Don't look now — Story, Setting & Ideas

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Startling Stories, March 1948. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

_That man beside you may be a Martian. They own our world, but only a few wise and far-seeing men like Lyman know it!_

The man in the brown suit was looking at himself in the mirror behind the bar. The reflection seemed to interest him even more deeply than the drink between his hands. He was paying only perfunctory attention to Lyman’s attempts at conversation. This had been going on for perhaps fifteen minutes before he finally lifted his glass and took a deep swallow.

“Don’t look now,” Lyman said.

The brown man slid his eyes sidewise toward Lyman; tilted his glass higher, and took another swig. Ice-cubes slipped down toward his mouth. He put the glass back on the red-brown wood and signaled for a refill. Finally he took a deep breath and looked at Lyman.

“Don’t look at what?” he asked.

“There was one sitting right beside you,” Lyman said, blinking rather glazed eyes. “He just went out. You mean you couldn’t see him?”

The brown man finished paying for his fresh drink before he answered. “See who?” he asked, with a fine mixture of boredom, distaste and reluctant interest. “Who went out?”

“What have I been telling you for the last ten minutes? Weren’t you listening?”

“Certainly I was listening. That is—certainly. You were talking about—bathtubs. Radios. Orson—”

“Not Orson. H. G. Herbert George. With Orson it was just a gag. H. G. _knew_—or suspected. I wonder if it was simply intuition with him? He couldn’t have had any proof—but he did stop writing science-fiction rather suddenly, didn’t he? I’ll bet he knew once, though.”

“About the Martians. All this won’t do us a bit of good if you don’t listen. It may not anyway. The trick is to jump the gun—with proof. Convincing evidence. Nobody’s ever been allowed to produce the evidence before. You _are_ a reporter, aren’t you?”

Holding his glass, the man in the brown suit nodded reluctantly.

“Then you ought to be taking it all down on a piece of folded paper. I want everybody to know. The whole world. It’s important. Terribly important. It explains everything. My life won’t be safe unless I can pass along the information and make people believe it.”

“Why won’t your life be safe?”

“Because of the Martians, you fool. They own the world.”

The brown man sighed. “Then they own my newspaper, too,” he objected, “so I can’t print anything they don’t like.”

“I never thought of that,” Lyman said, considering the bottom of his glass, where two ice-cubes had fused into a cold, immutable union. “They’re not omnipotent, though. I’m sure they’re vulnerable, or why have they always kept under cover? They’re afraid of being found out. If the world had convincing evidence—look, people always believe what they read in the newspapers. Couldn’t you—”

“Ha,” said the brown man with deep significance.

Lyman drummed sadly on the bar and murmured, “There must be some way. Perhaps if I had another drink....”

The brown suited man tasted his collins, which seemed to stimulate him. “Just what is all this about Martians?” he asked Lyman. “Suppose you start at the beginning and tell me again. Or can’t you remember?”

“Of course I can remember. I’ve got practically total recall. It’s something new. Very new. I never could do it before. I can even remember my last conversation with the Martians.” Lyman favored the brown man with a glance of triumph.

“I can even remember conversations I had last week,” the brown man said mildly. “So what?”

“You don’t understand. They make us forget, you see. They tell us what to do and we forget about the conversation—it’s post-hypnotic suggestion, I expect—but we follow their orders just the same. There’s the compulsion, though we think we’re making our own decisions. Oh, they own the world, all right, but nobody knows it except me.”

“And how did you find out?”