What would have been called a nose on anyone else, on the green man would have been called a blob.

Its shape was not remarkable for its definition, but rather for its lack of it. The nostrils seemed to dash startledly from the sides of the putty-blob, as though they were tunnels dug without destinations in mind.

Aside from the nose, and the Kelly-green skin color, there was nothing particularly outstanding about the visitor.

It was to Milt Klowitz’s everlasting credit that the sight of the green man, sitting with legs neatly crossed and trouser creases neatly pulled up, did not throw him completely off stride.

He finished closing the door to his apartment and removed his hat. He dropped it on the floor, instead of the closet shelf, without noticing what he had done, and moved a step closer. It might be said that Milt Klowitz had the look of his rough Hungarian countenance of a Salk peering through a microscope at a bacillus with earmuffs.

“You’re green,” he stated matter-of-factly, and unnecessarily.

The green man seemed pleased by his accuracy and lack of surprise. “Quite right,” he said cheerfully. “We assumed you wouldn’t become hysterical at the fact, it was one of your chief attractions.” He waved a green hand toward the bookshelves glutted with science fiction magazines and novels.

Milt Klowitz struggled to maintain the poise with which he had been credited. He lowered himself into the opposite chair and frankly stared.

“It was our belief that an Earthman steeped in the fantastic literature of your era would be most easily approached. Judging from your reaction, I would say that our confidence was justified.”

“Where?” Milt said. The strangled word was only the beginning of his question, but the green man seemed to comprehend.

“From a world whose name you wouldn’t know, a world not in your solar system or astronomical tables. A world, I might add, which has become increasingly concerned with your behavior.”