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reserves. We lock them tight away against emergency. I have a hunch that we can grow bucket after bucket of the stuff from what we have right here. Pull off a handful of it and feed it a shot of broth –”
    â€œBut how do you know –”
    â€œUnk,” said Tony, “doesn’t it strike you a little funny that you had the exact number of spores in that one stamp, the correct amount of broth, to grow just one basket full?”
    â€œWell, sure, but …”
    â€œLook, this stuff is intelligent. It knows what it is doing. It lays down rules for itself to live by. It’s got a sense of order and it lives by order. So you give it a wastebasket to live in and it lives within the limits of that basket. It gets just level with the top; it lets a little run down the sides to cement the basket tight to the floor. And that is all. It doesn’t run over. It doesn’t fill the room. It has some discipline.”
    â€œWell, maybe you are right, but that still doesn’t answer the question –”
    â€œJust a second, Unk. Watch here.”
    Tony plunged his hand into the basket and came out with a chunk of the spore-growth ripped loose from the parent body.
    â€œNow, watch the basket, Unk,” he said.
    They watched. Swiftly, the spores surged and heaved to fill the space where the ripped-out chunk had been. Once again the basket was very neatly filled.
    â€œYou see what I mean?” said Tony. “Given more living room, it will grow. All we have to do is feed it so it can. And we’ll give it living room. We’ll give it a lot of buckets, so it can grow to its heart’s content and –”
    â€œDamn it, Tony, will you listen to me? I been trying to ask you what we’re going to do to keep it from cementing itself to the floor. If we start another batch of it, it will cement its bucket or its basket or whatever it is in to the floor just like this first one did.”
    â€œI’m glad you brought that up,” said Tony. “I know just what to do. We will hang it up. We’ll hang up the bucket and there won’t be any floor.”
    â€œWell,” said Packer, “I guess that covers it. I’ll go heat up that broth.”
    They heated the broth and found a bucket and hung it on a broomstick suspended between two chairs.
    They dropped the chunk of spore-growth in and watched it and it stayed just as it was.
    â€œMy hunch was right,” said Tony. “It needs some of that broth to get it started.”
    He poured in some broth and the spores melted before their very eyes into a black and ropy scum.
    â€œThere’s something wrong,” said Tony, worriedly.
    â€œI guess there is,” said Packer.
    â€œI got an idea, Unk. You might have used a different brand of broth. There might be some difference in the ingredients. It may not be the broth itself, but some ingredient in it that gives this stuff the shot in the arm it needs. We might be using the wrong broth.”
    Packer shuffled uncomfortably.
    â€œI don’t remember, Tony.”
    â€œYou have to!” Tony yelled at him. “Think, Unk! You got to—you have to remember what brand it was you used.”
    Packer whuffled out his whiskers unhappily.
    â€œWell, to tell you the truth, Tony, it wasn’t boughten broth. Mrs. Foshay made it.”
    â€œNow, we’re getting somewhere! Who is Mrs. Foshay?”
    â€œShe’s a nosy old dame who lives across the hall.”
    â€œWell, that’s just fine. All you have to do is ask her to make some more for you.”
    â€œI can’t do it, Tony.”
    â€œAll we’d need is one batch, Unk. We could have it analyzed and find out what is in it. Then we’d be all set.”
    â€œShe’d want to know why I wanted it. And she’d tell all over how I asked for it. She might even figure out there was something funny going on.”
    â€œWe can’t have that,” exclaimed