My beer came and a plate of tapas for us both. Tapas at the Cafe de Paris are apt to be potato salad, a few anchovies, olives, and possibly some cheese. Free lunch, they used to call it in the States.
Just to say something, I said, "Where do you think they came from?" And when he looked blank, I added, "The Flying Saucers."
He grinned. "From Mars or Venus, or someplace."
"Ummmm," I said. "Too bad none of them ever crashed, or landed on the Yale football field and said Take me to your cheerleader, or something."
Paul yawned and said, "That was always the trouble with those crackpot blokes' explanations of them. If they were aliens from space, then why not show themselves?"
I ate one of the potato chips. It'd been cooked in rancid olive oil.
I said, "Oh, there are various answers to that one. We could probably sit around here and think of two or three that made sense."
Paul was mildly interested. "Like what?"
"Well, hell, suppose for instance there's this big Galactic League of civilized planets. But it's restricted, see. You're not eligible for membership until you, well, say until you've developed space flight. Then you're invited into the club. Meanwhile, they send secret missions down from time to time to keep an eye on your progress."
Paul grinned at me. "I see you read the same poxy stuff I do."