“That Martian. Yours, by any chance? No, I suppose not. Yours was probably the one who went out a while ago. I wonder if he went to make a report, and sent this one in? It’s possible. It could be. You can talk now, but keep your voice low, and stop squirming. Want him to notice we can see him?”
“I can’t see him. Don’t drag me into this. You and your Martians can fight it out together. You’re making me nervous. I’ve got to go, anyway.” But he didn’t move to get off the stool. Across Lyman’s shoulder he was stealing glances toward the back of the bar, and now and then he looked at Lyman’s face.
“Stop watching me,” Lyman said. “Stop watching him. Anybody’d think you were a cat.”
“Why a cat? Why should anybody—do I look like a cat?”
“We were talking about cats, weren’t we? Cats can see them, quite clearly. Even undressed, I believe. They don’t like them.”
“Who doesn’t like who?”
“Whom. Neither likes the other. Cats can see Martians—sh-h!—but they pretend not to, and that makes the Martians mad. I have a theory that cats ruled the world before Martians came. Never mind. Forget about cats. This may be more serious than you think. I happen to know my Martian’s taking tonight off, and I’m pretty sure that was your Martian who went out some time ago. And have you noticed that nobody else in here has his Martian with him? Do you suppose—” His voice sank. “Do you suppose they could be waiting for us outside?”
“Oh, Lord,” the brown man said. “In the alley with the cats, I suppose.”
“Why don’t you stop this yammer about cats and be serious for a moment?” Lyman demanded, and then paused, paled, and reeled slightly on his stool. He hastily took a drink to cover his confusion.
“What’s the matter now?” the brown man asked.