Free Bradbury, Ray - SSC 11 by The Machineries of Joy (v2.1) Page B

I were as excited about ordinary
mail," observed Fortnum.
                   "Ordinaryl" Tom ripped the cord and
paper wildly. "Don't you read the back pages of Popular Mechanics? Well,
here they are!"
                   Everyone peered into the small open box.
                   "Here," said Fortnum, ''what
are?"
                   “The Sylvan Glade Jumbo-Giant Guaranteed
Growth Raise-Them-in-Your-Cellar-for-Big-Profit Mushrooms!"
                   "Oh, of course," said Fortnum.
"How silly of me."
                   Cynthia squinted. “Those little teeny
bits?"
                   " 'Fabulous growth in twenty-four
hours,’" Tom quoted from memory. " 'Plant them in your cellar . .
.'"
                   Fortnum and wife exchanged glances,
                   "Well," she admitted, "It's
better than frogs and green snakes."
                   "Sure is!" Tom ran.
                   "Oh, Tom," said Fortnum lightly.
                   Tom paused at the cellar door.
                   “Tom," said his father. "Next time,
fourth-class mail would do fine."
                   "Heck," said Tom. "They must’ve
made a mistake, thought I was some rich company. Airmail special, who can
afford that?”
                   The cellar door slammed.
                   Fortnum, bemused, scanned the wrapper a moment
then dropped it into the wastebasket. On his way to the kitchen, he opened the
cellar door.
                   Tom was already on his knees, digging with a
hand rake in the dirt.
                   He felt his wife beside him, breathing softly,
looking down into the cool dimness.
                   'Those are mushrooms, I hope. Not . . .
toadstools?"
                   Fortnum laughed. "Happy harvest,
farmer!"
                   Tom glanced up and waved.
                   Fortnum shut the door, took his wife's arm and
walked her out to the kitchen, feeling fine.
                  Toward noon, Fortnum was driving toward the
nearest market when he saw Roger Willis, a fellow Rotarian and a teacher of
biology at the town high school, waving urgently from the sidewalk.
                   Fortnum pulled his car up and opened the door.
                   "Hi, Roger, give you a lift?"
                   Willis responded all too eagerly, jumping in
and slamming the door.
                   "Just the man I want to see. I've put off
calling for days. Could you play psychiatrist for five minutes, God help you?'*
                   Fortnimi examined his friend for a moment as
he drove quietly on.
                   "God help you, yes. Shoot."
                   Willis sat back and studied his fingernails.
"Let's just drive a moment. There. Okay. Here's what I want to say:
Something's wrong with the world."
                   Fortnum laughed easily. 'Hasn't there always
been?"
                   "No, no, I mean . . . something
strange—something unseen —is happening."
                   "Mrs. Goodbody," said Fortnum, half
to himself, and stopped.
                   "Mrs. Goodbody?”
                   "This morning, gave me a talk on flying
saucers."
                   "No." Willis bit the knuckle of his forefinger
nervously. “Nothing like saucers. At least, I don't think. Tell me, what
exactly is intuition?"
                   “The conscious recognition of something that's
been subconscious for a long time. But don't quote this amateur
psychologist!" He laughed again.
                   "Good, good!" Willis turned, his
face lighting. He readjusted himself in the seat. "That's it! Over a long
period, things gather, right? All of a sudden, you have to spit, but you don't
remember saliva collecting.