“Done. There’s been no reason for a lock on that door anyway. I’m sometimes not certain that he’s not the only sane person here, Margie. Certainly he’s the best adjusted one. Not to mention the one who’s earning money the fastest. Know anything at all about his next book?”
“He said he was going to place it in Taos, New Mexico, in—I think it was eighteen forty-seven. He said he’d have to do a little research on this one.”
“The assassination of Governor Bent. Very interesting period. I’ll be able to help him with the research. I have several books that will help him.”
“Good. That may save me a trip to the library or a book store. Well—”
Margie Devereaux stood and reached for the ready-to-mail manuscript, and then paused a second and sat down again.
“Doctor,” she said, “There’s something else I want to talk to you about. And a few minutes won’t matter on mailing this. Unless you’re—”
“Go right ahead. I’m as free now as I ever am. And there’s not even a Martian around.
He looked to make sure. There wasn’t.
“Doctor, what does Luke really think? I’ve managed to avoid talking to him about it, but I—may not always be able to. And if Martians ever do come up in conversation—well, I want to know how to handle it. He knows that I see and hear Martians. I can’t help being startled at one once in a while. And he knows I insist on darkness and wearing ear stopples when—uh—”
“When darkness and stopped ears are indicated,” Dr. Snyder prompted.
“Yes. But he knows I see and hear them and he doesn’t. Does he think I’m insane? That everyone is crazy except Luke Devereaux? Or what?”
Dr. Snyder took of his glasses to polish them. “That’s a very difficult question to answer, Margie.”
“Because you don’t know the answer or because it’s hard to explain?”
“A little of both. The first few days Luke was here I did quite a bit of talking with him. He was a bit mixed up himself—or more than a bit, I should say. There weren’t any Martians; he was sure of that. He himself had either been insane or suffering delusions while he’d been seeing them. But he couldn’t account for why—if they are a mass hallucination for the rest of us—he recovered and the rest of us haven’t.”
“But—then he must think the rest of us are crazy.”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Margie?”
“Of course not.”
“A lot of people do—millions of people. And thousands of people have seen them, heard them, talked to them—or think they have. Now if you think you’re sane, does that mean you think everyone who believes in ghosts is insane?”
“Of course not. But that’s different. They’re just imaginative people who think they’ve seen ghosts.”
“And we’re just imaginative people who think there are Martians around.”
“But—but everyone sees Martians. Except Luke.”
Dr. Snyder shrugged. “Nevertheless that’s his reasoning; if you can call it that. The analogy with ghosts is his, not mine—although it’s a good analogy, up to a point. Certain friends of mine, as it happens, are certain that they’ve seen ghosts; I don’t think that means they’re insane—nor that I’m insane because I haven’t, or can’t, or don’t.”
“But—you can’t photograph ghosts or make recordings of their voices.”
“People claim to have done both. Apparently you haven’t read many books on psychic research. Not that I’m suggesting that you should—I’m just pointing out that Luke’s analogy isn’t completely without justification.
“Then you mean you don’t think Luke is insane?”
“Of course he’s insane. Either that or everyone else is insane, including you and me. And that I find impossible to believe.”
Margie sighed. “I’m afraid that isn’t going to help me much if he ever wants to talk about it.”
“He may never want to. He talked to me rather reluctantly, I’m afraid. If he does, let him do the talking and just listen. Don’t try to argue with him. Or, for that matter, to humor him. But if he starts changing in any way or acting different, let me know.”
“All right. But why? If you’re not trying to cure him, I mean.”
“Why?” Dr. Snyder frowned. “My dear Margie, your husband is insane. Right now it is a very advantageous form of insanity—he’s probably the luckiest man on Earth—but what if the form of his insanity should change?”
“Can paranoia change to another form?”
Dr. Snyder made an apologetic gesture. “I keep forgetting that I don’t have to talk to you as a layman. What I should have said is that his systematized delusion might change to another and less happy one.”
“Like believing again in Martians, but not believing in human beings?”
Dr. Snyder smiled. “Hardly so complete a switch as that, my dear. But it’s quite possible—” His smile vanished. “—that he might come to believe in neither.”
“You’re surely joking.”
“No, I’m not. It’s really quite a common farm of paranoia. And, for that matter, a form of belief held by a great many sane people. Haven’t you heard of solipsism?”
“The word sounds familiar.”
“Latin, from solus meaning alone and ipse meaning self. Self alone. The philosophical belief that the self is the only existent thing. Logical result of starting reasoning with ‘Cogito, ergo sum’—I think, therefore I am—and finding oneself unable to accept any secondary step as logical. The belief that the world around you and all the people in it, except yourself, are simply something you imagine.
Margie smiled. “I remember now. It came up in a class in college. And I remember wondering, why not?”
“Most people wonder that at some time or other, even if not very seriously. It’s such a tempting thing to believe, and it’s so completely impossible to disprove. For a paranoiac, though, it’s a ready-made delusion that doesn’t even have to be systematized or even rationalized. And since Luke already disbelieves in Martians, it’s only another step.”
“You think it’s a possibility that he might take that step?”
“Anything’s a possibility, my dear. But all we can do is to watch carefully and be prepared for any impending change by getting some intimation of it in advance. And you’re the one best situated for getting an advance warning.”
“I understand, Doctor. I’ll watch carefully. And thank you, for everything.”
Margie stood again. This time she picked up the package and went out with it.
Dr. Snyder watched her go and then sat for a while staring at the doorway through which she had disappeared. He sighed more deeply than before.
Damn Devereaux, he thought. Impervious to Martians and married to a girl like that.
No one man should be so lucky; it wasn’t fair.
His own wife—But he didn’t want to think about his own wife.
Not after he’d just been looking at Margie Devereaux.
He picked up his pencil and pulled back in front of him the pad on which he had been making notes for the paper he intended to present that evening at the meeting of his cell of the P.F.A.M.
14.
Yes, there was the P.F.A.M. The Psychological Front Against Martians. Going strong if still—in mid-July now, almost four months after the Corning—apparently going nowhere.
Almost every psychologist and psychiatrist in the United States. In every country in the world almost every psychologist and psychiatrist belonged to an equivalent organization. All of these organizations reported their findings and theories (there were, unfortunately, more theories than findings) to a special branch of the United Nations which had quickly been set up for the purpose and which was called the O.C.P.E.—Office for the Coordination of Psychological Effort—the main job of which was to translate and distribute reports.