quires some,” Jon-Tom explained. “You know, I’ll bet not
one of you has ever considered psychoanalysis for your
problems.”
“Considered what?” asked the first mushroom.
Jon-Tom found a suitable rock—a hard, uncomfortable
one sure to keep him awake. “Pay attention now. Anybody
here ever heard of Franz Kafka?”
Several hours passed. Mudge and Roseroar had time to
reawaken completely, and the mental voices surrounding
them had become almost alive, though all were still flat
and tinged with melancholy.
“. . .And another thing,” Jon-Tom was saying as he
pointed upward, “that sky you’re all always referring to.
Nothing but infantile anal-retentive reinforcement. Well,
maybe not exactly that,” he corrected himself as he
reminded himself of the rather drastic anatomical differ-
76
Alan Dean Foster
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
77
ences between himself and his audience, “but it’s the
same idea.”
“We can’t do anything about it,” said the giant toad-
stool. “The mist and clouds and coolness are always with
us. If they weren’t, we’d all die. That’s depressing. And
what’s even more depressing is that we don’t particularly
like perpetual mist and clouds and fog.”
Jon-Tom struggled desperately for a reply, feeling victo-
ry slipping from his grasp. “It’s not the fact that it’s
cloudy and damp all the time that matters. What matters is
your outlook on the fact.”
“What do you mean, our outlook?” asked a newcomer,
an interested slime mold. “Our outlook is glum and
miserable and pointless.”
“Only if you think of it that way,” Jon-Tom informed