A Sense of Infinity

by Howard L. Myers

  "Any luck, Charlo?" he called out.

  The ex-mechanic started up with a guilty expression, then shrugged. "No luck," he said.

  Frowning, Olivine turned and went to look in on Noreast and Crown. Noreast was still out, and when Olivine opened the tank lid and shook him by the shoulder, the happy sleeper merely grinned vapidly, drooled, and muttered "Yeah, baby, yeah." Olivine cursed and retired to the control deck.

  Holbein and Icy came in after a while. Olivine glanced at their expressions, and didn't have to be told the further testing of the plant specimens had been fruitless.

  "We'll just have to wait," he growled, "until that punk Noreast comes out of it and tells us what happened."

  That was not until three days later. By that time the whole crew, with nothing better to do, was spending most waking hours hanging around the young man's sleep-tank, eyeing his supine form with emotions ranging from annoyance to envy.

  Suddenly Noreast snorted, opened his eyes, and sat up, pushing the lid aside and looking alertly about.

  "This some kind of meeting?" he asked.

  Charlo demanded eagerly, "Was it a good trip, kid?" Noreast blinked and his eyes grew dreamy as he remembered. "Yeah . . . yeah," he breathed. "Damn good. But it was no trip, man, it was life!"

  "O.K.," snapped Olivine, "we're trying to find out what sent you on it. How long after the grassfire started did you—"

  "What grassfire?" Noreast grunted. "I didn't see any grassfire."

  "Try to remember," Olivine said with a poor effort at patience. "You were in the ship's lock with that gun you made out of the stitch-riveter, fixing to shoot the dinosaur. The grass around the dinosaur caught fire. Remember?"

  "I ain't admitting anything, Starfuzz!" the young man growled. "Anyway, I must've passed out before the grass started burning. I don't remember that. I smelled the muck on that big lizard burning, and that's all I remember."

  The crew stared at him.

  Holbein said, "Several of us remarked upon the rather weedy patches on the creature's skin, and surmised these were perhaps parasitic plants taking nourishment from the thick muck or from the creature himself, or from both. The precarious position of such a plant in the natural scheme might well lead to the production of unusual biochemical substances for the purpose of—"

  "O.K.," Olivine broke in, "we know where to look. Charlo, let's see how quickly we can get those closrems back in service and this bucket in the air!"

  The following day, about seventy kilometers from their original landing site, they bagged their first saurian. It was not difficult, because for once the ship was well equipped for the job at hand. It hovered over the monster, discharged a three-gallon charge of the strip-forming mnemoplasic, tangline, onto the beast, and settled to the ground by the giant, firmly fettered form. The beast blinked stupidly at the ship.

  "Crown, will you go out and pick a sample . . . " Olivine began, but his voice was unheeded in the hubbub as the entire crew bounded toward the lock. Noreast's halfincoherent accounts of his "trip" had got to them all, even Icy Lingrad. It was an experience they wanted to share.

  Olivine stared at the viewscreen in disgust as they swarmed around the saurian, yanking green growths off the animal and stuffing them into sacks, shirtfronts, or whatever container they happened to find at hand as they left the ship.

  "Damn such undependable dregs!" raged Olivine.

  "Ship; prepare a dozen man-sized discharges of tangline.

  As long as those idiots keep picking the greenery, let them pick. But when one stops and tries to light a fire or move away from the dinosaur, tie him up! Understood?"

  "Yes, sir."

  Olivine watched and listened as the harvesting continued. He heard Noreast assure the others that the plant smelled right, and they began picking faster.

  Charlo was the first to head for the ship, lugging a half-filled packing carton. He squalled in outraged alarm when the tangline hit him. The others looked up.

  "What do you think you're doing, Olivine?" Crown roared.

  "I'm keeping the bunch of you unhooked!" Olivine replied coldly, the ship's speaker system carrying his voice outside.

  "Crummy starfuzz!" Icy shouted.

  "Really, Mr. Olivine," said Holbein, "such heavyhanded tactics as these—"

  "Shut up, the bunch of you, and take a close look at Noreast," he replied. "For the past two hours he's had the shakes and been in a cold sweat. Needing a fix, punk?"

  Noreast giggled loudly and hysterically. "Sure I need a fix, you Proxad creep, and I'm going to get it! I got friends to see that I do! We're all against you, Starfuzz!" Suddenly he made a break for a nearby stand of conifers. The tangline stopped him after his first three steps and he tumbled to the ground screaming. Crown, Holbein and Icy gazed at him in dismay.

  "Holbein, Crown, leave your vegetables where you are and bring the punk inside. Let Charlo get a good look at him on the way."

  Hesitantly, the two men complied.

  "And all of you listen to me," Olivine continued. "We've got exactly three days left to make our grab and beat it before the satellites report us and the Patrol comes swarming. The grab we make may be the only one anybody ever makes of this planet's super-pot! Getting hooked on the stuff is the worst kind of sucker's game, because once this one load is gone, it'll be cold-turkey time for all takers! You can take a look at the punk and get an idea how much fun that's going to be . . . and keep in mind that he's just beginning to feel it!"

  He paused and studied their faces on the screen. "Do I make myself clear?" he demanded.

  "Your point's well taken," Holbein replied. The others nodded grudgingly.

  "Good. Bring the punk in, put him in his tank and give him deep-sleep. That should ease him through the worst of it. Then get back to the harvest!"

  Cowed and silent, the others complied.

  Before the day was over, the crops from seven saurians had been harvested, and Olivine was positive that only one leaf had been burned. He had fired that one himself and taken a single quick whiff, to make sure they were getting the right weed. They were. It took all his Patrol training to enable him to stop after that one whiff. After questioning the ship, he had the weed packed away in the midship lockhold, which was equipped with a five-digit combination lock which he could reset to a combination that was not only unknown to the others but to the ship itself.

  By nightfall they were all exhausted—Olivine from the strain of trying to keep four people under constant observation and the others from unaccustomed physical exertion. He confronted them sternly as the lockhold door closed on their final pickings of the day.

  "O.K., strip to the skin!" he commanded.

  "Go to hell, Starfuzz!" Icy exploded.

  "Try and make us!" grated Crown threateningly.

  "I don't have to make you!" Olivine snapped. "You'll make each other! I've had the ship bypass all filters in the air-control system. That means that if just one of you decides to sample a little super-pot in the middle of the night, the fumes will spread all over the ship. Tomorrow morning the entire lot of us will be hooked, including myself. Think it over: nobody to play nursemaid for you, the way we have for the punk. And nobody to keep the Patrol from picking you up. It's your decision, lady and gentlemen!"

  After arguing for ten minutes, they stripped. Olivine shook over a pound of weed out of their clothing, finding some on everybody but Icy, then allowed them to dress and go to supper.

  The next day went much the same. Once in the morning and again in late afternoon Olivine brought Noreast out of deep-sleep long enough to check on his progress. The kid was feeling miserable, but with the help of the sleep-tank's automated facilities he was recovering rapidly from the painful withdrawal experience.

  The following morning—the last day they could safely remain on the planet—Noreast was let out of the tank.

  "Have you learned anything, punk?" Olivine sneered.

  The young man nodded weakly.

  "O.K. It's time you s
tarted pulling your weight. I'm sending you out with the others as soon as the ship finds a dinosaur for us."

  The ship found a scattered herd of the lumbering saurians. Olivine was pleased. They could move quickly from animal to animal, with little time lost between, and with five picking instead of four they should have the lockhold packed tight by nightfall.

  Work went well all morning. Noreast was slow and sullen at first, but gradually brightened as the hours passed. Watching him, Olivine wondered if perhaps the squares were right about the virtues of hard work. Labor was certainly changing Noreast—temporarily at least—from a surly rat into a happy-acting kid.

  Shortly after lunch, the happy-acting kid did something very foolish and got away with it. When one saurian was picked clean, he ran to another that had wandered close and was not bound by tangline. The surprised animal twisted its neck to peer down at him as he began jerking weed out of its tremendous forelegs. After studying him solemnly, the beast returned to its feeding. Noreast laughed and yelled at the others, telling them to quit wasting time waiting for the ship to tie up another animal.

  Crown and Charlo ran over to join him, and Holbein followed more slowly. Icy hesitated a long time, but finally went over when the saurian allowed Noreast to run up its tail and start harvesting the growth on its back without objection.

  Olivine had watched tensely, silently cursing the fool kid. Now he heaved a sigh of relief. The saurians apparently liked to have their weeds picked. Perhaps it was principally to get rid of them that they went in for firegrooming.

  When the animal was picked clean the four men moved on to another, leaving Icy behind to load what they had gathered into the ship. Olivine ordered the ship to lift over to where Icy stood beside the loaded baskets. She gave the screen's scanner eye a meaningful look as the ship touched down.

  Puzzled, Olivine left the control deck and went down to the lock. She handed a basket in to him.

  "Why the grim look?" he asked.

  "They're chewing the stuff!" she said.

  "Chewing the stuff?" he echoed.

  "I think Noreast must have started as soon as we came out this morning," she related. "Then one by one he got the others started. Holbein was the last. I didn't know about it until a few minutes ago when Charlo tried to put me on it. 'Have a chew and then we'll have some fun!"' she mimicked the man. "I know what kind of fun that slimy artist wants!"

  Olivine nodded, frowning. Her aversion to sex, he guessed, was all that had stopped Icy from chewing with the others. "I ought to have guessed the punk was up to something," he said. "He was acting so abnormal for him."

  Icy handed in another loaded basket. "The stuff seems to work differently chewed than smoked," she said.

  "A lot of drugs do," he replied absently. "Look, Icy. We've got enough of a grab now. As soon as we get this load in the lockhold, I'm going to bundle those idiots in tangline. You'll have to help me lug them aboard and put them in deep-sleep. Then we're hauling out of here for Dusty Roost!"

  "Suits me!" she sniffed. "I've had a bellyful of present company!" She walked away to get the last basket, then suddenly yelled, "They're scattering, Olivine! They're running in all directions!"

  He leaned out the port to get a view of the men's position. Holbein, Crown, Charlo and Noreast had indeed taken leave of the saurian they had been harvesting and were rapidly putting distance between themselves and the ship.

  "The jerks!" Icy snorted. "They must've guessed I'd squeal to you!"

  "Get on board quick!" urged Olivine. She ran to the lock and he pulled her up and inside. "Take off, Ship, and have the tangline ready!"

  "I'm sorry, sir, but regulations forbid lift-off while the lock is open," the ship replied.

  Olivine cursed and hurried Icy through the inner door.

  "Now close the lock and take off!" he bellowed.

  "Yes, sir."

  By the time they reached the control deck, not a man was in sight on the ground.

  "They must be hiding under the saurians," Olivine guessed. "Ship, give me full amp on outside speakers and pickups! Hey, you guys!"

  "Take an underground jump, Starfuzz!" came Noreast's voice dimly and obscured by the noises being picked up from the saurians.

  "Use some sense!" he yelled back. "Holbein! You're no idiot! Show yourself and we'll come down for you!"

  After a moment Icy pointed at the screen. "There he is, off to the left."

  Olivine ran up the magnification and watched the con man stroll out from under a dinosaur and wave his arms. He was wearing a grin that was only slightly sheepish.

  "Tangline him, Ship!"

  "The rest of you!" Olivine called into the mike. "Come on out! Crown! Charlo! You're not crazy kids! Stop playing games and let's go cash in our grab!"

  There was no response from below. Olivine called again and again. Finally he turned to Icy. "I hate to leave any of them here for the Patrol, and especially Charlo. How about . . . uh . . . promising him something if he'll show himself? You won't have to pay off."

  The girl snapped a disgusted obscenity at him and whirled away.

  "Set down by Holbein, Ship," Olivine ordered.

  A few hours later the Glumers Jo was in interstellar space, speeding away from the Dothlit System at full thrust. Holbein was in deep-sleep. Olivine and Icy Lingrad had eaten supper together in a strained atmosphere. He guessed she felt less at ease with one man than with five around.

  "Will the Patrol find them?" she asked.

  "Sure. That's the hell of it. The Patrol will find them, and they'll talk. The Patrol will know we've made the grab. I doubt if we'll be able to get to Dusty Roost with the stuff. We'll probably have to unload it with some outof-the-way dealer at half what we could get in the Roost."

  "O.K., and there's just three of us to split the take instead of six," she replied.

  "Yeah, there's that bright point." He grimaced. "I shouldn't have wasted that planet on such a crew. I knew better, but . . . well, damn it, I needed a big grab! For a job like that I should have had a man trained in satellite servicing, who could locate those spy-gadgets and nullify their reports. And maybe just one other guy—somebody who could be counted on to put cold cash ahead of a snout full of fix. Six people were too many in any case—too many possible discipline breakers."

  "To hell with discipline," Icy muttered automatically.

  "Yeah, that was precisely the trouble with this crew. To hell with discipline."

  Icy yawned and stood up. "I'm going to hit the tank and leave you to your lonely regrets, Starfuzz."

  He sat musing for a while after she left the room, and finally decided the grab had turned out pretty well after all. First and foremost, he had the grab, and the Patrol didn't have him. If the planet Dothlit Three wound up with a manned Patrol guard as a result, so what? The galaxy was well supplied with potential grabs, after all. Why mourn the loss of one?

  He grinned and went to his sleep-tank. Reasonably content he dozed off . . .

  And roused several hours later to the strong smell of burning super-pot!

  "Ship," he mumbled, sitting up groggily, "activate all air-system filters."

  He fell back into his tank and was in too thorough a state of pure bliss to hear the ship reply, "Yes, sir."

  He woke up feeling fine and stared at the face of the clock-calendar on the underside of the tank lid. He had been out for three days!

  He leaped angrily from the tank and strode to Icy's quarters where he barged in without knocking. The girl was in her tank, obviously as out as he had been. Holbein!

  He ran through the ship and finally found the man in the dining area nursing a large cup of black coffee. Holbein looked up at him with pained, sick eyes.

  "Ah, Mr. Olivine," he greeted him dully, "care for some coffee? I take it you smoked whereas I chewed, and there you displayed your wisdom, friend. What that super-pot does to a man's stomach is no fit subject for discussion!"

  Olivine stared at him. Was the con artist telling the tru
th or was he . . .

  "Ship!" he snapped. "Who was responsible for that burning super-pot that knocked me out?"

  "Nobody, sir. Apparently there was a malfunction in the lockhold, sir. A fire broke out inside, burning at least a portion of the vegetable matter. The fumes spread through three decks before you ordered the by-passed filters into operation."

  Olivine scampered up the stairs to the lockhold. He and Icy had been only a deck away from the lockhold, he realized, while Holbein had been in a tank down on the second deck, which accounted for Holbein not getting, the smoke on top of his chew. The filters had gone up in time to spare him that double dose.

  Fumbling in his haste Olivine worked the lockhold combination, jerked the door open, and looked down blankly at the thin bed of gray ash that covered the deck inside.

  Not a leaf of super-pot remained.

  After a moment he strode to the nearest ventilator access panel, yanked it off the wall, and pulled out a filter that was practically dripping black tar.

  "All the filters will require an early change, sir," reported the ship.

  "Shut up," he growled. He lit the welding torch, pointed the flame at the tarry mess, and sniffed the resulting smoke.

  It smelled like tar, and that was all. It wasn't superpot anymore.

  But how? he kept asking himself. What could have caused a fire in the lockhold? And particularly a fire that would reduce a whole roomful of wet green leaves to a bed of dry ash? That would take heat and plenty of it! He returned to the lockhold and began searching for the answer. Two hours later he found it.

  It could have been an accidental malfunction, he assured himself without really believing it. Certainly short-circuits in electrical wiring occurred, particularly in portions of ships that saw varied usage, and the frequent tearing out and putting in of wiring for special purposes. A part of an old circuit would be forgotten and left in place when a new one was installed. Then someone would come along and stuff the room tight with a mass of greenery that would slowly press two exposed wireends to within sparking distance.