The Mind Spider and Other Stories by Fritz Leiber Read Free Book Online Page B

surprise.
    “You stuck a heat-gun in your jerkin, Joel,” Snowden persisted. “Why?”
    Wisant did not look at him, but waved sharply for silence. Mrs. Potter had come scampering into the room, her green robes flying.
    “You’re on, Mr. Wisant, you’re on!"
    He nodded at her coolly and walked toward the door just as two unhappy-looking men in business jerkins and shorts appeared in it. One of them was carrying a rolled-up black blotter.
    "Mr. Wisant, we want to talk to you,” Mr. Diskrow began. "I should say we have to talk to you. Dr. Gline and I were making some investigations at the IU offices—Mr. Cruxon’s in particular—and we found—”
    "Later,” Wisant told them loudly as he strode by.
    “Joel!" Harker called urgently, but Wisant did not pause or turn his head. He went out. The four men looked after him puzzledly.
    The Twilight Tranquility Festival was approaching its muted climax. The Pixies and Fairies (girls) had danced their woodland ballet. The Leprechauns and Elves (boys) had made their Flashlight Parade. The Greenest Turf, the Growingest Garden, the Healthiest Tree, the Quietest ’Copter, the Friendliest House, the Rootedest Family, and many other silendy superlative exurban items had been identified and duly admired. The orchestra had played all manner of forest, brook, and bird music. The Fauns and Pans (older boys) had sung “Tranquility So Masterful,” “These Everlasting Knolls,” the Safety Hymn, and “Come Let’s Steal Quietly.” The Sprites and Nymphs (older girls) had done their Candlelight Saraband. Representing religion, the local Zen Buddhist pastor (an old Caucasian Californian) had blessed the gathering with a sweet-sour wordlessness. And now the everpopular Pop Wisant was going to give his yearly talk and award trophies. (“It’s tremendous of him to give of himself this way,” one matron said, “after what he went through this morning. Did you know that she was stark naked? They wrapped a blanket around her to put her aboard the ’copter but she kept pulling it off.”)
    Freshly cut boughs attached to slim magnesium scaffolding made, along with the real trees, a vast leafy bower out of what had this morning been an acre of lawn. Proud mothers in green robes and dutiful fathers in green jerkins lined the walls, shepherding their younger children. Before them stood a double line of Nymphs and Sprites in virginal white ballet costumes, each holding a tall white candle tipped with blue-hearted golden flame.
    Up to now it had been a rather more nervously gay Tranquility Festival than most of the mothers approved. Even while the orchestra played there had been more than the usual quota of squeals, little shrieks, hysterical giggles, complaints of pinches and prods in the shadows, candles blown out, raids on the refreshment tables, small children darting into the buses and having to be retrieved. But Pop Wisant’s talk would smooth things out, the worriers told themselves.
    And indeed as he strode between the ranked nymphs with an impassive smile and mounted the vine-wreathed podium, the children grew much quieter. In fact the hush that fell on the leafy Big Top was quite remarkable.
    “Dear friends, charming neighbors, and fellow old coots,” he began—and then noticed that most of the audience were looking up at the green ceiling.
    There had been no wind that evening, no breeze at all, but some of the boughs overhead were shaking violently. Suddenly the shaking died away. (“My, what a sudden gust that was,” Mrs. Ames said to her husband. Mr. Ames nodded vaguely— he had somehow been thinking of the lines from Macbeth about Birnam Wood coming to Dunsinane.)
    “Fellow householders and family members of Civil Service Knolls,” Wisant began again, wiping his forehead, "in a few minutes several of you will be singled out for friendly recognition, but I think the biggest award ought to go to all of you collectively for one more year of working for tranquility . .