You've heard reports about strange lights in the sky--flying saucers and all that rubbish! A Joke? Illusion? Possibly, unless, of course-- You Don't Walk Alone By Frank M. Robinson [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy March 1955 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] It wasn't my idea--I wasn't the first one to think of it. It started with John Kelley, who passed the idea on to me. And I'm going to do something about it. I think John wanted to but he never got the chance. It began about two months ago when I was sitting at the lunch counter in Chicago's LaSalle Street station, drinking coffee. I was on my second cup when John walked in. He saw me about the same time I saw him and came over to the counter and we gave each other the I-haven't-seen-you-for-years-what-are-you-doing-now routine. Which was a laugh, in a way, because while he wouldn't know what I had been doing, I couldn't help but know what he had been doing. And so would you if I told you his right name. You wouldn't have recognized him, of course. He was the inconspicuous type, the sort of man who blended in so well with his background you would have had to hunt to find him, even if he was standing right in front of you. He was thin, not particularly tall, with limp, straw colored hair that clung close to his scalp and a complexion that had never been exposed to the sun. He was dressed in an old blue suit, a shapeless hat that might have been new five years ago, and a lightweight gray topcoat that hadn't been cleaned and pressed since he had bought it. See? You wouldn't have noticed him at all. It's a somewhat deceptive description, of course. John could have afforded a Brooks Brothers suit and at least one Cadillac but the fact was that he preferred being inconspicuous and in his job it was a definite advantage. Both John and I were reporters but the difference was--as Oscar Levant would say--the difference between talent and genius. He ordered coffee then gave me a once-over with a pair of tired blue eyes that took in everything from my brown shoes that needed a shine to the newest thing in string bow-ties. "How's it going, Charley?" I blew the loose sugar off a doughnut and dangled it just over the edge of the cup. "It goes all right. It could be better but I suppose it could be worse, too. What brings you to Chicago?" "I'm on a story." "Sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to pry." He got a refill on his coffee and stirred in half a pound of sugar. "You're not prying. As a matter of fact, maybe you can help me." "What's up?" "I'm doing a story about an invasion. It's one that started just a few years ago, one that I'm afraid was highly successful, and one that I think is still going on."