Hugh Fortnham woke up and, lying with his eyes closed, listened with delight to the Saturday morning noises.
Downstairs was a frying pan crusting bacon; it is Cynthia who wakes him up not with a cry, but with a sweet scent from the kitchen.
On the other side of the hall, Tom was actually taking a shower.
But whose voice is it, overlapping the buzzing of bumblebees and the rustle of dragonflies, early in the day honors the weather, the era and the villainess-fate? Neighbor, Mrs Goodbody? Of course. The most Christian soul in the body of a giantess - six feet without heels, a wonderful gardener, dietician and urban philosopher eighty years of age.
Hugh rose, pushed back the curtain, and leaned out of the window just as she said loudly:
- There you are! Get it! What don't you like? Ha!
- Good Saturday, Mrs. Goodbody!
The old woman froze in a cloud of anti-pest liquid, which she sprayed with a pump in the form of a giant gun.
- Talk nonsense! She shouted back. - What good is there with these sinister boogers. We got all sorts of things!
- And which ones this time?
“I don’t want to shout so that some magpie doesn’t hear, but ...” Then the neighbor looked around suspiciously and lowered her voice: “For your information: at the moment I am standing in the first line of fire and protecting humanity from invasion from flying saucers.
“Great,” said Fortnham. - No wonder there are so many conversations that aliens will arrive almost from day to day.
- They are already here! Mrs. Goodbody sent a new cloud of poison to the plants, trying to spray the underside of the leaves. - There you are! There you are!
Fortnham moved his head out of the window. Despite the pleasant freshness of the day, the excellent mood at first was slightly spoiled. Poor Mrs Goodbody! Usually so exemplary sane. And suddenly this! Only age takes its toll.
Someone rang at the door.
He grabbed a robe and, still going downstairs, heard an unfamiliar voice: “Express delivery. House of Fortnams? " Then he saw Cynthia coming back from the door with a small package in her hand.
- Express Delivery - Airmail package for our son.
It took him a second to be on the first floor.
- Wow! Probably from the Botanical Gardens in Great Bayou, where new plant species are being cultivated.
- I should be so happy about an ordinary package! Said Fortnham.
- Ordinary? - Tom instantly tore the string and now frantically tore off the wrapping paper. "Don't you read the last pages of Popular Mechanics?" Aha, here they are!
All three were looking inside the small box.
"Well," said Fortnham, "and what is it?"
- Supergiant Sylvan Glade Mushrooms. “One hundred percent guarantee of rapid growth. Grow them in your basement and shovel money! "
- Oh, of course! - exclaimed Fortnham. - How I, a fool, did not immediately realize!
- These little figurines? - Cynthia was surprised, squinting at the contents of the box.
“In twenty-four hours they reach incredible proportions,” Tom spilled from memory. - "Plant them in your basement ..."
Fortnham exchanged glances with his wife.
“Well,” she said, “this is at least better than toads and green snakes.
- Of course, better! - Tom shouted as he ran.
- Ah, Tom, Tom! - With a slight reproach in his voice said Fortnham.
The son even paused at the door to the underground.
- Next time. Tom, - explained the father, - limit yourself to the usual parcel post.
- Complete mortality! - said Tom. - They mixed something up there and decided that I was some kind of rich company. Urgently, by air, and even with home delivery - a normal person cannot afford it!
The basement door slammed shut.
Slightly dumbfounded, Fortnham fiddled with the parcel wrapper, then threw it into the trash bin. On the way to the kitchen, he could not resist and looked into the basement.
Tom was already on his knees and loosened the earth with a spatula.
Fortnham felt his wife's light breath behind him.Over his shoulder, she peered into the cool twilight of the basement.
- I hope these are really edible mushrooms, and not some ... toadstools!
Fortnham shouted with a laugh:
- Good harvest, farmer!
Tom looked up and waved his hand.
In good spirits again, Fortnham closed the basement door, grabbed his wife by the arm, and they headed into the kitchen.
Towards noon, on the way to the nearest supermarket, Fortnham spotted Roger Willis, also a member of the Rotary Business Club and a biology professor at the city university. He stood by the side of the road and voted desperately.
Fortnham stopped the car and opened the door.
- Hi Roger, can I drop you off?
Willis did not make himself ask twice, jumped into the car and slammed the door.
- What luck - you are what I need. Which day I am going to see you, but I postpone everything. Isn't it difficult for you to do a good deed and become a psychiatrist for five minutes?
Fortnham glanced at his friend inquisitively. The car rolled forward at medium speed.
- Okay. Spread it out.
Willis leaned back in his chair and stared intently at his fingernails.
- Wait a bit. Drive your car and ignore me. Yeah. OK. This is what I intended to tell you: something is wrong with this world.
Fortnham laughed softly.
- And when was it okay with him?
- No, I mean ... Strange something ... unprecedented ... is happening.
“Mrs. Goodbody,” Fortnum said to himself, and stopped short.
"What does Mrs Goodbody have to do with it?"
“She told me about flying saucers this morning.
- No. Willis nervously bit the knuckle on his index finger. - It doesn't look like flying saucers. At least so it seems to me. Intuition is what you think?
- Conscious understanding of what remained subconscious for a long time. But don't quote this hastily cut definition to anyone. In psychiatry, I'm just an amateur. Fortnham laughed again.
- Good good! - Willis turned his brightened face away and settled into the seat more comfortably. - You hit the spot! Something that accumulates over time. It accumulates, accumulates, and then - bam, and you spit it out, although you don't remember how the saliva gathered. Or, say, your hands are dirty, but you don't know when and where you managed to get them dirty. Dust falls on objects non-stop, but we do not notice it until a lot has accumulated, and then we say: fu-you, what dirt! In my opinion, this is exactly what intuition is. And now you can ask: well, what kind of dust was setting on me? That I saw some falling meteorites at night? Or watching the odd weather in the morning? I have no idea. Maybe some colors, smells, mysterious creaks in the house at three in the morning. Or how the hairs on my arms are scratched? In a word, the Lord alone knows how so much dust has accumulated. Only one day I suddenly realized.
“I see,” Fortnham said, somewhat worried. - But what exactly did you understand?
Willis did not look up from his hands in his lap.
- I was scared. Then he stopped being afraid. Then he got scared again - right in broad daylight. The doctor checked me. My head is all right. There are no problems in the family. My Joe is a wonderful kid, a good son. Dorothy? Beautiful woman. It is not scary to grow old or even die next to her.
- You are lucky.
- Now the whole thing is behind the facade of my happiness. And there I am shaking with fear - for myself, for my family ... And at the moment, and for you.
- For me? - Fortnum was surprised.
He parked his car in a deserted parking lot outside a supermarket. For a while Fortnham looked at his friend in complete silence. There was something in Willis's voice that made a chill run down his spine.
“I'm afraid for everyone,” Willis said. - For your and my friends and for their friends. And for all the others. Stupid as hell, right?
Willis opened the door, got out of the car, and then bent down to look Fortnum in the eye.
He understood: something must be said.
- And what should we do in this situation? - he asked.
Willis glanced toward the scorching sun.
“Be vigilant,” he said deliberately. - For several days, carefully look at everything around.
- To all?
- We do not use even a tenth of the abilities given to us by God. It is necessary to listen more sensitively, to look more sharply, to sniff more and to carefully monitor the taste sensations. Perhaps the wind is somehow strangely sweeping those seeds in this parking lot. Or something is wrong with the sun sticking out over the telephone wires. Or maybe the cicadas in the elms are singing the wrong way. We should really focus on at least a few days and nights - listen and look closely and compare our observations.
“Good plan,” Fortnham said jokingly, though he was in fact deeply uneasy. - I promise to keep an eye on the world from now on. But in order not to miss, I need to know at least approximately what I am looking for.
Looking at him with sincere innocence, Willis said:
- If you get it, you won't miss it. The heart will tell. Otherwise, we are all finished. Literally everyone. - He said the last phrase with detached calmness.
Fortnham slammed the door. What else to say, he did not know. I just felt myself blush.
Looks like Willis sensed that his friend was embarrassed.
- Hugh, you decided that I ... That I lost my mind?
“Nonsense,” said Fortnham, too quickly. - You just got nervous, that's all. You should take a week off.
Willis nodded in agreement.
- See you Monday night?
- Whenever it's convenient for you. Drop by our house.
Willis made his way through the weedy parking lot to the side entrance of the store.
Fortnham watched him go. Suddenly I didn't want to get under way anywhere from here. Fortnham found himself that the silence presses on him and he breathes in long deep breaths.
He licked his lips. Resinous aftertaste. The gaze rested on a bare elbow projected out the window. The golden hairs burned in the sun. In the empty parking lot, the wind played with itself. Fortnham leaned out the window and looked at the sun. The sun looked back at him with such a scorching look that he quickly pulled his head back. Exhaling loudly, he laughed out loud. And he started the engine.
Pieces of ice tinkled melodiously in a picturesquely misted glass of cold lemonade, and the sweet drink itself sour a little and brought true delight to the tongue. Swaying in the wicker chair on the veranda in the twilight, Fortnham sipped on the lemonade, sipping small sips and closing his eyes. Grasshoppers chirped on the lawn. Cynthia, knitting in the chair opposite, looked at him curiously; he felt her heightened attention.
- What are the thoughts wandering in your head? She finally asked bluntly.
- Cynthia, - without opening his eyes, he answered with a question to the question, - your intuition is not rusty? Don't you think the weather portends an earthquake? And that everything will fail? Or what, for example, will they declare war? Or maybe everything will be limited to the fact that the delphinium in our garden will get rotten and die?
- Wait, let me feel my bones - what do they suggest.
He opened gdaza. Now stepped over Cynthia to close your eyes and listen to yourself. Placing her hands on her knees, she froze for a while. Then she shook her head and smiled.
- No. No war will be declared. And not a single continent will sink into the sea. And even the scab will not hit our delphinium. Why are you actually asking?
- Today I met a lot of people predicting the end of the world. To be precise, only two, but ...
The door on the rollers flew open with a bang. Fortnham jumped up as if he had been hit.
- What! ..
Tom appeared on the veranda, garden basket in hand.
“Sorry to bother you,” he said. - Is everything all right, dad?
- In order. - Fortnham stood up, pleased with the opportunity to stretch his legs. - What do you have there - the harvest? Tom approached readily.
- Only a part. So the twig - you can clink glasses! Only seven hours plus abundant watering, but look how they grow! - He put the basket on the table in front of his parents.
The harvest was really impressive. Hundreds of small, greyish-brown mushrooms were sticking out of the damp earth.
Fortnham gasped in amazement. Cynthia started to reach for the basket, but then with a bad feeling pulled her hand away.
- I don’t want to spoil your joy, and yet: Are you absolutely sure that these are mushrooms, and not something else?
Tom answered her with an offended look:
- What do you think I am going to feed you? Toadstools?
“No, I just imagined it,” Cynthia said hastily. - And how to distinguish useful from poisonous mushrooms?
“Eat them,” Tom snapped. - If you stay alive, it means they are useful. If off with hooves - then, alas, and ax. - Tom burst out laughing.
Fortnum liked the joke. But Cynthia just blinked and sat down in a chair, offended.
- I personally don't like them! She said.
- Fu-you, well-you! - Tom mimicked irritably, picking up the basket. - People, it seems, are also divided into useful and poisonous.
Tom shuffled away. The father saw fit to call out to him.
“Come on, let's go,” Tom said. - For some reason, everyone thinks that they will diminish if they support the initiative boy. Yes, it failed!
Fortnham went into the house after Tom and saw him stop at the threshold of the basement, threw the basket of mushrooms down, slammed the door with force and ran out of the house through the back exit.
Fortnham glanced back at his wife, who guiltily averted her eyes.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I don’t know what pulled me by the tongue, but I couldn’t help expressing my opinion to Tom. I…
The phone rang. The device had a long wire, so Fortnham went out onto the veranda with it.
- Hugh? Dorothy Willis asked. There was a frightened note in her strangely tired voice. - Hugh, Roger is not with you?
“No, Dorothy. He is not here.
- He left home! Took all my clothes from the wardrobe. She burst into tears.
- Dorothy, do not be discouraged! I'll be there in a minute.
- Yes, I need help. Help me! Something bad happened to him, I feel. - Sobbing again. “If you don’t do anything, we will never see him alive again!
Fortnham slowly hung up the phone, Dorothy's lamentations full of sorrow until the last moment. The evening chatter of grasshoppers suddenly became deafening. Fortnham felt the hairs on his head stand on end, voice by hair, hair by hair.
In fact, the hair on the head cannot stand on end. This is just such an expression. And very stupid. In real life, hair cannot rise by itself.
But his hair did it - hair by hair, hair by hair.
All men's clothing really disappeared from the closet-dressing room. Fortnham pushed the empty wire hangers back and forth on the bar in thought, then turned and looked out to where Dorothy Willis and her son Joe were standing.
“I was just walking by,” Joe reported. - And suddenly I see - the wardrobe is empty. Father's clothes were gone.
“Everything was fine,” said Dorothy. - We lived in perfect harmony. I just do not understand. I just can't figure it out. I absolutely can't! - Covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears again.
Fortnham climbed out of the dressing room and asked Joe:
- Did you hear when your father left home?
“We played ball in the backyard with him. Dad says: I’ll go into the house for a little while. At first I played myself, and then I followed him. And his trace is gone!
“I think,” said Dorothy, “he quickly packed his things and left on foot. If a taxi was waiting for him somewhere, then not near the house - we would have heard the sound of a car driving away.
All three were now walking across the hall.
“I'll check the station and the airport,” Fortnham said. “And here's another… Dorothy, in the Roger's family no one for an hour…
“No, it’s not a fit of madness,” Dorothy said firmly. Then, much less confidently, she added: - I have such a strange feeling as if it had been stolen.
Fortnham shook his head.
- This is against common sense. Collect your things and go out to meet your captors!
Opening the front door, as if she wanted to let the evening dusk or the night breeze into the house, Dorothy turned and looked around the entire lower floor.
“This is a kidnapping,” she said slowly.“They somehow got into the house. And they stole it from under our noses. - She paused and added: - Something terrible has already happened.
Fortnham went out into the street and froze among the chirping of grasshoppers and the rustle of leaves. Doomsday prophets, he thought, had their say. First Mrs. Goodbody, then Roger. And now their company has been replenished with Roger's wife. Something terrible has already happened. But what the hell exactly? And why?
He looked back at Dorothy and her son. Joe blinked the tears down his cheeks. Then he turned slowly, walked across the hall, stopped at the entrance to the basement, and grabbed the handle of the door.
Fortnham's eyelids twitched, pupils narrowed, as if he were trying to remember a picture.
Joe threw open the door, started down the stairs, and finally disappeared from sight. The door slammed shut behind him slowly.
Fortnham opened his mouth to say something, but then Dorothy grabbed his hand and he had to look in her direction.
- I beg you, find him for me!
He kissed her on the cheek.
- I will do my best. All that is humanly possible. My God, why on earth did he choose this particular formula?
He hurried away from the Willis house.
A hoarse inhalation and a heavy exhalation, again a hoarse inhalation and a heavy exhalation, an asthmatic convulsive inhalation and a hissing exhalation. Is someone dying in the dark? Thank God no.
It's just that behind a hedge, invisible Mrs. Goodbody is still busy working so late, bony elbows sticking out, wielding her spray gun. The closer Fortnham got to home, the more the overpoweringly sweet scent of insect repellent enveloped him.
- Mrs. Goodbody! Are you all working? From behind the dark living wall came:
- Hell yes. As if aphids, water bugs, woodworm larvae were not enough for us! Now Marasmius oreades have come. They grow like a cannon.
- A curious expression.
“Now it's either me or these Marasmius oreades. I won't let them down, I will give them the heat! I will destroy! Here, you bastards, here!
He passed the hedge, the consumptive pump, and the shrill voice. His wife was waiting for him at the house. Fortnim fancied that he had passed through the mirror: from one woman who saw him off on the porch, to another - on the porch who met him.
Fortnham had already opened his mouth to report on what was happening, but then he noticed movement inside, in the hall. Footsteps, creaking boards. Turning the doorknob.
This son once again disappeared into the filing.
Like a bomb exploded in front of Fortnham. My head was spinning. Everything was numbly familiar, as if an old dream had come true, and you know every forthcoming movement in advance, as well as every word that has not yet left the speaker's lips.
He found himself staring blankly across the hall at the basement door. Completely puzzled, Cynthia tugged at her husband's sleeve and pulled him into the house.
- Do you have that look because of Tom? Yes, I have already resigned myself. He takes these damn mushrooms so close to his heart. However, it didn't hurt them in the least that he threw them down the stairs. They plopped down on the earthen floor and grow further ...
- Are they growing? - muttered Fortnham, thinking about his own.
Cynthia touched his sleeve.
- How about Roger?
- He really disappeared.
- Men, men, men ...
“No, you're wrong, I've seen Roger almost daily for the past ten years. When you communicate so much, you see a person through and through and you can say with precision how his house is - peace and quiet or absolute hell. Until now, he had not felt the breath of death in the back of his head; he did not panic and did not try, bulging his eyes, to chase eternal youth, picking peaches in other people's gardens. No, no, I can swear I can bet every last dollar that Roger ...
The bell rang behind them. It was the messenger from the post office who stepped silently onto the porch and waited, telegram in hand, for the door to be opened for him.
- House of Fortnams?
Cynthia hastily turned on the chandelier in the hallway, and Fortnham quickly tore open the envelope, smoothed the piece of paper, and read:
GOING TO NEW ORLEANS. THIS TELEGRAM IS POSSIBLY UNEXPECTED.REFUSE TO RECEIVE, REPEAT, REFUSE TO RECEIVE ANY EXPRESS SHIPPING PACKAGES. ROGER.
Cynthia asked in confusion:
“I don’t understand. What does this all mean?
But Fortnham had already rushed to the phone, I hurriedly dialed the short number.
- Young woman! I urgently need the police!
At ten-fifty, the phone rang for the sixth time that evening. Fortnham answered the phone and gasped with excitement.
- Roger! Where are you calling from?
- Where the hell am I? Roger said in a mocking tone. “You know perfectly well where I am, and you are responsible for that. I should be angry with you!
Fortnham showed his wife to the kitchen with an energetic nod, and I, Cynthia, rushed there as fast as she could - to pick up the receiver of the second telephone set. As soon as there was a quiet click, Fortnham continued:
“Roger, I swear to you, I have no idea where you are. I received a telegram from you ...
- What telegram? Roger inquired playfully. - I have not sent any telegrams. I quietly rode myself south on the train. Suddenly, the police rush in at the station, grab me and strive to take me off the train, and so I call you from the police station at the railway station of a provincial town so that these stunners finally leave me alone. Hugh, if you're kidding like that ...
- Listen, Roger, you just took it and disappeared!
- What has disappeared there! An ordinary business trip. I warned Dorothy and Joe spoke.
“This is all very confusing, Roger. Are you in danger? Maybe someone is threatening you? What do you say, do you say voluntarily?
- I am alive, healthy, free, and nobody intimidates me.
- But where exactly are you?
- Stupid conversation! Listen, I'm not sulking at you for your stupid trick - what more do you want?
- I'm glad Roger ...
- Then be nice and let me go on my business. Call Dorothy and tell her I'll be back in five days. I can't imagine how she could have forgotten!
- But I forgot. So, Roger, I'll see you in five days?
“In five days, I promise.
So much calm confidence and warmth in his voice - as if Roger had returned from the old days. Fortnham shook his head madly.
“Roger,” he said, “the last day was the craziest of my life. So you haven't run away from your Dorothy, then? Damn it, you can tell me the truth!
- I love her with all my heart. Now I'm handing over the phone to Lieutenant Parker of the Ridgetown Police. Goodbye Hugh.
- Dosvi ...
But the lieutenant's irritated voice was already buzzing in the receiver. Who allowed Mr. Fortnheim to impose such troubles on the police? What's happening? What are you allowing yourself, Mr. Fortnham? Who do you think you are? What to do with your so-called friend - let go or hide in jail?
“Let him go,” Fortnham threw somewhere in the middle of this stream of curses and hung up. His imagination imagined how, two hundred miles to the south, the formidable "Landing Completed" thunders on the station platform and the bulky train rushes forward with a crash through the black, dark night.
Cynthia returned leisurely to the living room.
“I feel like a complete fool,” she said.
- And I'm a nerd.
- Then who sent that telegram and why? Fortnham poured himself a whiskey and froze in the center of the room, staring at the contents of the glass.
“I’m sincerely glad Roger is okay,” his wife finally broke the silence.
“He’s not all right,” Fortnham said.
- But you were only talking ...
- I didn't say anything. What, in essence, could we do? Insist on being taken off the train and taken home in handcuffs? And this despite the fact that he insists that there is complete order with him? This is not the case. He sent the telegram, but only then decided everything differently. I would like to know why! Why? - Fortnham paced the room from corner to corner, drinking from time to time from a glass. "Why did he warn us against urgent delivery?" The only thing we got by express delivery for a whole year was a package for Tom - the one that arrived this morning ...
On the last syllables, his voice began to stumble.Cynthia was the first to rush to the wastebasket and snatched out the crumpled paper in which the bag of mushrooms was wrapped.
The return address was New Orleans, Louisiana.
Cynthia looked up from the paper.
- New Orleans. Isn't that where Roger is heading at the moment?
The doorknob jingled in Fortnham's mind, the door opened and closed with a bang. Another doorknob in another house jingled, the door opened and closed with a bang. And the smell of freshly dug earth hit my nostrils.
In a second, he was already dialing the phone number. It took an agonizing time before Dorothy Willis's voice came on the other end of the line. He imagined her sitting in her terribly empty house, where unnecessary lights were burning in all the rooms.
Fortnham quickly and calmly told her about his conversation with Roger, then hesitated, cleared his throat and said:
“Dorothy, I know I’m asking a stupid question. But tell me, in the last few days, have you received anything from the post office — urgent home delivery?
“No, we didn't,” she said wearily. Then she started suddenly: - But wait a minute. Three days ago. But I was sure you knew! All the boys in the area are obsessed with this hobby.
Fortnham was weighing his every word now.
- Are you obsessed with what? - he asked.
“Strange interrogation,” said Dorothy. - What could be wrong with growing edible mushrooms?
Fortnham closed his eyes.
- Hugh, are you listening to me? I said: what could be bad ...
“… Growing edible mushrooms? - finally answered Fortnham. - Of course, nothing bad. Nothing at all. Absolutely nothing.
And he slowly, slowly hung up the phone.
Light curtains swayed as if woven from moonlight. The clock was ticking. Deep night filled every corner of the bedroom. And Fortnum suddenly remembered the sonorous voice of Mrs. Goodbody, cutting through the morning grace - a million years ago. He remembered Roger, too, when he had cast a cloud on the sun in a clear sky at noon. Then the barking voice of a policeman firing at him over the phone from a distant southern state rang in his ears.
And then Roger's voice returned, and the wheels of a train began to pound in my ears, carrying my friend far, far away. The sound of the wheels slowly faded away, until a dialogue with the invisible Mrs. Goodbody, working somewhere behind the hedges, surfaced in my mind:
- They grow like a cannon.
- A curious expression.
“Now it's either me or these Marasmius oreades.
Fortnham opened his eyes and quickly jumped out of bed.
In a few moments he was already downstairs and leafing through the encyclopedia.
Having found what he needed, he underlined with his fingernail what interested him:
"Marasmius oreades is an edible mushroom usually found on lawns in summer or early fall ..."
He closed the book, went out onto the porch and lit a cigarette.
While Fortnham smoked serenely, a shooting star traced the sky. The trees whispered softly.
The door of the house swung open. Cynthia stood on the threshold in her nightgown:
- Can't sleep?
- In my opinion, it is too stuffy.
- Yes, it seems not.
“You're right,” he said, and felt his hands chilly. - You can say it's even cold. - He inhaled a couple of times, then said, without looking at his wife: - Cynthia, what if ... - He grunted, hesitated. "Well, in short, what if Roger was right yesterday morning?" And what if Mrs. Goodbody is right too? And suddenly something terrible is really happening at the moment? For example ... - here he nodded to the sky, strewn with millions of stars, - for example, just now the Earth is being conquered by aliens from other worlds.
- Hugh ...
- No, let my imagination play.
- It is quite obvious that nobody is conquering us. We would have noticed.
- Let's put it this way: we noticed something only intuitively, we were vaguely worried. If something happens, where and how? Where does the danger come from and how are we being conquered?
Cynthia looked at the stars and wanted to say something, but her husband got ahead of her thought:
- No, no, I do not mean meteorites and flying saucers - they are striking. How about bacteria? They can also come from space, right?
- I read something about this.
“Perhaps other people's spores, seeds, pollen and viruses in huge quantities have rammed our atmosphere every second for millions of years. We may be standing in an invisible rain right now. And this rain falls over the whole country, over cities and towns, over fields and forests. Over our lawn too.
- Over our lawn?
“And also over Mrs. Goodbody’s lawn. However, people of her type constantly exterminate weeds and parasites in their garden - weeds weeds, spray insecticides. In cities with their toxic atmosphere, aliens also cannot survive. There are zones of unfavorable climate. The best weather conditions are likely in the south: in Alabama, Georgia and Louisiana. In the marshes there and in such heat, the aliens will grow by leaps and bounds.
Cynthia laughed.
- Are you suggesting that the botanical garden in Great Bayou, which specializes in the cultivation of new species, is actually under the control of two-meter mushrooms from another planet, and that it was they who sent the package to Tom?
- Your version looks funny.
- Funny? Yes, you can burst with laughter! - Cynthia cheerfully threw back her beautiful head. Fortnham was suddenly angry.
- Good God! Is something going on, is it obvious? Mrs. Goodbody exterminates these Marasmius oreades. What is Marasmius oreades? Pest mushrooms. Killer mushrooms. And so, in the midst of the war, Mrs. Goodbody with Marasmius oreades, the postal courier brings what to our house? Mushrooms for Tom. What else is going on? Roger voices fears for his life! In less than a few hours, he disappears. And he sends us a telegram - what content? Avoid what the postal courier brings! That is, do not take mushrooms for Tom! Does this mean that Roger has some reason to warn, because his own son has already received a similar package and something happened? Yes, Joe received a bag of mushrooms a few days ago. Where? From New Orleans. Where did Roger disappear to? He's going to New Orleans! Cynthia, this is so obvious! Don't you still understand? I would only be happy if all these facts were completely unrelated to each other. In fact, an unambiguous chain is formed: Roger, Tom, Joe, mushrooms, Mrs. Goodbody, parcels, return address!
His wife looked at him intently - without the previous amusement, but not completely seriously:
- Just don't go into the bottle.
- And I'm completely calm! Fortnum almost shouted. However, a second later he pulled himself together. Otherwise, all that remained was to laugh or cry. And he wanted to assess the situation with a cold thought.
He looked around the houses and thought that each of them has a basement. All the neighborhood boys reading Popular Mechanics send money to New Orleans and populate cellars with mushrooms. The natural enthusiasm of boys. As a teenager, he received by mail all sorts of chemicals for experiments, seeds, turtles, various ointments for acne and other nonsense. So in how many American homes are giant mushrooms growing tonight thanks to the efforts of innocent children's souls?
- Hugh! - The wife touched his sleeve. - Mushrooms, even giant ones, are not able to think, move, they have no arms and legs. How can they dispose of the postal delivery service and "take over the world"? Be serious, take a sober look at these supposedly terrible conquerors, enemies of the human race! .. And let's just look at them!
She pulled him into the house with her. When Cynthia led him down the hall to the basement door, Fortnham rested resolutely. He shook his head and said with a silly grin:
- No, no, I know very well what we will find there. You win. This whole story is bullshit. Roger will be back next week - we'll have a drink with him and laugh at ourselves. You go to sleep upstairs, and I'll have some milk and I'll be back in a couple of minutes.
- That's better!
Cynthia hugged her husband tightly, kissed him on both cheeks, and ran up the stairs.
In the kitchen, Fortnham took a glass, opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of milk, and suddenly froze in place.
A yellow bowl on the top shelf of the refrigerator caught his eye. Not the bowl itself, but its contents.
Freshly cut mushrooms.
He stood with wide-eyed eyes for at least half a minute, exhaling clouds of steam. Then he took a yellow bowl, sniffed at it, touched the mushrooms with his finger, and went out of the kitchen into the hall with it. He looked up the stairs. Somewhere there, going to bed, Cynthia creaked on the bed. Fortnham was about to shout, "Cynthia, why did you put the mushrooms in the refrigerator?" - but stopped short. He knew the answer. She didn't put them there.
Setting the bowl of mushrooms on the flat top of the railings at the very top of the stairs, Fortnham studied its contents thoughtfully. He imagined himself going up to his bedroom, opening the windows, admiring the moonlight on the ceiling. And in his imagination the subsequent dialogue was played:
- Cynthia?
- Yes Dear.
- Cynthia, they have a way to get hands and feet.
- I'm sorry, what? Are you again for your stupidity? Then he will muster all his courage, in view of her inevitable Homeric laughter, and say:
- And what if a person wandering through the swamp takes and eats such a mushroom ...
Cynthia will only snort and say nothing.
- But if a fungus gets inside a person, it doesn't cost it anything through the blood to take possession of every cell of a person and turn a person into whom? A Martian? If we accept the eating version, then the mushrooms do not need arms and legs. They penetrate people and lend their limbs. They live in people and people become mushrooms. Roger tasted the mushrooms grown by his son. And Roger became "something else." He kidnapped himself when he went to New Orleans. In a short moment of enlightenment, he gave us a telegram and warned us against these mushrooms. The Roger who later called from the police station was another Roger, a prisoner of what he had the misfortune to eat. Cynthia, all the pieces of the puzzle match. Don't you agree now?
- No, - answered Cynthia from an imaginary conversation, - no and no, nothing coincides, no and no ...
From the basement suddenly came a sound - either a faint whisper, or a barely audible rustle. Barely tearing his eyes away from the mushrooms in the bowl, Fortnham went to the basement door and put his ear to it.
- Volume? He called.
No answer.
- Tom, are you downstairs? No answer.
- Volume!!!
After an eternity, Tom's voice echoed from the depths:
- What, dad?
“It's well past midnight,” Fortnham said, following his voice, trying to suppress his excitement. - What are you doing down there?
Silence.
- I asked…
- I take care of mushrooms, - the son did not immediately answer. His low voice sounded like a stranger.
- Okay, come on from there. Get out! Can you hear me?
Silence.
- Volume! Listen, did you put the mushrooms in the fridge tonight? If so, why?
It took about ten seconds before the boy downstairs responded:
- Sure. I wanted you and your mom to try it.
Fortnham could feel his heart pounding. I had to take a deep breath three times - without this it was impossible to continue the conversation.
- Volume! And you ... you, for an hour, have not tried these mushrooms yourself? You haven't tried them, have you?
- Weird question. Of course. In the evening, after supper. Made a mushroom sandwich. Why are you asking?
Fortnim had to grab the doorknob to keep from falling. Now it was his turn to be silent. My knees buckled, my head was spinning. He tried to cope with the sickness, persuaded himself that all this was nonsense, nonsense, nonsense. However, the lips did not obey him.
- Dad! - Tom called softly from the depths of the basement. - Come down here. - Another pause. - I want you to have a look at my harvest.
Fortnham felt the doorknob slip out of his sweaty palm and clink, returning to a horizontal position. He sighed convulsively.
- Dad come here! - Tom repeated quietly.
Fortnham opened the door.
Before him was the black mouth of the basement.
Fortnham flicked his fingers along the wall, looking for a light switch.
Tom seemed to have guessed his intention, for hastily said:
- Don't need light. Light is bad for mushrooms.
Fortnham removed his hand from the switch.
He swallowed nervously.Then he looked back at the stairs that led to the bedroom, to his wife. “I ought to go upstairs first,” he thought, “and say goodbye to my wife… But what absurd thoughts! What nonsense goes into my head! There is not the slightest reason ... Or is there still?
Of course not".
- Volume! - said Fortnham in a deliberately cheerful voice. - Ready for it or not, but I'm going down.
And, slamming the door behind him, he stepped into the impenetrable darkness.
ii00429935, September 29, 2010
The idea underlying this story is so schizophrenic that my first impression was - "Here is a parody of pure water!" However, Bradbury's powerful talent does not fit into a narrow genre. In "Mushrooms" he skillfully balances on the verge of thriller and parody, when a step to the right is a step to the left, and it will already be trite and flat. But that's not Ray Bradbury. He fundamentally does not give unambiguous answers: what happened to the hero of the story, Hugh Fortnham, did he really reveal the plan for an alien invasion of Earth, or did he get damaged in his mind? In any case, the atomosphere of fear is being pumped up superbly (the story was not written in the first person, but we still see what is happening with Fortnham's “eyes”, but for him the world is crumbling ...) I think for the correct perception of “Mushrooms” it is worth paying attention to the release time this story is 1962. The year of the Cuban missile crisis, when millions of people, not only in the States, lived in anticipation of the outbreak of World War III. To a large extent, "Mushrooms" is Bradbury's remark about the hysteria that has swept America. The remark is ironic: that is why such a shocking name in the style of advertising brochures, and the mushrooms were chosen, I think, not by chance. It is known, after all, that after eating certain kinds of mushrooms, anything can be imagined ... But almost half a century has passed, the mood in the world has changed, but Bradbury's story has not lost its relevance. It was not me who noticed that countries with the highest living standards are often among the leaders in terms of the number of suicides and nervous disorders. Here is Bradbury's old story: what, it would seem, to wish for Roger Willis, a friend of the protagonist - no material problems, a good house, a wonderful family. “And behind the facade - I'm shaking with fear…” - says Willis. Maybe space aliens are the problem. And perhaps everything is simpler: everything is the same for another hero of the story - Hugh Fortnham, and in dozens of houses in this town. Even children's hobbies are the same everywhere (what is indicated in the title of the story). And how many of these “same people” are there all over America? And how not to go crazy after that?
Alexandre, October 29, 2009
Scary story. And, most importantly, no hints of salvation. What can be done? And in general, how does the idea that things are bad appear in the hero's head? After all, in fact, there is no reason - well, the neighbor has gone somewhere - there is no corpse or other traces - they filed a statement with the police and wait. No, only incomprehensible premonitions and some kind of schizophrenic suspicions - after all, various fungi and bacteria have surrounded us for millions of years. Maybe it is they who have been fighting the aliens for a long time, persistently expelling them from our bodies. And we are used to living with those who always live with us, and we do not want to change them for new ones.
And as for forebodings, there is a rather old joke: "This is not how we live somehow ..."
Groucho marx, December 17, 2017
Strictly speaking, this is a retelling of J. Finney's novel Invasion of the Body Snatchers in a story format and without a happy ending. A paranoid tale about the quiet invasion of something utterly alien into the comfortably arranged life of the American South. What's this? Who is this? Communists? Fascists? Drug dealers? Mysterious cultists? No matter. The main thing is strangers who will enslave you from the inside, but you will not even notice. Ominous intelligent talking mushrooms were already in Lovecraft (with whom Bradbury, it seems, corresponded in his youth) and Clark Ashton Smith.
In general, the Bradbury story is a set of commonplaces of tabloid fiction, however, served with the trademark Bradbury penetration.Ray Bradbury retells what he has read dozens of times as something completely new, and thereby achieves the desired effect: previous stories about "silent invasions" loom somewhere in the reader's memory, giving the laconic story macaberine persuasiveness.
AlisterOrm, October 4, 2017
An eerie story, although it began innocently enough. The beginning comes down to a couple of curiosities, insignificant and funny ... But then ...
Then ... the mysterious begins. Mushrooms ... Why would they conquer us, humans, with flagella, or what? Funny…
Funny?
Well no.
Such is the quiet conquest. Gradually. Unnoticeable, the whole wave. Subduing the will of man, gradually, but surely. And this is the most terrible thing: you see the inevitability of trouble, do not understand how to deal with it, and what awaits you yourself, in the "clutches" of an alien mind?
Dart kangol, September 6, 2013
An excellent fantastic story about the conquest of the Earth by alien creatures. The sense of danger and the level of anxiety rises and reaches its peak at the very end of the story, and therefore the text keeps the reader in suspense until the final scene. The story could have turned out to be a gorgeous horror, if not for the image of the alien invaders themselves and its name.
ozor, December 4, 2006
Ever-wise Bradbury! 40 years before the movie "Men in Black" so to speak:
“Perhaps alien spores, seeds, pollen and viruses in huge quantities have rammed our atmosphere every second for millions of years. We may be standing in an invisible rain right now. And this rain falls over the whole country, over cities and towns, over fields and forests. "
Alexus_404, July 17, 2017
Quite a terrible story, which convincingly shows the human fear of something unknown, incomprehensible. The tension grows with each page, as if the aliens really want to conquer the planet.
Lost, June 9, 2007
One of my favorite stories. The feeling of the "hidden threat" is perfectly conveyed! Especially when the hero comes out on the porch at 3 o'clock in the morning, and feels the approach of something ...
god54, September 23, 2009
It would seem a simple story of the capture of the Earth by aliens, as many have already been written. But no, Bradbury managed to find a new way and describe it in such an interesting way.
Vendorf, August 3, 2007
The so-called takeover of society from the inside. The idea is original in its simplicity and efficiency. Isn't that how all revolutions are typeset? ..
Yozhhead, March 22, 2013
I love Bradbury for such stories. The seizure of the Earth not by open war by green men, but by completely unexpected ways, covered with a veil of mystery, obscurity, mystery. When such unusual things happen in the everyday life of ordinary people, which are hardly realized and are not taken seriously by anyone. Gorgeous
ivan2543, June 24, 2009
The story did not make much of an impression. A bit ironic, but a standard horror film about the next candidates to gobble up our brains. The most original is the title (without reading the story, he laughed at the title for half an hour). Otherwise, it's too small for Bradbury.
Yazewa, January 6, 2008
A creepy story.
Do you want a promising business? Raise aliens! : insane :: insane :: insane:
ergiev, May 15, 2008
Original thought and very well realized
asb, October 1, 2006
The Mushrooms take over the land. Original: haha:
Ray Bradbury
Guys! Grow giant mushrooms in your basements!
Ray bradbury
Boys! Raise Giant Mushrooms in Your Cellar! (Come into My Cellar)
Hugh Fortnham woke up and, lying with his eyes closed, listened with delight to the Saturday morning noises.
Downstairs there was a frying pan crusting bacon; it is Cynthia who wakes him up not with a cry, but with a sweet scent from the kitchen.
On the other side of the hall, Tom was actually taking a shower.
But whose voice is it, overlapping the buzzing of bumblebees and the rustle of dragonflies, early in the day honors the weather, the era and the villainess-fate? Neighbor, Mrs. Goodbody? Of course. The most Christian soul in the body of a giantess - six feet without heels, a wonderful gardener, dietician and urban philosopher eighty years of age.
Hugh rose, pushed back the curtain, and leaned out of the window just as she said loudly:
- There you are! Get it! What don't you like? Ha!
- Good Saturday, Mrs. Goodbody!
The old woman froze in a cloud of anti-pest liquid, which she sprayed with a pump in the form of a giant gun.
- Talk nonsense! She shouted back. - What good is there with these sinister boogers. We got all sorts of things!
- And which ones this time?
“I don’t want to shout so that some magpie doesn’t hear, but ...” Then the neighbor looked around suspiciously and lowered her voice: “For your information: at the moment I am standing in the first line of fire and protecting humanity from invasion from flying saucers.
“Great,” said Fortnham. - No wonder there are so many conversations that aliens will arrive almost from day to day.
- They are already here! “Mrs. Goodbody sent a new cloud of poison on the plants, trying to spray the underside of the leaves. - There you are! There you are!
Fortnham moved his head out of the window. Despite the pleasant freshness of the day, the excellent mood at first was slightly spoiled. Poor Mrs Goodbody! Usually so exemplary sane. And suddenly this! Only age takes its toll.
Someone rang at the door.
He grabbed a robe and, still going down the stairs, heard an unfamiliar voice: “Express delivery. House of Fortnams? " Then he saw Cynthia coming back from the door with a small package in her hand.
- Express delivery - airmail package for our son.
It took him a second to be on the first floor.
- Wow! Probably from the Botanical Gardens in Great Bayou, where new species of plants are cultivated.
- I should be so happy about an ordinary package! Said Fortnham.
- Ordinary? - Tom instantly tore the string and now feverishly tore off the wrapping paper. "Don't you read the last pages of Popular Mechanics?" Aha, here they are!
All three were looking inside the small box.
"Well," said Fortnham, "and what is it?"
- Supergiant Sylvan Glade Mushrooms. “One hundred percent guarantee of rapid growth. Grow them in your basement and shovel money! "
- Oh, of course! - exclaimed Fortnham. - How I, a fool, did not immediately realize!
- These little figurines? - Cynthia was surprised, squinting at the contents of the box.
“In twenty-four hours they reach incredible proportions,” Tom spilled from memory. - "Plant them in your basement ..."
Fortnham exchanged glances with his wife.
“Well,” she said, “this is at least better than toads and green snakes.
- Of course, better! - Tom shouted as he ran.
- Ah, Tom, Tom! - With a slight reproach in his voice said Fortnum.
The son even paused at the door to the underground.
- Next time. Tom, - explained the father, - limit yourself to the usual parcel post.
- Complete mortality! - said Tom. - They mixed something up there and decided that I was some kind of rich company. Urgently, by air, and even with home delivery - a normal person cannot afford it!
The basement door slammed shut.
Slightly dumbfounded, Fortnum turned the package wrapper in his hands, then threw it into the trash bin. On the way to the kitchen, he could not resist and looked into the basement.
Tom was already on his knees and loosened the earth with a spatula.
Fortnham felt his wife's light breath behind him. Over his shoulder, she peered into the cool twilight of the basement.
- I hope these are really edible mushrooms, and not some ... toadstools!
Fortnham shouted with a laugh:
- Good harvest, farmer!
Tom looked up and waved his hand.
In good spirits again, Fortnham closed the basement door, grabbed his wife by the arm, and they headed into the kitchen.
Towards noon, on the way to the nearest supermarket, Fortnham spotted Roger Willis, also a member of the Rotary Business Club and a biology professor at the city university. He stood by the side of the road and voted desperately.
Fortnham stopped the car and opened the door.
- Hi Roger, can I drop you off?
Willis did not make himself ask twice, jumped into the car and slammed the door.
- What luck - you are what I need.Which day I'm going to see you, but I postpone everything. Isn't it difficult for you to do a good deed and become a psychiatrist for five minutes?
Fortnham glanced at his friend inquisitively. The car rolled forward at medium speed.
- Okay. Spread it out.
Willis leaned back in his chair and stared intently at his fingernails.
- Wait a bit. Drive your car and ignore me. Yeah. OK. This is what I intended to tell you: something is wrong with this world.
Fortnham laughed softly.
- And when was it okay with him?
- No, I mean ... Strange something ... unprecedented ... is happening.
“Mrs. Goodbody,” Fortnum said under his breath, and stopped short.
- What does Mrs Goodbody have to do with it?
“She told me about flying saucers this morning.
- No. Willis nervously bit the knuckle on his index finger. - It doesn't look like flying saucers. At least so it seems to me. Intuition is what you think?
- Conscious understanding of what remained subconscious for a long time. But don't quote this hastily cut definition to anyone. In psychiatry, I'm just an amateur. Fortnham laughed again.
- Good good! - Willis turned his brightened face away and settled into the seat more comfortably. - You hit the spot! Something that accumulates over time. It accumulates, accumulates, and then - bam, and you spit it out, although you don't remember how the saliva gathered. Or, say, your hands are dirty, but you don't know when and where you managed to get them dirty. Dust falls on objects non-stop, but we do not notice it until a lot has accumulated, and then we say: fu-you, what dirt! In my opinion, this is exactly what intuition is. And now you can ask: well, what kind of dust was setting on me? That I saw some falling meteorites at night? Or watching the odd weather in the morning? I have no idea. Maybe some colors, smells, mysterious creaks in the house at three in the morning. Or how I brush my hairs on my arms? In a word, the Lord alone knows how so much dust has accumulated. Only one day I suddenly realized.
“I see,” Fortnham said, somewhat worried. - But what exactly did you understand?
Willis did not look up from his hands in his lap.
- I was scared. Then he stopped being afraid. Then he got scared again - right in broad daylight. The doctor checked me. My head is all right. There are no problems in the family. My Joe is a wonderful kid, a good son. Dorothy? Beautiful woman. It is not scary to grow old or even die next to her.
- You are lucky.
- Now the whole thing is behind the facade of my happiness. And there I am shaking with fear - for myself, for my family ... And at the moment, and for you.
- For me? - Fortnum was surprised.
He parked his car in a deserted parking lot outside a supermarket. For a while Fortnham looked at his friend in complete silence. There was something in Willis's voice that made the frost run down his spine.
“I'm afraid for everyone,” Willis said. - For your and my friends and for their friends. And for all the others. Stupid as hell, right?
Willis opened the door, got out of the car, and then bent down to look Fortnum in the eye.
He understood: something must be said.
- And what should we do in this situation? - he asked.
Willis glanced toward the scorching sun.
“Be vigilant,” he said deliberately. - For several days, carefully look at everything around.
- To all?
- We do not use even a tenth of the abilities given to us by God. It is necessary to listen more sensitively, to look more sharply, to sniff more and carefully monitor the taste sensations. Perhaps the wind is somehow strangely sweeping those seeds over there in this parking lot. Or something is wrong with the sun sticking out over the telephone wires. Or maybe the cicadas in the elms are singing the wrong way. We should really concentrate at least for a few days and nights - listen and look closely and compare our observations.
“Good plan,” Fortnham said jokingly, though he was in fact gravely uneasy.- I promise to keep an eye on the world from now on. But in order not to miss, I need to know at least approximately what I am looking for.
Looking at him with sincere innocence, Willis said:
- If you get it, you won't miss it. The heart will tell. Otherwise, we are all finished. Literally everyone. - He said the last phrase with detached calmness.
Fortnham slammed the door. What else to say, he did not know. I just felt myself blush.
Looks like Willis sensed that his friend was embarrassed.
- Hugh, you decided that I ... That I lost my mind?
“Nonsense,” said Fortnham, too quickly. ...
