“Take wars. Wars don’t make sense from any human viewpoint. Nobody really wants wars. But we go right on having them. From the Martian viewpoint, they’re useful. They give us a spurt in technology, and they reduce the excess population. And there are lots of other results, too. Colonization, for one thing. But mainly technology. In peace time, if a guy invents jet-propulsion, it’s too expensive to develop commercially. In war-time, though, it’s got to be developed. Then the Martians can use it whenever they want. They use us the way they’d use tools or—or limbs. And nobody ever really wins a war—except the Martians.”
The man in the brown suit chuckled. “That makes sense,” he said. “It must be nice to be a Martian.”
“Why not? Up till now, no race ever successfully conquered and ruled another. The underdog could revolt or absorb. If you know you’re being ruled, then the ruler’s vulnerable. But if the world doesn’t know—and it doesn’t—
“Take radios,” Lyman continued, going off at a tangent. “There’s no earthly reason why a sane human should listen to a radio. But the Martians make us do it. They like it. Take bathtubs. Nobody contends bathtubs are comfortable—for us. But they’re fine for Martians. All the impractical things we keep on using, even though we know they’re impractical—”
“Typewriter ribbons,” the brown man said, struck by the thought. “But not even a Martian could enjoy changing a typewriter ribbon.”
Lyman seemed to find that flippant. He said that he knew all about the Martians except for one thing—their psychology.
“I don’t know why they act as they do. It looks illogical sometimes, but I feel perfectly sure they’ve got sound motives for every move they make. Until I get that worked out I’m pretty much at a standstill. Until I get evidence—proof—and help. I’ve got to stay under cover till then. And I’ve been doing that. I do what they tell me, so they won’t suspect, and I pretend to forget what they tell me to forget.”
“Then you’ve got nothing much to worry about.”
Lyman paid no attention. He was off again on a list of his grievances.
“When I hear the water running in the tub and a Martian splashing around, I pretend I don’t hear a thing. My bed’s too short and I tried last week to order a special length, but the Martian that sleeps there told me not to. He’s a runt, like most of them. That is, I think they’re runts. I have to deduce, because you never see them undressed. But it goes on like that constantly. By the way, how’s your Martian?”