Growing Season

by F. L. Wallace

  He nodded and she left. It was unnecessary to ask where she was going. He could tell that from her manner. They had raised a hitherto unmarked solar system and she was helping tag it.

  His injured hands were aching with the effort, though Larienne had done most of the actual work. He started toward his room, and then, on another thought, turned into the dispensary. Franklan he knew better than anyone except Larienne, and he might get a fresh viewpoint from him.

  Franklan was waiting. He had a doctor's degree from some planet, but on the ship titles were largely ignored. "The wounded hero comes back, holding our food supply precariously in his skilled hands," he said as Alsint entered.

  The sarcasm was not altogether friendly, Alsint decided. Without comment, he laid his hands on the table. He did not pretend to be a hero and he was not even particularly stubborn. He had put together a plant in a better way, one that ought to withstand the rigors of tag ship service, and he intended to see that it got a fair trial.

  "What do you know about ship watches?" he asked cautiously.

  "Fifteen years on a tag ship, and I've never personally seen a failure. I suppose it can happen." Franklan glanced up. "It's too bad you had to destroy yours to get in. I'd like to see what an examination by our technicians would show."

  The same thought that he had, though Franklan seemed to have attached the opposite meaning to it. "Interesting, isn't it?" Alsint said evenly. "But I was thinking of the connection it has to the crew panel."

  Franklan bit his lip. "I hadn't considered that."

  "I have. The pilot had to check the crew panel before he could take off. If he did, and saw that I was missing, why didn't he wait? If he didn't see that I wasn't inside the ship, then the panel was defective too. It's hard to believe."

  Franklan filled a small tank with fluid and motioned toward it. Alsint dipped his hands in. It stung, but he could see that it had a pronounced healing effect.

  Franklan was watching him narrowly. "Service on a tag ship is voluntary. It has to be, considering all the solitude we have to take. Any man can withdraw any time he wants. A lot of them do, especially in the first three years. However, bear this in mind. You've practically accused someone on the ship of trying to leave you behind. I know you do think that. And if you can produce evidence, I'll believe you. But there is one person on whom suspicion will fall first."

  That was what Alsint wanted to hear. He'd gone over it in his mind and couldn't find anyone to suspect. Any clue was welcome.

  "Who?" he asked.

  "You," said Franklan. "If I wanted to leave the tag ship service, I'd see to it that I made as graceful an exit as possible. Forced out by an accident, of course. I'd want to tell people that."

  He might have expected that kind of attitude. Franklan was proud of the work he was associated with. Nothing wrong with that; everyone had that right. In fact, if he didn't, he had no business doing it.

  However, it made things difficult for Alsint. He was on a tag ship for other reasons. He had evolved several strains of plant cells that should be especially suited for use on tag ships.

  For some reason the plants on tag ships were always dying. Ships returned to inhabited planets for refueling with the machines intact but with the plants dead. The plant cells had to be replaced. It was not that the actual material was expensive. It wasn't. But the process of getting the strange cells to work together as a new unit was time-consuming and enormously costly. That was where the trouble came. The plant couldn't be fitted together like an engine.

  Alsint had evolved cells that were far more viable, but the only way to test that was in actual use. He had received permission from the Bureau of Exploration to install his plant in a ship and try it for two years. If at the end of that time the plant was still alive, he had something really worthwhile. The only stipulation was that no one on the ship should know that it was a test, since they might, out of consideration for him, modify the service the ship normally went through. It had to be a true rough, tough test.

  And he was getting it, in more ways than he had expected. Unless he could stay with his plant for the next year and a half, all his work would go for nothing.

  He drew his hands out of the fluid. "Do you think I'm trying to run out?" he asked quietly. He had proof that he wasn't, but he couldn't use it.

  Franklan shrugged. "Honestly, I don't. But I'm not blinding myself to what the others will think." He squinted professionally at the burns and dried the hands with a gentle blast of air. He picked up a large tube and squeezed a substance on them which was absorbed almost instantly. "There. You'll be all right in a few days."

  "Thanks," Alsint said laconically and stood up.

  As he went out the door, Franklan called after him. "If I see the captain, I'll tell him I don't think you tried to jump ship. I doubt that he'll ask. As I said, service on this ship is voluntary."

  Personally, Alsint didn't care what Franklan told the captain. However, he was at a definite disadvantage. Next time they came to a planet, if he were to disappear, nobody would be overly inquisitive.

  The tagging operation was far from complete — seven planets in the system and each had to be thoroughly investigated. Long-range investigation, of course. A tag ship rarely landed, and then only when the planet under consideration seemed extremely desirable for colonization, enough to warrant closer observation.

  It didn't matter whether it had a breathable atmosphere or not, whether it was icebound or blazing hot. These were minor difficulties and engineering ingenuity could overcome them. There were other criteria, and it was for these that they were checked.

  Alsint went out into the ship. There was a lot of activity, but much of it was invisible, electronic in nature, affecting only instruments. The ship had slipped into an orbit, the plane of which intersected the axis of planetary revolution at the most effective angle. The ship went around twice while the planet revolved three times. In that period the mineral resources were plotted and the approximate quantities of each were determined.

  Larienne looked up as he came near. "This is a real find," she said cheerfully.

  "I suppose you've located the heavy stuff," he said, knowing that it was a superfluous statement.

  "What else would we look for?" She bent over the small torpedo shape she was working on. "Not just one, either. This is the second planet in the system with enough heavy elements to be worth settling."

  "What's the gravity?" He didn't always share the enthusiasm others had for their discoveries.

  "The first was 1.6. This is about 2.3. A little high for personal comfort, but with the mineral resources there, the settlers can manage."

  "What about atmosphere?"

  "The first hasn't much, frozen mostly. This one has chlorine in it." She grinned at him. "Your old theme, huh?"

  It was an old theme, though he didn't argue it. He was entitled to personal reactions. "Maybe. Would you like to live on either of them?"

  "Don't have to," she said, making an adjustment on the torpedo. "Never get out on a planet more than twice a year. In fact, I've almost forgotten what a year means."

  That was the point, possibly, though there was no use to discuss it. "Anything else of interest?"

  "We're coming to a smaller planet. Land, oceans, warm enough, and with an atmosphere we can probably breathe as is. Don't know the composition of the solid matter yet, but from our mass reading, it's a good bet that there won't be enough heavy stuff to justify settlement." She made a final delicate adjustment on the torpedo and began wheeling it to a launching tube. "This one's in a rich system, though, and will probably be used as an administration planet — vacation spot too. It won't go to waste, if that is what's worrying you."

  In a way, it was. It was too bad that so many planets that were otherwise ideal for human habitation had to be passed over because they lacked the one essential. There was no help for it, of course. To settle planets, spaceships were necessary — and heavy elements to drive those ships. Nothing else mattered in
the least.

  Larienne snapped the torpedo in place and pressed a stud. The dark shape disappeared. Out in space, it fell into an orbit which eventually would land it safely on the planet.

  "There," she said with quiet satisfaction. "It's tagged, and it will stay tagged until somebody digs it up."

  It might be a month, or a hundred years, before Colonization got around to it. Meanwhile the torpedo was there, broadcasting at intervals the information that the tag ship had discovered. Somewhere in a remote planning center, a new red dot appeared in a three-dimensional model of space, to be accounted for in a revised program of expansion.

  Larienne brushed the bailout of her eyes. There was a smudge on her face. "I'm busy," she said. "But I can get out of this if you need me."

  As long as she was more interested in what she was doing, he'd rather not have her. He shook his head. "I'll manage," he said, and headed toward the plant.

  The instant he entered, something seemed wrong. He couldn't say what it was without investigation. It was a big complex machine as well as a plant, and even reading all the dials was not enough; visual inspection was necessary too. He started at one end and worked toward the other. The gauges indicated nothing out of the ordinary, but the plant was in bad condition.

  It was something like a tree, the trunk and leaves of which were sound enough, no discernible injuries, but nevertheless dying. At the roots, of course. This plant had no roots, merely a series of tanks and trays, each connected to others in a bewilderingly complex fashion. In that series, though, was something which corresponded to roots.

  He was near the end of the first row before he spotted part of the trouble. A flow control valve was far out of adjustment. His hands were bandaged and clumsy, but he tried to reset it. It was jammed tight and he couldn't move it.

  He could call Larienne, but she was busy. So was the rest of the crew. With sufficient leverage he could turn the valve. He looked around for something he could use. A small metal bar leaning against the wall nearby seemed adequate.

  He picked it up — and the bar burned into the bandages. He knew what it was; he didn't have to think. He could hear the sparks as well as feel it. Fortunately his shoes were not good conductors and not much of the charge got through.

  With an effort he relaxed his convulsive grip, and still the bar stayed in his hand. It had fused to the bandage and he couldn't shake it off. The bar was glowing red; only the relatively nonconductive properties of the bandage — heat as well as electricity — had prevented his instant electrocution. And the bar was sinking deeper into the bandage. If it ever touched his flesh, the charge would be dissipated — through his body.

  He had to ground it. The metal tanks which held the plant would do that, but also crisp the plant beyond salvage. He had to make a fast choice.

  Holding the bar at arm's length, he ran through the aisle, and, at the far end, thrust it against the side of the ship.

  The resulting flash staggered him, but he stayed on his feet. Though the metal began cooling rapidly, it remained fused to the bandage. He laid one end on the floor and stepped on it, tearing it loose.

  It was a plain metal bar, made into a superconductor, with an unholy charge stored in it. This couldn't be an accident. It took work to turn ordinary metal into a superconductor at room temperature. Also it couldn't be placed just anywhere. If the charge were to remain in it, a special surface had to be prepared.

  The trap had been set up for him, and he had walked into it. The bandage had saved him, nothing else. That was the one thing the unknown person hadn't taken into account.

  Who? Larienne? She had access to the plant. But so did anyone else, just by walking in.

  Not Larienne. She had her ugly moments and might try to kill him in a fit of anger, but she wouldn't plan it coldly, nor go through with the scheme if she planned it. It didn't take special knowledge to sabotage the plant. Any control could be moved drastically and the plant would suffer. The only technical knowledge required was that of making the bar into a superconductor, and that knowledge she didn't have. True, she could ask someone to do it for her. But she wouldn't.

  Alsint sat down. The actual physical damage from the electrical shock wasn't great. The certainty that someone had tried to kill him was.

  Why? Violent personal hatred for himself he could rule out. He'd been careful in his contacts with the crew. Only a psychotic could manufacture a reason to hate him, and psychotics didn't last long on a tag ship.

  It had to be connected to the plant. Someone on the ship was trying to take it away from him, or one of his competitors had hired one of the crew to see that he didn't survive. The last was unlikely.

  He had no proof that his plant was better, merely a belief that it was. It seemed illogical that anyone would want to eliminate him on the strength of an untested belief.

  But except for Larienne, no one had enough knowledge to nurse the plant along for the required two years. Unless he remained alive, no one would benefit.

  He shook his head. It was difficult to add up and arrive at a sensible answer. One thing he knew, though — hereafter, he'd have to be on his guard at all times.

  He could go to the captain with his story. He considered and rejected that in the same instant. He'd have to tell the captain everything, which would invalidate the test. He'd have to handle this by himself.

  He got up and continued his inspection of the plant, making minor adjustments to compensate for the damage. Except for that one valve, nothing seemed far out of line.

  That done, he limped to the dispensary. His hand was aching where he had torn the bar loose and ripped the flesh.

  "Back again?" said FrankIan. "Any new information on the enemy?"

  By itself, that was a suspicious statement. How could he know about the latest incident? The easiest answer was that he didn't. He was referring to the time Alsint had nearly missed the ship.

  "Not a thing," Alsint muttered. Unless he wanted to reinforce Franklan's original opinion, he'd better keep this to himself.

  Franklan looked at his hand. "Whatever you've done, I don't recommend it. It's not the way to get well fast — or at all."

  "Grabbed something hot," Alsint said. Might as well say that. The bar was now just a bar and no examination would reveal that it had been a superconductor. Same with the insulation it had rested on. He couldn't prove anything.

  Franklan rattled the instruments. "Nothing serious. This'll heal on schedule, but it's going to hurt while I fix it." He administered a local anesthetic below the elbow.

  It made Alsint dizzy. He sat down and closed his eyes while Franklan worked. He relaxed more than he intended and then deliberately opened his eyes because he was drowsy and didn't want to fall asleep.

  Over Franklan's shoulder, behind the window that swung out from the dispensary to the corridor, was a little red bird. It was much like the one that had fluttered around as he had tried to get on the ship. Perhaps it had come in with him and hidden in some quiet place until now. It was possible.

  Franklan looked up. "What are you staring at?"

  Alsint's tongue was fuzzy. "Outside the window behind you is a little red bird," he said, speaking distinctly to overcome the side-effects of the anesthesia.

  Franklan went on swabbing, not bothering to glance behind him. "You're tired," he said. "And look again at that bird outside the window. For my sake, tell it to put on a spacesuit. If it doesn't, it will die in a matter of seconds."

  Startled, A Is in t looked around. He was mixed up in his directions. He was facing the visionport, plain empty space, not the corridor.

  He blinked his eyes frantically, but the bird wouldn't go away and it didn't die. There was no air out there, millions of miles from the nearest planet. The bird flapped its wings in the airless space and went through the motions of singing.

  It was ridiculous. There was nothing to carry the sound. But he could imagine hearing it anyway, through the thick armor glass of the visionport — a bird singing in space.


  Resolutely he closed his eyes and kept them closed. He had enough trouble without taking on hallucinations.

  Franklan finished the new bandage and tapped his shoulder. "You can come out of it now."

  Alsint tried not to, but he couldn't resist. He stared past Franklan toward the visionport.

  "Is it gone?" asked Franklan. His voice was quiet.

  "It's gone," Alsint said in relief.

  "Good. These things happen occasionally. As long as you can adjust back to reality, you have nothing to worry about." Franklan rummaged through the medical supplies. "Take these. They may help you."

  Wordlessly, Alsint took the packet and went back to his room. He was sweating and shaken.

  Franklan hadn't seen it because he hadn't looked, but there had been a bird out there, or there hadn't. If not, Alsint's contact with reality was precarious and he'd have to watch himself. Franklan had hinted at that. Maybe he wanted Alsint to believe it.