e 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.

I trusted so. Quickly. I was tired of Mrs Dinkman's lawn.

_13._ "Weener sahib, fate has tied us together."

I hoped not. I was weary of Gootes and his phony accents.

"On account of your female Burbank, your scientess (scientistess is a
twister. Peder Piber et a peg of piggled pebbers) won't play ball with W
R. The chief offered her a fabulous sum--'much beer in little kegs, many
dozen hardboiled eggs, and goodies to a fabulous amount'--fabulous for W
R, that is--to act as special writer on the grass business. J S Francis,
World Renowned Chemist, exclusively in the _Intelligencer_. You know.
Suppress her unfortunate sex. ORIGINATOR OF WILD GRASS TELLS ALL.

"Anyway she didnt grasp her chance. Practically told W R to go to hell.
Practically told him to go to hell," he repeated, evidently torn
between reprehension at the sacrilege and admiration of the daring.

Miss Francis plainly had what might be described as talent that way. I
debated whether to inform Gootes of my discovery of her craziness and
decided against it on the bare possibility it would be unwise to lower
the value of my connection with the Metamorphizer's discoverer. I was
soon rewarded for my caution.

"O Weeneru san," continued Gootes, evidently in an oriental vein
traveling westward, "not too hard for you to be picking up few yen. You
do not hate fifty potatoes from Editor san yesterday?"

"Forty," I corrected.

"Forty, fifty--what's the difference so long as youre healthy?" He
produced a card, showed it, tore it in half, waved his hand and
exhibited it whole and unharmed. "No kidding, chum