The little guy comes into the bar just as
the first Marscast is about to start. He scoffs
at scientific facts and keeps mumbling about—

THE FROGS OF MARS

By Roger Dee

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
April 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]



There was nothing special about the little man who came into Larry'splace, unless it might have been his air of vague familiarity and themixed expression on his face. He looked disgusted and defensive and atthe same time a little resentful, with a dash of something else thrownin which none of us recognized until later.

I'd have mistaken him for another reporter from the Advertiseracross the street if the five newsmen already at the bar hadn't giveneach other a blank look that meant only one thing: none of them knewhim. Neither did Larry, who was trying to bring in the first broadcastfrom Mars on the television set bracketed to the wall over his whiskeystock, and who wasn't pleased at having his little after-hours partycrashed.

"The bar's closed," Larry said. His tone didn't invite argument. "Cityordinance. No customers after 1:00 a.m."

The little man looked at the clock, which said 3:15, and then at thefront windows which were shuttered tight. Then he looked at the six ofus sitting at the bar with our drinks.

"I'll have bourbon and water," he said. He sat down at the end of thebar on the stool next to mine and looked at his reflection in themirror without approval.

Larry got the look that bartenders get with troublesome customers.

"The bar's closed," he said again. "It's a city—"

"Water on the side," the little man said. "Don't mix it."

Abe Marker, who does sports for the Advertiser, got up and checkedthe front-door lock. The thumb-catch hadn't been thrown, so Abe put iton and came back to the bar.

"Nobody else will wander in," he said. "Make with the t-v, Larry.You're holding up the show."

Larry looked stubborn.

"It's after 1:00 a.m.," he said. "And that door was supposed to belocked. There's a city ordinance—"

"You're breaking it already," the little man said, looking at us. Hedidn't seem angry, just weary and disgusted. "Not that I give a damn.All I want is a bourbon and water."

"Better give it to him, Larry," Willard Saxton said from down the bar.Willard is the Advertiser's science editor and is an authority on theplanets, especially Mars. "He'll probably turn you in if you throw himout."

Larry muttered and looked mulish, but he rang up the little man's moneyand gave him a bourbon and water. The little guy drank it and lookedat himself in the bar mirror with an expression that was just shortof being a sneer. Larry grunted and went back to fiddling with thetelevision set.

Abe Marker came over and sat down on the stool to my left.

"They're doing this all over town tonight," he said, explaining to thelittle man across me. "The bars have to observe curfew as usual, butmost of them are letting a few regular customers stay late to see theMarscast. Everybody is anxious to know what Colonel Sanderson and hiscrew found up there, so—"

"They're going to be disappointed," the little man said. He soundedsour but positive. "Mars ain't what people think it is, not by a hellof a sight. It stinks."

We all looked up at that, and somebody snickered.

"Have you been to Mars, sir?"

The little man d

...

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