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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a219e07 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #68203 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68203) diff --git a/old/68203-0.txt b/old/68203-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 34aa6fe..0000000 --- a/old/68203-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1026 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Don't look now, by Henry Kuttner - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Don't look now - -Author: Henry Kuttner - -Release Date: May 29, 2022 [eBook #68203] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Greg White, Mary Meehan, Alex White & the online - Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at - https://www.pgdpcanada.net. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DON'T LOOK NOW *** - - - - - - Don’t Look Now - - By HENRY KUTTNER - - [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from - Startling Stories, March 1948. - Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that - the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] - - _That man beside you may be a Martian. - They own our world, but only a few wise - and far-seeing men like Lyman know it!_ - - -The man in the brown suit was looking at himself in the mirror behind -the bar. The reflection seemed to interest him even more deeply than the -drink between his hands. He was paying only perfunctory attention to -Lyman’s attempts at conversation. This had been going on for perhaps -fifteen minutes before he finally lifted his glass and took a deep -swallow. - -“Don’t look now,” Lyman said. - -The brown man slid his eyes sidewise toward Lyman; tilted his glass -higher, and took another swig. Ice-cubes slipped down toward his mouth. -He put the glass back on the red-brown wood and signaled for a refill. -Finally he took a deep breath and looked at Lyman. - -“Don’t look at what?” he asked. - -“There was one sitting right beside you,” Lyman said, blinking rather -glazed eyes. “He just went out. You mean you couldn’t see him?” - -The brown man finished paying for his fresh drink before he answered. -“See who?” he asked, with a fine mixture of boredom, distaste and -reluctant interest. “Who went out?” - -“What have I been telling you for the last ten minutes? Weren’t you -listening?” - -“Certainly I was listening. That is—certainly. You were talking -about—bathtubs. Radios. Orson—” - -“Not Orson. H. G. Herbert George. With Orson it was just a gag. H. G. -_knew_—or suspected. I wonder if it was simply intuition with him? He -couldn’t have had any proof—but he did stop writing science-fiction -rather suddenly, didn’t he? I’ll bet he knew once, though.” - -“Knew what?” - -“About the Martians. All this won’t do us a bit of good if you don’t -listen. It may not anyway. The trick is to jump the gun—with proof. -Convincing evidence. Nobody’s ever been allowed to produce the evidence -before. You _are_ a reporter, aren’t you?” - - * * * * * - -Holding his glass, the man in the brown suit nodded reluctantly. - -“Then you ought to be taking it all down on a piece of folded paper. I -want everybody to know. The whole world. It’s important. Terribly -important. It explains everything. My life won’t be safe unless I can -pass along the information and make people believe it.” - -“Why won’t your life be safe?” - -“Because of the Martians, you fool. They own the world.” - -The brown man sighed. “Then they own my newspaper, too,” he objected, -“so I can’t print anything they don’t like.” - -“I never thought of that,” Lyman said, considering the bottom of his -glass, where two ice-cubes had fused into a cold, immutable union. -“They’re not omnipotent, though. I’m sure they’re vulnerable, or why -have they always kept under cover? They’re afraid of being found out. If -the world had convincing evidence—look, people always believe what they -read in the newspapers. Couldn’t you—” - -“Ha,” said the brown man with deep significance. - -Lyman drummed sadly on the bar and murmured, “There must be some way. -Perhaps if I had another drink....” - -The brown suited man tasted his collins, which seemed to stimulate him. -“Just what is all this about Martians?” he asked Lyman. “Suppose you -start at the beginning and tell me again. Or can’t you remember?” - -“Of course I can remember. I’ve got practically total recall. It’s -something new. Very new. I never could do it before. I can even remember -my last conversation with the Martians.” Lyman favored the brown man -with a glance of triumph. - -“When was that?” - -“This morning.” - -“I can even remember conversations I had last week,” the brown man said -mildly. “So what?” - -“You don’t understand. They make us forget, you see. They tell us what -to do and we forget about the conversation—it’s post-hypnotic -suggestion, I expect—but we follow their orders just the same. There’s -the compulsion, though we think we’re making our own decisions. Oh, they -own the world, all right, but nobody knows it except me.” - -“And how did you find out?” - -“Well, I got my brain scrambled, in a way. I’ve been fooling around with -supersonic detergents, trying to work out something marketable, you -know. The gadget went wrong—from some standpoints. High-frequency -waves, it was. They went through and through me. Should have been -inaudible, but I could hear them, or rather—well, actually I could see -them. That’s what I mean about my brain being scrambled. And after that, -I could see and hear the Martians. They’ve geared themselves so they -work efficiently on ordinary brains, and mine isn’t ordinary any more. -They can’t hypnotize me, either. They can command me, but I needn’t -obey—now. I hope they don’t suspect. Maybe they do. Yes, I guess they -do.” - -“How can you tell?” - -“The way they look at me.” - -“How do they look at you?” asked the brown man, as he began to reach for -a pencil and then changed his mind. He took a drink instead. “Well? What -are they like?” - -“I’m not sure. I can see them, all right, but only when they’re dressed -up.” - -“Okay, okay,” the brown man said patiently. “How do they look, dressed -up?” - -“Just like anybody, almost. They dress up in—in human skins. Oh, not -real ones, imitations. Like the Katzenjammer Kids zipped into crocodile -suits. Undressed—I don’t know. I’ve never seen one. Maybe they’re -invisible even to me, then, or maybe they’re just camouflaged. Ants or -owls or rats or bats or—” - -“Or anything,” the brown man said hastily. - -“Thanks. Or anything, of course. But when they’re dressed up like -humans—like that one who was sitting next to you awhile ago, when I -told you not to look—” - -“That one was invisible, I gather?” - -“Most of the time they are, to everybody. But once in a while, for some -reason, they—” - -“Wait,” the brown man objected. “Make sense, will you? They dress up in -human skins and then sit around invisible?” - -“Only now and then. The human skins are perfectly good imitations. -Nobody can tell the difference. It’s that third eye that gives them -away. When they keep it closed, you’d never guess it was there. When -they want to open it, they go invisible—like _that_. Fast. When I see -somebody with a third eye, right in the middle of his forehead, I know -he’s a Martian and invisible, and I pretend not to notice him.” - -“Uh-huh,” the brown man said. “Then for all you know, I’m one of your -visible Martians.” - -“Oh, I hope not!” Lyman regarded him anxiously. “Drunk as I am, I don’t -think so. I’ve been trailing you all day, making sure. It’s a risk I -have to take, of course. They’ll go to any length—any length at all—to -make a man give himself away. I realize that. I can’t really trust -anybody. But I had to find someone to talk to, and I—” He paused. There -was a brief silence. “I could be wrong,” Lyman said presently. “When the -third eye’s closed, I can’t tell if it’s there. Would you mind opening -your third eye for me?” He fixed a dim gaze on the brown man’s forehead. - -“Sorry,” the reporter said. “Some other time. Besides, I don’t know you. -So you want me to splash this across the front page, I gather? Why -didn’t you go to see the managing editor? My stories have to get past -the desk and rewrite.” - -“I want to give my secret to the world,” Lyman said stubbornly. “The -question is, how far will I get? You’d expect they’d have killed me the -minute I opened my mouth to you—except that I didn’t say anything while -they were here. I don’t believe they take us very seriously, you know. -This must have been going on since the dawn of history, and by now -they’ve had time to get careless. They let Fort go pretty far before -they cracked down on him. But you notice they were careful never to let -Fort get hold of genuine proof that would convince people.” - -The brown man said something under his breath about a human interest -story in a box. He asked, “What do the Martians do, besides hang around -bars all dressed up?” - -“I’m still working on that,” Lyman said. “It isn’t easy to understand. -They run the world, of course, but why?” He wrinkled his brow and stared -appealingly at the brown man. “Why?” - -“If they do run it, they’ve got a lot to explain.” - -“That’s what I mean. From our viewpoint, there’s no sense to it. We do -things illogically, but only because they tell us to. Everything we do, -almost, is pure illogic. Poe’s _Imp of the Perverse_—you could give it -another name beginning with M. Martian, I mean. It’s all very well for -psychologists to explain why a murderer wants to confess, but it’s still -an illogical reaction. Unless a Martian commands him to.” - -“You can’t be hypnotized into doing anything that violates your moral -sense,” the brown man said triumphantly. - - * * * * * - -Lyman frowned. “Not by another human, but you can by a Martian. I expect -they got the upper hand when we didn’t have more than ape-brains, and -they’ve kept it ever since. They evolved as we did, and kept a step -ahead. Like the sparrow on the eagle’s back who hitch-hiked till the -eagle reached his ceiling, and then took off and broke the altitude -record. They conquered the world, but nobody ever knew it. And they’ve -been ruling ever since.” - -“But—” - -“Take houses, for example. Uncomfortable things. Ugly, inconvenient, -dirty, everything wrong with them. But when men like Frank Lloyd Wright -slip out from under the Martians’ thumb long enough to suggest something -better, look how the people react. They hate the thought. That’s their -Martians, giving them orders.” - -“Look. Why should the Martians care what kind of houses we live in? Tell -me that.” - -Lyman frowned. “I don’t like the note of skepticism I detect creeping -into this conversation,” he announced. “They care, all right. No doubt -about it. They _live_ in our houses. We don’t build for our convenience, -we build, under order, for the Martians, the way they want it. They’re -very much concerned with everything we do. And the more senseless, the -more concern. - -“Take wars. Wars don’t make sense from any human viewpoint. Nobody -really wants wars. But we go right on having them. From the Martian -viewpoint, they’re useful. They give us a spurt in technology, and they -reduce the excess population. And there are lots of other results, too. -Colonization, for one thing. But mainly technology. In peace time, if a -guy invents jet-propulsion, it’s too expensive to develop commercially. -In war-time, though, it’s got to be developed. Then the Martians can use -it whenever they want. They use us the way they’d use tools or—or -limbs. And nobody ever really wins a war—except the Martians.” - -The man in the brown suit chuckled. “That makes sense,” he said. “It -must be nice to be a Martian.” - -“Why not? Up till now, no race ever successfully conquered and ruled -another. The underdog could revolt or absorb. If you know you’re being -ruled, then the ruler’s vulnerable. But if the world doesn’t know—and -it doesn’t— - -“Take radios,” Lyman continued, going off at a tangent. “There’s no -earthly reason why a sane human should listen to a radio. But the -Martians make us do it. They like it. Take bathtubs. Nobody contends -bathtubs are comfortable—for us. But they’re fine for Martians. All the -impractical things we keep on using, even though we know they’re -impractical—” - -“Typewriter ribbons,” the brown man said, struck by the thought. “But -not even a Martian could enjoy changing a typewriter ribbon.” - -Lyman seemed to find that flippant. He said that he knew all about the -Martians except for one thing—their psychology. - -“I don’t know _why_ they act as they do. It looks illogical sometimes, -but I feel perfectly sure they’ve got sound motives for every move they -make. Until I get that worked out I’m pretty much at a standstill. Until -I get evidence—proof—and help. I’ve got to stay under cover till then. -And I’ve been doing that. I do what they tell me, so they won’t suspect, -and I pretend to forget what they tell me to forget.” - -“Then you’ve got nothing much to worry about.” - -Lyman paid no attention. He was off again on a list of his grievances. - -“When I hear the water running in the tub and a Martian splashing -around, I pretend I don’t hear a thing. My bed’s too short and I tried -last week to order a special length, but the Martian that sleeps there -told me not to. He’s a runt, like most of them. That is, I think they’re -runts. I have to deduce, because you never see them undressed. But it -goes on like that constantly. By the way, how’s your Martian?” - -The man in the brown suit set down his glass rather suddenly. - -“My Martian?” - -“Now listen. I may be just a little bit drunk, but my logic remains -unimpaired. I can still put two and two together. Either you know about -the Martians, or you don’t. If you do, there’s no point in giving me -that, ‘What, _my_ Martian?’ routine. I know you have a Martian. Your -Martian knows you have a Martian. My Martian knows. The point is, do -_you_ know? Think hard,” Lyman urged solicitously. - - * * * * * - -“No, I haven’t got a Martian,” the reporter said, taking a quick drink. -The edge of the glass clicked against his teeth. - -“Nervous, I see,” Lyman remarked. “Of course you _have_ got a Martian. I -suspect you know it.” - -“What would I be doing with a Martian?” the brown man asked with dogged -dogmatism. - -“What would you be doing without one? I imagine it’s illegal. If they -caught you running around without one they’d probably put you in a pound -or something until claimed. Oh, you’ve got one, all right. So have I. So -has he, and he, and he—and the bartender.” Lyman enumerated the other -barflies with a wavering forefinger. - -“Of course they have,” the brown man said. “But they’ll all go back to -Mars tomorrow and then you can see a good doctor. You’d better have -another dri—” - -He was turning toward the bartender when Lyman, apparently by accident, -leaned close to him and whispered urgently, - -“_Don’t look now!_” - -The brown man glanced at Lyman’s white face reflected in the mirror -before them. - -“It’s all right,” he said. “There aren’t any Mar—” - -Lyman gave him a fierce, quick kick under the edge of the bar. - -“Shut up! One just came in!” - -And then he caught the brown man’s gaze and with elaborate unconcern -said, “—so naturally, there was nothing for me to do but climb out on -the roof after it. Took me ten minutes to get it down the ladder, and -just as we reached the bottom it gave one bound, climbed up my face, -sprang from the top of my head, and there it was again on the roof, -screaming for me to get it down.” - -“_What?_” the brown man demanded with pardonable curiosity. - -“My cat, of course. What did you think? No, never mind, don’t answer -that.” Lyman’s face was turned to the brown man’s, but from the corners -of his eyes he was watching an invisible progress down the length of the -bar toward a booth at the very back. - -“Now why did he come in?” he murmured. “I don’t like this. Is he anyone -you know?” - -“Is who—?” - -“That Martian. Yours, by any chance? No, I suppose not. Yours was -probably the one who went out a while ago. I wonder if he went to make a -report, and sent this one in? It’s possible. It could be. You can talk -now, but keep your voice low, and stop squirming. Want him to notice we -can see him?” - -“I can’t see him. Don’t drag me into this. You and your Martians can -fight it out together. You’re making me nervous. I’ve got to go, -anyway.” But he didn’t move to get off the stool. Across Lyman’s -shoulder he was stealing glances toward the back of the bar, and now and -then he looked at Lyman’s face. - -“Stop watching me,” Lyman said. “Stop watching him. Anybody’d think you -were a cat.” - -“Why a cat? Why should anybody—do I look like a cat?” - -“We were talking about cats, weren’t we? Cats can see them, quite -clearly. Even undressed, I believe. They don’t like them.” - -“Who doesn’t like who?” - -“Whom. Neither likes the other. Cats can see Martians—sh-h!—but they -pretend not to, and that makes the Martians mad. I have a theory that -cats ruled the world before Martians came. Never mind. Forget about -cats. This may be more serious than you think. I happen to know my -Martian’s taking tonight off, and I’m pretty sure that was your Martian -who went out some time ago. And have you noticed that nobody else in -here has his Martian with him? Do you suppose—” His voice sank. “Do you -suppose they could be _waiting for us outside_?” - -“Oh, Lord,” the brown man said. “In the alley with the cats, I suppose.” - -“Why don’t you stop this yammer about cats and be serious for a moment?” -Lyman demanded, and then paused, paled, and reeled slightly on his -stool. He hastily took a drink to cover his confusion. - -“What’s the matter now?” the brown man asked. - -“Nothing.” Gulp. “Nothing. It was just that—he _looked_ at me. -With—you know.” - -“Let me get this straight. I take it the Martian is dressed in—is -dressed like a human?” - -“Naturally.” - -“But he’s invisible to all eyes but yours?” - -“Yes. He doesn’t want to be visible, just now. Besides—” Lyman paused -cunningly. He gave the brown man a furtive glance and then looked -quickly down at his drink. “Besides, you know, I rather think you can -see him—a little, anyway.” - - * * * * * - -The brown man was perfectly silent for about thirty seconds. He sat -quite motionless, not even the ice in the drink he held clinking. One -might have thought he did not even breathe. Certainly he did not blink. - -“What makes you think that?” he asked in a normal voice, after the -thirty seconds had run out. - -“I—did I say anything? I wasn’t listening.” Lyman put down his drink -abruptly. “I think I’ll go now.” - -“No, you won’t,” the brown man said, closing his fingers around Lyman’s -wrist. “Not yet you won’t. Come back here. Sit down. Now. What was the -idea? Where were you going?” - -Lyman nodded dumbly toward the back of the bar, indicating either a -juke-box or a door marked MEN. - -“I don’t feel so good. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink. I guess I’ll—” - -“You’re all right. I don’t trust you back there with that—that -invisible man of yours. You’ll stay right here until he leaves.” - -“He’s going now,” Lyman said brightly. His eyes moved with great -briskness along the line of an invisible but rapid progress toward the -front door. “See, he’s gone. Now let me loose, will you?” - -The brown man glanced toward the back booth. - -“No,” he said, “He isn’t gone. Sit right where you are.” - -It was Lyman’s turn to remain quite still, in a stricken sort of way, -for a perceptible while. The ice in _his_ drink, however, clinked -audibly. Presently he spoke. His voice was soft, and rather soberer than -before. - -“You’re right. He’s still there. You can see him, can’t you?” - -The brown man said, “Has he got his back to us?” - -“You _can_ see him, then. Better than I can maybe. Maybe there are more -of them here than I thought. They could be anywhere. They could be -sitting beside you anywhere you go, and you wouldn’t even guess, -until—” He shook his head a little. “They’d want to be _sure_,” he -said, mostly to himself. “They can give you orders and make you forget, -but there must be limits to what they can force you to do. They can’t -make a man betray himself. They’d have to lead him on—until they were -sure.” - -He lifted his drink and tipped it steeply above his face. The ice ran -down the slope and bumped coldly against his lip, but he held it until -the last of the pale, bubbling amber had drained into his mouth. He set -the glass on the bar and faced the brown man. - -“Well?” he said. - -The brown man looked up and down the bar. - -“It’s getting late,” he said. “Not many people left. We’ll wait.” - -“Wait for what?” - -The brown man looked toward the back booth and looked away again -quickly. - -“I have something to show you. I don’t want anyone else to see.” - -Lyman surveyed the narrow, smoky room. As he looked the last customer -beside themselves at the bar began groping in his pocket, tossed some -change on the mahogany, and went out slowly. - -They sat in silence. The bartender eyed them with stolid disinterest. -Presently a couple in the front booth got up and departed, quarreling in -undertones. - -“Is there anyone left?” the brown man asked in a voice that did not -carry down the bar to the man in the apron. - -“Only—” Lyman did not finish, but he nodded gently toward the back of -the room. “He isn’t looking. Let’s get this over with. What do you want -to show me?” - -The brown man took off his wrist-watch and pried up the metal case. Two -small, glossy photograph prints slid out. The brown man separated them -with a finger. - -“I just want to make sure of something,” he said. “First—why did you -pick me out? Quite a while ago, you said you’d been trailing me all day, -making sure. I haven’t forgotten that. And you knew I was a reporter. -Suppose you tell me the truth, now?” - - * * * * * - -Squirming on his stool, Lyman scowled. “It was the way you looked at -things,” he murmured. “On the subway this morning—I’d never seen you -before in my life, but I kept noticing the way you looked at things—the -wrong things, things that weren’t there, the way a cat does—and then -you’d always look away—I got the idea you could see the Martians too.” - -“Go on,” the brown man said quietly. - -“I followed you. All day. I kept hoping you’d turn out to be—somebody I -could talk to. Because if I could _know_ that I wasn’t the only one who -could see them, then I’d know there was still some hope left. It’s been -worse than solitary confinement. I’ve been able to see them for three -years now. Three years. And I’ve managed to keep my power a secret even -from them. And, somehow, I’ve managed to keep from killing myself, too.” - -“Three years?” the brown man said. He shivered. - -“There was always a little hope. I knew nobody would believe—not -without proof. And how can you get proof? It was only that I—I kept -telling myself that maybe you could see them too, and if you could, -maybe there were others—lots of others—enough so we might get together -and work out some way of proving to the world—” - -The brown man’s fingers were moving. In silence he pushed a photograph -across the mahogany. Lyman picked it up unsteadily. - -“Moonlight?” he asked after a moment. It was a landscape under a deep, -dark sky with white clouds in it. Trees stood white and lacy against the -darkness. The grass was white as if with moonlight, and the shadows -blurry. - -“No, not moonlight,” the brown man said. “Infra-red. I’m strictly an -amateur, but lately I’ve been experimenting with infra-red film. And I -got some very odd results.” - -Lyman stared at the film. - -“You see, I live near—” The brown man’s finger tapped a certain quite -common object that appeared in the photograph. “—and something funny -keeps showing up now and then against it. But only with infra-red film. -Now I know chlorophyll reflects so much infra-red light that grass and -leaves photograph white. The sky comes out black, like this. There are -tricks to using this kind of film. Photograph a tree against a cloud, -and you can’t tell them apart in the print. But you can photograph -through a haze and pick out distant objects the ordinary film wouldn’t -catch. And sometimes, when you focus on something like this—” He tapped -the image of the very common object again, “you get a very odd image on -the film. Like that. A man with three eyes.” - -Lyman held the print up to the light. In silence he took the other one -from the bar and studied it. When he laid them down he was smiling. - -“You know,” Lyman said in a conversational whisper, “a professor of -astrophysics at one of the more important universities had a very -interesting little item in the _Times_ the other Sunday. Name of -Spitzer, I think. He said that, if there were life on Mars, and if -Martians had ever visited earth, there’d be no way to prove it. Nobody -would believe the few men who saw them. Not, he said, unless the -Martians happened to be photographed....” - -Lyman looked at the brown man thoughtfully. - -“Well,” he said, “it’s happened. You’ve photographed them.” - -The brown man nodded. He took up the prints and returned them to his -watch-case. “I thought so, too. Only until tonight I couldn’t be sure. -I’d never seen one—fully—as you have. It isn’t so much a matter of -what you call getting your brain scrambled with supersonics as it is of -just knowing where to look. But I’ve been seeing _part_ of them all my -life, and so has everybody. It’s that little suggestion of movement you -never catch except just at the edge of your vision, just out of the -corner of your eye. Something that’s _almost_ there—and when you look -fully at it, there’s nothing. These photographs showed me the way. It’s -not easy to learn, but it can be done. We’re conditioned to look -directly at a thing—the particular thing we want to see clearly, -whatever it is. Perhaps the Martians gave us that conditioning. When we -see a movement at the edge of our range of vision, it’s almost -irresistible not to look directly at it. So it vanishes.” - -“Then they can be seen—by anybody?” - - * * * * * - -“I’ve learned a lot in a few days,” the brown man said. “Since I took -those photographs. You have to train yourself. It’s like seeing a trick -picture—one that’s really a composite, after you study it. Camouflage. -You just have to learn how. Otherwise we can look at them all our lives -and never see them.” - -“The camera does, though.” - -“Yes, the camera does. I’ve wondered why nobody ever caught them this -way before. Once you see them on film, they’re unmistakable—that third -eye.” - -“Infra-red film’s comparatively new, isn’t it? And then I’ll bet you -have to catch them against that one particular background—you know—or -they won’t show on the film. Like trees against clouds. It’s tricky. You -must have had just the right lighting that day, and exactly the right -focus, and the lens stopped down just right. A kind of minor miracle. It -might never happen again exactly that way. But ... don’t look now.” - -They were silent. Furtively, they watched the mirror. Their eyes slid -along toward the open door of the tavern. - -And then there was a long, breathless silence. - -“He looked back at us,” Lyman said very quietly. “He looked at us ... -that third eye!” - -The brown man was motionless again. When he moved, it was to swallow the -rest of his drink. - -“I don’t think that they’re suspicious yet,” he said. “The trick will be -to keep under cover until we can blow this thing wide open. There’s got -to be some way to do it—some way that will convince people.” - -“There’s proof. The photographs. A competent cameraman ought to be able -to figure out just how you caught that Martian on film and duplicate the -conditions. It’s evidence.” - -“Evidence can cut both ways,” the brown man said. “What I’m hoping is -that the Martians don’t really like to kill—unless they have to. I’m -hoping they won’t kill without proof. But—” He tapped his wrist-watch. - -“There’s two of us now, though,” Lyman said. “We’ve got to stick -together. Both of us have broken the big rule—_don’t look now_—” - -The bartender was at the back, disconnecting the juke-box. The brown man -said, “We’d better not be seen together unnecessarily. But if we both -come to this bar tomorrow night at nine for a drink—that wouldn’t look -suspicious, even to them.” - -“Suppose—” Lyman hesitated. “May I have one of those photographs?” - -“Why?” - -“If one of us had—an accident—the other one would still have the -proof. Enough, maybe, to convince the right people.” - -The brown man hesitated, nodded shortly, and opened his watch-case -again. He gave Lyman one of the pictures. - -“Hide it,” he said. “It’s—evidence. I’ll see you here tomorrow. -Meanwhile, be careful. Remember to play safe.” - -They shook hands firmly, facing each other in an endless second of -final, decisive silence. Then the brown man turned abruptly and walked -out of the bar. - -Lyman sat there. Between two wrinkles in his forehead there was a stir -and a flicker of lashes unfurling. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Don't look now</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Henry Kuttner</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: May 29, 2022 [eBook #68203]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Greg White, Mary Meehan, Alex White & the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at https://www.pgdpcanada.net.</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DON'T LOOK NOW ***</div> - -<div class="titlepage"> -<h1>Don’t Look Now</h1> - -<h2>By HENRY KUTTNER</h2> - -<p>[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from<br /> -Startling Stories, March 1948.<br /> -Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that<br /> -the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]</p> - -<p><i>That man beside you may be a Martian.<br /> -They own our world, but only a few wise<br /> -and far-seeing men like Lyman know it!</i></p> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p>The man in the brown suit was looking at himself in the mirror behind -the bar. The reflection seemed to interest him even more deeply than the -drink between his hands. He was paying only perfunctory attention to -Lyman’s attempts at conversation. This had been going on for perhaps -fifteen minutes before he finally lifted his glass and took a deep -swallow.</p> - -<p>“Don’t look now,” Lyman said.</p> - -<p>The brown man slid his eyes sidewise toward Lyman; tilted his glass -higher, and took another swig. Ice-cubes slipped down toward his mouth. -He put the glass back on the red-brown wood and signaled for a refill. -Finally he took a deep breath and looked at Lyman.</p> - -<p>“Don’t look at what?” he asked.</p> - -<p>“There was one sitting right beside you,” Lyman said, blinking rather -glazed eyes. “He just went out. You mean you couldn’t see him?”</p> - -<p>The brown man finished paying for his fresh drink before he answered. -“See who?” he asked, with a fine mixture of boredom, distaste and -reluctant interest. “Who went out?”</p> - -<p>“What have I been telling you for the last ten minutes? Weren’t you -listening?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly I was listening. That is—certainly. You were talking -about—bathtubs. Radios. Orson—”</p> - -<p>“Not Orson. H. G. Herbert George. With Orson it was just a gag. H. G. -<i>knew</i>—or suspected. I wonder if it was simply intuition with him? He -couldn’t have had any proof—but he did stop writing science-fiction -rather suddenly, didn’t he? I’ll bet he knew once, though.”</p> - -<p>“Knew what?”</p> - -<p>“About the Martians. All this won’t do us a bit of good if you don’t -listen. It may not anyway. The trick is to jump the gun—with proof. -Convincing evidence. Nobody’s ever been allowed to produce the evidence -before. You <i>are</i> a reporter, aren’t you?”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Holding his glass, the man in the brown suit nodded reluctantly.</p> - -<p>“Then you ought to be taking it all down on a piece of folded paper. I -want everybody to know. The whole world. It’s important. Terribly -important. It explains everything. My life won’t be safe unless I can -pass along the information and make people believe it.”</p> - -<p>“Why won’t your life be safe?”</p> - -<p>“Because of the Martians, you fool. They own the world.”</p> - -<p>The brown man sighed. “Then they own my newspaper, too,” he objected, -“so I can’t print anything they don’t like.”</p> - -<p>“I never thought of that,” Lyman said, considering the bottom of his -glass, where two ice-cubes had fused into a cold, immutable union. -“They’re not omnipotent, though. I’m sure they’re vulnerable, or why -have they always kept under cover? They’re afraid of being found out. If -the world had convincing evidence—look, people always believe what they -read in the newspapers. Couldn’t you—”</p> - -<p>“Ha,” said the brown man with deep significance.</p> - -<p>Lyman drummed sadly on the bar and murmured, “There must be some way. -Perhaps if I had another drink....”</p> - -<p>The brown suited man tasted his collins, which seemed to stimulate him. -“Just what is all this about Martians?” he asked Lyman. “Suppose you -start at the beginning and tell me again. Or can’t you remember?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I can remember. I’ve got practically total recall. It’s -something new. Very new. I never could do it before. I can even remember -my last conversation with the Martians.” Lyman favored the brown man -with a glance of triumph.</p> - -<p>“When was that?”</p> - -<p>“This morning.”</p> - -<p>“I can even remember conversations I had last week,” the brown man said -mildly. “So what?”</p> - -<p>“You don’t understand. They make us forget, you see. They tell us what -to do and we forget about the conversation—it’s post-hypnotic -suggestion, I expect—but we follow their orders just the same. There’s -the compulsion, though we think we’re making our own decisions. Oh, they -own the world, all right, but nobody knows it except me.”</p> - -<p>“And how did you find out?”</p> - -<p>“Well, I got my brain scrambled, in a way. I’ve been fooling around with -supersonic detergents, trying to work out something marketable, you -know. The gadget went wrong—from some standpoints. High-frequency -waves, it was. They went through and through me. Should have been -inaudible, but I could hear them, or rather—well, actually I could see -them. That’s what I mean about my brain being scrambled. And after that, -I could see and hear the Martians. They’ve geared themselves so they -work efficiently on ordinary brains, and mine isn’t ordinary any more. -They can’t hypnotize me, either. They can command me, but I needn’t -obey—now. I hope they don’t suspect. Maybe they do. Yes, I guess they -do.”</p> - -<p>“How can you tell?”</p> - -<p>“The way they look at me.”</p> - -<p>“How do they look at you?” asked the brown man, as he began to reach for -a pencil and then changed his mind. He took a drink instead. “Well? What -are they like?”</p> - -<p>“I’m not sure. I can see them, all right, but only when they’re dressed -up.”</p> - -<p>“Okay, okay,” the brown man said patiently. “How do they look, dressed -up?”</p> - -<p>“Just like anybody, almost. They dress up in—in human skins. Oh, not -real ones, imitations. Like the Katzenjammer Kids zipped into crocodile -suits. Undressed—I don’t know. I’ve never seen one. Maybe they’re -invisible even to me, then, or maybe they’re just camouflaged. Ants or -owls or rats or bats or—”</p> - -<p>“Or anything,” the brown man said hastily.</p> - -<p>“Thanks. Or anything, of course. But when they’re dressed up like -humans—like that one who was sitting next to you awhile ago, when I -told you not to look—”</p> - -<p>“That one was invisible, I gather?”</p> - -<p>“Most of the time they are, to everybody. But once in a while, for some -reason, they—”</p> - -<p>“Wait,” the brown man objected. “Make sense, will you? They dress up in -human skins and then sit around invisible?”</p> - -<p>“Only now and then. The human skins are perfectly good imitations. -Nobody can tell the difference. It’s that third eye that gives them -away. When they keep it closed, you’d never guess it was there. When -they want to open it, they go invisible—like <i>that</i>. Fast. When I see -somebody with a third eye, right in the middle of his forehead, I know -he’s a Martian and invisible, and I pretend not to notice him.”</p> - -<p>“Uh-huh,” the brown man said. “Then for all you know, I’m one of your -visible Martians.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I hope not!” Lyman regarded him anxiously. “Drunk as I am, I don’t -think so. I’ve been trailing you all day, making sure. It’s a risk I -have to take, of course. They’ll go to any length—any length at all—to -make a man give himself away. I realize that. I can’t really trust -anybody. But I had to find someone to talk to, and I—” He paused. There -was a brief silence. “I could be wrong,” Lyman said presently. “When the -third eye’s closed, I can’t tell if it’s there. Would you mind opening -your third eye for me?” He fixed a dim gaze on the brown man’s forehead.</p> - -<p>“Sorry,” the reporter said. “Some other time. Besides, I don’t know you. -So you want me to splash this across the front page, I gather? Why -didn’t you go to see the managing editor? My stories have to get past -the desk and rewrite.”</p> - -<p>“I want to give my secret to the world,” Lyman said stubbornly. “The -question is, how far will I get? You’d expect they’d have killed me the -minute I opened my mouth to you—except that I didn’t say anything while -they were here. I don’t believe they take us very seriously, you know. -This must have been going on since the dawn of history, and by now -they’ve had time to get careless. They let Fort go pretty far before -they cracked down on him. But you notice they were careful never to let -Fort get hold of genuine proof that would convince people.”</p> - -<p>The brown man said something under his breath about a human interest -story in a box. He asked, “What do the Martians do, besides hang around -bars all dressed up?”</p> - -<p>“I’m still working on that,” Lyman said. “It isn’t easy to understand. -They run the world, of course, but why?” He wrinkled his brow and stared -appealingly at the brown man. “Why?”</p> - -<p>“If they do run it, they’ve got a lot to explain.”</p> - -<p>“That’s what I mean. From our viewpoint, there’s no sense to it. We do -things illogically, but only because they tell us to. Everything we do, -almost, is pure illogic. Poe’s <i>Imp of the Perverse</i>—you could give it -another name beginning with M. Martian, I mean. It’s all very well for -psychologists to explain why a murderer wants to confess, but it’s still -an illogical reaction. Unless a Martian commands him to.”</p> - -<p>“You can’t be hypnotized into doing anything that violates your moral -sense,” the brown man said triumphantly.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Lyman frowned. “Not by another human, but you can by a Martian. I expect -they got the upper hand when we didn’t have more than ape-brains, and -they’ve kept it ever since. They evolved as we did, and kept a step -ahead. Like the sparrow on the eagle’s back who hitch-hiked till the -eagle reached his ceiling, and then took off and broke the altitude -record. They conquered the world, but nobody ever knew it. And they’ve -been ruling ever since.”</p> - -<p>“But—”</p> - -<p>“Take houses, for example. Uncomfortable things. Ugly, inconvenient, -dirty, everything wrong with them. But when men like Frank Lloyd Wright -slip out from under the Martians’ thumb long enough to suggest something -better, look how the people react. They hate the thought. That’s their -Martians, giving them orders.”</p> - -<p>“Look. Why should the Martians care what kind of houses we live in? Tell -me that.”</p> - -<p>Lyman frowned. “I don’t like the note of skepticism I detect creeping -into this conversation,” he announced. “They care, all right. No doubt -about it. They <i>live</i> in our houses. We don’t build for our convenience, -we build, under order, for the Martians, the way they want it. They’re -very much concerned with everything we do. And the more senseless, the -more concern.</p> - -<p>“Take wars. Wars don’t make sense from any human viewpoint. Nobody -really wants wars. But we go right on having them. From the Martian -viewpoint, they’re useful. They give us a spurt in technology, and they -reduce the excess population. And there are lots of other results, too. -Colonization, for one thing. But mainly technology. In peace time, if a -guy invents jet-propulsion, it’s too expensive to develop commercially. -In war-time, though, it’s got to be developed. Then the Martians can use -it whenever they want. They use us the way they’d use tools or—or -limbs. And nobody ever really wins a war—except the Martians.”</p> - -<p>The man in the brown suit chuckled. “That makes sense,” he said. “It -must be nice to be a Martian.”</p> - -<p>“Why not? Up till now, no race ever successfully conquered and ruled -another. The underdog could revolt or absorb. If you know you’re being -ruled, then the ruler’s vulnerable. But if the world doesn’t know—and -it doesn’t—</p> - -<p>“Take radios,” Lyman continued, going off at a tangent. “There’s no -earthly reason why a sane human should listen to a radio. But the -Martians make us do it. They like it. Take bathtubs. Nobody contends -bathtubs are comfortable—for us. But they’re fine for Martians. All the -impractical things we keep on using, even though we know they’re -impractical—”</p> - -<p>“Typewriter ribbons,” the brown man said, struck by the thought. “But -not even a Martian could enjoy changing a typewriter ribbon.”</p> - -<p>Lyman seemed to find that flippant. He said that he knew all about the -Martians except for one thing—their psychology.</p> - -<p>“I don’t know <i>why</i> they act as they do. It looks illogical sometimes, -but I feel perfectly sure they’ve got sound motives for every move they -make. Until I get that worked out I’m pretty much at a standstill. Until -I get evidence—proof—and help. I’ve got to stay under cover till then. -And I’ve been doing that. I do what they tell me, so they won’t suspect, -and I pretend to forget what they tell me to forget.”</p> - -<p>“Then you’ve got nothing much to worry about.”</p> - -<p>Lyman paid no attention. He was off again on a list of his grievances.</p> - -<p>“When I hear the water running in the tub and a Martian splashing -around, I pretend I don’t hear a thing. My bed’s too short and I tried -last week to order a special length, but the Martian that sleeps there -told me not to. He’s a runt, like most of them. That is, I think they’re -runts. I have to deduce, because you never see them undressed. But it -goes on like that constantly. By the way, how’s your Martian?”</p> - -<p>The man in the brown suit set down his glass rather suddenly.</p> - -<p>“My Martian?”</p> - -<p>“Now listen. I may be just a little bit drunk, but my logic remains -unimpaired. I can still put two and two together. Either you know about -the Martians, or you don’t. If you do, there’s no point in giving me -that, ‘What, <i>my</i> Martian?’ routine. I know you have a Martian. Your -Martian knows you have a Martian. My Martian knows. The point is, do -<i>you</i> know? Think hard,” Lyman urged solicitously.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“No, I haven’t got a Martian,” the reporter said, taking a quick drink. -The edge of the glass clicked against his teeth.</p> - -<p>“Nervous, I see,” Lyman remarked. “Of course you <i>have</i> got a Martian. I -suspect you know it.”</p> - -<p>“What would I be doing with a Martian?” the brown man asked with dogged -dogmatism.</p> - -<p>“What would you be doing without one? I imagine it’s illegal. If they -caught you running around without one they’d probably put you in a pound -or something until claimed. Oh, you’ve got one, all right. So have I. So -has he, and he, and he—and the bartender.” Lyman enumerated the other -barflies with a wavering forefinger.</p> - -<p>“Of course they have,” the brown man said. “But they’ll all go back to -Mars tomorrow and then you can see a good doctor. You’d better have -another dri—”</p> - -<p>He was turning toward the bartender when Lyman, apparently by accident, -leaned close to him and whispered urgently,</p> - -<p>“<i>Don’t look now!</i>”</p> - -<p>The brown man glanced at Lyman’s white face reflected in the mirror -before them.</p> - -<p>“It’s all right,” he said. “There aren’t any Mar—”</p> - -<p>Lyman gave him a fierce, quick kick under the edge of the bar.</p> - -<p>“Shut up! One just came in!”</p> - -<p>And then he caught the brown man’s gaze and with elaborate unconcern -said, “—so naturally, there was nothing for me to do but climb out on -the roof after it. Took me ten minutes to get it down the ladder, and -just as we reached the bottom it gave one bound, climbed up my face, -sprang from the top of my head, and there it was again on the roof, -screaming for me to get it down.”</p> - -<p>“<i>What?</i>” the brown man demanded with pardonable curiosity.</p> - -<p>“My cat, of course. What did you think? No, never mind, don’t answer -that.” Lyman’s face was turned to the brown man’s, but from the corners -of his eyes he was watching an invisible progress down the length of the -bar toward a booth at the very back.</p> - -<p>“Now why did he come in?” he murmured. “I don’t like this. Is he anyone -you know?”</p> - -<p>“Is who—?”</p> - -<p>“That Martian. Yours, by any chance? No, I suppose not. Yours was -probably the one who went out a while ago. I wonder if he went to make a -report, and sent this one in? It’s possible. It could be. You can talk -now, but keep your voice low, and stop squirming. Want him to notice we -can see him?”</p> - -<p>“I can’t see him. Don’t drag me into this. You and your Martians can -fight it out together. You’re making me nervous. I’ve got to go, -anyway.” But he didn’t move to get off the stool. Across Lyman’s -shoulder he was stealing glances toward the back of the bar, and now and -then he looked at Lyman’s face.</p> - -<p>“Stop watching me,” Lyman said. “Stop watching him. Anybody’d think you -were a cat.”</p> - -<p>“Why a cat? Why should anybody—do I look like a cat?”</p> - -<p>“We were talking about cats, weren’t we? Cats can see them, quite -clearly. Even undressed, I believe. They don’t like them.”</p> - -<p>“Who doesn’t like who?”</p> - -<p>“Whom. Neither likes the other. Cats can see Martians—sh-h!—but they -pretend not to, and that makes the Martians mad. I have a theory that -cats ruled the world before Martians came. Never mind. Forget about -cats. This may be more serious than you think. I happen to know my -Martian’s taking tonight off, and I’m pretty sure that was your Martian -who went out some time ago. And have you noticed that nobody else in -here has his Martian with him? Do you suppose—” His voice sank. “Do you -suppose they could be <i>waiting for us outside</i>?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Lord,” the brown man said. “In the alley with the cats, I suppose.”</p> - -<p>“Why don’t you stop this yammer about cats and be serious for a moment?” -Lyman demanded, and then paused, paled, and reeled slightly on his -stool. He hastily took a drink to cover his confusion.</p> - -<p>“What’s the matter now?” the brown man asked.</p> - -<p>“Nothing.” Gulp. “Nothing. It was just that—he <i>looked</i> at me. -With—you know.”</p> - -<p>“Let me get this straight. I take it the Martian is dressed in—is -dressed like a human?”</p> - -<p>“Naturally.”</p> - -<p>“But he’s invisible to all eyes but yours?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. He doesn’t want to be visible, just now. Besides—” Lyman paused -cunningly. He gave the brown man a furtive glance and then looked -quickly down at his drink. “Besides, you know, I rather think you can -see him—a little, anyway.”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>The brown man was perfectly silent for about thirty seconds. He sat -quite motionless, not even the ice in the drink he held clinking. One -might have thought he did not even breathe. Certainly he did not blink.</p> - -<p>“What makes you think that?” he asked in a normal voice, after the -thirty seconds had run out.</p> - -<p>“I—did I say anything? I wasn’t listening.” Lyman put down his drink -abruptly. “I think I’ll go now.”</p> - -<p>“No, you won’t,” the brown man said, closing his fingers around Lyman’s -wrist. “Not yet you won’t. Come back here. Sit down. Now. What was the -idea? Where were you going?”</p> - -<p>Lyman nodded dumbly toward the back of the bar, indicating either a -juke-box or a door marked MEN.</p> - -<p>“I don’t feel so good. Maybe I’ve had too much to drink. I guess I’ll—”</p> - -<p>“You’re all right. I don’t trust you back there with that—that -invisible man of yours. You’ll stay right here until he leaves.”</p> - -<p>“He’s going now,” Lyman said brightly. His eyes moved with great -briskness along the line of an invisible but rapid progress toward the -front door. “See, he’s gone. Now let me loose, will you?”</p> - -<p>The brown man glanced toward the back booth.</p> - -<p>“No,” he said, “He isn’t gone. Sit right where you are.”</p> - -<p>It was Lyman’s turn to remain quite still, in a stricken sort of way, -for a perceptible while. The ice in <i>his</i> drink, however, clinked -audibly. Presently he spoke. His voice was soft, and rather soberer than -before.</p> - -<p>“You’re right. He’s still there. You can see him, can’t you?”</p> - -<p>The brown man said, “Has he got his back to us?”</p> - -<p>“You <i>can</i> see him, then. Better than I can maybe. Maybe there are more -of them here than I thought. They could be anywhere. They could be -sitting beside you anywhere you go, and you wouldn’t even guess, -until—” He shook his head a little. “They’d want to be <i>sure</i>,” he -said, mostly to himself. “They can give you orders and make you forget, -but there must be limits to what they can force you to do. They can’t -make a man betray himself. They’d have to lead him on—until they were -sure.”</p> - -<p>He lifted his drink and tipped it steeply above his face. The ice ran -down the slope and bumped coldly against his lip, but he held it until -the last of the pale, bubbling amber had drained into his mouth. He set -the glass on the bar and faced the brown man.</p> - -<p>“Well?” he said.</p> - -<p>The brown man looked up and down the bar.</p> - -<p>“It’s getting late,” he said. “Not many people left. We’ll wait.”</p> - -<p>“Wait for what?”</p> - -<p>The brown man looked toward the back booth and looked away again -quickly.</p> - -<p>“I have something to show you. I don’t want anyone else to see.”</p> - -<p>Lyman surveyed the narrow, smoky room. As he looked the last customer -beside themselves at the bar began groping in his pocket, tossed some -change on the mahogany, and went out slowly.</p> - -<p>They sat in silence. The bartender eyed them with stolid disinterest. -Presently a couple in the front booth got up and departed, quarreling in -undertones.</p> - -<p>“Is there anyone left?” the brown man asked in a voice that did not -carry down the bar to the man in the apron.</p> - -<p>“Only—” Lyman did not finish, but he nodded gently toward the back of -the room. “He isn’t looking. Let’s get this over with. What do you want -to show me?”</p> - -<p>The brown man took off his wrist-watch and pried up the metal case. Two -small, glossy photograph prints slid out. The brown man separated them -with a finger.</p> - -<p>“I just want to make sure of something,” he said. “First—why did you -pick me out? Quite a while ago, you said you’d been trailing me all day, -making sure. I haven’t forgotten that. And you knew I was a reporter. -Suppose you tell me the truth, now?”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Squirming on his stool, Lyman scowled. “It was the way you looked at -things,” he murmured. “On the subway this morning—I’d never seen you -before in my life, but I kept noticing the way you looked at things—the -wrong things, things that weren’t there, the way a cat does—and then -you’d always look away—I got the idea you could see the Martians too.”</p> - -<p>“Go on,” the brown man said quietly.</p> - -<p>“I followed you. All day. I kept hoping you’d turn out to be—somebody I -could talk to. Because if I could <i>know</i> that I wasn’t the only one who -could see them, then I’d know there was still some hope left. It’s been -worse than solitary confinement. I’ve been able to see them for three -years now. Three years. And I’ve managed to keep my power a secret even -from them. And, somehow, I’ve managed to keep from killing myself, too.”</p> - -<p>“Three years?” the brown man said. He shivered.</p> - -<p>“There was always a little hope. I knew nobody would believe—not -without proof. And how can you get proof? It was only that I—I kept -telling myself that maybe you could see them too, and if you could, -maybe there were others—lots of others—enough so we might get together -and work out some way of proving to the world—”</p> - -<p>The brown man’s fingers were moving. In silence he pushed a photograph -across the mahogany. Lyman picked it up unsteadily.</p> - -<p>“Moonlight?” he asked after a moment. It was a landscape under a deep, -dark sky with white clouds in it. Trees stood white and lacy against the -darkness. The grass was white as if with moonlight, and the shadows -blurry.</p> - -<p>“No, not moonlight,” the brown man said. “Infra-red. I’m strictly an -amateur, but lately I’ve been experimenting with infra-red film. And I -got some very odd results.”</p> - -<p>Lyman stared at the film.</p> - -<p>“You see, I live near—” The brown man’s finger tapped a certain quite -common object that appeared in the photograph. “—and something funny -keeps showing up now and then against it. But only with infra-red film. -Now I know chlorophyll reflects so much infra-red light that grass and -leaves photograph white. The sky comes out black, like this. There are -tricks to using this kind of film. Photograph a tree against a cloud, -and you can’t tell them apart in the print. But you can photograph -through a haze and pick out distant objects the ordinary film wouldn’t -catch. And sometimes, when you focus on something like this—” He tapped -the image of the very common object again, “you get a very odd image on -the film. Like that. A man with three eyes.”</p> - -<p>Lyman held the print up to the light. In silence he took the other one -from the bar and studied it. When he laid them down he was smiling.</p> - -<p>“You know,” Lyman said in a conversational whisper, “a professor of -astrophysics at one of the more important universities had a very -interesting little item in the <i>Times</i> the other Sunday. Name of -Spitzer, I think. He said that, if there were life on Mars, and if -Martians had ever visited earth, there’d be no way to prove it. Nobody -would believe the few men who saw them. Not, he said, unless the -Martians happened to be photographed....”</p> - -<p>Lyman looked at the brown man thoughtfully.</p> - -<p>“Well,” he said, “it’s happened. You’ve photographed them.”</p> - -<p>The brown man nodded. He took up the prints and returned them to his -watch-case. “I thought so, too. Only until tonight I couldn’t be sure. -I’d never seen one—fully—as you have. It isn’t so much a matter of -what you call getting your brain scrambled with supersonics as it is of -just knowing where to look. But I’ve been seeing <i>part</i> of them all my -life, and so has everybody. It’s that little suggestion of movement you -never catch except just at the edge of your vision, just out of the -corner of your eye. Something that’s <i>almost</i> there—and when you look -fully at it, there’s nothing. These photographs showed me the way. It’s -not easy to learn, but it can be done. We’re conditioned to look -directly at a thing—the particular thing we want to see clearly, -whatever it is. Perhaps the Martians gave us that conditioning. When we -see a movement at the edge of our range of vision, it’s almost -irresistible not to look directly at it. So it vanishes.”</p> - -<p>“Then they can be seen—by anybody?”</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>“I’ve learned a lot in a few days,” the brown man said. “Since I took -those photographs. You have to train yourself. It’s like seeing a trick -picture—one that’s really a composite, after you study it. Camouflage. -You just have to learn how. Otherwise we can look at them all our lives -and never see them.”</p> - -<p>“The camera does, though.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, the camera does. I’ve wondered why nobody ever caught them this -way before. Once you see them on film, they’re unmistakable—that third -eye.”</p> - -<p>“Infra-red film’s comparatively new, isn’t it? And then I’ll bet you -have to catch them against that one particular background—you know—or -they won’t show on the film. Like trees against clouds. It’s tricky. You -must have had just the right lighting that day, and exactly the right -focus, and the lens stopped down just right. A kind of minor miracle. It -might never happen again exactly that way. But ... don’t look now.”</p> - -<p>They were silent. Furtively, they watched the mirror. Their eyes slid -along toward the open door of the tavern.</p> - -<p>And then there was a long, breathless silence.</p> - -<p>“He looked back at us,” Lyman said very quietly. “He looked at us ... -that third eye!”</p> - -<p>The brown man was motionless again. When he moved, it was to swallow the -rest of his drink.</p> - -<p>“I don’t think that they’re suspicious yet,” he said. “The trick will be -to keep under cover until we can blow this thing wide open. There’s got -to be some way to do it—some way that will convince people.”</p> - -<p>“There’s proof. The photographs. A competent cameraman ought to be able -to figure out just how you caught that Martian on film and duplicate the -conditions. It’s evidence.”</p> - -<p>“Evidence can cut both ways,” the brown man said. “What I’m hoping is -that the Martians don’t really like to kill—unless they have to. I’m -hoping they won’t kill without proof. But—” He tapped his wrist-watch.</p> - -<p>“There’s two of us now, though,” Lyman said. “We’ve got to stick -together. Both of us have broken the big rule—<i>don’t look now</i>—”</p> - -<p>The bartender was at the back, disconnecting the juke-box. The brown man -said, “We’d better not be seen together unnecessarily. But if we both -come to this bar tomorrow night at nine for a drink—that wouldn’t look -suspicious, even to them.”</p> - -<p>“Suppose—” Lyman hesitated. “May I have one of those photographs?”</p> - - -<p>“Why?”</p> - -<p>“If one of us had—an accident—the other one would still have the -proof. Enough, maybe, to convince the right people.”</p> - -<p>The brown man hesitated, nodded shortly, and opened his watch-case -again. He gave Lyman one of the pictures.</p> - -<p>“Hide it,” he said. “It’s—evidence. I’ll see you here tomorrow. -Meanwhile, be careful. Remember to play safe.”</p> - -<p>They shook hands firmly, facing each other in an endless second of -final, decisive silence. Then the brown man turned abruptly and walked -out of the bar.</p> - -<p>Lyman sat there. Between two wrinkles in his forehead there was a stir -and a flicker of lashes unfurling. The third eye opened slowly and -looked after the brown man.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/illus.jpg" alt=""/> - <div class="caption"> - <p>The third eye opened slowly and looked after the man</p> - </div> -</div> - - - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DON'T LOOK NOW ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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