Thompson downed the pills and took a swallow of water. The doctor set the glass on the bedside table and went over and turned off the spotlight.
"Now," muttered the doctor. He turned on the lamp beside the bed and wrapped a green shirt around the bulb, tying the sleeves together at the top. He turned the lamp on Thompson's face. "You say the little men give you ideas for stories. Eh?"
Thompson shut his eyes and nodded. "On the desk. See?"
"Oh!" The doctor exhaled. "You write the stories down?"
"Naturally. They're great."
The doctor walked around to the desk, picked up one of the manuscripts. He whistled softly. "Just relax," he said, turning to Thompson. "I'm going to read these over."
"Sure, doc." Thompson stretched out comfortably on the bed.
An hour later the doctor was finishing the last story and humming softly to himself. He laid down the manuscript and fluttered his fingers airily. His face was a mask.
"Now, Thompson," he said. "Look around the room. Are the little green men still here?"