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A doorknob rattled, a door opened and closed in Fortnum’s mind. Another doorknob rattled, another door swung wide and then shut. There was a smell of damp earth.
He found his hand dialing the phone. After a long while, Dorothy Willis answered at the other end. He could imagine her sitting alone in a house with too many lights on. He talked quietly with her awhile, then cleared his throat and said, “Dorothy, look. I know it sounds silly. Did any special delivery air mail packages arrive at your house the last few days?”
Her voice was faint. “No.” Then: “No, wait. Three days ago. But I thought you knew! All the boys on the block are going in for it.”
Fortnum measured his words carefully.
“Going in for what?”
“But why ask?” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with raising mushrooms, is there?”
Fortnum closed his eyes.
“Hugh? Are you still there?” asked Dorothy. “I said: there’s nothing wrong with—”
“—raising mushrooms?” said Fortnum, at last. “No. Nothing wrong. Nothing wrong.”
And slowly he put down the phone.
The curtains blew like veils of moonlight. The clock ticked. The after-midnight world flowed into and filled the bedroom. He heard Mrs. Goodbody’s clear voice on this morning’s air, a million years gone now. He heard Roger putting a cloud over the sun at noon. He heard the police cursing him by phone from downstate. Then Roger’s voice again, with the locomotive thunder hurrying him away and away, fading. And finally, Mrs. Goodbody’s voice behind the hedge:
“Lord, it grows fast!”
“What does?”
“Marasmius oreades!”
He snapped his eyes open. He sat up.
Downstairs, a moment later, he flicked through the unabridged dictionary.
His forefinger underlined the words:
“Marasmius oreades: a mushroom commonly found on lawns in summer and early autumn.”
He let the book fall shut.
Outside, in the deep summer night, he lit a cigarette and smoked quietly.
A meteor fell across space, burning itself out quickly. The trees rustled softly.
The front door tapped shut.
Cynthia moved toward him in her robe.
“Can’t sleep?”
“Too warm, I guess.”
“It’s not warm.”
“No,” he said, feeling his arms. “In fact, it’s cold.” He sucked on the cigarette twice, then, not looking at her, said, “Cynthia … What if … ?” He snorted and had to stop. “Well, what if Roger was right this morning? Mrs. Goodbody, what if she’s right, too? Something terrible is happening. Like—well—” he nodded at the sky and the million stars—“Earth being invaded by things from other worlds, maybe.”
“Hugh!”
“No, let me run wild.”
“It’s quite obvious we’re not being invaded or we’d notice.”
