He was turning toward the bartender when Lyman, apparently by accident, leaned close to him and whispered urgently,
“Don’t look now!”
The brown man glanced at Lyman’s white face reflected in the mirror before them.
“It’s all right,” he said. “There aren’t any Mar—”
Lyman gave him a fierce, quick kick under the edge of the bar.
“Shut up! One just came in!”
And then he caught the brown man’s gaze and with elaborate unconcern said, “—so naturally, there was nothing for, me to do but climb out on the roof after it. Took me ten minutes to get it down the ladder, and just as we reached the bottom it gave one bound, climbed up my face, sprang from the top of my head, and there it was again on the roof, screaming for me to get it down.”
“What?” the brown man demanded with pardonable curiosity.
“My eat, of course. What did you think? No, never mind, don’t answer that.” Lyman’s face was turned to the brown man’s, but from the corners of his eyes he was watching an invisible progress down the length of the bar toward a booth at the very back.
“Now why did he come in?” he murmured. “I don’t like this. Is he anyone you know?”
“Is who—?”
“That Martian. Yours, by any chance? No, I suppose not. Yours was probably the one who went out a while ago. I wonder if he went to make a report, and sent this one in? It’s possible. It could be. You can talk now, but keep your voice low, and stop squirming. Want him to notice we can see him?”
“I can’t see him. Don’t drag me into this. You and your Martians can fight it out together. You’re making me nervous. I’ve got to go, anyway.” But he didn’t move to get off the stool. Across Lyman’s shoulder he was stealing glances toward the back of the bar, and now and then he looked at Lyman’s face.
“Stop watching me,” Lyman said. “Stop watching him. Anybody’d think you were a cat.”
“Why a cat? Why should anybody—do I look like a cat?”
“We were talking about cats, weren’t we? Cats can see them, quite clearly. Even undressed, I believe. They don’t like them.”
“Who doesn’t like who?”
“Whom. Neither likes the other. Cats can see Martians—sh-h!—but they pretend not to, and that makes the Martians mad. I have a theory that cats ruled the world before Martians came. Never mind. Forget about cats. This may be more serious than you think. I happen to know my Martian’s taking tonight off, and I’m pretty sure that was your Martian who went out some time ago. And have you noticed that nobody else in here has his Martian with him? Do you suppose—” His voice sank. “Do you suppose they could be waiting for us outside?”
“Oh, Lord,” the brown man said. “In the alley with the cats, I suppose.”
“Why don’t you stop this yammer about cats and be serious for a moment?” Lyman demanded, and then paused, paled, and reeled slightly on his stool. He hastily took a drink to cover his confusion.
“What’s the matter now?” the brown man asked. “Nothing.” Gulp. “Nothing. It was just that—he looked at me. With—you know.”
“Let me get this straight. I take it the Martian is dressed in—is dressed like a human?”
“Naturally.”
“But he’s invisible to all eyes but yours?”
“Yes. He doesn’t want to be visible, just now. Besides—” Lyman paused cunningly. He gave the brown man a furtive glance and then looked quickly down at his drink. “Besides, you know, I rather think you can see him—a little, anyway.”
THE brown man was perfectly silent for about thirty seconds. He sat quite motionless, not even the ice in the drink he held clinking. One might have thought he did not even breathe. Certainly he did not blink.
“What makes you think that?” he asked in a normal voice, after the thirty seconds had run out.
“I—did I say anything? I wasn’t listening.” Lyman put down his drink abruptly. “I think I’ll go now.”
“No, you won’t,” the brown man said, closing his fingers around Lyman’s wrist. “Not yet you won’t. Come back here. Sit down. Now. What was the idea? Where were you going?” Lyman nodded dumbly toward the back of the bar, indicating either a juke-box or a door marked MEN.
“I don’t feel so good. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink. I guess I’ll—”
“You’re all right. I don’t trust you back there with that—that invisible man of yours. You’ll stay right here until he leaves.”
“He’s going now,” Lyman said brightly. His eyes moved with great briskness along the line of an invisible but rapid progress toward the front door. “See, he’s gone. Now let me loose, will you?”
The brown man glanced toward the back booth.
“No,” he said, “he isn’t gone. Sit right where you are.”
It was Lyman’s turn to remain quite still, in a stricken sort of way, for a perceptible while. The ice in his drink, however, clinked audibly. Presently he spoke. His voice was soft, and rather soberer than before.
“You’re right. He’s still there. You can see him, can’t you?” The brown man said, “Has he got his back to us?”
“You can see him, then. Better than I can maybe. Maybe there are more of them here than I thought. They could be anywhere. They could be sitting beside you anywhere you go, and you wouldn’t even guess, until—” He shook his head a little. “They’d want to be sure,” he said, mostly to himself. “They can give you orders and make you forget, but there must be limits to what they can force you to do. They can’t make a man betray himself. They’d have to lead him on—until they were sure.”
He lifted his drink and tipped it steeply above his face. The ice ran down the slope and bumped coldly against his lip, but he held it until the last of the pale, bubbling amber had drained into his mouth. He set the glass on the bar and faced the brown man.
“Well?” he said.
The brown man looked up and down the bar.
“It’s getting late,” he said. “Not many people left. We’ll wait.”
“Wait for what?”
The brown man looked toward the back booth and looked away again quickly.
“I have something to show you. I don’t want anyone else to see.”
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. Thr
ee 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 infrared film. And I got some very odd results.”
Lyman stared at the film.
“You see, I live near—” The brown man’s finger tapped a certain quite common object that appeared in the photograph, “—and something funny keeps showing up now and then against it. But only with infra-red film. Now I know chlorophyll reflects so much infra-red light that grass and leaves photograph white. The sky comes out black, like this. There are tricks to using this kind of film. Photograph a tree against a cloud, and you can’t tell them apart in the print. But you can photograph through a haze and pick out distant objects the ordinary film wouldn’t catch. And sometimes, when you focus on something like this—” He tapped the image of the very common object again. “You get a very odd image on the film. Like that. A man with three eyes.”
Lyman held the print up to the light. In silence he took the other one from the bar and studied it. When he laid them down he was smiling.
“You know,” Lyman said in a conversational whisper, “a professor of astrophysics at one of the more important universities had a very interesting little item in the Times the other Sunday. Name of Spitzer, I think. He said that, if there were life on Mars, and if Martians had ever visited earth, there’d be no way to prove it. Nobody would believe the few men who saw them. Not, he said, unless the Martians happened to be photographed . . .”
Lyman looked at the brown man thoughtfully.
“Well,” he said, “it’s happened. You’ve photographed them.”
The brown man nodded. He took up the prints and returned them to his watch-case. “I thought so, too. Only until tonight I couldn’t be sure. I’d never seen one—fully—as you have. It isn’t so much a matter of what you call getting your brain scrambled with supersonics as it is of just knowing where to look. But I’ve been seeing part of them all my life, and so has everybody. It’s that little suggestion of movement you never catch except just at the edge of your vision, just out of the corner of your eye. Something that’s almost there—and when you look fully at it, there’s nothing. These photographs showed me the way. It’s not easy to learn, but it can be done. We’re conditioned to look directly at a thing—the particular thing we want to see clearly, whatever it is. Perhaps the Martians gave us that conditioning. When we see a movement at the edge of our range of vision, it’s almost irresistible not to look directly at it. So it vanishes.”
“Then they can be seen—by anybody?”
“I’VE learned a lot in a few days,” the brown man said. “Since I took those photographs. You have to train yourself. It’s like seeing a trick picture—one that’s really a composite, after you study it. Camouflage. You just have to learn how. Otherwise we can look at them all our lives and never see them.”
“The camera does, though.”
“Yes, the camera does. I’ve wondered why nobody ever caught them this way before. Once you see them on film, they’re unmistakable—that third eye.”
“Infra-red film’s comparatively new, isn’t it? And then I’ll bet you have to catch them against that one particular background—you know—or they won’t show on the film. Like trees against, clouds. It’s tricky. You must have had just the right lighting that day, and exactly the right focus, and the lens stopped down just right. A kind of minor miracle. It might never happen again exactly that way. But . . . don’t look now.”
They were silent. Furtively, they watched the mirror. Their eyes slid along toward the open door of the tavern.
And then there was a long, breathless silence.
“He looked back at us,” Lyman said very quietly. “He looked at us . . . that third eye!”
The brown man was motionless again. When he moved, it was to swallow the rest of his drink.
“I don’t think that they’re suspicious yet,” he said. “The trick will be to keep under cover until we can blow this thing wide open. There’s got to be some way to do it—some way that will convince people.”
“There’s proof. The photographs. A competent cameraman ought to be able to figure out just how you caught that Martian on film and duplicate the conditions. It’s evidence.”
“Evidence can cut both ways,” the brown man said. “What I’m hoping is that the Martians don’t really like to kill—unless they have to. I’m hoping they won’t kill without proof. But—” He tapped his wrist-watch.
“There’s two of us now, though,” Lyman said. “We’ve got to stick together. Both of us have broken the big rule—don’t look now—”
The bartender was at the back, disconnecting the juke-box. The brown man said, “We’d better not be seen together unnecessarily. But if we both come to this bar tomorrow night at nine for a drink—that wouldn’t look suspicious, even to them.”
“Suppose—” Lyman hesitated. “May I have one of those photographs?”
“Why?”
“If one of us had—an accident—the other one would still have the proof. Enough, maybe, to convince the right people.” The brown man hesitated, nodded shortly, and opened his watch-case again. He gave Lyman one of the pictures.
“Hide it,” he said. “It’s—evidence. I’ll see you here tomorrow. Meanwhile, be careful. Remember to play safe.”
They shook hands firmly, facing each other in an endless second of final, decisive silence. Then the brown man turned abruptly and walked out of the bar.
Lyman sat there. Between two wrinkles in his forehead there was a stir and a flicker of lashes unfurling. The third eye opened slowly and looked after the brown man.
EX MACHINA
Gallegher, the Mad Scientist who plays by car is loose! Worst—from Gallegher’s viewpoint—a “small brown animal” he couldn’t see kept him in a horrid state of sobriety by drinking all his liquor!
“I got the idea out of a bottle labeled ‘DRINK ME,’ ” Gallegher said wanly. “I’m no technician, except when I’m drunk. I don’t know the difference between an electron and an electrode, except that one’s invisible. At least I do know, sometimes, but they get mixed up. My trouble is semantics.”
“Your trouble is you’re a lush,” said the transparent robot, crossing its legs with a faint crash. Gallegher winced.
“Not at all. I get along fine when I’m drinking. It’s only during my periods of sobriety that I get confused. I have a technological hangover. The aqueous humor in my eyeballs is coming out by osmosis. Does that make sense?”
“No,” said the robot, whose name was Joe. “You’re crying, that’s all. Did you turn me on just to have an audience? I’m busy at the moment.”
“Busy with what?”
“I’m analyzing philosophy, per se. Hideous as you humans are, you sometimes get bright ideas. The clear, intellectual logic of pure philosophy is a revelation to me.”
Gallegher said something about a hard, gemlike flame. He still wept sporadically, which reminded him of the bottle labeled “DRINK ME,” which reminded him of the liquor-organ beside the couch. Gallegher stiffly moved his long body across the laboratory, detouring around three bulky objects whi
ch might have been the dynamos, Monstro and Bubbles, except for the fact that there were three of them. This realization flickered only dimly through Gallegher’s mind. Since one of the dynamos was looking at him, he hurriedly averted his gaze, sank down on the couch, and manipulated several buttons. When no liquor flowed through the tube into his parched mouth, he removed the mouthpiece, blinked at it hopelessly, and ordered Joe to bring beer.
The glass was brimming as he raised it to his lips. But it was empty before he drank.
“That’s very strange,” Gallegher said. “I feel like Tantalus.”
“Somebody’s drinking your beer,” Joe explained. “Now do leave me alone. I’ve an idea I’ll be able to appreciate my baroque beauty even more after I’ve mastered the essentials of philosophy.”
“No doubt,” Gallegher said. “Come away from that mirror. Who’s drinking my beer? A little green man?”
“A little brown animal,” Joe explained cryptically, and turned to the mirror again, leaving Gallegher to glare at him hatefully. There were times when Mr. Galloway Gallegher yearned to bind Joe securely under a steady drip of hydrochloric. Instead, he tried another beer, with equal ill luck.
In a sudden fury, Gallegher rose and procured soda water. The little brown animal had even less taste for such fluids than Gallegher himself; at any rate, the water didn’t mysteriously vanish. Less thirsty but more confused than ever, Gallegher circled the third dynamo with the bright blue eyes and morosely examined the equipment littering his workbench. There were bottles filled with ambiguous liquids, obviously nonalcoholic, but the labels meant little or nothing. Gallegher’s subconscious self, liberated by liquor last night, had marked them for easy reference. Since Gallegher Plus, though a topflight technician, saw the world through thoroughly distorted lenses, the labels were not helpful. One said “RABBITS ONLY” Another inquired “WHY NOT?” A third said “CHRISTMAS NIGHT”.
There was also a complicated affair of wheels, gears, tubes, sprockets and light tubes plugged into an electric outlet.
”Cogito, ergo sum,” Joe murmured softly. “When there’s no one around on the quad. No. Hm-m-m.”
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