Bill Venable

“ In order to assure complete control of the Earth-personality, it was of course necessary to isolate the Galactic one completely and further to remove all knowledge of its existence until such a predetermined time as we would be finished with our work and ready to return home. ”

“ Shalimar leaped back with a cry.
The Messrs. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6, standing along the farther wall, murmured among themselves in interested tones.
"He has too many memory sidetracks," remarked Mr. 3, handing Mr. 7 the small gray box. "It certainly wasn't here. Nothing to do but try again." Mr. 7's finger hovered over the red button on the box's right-hand side.
Shalimar braced himself.
Mr. 7 shoved violently down on the button. Shalimar behaved in the expected fashion; he vanished.
Mr. 7 then pressed the green button on the left side. He and his colleagues followed after Shalimar. ”

“ 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. ”

“ To do this it was necessary, through standard psychological procedure, to isolate the larger portion of our complete Galactic personalities and to leave only a small pseudopersonality, completely equipped with Earth-memories, under which guise we might proceed with our studies. ”

“ 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. ”

“ He swam clumsily over to the edge of the pool and climbed out. Then he sat down on the edge and began contemplating this new facet of the whole fantastic experience. He knew the pool well enough—had swum in it many times when he had lived in this small town in Ohio, before getting married and going to New York. ”

“ He thought, the tall thing, with a tapered nose silhouetted against the sky, was....
Home.
"I presume you have by now broken away from the limitations of your disintegrating Earth-personality," said a familiar voice.
Mr. 7! And he knew Mr. 7!
"When we arrived—almost twenty years ago—in the role of a Galactic study-group assigned to determine whether the planet Earth was yet fit for full Galactic citizenship," said Mr. 7 slowly, "we found it necessary to assume the roles, separately, of representative beings of Earth, in order to obtain what information we required without arousing suspicion. ”

“ He got his spectacles out of his pocket and adjusted them on his nose. He turned to face the little green men.
"Come on," he said, waving a hand toward the door. "All my life I've wanted to be a great author. ”

“ He drew a glass of water and walked back to Thompson's bedside.
"Sit up," he said. "Here, take these."
Thompson downed the pills and took a swallow of water. The doctor set the glass on the bedside table and went over and turned off the spotlight.
"Now," muttered the doctor. He turned on the lamp beside the bed and wrapped a green shirt around the bulb, tying the sleeves together at the top. He turned the lamp on Thompson's face. "You say the little men give you ideas for stories. Eh?"
Thompson shut his eyes and nodded. "On the desk. See?" ”