TWO

_Consequences of a Discovery_

_11._ "But it's got to be stopped," exclaimed Gootes.

Miss Francis turned silently back to her flowerpot as though she'd

forgotten us. Gootes coursed the kitchenfloor like a puzzled yet anxious

hound. "Damn it, it's got to be stopped." He halfway extracted his pack

of cards, then hastily withdrew his hand as though guarding the moment's

gravity.

"Otherwise ... why, otherwise itll swallow the house." He decided on the

cards afterall and balanced four of them edgewise on the back of his

hand. Miss Francis immediately abandoned the flowerpot to stare

childishly at the feat. "In fact, if what you say is true, it will

literally swallow up the house. Digest it. Convert it into devilgrass."

"_Cynodon dactylon._ What I say is true. How much elementary physics is

involved in that trick?"

"But that's terrible," protested Gootes. He regarded a bowl of algae as

if about to make it disappear. Mentally I agreed; one of the greatest

potential moneymakers of the age lost and valueless.

"Yes," she agreed, "it is terrible. Terrible as the starvation in a hive

when the apiarist takes out the winter honey; terrible as the daily

business in an abattoir; terrible as the appetite of grown fish at

spawning time."

"Poo. Fate. Kismet. Nature."

"Ah; you are unconcerned with catastrophes which don't affect man."

"Local man," substituted Gootes. "Los Angeles man. _Pithecanthropus

moviensis._ Stiffs in Constantinople are strictly AP stuff."

"It seems to me," I broke in, "that you are both assuming too much. I

don't know of anything that calls for the word catastrophe. I'm sure I'm

sorry if the Dinkmans' house is swallowed up as Gootes suggests, but it

hasnt been and I'm sure the possibility is exaggerated. The authorities

will do something or the grass will stop growing. I don't see any point

in looking at the blackest side of things."

Gootes opened his mouth in pretended astonishment. "Wal, I swan. Boy's a

philosopher."

"You are not particularly concerned, Weener?"

"I don't know any reason why I should be," I retorted. "I sold your

product in good faith and I am not responsible--"

"Oh, blind, blind. Do you imagine one man can suffer and you not suffer?

Is your name Simeon Stylites? Do you think for an instant what happens

to any man doesnt happen to everyman? Are you not your brother's

keeper?" She twisted her hands together. "Not responsible! Why, you are

responsible for every brutality, execution, meanness and calamity in the

world today!"

I had often heard that the borderline between profundity and insanity

was thin and inexact and it was now clear on which side she stood. I

looked at Gootes to see how he was taking her hysterical outburst, but

he had found a batch of empty testtubes which he was building into a

perilously swaying structure.

"Of course, of course," I agreed soothingly, backing away. "Youre quite

right."

She walked the floor as if her awkward body were a burden. "Is the

instant response to an obvious truth--platitude even--always a diagnosis

of lunacy? I state a thought so old no one knows who first expressed it

and a hearer feels bound to choose between offense to himself and

contempt for the speaker. Believe me, Weener, I was offering no

exclusive indictment: I too am guilty--infinitely culpable. Even if I

had devoted my life to pure science--perhaps even more certainly

then--patterning myself on a medieval monastic, faithful to vows of

poverty and singleness of purpose; even if I had not, for an apparently

laudable end, betrayed my efforts to a base greed; even if I had never

picked for a moment's use such an unworthy--do not be insulted again,

Weener, unworthiness is a fact, insofar as there are any facts at

all--such an unworthy tool as yourself; even if I had never compounded

the Metamorphizer; even if I had been a biologist or an astronomer--even

then I should be guilty of ruining the Dinkmans and making them

homeless, just as you are guilty and the reporter here is guilty and the

garbageman is guilty and the pastor in his pulpit is guilty."

"Guilty," exclaimed Gootes suddenly, "guilty! What kind of a lousy

newspaperman am I? Worrying about guilt and solutions in the face of

impending calamity instead of serving it redhot to a palpitating public.

Guilty--hell, I ought to be fired. Or anyway shot. Where's the phone?"

"I manage a minimum of privacy in spite of inquiring reporters and

unemployed canvassers. I have no telephone."

"Hokay. Hole everythings. I return immediate."

I followed him for I had no desire to be left alone with someone who

might prove dangerous. But his long legs took him quickly out of sight

before I could catch him, even by running, and so I fell into a more

sedate pace. All Miss Francis' metaphysical talk was beyond me, but what

little I could make of it was pure nonsense. Guilty. Why, I had never

done anything illegal in my life, unless taking a glass of beer in dry

territory be so accounted. All this talk about guilt suggested some sort

of inverted delusions of persecution. How sad it was the eccentricity of

genius so often turned its possessors into cranks. I was thankful to be

of mere normal intelligence.

_12._ But I wasted no more thought on her, putting the whole episode of

the Metamorphizer behind me, for I now had some liquid capital. It was

true it didnt amount to much, but it existed, crinkled in my pocket, and

I was sure with my experience and native ability I could turn the

_Daily Intelligencer_'s forty dollars into a much larger sum.

But a resolve to forget the Metamorphizer didnt enable me to escape Mrs

Dinkman's lawn. Walking down Hollywood Boulevard, formulating, rejecting

and reshaping plans for my future, I passed a radioshop and from a

loudspeaker hung over the door with the evident purpose of inducing

suggestible pedestrians to rush in and purchase sets, the latest report

of the devilgrass's advance was blared out at me.

"... Station KPAR, The Voice of Edendale, reaching you from a portable

transmitter located in the street in front of what was formerly the

residence of Mr and Mrs Dinkman. I guess youve all heard the story of

how their lawn was allegedly sprinkled with some chemical which made the

grass run wild. I don't know anything about that, but I want to tell you

this grass is certainly running wild. It must be fifteen or sixteen feet

high--think of that, folks--nearly as high as three men standing on each

other's shoulders. It's covered the roof halfway to the peak and it's

choking the windows and doorways of the houses on either side. It's all

over the sidewalk--looks like an enormous green woolly rug--no, that's

not quite right--anyway, it's all over the sidewalk and it would be

right out here in the street where I'm talking to you from if the

firedepartment wasnt on the job constantly chopping off the creeping

ends as they come over the curb. I want to tell you, folks, it's a

frightening sight to see grass--the same kind of grass growing in your

backyard or mine--magnified or maybe I mean multiplied a hundred

times--or maybe more--and coming at you as if it was an enemy--only the

cold steel of the fireman's ax saving you from it.

"While we're waiting for some action, folks--well, not exactly that--the

grass is giving us plenty of action all right--I'll try to bring you

some impressions of the people in the street. Literally in the street,

because the sidewalk is covered with grass. Pardon me, sir--would you

like to say a few words to the unseen audience of Station KPAR? Speak

right into the microphone, sir. Let's have your name first. Don't be

bashful. Haha. Gentleman doesnt care to give his name. Well, that's all

right, quite all right. Just what do you think of this phenomenon? How

does it impress you? Are you disturbed by the sight of this riot of

vegetation? Right into the microphone...."

"Uh ... hello ... well, I guess I havent ... uh anything much to say ...

pretty color ... bad stuff, I guess. Gladsnotgrowing myyard...."

"Yes, go right on, sir. Oh ... the gentleman is through. Very

interesting and thank you.

"Theyre bringing up a whole crew of weedburners now--going to try and

get this thing under control. The men all have tanks of oil or kerosene

on their backs. Wait a minute, folks, I want to find out for sure

whether it's oil or kerosene. Mumble. Mumble. Well, folks, I'm sorry,

but this gentleman doesnt know exactly what's in the tanks. Anyway it's

kerosene or oil and there are long hoses with wide nozzles at the end.

Something like vacuumcleaners. Well, that's not quite right. Anyway

theyre lighting the nozzles now. Makes a big whoosh. Now I'll bring the

microphone closer and maybe you can catch the noise of the flame. Hear

it? That's quite a roar. I guess old Mr Grass is cooked now.

"Now these boys are advancing in a straight line from the street up over

the curb, holding their fiery torches in front of them. The devilgrass

is shriveling up. Yessir, it's shriveling right up--like a gob of

tobaccojuice on a hot stove. Theyve burned about two feet of it away

already. Nothing left but some smoking stems. Quite a lot of smoking

stems--a regular compact mass of them--but all the green stuff has been

burned right off. Yes, folks, burned clean off; I wish we had television

here so I could show you how that thick pad of stems lies there without

a bit of life left in it.

"Now theyre uncovering the sidewalk. I'm following right behind with the

microphone--maybe you can hear the roar of the weedburners again. Now

I'd like to have you keep in mind the height of this grass. You never

saw grass as tall as this unless youve been in the jungle or South

America or someplace where grass grows this high. I mean high. Even here

at the sidewalk it's well over a man's head, seven or eight feet. And

this crew is carving right into it, cutting it like steel with an

acetylenetorch. Theyre making big holes in it. You hear that hissing?

That noise like a steamhose? Well, that's the grass shriveling. Think of

it--grass with so much sap inside it hisses. It's drying right up in a

one-two-three! Now the top part is falling down--toppling

forward--coming like a breaking wave. Oops! Hay.... It put out one of

the torches by smothering it. Drowned it in grass. Nothing serious--the

boy's got it lit again. Progress is slow here, folks--youve got to

realize this stuff's about ten feet high. Further in it's anyway sixteen

feet. Fighting it's like battling an octopus with a million arms. The

stuff writhes around and grows all the time. It's terrific. Imagine

tangles of barbedwire, hundreds and hundreds of bales or rolls or

however barbedwire comes, covering your frontyard and house--only it

isnt barbedwire at all, but green, living grass.... Just a minute,

folks, I'm having a little trouble with my microphone cable. Nothing

serious, you understand--tangled a bit in the grass behind me. Those

burnt stems. Stand by for just a minute...."

"This is KPAR, The Voice of Edendale. Due to mechanical difficulties

there will be a brief musical interlude until contact is resumed with

our portable transmitter bringing you an onthespot account of the

unusual grass...."

"Kirk, Quork, krrmp--AR's portable transmitter. Here I am again, folks,

in the street in front of the Dinkman residence--a little out of breath,

but none the worse off, ready to resume the blowbyblow story of the

fight against the devilgrass. That was a little trouble back there, but

it's all right now. Seems the weedburners hadnt quite finished off the

grass in the parkwaystrip between the curb and the sidewalk and after I

dragged my microphone cable across it, it sort of--well, it sort of came

to life again and tangled up the cable. It's all right now though.

Everything under control. The boys with the weedburners have come back

and are going over the parkwaystrip again, just to make sure.

"I want to tell you--this stuff really can grow. It's amazing, simply

amazing. Youve heard of plants growing while you look at them; well,

this grows while you don't look at it. It grows while your back is

turned. Just to give you an example: while the boys have been busy a

second time with the parkwaystrip, the grass has come back and grown

again over all they burned up beyond the sidewalk. And now it's starting

to come back over the concrete. You can actually see it move. The

creepers run out in front and crawl ahead like thousands of little green

snakes. Imagine seeing grass traveling forward like an army of worms. An

army you can't stop. Because it's alive. Alive and coming at you. It's

alive. It's alive. It's al--"

"This is Station KPAR. We will resume our regular programs immediately

following the timesignal. Now we bring you a message from the

manufacturers of Chewachoc, the Candy Laxative with the Hole...."

I continued thoughtfully down the street. The _Daily Intelligencer_ was

spread on a newsstand, a smudgy black bannerhead fouling its pure bosom.

CITY COUNCIL MEETS TO END GRASS MENACE.