"O K. O K. Now let's have an idea how this growth can be stopped.
Theoretical, you know."

"As far as I know," said Miss Francis, "it cannot be stopped."

TWO

_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 hap