"You left out the interesting part, Charlie," somebody called from down the bar. "The Martian natives. How about them?"
"There aren't any—as you'd know them," the little man said. He seemed to grow thoughtful for a moment. "But they are intelligent. They do things you couldn't do."
"Such as what?" somebody asked.
The little man shrugged. "Teleport. They're good at it too."
Saxton let out a laugh. "That would make them more intelligent than us!" he said. "What do these Martians look like?"
The little man screwed up his face distastefully. "Frogs."
The reporter who had asked about natives got choked on his drink and had to be pounded on the back. On my left, Abe Marker leaned against the bar to look past me at the little guy.
"Frogs we got now," he said admiringly. "By the billions?"
"There are more frogs on Mars," the little man said, "than there are gnats and fish together, and they never stop croaking. You'd have to hear it to believe it."
The television screen lit up suddenly, chopping off conversation, and we were watching the first Marscast in history.