_8._ I thought I was prepared for anything after the shocks of the day
before; I know I was prepared for nothing at all--to find the grass as
I'd left it or even reverted to its original decay. Indeed, I was not
too sure that my memory was completely accurate; that the thing had
happened so fantastically.
But the devilgrass had outdone itself and made my anticipations foolish.
It waved a green crest higher than the crowd--a crowd three times the
size of yesterday's and increasing rapidly. All the scars inflicted on
it, the indignities of scythe and mower, were covered by a new and even
more prodigious stand which made all its former growth appear puny. Bold
and insolent, it had repaired the hackedout areas and risen to such a
height that, except for a narrow strip at the top, all the windows of
the Dinkman house were smothered. Of the garage, only the roof, islanded
and bewildered, was visible, apparently resting on a solid foundation
of devilgrass. It sprawled kittenishly, its deceptive softness faintly
suggesting fur; at once playful and destructive. My optimism of the
night before was dashed; this voracious growth wasnt going to dwindle
away of itself. It would have to be killed, rooted out.
Now the Dinkman lawn wasnt continuous with its neighbors, but, until
now, had been set off by chesthigh hedges. The day before these had
contained and defined the growth, but, overwhelming them in the night,
the grass had swept across and invaded the neat, civilized plots behind,
blurring sharply cut edges, curiously investigating flowerbeds,
barbarously strangling shapely bushes.
But these werent the ravages which upset me; it was reasonable if not
entirely comfortable to see shrubbery, plants and blossoms swallowed up.
Work of men's hands they may be, but they bear the imprimatur of nature.
The cement sidewalk, however, was pure artifice, stamped with the
trademark of man. Indignity and defeat were symbolized by its
overrunning; it was an arrogant defiance, an outrageous challenge
offered to every man happening by. But the grass was not satisfied with
this irreverence: it was already making demands on curbing and gutter.
"Junior, youve got a story now. W R fired three copyboys and a
proofreader he was so mad at himself. Here." Jacson Gootes made a pass
in the air, simulated astonishment at the twentydollar bill which
appeared miraculously between his fingers and put it in my hand.
"Thank you," I replied coolly. "Just what is this for?"
"Faith, me boy, such innocence Ive never seen since I left the old sod.
Tis but a little token of esteem from himself, to repay you for the
trouble of leading me to your scientist, your Frankenstein, your
Burbank. Lead on, my boy. And make it snappy, brother," he added,
"because Ive got to be back here for the rescue."
"Rescue?"
"Yeah. People in the house." He consulted a scrap of paper. "Pinkman--"
"Dinkman."
"Dinkman. Yeah--thanks--no idea how sensitive people are when you get
their names wrong. Dinkmans phoned the firedepartment. Can't get out.
Rescue any minute--got to cover that--imperative--TRAPPED IN HOME BY
FREAK LAWN--and nail down your scientist at the same time."
I was very anxious myself to see what would happen here so I suggested,
since I could take him to the discoverer of the Metamorphizer any time,
that we'd better stay and get the Dinkman story first. With
overenthusiastic praise of my acuteness, he agreed and began practicing
his sleightofhand tricks to the great pleasure of some children, the
same ones, I suspect, who had plagued me when I was spraying the lawn.
His performance was terminated by the rapidly approaching firesiren. The
crowd seemed of several minds about the purpose of the red truck
squealing around the corner to a stop. Some, like Gootes, had heard the
Dinkmans were indeed trapped in the house; others declared the firemen
had come to cut away the grass onceandforall; still others held the loud
opinion that the swift growth had generated a spontaneous combustion.
But having made their abrupt face-in-the-ground halt, the truck (or
rather the firemen on it) anticlimactically did nothing at all. Helmeted
and accoutered, ready for instant action, they relaxed contentedly
against the engine, oblivious of grass, bystanders, or presumable
emergency. Gootes strolled over to inquire the cause of their indolence.
"Waiting for the chief," he was informed. Thereupon he borrowed a helmet
(possibly on the strength of his presscard) and proceeded to pull from
it such a variety of objects that he received the final accolade from
several of his audience when they told him admiringly he ought to be on
the stage.
The bystanders were not seduced by this entertainment into approval of
the firemen's idleness and inquired sarcastically why they had left
their cots behind or if they thought they were still on WPA? The men
remained impervious until the chief jumped out of his red roadster and
surveyed the scene napoleonically. "Thought somebody was pulling a rib,"
he explained to no one in particular. "All right, boys, there's folks in
that house--let's get them out."
Carrying a ladder the men plunged toward the house. Their boots trod the
sprawling runners heavily, spurning and crushing them carelessly. The
grass responded by flowing back like water, sloshing over ankles and
lapping at calves, thoroughly entangling and impeding progress. Panting
and struggling the firemen penetrated only a short way into the mass
before they were slowed almost to a standstill. From the sidelines it
seemed as though they were wrestling with an invisible octopus. Feet
were lifted high, but never free of the twining vegetation; the ladder
was pulled angrily forward, but the clutch of the grass upon it became
firmer with every tug.
At length they were halted, although their efforts still gave an
appearance of advance. Thrashing and wrenching they urged themselves and
the now burdensome ladder against the invincible wall. The only result
was to give the illusion they were burying themselves in the clutching
tentacles. Exertions dwindled; the struggle grew less intense; then they
retreated, fighting their way out of the enveloping mass in a panic of
desperation, abandoning the ladder.
The chief surveyed them with less than approbation. "Cut your way in,"
he ordered. "You guys think those axes are only to bust up furniture
with?"
Obediently, wedges of bright steel flashed against the green wall.
"Impatiently I await the rescue of fair Dinkmans from this enchanted
keep," murmured Gootes, vainly trying to balance his pipe on the back of
his hand.
It looked as though he would have to contain his impatience for some
time. The firemen slashed unenthusiastically at the grass, which gave
way only grudgingly and by inches. Halfanhour later they triumphantly
dragged out the abandoned ladder. "Stuff's like rubber--bounds back
instead of cutting."
"Yeah. And in the meantime those people been telephoning again. Want to
know what the delay is. Want to know what they pay taxes for. Threaten
to sue the city."
"Let'm sue. Long as theyre in there they can't collect."
"Funny as a flat tire. Get going, goldbrick."
_9._ Another firetruck rolled up and there was much kidding back and
forth between the two crews. This was clearly no situation in which
lives or property were at stake; it was rather in line with assisting
distraught cats down from tops of telephonepoles or persuading
selfimmolated children to unlock the bathroom door and let mommy in; an
amusing interval in a tense day. Perhaps those manning the second truck
were more naturally ingenious, possibly the original workers sought more
diverting labor; at any rate the futile chopping was abandoned. Instead,
several long ladders were hooked together and the synthesis lowered from
the curb to the edge of Dinkman's roof. It seemed remarkably fragile,
but it reached and the watchers murmured approval.
No longer beset by novelty, the men took easily to the swaying, sagging
bridge. They passed over the baffled grass, the leader carrying another
short ladder which he hung from the roof, stabbing its lower rungs down
into the matted verdure below. The crossing was made with such
insouciance the wonder was they hadnt done it at first, instead of
wasting time on other expedients.
The firemen went down the vertical ladder and forced an entrance into
the choked windows. Mrs Dinkman came out first, helped by two of them.
She kept pinching her glasses into place with one hand and pulling her
skirt modestly close with the other, activities leaving her very little
to grasp the ladder with. The firemen seemed quite accustomed to this
sort of irrationality, and paying no heed to the rush of
words--inaudible to us on the street--bursting from her, they coaxed her
expertly up onto the roof. Here she stood, statuesquely outlined against
the bright sky, berating her succorers, until Mr Dinkman, rounded, bald,
and calm, joined her.
At first Mrs Dinkman refused to try the bridge to the street, but after
some urging which was conveyed to us by the gestures of the firemen, she
ventured gingerly on the trembling ladders only to draw back quickly.
One of the firemen demonstrated the ease and simplicity of the journey,
but it was vain; Mrs Dinkman was carried across gallantly in traditional
movie style, with Mr Dinkman and the crew following sedately behind.
"A crime," Mrs Dinkman was saying when she came within earshot. "A
crime. Malicious mischief. Ought to be locked up for life."
"Don't upset yourself, my dear," urged Mr Dinkman. "It's very
distressing, but afterall it might be worse."
"'Worse'! Adam Dinkman, has misfortune completely unhinged your mind?
Money thrown in the gutter--imposed on by oily rascals--our house
swallowed up by this ... this unnatural stuff--and the final humiliation
of being pulled out of our own home in front of a gawking crowd." She
turned around and shouted, "Shoo, shoo--why don't you go home?" And then
to Mr Dinkman again, "'Worse' indeed! I'd like to know what could be
worse?"
"Well now--" began Mr Dinkman; but I didnt hear the rest, for I was
afraid by "rascals" Mrs Dinkman referred, quite unjustly, to me and I
thought the time opportune to remind Gootes he hadnt yet completed his
assignment.
"Right," he agreed, suddenly assuming the abrupt accents of an
improbable Englishman, "oh very right, old chap. Let's toddle along and
see what Fu Manchu has to say for himself. First off though I shall have
to phone in to Fleet Street--I mean to W R."
"Fine. You can ask him at the same time to authorize you to give me the
other thirty."