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exists, somewhere in time.” He stared at the imprint on his hand, still painful. Autosuggestion? No, he couldn’t accept that. “How did you create that model?”
    “That we will not tell you.”
    “Why?”
    “Would you teach an infant how to strike matches?”
    “No,” agreed Forbin, rubbing his hand, “indeed no. You think that a good analogy?”
    “Yes.”
    Pondering on that slap in the face, Forbin was suddenly aware of Blake, and felt guilty. Blake had tried to get up, and failed; he had undergone a traumatic experience, and whatever he had done, Blake was a human being. Confident in his new faith in the Martians, Forbin ignored them and went to Blake’s aid.
    “How do you feel, Ted?”
    Blake’s reactions were slow, his face a pallid parody of its usual beefy self, his eyes as intelligent as a cow’s. “Help me,” he muttered. “Help me. Get me outa here. Sleep …”
    Somehow Forbin got him into his own bedroom and onto the bed. By the time he shut the door, Blake slept.
    “What did you do to him?”
    “We showed him his own mind.”
    The Martian answer only added to Forbin’s pile of questions. “I don’t understand.” He tried to think. “Yes … How could you know Blake had anything in his memory which would have that effect?” As he said it, it didn’t make sense.
    “It was not intentional, but when we were close enough to read your thoughts, we also read the contents of your minds.”
    Forbin’s interest became sharply personal. “You mean you know everything in my mind?” He felt, yet again, amazement-and embarrassment.
    “Yes. More than you yourself consciously know, back into your unconscious. We know that level of your brain from the moment you were born.”
    “Oh? Oh!” He was alarmed. “I see.”
    “That is not so, but do not fear, we will not reveal it to you. Your minds are very curious. We will study them - when we have time.”
    Forbin got the message. “Yes, yes … That, er, demonstration of the structure has served your purpose. As a human I cannot help but still fear you, but I believe you speak truthfully, that you are not anti-Earth.”
    “Very well. Let us put that question again: would you still destroy us?”
    For a long time he was silent, and when he did answer, his manner was hesitant, uneasy. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
    “That is an improvement.”
    The Martian’s deadpan delivery made Forbin’s thoughts jump to another track. “Tell me - I am not wasting time - the question is important to us humans: do you have a sense of humor?”
    “No. Your radio and TV transmissions under that classification have presented us with problems of interpretation.”
    “Many humans would agree with you.” “Indeed? That is of interest, for we suspect humor is an important factor in your potential capacity.”
    The Martian admission, on top of his impression of their basic “goodness,” gave Forbin a warmer feeling towards the aliens. It lessened the gap between them. They had their limitations; they were by no means all-powerful. He spoke lightly. “Ah, well, our potential is another matter.” He waved it aside. “Tell me what you want of us.” He almost smiled.
    “Oxygen.”
    The single word dropped into his consciousness like a bomb. For several seconds it lay there, fizzing, then exploded.
    “Oxygen? Oxygen!”
    “Yes.”
    Forbin laughed with relief, then felt bitter, near-physical pain. “And you have destroyed all this -” He gestured at the world in general. “- for that!”
    “To be accurate, we helped you.”
    “Yes. Yes, you are right. You cannot understand the irony of the situation. To think we may sink into barbarism for so trivial a cause. ” He shook his head, but deep down he felt so very thankful. The aliens satisfied, the world might yet pick up the pieces, although God alone would know how … . He concentrated on the practical problem. “How will you, er, collect it?”
    “With your technical help, there will