George sighed. He had a lot of friends, and many of them complained because their wives would call this or that thing Freudian. But they had sympathy: a lot of men had wives riding the Freudian merry-go-round. This was worse. To Myra things were Fortean. George had seen pictures of this man Fort—a nice enough looking guy with a cherubic face and a ruddy complexion, a turned up nose and big bushy eyebrows. A mild, harmless man. He had passed away; for some twenty years now he had been dead. But he could impress people. His work had impressed Myra.
He thought we're property, or things are teleported from one place to another, or we're being fished for, or you can tell a world by its frogs, or science is whacky and word-nutty and sophistic hooey.... George had heard it all dozens of times. Myra had told him. Myra had told him so much that he thought he knew Fort's philosophy by heart. A lot of ridiculous hog-wash—until the rain. How could he call it ridiculous now?
"See?" Myra said triumphantly. "See, George? This time it's frogs. Yesterday it was beetles, and the day before, those little birds—and everything was red."
"Maybe they're communists," George suggested feebly.
"Oh—"
"Well, that's as good an explanation as any."
"No, it's not. Red is the predominant color of whatever world they come from, so they're red. Or else it could just be coincidence, but I doubt that. And I told you you were a good catalyst."
"So I'm a good catalyst. So I can make rain. They could have used me back East a few months ago—if they wanted a rain of frogs."
"Or beetles or birds," Myra reminded him.