What would happen if, through a genetic experiment gone awry, fungi-mushrooms, toadstools, molds and yeasts — were to go out of control and grow with unprecedented vigor and speed and tenacity, and in places formerly inimicable to them? Knight has pulled out the stops to produce an imaginative and fast-paced sci-fi horror tale set in the British Isles. The protagonist is Barry Wilson, a semi-successful author of spy novels and a former mycologist. Barry's wife Jane, from whom he is separated, is the scientist whose experiment has lead to the disaster, and the British government has called upon Barry to help find Jane and her lab notes. Crossing London in an armored tank, Barry and two other volunteers observe all sorts of grotesqueries: people and animals covered with multicolored fungi, some still alive, some now quite insane; farms and buildings and forests draped in spongy shrouds; mushrooms tall as skyscrapers. Barry survives a series of hair-raising adventures and eventually locates his wife, who has gone mad and has become the high priestness of a cult of fungi-loving female separatists. But he gets the research notes. A first-rate and vivid thriller.
By the time Norman Layne arrived home he’d long forgotten the embarrassing collision with the attractive woman m Tottenham Court Road. There were other things preying on his mind now, ranging from the sweaty itch caused by the nylon shirt that Nora insisted was all they could afford, to the lingering fury he still felt towards the black youth who’d played his huge radio as though he owned the train. And there had been the humiliation of being called back to the ticket collector so that his pass could be checked even though he was always scrupulously honest about paying. But most of all he seethed at having wasted a whole afternoon in that cess-pit of London’s West End. He had been specifically told over the phone that Bradford and Simpkins had a forester-bit brace tang which he urgently needed to continue his carpentry work. But when he got there they then told him they didn’t have it. He couldn’t understand it. He’d stood there speechless in front of the young and arrogant sales assistant and then realized he was suffering yet another of life’s endless, nasty tricks.
Outside he had spat on the pavement in disgust, but then, to his amazement and indignation, he’d got a reprimand from a passing police constable who looked even younger than the sales assistant. Furious, he’d stalked off down Tottenham Court Road, reflecting bitterly that he’d almost been arrested for such a trivial thing while all around him the blacks were fouling up the streets with their noise, their dangerous roller skates, their bikes on the sidewalks and their strutting, swaggering dirty-mouthed ways.
It was then that he’d collided with the tall, blonde woman. It was entirely his fault, he hadn’t been looking where he was going. And to add to his humiliation it was he who was knocked off his feet by the impact. He’d fallen hard on his backside and had sat there, the center of attention, for several moments while people had stepped around him with big smirks on their faces. Then the blonde woman had helped him up and apologized but he knew that behind her concerned expression and kind words she was laughing at him too. So he had given her one of his fiercest glares and hurried off down the street without saying anything to her.
And now, finally, he was home. Not that that was much better, but at least it contained a haven where he could escape from all burdens that were his lot. He could even escape from the biggest burden of all — his wife Nora. She had done nothing less than ruin his life. That’s all there was to it. He could have been somebody now if she hadn’t always been dragging him back.
To avoid her he went round to the rear of the house. At the back door he warily listened for sounds of activity in the kitchen; hearing none he quickly entered and scuttled on through into his workshop. He gave a deep sigh as he switched on the light and closed the door behind him. What meager enjoyment he got out of life was almost all in this room: the cared-for tools, the books of woodwork designs, the finished and half-finished projects, and the lengths of untouched timbers with their distinctive aroma.
He felt a momentary spasm of annoyance that he could not continue with his main job, but there was so much else to do that the room soon exerted its uplifting magic on him and he found an equally satisfying alternate task: the extra-fine sanding of an unfinished cabinet.
He began to caress the already smooth wood with the fine paper. It was a soothing, almost sensual, feeling. He would never have made any sexual association with what he was doing — sex, in fact, had always been low on his list of priorities — but to any objective observer it would have been obvious that he was making love to the wood.
As he rubbed, stroked, and caressed, the tensions of the day began to drain out of him…
Nora Layne lay in bed wondering what on earth could have happened to her husband. She had dozed off very early the previous night, having treated herself to perhaps one sherry too many that afternoon while the old bastard had been out, and she’d slept right through the night. Yet she was positive Norman hadn’t been to bed at all — the covers weren’t in their usual tangle caused by his perpetual tossing and turning.
