THEFT
By Bill Venable
With little green men telling him what to
write, Thompson was certain he had flipped his lid.
His psychiatrist agreed—until he read the stories!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
September 1952
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Thompson poured himself a shot of rye and downed it in one quickmovement. He then pulled out his tobacco pouch, filled his pipe andapplied a flaming match to the bowl. He puffed clouds of fragrantsmoke. He frowned deeply. It was a good frown because Thompson was anexpert in the art of frowning. This particular frown was a frown ofirritated exasperation, because Thompson was an author, and it was lateat night, and he'd drunk a quarter of a fifth of rye and smoked elevenpipefuls of tobacco and played four LP records, and he still had noideas. His head swam from the effects of the whisky, and the tobacco,and the records; but he persevered in his search for An Idea for aStory.
He searched among his records for Le Coq d'Or and put it on thephonograph, at bass tone and loud volume. After the first few bars hegot up and took it off, still a man without inspiration. He playedHindemith's Variations on a Theme by Russell next. Utterly useless.He tried The Age of Anxiety and followed it with Petrouchka;intermittently he sat down and pondered passages from Rubaiyat. Allto no avail.
About this time the little green men came out of the woodwork. Theydidn't emerge from the woodwork in the manner one might expect—i.e.squeezing through cracks and knotholes like mice and spiders. They justsort 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 andgot up from his chair. He put the whisky back in the cupboard and tookthe record off. Then he sat down again and regarded the little greenmen. He closed his eyes tightly and held them closed for a minute orso. He opened them and looked at the green men again. Then he rubbedhis eyes and pounded his head with his hands. The green men sat inmid-air and stared at him. Thompson regarded them as coldly as possible.
"Well," said the nearest green man, "Aren't you going to say hello?"
Thompson swallowed. "Hello," he managed after a moment.
"Hello," rejoined the other.
Thompson nodded his head affably and remained silent. Presently he wentto the cupboard and got out the whisky; he poured a shot and downed itin one quick movement. Then he filled his pipe and lit it. He puffedclouds of smoke and stared at the green men through a blue haze.
"Well," said the nearest green man again, "Aren't you glad?"
Thompson nodded genially.
"We're here to help you write a story, you know," pursued the other.
"Oh." Thompson brightened. "Good. Got any ideas?"
"Naturally. What would you like to write about? Romance? Adventure?Mystery? Fantasy?"
"Let's try—" Thompson pursed his lips and looked at the ceiling, "ashort mystery. Something with a surprise ending that lays you out."
"Easy," said the other. "Try this."
He began narrating.
Thompson relaxed in his chair and puffed more clouds of smoke.Presently his face lit up. His eyes dilated and his pupils diminishedto specks.
"Ah!" He exclaimed. He