seen the past dreary days—rocks, mushrooms, lichens and
mosses, mist and cloud cover.
"Now, I ask you," sighed the first mushroom, "is that
depressing or what? I mean, it is de-press-ing."
Jon-Tom could feel his resolve slipping dangerously.
Mudge and Roseroar were half-asleep already. He had the
distinct feeling that if he joined them, none of them would
ever wake up again. The sight of white bone nearby
revitalized him. How long had it taken the owner of that
skeleton to become permanently depressed?
"I guess you might consider your existence here
depressing."
"Might consider?" moaned the toadstool. "It is de-
pressing. No maybes about it. Like, I'm afiingus, man.
That's depressing all by itself."
"I've eaten some mushrooms that were downright excit-
ing," Jon-Tom countered.
"A cannibal, too," said the tall toadstool tiredly. "How
depressing." It let out a vast telepathic sigh, a wave of
anxiety and sadness that rolled over Jon-Tom like a wave.
He staggered, shook off the cobwebs that threatened to
bind his mind. "Stop that."
"Stop what? Why sweat it? Just relax, man. You're full
of hurry, and desire, and all kinds of useless mental
baggage. Why knock yourself out worrying about things
that don't matter? Nothing matters. Lie down here, relax,
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
73
take it easy. Let your foolish concerns fly bye-bye. Open
yourself to the true blandness of reality and see how much
better you'll feel for it."
Jon-Tom started to sit down, wrestled himself back to an
upright stance. He pointed toward the skeleton.
"Like that one?"
"He was only reacting sensibly," said the toadstool.
"He's dead." Jon-Tom's voice turned accusing. "You
killed him. At least, this place killed him."
"Life killed him. Slain by dullness. Murdered by mo-
notony. He did what comes naturally to all life. He
decayed."
"Decayed? You flourish amidst decay, don't'you? You
thrive on it."
"He calls this thriving," mumbled another toadstool.
"He went the way of all flesh, that's all. Sure, we broke
down his organic components. Sometimes I wonder why
we bother. It's all such a waste. We live for death. Talk
about dull, man. It's, like, numbsville."
Jon-Tom turned and walked over to shake Roseroar,
shoving hard against the enormous shoulder. "Wake up,
Roseroar. Come on, wake up, damn it!"
"Why bother?" she murmured sleepily, eyeing him
through half-closed eyes. "Let me sleep. No, don't !et me
sleep." The feeble plea hit him like a cry for help.
"Don't worry, I won't. Wake up!" He continued to
shake her until she sat up and rubbed at her eyes.
He moved over to where Mudge lay sprawled on his
side, kicked the otter ungently. "Move it, water rat! This
isn't like you- Think about where we're going. Think of
the ocean, of clear salt air."
"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
clear, the mist didn't lift, but he felt a lot better.
"There! What did you think of that?"
"Truly depressing," said the toadstool. "Not the songs.
Your voice."
Eighty million mushrooms in the Muddletup Moors,
Jon-Tom mused, and I have to get a music critic. He
laughed at the absurdity of it, and the laughter made him
feel better still.
"Isn't there anything that can lighten your existence,
make your lives more bearable so you'll leave us alone?"
"We can't help sharing our feelings," said the second
THE DAY OF THE DISSONANCE
75
mushroom, "We're not laying all this heavy stuff on you
to be mean, man. We ain't mean. We're indifferent.
What's bringing you down is your own knowledge of life's
futility and your own inability to do anything about it.
Face it, man: the cosmos is a downer."
Hopeless. These beings were hopeless, Jon-Tom told
himself angrily. How could you fight something that didn't
come at you with shields and swords and spears? What
could he employ against a broadside of moroseness, a
barrage of doubt?
They sounded so sure of themselves, so confident of the
truth. All right then, he'd show them the truth! If he
couldn't fight them by differing with them, maybe he
could win by agreeing with them.
He took a deep breath. "The trouble with you is that
you're all manic-depressives."
A long silence, an atmosphere of consideration, before
the toadstool inquired, "What are you talking about,
man?" In the background a couple of rusts whispered to
one another, "Talk about a weird dude."
"I haven't had that much psychology, but pre-law re-
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