"To Invade New York...."

It would be foolish to do a thing a hard way, when there is such an easy way. In a technically dependent culture, people become quite helpless, really....
ILLUSTRATED BY LEO SUMMERS
He was a tall, learned-looking man, about fifty, slightly stooped, with a bulging midriff, tortoise-shell glasses, graying hair, and a strange look in his eyes. I'd noticed him standing outside Shannon's Bar for about ten minutes, pacing back and forth. Then he came in and sat down next to me. It was late afternoon, before the rush hour, and we were the only customers in the place.
Jimmy, the bartender, put down the towel with which he'd been idly wiping glasses, and came over. What'll it be?
The stranger jumped nervously and looked blank for a moment. Uh ... er ... a glass of beer, please. Root beer.
Jimmy snorted. Try the candy store down the block.
Oh, said the stranger, obviously upset. Then let me have a glass of regular beer—mild, please.
I smiled at Jimmy as he filled a glass. All sorts came into Shannon's. Outside, the traffic on Third Avenue was only a faint hum.
The stranger licked the foam tentatively and wrinkled his nose in distaste. He put the glass back on the bar and shook his head.
Pro superi! quantum mortalia pectora caecae, Noctis habent.
Huh? said Jimmy.
The stranger smiled briefly. That is Latin. It means, Oh, ye gods, what darkness of night there is in mortal minds.