“I’d rather not, mate,” said the otter tiredly. “No point
to it, really.”
“True true, true,” intoned the fungoid chorus of doom.
“I’ll get up in a minute, guv’nor. There’s no rush, and
we’re in no ‘urry. Let me be.”
“Like hell, I will. Think of the food we’ve enjoyed.
74
Alan Dean Poster
Think of the good times ahead, of the money to be made.
Think,” he said with sudden alacrity, “of die three days
you spent at the Elegant Bitch.”
The otter opened his eyes wide, smiling weakly. “Aye,
now that’s a memory t’ ‘old tight to.”
“Useless, useless, useless,” boomed the a cappella
ascomycetes.
” Tis kind o’ pointless, mate,” said the otter. For an
instant Jon-Tom despaired, fearing he’d lost his friend for
good. Then Mudge sprang to his feet and glared at the
surrounding growth. “But ’tis also one ‘ell of a lot o’
fun!”
“Help Roseroar,” Jon-Tom ordered him, a great relief
surging through him. He turned his attention back to their
subtle, even indifferent, assailants.
“Look, I can’t help what you are and I can’t help it if
you find your existences so depressing.”
“It’s not how we find them,” said the first mushroom.
“It’s how they are. Don’t you think we’d change it if we
could? But we can’t. This is iife: boring, dull, unchanging,
gray, depressing, decay…”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way. It’s you who let it
remain so.” Unslinging the duar, he launched into the
brightest, cheeriest song he could think of: John Denver’s
“Rocky Mountain High.” He finished with Rick Springfield’s
“We All Need the Human Touch.” The gray sky didn’t