The Frogs of Mars

The little guy comes into the bar just as the first Marscast is about to start. He scoffs at scientific facts and keeps mumbling about—
There was nothing special about the little man who came into Larry's place, unless it might have been his air of vague familiarity and the mixed expression on his face. He looked disgusted and defensive and at the same time a little resentful, with a dash of something else thrown in which none of us recognized until later.
I'd have mistaken him for another reporter from the Advertiser across the street if the five newsmen already at the bar hadn't given each other a blank look that meant only one thing: none of them knew him. Neither did Larry, who was trying to bring in the first broadcast from Mars on the television set bracketed to the wall over his whiskey stock, and who wasn't pleased at having his little after-hours party crashed.
The bar's closed, Larry said. His tone didn't invite argument. City ordinance. No customers after 1:00 a.m.
The little man looked at the clock, which said 3:15, and then at the front windows which were shuttered tight. Then he looked at the six of us sitting at the bar with our drinks.
I'll have bourbon and water, he said. He sat down at the end of the bar on the stool next to mine and looked at his reflection in the mirror without approval.
Larry got the look that bartenders get with troublesome customers.
The bar's closed, he said again. It's a city—
Water on the side, the little man said. Don't mix it.
Abe Marker, who does sports for the Advertiser , got up and checked the front-door lock. The thumb-catch hadn't been thrown, so Abe put it on and came back to the bar.
Nobody else will wander in, he said. Make with the t-v, Larry. You're holding up the show.
Larry looked stubborn.