many different governments with a hundred different political parties, and they talk and talk, vote and vote. They argue. "Things like Earthmen's gloves they make. Of course they will not fit Martian hands and they carry them only to hit in each other's faces. Then they fight duels. "They make liquor and drink it, and how crazy-drunk they get. Then, Great Space, they even try to sing! "They make jokes and play pranks, too, something they never did before." Tlenow was slit-eyed with amazement at such illogical Martian behavior. "They do this one day, do that the next. Always they grow more like Venusians or Earthmen, only with not so much sense. What they will do on any tomorrow one can never tell." He finished his drink and leaned forward. "They make writing--too much writing--everything in writing--and all of it funny kind. What you Earthmen call--I think--poetry. Yes, that is it. Poetry. And each day gets worser. They never make like that before. By the Seven Black Comets, how they get that way?" That was when Bill and I knew we had to break our silence. * * * * * So the Marties have not yet learned to think for themselves. Five years, after all, is a very short time. Perhaps some day. In the meantime they're nothing but reflections of the more uninhibited and generally screwy aspects of Terence Michael Burke's personality. And I'm afraid they'll share his disturbing ideas of humor. Do we want anything to do with them? Frankly, I don't know. That's up to you, Citizens of Earth, when you vote on the new treaty. But don't say I didn't warn you.