With little green men telling him what to
write, Thompson was certain he had flipped his lid.
His psychiatrist agreed--until he read the stories!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
September 1952
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Thompson poured himself a shot of rye and downed it in one quick
movement. He then pulled out his tobacco pouch, filled his pipe and
applied a flaming match to the bowl. He puffed clouds of fragrant
smoke. He frowned deeply. It was a good frown because Thompson was an
expert in the art of frowning. This particular frown was a frown of
irritated exasperation, because Thompson was an author, and it was late
at night, and he'd drunk a quarter of a fifth of rye and smoked eleven
pipefuls of tobacco and played four LP records, and he still had no
ideas. His head swam from the effects of the whisky, and the tobacco,
and the records; but he persevered in his search for An Idea for a
Story.
He searched among his records for _Le Coq d'Or_ and put it on the
phonograph, at bass tone and loud volume. After the first few bars he
got up and took it off, still a man without inspiration. He played
Hindemith's _Variations on a Theme by Russell_ next. Utterly useless.
He tried _The Age of Anxiety_ and followed it with Petrouchka;
intermittently he sat down and pondered passages from _Rubaiyat_. All
to no avail.
About this time the little green men came out of the woodwork. They
didn't emerge from the woodwork in the manner one might expect--i.e.
squeezing through cracks and knotholes like mice and spiders. They just
sort of materialized out of it, rather like they had walked through it.
There were four of them.
Thompson took his pipe from his mouth and looked at them.
"Ah," he murmured. "Yes indeed." He knocked the ashes from his pipe and
got up from his chair. He put the whisky back in the cupboard and took
the record off. Then he sat down again and regarded the little green
men. He closed his eyes tightly and held them closed for a minute or
so. He opened them and looked at the green men again. Then he rubbed
his eyes and pounded his head with his hands. The green men sat in
mid-air and stared at him. Thompson regarded them as coldly as possible.
"Well," said the nearest green man, "Aren't you going to say hello?"
Thompson swallowed. "Hello," he managed after a moment.
"Hello," rejoined the other.
* * * * *
Thompson nodded his head affably and remained silent. Presently he went
to the cupboard and got out the whisky; he poured a shot and downed it
in one quick movement. Then he filled his pipe and lit it. He puffed
clouds of smoke and stared at the green men through a blue haze.
"Well," said the nearest green man again, "Aren't you glad?"
Thompson nodded genially.
"We're here to help you write a story, you know," pursued the other.
"Oh." Thompson brightened. "Good. Got any ideas?"
"Naturally. What would you like to write about? Romance? Adventure?
Mystery? Fantasy?"
"Let's try--" Thompson pursed his lips and looked at the ceiling, "a
short mystery. Something with a surprise ending that lays you out."
"Easy," said the other. "Try this."
He began narrating.
Thompson relaxed in his chair and puffed more clouds of smoke.
Presently his face lit up. His eyes dilated and his pupils diminished
to specks.
"Ah!" He exclaimed. He pulled his chair up to the typewriter and
started typing notes, interspersing the green man's narrative with
muttered exclamations.
The green man finished with an ending that sent Thompson over backwards
in his chair. Thompson extricated himself and set up the chair again.
"Terrific!" he said. "It'll make my fortune!"
"It will," assented the green man.
"What do you want for it?" inquired Thompson craftily.
"Nothing," responded the vision.
"Oh yes," said Thompson. "Nothing. Certainly. Well," he withdrew a
stack of typewriter paper from his cluttered desk, "I certainly thank
you fellows. Goodbye." He inserted a sheet in the typewriter.
"Oh, we're not leaving," said the off-color gnome.
"You will," said Thompson imperturbably. "In the morning. I'll have a
headache but you'll be gone."
"Suit yourself," said the green man. He and his companions rose a foot
in the air and sat suspended again. Thompson began to type. Now and
then he looked at the green men and smiled, and turned back to his
click-clacking on the typewriter.
Twenty double-spaced pages later he was done. He made a neat stack of
the sheets and shoved them into an envelope, handily pre-addressed to
the editorial offices of one of the more prominent magazines. He sealed
the envelope and slapped postage on it. Then he walked three flights
down from his apartment to the street, slipped the envelope into a
mailbox, and staggered back up to bed.
* * * * *
He awoke, true to his prediction, with a raging headache. He sat up
in bed and looked around the room for the little green men. They were
nowhere to be seen. His doubts assuaged, he rose stiffly from his bed
and careened off the chest-of-drawers into the bathroom, where he
swallowed three aspirins in a glass of water. He turned on the water
to see if it was hot, letting it run over his fingers. It was. He took
a steaming shower and followed it with an icy one. Then he rubbed
himself down with a Turkish towel and, the towel precariously wrapped
around his middle, went back into the bedroom. His eyes bugged out and
he tripped on the edge of the rug and fell heavily to the floor. When
he got up four green men were still sitting complacently on a shaft of
sunlight that poured in through the Venetian blind.
Thompson's mouth opened and closed but nothing came out.
"See," said the nearest green man. "I told you so. And don't take on
so," he added in alarm. "You'll dislocate your jaw."
Thompson turned his back to the vision and went into the cupboard. He
poured a shot of rye and downed it in one quick movement. The bottle in
his hand, he sat down on the edge of the bed, regaining his composure.
"Why do you do that?" inquired the gnome with curiosity.
"If I'm going to go on seeing you," Thompson explained, "I may as well
be drunk. It helps."
"You mean you still attribute our existence to the effects of alcohol?"
inquired the other.
"Oh no," Thompson denied vigorously. "To the bitters."
"You jest," said the gnome in hurt tones. "Don't you want to become a
great author?"
"Certainly," Thompson agreed hastily. "You mean you have more ideas?"
"An infinite number," said the green man, waving a deprecatory hand.
"We thought of an excellent novel," he added, "while you slept last
night. Do you want to hear it?"
"Of course!" Thompson jerked on his shorts. "Wait, though. I need
breakfast first." He writhed into a shirt.
"Plenty of time," said the greenie. "While you're gone, we'll
assimilate some more ideas."
"Good," said Thompson, pulling on his trousers. "Shall I bring you
something to eat?"
"We don't eat," said the other airily. "You can bring a spotlight,
though. We can sit best on a beam of light."
"Right," said Thompson. He opened the door.
"Goodbye," remarked the gnome.
"Goodbye," Thompson hurried from the room.
* * * * *
Thompson closed the door of the phone booth behind him. "Hello," he
said. "I'd like to make an appointment with Doctor Vossman. Today, if
possible."
"Just a moment," said the secretary. He heard her riffle through some
papers. "What date did you say you wanted an appointment?"
"Today!" Thompson repeated. His breathing into the mouthpiece came out
quite clearly in the receiver against his ear.
"Doctor Vossman can see you today at three. What is the name, please?"
"Thompson. Laurence Thompson."
"Very well, sir. Today at three."
"OK." Thompson hung up and emerged from the phone booth. His ham and
eggs were ready at the counter and he sat down and wolfed them. He
counted his money as he went out and decided to stop in the hardware
store down the street and buy a spotlight.
When he got back to his apartment the sunlight was coming in the
window at a forty-five degree angle and the gnomes were almost sitting
on the floor. Thompson plugged in the spotlight and turned the beam
upward. "There," he told the green men. "That okay?"
"Thank you," said the nearest gnome. The whole group rose in the air
and floated over to the spotlight beam, sitting rather comfortably on
the edge of it. "We thought of three excellent short stories while you
were away. Would you like to hear them?"
"Yeah, sure," responded Thompson. Might as well take advantage of the
situation while it lasted.
"Very well," said the nearest green man. "Here's the first one."
* * * * *
At two o'clock Thompson jerked the last sheet of the last story from
the typewriter. He went to the cupboard and got out a coat and tie.
"I'm going to lunch," he told the gnomes, knotting the tie as he
talked. "I'll be back pretty soon."
"Fine," beamed the speaker for the little men.
"Well," said Thompson uncomfortably, slipping into his coat. "You want
anything more?"
"We're nicely comfortable, thank you," said the green man. "Goodbye."
"Be seein' you." Thompson slammed the door behind him and added to
himself, "I hope not."
* * * * *
The sign on the door said:
HERMAN VOSSMAN:
PSYCHIATRIST
Walk in
Thompson walked in. There was nobody in the outer office so he walked
to the inner office door and knocked.
"Come in," answered a German accent.
Thompson entered and beheld a small, thin, bespectacled man seated
behind a modernistic steel desk.
"Ah," said this apparition. "You are Laurence Thompson. Sit down. Sorry
no one was in the outer office but my secretary is out to lunch. What
can I do for you."
"Well," said Thompson. "This is kind of hard to say, Doctor, but
I'm--seeing things. Hallucinations."
"What are you seeing, Mr. Thompson?"