Going down the stairs, Luke said, “He was a good guy, while he lasted.”
“And had a good idea, while it lasted.”
“Yeah,” Luke said. “And I feel lower than a mole’s basement. Say, we were going to figure out where we’ve seen or met one another. Have you remembered?”
“Could it have been at Paramount? I worked there six years up to when they closed two weeks ago.”
“That’s it,” said Luke. “You wrote continuity. I put in a few weeks there a few years ago, on scripts. Didn’t do so hot, and quit. What talent I’ve got is for the written word, not for scripting.”
“That’s it, then. Say, Devereaux—”
“Make it Luke. And your first name’s Steve, isn’t it?”
“Right. Well, Luke, I feel lower than a mole’s basement, too. And I know how I’m going to spend the five bucks I just got back. Got any idea about yours?”
“The same idea you have. After we buy some, shall we go to my room or yours?”
They compared notes on rooms and decided on Luke’s; Steve Gresham was staying with his sister and her husband; there were children and other disadvantages, so Luke’s room would be best.
They drowned their sorrows, drink for drink; Luke turned out to have the better capacity of the two of them. At a little after midnight, Gresham passed out cold; Luke was still operating, if a bit erratically.
He tried and failed to wake up Gresham, then sadly poured himself another drink and sat down with it to drink and think instead of drinking and talking. But he wanted to talk rather than to think and almost, but not quite, wished a Martian would show up. But none did. And he wasn’t crazy enough or drunk enough to talk to himself. “Now yet anyway, he said aloud, and the sound of his voice startled him to silence again.
Poor Forbes, he thought. He and Gresham had deserted; they should have stayed with Forbes and tried to see him through, at least until and unless they found out it was hopeless. They hadn’t even waited for the doctor’s diagnosis. Had the doc been able to snap Forbes out of it, or had he sent for the men in the white coats?
He could phone the doctor and ask him what had happened.
Except that he didn’t remember the doctor’s name, if he had ever heard it.
He could call Long Beach General Mental Hospital and find out if Forbes had been taken there. Or if he asked for Margie, she could find out for him more about Forbes’ conditions than the switchboard would tell him. But he didn’t want to talk to Margie. Yes, he did. No, he didn’t; she’d divorced him and to hell with her. To hell with all women.
He went out in the hallway to the phone, staggering only slightly. But he had to close one eye to read the fine type in the phone book, and again to dial the number. He asked for Margie.
“Last name, please?”
“Uh—” For a blank second he couldn’t remember Margie’s maiden name. Then he remembered it, but decided that she might not have decided to use it again, especially since the divorce wasn’t final yet. “Margie Devereaux. Nurse.”
“One moment please.”
And several moments later, Margie’s voice. “Hello.”
“Hi, Marge. S’Luke. D’ I wake you up?”
“No, I’m on night duty. Luke, I’m glad you called. I’ve been worried about you.”
“Worried ’bout me? I’m aw right. Why worry ’bout me?”
“Well—the Martians. So many people are—Well, I’ve just been worrying.”
“Thought they’d send me off my rocker, huh? Don’t worry, honey, they can’t get me down. Write science fiction, ’member? Wrote it, I mean. I invented Martians.”
“Are you sure you’re all right, Luke? You’ve been drinking.”
“Sure, been drinking. But I’m aw right. How’re you?”
“Fine. But awfully busy. This place is—well, it’s a madhouse. I can’t talk long. Did you want anything?”
“Don’t wanna thing, honey. I’m fine.”
“Then I’ll have to hang up. But I do want to talk to you, Luke. Will you phone me tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure, honey. Wha’ time?”
“Any time after noon. ’Bye, Luke.”
“Bye, honey.”
He went back to his drink, suddenly remembering that he’d forgotten to ask Margie about Forbes. Well, the hell with Forbes; it didn’t matter. He was either okay or he wasn’t, and nothing could be done about it if he wasn’t.
Surprising, though, that Margie’d been so friendly. Especially since she’d recognized that he was drunk. She wasn’t a prig about drinking—she herself drank moderately. But always got mad at him if he let go and drank too much, like tonight.
Must really have been worried about him. But why? And then he remembered. She’d always suspected him of not being very stable mentally. Had tried to get him to have analysis once—that was one of the things they’d quarreled about. So naturally now, with so many people going nuts, she’d think him likely to be one of the first to go.
To hell with her, if she thought that. He was going to be the last to let the Martians get him down, not the first.
He poured himself another drink. Not that he really wanted it—he was plenty drunk already—but to defy Margie and the Martians. He’d show ’em.
One was in the room now. One Martian, not one Margie.
Luke leveled an unsteady finger at it. “Can’t get me down,” he said. “I ’nvented you.
“You’re already down, Mack. You’re drunk as a skunk.” The Martian looked disgustedly from Luke to Gresham, snoring on the bed. And must have decided that neither of them was worth annoying, for it vanished.
“See. Told you so,’’ Luke said.
Took another drink from his glass and then put the glass down just in time, for his chin fell forward on his chest and he slept.
And dreamed of Margie. Part of the time he dreamed of quarreling and fighting with her and part of the time he dreamed—but even while the Martians were around, dreams remained private.
5.
The Iron Curtain quivered like an aspen leaf in an earthquake.
The leaders of the People found themselves faced with an internal opposition that they could not purge, could not even intimidate.
And not only could they not blame the Martians on the Capitalist warmongers but they soon found out that the Martians were worse than Capitalist warmongers.
Not only were they not Marxists but they would admit to no political philosophy whatsoever and sneered at all of them. They sneered equally at all terrestrial governments and forms of government, even theoretical ones. Yes, they themselves had the perfect form of government but they refused to tell anyone what it was—except that it was none of our business.
They weren’t missionaries and had no desire to help us. All they wanted was to know everything that went on and to be as annoying and irritating as they possibly could.
Behind the trembling curtain, they succeeded wonderfully.
How could one tell the Big Lie or even a little one, with a third of a billion Martians gleefully ready to punch holes in it? They loved propaganda.
And they tattled so. No one can guess how many people were summarily tried and executed in Communist countries during the first month or two of the Martians’ stay. Peasants, factory superintendents, generals, Politburo members. It wasn’t safe to do or say anything, with Martians around. And there seemed always to be Martians around.
After a while, of course, that phase of things eased up. It had to. You can’t kill everybody, not even everybody outside the Kremlin, if for no other reason than that then the Capitalist warmongers could march in and take over. You can’t even send everybody to Siberia; Siberia would hold them all right, but it wouldn’t support them.