Phytosphere

by Scott Mackay

  We’ve got more mouths to feed. I’ve sent some guidelines to the hotels. Nothing too drastic. At least not right now. A bit of rationing. Shorter menus. I think all of us on the Moon could benefit from cutting back, especially on the rich desserts. I know I could stand to lose a pound or two. I understand how some of our hotel guests…how they came up here to splurge and have a good time, and now I’ve got to throw a wet blanket on the whole shebang, and I guess they’ll end up being mad at me. But we have to watch ourselves if we’re going to be serious about this thing. I know that’s not our specialty on the Moon, being serious, but we have no idea how long the Tarsalans are going to go on with this.”

  The mayor looked at his waferscreen, tapped it a few times to change text, then faced the cameras once more.

  “You’ll want to know if the U.S. fired at the shroud. As a matter of fact, they have. But their missiles had little effect. They made a number of temporary holes, but that’s all. Secretary of Defense Sidower said it’s a bit like fighting a ghost; that you go to punch it and your fist goes right through. Anyway… since current military options seem to be limited right now, Sidower says it might be a good idea to take a scientific approach. And I say wunderbar, fantabulous, and muchas gracias, Mr. Secretary, for finally coming up with an idea that might actually work.” He raised his index finger. “Not to be outdone…” The self-immolating smile Hulke was so well known for came to his face. “But I think we should try to do the same thing here. We’ve got a lot of scientists on holiday here.” He let his finger settle to his side, and the holopaint on his T-shirt made the crescent moon wink. “So… to all you scientists out there, please give us a hand. Please join us. I’ve booked Section A of the H. G. Wells Ballroom at the Armstrong Convention Center for six-thirty tonight. I thought we all might sit around and talk. Shoot the breeze, so to speak.

  See what we can come up with, rather than give Earth all the honors as usual. If nothing else, it should be a good time.”

  2

  Neil Thorndike sat on his yacht, the Escapade, his feet in braces, strapped into his casting chair, his fishing rod bent against the weight of a freshly hooked blue marlin. Louise stood next to him, a daiquiri in her hand. Pedro expertly maneuvered the yacht so the fish wouldn’t swim beneath it. Neil’s three daughters, Melissa, Ashley, and Morgan, leaned against the taffrail, watching. Things would have been perfect if it weren’t for the green storm approaching from the west.

  Here in the West Indies, in the U.S. Virgin Islands off the coast of St. John, with Trunk Bay visible over the southern horizon, the sky was sunny and it could have been any June—oh, those two last glorious weeks in June, when he went on holiday with his family, when he was done with the school year, and hadn’t yet embarked on his summer research. The only time during the whole year he felt free. As usual, he had a blue marlin on his line. His luck with the great blue never failed.

  Only what was he going to do about this green storm… this emerald shroud drawing ever closer to the sunny shores of Trunk Bay?

  He wondered what effect it would have on the gardens of his fifteen-room vacation home overlooking the bay. Would all his beautiful tropical miracles wither and die? The marlin offered slack and he reeled it in. What kind of effect was the shroud going to have on his holiday? How long before Tony Bayard issued an executive order from the Oval Office to track him down? He wasn’t going to think about it.

  The shroud. The media name for it. Still, he was curious. The Tarsalans never ceased to amaze him. It was like the old saying: What would they think of next?

  The marlin jumped out of the water. Morgan clapped her hands. Melissa and Ashley looked bored. But Morgan—she was still young enough to appreciate the thrill. Poor Morgan. What was he going to do about her? The fish arched on its side and splashed spectacularly into the water. His line tightened and he braced against the resulting drag. Gabriel and Raymondo stood ready at the back with grappling hooks.

  He wondered what they made of that green storm up there; whether they were concerned about their families or trying to figure out how they were going to cope with it. The marlin offered slack again and Neil relaxed. The Escapade shuddered as it plowed into a large wave. An explosion of spray rained down on the boat.

  As the spray cleared, he saw a Coast Guard vessel approaching from Trunk Bay.

  He sagged in his chair.

  “Neil?” said Louise.

  “Here they come,” said Neil.

  “Who?” she said.

  He pointed. “I knew it couldn’t last.”

  She turned and watched the vessel. He glanced at Louise, the love of his life, and saw a slackening of her jaw.

  He called out in Spanish, “Raymondo, it looks like you’re going to have to get in the chair and take over.” Raymondo glanced at Neil, then out at Trunk Bay. He put his grappling hook on the deck and helped Neil out of the straps. Neil got out of the chair and helped Raymondo strap himself in. He gave the man a benevolent grin. “Get some good pictures of it. And make sure you record its weight. I keep a log.”

  He walked over to Morgan and stroked her light brown hair. “It looks like Daddy’s going to have to go.”

  “You’re always going,” said Morgan.

  “Not always.”

  “But this was going to be special. You said you weren’t going to let them bother you, no matter what.”

  “I know, sweetie. But Daddy’s going to have to deal with all those…green clouds up there. It looks like it’s turning into a big emergency. So I really have to go.”

  “You were going to help me with my reading.”

  “Mommy’s going to do that.”

  “When will you be back?”

  He kissed her forehead. “As soon as I can, sweetie. In the meantime, have fun. Ashley, Melissa, I want you including Morgan while I’m gone. And please don’t tease her.” He glanced at the sky, then turned to Louise. “I’m going to finish this up quickly. The Tarsalans think they’re smart, but they’re not that smart.”

  There it was, his usual bold confidence—the certainty that he could do anything, beat anything, and win anything.

  Louise came to his side. “What do you think it’s made of?”

  “I have no idea. But I’ll find out.”

  A worried look came to her face. “We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?”

  He had to think about that. “ We’re going to be all right. People with money are going to weather this thing just fine. It’s people like…Gerry and Glenda, for instance, who might be… inconvenienced by it.

  Why don’t you give Glenda a call when you get back to the house? I worry about her. Especially now that Gerry’s run off to the Moon. See if you can figure out a way to give her money without making her feel like she’s begging.”

  “But is that thing… do you think it’s going to…”

  “I don’t know. And I’m not going to worry about it. My guess is that I’ll beat it in a week or two. I’ve got the low-temperature superconductivity thing starting in the middle of July, and I’ve got to have this cleared up by then. It’s probably some simple compound that’s going to break easily. The Tarsalans haven’t come here with massive resources, so they can’t afford something complex, or particularly resistant. This is just a scare tactic. And the president will give me carte blanche, like he always does. In a few weeks, all this stuff will fall harmlessly to the Earth like… like… what’s that book by Dr. Seuss? The one Morgan loves so much? The one where it rains all the green muck?”

  “Bartholomew and the Oobleck.”

  “Oobleck. Right. That’s all this stuff is.” Neil’s brow furrowed. “I forget how that story ends. It’s been so long since I read it to Morgan.”

  “The king says he’s sorry for having his magicians conjure up Oobleck, and the Oobleck melts away.”

  Neil nodded. “Right. That’s how easy it’s going to be. I’m going to look up at the sky, I’m going to say I’m sorry, and it’s going to melt away.”

&
nbsp; 3

  Glenda Thorndike’s alarm rang at seven in the morning, but through the fog of her sleep she thought it must have gone off early, because when she opened her eyes it was still dark outside. Then it all came back to her. The shroud. Her body tensed. She reached for Gerry’s side of the bed and, even though it was cold and empty, she left her hand there for a long time.

  At last she pulled it away. As she pushed her covers off, she felt a distinct chill in the house. The house should have been warm on a June morning. She should have heard cardinals outside her window—oh, how she loved the song of the cardinal. But it felt like the beginning of winter.

  She maneuvered her feet into her slippers—sturdy Cree moccasins Gerry had bought for her last Christmas—pulled on her housecoat, and walked to the window. She drew the sheers aside and looked upward. The sky roiled, stitching itself together in an ever-thickening patchwork of green, light in some places, dark in others, like the smoke from a genie’s bottle—magical and impossible, terrible yet wondrous. She weakened in fear.

  She could make out the woods behind the house, and saw a deer nibbling the grass. The deer didn’t seem bothered by the shroud. But the birds. Where were the birds? The feeder should have been Grand Central Station at this time in the morning.

  She walked to her dresser and lifted her fone. An expensive device. Gerry had one too. Rented units, because how often did they speak to each other on an interlunar basis? She pressed the automatic redial and the fone beeped through the digits of his number. As usual she got the same infuriating message: Interlunar communications were currently unavailable, they had technicians working on the problem, and they hoped to have service restored shortly. Then she heard a new addition to the message. “Due to the

  length of the service interruption, AT&T Interlunar will be sending each of its valued customers a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate, redeemable at any Hutton-Lewis Beauty Spa location.” She clicked off in anger. She didn’t want a beauty spa. She wanted her husband.

  Missed him.

  Had to say she was sorry.

  Loved him after all, and wanted him back.

  She kicked off her moccasins, let her nightgown drop, peeled off her underthings, walked to the en suite wash-room, and got in the shower. She felt as if she were taking a shower in the middle of the night. She washed her hair and body, then got out, dried off, and wrapped a towel turban-style around her hair. She walked into the bedroom naked, and tried the fone again—couldn’t help it—hoping against hope that this would be the minute, the second, the precise moment when the techies at AT&T Interlunar would work their magic and restore her service. But it was nada, nyet, impossiblé —then the offer of a twenty-five-dollar gift certificate to a Hutton-Lewis Spa.

  She clicked off.

  She got into her nursing home uniform, blow-dried her hair, and went to wake Jake and Hanna for their third to last day of school.

  Jake was out of bed in seconds, happy and excited. He ran to the front window and threw open the curtains. He looked up at the sky. He sank to his knees, as if praying to God, lifted his hands to his cheeks, and said, “Wow,” his voice suffused with a soft and quavering reverence. “It’s gotten a lot thicker overnight, hasn’t it, Mom? Isn’t it cool?”

  “Jake, it’s not cool.”

  “It’s cool, Mom. I don’t care what you say.”

  “Go pour some cornflakes. And go easy on the milk. We have to make it last.”

  “I’m going to turn on the TV and see if there’s anything new.”

  “There won’t be anything new. Just eat your corn-flakes and get ready. You always have to scramble for the bus.”

  She continued down the hall and went into Hanna’s room. Hanna had a poster of Beethoven on the wall.

  An electronic piano rested on a stand below it, and Glenda saw that Hanna’s music was turned to the

  “Moonlight Sonata.” Hanna’s clarinet sat on its bell next to the piano. Hanna slept deeply. Glenda shook her daughter, who opened her eyes and turned her head. She looked at Glenda as if she were still in a dream, and made an unverbalized noise that was meant to acknowledge her mother in a nonchalant and uninterested way, as if Glenda were the most boring and annoying spectacle in the world. Then she turned over, closed her eyes again, and slipped back into oblivion.

  “Hanna, come on. The bus is going to be here soon. You need a shower. Your hair’s a mess.”

  “I’ll wear a scarf around my head.”

  “Hanna, you need to wash your hair. You should try and get into these habits before you go to college.”

  “One more minute?” Hanna bargained.

  “Your voice sounds a little rough.”

  “I need my puffer.”

  And as if she had just now remembered she was afflicted with chronic asthma, Hanna reached out her long, skinny arm so that it double-jointed backward, fumbled for her bronchodilator, put the mouthpiece to her mouth in a greedy gesture, and gave herself three good blasts. Glenda made a mental note. Had to get more. Hanna was running out. But where was the money? And that thing in the sky. Plus the pills.

  And that thing in the sky. Hanna sat up and coughed—coughed long and hard like she did every morning.

  With that thing still in the sky.

  “That’s it, honey. Get it all up. Then get into the shower. You know the steam does you good.”

  “One more minute?” Hanna said between coughs.

  “You’ve had a minute.”

  “That didn’t count. Give me five more minutes.”

  “Let’s not make the bus wait this morning. Come on. Out of bed.” She gripped Hanna’s ankles, playing with her like she was a kid, even though she was sixteen. How did her little Hanna grow so tall? Just like her father. Hanna tried to pull her legs away, but it made her laugh and she finally sat up. She looked around the room, and at last out the window.

  “Is it ever dark.”

  “I know.”

  “I wish Daddy was here. He never should have gone to the Moon.”

  “Your dad’s had a rough year.”

  “Yes, but he should have taken us with him.”

  “The voucher was his from a long time ago. And he needed some time alone.”

  “I’ve never been to the Moon. Half the kids in my class have already gone. Why don’t we get to go to the Moon?”

  “You know the answer. Get into the shower. And don’t forget to take your asthma pill.”

  “I’ve only got two left.”

  “I’ll pop by the pharmacy after work.”

  “Is Dad going to get a new job?”

  “He’s going to worry about that when he gets back.”

  “How’s he going to get back, now that the Tarsalans—”

  “Hanna, let’s live a day at a time. The bus is going to be here in forty-five minutes.”

  She left her daughter and went into the kitchen.

  The kitchen windows were big, and the presence of that thing in the sky made itself felt in the hairs on the back of her neck. She lifted Hanna’s pill bottle from the windowsill. Like a good boy, Jake was crunching down his cornflakes. She willed there to be more than two pills in Hanna’s bottle, but willing things was so much magical thinking and, sure enough, only two remained.

  She then checked the cupboards for food. Canned stew, soup, vegetables, fruits, and tomato sauce lined the shelves. How long was this thing going to last, and was food going to be a problem, and was she letting her imagination run away with her, like she always did?

  She opened the fridge. Stocked full of stuff. But she needed more. People were hoarding, and the grocery stores around Old Hill couldn’t keep up. She heard Hanna getting into the shower. Only where was she going to get the money to buy more groceries? And the fuel cell in the car needed recharging.

  And the car’s software was due for an update, and how was she going to pay for that? She took a few breaths, trying to calm herself. If only she could get a few more hours at the nursing home; they just might make en
ds meet if she had more shifts at Cedarvale.

  The phone rang, not the interlunar one but the regular one, the one spelled with “ph.” She hurried over, thinking she might miraculously receive information about Gerry, but when she turned on the vidscreen, she saw Louise’s face, sharp, crystal-clear—uncanny what a good transmitting set would do. She was sure Louise saw nothing but a blur.

  “Glenda?”

  “Hi, Louise.”

  “Can you fix your contrast? I can hardly see you.”

  Crappy Home Tech brand, fifteen years old; no wonder Louise couldn’t see her. She was sick of having crappy things and living in a crappy house. She pressed the appropriate function key.

  “Is that better?”

  “You need a new set.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Trunk Bay.”

  “Oh. You’re down there.”

  “Have you heard from Gerry yet?”

  “No. AT&T Interlunar is still working on the problem.”

  “Neil wanted me to phone you. To see how you were doing. Is it dark there yet?”

  “You can’t see open sky anymore. The last of it disappeared a few days ago.”

  “It’s worrisome, isn’t it?”

  “Does Neil have anything to say about it?”

  Because surely her genius brother-in-law would save them from all this.

  “The Secret Service came for him yesterday,” said Louise. “I imagine he’s been in meetings ever since.”

  “Oh… so he’s going to…”

  “They’ve drafted him for it.”

  “And does he have any ideas… I mean… about what to do?”

  “He’s confident he can get rid of it in as little as two weeks. You know Neil.”

  “So you think it’ll be over in two weeks?” Her shoulders eased in relief.

  “That’s the timetable Neil’s given himself. And you know Neil. How are the kids, by the way? How’s Hanna’s asthma?”

  “It always gets worse this time of the year. All the pollen.”