"Very well," said the nearest green man. "Here's the first one." * * * * * At two o'clock Thompson jerked the last sheet of the last story from the typewriter. He went to the cupboard and got out a coat and tie. "I'm going to lunch," he told the gnomes, knotting the tie as he talked. "I'll be back pretty soon." "Fine," beamed the speaker for the little men. "Well," said Thompson uncomfortably, slipping into his coat. "You want anything more?" "We're nicely comfortable, thank you," said the green man. "Goodbye." "Be seein' you." Thompson slammed the door behind him and added to himself, "I hope not." * * * * * The sign on the door said: HERMAN VOSSMAN: PSYCHIATRIST Walk in Thompson walked in. There was nobody in the outer office so he walked to the inner office door and knocked. "Come in," answered a German accent. Thompson entered and beheld a small, thin, bespectacled man seated behind a modernistic steel desk. "Ah," said this apparition. "You are Laurence Thompson. Sit down. Sorry no one was in the outer office but my secretary is out to lunch. What can I do for you." "Well," said Thompson. "This is kind of hard to say, Doctor, but I'm--seeing things. Hallucinations." "What are you seeing, Mr. Thompson?" Thompson fingered the end of his tie. "Little green men." "Ah," said the doctor. He leaned forward in his chair. "And what do these little green men do?" "They give me ideas for stories. I'm an author." "That is all they do?" "They sit on a beam of light, too." "Oh yes." The doctor took off his spectacles and began to polish them. "On a beam of light, of course. When and how did you first see these little men?" "Well," Thompson ran nervous fingers through his hair, "Last night was when I first saw them. They came out of the woodwork." "Last night--" began the doctor with a flash of intuition. "I was drunk," said Thompson. "Of course," agreed the doctor. He put his spectacles back on. "Then you have nothing to worry about; at least not in my line of work. Perhaps you should see a physician, delirium tremens is not in my line. Unless you wish me to cure your alcoholism--" Thompson waved a hand. "Uh uh. Last night I didn't mind so much. But they were there this morning too." He leaned forward toward the doctor. "Would you say I am drunk now?" "Hard to tell," rejoined the doctor, fluttering his fingers. "Offhand, I would say, no." "Well," Thompson, "the little green men were still there when I left my apartment at two today." "I see," said the doctor. "That makes a difference, of course." "Haven't had but one shot of rye since last night, either." "Yes, of course," murmured the psychiatrist. "And do you think they are still in your apartment now?" Thompson shrugged. "Hard to tell."