THEFT By Bill Venable With little green men telling him what to write, Thompson was certain he had flipped his lid. His psychiatrist agreed--until he read the stories! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy September 1952 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] Thompson poured himself a shot of rye and downed it in one quick movement. He then pulled out his tobacco pouch, filled his pipe and applied a flaming match to the bowl. He puffed clouds of fragrant smoke. He frowned deeply. It was a good frown because Thompson was an expert in the art of frowning. This particular frown was a frown of irritated exasperation, because Thompson was an author, and it was late at night, and he'd drunk a quarter of a fifth of rye and smoked eleven pipefuls of tobacco and played four LP records, and he still had no ideas. His head swam from the effects of the whisky, and the tobacco, and the records; but he persevered in his search for An Idea for a Story. He searched among his records for _Le Coq d'Or_ and put it on the phonograph, at bass tone and loud volume. After the first few bars he got up and took it off, still a man without inspiration. He played Hindemith's _Variations on a Theme by Russell_ next. Utterly useless. He tried _The Age of Anxiety_ and followed it with Petrouchka; intermittently he sat down and pondered passages from _Rubaiyat_. All to no avail. About this time the little green men came out of the woodwork. They didn't emerge from the woodwork in the manner one might expect--i.e. squeezing through cracks and knotholes like mice and spiders. They just sort of materialized out of it, rather like they had walked through it. There were four of them. Thompson took his pipe from his mouth and looked at them. "Ah," he murmured. "Yes indeed." He knocked the ashes from his pipe and got up from his chair. He put the whisky back in the cupboard and took the record off. Then he sat down again and regarded the little green men. He closed his eyes tightly and held them closed for a minute or so. He opened them and looked at the green men again. Then he rubbed his eyes and pounded his head with his hands. The green men sat in mid-air and stared at him. Thompson regarded them as coldly as possible. "Well," said the nearest green man, "Aren't you going to say hello?" Thompson swallowed. "Hello," he managed after a moment. "Hello," rejoined the other. * * * * * Thompson nodded his head affably and remained silent. Presently he went to the cupboard and got out the whisky; he poured a shot and downed it in one quick movement. Then he filled his pipe and lit it. He puffed clouds of smoke and stared at the green men through a blue haze.