by E. C. Tubb
The joke, Kenton thought, was in bad taste. He was responsible for the entire farm but, because he was responsible, his position carried the heaviest penalties. He rapped on the table to attract attention.
“I think it time we discovered something more important,” he said curtly. “I still want to discover how the crop became contaminated in the first place. Jelkson, have you anything to say?”
“A little. The disease is extremely virulent. The progression of decay is fantastic, the crop now is totally infected and is in actual process disintegration. In view of the rapid degeneration of the crop I hesitate to perform further tests for fear of spreading the contamination.”
“Is the disease recognisable?”
“No. However that means nothing. It must be a virus, probably a mutated strain, and the progress of the infection bears out my previous decision. Utter destruction and sterilisation is the only answer.”
“Agreed.” Kenton glanced at Perchon. “And you?”
“I can’t help you,” said the young man miserably. “I took all precautions and simply cannot account for the infection. Unless, of course, the disease was inherent in the plants themselves.”
“Could that be so, Jelkson?”
“In this case I doubt it. Inherent disease is always possible, of course, but the shocking speed of actual decomposition is against it. At first I thought that it was inherent but it is hard to believe that the crop told have grown so well without previous signs of infection.” Jelkson held up his hand to halt Kenton’s instinctive reply.
“Before you blame Perchon let me make one thing clear. He was the only one to enter number seven. He has worked in other buildings, the crops of which show no signs of harm. I believe him when he says that he has taken all precautions.”
“So do I,” said Kenton abruptly, and Perchon smiled with sudden relief. “But that doesn’t help us. You say that the disease is not inherent?”
“I do.”
“Then it must have been introduced?”
“Yes.”
“That settles it. The seeds were one thing, the crop another. Add them both together and there is only one answer.” Kenton drew a deep breath. “Someone deliberately sabotaged our crop.”
His voice carried the hate of all men for anyone who would strike at the very roots of their existence.
* * * *
Phorisci, the Denebian, smiled as an aide announced his visitor. Tall, thin, humanoid and, aside from his cat-eyes and blue-tinted skin, almost man-like, he bowed as he offered Jelkson a chair.
He had been eating, the plate on his desk half-filled with succulent vegetables and synthetic meat, but Jelkson knew that one mouthful of the appetising food would double him in a fit of retching and more would kill him as surely as prussic acid.
“I am intruding,” apologised Jelkson. “I apologise. If you would prefer me to call some other time...?”
“Think nothing of it.” Phorisci spoke Terran with scarcely a trace of accent. “If it does not offend your sight to see me partake of nourishment I would be happy for you to remain. I will soon finish and then be able to entertain you.”
Jelkson nodded. He knew enough of the habits of the Denebians to know that he was being particularly favoured. Food, to them, was merely fuel. They ate to stay alive and not for pleasure. Unlike the Terrestials they had never evolved a complex ceremonial about the necessity of eating and, while not forbidden; it was considered impolite for anyone to watch another partaking of his food.
Phorisci ate swiftly, almost mechanically, lifting his food to his mouth and chewing it as if it were a duty. Jelkson waited until the plate had been emptied.
“May I smoke in your presence?”
“Certainly.” Phorisci leaned back and watched with interest as Jelkson lit a cigarette. The Denebians did not smoke and, of all the intelligent races as yet contacted, Earthmen were the only ones addicted to the illogical, utterly unreasonable habit of paying money for the dubious privilege of inhaling smoke.
“Thank you.” Normally Jelkson smoked very little. He smoked now for no other reason than that the air in the Denebian farm was heavy with the taint of alien chemicals. Tobacco smoke effectively numbed his olfactory passages.
“I trust that your visit is of a social nature?” Phorisci’s eyes strayed to a side table on which a chessboard and men were set out ready for play. “I have a new gambit which I think will interest you. It is something one of our technicians developed and, though I say it without boasting, it is beautiful in its complex logic.”
“That is interesting,” said Jelkson sincerely. “Have you worked out the counter-moves?”
“That is its weakness,” admitted Phorisci. “As I pointed out to the technician it suffers from a certain degree of inflexibility. It allows of only three variations, more than that and it is worse than useless. I shall be happy to show it to you.”
“Later,” said Jelkson. Chess, to the Denebians, was a ruling passion. Coldly logical in their emotions, they relished the game as being the ultimate in a test of skill. Jelkson, himself a good player, had spent many friendly hours with the Denebian Farm Director over the chessboard.
“Later?” Phorisci straightened a little in his chair. “Then your visit is not wholly social?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Jelkson drew at his cigarette, inhaled, and let the smoke trickle through his nostrils. The irritating taint in the air vanished beneath the more powerful fragrance of the tobacco smoke.
“Kenton, our Controller, asked me to call on you,” Jelkson said. “He would have come himself but other business has become pressing. He knows of our friendship and hopes that you will not consider it impolite for me to convey his request.”
“He was correct,” smiled Phorisci. “I do not consider it impolite. Where is Kenton now?”
“At the space field. He had business with our government representative.”
“Commander Ransom, your Port Authority.” Phorisci nodded. “I know him, he is a good man. Well, what is this request?”
“We have recently lost our entire crop of tobacco.” Jelkson gestured with his cigarette. “You know of our addiction to the plant. Kenton thought that it might be possible for you to have seeds that you would be willing to either sell or exchange. Have you?”
“Seeds of tobacco?” Phorisci smiled and shook his head. “What a strange idea! What use would we have for seeds of tobacco?”
“Experimentation, perhaps?” Jelkson stared at the Denebian. “We know each other too well for subterfuge, Director. There is no reason in the galaxy why you should not have tobacco seed or be growing tobacco plants in your tanks. It is a profitable crop and there is no harm in your trying to grow it. After all, you grow other, non-Denebian food in your buildings.”
“Do we?” Phorisci seemed to tense a little in his chair. “May I ask what makes you think that?”
“Because you would be foolish not to,” said Jelkson calmly. “There are only two hydroponic farms on Lubridgida, yours and ours. There are at least seven space-travelling races who call here. We ourselves grow alien foods for them and, naturally, so must you.”
“Admittedly we grow alien foods,” smiled Phorisci. “The Rigellians are our best customers, but tobacco?” He shook his head. “We could sell that only to your race. And how would we test it?”
Jelkson nodded. Phorisci had a point there. Both farms grew a certain amount of food for the alien races who might call at a wayward planet and the trade, while small, was regulated by strict regulations. Sample batches of all harvests had to be fed to test animals before being packaged and offered for sale. The test animals were native to the race for which the food was intended and, inevitably, served to ensure that the food was wholesome by alien standards.
There was no possible way for any alien farmer to test his tobacco.
“So you have no seed.” Jelkson shrugged and crushed out his cigarette. “Frankly, I didn’t think that you had, but we had to ask.”
“I’m s
orry about your loss,” said Phorisci. “I wish that I were able to help, but....” He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Aside from basic chemicals and equipment there was little any one farm could do for another if it was alien.
“Never mind,” said Jelkson. “We’ll manage somehow.”
“Naturally.” Phorisci rose and moved towards the side table. “Now....”
He broke off as the communication box on his desk hummed to life. A blue-tinted face stared from the screen and said something in rapid Denebian. Phorisci answered him, listened for a moment, then cut the connection.
“I am afraid that I must leave you for a while,” he said to Jelkson. “A routine matter, nothing of importance, but my presence is essential.”
“Trouble?”
“No, nothing like that. We are ready to sterilise one of the buildings. A routine matter, as I said, but I am needed.” Phorisci hesitated, his eyes on the chessboard. “I hesitate to suggest it but perhaps you would like to accompany me?”
“Willingly.” The botanist smiled his pleasure. “We have trouble sometimes of our own and I would be interested in seeing your methods.”
Phorisci nodded and led the way to the door.
* * * *
Commander Ransom, the Terrestrial Port Authority and the highest power on Lubridgida, was a withered, thin-faced old man who had spent the best years of his life in space. Too old for command of one of the government vessels, he had accepted the sinecure of Port Authority on Lubridgida with the determination to run the planet as if it were a ship. His failure to make the residents agree with his ideas had long since soured his already acid disposition.
He received Kenton in his office, made the customary offer of whisky and cigarettes, then leaned back and stared at the Controller.
“Before you say anything,” he snapped, “let me make one thing clear. I have no information of any ship likely to call here which is heading for Earth.”
“I didn’t think that you had,” said Kenton. There had been a time, a couple of years ago now, when he had almost driven the Commander frantic by his asking the unanswerable. Ships, aside from the courier vessels that carried news, messages, and nothing else, obeyed no strict rule. Company ships carried seeds and replaced personnel only. Private ships followed the path of profitable cargoes or lent themselves to outright charter. Traders operated on local routes, hopping from planet to planet and acting as interstellar carriers. Such ships were useless to anyone who had more than a hundred light years to travel.
Kenton had five hundred.
“I haven’t called to ask about shipping schedules,” he said. “At least not for personal reasons. We’ve had a little trouble at the farm and I think you should know about it.”
“Trouble?” Ransom jerked upright in his chair. “Bad trouble?”
“Bad enough. Our tobacco crop has had to be destroyed. On its own that wouldn’t be too important, but a week ago I discovered that all our stock seed had been ruined by spores. Now we have no plants and seed. Have you any in the warehouse?”
“No. I send all seed received straight up to you.” Ransom looked thoughtful. “All the stock seed ruined, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“There didn’t seem to be any necessity for it. Accidents happen and we could have replaced it with seed from mature plants. Now, because of the crop failure, we can’t.” Kenton hesitated. “I held an inquiry. The results forced me to believe that someone has deliberately sabotaged our farm.”
“Sabotage!” Ransom looked sharply at the Controller. “Are you sure?”
“As sure as I can be about anything. One accident, yes. Two, no. Not just as it happened. The only seed ruined was the tobacco. The only crop infected was tobacco. What would you think?”
“Sabotage,” breathed Ransom. “It doesn’t seem possible. Have my idea who did it?”
“No, we went into all that at the inquiry. It could have been any one of the top staff.”
“Do you think that one of them did it?”
“I don’t know,” said Kenton miserably. “It seems incredible that anyone in such a position would even think of a thing like that I.... I don’t like to think about it.”
“That’s no way to talk, Kenton,” snapped Ransom. “I don’t have to tell you how important the farm is to us. More now than ever. Now that....” He broke off and looked uncomfortable.
“Not what?” Kenton stared at the old Commander. “The farm is important, period. How can it be more important than before?”
“I shouldn’t tell you this, Kenton,” said Ransom slowly. “The fewer who know about it the better. Blake was in a couple of weeks ago. You know him?”
“I think so. Works for Farben Minerals, doesn’t he?”
“That’s right. He came in a couple of week ago with news of a big strike of copper he’d made back in the mountains. I sent him off on the next ship to carry the news to Base. If we can keep this quiet we can increase our population before the Denebians have a chance to catch up. Once we reach the minimum population superiority we can go to the Arbitration Council and claim Lubridgida as a Terrestrial planet. Now you know why the farm is more important now than ever.”
“How big an increase do you expect?” Kenton looked thoughtful. “Maybe I should start increasing the size of the farm.”
“And warn the Denebians what we are up to?” Ransom shook his head. “You know how these things work, Kenton. Once they get wind of a big population increase they are going to start thinking. In a race neither of us would win. As yet Lubridgida is an open planet, no one up to now has wanted the trouble of developing it. Let the Denebians know of the copper and we’d have a cold war on our hands. The planet would be flooded with immigrants and no one would be any better off.”
Kenton nodded. There had been population races before as each power tried to build up their own people in order to claim a new world. Normally, there were so many planets that no one bothered about ownership. It was only when the world proved rich in essential minerals that rivalry stepped in.
“I suppose that I’ll receive enough warning so as to take care of the increase?”
“Yes. I can’t permit you to extend your buildings yet, but there’s nothing to prevent you stepping up production of sugar for the basic yeast plant. Also, the immigrants will bring some stores with them.” Ransom smiled as he thought of the intricate planning necessary to bring off the coup. To succeed close timing would be essential. The immigrants must arrive just prior to the case being taken to the Council and they must show enough development to satisfy the Arbitrators that the terrestrial claim was justified. He lost his smile as he thought of something.
“This sabotage at the farm,” he said. “Is it possible that it was caused by the Denebians?”
“I don’t know.” Kenton frowned as he thought about it. “I hadn’t considered it because there was no reason for them to do such a thing. But if they had news of the copper?” He stared at Ransom. “Could they have?”
“It fits in,” said the Commander. “First they sabotage the tobacco crop and then, perhaps later, they ruin our sugar.” He nodded, his military-trained mind already accepting as a fact that the two races were at war. “You need guards, Kenton. Above all nothing must happen to the farm. Unless you can keep in production we’ll have to postpone our claim for this planet. I’ll send to Base for a company of militia.”
“No.” Kenton smiled at the expression on the Commander’s thin features. “If you do that you will give the game away. No guards, Ransom, we can take care of the farm ourselves.” He hesitated. “There’s one other thing. If they wanted to sabotage our production, then why pick on tobacco? The loss of that crop can’t really hurt us. We can do without smoking if we have to. It doesn’t make sense.”
“The Denebians are alien,” reminded Ransom curtly. “How do we know just how they think? To them tobacco could appear as an essential to the human race. After all, alm
ost everyone smokes and, to a non-smoking race, it could appear as if we depended on tobacco more than food.” He shrugged. “To the Devil with the reason, they did it and that’s good enough.”
“I won’t argue,” said Kenton. “Now about that crop. I’ll be needing a fresh supply of seed and I can’t afford to wait for it to come from Home Office. What ships are due in?”
“Cormack might arrive tomorrow, he’s on the Holwen-Rachi-Lubridgida circuit. The Seven Star ship should come in sometime this week and the Immishti Transportation Co. are about due. Why?”
“I’ll have to go begging,” explained Kenton. “I’ll catch the first ship out and do some planet-hopping until I locate some seed. When I do I’ll charter a ship and come straight back. It’ll be expensive, but it will save maybe six years waiting for fresh seed from Earth. You agree?”
“Can’t someone else go?” Ransom looked dubious. “I don’t like the idea of your leaving the farm at this time.”
“I’m the obvious one to go,” argued Kenton. “I can authorize the expenditure, providing you countersign it, and no one else can really be spared.”
Ransom hesitated. As Port Authority he was legally Kenton’s superior and his permission was needed before the Controller could leave his post. Unless he had that permission Kenton would be classed as a grade one criminal guilty of sabotage by neglect.
“I’ll be back within a few weeks,” urged Kenton, quite aware of what was passing through the other’s mind. “It’s either that or we do without tobacco for the next few years. With the population increase you expect that isn’t going to be good. You know how important it is to keep up the morale of new immigrants; without tobacco they’re going to feel pretty low.”
“Maybe that’s what the Denebians did it for?” mused Ransom. He nodded. “All right, Kenton, you have my permission to leave. I’ll hold the next ship due in and save you a berth. Good enough?”
Kenton smiled.
* * * *
Doctor Thorpe stood at the entrance to his dispensary and looked thoughtfully at the buildings before him. The farms were built on rectangular lines, the tank buildings separated by concrete paths, the whole structure clean and white with anti-spore chemicals sprayed on both paths and the concrete walls of the buildings. A man walked slowly past the little doctor, a tank on his back and a nozzle in his gloved hands. Carefully he sprayed every inch of the path before him.
