GREEN GREW THE LASSES
By RUTH LAURA WAINWRIGHT
Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Since evils cancel out, avoid odd numbers of
them ... even if you have to get an odder one!
The September evening was hot and humid, and Helen Raymond, watchingher husband pace nervously about the living room, grew tenser by theminute. Robert would walk up to an open window, sniff abstractedly,move to the next window, and repeat the performance.
"For goodness' sakes, Robert, what are you snuffling about?" shefinally demanded in exasperation. She had been on edge ever since hercousin Dora had arrived that afternoon. Dora had lost another of a longsuccession of short-lived jobs and, as usual, had descended on themwithout warning for an indefinite visit. Wasn't it enough to have tobear, that and the heat, too, without Robert's acting up?
"Smog's getting worse all the time," Robert complained.
Dora lifted her nose to sniff daintily. "It is an odd smog. Nowin New York we don't—" Her voice trailed off and left the sentencehanging as she drew in another sample of the night air.
Helen sniffed, too. "We look like a bunch of rabbits," she thoughtirritably. But Dora was right. It was an odd smog, sort of sweet andbitter at the same time. Not sulphuric like most of the smog theywere used to, or the spoiled-onions-frying-in-rancid-fat smell of oilwells when the wind was off the land. This odor made her think ofrank tropical weeds, a jungle miasma, though she had never been near ajungle.
There was something familiar about it, though, and then she rememberedthat her hands had smelled like that the morning after she had weededthe tiny garden alongside their house. The flowerbed had been clutteredwith weeds of a kind she had never seen before, horrible-lookingthings. Could they be the cause of that awful smell? They had sprungup everywhere lately, and, while she had pulled them out of their owngarden, they were growing all over, and she couldn't very well weed thewhole town, could she?
"I think—wait, I want to get something," she said, and ran outdoors.
She came back with a sample of the weed, one that she pulled from thegarden of the vacant house next door. The plant was about a foot high,with a straight, stiff stem, of a bright metallic green, with a singlerow of inch-wide rosettes of chartreuse leaves or petals down one sideof the stem. There could be no doubt about its being the cause of theunpleasant odor, and Helen held it out at arm's length.
"What the heck is that?" Robert asked.
"Smell!" she said.
"Phew! So that's it. What is it, anyway?"
Helen shook her head. "Never saw anything like it until recently. Ipulled 'em out of our garden, but they're all over."
Helen carried the offending plant to the back door. When she cameback, Robert peered at her intently, shut his eyes and shook his headquickly, and then stared at her again.
"Think you'll know me next time you see me?" she asked, annoyed.
"First good look I've had at you this evening. What kind of face powderis that you're using? Don't tell me that peculiar shade is the