Have you ever written science fiction?Have your stories been rejected? Hereinmay lie the reason.
"Your name?"
"Cole. Martin Cole."
"Your profession?"
"A very important one. I am aliterary agent specializing inscience fiction. I sell the work ofvarious authors to magazine andbook publishers."
The Coroner paused to studyCole; to ponder the thin, mirthlesssmile. The Coroner said, "Mr. Cole,this inquest has been called to lookinto the death of one SanfordSmith, who was found near yourhome with a gun in his hand anda bullet in his brain. The theory ofsuicide has been—"
"—rather hard to rationalize?"
The Coroner blinked. "Youcould put it that way."
"I would put it even stronger.The theory is obviously ridiculous.It was a weak cover-up. The best Icould do under the circumstances."
"You are saying that you killedSanford Smith?"
"Of course."
The Coroner glanced at his six-manjury, at the two police officers,at the scattering of spectators. Theyall seemed stunned. Even the reportersent to cover the hearingmade no move toward the telephone.The Coroner could think ofonly the obvious question: "Whydid you kill him?"
"He was dangerous to us."
"Whom do you mean by us?"
"We Martians, who plan to takeover your world."
The Coroner was disappointed. Alunatic. But a lunatic can murder.Best to proceed, the Coronerthought. "I was not aware that wehave Martians to contend with."
"If I'd had the right weapon touse on Smith, you wouldn't be awareof it now. We still exercise caution."
The Coroner felt a certain pity."Why did you kill Smith?"
"We Martians have foundscience-fiction writers to be ourgreatest danger. Through the mediumof imaginative fiction, suchwriters have more than once revealedour plans. If the public suddenlyrealized that—"
The Coroner broke in. "Youkilled Smith because he revealedsomething in his writings?"
"Yes. He refused to take my wordthat it was unsalable. He threatenedto submit it direct. It was vitalmaterial."
"But there are many other suchwriters. You can't control—"
"We control ninety percent ofthe output. We have concentratedon the field and all of the science-fictionagencies are in our hands.This control was imperative."
"I see." The Coroner spoke inthe gentle tones one uses with theinsane. "Any writing dangerous toyour cause is deleted or changed bythe agents."
"Not exactly. The agent usuallypersuades the writer to make anysuch changes, as the agent is consideredan authority on what willor will not sell."
"The writers always agree?"
"Not always. If stubbornness isencountered, the agent merelyshelves the manuscript and tells thewriter it has been repeatedly rejected."
The Coroner glanced at the twopolicemen. Both were obviouslypuzzled. They returned the Coroner'slook, apparently ready tomove on his order.
The thin, mirthless smile was stillon Cole's lips. Maniacal violencecould lie just behind it. PossiblyCole was armed. Better to play fortime—try to quiet the madnesswithin. The Coroner continuedspeaking. "You Martians have infiltratedother fields also?"
"Oh, yes. We are in government,industry, education. We are everywhere.We have, of course, concentratedmainly upon the ranks oflabor and in the masses of ordinary,everyday people. It is from thesesources that we will draw ourshock troops when the time comes."
"That time will be—?"
"Soon, very soon."
The Coroner could not foreb