“Because of the Martians, you fool. They own the world.”
The brown man sighed. “Then they own my newspaper, too,” he objected, “so I can’t print anything they don’t like.”
“I never thought of that,” Lyman said, considering the bottom of his glass, where two ice-cubes had fused into a cold, immutable union. “They’re not omnipotent, though. I’m sure they’re vulnerable, or why have they always kept under cover? They’re afraid of being found out. If the world had convincing evidence—look, people always believe what they read in the newspapers. Couldn’t you—”
“Ha,” said the brown man with deep significance.
Lyman drummed sadly on the bar and murmured, “There must be some way. Perhaps if I had another drink....”
The brown suited man tasted his collins, which seemed to stimulate him. “Just what is all this about Martians?” he asked Lyman. “Suppose you start at the beginning and tell me again. Or can’t you remember?”
“Of course I can remember. I’ve got practically total recall. It’s something new. Very new. I never could do it before. I can even remember my last conversation with the Martians.” Lyman favored the brown man with a glance of triumph.
“When was that?”
“This morning.”
“I can even remember conversations I had last week,” the brown man said mildly. “So what?”