t enough paint to make the intent of obliteration clear without
actually doing so.

_58._ How Miss Francis contrived to make every place she lived in,
apartment, chickenhouse or cottage, look exactly alike was remarkable.
Nothing is more absurd than the notion that socalled intellectual
workers are always alert--as Miss Francis demonstrated by her greeting
to me.

"Well, Weener, what is it this time? Selling on commission or an
interview?"

It was inconceivable any literate person in the United States could be
ignorant of my position. "It is neither," I returned with some dignity.
"I am here to do you a favor. To help you in your work." And I explained
my proposition.

She squatted back on her heels and gave me that old, familiar, searching
look. "So you have made a good thing out of the Metamorphizer afterall,"
she said irrelevantly and untruthfully. "Weener, you are a consistent
character--a beautifully consistent character."

"Please come to the point, Miss Francis. I am a busy man and I have come
down here simply to see you. Will you accept?"

"No."

"No?"

"I doubt if I could combine my research with your attempt to process the
inoculated _Cynodon dactylon_. However, that would not prevent me from
taking you up and using you in order to further a good cause. But I am
not yet ready--I shall not be ready for some time, to go directly to the
Grass. That must come later. No, Weener."

I was exasperated at the softness of my impulse which had made me seek
out this madwoman to do her a favor. I could not regret my charitable
nature, but I mentally resolved to be more discriminating in future.
Besides, the thought of Miss Francis for the work had been sheer
sentimentality, the sort of false reasoning which would make of every
mother an obstetrician or every hen an oologist.

As I sauntered through the drowsy streets, killing time till the driver
of the ridiculous "bus" should decide to guide his mules back to the
airport, I was struck by the lack of tension, of apprehension and
anxiety, so apparent in New York. Evidently the Black South suffered
little from the brooding fear and terror; I put it down to their
childish thoughtlessness.

Walking thus reflectively, head down, I looked up suddenly--straight
into the face of the Strange Lady I had driven from Los Angeles to Yuma.

I'm sure I opened my mouth, but no words came out. She was hurrying
rapidly along, paying no attention either to me or to her surr