Bill Venable

“ 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?" ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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. ”