the
commencement of this diary. I shall take a wellearned rest from my
literary labors for a few days. F announces a new test--"the final one,
Weener, the final one"--for tomorrow.

_November 10_: Experiment with the now perfected compound has been put
off one more day. F is completely calm and confident of the outcome. She
is below now, making lastminute preparations. For the first time she has
infected me with her certitude--although I never doubted ultimate
success--and I feel tomorrow will actually see the beginning of the end
for the Grass which started so long ago on Mrs Dinkman's lawn. How far I
and the world have come since then!

Would I go back to that day if I had the power? It seems an absurd
question, but there is no doubt we who have survived have gained
spiritual stature. Of course I do not mean anything mystical or
supernatural by this observation--we have acquired heightened
sensitivity and new perceptions. Brother Paul, ridiculous mountebank,
was yet correct in this--the Grass chastised us rightly. Whatever sins
mankind committed have been wiped out and expiated.

_Later_: We are out of sight of land; nothing but sea and sky, no green
anywhere. On the eve of liberation all sorts of absurd and irrelevant
thoughts jump about in my mind. The strange lady ... Joe's symphony,
burned by his mother. Whatever happened to William Rufus Le ffacase
after he eschewed his profession for superstition? And Mrs Dinkman? For
some annoying reason I am beset with the thought of Mrs Dinkman.

I can see her pincenez illadjusted on her nose. I can hear her
highpitched complaining voice bargaining with me over the cost of
inoculating her lawn. The ugly stuff of her tasteless dress is before my
eyes. It is so real to me I swear I can see the poor, irregular lines of
the weaving.

_Still later_: I have sat here in a dull lethargy, undoubtedly induced
by my overwrought state, quite understandable in the light of what is to
happen in a few hours, my eyes on the seams of the deck, reviewing all
the things I have written in my book, preparing myself, a way, for the
glorious and triumphant finish. But I am beset by delusions. A moment
ago it was the figure of Mrs Dinkman and now--

And now, by all the horror that has overcome mankind, it is a waving,
creeping, insatiable runner of the Grass.

_Again_: I have made no attempt to pinch off the green stolon. It must
be three inches long by now and the slim end is waving in the