Martians, Go Home

by Fredric Brown

  “I understand perfectly,” Luke cut in. “Go ahead with the questions.”

  “Do you have a college education, or equivalent?”

  “I went to college two years, but I think I can claim to have the equivalent of a college education—an unspecialized one, that is. I’ve been an omnivorous reader all my life.”

  “And how long, may I ask, has that been?”

  “Thirty-seven years. Wait, I mean that I’m thirty-seven years old. I haven’t been reading quite that long, by a few years anyway.”

  “Have you read much in the field of psychology?”

  “Nothing technical. Quite a few of the popular books, the ones written for laymen.”

  “And what, may I ask, has been your principal occupation?”

  “Fiction writing.”

  “Indeed. Science fiction? Are you by any chance Luke Devereaux?”

  Luke felt the warm glow a writer always feels when his name is recognized. “Yes,” he said. “Don’t tell me you read science fiction.”

  “But I do, and love it. At least I did until two weeks ago. I don’t imagine anyone is in the mood to read about extraterrestrials right now. Come to think of it, there must be quite a sharp break in the science-fiction market. Is that why you’re looking for a new—ah—profession?”

  “I’m afraid that even before the Martians came I was in the worst slump of my writing career, so I can’t blame it all on them. Not that they’ve helped, of course. And you can say what you said about the science-fiction market again and a lot more strongly. There just isn’t any such market any more, and there may not be one for years after the Martians leave—if they ever leave.”

  “I see. Well, Mr. Devereaux, I’m sorry you’ve run into bad luck with your writing; needless to say, though, I’ll be more than glad to have you in one of my classes. If you’d happened to mention your first name as well as your last when you identified yourself a moment ago, I assure you my questions would have been needless. I’ll see you at seven this evening, then?”

  “Right,” Luke said.

  Maybe the psychologist’s questions had been needless, but Luke was glad he’d asked them. He was sure now that this was not a racket, that the man was everything he claimed to be.

  And that the five dollars he was about to spend might be the best investment he’d ever made. He felt certain now that he was going to have a new profession, and an important one. He felt sure that he was going to follow through and take as many lessons as Forbes would decide he needed, even if it was more than the two or three that Forbes’ advertisement had said might be enough. If his money ran out first, no doubt Forbes—already knowing him by name and admiring him as a writer—would be willing to let him have the last few lessons on credit and let him pay for them after he was making money helping others.

  And between lessons he’d spend his time at the public library or reading books taken home from it, not just reading but actually studying every book on psychology he could lay his hands on. He was a fast reader and had a retentive memory, and if he was going in for this thing he might as well do it whole hog and make himself into as near to a real psychologist as it was possible to become without the accolade of a degree. Even that, maybe, someday. Why not? If he was really through as a writer it would be better for him really to shoot, no matter how tough the shooting might be at first, for a foothold in another legitimate profession. He was still young enough, damn it.

  He took a quick shower and shaved. Nicking himself slightly when a sudden Bronx cheer sounded right in his ear as be was in the middle of a stroke; there hadn’t been a Martian around a second before. It wasn’t a deep cut, though, and his styptic pencil stopped the bleeding easily. Could even a psychologist, he wondered, ever become sufficiently conditioned to things like that to avoid the reaction that had made him cut himself? Well, Forbes would know the answer to that. And if there wasn’t a better answer, an electric razor would solve the problem. He’d get himself one as soon as he was solvent again.

  He wanted his appearance to back up the impression his name had made, so he put on his best suit—the tan gabardine—a clean white shirt, hesitated over the choice between his Countess Mara tie and a more conservative blue one, and chose the blue.

  He left, whistling. Walked jauntily, feeling that this was a turning point in his life, the start of a new and better era.

  The elevators in the Draeger Buiding weren’t running, but it didn’t discourage him to have to walk up to the sixth floor; it exhilarated him instead.

  As he opened the door of six-fourteen, a tall slender man in Oxford gray, with thick shell-rimmed glasses, rose and came around from behind a desk to shake hands with him. “Luke Devereaux?” he asked.

  “Right, Doctor Forbes. But how did you know me?” Forbes smiled. “Partly by elimination—everyone who’s signed up was already here except yourself and one other. And partly because I’ve seen your picture on a book jacket.”

  Luke turned and saw that there were four others already in the office, seated in comfortable chairs. Two men and two women. They were all well-dressed and looked intelligent and likable. And there was one Martian, seated cross-legged on a corner of Forbes’ desk, doing nothing but looking bored at the moment. Forbes introduced Luke around—except to the Martian. The men were named Kendall and Brent; the women were a Miss Kowalski and a Mrs. Johnston.

  “And I’d introduce you to our Martian friend if he had a name,” said Forbes cheerfully. “But they tell us they do not use names.”

  “-- you, Mack,” said the Martian.

  Luke chose one of the unoccupied chairs and Forbes went back to his swivel chair behind the desk. He glanced at his wrist watch. “Seven exactly,” he said. “But I think we should allow a few minutes for our final member to arrive. Do you all agree?”

  All of them nodded and Miss Kowalski asked, “Do you want to collect from us now, while we’re waiting?”

  Five five-dollar bills, including Luke’s, were passed up to the desk. Forbes left them lying there, in sight. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll leave them there. If any of you is not satisfied when the lesson is over, he may take his money back. Ah, here is our final member. Mr. Gresham?”

  He shook hands with the newcomer, a bald middle-aged man who looked vaguely familiar to Luke—although Luke couldn’t place the name or where he’d seen him—and introduced him around to the other class members. Gresham saw the pile of bills on the desk and added his, then took the vacant seat next to Luke’s. While Forbes was arranging some notes in front of him Gresham leaned over toward Luke. “Haven’t we met somewhere?” he whispered.

  “We must have met,” Luke said. “I had the same feeling. But let’s compare notes afterwards. Wait, I think I—”

  “Quiet, please!”

  Luke stopped and leaned back abruptly. Then flushed a little when he realized that it was the Martian who had spoken, not Forbes. The Martian grinned at him.

  Forbes smiled. “Let me start by saying that you will find it impossible to ignore Martians—especially when they say or do something unexpectedly. I hadn’t meant to bring up that point right away, but since it is obvious that I am going to have ‘help’ in this class tonight, perhaps it is best that I start with a statement which I had intended to lead up to gradually.

  “It is this: your life, your thoughts, your sanity—as well as the lives, thoughts and sanity of those whom I hope you will advise and teach—will be least affected by them if you choose the middle way between trying to ignore them completely and letting yourself take them too seriously.

  “To ignore them completely—rather, to try to ignore them completely, to pretend that they aren’t there when so obviously they are, is a form of rejection of reality that can lead straight to schizophrenia and paranoia. Conversely, to pay full attention to them, to let yourself become seriously angry with them can lead straight to nervous breakdown—or apoplexy. ”

  It made sense, Luke thought. In almost anything, the middle way is the best
way.

  The Martian on the corner of Forbes’ desk yawned mightily.

  A second Martian suddenly kwimmed into the room, right in the middle of Forbes’ desk. So close to Forbes’ nose that he let out an involuntary yip. Then smiled at the class over the Martian’s head.

  Then he glanced down to look at his notes; the new Martian was sitting on them. He reached a hand through the Martian and slid them to one side; the Martian moved with them.

  Forbes sighed and then looked up at the class. “Well, it looks as though I’ll have to talk without notes. Their sense of humor is very childlike.”

  He leaned to one side to see better around the head of the Martian sitting in front of him. The Martian leaned that way, too. Forbes straightened, and so did the Martian.

  “Their sense of humor is very childlike,” Forbes repeated. “Which reminds me to tell you that it was through the study of children and their reaction to Martians that I have formulated most of my theories. You have all no doubt observed that, after the first few hours, after the novelty wore off, children became used to the presence of Martians much more easily and readily than adults. Especially children under five. I have two children of my own and—”

  “Three, Mack,” said the Martian on the corner of the desk. “I saw that agreement you gave the dame in Gardena two thousand bucks for; so she wouldn’t file a paternity suit.”

  Forbes flushed. “I have two children at home,” he said firmly, “and—”

  “And an alcoholic wife,” said the Martian. “Don’t forget her.”

  Forbes waited a few moments with his eyes closed, as though silently counting.

  “The nervous systems of children,” he said, “as I explained in You and Your Nerves, my popular book on—”

  “Not so damned popular, Mack. That royalty statement shows less than a thousand copies.”

  “I meant that it was written in popular style.”

  “Then why didn’t it sell?”

  “Because people didn’t buy it,” snapped Forbes. He smiled at the class. “Forgive me. I should not have permitted myself to be drawn into pointless argument. If they ask ridiculous questions, do not answer.”

  The Martian who had been sitting on his notes suddenly kwimmed into a sitting position atop his head, dangling legs in front of his face and swinging them so his vision was alternately clear and blocked.

  He glanced down at his notes, now again visible to him—part of the time. He said, “Ah—I see I have a notation here to remind you, and I had better do so while I can read the notation, that in dealing with the people whom you are to help, you must be completely truthful—”

  “Why weren’t you, Mack?” asked the Martian on the corner of the desk.

  “—and make no unjustified claims about yourself or—”

  “Like you did in that circular, Mack? Forgetting to say those several monographs you mention weren’t ever published?”

  Forbes’ face was turning beet red behind its pendulum of green-clad legs. He rose slowly to a standing position, his hands gripping the desk’s edge. He said, “I—ah—”

  “Or why didn’t you tell them, Mack, that you were only an assistant psychologist at Convair, and why they fired you?” And the corner-of-the-desk Martian put his thumbs in his ears, waggled his other fingers and emitted a very loud and juicy Bronx cheer.

  Forbes swung at him, hard. And then screamed in pain as his fist, passing through the Martian, struck and knocked off the desk the heavy metal desk lamp which the Martian had been sitting over and concealing.

  He pulled back his injured hand and stared at it blankly through the pendulum of the second Martian’s legs. Suddenly, both Martians were gone.

  Forbes, his face now white instead of red, sat down slowly and stared blankly at the six people seated in his office, as though wondering why they were there. He brushed his hand across his face as though pushing away something that was no longer there, and which couldn’t have been pushed away while it was.

  He said, “In dealing with Martians, it is important to remember—”

  Then he dropped his head into his arms on the desk in front of him and started sobbing quietly.

  The woman who had been introduced as Mrs. Johnston had been seated nearest the desk. She stood up and leaned forward, put her hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Forbes,” she said. “Mr. Forbes, are you all right?”

  There was no answer except that the sobbing stopped slowly.

  All the others were standing now too. Mrs. Johnston turned to them. “I think we’d better leave him,” she said. “And—” she picked up the six five-dollar bills. “—I guess we’ve got these coming back.” She kept one and passed the others around. They left, very quietly, some of them walling on tiptoe.

  Except for Luke Devereaux and the Mr. Gresham who had sat next to him. “Let’s stay,” Gresham had said. “He may need help.” And Luke had nodded.

  Now, with the others gone, they lifted Forbes’ head from the desk and held him straight in the chair. His eyes were open but stared at them blankly.

  “Shock,” Gresham said. “He may come out of it and be all right. But—” His voice sounded doubtful. “Think we’d better send for the men in the white coats?”

  Luke had been examining Forbes’ injured hand. “It’s broken,” he said. “He’ll need attention for that, anyway. Let’s phone for a doctor. If he hasn’t come out of it by then, let the doc take the responsibility for having them come and get him.”

  “Good idea. But maybe we won’t have to phone. There’s a doctor’s office next door. I noticed when I came here, and the light was on. He must either have evening hours or be working late.”

  The doctor had been working late, and was just leaving when they caught him. They brought him into Forbes’ office, explained what had happened, told him it was his responsibility now, and then left.

  Going down the stairs, Luke said, “He was a good guy, while he lasted.”

  “And had a good idea, while it lasted.”

  “Yeah,” Luke said. “And I feel lower than a mole’s basement. Say, we were going to figure out where we’ve seen or met one another. Have you remembered?”

  “Could it have been at Paramount? I worked there six years up to when they closed two weeks ago.”

  “That’s it,” said Luke. “You wrote continuity. I put in a few weeks there a few years ago, on scripts. Didn’t do so hot, and quit. What talent I’ve got is for the written word, not for scripting.”

  “That’s it, then. Say, Devereaux—”

  “Make it Luke. And your first name’s Steve, isn’t it?”

  “Right. Well, Luke, I feel lower than a mole’s basement, too. And I know how I’m going to spend the five bucks I just got back. Got any idea about yours?”

  “The same idea you have. After we buy some, shall we go to my room or yours?”

  They compared notes on rooms and decided on Luke’s; Steve Gresham was staying with his sister and her husband; there were children and other disadvantages, so Luke’s room would be best.

  They drowned their sorrows, drink for drink; Luke turned out to have the better capacity of the two of them. At a little after midnight, Gresham passed out cold; Luke was still operating, if a bit erratically.

  He tried and failed to wake up Gresham, then sadly poured himself another drink and sat down with it to drink and think instead of drinking and talking. But he wanted to talk rather than to think and almost, but not quite, wished a Martian would show up. But none did. And he wasn’t crazy enough or drunk enough to talk to himself. “Now yet anyway, he said aloud, and the sound of his voice startled him to silence again.

  Poor Forbes, he thought. He and Gresham had deserted; they should have stayed with Forbes and tried to see him through, at least until and unless they found out it was hopeless. They hadn’t even waited for the doctor’s diagnosis. Had the doc been able to snap Forbes out of it, or had he sent for the men in the white coats?

  He could phone the doctor and ask him
what had happened.

  Except that he didn’t remember the doctor’s name, if he had ever heard it.

  He could call Long Beach General Mental Hospital and find out if Forbes had been taken there. Or if he asked for Margie, she could find out for him more about Forbes’ conditions than the switchboard would tell him. But he didn’t want to talk to Margie. Yes, he did. No, he didn’t; she’d divorced him and to hell with her. To hell with all women.

  He went out in the hallway to the phone, staggering only slightly. But he had to close one eye to read the fine type in the phone book, and again to dial the number. He asked for Margie.

  “Last name, please?”

  “Uh—” For a blank second he couldn’t remember Margie’s maiden name. Then he remembered it, but decided that she might not have decided to use it again, especially since the divorce wasn’t final yet. “Margie Devereaux. Nurse.”

  “One moment please.”

  And several moments later, Margie’s voice. “Hello.”

  “Hi, Marge. S’Luke. D’ I wake you up?”

  “No, I’m on night duty. Luke, I’m glad you called. I’ve been worried about you.”

  “Worried ’bout me? I’m aw right. Why worry ’bout me?”

  “Well—the Martians. So many people are—Well, I’ve just been worrying.”

  “Thought they’d send me off my rocker, huh? Don’t worry, honey, they can’t get me down. Write science fiction, ’member? Wrote it, I mean. I invented Martians.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Luke? You’ve been drinking.”

  “Sure, been drinking. But I’m aw right. How’re you?”

  “Fine. But awfully busy. This place is—well, it’s a madhouse. I can’t talk long. Did you want anything?”

  “Don’t wanna thing, honey. I’m fine.”

  “Then I’ll have to hang up. But I do want to talk to you, Luke. Will you phone me tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Sure, honey. Wha’ time?”

  “Any time after noon. ’Bye, Luke.”

  “Bye, honey.”