"Johnny, come out of it," I snapped, shaking him. "There is no web in the sky, you hear me? And there aren't any spiders, either. It's just some crazy figment of your imagination. That's all."
"But just suppose there are," he persisted, a little wildly. "Maybe—maybe it's not just the glasses. Maybe it's partly me, too; maybe I'm the only one who can see them; maybe that's why you didn't see the web. Maybe—"
"Johnny, be sensible! If there were such monsters roaming around, don't you think they'd have been discovered by now?"
"I don't know," he said, helplessly. "I don't know, and it's driving me crazy. You've probably wondered why I haven't slept very well for the past couple of weeks; well, that's the reason. I didn't want to say anything. I hardly dared put the glasses on, I was so afraid. Not of being thought crazy, but—but afraid of what they might do if they knew they were discovered."
"Look, Johnny. Even supposing you might be right, why wouldn't they show themselves? Why just stay up in the sky in a large web?"
"Maybe they're sizing us up," Johnny said, trembling but not with cold. "After all, we've got a few weapons, too. Maybe a machine gun or an atomic bomb can hurt them, as well as humans."
"Unless they're here for some good?" I suggested.
Johnny laughed. "Spiders? Maybe they're hungry—and they think we're a bunch of flies down here. That's more likely."
"Isn't this—rather fantastic?"
"Of course it is. Why do you suppose I've been keeping quiet about it for the past two weeks? Why do you suppose I'm out trying to get drunk?" He added disgustedly: "I can't even do that."