y. It was an article. It
really--"

"Now, now. The first thing a writer must learn is not to take his ideas
too seriously. Very dangerous, especially in a piece of fiction like
yours."

"But the whole thing is true!"

"Certainly--while you were writing it." The editor shoved a pile of mail
across the desk toward him. "Here are some of the comments that have
come in. I think you'll enjoy seeing the reaction."

Clocker went through them, hoping anxiously for no more than a single
note that would show his message had come through to somebody. He
finished and looked up blankly.

"You see?" the editor asked proudly. "You're a find."

"The new Mark Twain or Jonathan Swift. A comic."

"A satirist," the editor amended. He leaned across the desk on his
crossed forearms. "A mail response like this indicates a talent worth
developing. We would like to discuss a series of stories--"

"Articles."

"Whatever you choose to call them. We're prepared to--"

"You ever been off your rocker?" Clocker asked abruptly.

* * * * *

The editor sat back, smiling with polite puzzlement. "Why, no."

"You ought to try it some time." Clocker lifted himself out of the chair
and went to the door. "That's what I want, what I was trying to sell in
my article. We all ought to go to hospitals and get ourself let in and
have these aliens take over and show us where we're going."

"You think that would be an improvement?"

"What wouldn't?" asked Clocker, opening the door.

"But about the series--"

"I've got your name and address. I'll let you know if anything turns up.
Don't call me; I'll call you."

Clocker closed the door behind him, went out of the handsome building
and called a taxi. All through the long ride, he stared at the thinning
out of the city, the huddled suburban communities, the stretches of
grass and well-behaved woods that were permitted to survive.

He climbed out at Glendale Center Hospital, paid the hackie, and went to
the admitting desk. The nurse gave him a smile.

"We were wondering when you'd come visit your wife," she said. "Been
away?"

"Sort of," he answered, with as little emotion as he had felt while he
was being controlled. "I'll be seeing plenty of her from now on. I want
my old room back."

"But you're perfectly normal!"

"That depends on how you look at it. Give me ten minutes alone and any
brain vet will be glad to give me a cushioned room."

Hands in his pocke