Martians, Go Home

by Fredric Brown

  “Good. You’ll find him in room six on the second floor. You’ll have to let yourself in; the door opens from the outside but not from the inside. When you wish to leave, just press the service buzzer and someone will come to open the door for you.”

  “Thanks, Doctor.” Margie stood.

  “And come back here, please, if you wish to talk to me on your way out. Except I hope that—ah—”

  “That you won’t be up that late?” Margie grinned at him and then the grin faded. “Honestly, Doctor, I don’t know. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Luke—”

  She went out of the office and up thickly carpeted stairs, along the corridor until she found the door numbered six. Heard from beyond it the fast clicking of a typewriter.

  Knocked gently to warn him, and then opened the door.

  Luke, with his hair badly mussed but his eyes shining, jumped up from the typewriter and hurried to her, catching her just inside the door as she closed it behind her.

  He said, “Margie! Oh, Margie!” and then he was kissing her. Pulling her tight against him with one arm while the other reached over her shoulder to the light switch, plunging the room into darkness.

  She hadn’t even had time to see if there was a Martian in the room.

  Nor, she decided a few minutes later, did she care. After all, Martians weren’t human.

  And she was.

  12.

  A lot of people were deciding, by that time, that Martians weren’t human—when it came to letting their presence or possible presence inhibit the act of procreation.

  During the first week or two after the coming of the Martians, many people began to fear that if they stayed long enough the human race might die out within a generation from lack of propagating itself.

  When it became known, as it very quickly did become known, that Martians could not only see in the dark but had X-ray vision that could see through sheets, quilts, blankets, comforters and even walls, there is no denying that, for a while, the sex life of the human being—even his legitimate marital sex life—did take an awful beating.

  Accustomed, except in the case of the degenerate and depraved, to complete privacy—except of course for his partner in the act—for even the most legal and laudable satisfaction of the flesh, people could not adjust themselves, at first, to the possibility or even probability that they were being watched, no matter what precautions they took. Especially since—whatever their own method of procreation—the Martians seemed to be excessively interested in, amused by and disgusted at our method.

  The extent to which their influence proved inhibiting is reflected (at least as far as concerns legitimate marital sex relations) in the birth rate for the early months of 1965.

  In January of 1965, the month that started a week more than nine months after the Coming, the birth rate in the United States dropped to 3 per cent of normal—and many of the births that did occur were early in the month and were probably due to longer-than-normal pregnancies, conception having taken place before the night of March 26, 1964. In most other countries the drop in the birth rate was almost as great; in England it was greater. Even in France the birth rate dropped to 18 per cent of normal.

  In February, the tenth month (plus a week) after the Coming, the birth rate started to climb again. It was 30 per cent of normal in the United States, 22 per cent of normal in England and 49 per cent in France.

  By March it was within 80 per cent of normal in all countries. And 137 per cent of normal in France; obviously the French were making up for lost time even while other countries still felt some degree of inhibition.

  People were human, even if Martians weren’t. Several Kinsey-type surveys taken in April indicated that almost all married couples were again having at least occasional sex relationships. And since most of the interviews upon which these surveys were based were gleefully kibitzed by Martians who knew the facts, there is no doubt that they were much more nearly accurate in their conclusions than the original Kinsey reports of almost two decades before.

  Almost universally, the sex act was practiced only at night, in complete darkness. Matins and matinees, even among newlyweds, were a thing of the past. And ear stopples were almost equally universal; even savages who had no access to drugstores selling stopples discovered the efficacy of kneaded mud for this purpose. So equipped and in complete darkness one (or, more properly, two) could ignore the presence of Martians and fail to hear their running commentaries, usually ribald.

  But even under these circumstances, premarital and extra-marital sex relationships were pretty much out of the question because of the danger of being tattled on. Only the completely shameless could risk them.

  And even in marriage sex relations were less frequent and, because there was always some degree of self-consciousness, not to mention the futility of whispering endearments to a stoppled ear, less enjoyable.

  No, sex was not what it had been in the good old days, but at least there was sex, in marriage, enough of it to keep the race going.

  13.

  The door of Dr. Snyder’s office was open, but Margie Devereaux paused in the doorway until the doctor looked up and told her to come in. Then he saw that she carried two copies of a bound manuscript and his eyes brightened. “He finished?”

  Margie nodded.

  “And the last chapter? It’s as good as the rest?”

  “I think so, Doctor. You have time to read it now?”

  “Of course. I’ll take time. I was only making some notes for a paper.”

  “All right. If you’ve got paper and string, I’ll get the package ready to mail while you’re reading the carbon copy.”

  “Fine. You’ll find everything you need in the cabinet there.”

  They were separately busied for a while. Margie finished first by a few minutes and waited till the doctor finished reading and looked up.

  “It’s excellent,” he said. “And not only good writing, but commercially good. It will sell. And—let’s see, you’ve been here a month now?”

  “A month tomorrow.”

  “Then it took him only five weeks altogether. Your being here with him didn’t slow him down much.”

  Margie smiled. “I’ve been careful to keep away from him during his working hours. Which hasn’t been too difficult, since they’re my working hours too. Well, I’ll take this to the post office as soon as I’m off duty.”

  “Don’t wait; take it now. And send it airmail. Bernstein will want to rush it into print. And we’ll get by without you for that long. I hope not for longer.”

  “What do you mean, Doctor?”

  “Do you intend to stay, to keep on working for me?”

  “Of course. Why shouldn’t I? Isn’t my work satisfactory?”

  “You know perfectly well that it is. And that I want you to stay. But Margie, why should you? Your husband has earned enough in the past five weeks for the two of you to live on for at least two years. With what the Depression has done to living expenses, the two of you can live almost royally on about five thousand a year.”

  “But—”

  “I know the money isn’t all in yet, but you’ve got plenty to start on. Luke’s fourteen hundred is safely in hand. And since your earnings here have covered my charges for Luke, whatever savings you yourself had are intact. I’ll predict Bernstein will send further advances any time you ask for them, even before the book is in print.”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me, Doctor Snyder?”

  “You know better than that, Margie. It’s just that I can’t see why a person should want to work when he doesn’t have to. I wouldn’t.”

  “Are you sure? While the human race, with the Martians on their necks, needs psychiatric help more than it ever has, you’d retire now if you happened to be able to afford to?”

  Dr. Snyder sighed. “I see your point, Margie. As a matter of fact, I could retire, I suppose, if I sold this place. But I didn’t realize a nurse would feel that way.”

  “This one does,�
� Margie said. “Besides, what about Luke? I wouldn’t leave here if he didn’t. And do you think he should?”

  Dr. Snyder’s sigh was a really deep one this time. “Margie,” he said, “I believe that’s what’s been worrying me more than anything else—except the Martians. We seem to be remarkably free of them at the moment, by the way.”

  “There were six of them in Luke’s room when I got this manuscript.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Dancing on him. He’s lying on the bed thinking out an idea for his next book.”

  “Doesn’t he plan to take a rest first? I wouldn’t want him—” Dr. Snyder smiled wryly. “I wouldn’t want him to overwork. What if he cracked up?”

  “He plans to take a week off, starting tomorrow. But he says he wants to get at least a rough plot and maybe a title for his next book first. He says if he does that his subconscious will be playing around with the idea while he’s resting and when he is ready to start working again it’ll be easy for him to get going again.”

  “Which doesn’t give his subconscious a rest. Or do many writers work that way?”

  “I know some of them do. But I was intending to talk to you about that vacation, Doctor. After I was off duty. Shall I, now?”

  “You’re off duty now. And a few minutes isn’t going to matter on betting that manuscript into the mail, so go ahead.”

  “Luke and I talked it over last night, after he told me he’d definitely finish the novel today. He says he’s perfectly willing to stay here on two conditions. One, that I take off work for that week too. And the other, that the lock be taken off his door so he can have the run of the grounds. He says he’d as soon rest here as anywhere else provided he didn’t feel shut in and he said we could consider it a second honeymoon if I didn’t have to work either.”

  “Done. There’s been no reason for a lock on that door anyway. I’m sometimes not certain that he’s not the only sane person here, Margie. Certainly he’s the best adjusted one. Not to mention the one who’s earning money the fastest. Know anything at all about his next book?”

  “He said he was going to place it in Taos, New Mexico, in—I think it was eighteen forty-seven. He said he’d have to do a little research on this one.”

  “The assassination of Governor Bent. Very interesting period. I’ll be able to help him with the research. I have several books that will help him.”

  “Good. That may save me a trip to the library or a book store. Well—”

  Margie Devereaux stood and reached for the ready-to-mail manuscript, and then paused a second and sat down again.

  “Doctor,” she said, “There’s something else I want to talk to you about. And a few minutes won’t matter on mailing this. Unless you’re—”

  “Go right ahead. I’m as free now as I ever am. And there’s not even a Martian around.

  He looked to make sure. There wasn’t.

  “Doctor, what does Luke really think? I’ve managed to avoid talking to him about it, but I—may not always be able to. And if Martians ever do come up in conversation—well, I want to know how to handle it. He knows that I see and hear Martians. I can’t help being startled at one once in a while. And he knows I insist on darkness and wearing ear stopples when—uh—”

  “When darkness and stopped ears are indicated,” Dr. Snyder prompted.

  “Yes. But he knows I see and hear them and he doesn’t. Does he think I’m insane? That everyone is crazy except Luke Devereaux? Or what?”

  Dr. Snyder took of his glasses to polish them. “That’s a very difficult question to answer, Margie.”

  “Because you don’t know the answer or because it’s hard to explain?”

  “A little of both. The first few days Luke was here I did quite a bit of talking with him. He was a bit mixed up himself—or more than a bit, I should say. There weren’t any Martians; he was sure of that. He himself had either been insane or suffering delusions while he’d been seeing them. But he couldn’t account for why—if they are a mass hallucination for the rest of us—he recovered and the rest of us haven’t.”

  “But—then he must think the rest of us are crazy.”

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Margie?”

  “Of course not.”

  “A lot of people do—millions of people. And thousands of people have seen them, heard them, talked to them—or think they have. Now if you think you’re sane, does that mean you think everyone who believes in ghosts is insane?”

  “Of course not. But that’s different. They’re just imaginative people who think they’ve seen ghosts.”

  “And we’re just imaginative people who think there are Martians around.”

  “But—but everyone sees Martians. Except Luke.”

  Dr. Snyder shrugged. “Nevertheless that’s his reasoning; if you can call it that. The analogy with ghosts is his, not mine—although it’s a good analogy, up to a point. Certain friends of mine, as it happens, are certain that they’ve seen ghosts; I don’t think that means they’re insane—nor that I’m insane because I haven’t, or can’t, or don’t.”

  “But—you can’t photograph ghosts or make recordings of their voices.”

  “People claim to have done both. Apparently you haven’t read many books on psychic research. Not that I’m suggesting that you should—I’m just pointing out that Luke’s analogy isn’t completely without justification.

  “Then you mean you don’t think Luke is insane?”

  “Of course he’s insane. Either that or everyone else is insane, including you and me. And that I find impossible to believe.”

  Margie sighed. “I’m afraid that isn’t going to help me much if he ever wants to talk about it.”

  “He may never want to. He talked to me rather reluctantly, I’m afraid. If he does, let him do the talking and just listen. Don’t try to argue with him. Or, for that matter, to humor him. But if he starts changing in any way or acting different, let me know.”

  “All right. But why? If you’re not trying to cure him, I mean.”

  “Why?” Dr. Snyder frowned. “My dear Margie, your husband is insane. Right now it is a very advantageous form of insanity—he’s probably the luckiest man on Earth—but what if the form of his insanity should change?”

  “Can paranoia change to another form?”

  Dr. Snyder made an apologetic gesture. “I keep forgetting that I don’t have to talk to you as a layman. What I should have said is that his systematized delusion might change to another and less happy one.”

  “Like believing again in Martians, but not believing in human beings?”

  Dr. Snyder smiled. “Hardly so complete a switch as that, my dear. But it’s quite possible—” His smile vanished. “—that he might come to believe in neither.”

  “You’re surely joking.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s really quite a common farm of paranoia. And, for that matter, a form of belief held by a great many sane people. Haven’t you heard of solipsism?”

  “The word sounds familiar.”

  “Latin, from solus meaning alone and ipse meaning self. Self alone. The philosophical belief that the self is the only existent thing. Logical result of starting reasoning with ‘Cogito, ergo sum’—I think, therefore I am—and finding oneself unable to accept any secondary step as logical. The belief that the world around you and all the people in it, except yourself, are simply something you imagine.

  Margie smiled. “I remember now. It came up in a class in college. And I remember wondering, why not?”

  “Most people wonder that at some time or other, even if not very seriously. It’s such a tempting thing to believe, and it’s so completely impossible to disprove. For a paranoiac, though, it’s a ready-made delusion that doesn’t even have to be systematized or even rationalized. And since Luke already disbelieves in Martians, it’s only another step.”

  “You think it’s a possibility that he might take that step?”

  “Anything’s a possibility, my dear. But all we can d
o is to watch carefully and be prepared for any impending change by getting some intimation of it in advance. And you’re the one best situated for getting an advance warning.”

  “I understand, Doctor. I’ll watch carefully. And thank you, for everything.”

  Margie stood again. This time she picked up the package and went out with it.

  Dr. Snyder watched her go and then sat for a while staring at the doorway through which she had disappeared. He sighed more deeply than before.

  Damn Devereaux, he thought. Impervious to Martians and married to a girl like that.

  No one man should be so lucky; it wasn’t fair.

  His own wife—But he didn’t want to think about his own wife.

  Not after he’d just been looking at Margie Devereaux.

  He picked up his pencil and pulled back in front of him the pad on which he had been making notes for the paper he intended to present that evening at the meeting of his cell of the P.F.A.M.

  14.

  Yes, there was the P.F.A.M. The Psychological Front Against Martians. Going strong if still—in mid-July now, almost four months after the Corning—apparently going nowhere.

  Almost every psychologist and psychiatrist in the United States. In every country in the world almost every psychologist and psychiatrist belonged to an equivalent organization. All of these organizations reported their findings and theories (there were, unfortunately, more theories than findings) to a special branch of the United Nations which had quickly been set up for the purpose and which was called the O.C.P.E.—Office for the Coordination of Psychological Effort—the main job of which was to translate and distribute reports.

  The Translation Department alone filled three large office buildings and provided employment for thousands of multilingual people. If nothing else.

  Membership in the P.F.A.M. and in the similar organizations in other countries was voluntary and unpaid. But almost everyone qualified belonged and the lack of pay didn’t matter since every psychologist and psychiatrist who could remain sane himself was earning plenty.