by E. C. Tubb
“If he had spotted the infection surely he would have reported it?”
“I would have thought so,” admitted Jelkson. “It is a thing any farmer would do.”
Kenton nodded, his eyes thoughtful. Number seven held tobacco and the air was heavy with the scent of the thick-leaved plants, neat and of uniform height in their tanks of nutrient solution. Slowly he walked down the aisles, inspecting random plants with minute thoroughness. Most of them showed signs of the black areas but the infection seemed to be confined to the outer leaves. The tobacco was almost ready for harvest and Kenton was reluctant to throw away the work of three months.
He had another, equally good reason, for trying to save the crop.
“The plants don’t seem to be too badly infected,” he said. “It should be possible to salvage something from it. If we remove all the outer leaves and any others showing signs of infection we could harvest the rest.”
“Impossible.” Jelkson was very definite. “I told you that the disease is a virus. That means the entire building must be sterilised. This infection isn’t just local, restricted to a few leaves. The plants themselves are rotten. What you are looking at is the outward symptoms of advanced degeneration.”
“Do you agree?” Kenton glanced at Susan. Jelkson spoke before she could answer.
“Of course she agrees. Any botanist would agree. If you were a botanist yourself you wouldn’t even consider trying to harvest the crop.”
“I am the plant manager, not a botanist,” reminded Kenton. “I have more to worry about than a few spots on some leaves.”
“Those few spots, as you term them, are about as harmless as the first signs of cancer,” said Jelkson acidly. “Don’t confuse the symptoms with the disease and don’t be deluded by them. This crop must be destroyed.”
“Isn’t that up to me?” said Kenton mildly. “As Controller I have the final word, or have you forgotten that?” He smiled at Jelkson’s furious expression, human enough to feel triumph at having cracked the other’s armour. His triumph didn’t last long,
“You have no choice,” said the botanist evenly. “Even though you may be the Controller yet my word is final when it comes to a decision like this. If you doubt me, we can take the matter to the Port Authority. Commander Ransom would not appreciate your attempt to flood the market with poisoned tobacco.”
“Did I suggest that?”
“Yes. Way back in the twenty-second century, Earth scientists developed a new strain of tobacco plant—they had succeeded in breeding out the production of carcinogens and other irritants. That new tobacco gradually replaced the old strain completely. Smoking, formerly a health hazard and in decline, became acceptable again. Normal modern tobacco is harmless, but these plants are no longer normal. The virus may be a radiation-induced mutation, in which case we can hardly call these plants tobacco at all. We cannot tell what toxic effects the smoke may have, but we do know better than to try. Golmen taught us that.”
“Golmen?” Kenton glanced at Susan and then back at Jelkson. “What has Golmen to do with it?”
“Golmen is a planet,” explained Jelkson evenly. “Twenty years ago a similar thing happened to their tobacco crop. Instead of the crop being destroyed it was harvested, cured and processed. Fifty-nine men died and over three hundred more suffered from lung disorders before it was discovered that the mutated tobacco released harmful tars. The smoke was toxic, even more lethal than original Earth tobacco. It must not happen again.”
“No,” agreed Kenton. “I can see that.” Inwardly he cursed himself for having pulled rank to win a cheap triumph only to have that triumph recoil and make him look a fool. “So it is your considered opinion that the crop is a total loss?”
“It is.”
“Can’t we salvage anything? The seeds perhaps?”
“Especially not the seeds, they could be potential dynamite in their mutated form.” Jelkson looked sharply at the Controller. “Why do you ask? We have resolve stocks surely?”
Kenton didn’t answer. His irritation and anger had left him and now he felt both physically and mentally worn out. Silently he zippered up his coverall and moved towards the inlet. Jelkson called after him just as he was about to pass through.
“Your decision, Controller. What is it?”
“My decision?” Kenton blinked then remembered. “An inquiry will be held first thing in the morning.”
“And the crop?”
Jelkson was rubbing it in. He was taking his revenge for implied insult and Kenton knew it. The decision had been Jelkson’s all the time.
“Use your discretion,” snapped Kenton and passed from the building.
Outside he paused, looking up at the moon-bright sky, and felt a sudden overwhelming nostalgia.
Damn Jelkson! Damn Lubridgida! Damn everything all to hell!
He wanted to go home.
* * * *
Take a faster-than-light drive that converts a light year of distance into two days of travel and you have solved the problem of transportation. Take radio that still obeyed the electro-magnetic restriction of the speed of light and you have a problem in communication. Take planets that, while earth-like in most respects, were utterly alien when it came to the chemical structure of their vegetation and you have the biggest problem of all.
Food.
Man could traverse the galaxy and find oxygen and water on a million worlds. He could find edible food only on one—his own. Trace elements did it. Feed an apple tree minute quantities of selenium and the tree will sicken and then recover as it assimilates the new mineral. Eat an apple from such a tree and you will die. Vegetation can adapt to poisonous elements in the soil but the fruits of such vegetation are lethal to human life.
And not one discovered planet other than Earth had just the right combination of soil elements that produced food acceptable to the human metabolism. Some had too-high quantities of selenium, others were loaded with arsenic, tungsten, copper; none of them were just right.
There was nothing strange about it and neither was it unique. Every race that ventured into space found the same problem and all had solved it in the same way. To carry food in bulk was too expensive, too wasteful of cargo space, and hopelessly impracticable in view of the rising populations and the long journeys. Se they grew their own food where it was needed.
Hydroponic farms grew edible food isolated from alien environments. Chemicals for the nutrient solutions were mined, refined and purified from local sources. Fresh seeds were imported from tested stock direct from Earth in exchange for the mineral wealth essential for a top-heavy civilisation. It worked beautifully—until something went wrong.
Kenton had the uneasy conviction that something had, at last, gone wring.
The inquiry was held in the rec-room, now cleared of all uninterested personnel. Jelkson, together with Susan, sat at one side of the table. Perchon, red-headed, freckled, normally cheerful but now glum, sat together with King, the accountant, at the other. Doctor Thorpe, present because of his long association and because he was a neutral observer, occupied the foot, while Kenton, as befitted the Controller, sat at the head.
He wasted no time.
“Last night the entire tobacco crop in number seven was found to be infected with a virus disease and will have to be destroyed. The purpose of this inquiry is to find out how and why the crop became infected.” He looked at Perchon. “We may as well begin with you. What have you to say for yourself?”
“Me?” Perchon blinked. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“You were in charge of number seven,” said Kenton coldly. “To be in charge of anything means to take responsibility for what happens to it.”
“Now, wait a minute,” protested Perchon. “Remember all this is new to me. I only came in a little while ago. Just what is supposed to have happened?”
“Susan made a spot check late yesterday afternoon,” said Jelkson. “She discovered traces and I checked. Unfortunately there can be no doubt as to what is
wrong.”
“Did you inspect the crop before going into town?” Kenton leaned a little forward as he asked the question.
“That depends on what you mean by ‘inspect’,” said Perchon. “I checked the temperature and the solution. I took a walk around for general impression but the crop looked healthy enough to me. If I had spotted something I would have reported it.”
“You left the plant about three,” said Kenton. “Susan checked about seven. It doesn’t seem likely to me that the disease would have manifested itself during those four hours.”
“Why not?” said Jelkson. “If the disease is a mutated virus, as I think possible, then anything can happen. Four hours, in our accelerated growth-cycle, would be ample time for the external symptoms to become apparent. Don’t forget that Susan was deliberately looking for trouble. Personally I consider that we were lucky in having caught it so early.”
“Lucky?” Kenton felt the muscle twitch high on his cheek. He looked at Perchon. “You are in charge of number seven. How is it that the crop became infected?”
“That isn’t a fair question,” snapped Jelkson, then fell silent at Kenton’s gesture.
“I was talking to Perchon, not you. Well? What are your excuses?”
“Do I need any?” Perchon’s voice reflected his anger. “If you knew anything about botany you’d know that things like this can happen all the time. Perhaps the seeds were irradiated during transit, or perhaps they weren’t taken from original stock, how do I know what caused it?”
“He’s right, Kenton,” said Jelkson.
“Is he?” Kenton lit a cigarette and glowered at the botanist. “Those seeds were government sealed Earth stock,” he gritted. “The building was, and is supposed to be, sterile. Now the crop has become infected and must be destroyed and yet you have the temerity to tell me how ‘lucky’ we are. Luck has nothing to do with it. The infection of the crop was due to sheer, incompetent negligence.”
“You realise what you are saying?” Jelkson glanced at the flushed face of Perchon then back at Kenton. “You are accusing Perchon of criminal negligence and sabotage. He is guilty of neither. I think that you should offer your apologies and, if you are a gentleman, you would think so yourself.”
He was right. For a moment Kenton hesitated then, because Jelkson had made the suggestion, he ignored it.
“Apologies can wait,” he said grimly. “The fact remains that the crop is infected and it didn’t happen all by itself. Someone or something caused it. I’m afraid that I just can’t shrug off what happened as an act of God. Maybe you can but I can’t.”
“Perhaps that is because you do not believe in God,” said Jelkson quietly. “Frankly, I fail to see why you are so disturbed. We have lost crops before and probably will again. All we have to do is to sterilise and replant.”
“Simple,” agreed Kenton. “What with?”
“Fresh seed, of course.” Jelkson stared at the Controller. “We have fresh seed, I suppose?”
“Then you suppose wrong,” said King. He was a big, fat, jovial man and, as the accountant, he kept his fingers firmly on the pulse of finance. He looked at Kenton. “Seems that we’ll have to spill the beans, Dan. Want me to tell it?”
Kenton nodded. He settled back in his chair, the cigarette burning between his fingers, and watched the faces of those around the table. He was annoyed with himself to find that one face in particular was very hard to ignore.
Susan, as he had long ago decided, was very beautiful.
“None of you know this,” King said, “but we had a little trouble a while ago. Someone, we don’t know who, was careless and boxed up a few spores with the processed seed. I don’t have to tell you what happened.”
He didn’t. Lubridgida had a fecund vegetable life of its own consisting mainly of spore-bearing plants. The survival factor of the spores was so high that they would germinate on contact with any vegetable matter.
“Dan found out about it when he had the chance to do a trade for some alien seeds for the test vats. The swap was for tobacco. He called me to witness the deal and I was with him when the storeroom was opened. The trader, naturally, wanted to check. When we opened the box we found out what had happened.”
“Spores in the seed boxes?” Jelkson raised his eyebrows. “How did they get there?”
“That’s what we’d like to know,” said King grimly. “Incidentally, only the tobacco was ruined. Nothing else was touched. In view of that the recent crop failure needs investigation. We were relying on it to replenish our seed stock.”
“Incredible!” Jelkson shook his head as though he found it impossible to believe. “Coincidence, of course, but incredible just the same.”
“Coincidence?” King shrugged. “What makes you say that, Jelkson?”
“Well, isn’t it?”
“I’m not sure. You tell me.”
“Tobacco isn’t an easy crop to grow,” explained Jelkson. “By that I mean that it isn’t easy to breed true, not when subjected to alien radiation. I don’t know why that is, but experience has taught us never to rely on it as a staple. It doesn’t seem incredible to me that the seeds of say, a second or third generation crop should display odd tendencies. Number seven is a perfect example of what I mean. One day a perfectly normal appearing crop, the next rotten with disease.”
“There were spores in the boxes, Jelkson, not disease,” reminded King. “Can you explain how they could have got there?”
“Could it have been by accident?” Susan didn’t blush as she made the suggestion, but the tone of her voice gave the impression that she did. If anything it made her even more attractive and Kenton wished that she wasn’t so introverted. Career women were the very devil, especially when they were shy and doubly so when they chose a man like Jelkson to be their guiding star.
“Naturally,” admitted the accountant. “But for any such accident to have taken place would mean that someone was criminally careless.”
“Not necessarily.” Thorpe spoke for the first time through a screen of tobacco smoke. “Accidents happen all the time. If I understand what you are hinting then it wasn’t an accident at all.” He removed the pipe from his mouth, examined the bowl and poked at it with a seemingly fireproof finger. “Did you make any investigations?”
“We did what we could,” said King. “The results were negative. Either it was a pure accident, in which case the spores must have contaminated the seeds before packaging, or someone in the packaging sheds introduced them. In either case the spores must have been introduced, whether by accident or design, sometime during harvesting and the sealing of the boxes.”
“I disagree,” said Jelkson. “There is another method which you haven’t mentioned. The seed boxes are only fibre board overlaid with thin metal. Assuming that someone wanted to introduce spores into the seeds he could have done so with a slender instrument.”
“Such as a hypodermic needle?” Thorpe looked intently at the botanist. “Is that what you mean?”
“A hypodermic needle would be ideal,” said Jelkson evenly.
“Yes,” said Thorpe dryly, “I suppose it would.” He glanced at King. “Did any of the boxes show any signs of puncturing?”
“No.” King glanced at Jelkson. “Have you changed your mind about it being a coincidence?”
“Of course not. I was merely theorising. I say that the introduction of the spores was the result of an accident. It’s incredible to think that it could be otherwise.”
“We’re getting nowhere,” said Perchon abruptly. “Talking about the lost seeds won’t replace them.” He looked at Kenton. “I understand now, Dan, why you blew your top. Forget any apologies you may think you owe me. This thing is more serious than I thought.”
“Serious?” Jelkson shrugged. “Surely that depends on the point of view. Admitting that the loss of any crop is serious, yet it could have been worse. Our staples are unharmed and, even if we do lose our tobacco, it can’t really harm us.”
“No?” King
pursed his lips as he looked at the botanist. “For a man with so much brains, Jelkson, you seem awfully dumb. Don’t you realise that tobacco is the most profitable crop we can grow? With those profits we subsidise our other produce. Lose those profits and up go the price of our staples. Let them rise too high and the competition will step in and, maybe, the government. Aside from anything else we are paid on a profit-sharing percentage and, unless you’ve forgotten about it, lost profits hurt us where it hurts most—in the pocket. Unless we can replace our tobacco it will pay us to work as common labourers. That is unless the government step in and make us work for our keep as they can do under the emergency laws.”
“What would happen then?” asked Susan. She was fairly new to the hydroponic farms and was still full of idealism. King doubted whether she had ever once thought of the financial juggling that went on behind the scenes.
“The emergency laws were passed to safeguard our people against exploitation,” explained the accountant. “If the price of food rises too high the government have powers to step in and operate the plant under martial law. They will conscript us and concentrate on producing basic yeast. Home Office will send out a new staff and we will face an inquiry.”
“But nothing can happen to us, can it? I mean they can’t hurt us, can they?”
“Deliberate sabotage of any crop, seed, building, plant, machinery or anything which could lead to hindrance or damage to farming is punishable by first degree execution,” said King. “I won’t tell you what first degree execution is but it isn’t pleasant. In fact, it’s the most unpleasant death the experts could dream up. For minor things like incompetence, bad management and criminal negligence the penalties range from life imprisonment to a heavy fine.” King shrugged. “You should read the small print on your contract, it’s all written down there.”
“But that only applies to us, doesn’t it? Not the general staff.”
“Paid servants can be fired or, if the Controller sees fit, reported to the government authority for the above penalties.” King grinned at her shocked expression. “That’s right. Susan, in a way Kenton has the power of life and death. Now you know why you should be nice to him.”
