"They make jokes and play pranks, too, something they never did before."
Tlenow was slit-eyed with amazement at such illogical Martian behavior.
"They do this one day, do that the next. Always they grow more like Venusians or Earthmen, only with not so much sense. What they will do on any tomorrow one can never tell."
He finished his drink and leaned forward.
"They make writing—too much writing—everything in writing—and all of it funny kind. What you Earthmen call—I think—poetry. Yes, that is it. Poetry. And each day gets worser. They never make like that before. By the Seven Black Comets, how they get that way?"
That was when Bill and I knew we had to break our silence.
So the Marties have not yet learned to think for themselves. Five years, after all, is a very short time. Perhaps some day. In the meantime they're nothing but reflections of the more uninhibited and generally screwy aspects of Terence Michael Burke's personality. And I'm afraid they'll share his disturbing ideas of humor.
Do we want anything to do with them? Frankly, I don't know. That's up to you, Citizens of Earth, when you vote on the new treaty.
But don't say I didn't warn you.