"Or beetles or birds," Myra reminded him. "Yeah. Beetles and birds, too." George said this matter-of-factly, but then he felt his knees start to tremble. It was the inevitable after-effect. This was _strange_. It couldn't be happening to him. It never rained that kind of rain, even if Fort had said that it did, and even if Myra believed that Fort was right. How could it rain like that? George knew what caused rain, and by no stretch of his imagination could organic matter be the result. Any sort of organic matter. And least of all little red frogs. He always associated frogs with mud--and the idea of little red frogs coming from the sky was too incredible to consider. But there were the frogs on the beach. George stroked the sand gingerly with the toes of one foot, clearing frogs away until he had room to sit down. He sat. One of the little red frogs jumped into his lap, and he stood up again--so fast that he almost upended Myra. "My gosh, George. You may be a good catalyst, but after that you're hopeless. That's where I come in." George was sorry he had decided to play along with his wife. She had given him a test, and that part he enjoyed, for all he did was shoot dice for several hours. Something about psychokinesis, Myra said. And George scored high. So high that Myra had cried: "You're positively Fortean!" And then had come the birds, the beetles, and the frogs. All red. "Listen," George said. "This is the last time. This is positively the last time." "The last time? Last time for what?" "The last time that I let you use me as a--a catalyst. I can't go around making it rain like that. We're in a deserted spot out here, so it isn't too bad. But what if this happened when people were around? What then?" "Silly, why do you think we came to this bungalow for the summer? And besides, even if people were around, why would they think _you_ caused the rain? If you insist on calling it rain." George did not like the way she said _you_. It was as if he didn't amount to much--but she always spoke to him like that. He knew he was no world-beater. He had an adequate job and he made an adequate salary, but he just didn't stack up like some of the men he knew. Or some of the men Myra knew. It always got him angry when she said _you_ that way. "What do you mean, why should they think I caused the rain? Who else can cause it, that's what I want to know? Who else can cause it?" She smiled, and if it was a smile of triumph, George pretended not to notice it. "That's what I mean," she said, putting her arms around his neck. "You're so wonderful. Only you can cause it. Let's go into the house, George." He grunted and he disentangled her arms. Then he took her hand and walked back across the sand to the house. And he held his head very high so he wouldn't have to look at all the little frogs on the beach. * * * * *