"Last night—" began the doctor with a flash of intuition.
"I was drunk," said Thompson.
"Of course," agreed the doctor. He put his spectacles back on. "Then you have nothing to worry about; at least not in my line of work. Perhaps you should see a physician, delirium tremens is not in my line. Unless you wish me to cure your alcoholism—"
Thompson waved a hand. "Uh uh. Last night I didn't mind so much. But they were there this morning too." He leaned forward toward the doctor. "Would you say I am drunk now?"
"Hard to tell," rejoined the doctor, fluttering his fingers. "Offhand, I would say, no."
"Well," Thompson, "the little green men were still there when I left my apartment at two today."
"I see," said the doctor. "That makes a difference, of course."
"Haven't had but one shot of rye since last night, either."
"Yes, of course," murmured the psychiatrist. "And do you think they are still in your apartment now?"
Thompson shrugged. "Hard to tell."