"Ah," said the doctor. He leaned forward in his chair. "And what do
these little green men do?"
"They give me ideas for stories. I'm an author."
"That is all they do?"
"They sit on a beam of light, too."
"Oh yes." The doctor took off his spectacles and began to polish them.
"On a beam of light, of course. When and how did you first see these
little men?"
"Well," Thompson ran nervous fingers through his hair, "Last night was
when I first saw them. They came out of the woodwork."
"Last night--" began the doctor with a flash of intuition.
"I was drunk," said Thompson.
"Of course," agreed the doctor. He put his spectacles back on. "Then
you have nothing to worry about; at least not in my line of work.
Perhaps you should see a physician, delirium tremens is not in my line.
Unless you wish me to cure your alcoholism--"
Thompson waved a hand. "Uh uh. Last night I didn't mind so much. But
they were there this morning too." He leaned forward toward the doctor.
"Would you say I am drunk now?"
"Hard to tell," rejoined the doctor, fluttering his fingers. "Offhand,
I would say, no."
"Well," Thompson, "the little green men were still there when I left my
apartment at two today."
"I see," said the doctor. "That makes a difference, of course."
"Haven't had but one shot of rye since last night, either."
"Yes, of course," murmured the psychiatrist. "And do you think they are
still in your apartment now?"