by E. C. Tubb
“What happened? Did I walk in my sleep or something? Was the experiment a success?” She touched the soiled garment she wore. “Why am I dressed like this? Doctor, with respect, I don’t think I want to pursue any more investigations into my ESP attributes.”
Regan met Elna’s eyes and felt himself relax. The encephalograph would confirm it but he was convinced the girl’s brainwave pattern was now normal. Proof that the alien creature was dead, totally destroyed, the mental attachment formed between it and the girl now dissolved.
CHAPTER 9
Malcolm Edmunds had long since decided that Carolyn Markson was the most beautiful girl to be found on the Moon and now, watching her at work, he had no cause to alter his opinion. Moving over the soil she had the appearance of a nymph, small feet seeming to float over the ground, her elfin face holding an enigmatic mystery. In the glow of the artificial sun her hair shone with the gleam of polished gold.
Impulsively, he said: “Carrie, why won’t you marry me?”
“I will.”
“When?”
“This day, that day, sometime, never.” Laughing she avoided his hands. “Be sensible, Malcolm. We both have work to do. Save romance for our recreation periods. Are you going to the dance tonight?”
“If you’ll be there, yes.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Then so will I.” He watched as again she lowered the instrument she was carrying to the dirt, thrust the tip into the loam and triggered a switch on the handle. “What are you doing?”
“Checking for radioactivity among other things. This is a very special piece of ground, or didn’t you know?”
“Why else do you think I’m here?” He moved a little, conscious of his purple sleeve. “We’ve had enough trouble with things coming from space without wanting more. That’s why the Commander ordered a security guard to stand watch.”
“In case monsters spring from the ground like the warriors from Jason’s teeth?”
“Jason’s?”
“The teeth of the dragon which Cadmus slew and which Jason planted. Surely you know the story of the Argo?”
“I know it,” he said, and took a step closer to where she stood. “But you’ve got it wrong. It’s Cadmus’s teeth, not Jason’s.”
“So, what’s the difference? No matter what you call them they still gave trouble.” She tested another spot, triggered the results to register on the tape, and moved on. Below each point she tested rested a seed, their positions marked by a red tab. “How’s Antonio?”
“He’s fine.”
“Tell him I asked after him when you see him.”
“Tell him yourself, he’ll be out and about tomorrow.” Malcolm shook his head as he looked at the girl. “What does it take to make you aware I’m alive and waiting? A broken leg? Some bruises? A dose of radioactivity? All that happened to Antonio is that he didn’t move fast enough and got himself hurt in the rock fall when that monster was cremated. If you want to feel sorry for anyone then spare time for Sophia. She was really in love with Boris.”
“Yes, I know.” Carolyn grew abruptly serious. “And I don’t mean to tease you, Malcolm. Why can’t we just be happy together without wanting to own each other? Why do you have to be jealous all the time?”
“Because I love you, I guess.”
“I know. And I like to hear you say it. Now move over and let me finish this.”
Obediently he stepped out of her way and took up a position on the path. Above, the sun glowed with a warmth he remembered when, as a boy, he had stolen time from school to go swimming in the local river. One still fit for such purposes if you ignored the broken glass and rusted iron that littered the bottom. Closing his eyes he could almost smell the rich scent of grass and trees, bushes and wild flowers and, with imagination, could almost hear the hum of bees.
They would come, he thought, opening his eyes and looking at the neat plots, some covered with a fuzz of green now, others still waiting to support the crops soon to take root. On the far side of the cavern tiny figures worked on the wall, smoothing, gouging, turning blank stone into a work of art.
He might join them, he thought. Spend a few hours of his leisure periods giving a hand to the sculptors and artists. It would make a change from working in the maintenance section as a voluntary grease monkey. Yet there was something about working on a Pinnace, which couldn’t be beaten. To handle machinery so carefully designed, so functional in purpose, was to handle metal shaped as if it were a gem.
Idly he wondered if his request for a transfer from Security to Reconnaissance would be approved.
“Malcolm!” He heard the sharp intake of the girl’s breath and spun towards her, his hand dropping to the laser holstered at his waist. “Malcolm! Look!”
He followed her pointing finger, stepping closer to gain a better view, seeing a dull, metallic looking shape lying at the bottom of a hollow that she had cleared with her hands. A sphere as large as a grapefruit. One of the alien seeds.
“What is it? Danger of some kind?”
“No!” Her laughter was music. “I noticed a variation on the readings and decided to take a look. Can’t you see, Malcolm? Don’t you understand?” Her finger touched points on the surface of the sphere, tiny cracks which showed slight protrusions. “They’re growing, darling! The seeds are growing!”
*
The music was from The Planets Suite; Saturn, The Bringer of Old Age, and leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, Regan let himself sink into the magic of Gustav Holst’s genius. Almost he could taste the dust, smell the decay, feel the cobwebs of accumulated centuries, of aching millennia. Responding to the sonorous chords his body felt the weight and burden of passing years, his mind became filled with the depression induced by remembered hopes and lost aspirations. As the music ended he sat with his mind drifting in a vast emptiness.
“Mark?” Elna Mitchell had come to sit beside him. Now, resting her hand on his own, she said, “Mark, what is worrying you?”
“Am I worried?”
“Of course. You are always worried about something, but I didn’t mean that. This is something special. Your choice of music, for example. I’ll admit the piece has an uplift at the end, but it’s one which can easily be overlooked, the more so if the listener is in a state of acute anxiety. And I was watching your eyelids. When did you last have a psychological check-up?”
Smiling he said, “Elna, don’t you ever stop work?”
“Do you?” Returning the smile she gently shook her head. “You’re not a machine, Mark. You can be affected by strain and stress the same as the rest of us. What I’d like to prescribe for you is a nice, long vacation.”
“By the sea?” he suggested, entering into the spirit of the game. “Or high in the mountains so as to manage a little skiing? Or in the country somewhere? Where do you suggest, Doctor?”
“I’m serious, Mark. You know, the ancient Romans had more sense than they are usually given credit for. They knew the limitations of men. When they gave a general a Triumph they had a slave standing behind him to whisper in his ear. To remind him that, though he was being treated as a god, he was only a man and therefore mortal. Maybe you should have someone behind you all the time to remind you that you aren’t a machine but only human.”
“And liable to error.”
“Of course—is there any human who isn’t?” But she had grasped his meaning. “The seeds, Mark. You’re worried about the alien seeds.”
“Yes.”
“Why? They seem harmless enough.”
“They’re growing.” He turned to face her, the light catching the hard planes of his face, deepening the shadows in the concavities, turning his features into a mask of superficial hardness. “Elna, I’ll be honest with you. I hoped the damned things wouldn’t grow. I wanted them just to lie in the ground like stones and be equally harmless. I agreed to have them planted because I didn’t want an argument with Trevor. A weakness.”
“No, Mark,” she corrected. “A
consideration for others.”
“A gamble,” he said, bitterly. “And one I lost.”
He was tired, she thought, as he leaned back in the chair. Tired and more than tired; nerve and sinew held tense too long, mind given no respite from the endless necessity of having to make decisions, muscles responding with psychosomatic fatigue. And, always, would be the burden of responsibility, the isolation of command.
A holiday, she had suggested. A vacation in an impossible place where he could relax and forget and allow the hours and days to drift past without thought or concern. One day, perhaps, but not until they returned to Earth. And that would not be for another four years.
Even as she thought about it, she knew that, for Regan, there could never be a true haven of rest. The most he could hope to obtain was a few snatched hours free of worry. The most she could do for him was to give him the strength of her trust.
And, at times like this, to try and lift his spirits, to edge him back from the depths of depression which, at times, yawned at his feet.
“What’s new about the seeds, Mark? I know they’re growing but that’s about all. Is there anything more than that?”
“Much more,” he said, grimly. “I’m waiting on a report from Lucy Cochran. Let’s go and get it.”
The botanist was in her laboratory and she wasn’t alone. Trevor Boardman turned and smiled as Regan and Elna entered. He wore a thick apron and was busy with acids and vials.
“Mark! Elna! This will interest you! I’ve just verified Lucy’s findings as to the chromosome count of the seeds. It’s fantastic!”
As was everything else about the alien product; its rate of growth, the intricate root system, the oddly coloured sprouts and vestigal leaves. Regan glanced through a window to where guards stood around the plot to keep watchers from the growths, which had now covered the dirt with a mass of convoluted spines and tendrils of brilliant hues.
Elna said, “What have you found, Trevor?”
“Lucy discovered it during a routine check. We’ve been making tests at regular intervals and finally she was able to isolate the basic structure. I—well, you tell them, Lucy.”
“Thank you, Professor.” The botanist put down a slide and turned to face the visitors. “As you know chromosomes are to be found in every living organism including bacteria. They contain the genes, which determine the adult characteristics such as, in the case of a man, the hair-colour, eye-colour, height and so on including any susceptibility to certain organic malfunctions and inherent defects such as haemophilia. The numbers of chromosomes vary as to each species, the garden pea, for example, contains a total of eight—four from each parent. A man contains forty-eight.” Pausing she ended, “the plants out there, from what I can determine, contain a dozen times that number.”
“What?” Elna frowned. “Are you certain?”
“No,” admitted the botanist, calmly. “That is why I qualified my statement. There could be more and I suspect there is, but I am sure there are at least more than five hundred.”
Regan said, harshly, “Anything else?”
“Nothing really new, Commander.” Lucy Cochran picked up a clipboard from the bench and ran her finger down a list of notations. “The initial growth was extremely high and is proof of the tremendous concentration of energy held in each seed. The root system is vascular but differs from the usual combination of xylem and phloem and is much more efficient. Chlorophyll is present, of course, but again there seem to be additives, which enhance the conversion rate from received energy to carbohydrates. There is also another compound manufactured the nature of which I have yet to determine. It is a complex molecular chain which is being concentrated in the centre and base of the growth. There are also traces of cholesterol.”
“Cholesterol?” Regan frowned. “It’s been a long time since I studied botany but I didn’t think plants contained cholesterol.”
“They don’t,” said Lucy Cochran. “It’s a sterol found in animals. It’s also a vitamin for insects.” Her finger moved down the list of notations. “I also found a minute amount of choline.”
Elna said, thoughtfully, “That’s a vitamin for cockroaches. As I remember it’s also a constituent of certain important fats such as lecithin and acetylcholine.”
“Yes.”
“Do you usually find such a substance in plants?”
Before she could answer Boardman said, “We are dealing with something alien, Elna. We can’t expect it to be exactly like the plants we are familiar with. It grew under a different sun and was subjected to different forces. We can only guess at its natural environment. All we know is that, so far, the growths display tremendous promise. The initial nutrient stored in the seeds, for example, and there could be fibres incredible strength, medicines, fruits, saps of industrial value. All we can do now is to wait.”
“Wait for what, Trevor?” Regan turned from the window. His face was taut, the lines engraved as if with acid. “A plant,” he said, sombrely. “Yet one with a fantastic number of chromosomes. One with mammalian ingredients. One with a substance used by insects as a vitamin. What, in God’s name is growing out there?”
*
The spines straightened and swelled into leaves each reaching upwards like pleading hands towards the glowing disc of the artificial sun. The tendrils coiled into spirals of multi-coloured glory, looking like plaited ropes that moved to join, to merge, to change into a single, complex flower. Beneath it rose a bole, swelling from the heart of the dissipated seed, a growth ringed with protective leaves edged with saw-like teeth. It resembled a marrow standing on end, the skin darkly green and traced with an elegant design in red and yellow. Quickly it grew to stand above the height of a man, the great flower at its summit held on a thick, flexible stalk, the open frond of petals turned towards the sun.
And then, unaccountably, the plants began to die.
Carolyn Markson noticed it first, frowning over the readings of her electronic instrument, checking various points and then summoning Lucy Cochran.
The botanist shook her head when, later, she conferred with Trevor Boardman.
“A general wilting, Professor. I can’t, as yet, determine any particular cause. The water-content of the soil is normal, and we have maintained the introduction of specific chemical fertilisers. Examination shows no obvious root-damage.”
“Could it be the natural end of their life-cycle?” Boardman shook his head. “No, of course not, even though alien the plants must serve some kind of purpose if only that of perpetuating their own kind. Did you notice any formation of fruit or seeds of any kind either in the carpels or rind?”
“No.”
“Then perhaps they need an energy-level change. Some plants need an environmental trigger to induce the final stage.” He checked himself, aware of his limited knowledge, aware too that he was talking to an expert. “Or am I being stupid?”
“You could never be that, Professor,” she said. “But each of us to his trade. I’d look a perfect fool if I tried to argue with you about physics. But you are right as it happens; chrysanthemums, for example, will only flower when the days and nights are of equal length. That’s why they are so popular with nurserymen—they can bring them to bloom at any time they like simply by adjusting the lights. The alien plants could have something similar, but what stimulus shall we give them? Extra heat? Cold? Darkness? What?”
“Everything we can think of,” said Boardman, firmly. “I’ll arrange to have the plot covered with an opaque seal and we can segregate the plants into sections. One we’ll chill, another heat, a third we’ll plunge into darkness, a fourth we’ll flood, and so on. Eventually we’ll find the answer, Lucy. We’ve got to!”
But, despite all they could do, the plants continued to wilt. Only those that had been flooded showed a little strengthening, but it didn’t last. Lucy Cochran, her eyes ringed with the dark circles of fatigue, tested and checked and, in the end, admitted failure.
“There’s nothing more I can do, Professor.
If I could isolate a specific area of damage it would help but there’s nothing. Just a general dehydration and loss of texture. The boles show no sign of developed progress as you would expect if they contained seeds as does a melon and the flowers are devoid of any sign of potential fruit. In any case, with only a single flower, I tend to think any seeds would be developed with the pod itself.”
“You’ve tested the soil, of course?”
“Yes. A general debility of the untreated area as is to be expected. As the plants themselves don’t bear luxuriant foliage my guess is that they either originate in a loam of high fertility or are close to a forest of some kind. One with deciduous trees—the nourishment provided by the falling leaves would help to replenish the soil.” Sighing she added, “I’m guessing, of course. And it appears that I’m a bad guesser. It looks as if we’ve lost, Professor. Unless a miracle happens those plants are all going to die.”
The miracle was named Carolyn Markson.
Testing the soil was a routine task, one which had grown into a habit, her hands moving in unison with her feet, the instrument probing, her eyes less interested than the reading shown on the dials than the plants among which she moved. Not negligence in the true sense because the readings, recorded, would later be checked and correlated in the computer held in the botanical laboratory.
It was simply that she was young, undecided as to how deeply in love she was, and enamoured by the exotic growths.
One, in particular, she had made her friend.
It stood in a shadowed portion of the screened-off area, the great flower lowered now from where it had turned towards the sun, the leaves drooping, the tracery of the bole blurred a little, the colours not so bright as once they had been. A plant, and yet something about it appealed to her. The romance, perhaps, the thought of its long, long journey to this potential haven, to be planted, to grow, to fade just before it could reach its culmination.
The irony of life, she thought, standing before it. Did she really love Malcolm Edmunds? Did he really love her?
