Moore Greener Than You Think

1. Auflage 2018
ISBN: 978-1-5312-8915-7
Verlag: Ozymandias Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 481 Seiten

Neither the vegetation nor people in this book are entirely fictitious. But, reader, no person pictured here is you. With one exception. You, Sir, Miss, or Madam - whatever your country or station - are Albert Weener. As I am Albert Weener.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Moore, Ward

Leseproben

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...